Breach of Faith

  Breach of Faith

  An Ela of Salisbury Medieval Mystery

  J. G. Lewis

  For my daughter, Mia Lewis, who would most definitely not have been satisfied with sitting quietly in her castle weaving and making polite conversation.

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Author’s Notes

  Author Biography

  © 2019 by J. G. Lewis

  Acknowledgments

  I am deeply in debt to Betsy van der Hoek, Anne MacFarlane and Judith Tilden for their careful readings and excellent suggestions. Thanks also to Mark Armstrong for being my medieval sounding board on several occasions. Once again I am grateful for my fabulous editor, Lynn Messina. All remaining errors are mine alone.

  Chapter 1

  Easter Monday, Salisbury Castle, 1226

  Everyone was surfeited by yesterday’s feasting. Ela Longespée, Countess of Salisbury, sipped her watered wine and picked at her plate of leftover delicacies in the company of her sleepy children. For once the exhausted cook was allowed to sleep in. This morning even the hounds lolled at the fireside, too lazy to stir and beg for scraps.

  Ela had insisted that her husband’s recent death should not stint the festivities and she’d laid out a series of banquets for the noble families, the townspeople and the castle servants. Carved hams and roasted pheasants and fragrant lambs had weighed the silver platters. Cups sloshed and laughter filled the air of the great hall. The privations of Lent were finally over, and in this tenth year of King Henry III’s reign they were blessed with peace and prosperity here at home.

  If only William were there to enjoy it, too.

  “My lady!” Albert, the stooped old porter, appeared in the hall door. “The hue and cry has been raised.”

  Already? Ela chastised herself for the slothful thought as she rose to her feet and excused herself from the table. Even before she reached the doorway she could hear a commotion outside the entrance. Gerald Deschamps, who marshaled the garrison troops, raised his voice on her approach. “Be quiet and attend your countess.”

  Two men paused in their argument and regarded her with curiosity. One of them was a tall, angular man whom she recognized vaguely as one of the hundred who could be called to serve as jurors. The other, a wiry, rather ragged man with weathered features and a limp, she didn’t know at all.

  “What’s amiss?” she asked Deschamps, glad he’d come to her rather than taking matters into his own hands.

  “Jacobus Pinchbeck found this man poaching in his woods.”

  “Bold as brass he was! Standing there before me with a fistful of my pheasants.” The tall man’s face was bilious with rage. “Luckily, I was out walking with two of my men so they were able to tackle him and bring him here.” Two large men in rustic dress loomed behind him, one clutching a brace of limp pheasants. “I wish to see him tried as a thief.”

  “And what have you to say for yourself?” she asked the other.

  “Very little, I’m afraid.” His courtly French startled her. She’d expected him to have the speech of a villager. “Except that the land I hunted on has been in my family since the time of the conqueror.”

  “You claim you hunted those birds on your land?”

  “He was in my forest!” Pinchbeck snarled. “I’ve owned it nigh on nineteen years, and every bird and beast in it is mine. It’s fenced and ditched all around so there’s no room for confusion.”

  Garrison soldiers bustled past them on the way to a training exercise. Clearly Pinchbeck expected her to throw the other man in the dungeon.

  “Your name?”

  “Thomas Blount. They call me Drogo.”

  “Drogo Blount.” Ela peered at him. The name was familiar, though the face was not. A Drogo Blount had fought in the Crusades with her husband and—if she recalled it right—even saved his life once by slaying a Saracen who held him at knifepoint. His grizzled hair, unshaven cheeks and weathered skin made him look more like a lowly serf than a valiant knight.

  “Aye, my lady. I knew your husband once. A great man whose loss has rent all our hearts.” He spoke like a knight. And his words touched her.

  “My husband spoke of you. And told me he owed you the debt of his life.” She frowned. “How do you find yourself poaching in another man’s woods?”

  “It’s a long and lively tale, I’m afraid.” His eyes were an odd green color, lichen pale. “Of a bold young man whose appetites exceeded his fortunes, and whose father lost the family estates to debt.”

  Ela turned to Pinchbeck. “You bought the manor from this man’s father?”

  “I had lent him money to finance a business venture. On finding that he’d squandered the money on horses and high living, I was forced to take his estate as my repayment. You’ll find it was all legal. Your husband presided over the transfer.”

  “Indeed?” She looked at Blount. “Is this your understanding of how matters were settled?”

  “It is.” He looked apologetic, yet somehow arrogant at the same time. “My father traded a lifetime interest in the property for the payment of his debts. The manor will revert to my family on Jacobus Pinchbeck’s death.”

  “That was the original arrangement, but I suppose his father never told him I later paid him a sum to secure full freehold rights to the property. So now he’s scuttling around, stealing my stock and hoping for my death.” Pinchbeck spat the words. “If he’s abroad I fear to be murdered in my bed!”

