The Alehouse Murders (Templar Knight Mysteries, No. 1)
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A Templar treasure for mystery readers!
An honorable-yet world-weary-Knight Templar solves the mysteries of Medieval England.
After eight years of captivity in the Holy Land, Templar Bascot de Marins escapes with injuries to his body and soul. Now on a sojourn at Lincoln Castle, he hopes to regain his strength, and mend his waning faith-but not even the peace of God's countryside is safe from the mortal crimes of man. For what appears to be the grisly end to a drunken row is in fact a cunning and baffling crime.
their produce or, where possible, actually plying their trade as the carts moved slowly along. Beside and among them the musicians strolled, piping and playing, while the tumblers threaded their way cleverly through the procession and the crowd, deftly catching any pennies that might be thrown their way. At strategic intervals, Bascot saw, there were pairs of Gerard’s guard, eyes darting amongst the throng, on the look-out for cutpurses. Occasionally one of the soldiers would swoop into the
equipped with dagger or sword, these too had vanished and there was no trace of any blade that might have been used in the stabbings. Bascot looked at Ernulf. “Except for the alekeeper, these bodies have been dead longer than since curfew last night.” Ernulf agreed. Both were too familiar with the state of bodies during the aftermath of battle to mistake the length of time it took for the telltale signs of deterioration to show. “The death rigor has come and gone except for Wat. And there’s
BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014. The name BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the BERKLEY PRIME CRIME design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc. http://us.penguingroup.com For my daughter, Tammy; husband, Robert; and good friend Rick with gratitude for your constant support and encouragement One Lincoln Summer 1200 A.D.
on the Templar surcoat he had not worn since he had come to Lincoln. The red cross emblazoned on the pristine white cloth of the coat settled comfortably over his heart. He had not donned a shirt of mail underneath, fearing it might warn the murderer he was expecting to be attacked and had, instead, chosen to wear a well-padded gambeson under his dark-sleeved tunic. With any luck it would provide as much, or more, protection as the hair shirt Father Anselm had worn. Finally he smoothed his
side, whether that of the victorious or the defeated. Bascot went to join the crowd around the large canopied stand that had been erected on the eastern side of the field. In it would sit Nicolaa and her husband, along with some of their guests. The common people would spread themselves along the perimeters of the meadow, fending for themselves as best they could if the mock battle came too near. A festive atmosphere lay over the whole event as well as an air of eager anticipation. Tents had