  “I’m not a killer, my lady.” Drogo Blount stood with such confidence that she could almost picture him as a knight rather than a vagrant. “Well, in fact I am a killer. That has been my trade, fighting for king and country. But as a man in middle age I seek a life of peace. Injuries ended my career some years ago. Broken and penniless I find that I’ve returned to my old hunting grounds like a dumb beast.” He executed a deft little half bow that complemented his humble speech.

  Had a valiant knight, a close compatriot of her beloved husband, truly been reduced to poaching in the manor where he grew up? His fate tugged at her heartstrings.

  “Knight or no, he deserves to hang for poaching!” Perhaps Pinchbeck saw her soften. “Is there to be no justice in Salisbury now that your husband is dead?”

  “I shall dispense justice as I see fit,” she said coldly. She wasn’t sure what Jacobus Pinchbeck did for his living, but he wasn’t a farmer. No doubt he had a burgher’s arrogance and disdain for aristocracy as well as contempt for her as a woman.

  Perhaps he’d deliberately swindled Blount’s father out of his property in a calculated maneuver, which the books might reveal. “What is your business, Mr. Pinchbeck?”

  “My business? What do you mean? I’m not on trial here.”

  “Answer my lady,” growled Deschamps.

  “I’m a merchant. A respectable merchant.”

  “What is your trade in?”

  “In goods.” Pinchbeck looked flustered. “Items of a decorative nature.”

  “Tapestries? Candlesticks? What exactly?”

  “Those items and other…notions. Ribbons, gold thread, gemstone beads. W
hatever is fashionable with the ladies in any given year.” His beaky face creased into a disastrous attempt at a smile.

  Ela found him evasive and likely dishonest.

  “He cheated my father out of the property,” said Drogo Blount. “He lent him money to bring a cargo of goods from Venice. My father was coerced into offering the manor as collateral, and then, when the ship was lost in a storm off the coast of Spain—”

  “It was fair and square. Look at the contract!”

  “My father died a broken man. I’ve stayed abroad most of my life,” said Drogo softly. “I’ve lived by my sword and my wits, and now I find myself longing for my childhood home that was taken from my family nineteen long years ago.”

  Ela felt herself being manipulated. Still, if what he said was true— And he had saved her husband’s life. Surely that deserved consideration? “Where are you staying, sir?”

  Blount bowed his head slightly. “In the greenwood, my lady. I have no other—”

  “My bloody greenwood,” interjected Pinchbeck. “And stealing my bloody pheasants.”

  Pinchbeck’s bad language further irritated Ela. She knew that the men expected her to throw Blount down in the dungeon, but that didn’t feel right to her. “Master Deschamps, please show Sir Drogo to the tower rooms.”

  “What?” Pinchbeck looked like he might explode.

  “He will be under guard while we investigate this matter, Master Pinchbeck.”

  “What if he escapes?”

  “This is the king’s garrison, Master Pinchbeck.”

  Deschamps simultaneously snapped at him to be silent. Ela nodded her thanks to him then turned a stern gaze on Pinchbeck. “You’ll be summoned when I have more information about the matter. Guards, please escort Master Pinchbeck to the gates.”

  Pinchbeck looked like he wanted to protest but wisely held his tongue—and left with the pheasants—because at this point it wouldn’t have taken much for her to put him down in the dungeon.

  That night, washed and dressed in borrowed clothing, Drogo Blount joined the family for dinner. He regaled them with tales of William’s exploits in the Holy Land that made Ela laugh and weep for her husband’s courage and high spirits.

  He told them of the time William had been knocked from his horse by the thrust of a Saracen lance and knocked to the ground, unconscious. The Saracens seized him and debated whether to take him prisoner or slay him on the spot. Drogo, seeing his beloved lord captive and helpless, had become so enraged that he’d jumped from his horse in the heat of battle. He slayed three Saracen warriors with his hatchet, then heaved William onto his horse and carried him to safety.

  Although Drogo sustained a nasty cut to the arm from a Saracen scimitar—he showed them the pale scar—William had survived without a scratch and recovered to resume the fight the next day.

  The tale matched William’s account—what she remembered of it—in all details, and Drogo’s telling was both spirited and humble. Will, her eldest, sat riveted, quizzing Blount for details that brought the distant scenes of valor and camaraderie to life. “Your father was a true hero, my son. A man whose like is rarely seen on these shores or any other. No doubt you’ll do his memory honor. You’re almost the spit of him, tall as you are.”

  Will beamed. He was gangly and awkward, still growing into his newly tall frame. “Would you hunt with me tomorrow?”

  Drogo looked both delighted and taken aback. He looked at Ela. “I believe I’m supposed to be under guard.”

  “Bill Talbot can accompany you.” She glanced at the loyal knight who’d lived in her household for many years and taught Will much of what he knew of the manly arts. For the first time she realized that Bill hadn’t been laughing and exclaiming along with the rest of them at Drogo’s stories.

  Did he know something about Drogo Blount that she didn’t?

  That night, after Blount had been escorted back to his chamber and Will had bedded down with his siblings, Ela took Talbot aside. “Did you know Drogo Blount?”

  “I’ve never met him before.” Bill’s kind face was more furrowed than usual. He was a man of three score years and she’d known him since she was a child. “I’ve heard your husband mention him on several occasions, but I don’t know him myself.”

  “What do you think of him?”

  Talbot hesitated. “He’s a good man and a brave one—but there’s something…odd about him.”

  “Odd how? He has a limp from his battle injuries, but he has no strange accent or mannerisms. He talks and gestures like a knight of the realm. He’s spent many years fighting the king’s battles overseas.” Ela was surprised to hear herself defending him so energetically. “Do you mistrust him?”

  “I have no grounds to mistrust him, but there’s something about him that sets the little hairs on my neck on their end.” His pale blue eyes shone. “The way they did when I came upon the high tower where you were secreted away from the world.”

  “Your instincts are not to be trifled with.” Ela smiled. After her father’s death, Ela’s family worried that, given her vast estates and inheritance, she’d fall prey to schemers or even be killed by a jealous relative. Talbot, sent by the king, had found the remote Normandy castle where her mother hid Ela. He’d entered the castle disguised as a traveling troubadour and rescued her from years of exile. She’d returned to England and married William and trusted Bill Talbot with her life ever since.

  “Keep a close eye on Drogo Blount tomorrow, while I look into the sale of the Fernlees estate where he was poaching.”

  “Fernlees is close by. Do you remember Blount from when you were young?” asked Bill.

  “No, but I was only nine when we left for France. Likely our paths never crossed.”

  “He looks a score or more years older than you, my lady,” Bill protested. “Though I suppose that could be due to the harshness of his life.”

  “And of the hot desert sun. Besides, I am thirty-nine, don’t forget.” She was no fresh-faced girl and she didn’t want to be. Being a wise older widow suited her fine. “Talk to him tomorrow. Get to know him. And give me your opinion then.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  The next morning, while the men hunted, Ela summoned the clerk who dealt with matters of property to look up all documents relating to the transfer of Fernlees manor from Blount’s father to Pinchbeck.

  At midday, the same clerk returned with his master, both of them agitated. “There’s nothing to be found, my lady,” said the older man, wringing his hands. “No deed, no survey, no nothing. Nothing about a lifetime-only transfer of property, and nothing about a permanent one.”

  Ela sighed. “Could it have been a private treaty that wasn’t recorded?”

  “Then the sale wouldn’t be legal. It seems official in that Pinchbeck has paid the taxes on the property since the reign of King John.”

  “But it’s possible that Pinchbeck obtained the property by illegal means?”

  The old man shrugged. “I was in this office myself at the time, and I didn’t see or hear a word about the matter. The transfer seems to have been silent and secret.”

  “Under these circumstances, who then owns the property?” She knew the older man had studied the law at Oxford and had decades of experience with matters of property.

  “The manor was given to the Blount family three generations ago by King Henry I as a reward for military service, according to our records. There’s been no official transfer since.”

  “So Pinchbeck is the impostor.” Ela’s chest filled. This certainly complicated matters in a most interesting way. Drogo Blount would be pleased for sure. She thanked them for their time and asked Deschamps—without filling him in on this new development—to summon Pinchbeck to the castle.

  Will returned, flushed and damp from the rain, with Drogo in tow and with tales of a freshly killed boar. “Finally, Lent is over and we can cook and eat our meat!”

  “We’ll have the cook prepare a great feast for dinner with it.” Ela smiled.
Will enjoyed the pleasures of the hunt as much as his father had. “But now come sup on the cook’s meagre fare and hear the news I’ve found.”

  The cook had prepared a delicious meal rich with all the eggs and meat they’d pined for during Lent plus a salad of the new spring greens starting to grow in the castle garden.

  After the meal Ela sat in her chair on the dais and summoned Jacobus Pinchbeck and Drogo Blount to attend her. She laid out the facts as the law clerks had described them and asked Pinchbeck for an explanation.

  Pinchbeck immediately pulled a folded square of parchment from a leather scrip slung over his shoulder. “This contract details our agreement.”

  She gestured for him to bring it to her, and she studied it. “Whose seal is this?” The wax was broken.

  “The elder Blount’s,” said Pinchbeck.

  Ela summoned Drogo Blount. “Is this your father’s seal?”

  “It is.” Curiosity burned in his eyes, and she could tell he’d like to read the contract.

  Ela opened the parchment, which was crisp and clean and must have been locked away somewhere in the nineteen years since its creation. The writing was black in a clear hand and did promise Fernlees Manor and all is appurtenances to Jacobus Pinchbeck “for as long as he shall live.” At that time it was to return to Blount’s heir, who was detailed as his son Thomas. Drogo had previously explained that Thomas was his given name.

  Now it was time for things to get complicated.

  “Not only did my husband not preside over this property transfer—as far as I am aware—but it was not recorded legally.”