Shroud of Dishonour by Maureen Ash Page A

to have new shoes fitted. As he rode the sorrel up and down the grassy stretch, guiding it into swift turns and abrupt halts, the preceptor sat atop his huge black destrier and watched Bascot put the stallion through the manoeuvres. D’Arderon’s wide muscular figure was immobile, but every so often his eyes would stray to dark clouds that were beginning to gather on the southern horizon. Bascot would, afterwards, think of those clouds as a dire omen of events to come.
    Bascot felt more than a little concern for the preceptor’s state of mind. The death of the harlot and defilement of the chapel had shaken him badly, as did the depressed morale of the men. D’Arderon took his responsibilities with great seriousness. Even though it was impossible for him to have prevented Elfreda’s murder from taking place, Bascot knew the preceptor nonetheless felt a share of the responsibility, if only for the fact that it was one of the men under his command—the guard on the gate—that had admitted the bawd and her killer into the enclave. During the time a poisoner had been loose in Lincoln a year before, when one of the bailiffs employed by the Order to supervise a Templar property had been found to be of a loose moral standard, d’Arderon had blamed himself for not having been more scrupulous in checking the man’s credentials.
    Bascot was certain that, at this moment, as d’Arderon gazed towards the south coast of England, the preceptor wished to be a part of the contingent due to leave the next day. D’Arderon had been stationed in the Holy Land for many years and, during that time, had pitted his considerable strength and military expertise against the Saracens. It was probable that Emilius felt the same. Although the draper was two decades younger than the preceptor, he had, until his injury deprived him of the use of his arm, spent ten years fighting the Moors in Portugal. Neither man made complaint of their present situation, both content to serve Christ to the best of their abilities in any way they could, but now, contending with the murder of a woman in the preceptory’s chapel, and the resultant accusation that a Templar brother might be the cause of her death, both officers must long for the uncomplicated life of active duty.
    Roget came riding down the hill just as the two knights were preparing to return to the enclave. The captain’s expression was grim and, when he came up to d’Arderon, he saluted the preceptor and told in a blunt fashion the grisly news of Adele Delorme’s death.
    “Another harlot’s been murdered,” he said. “In the town. She was found last night, but it looks as though she has been dead for at least twelve hours. The sheriff went to his hunting lodge yesterday and Lady Nicolaa has despatched a servant to inform him of the death. It was she who sent me here.”
    The former mercenary hesitated for a moment before he continued. “This bawd was also garrotted, Preceptor, but there were other injuries inflicted on this latest victim that Lady Nicolaa thought you should be told of immediately.”
    D’Arderon’s face blanched as Roget related the grisly details of the butchery that had been done to Adele’s body.
    After a moment of complete silence, the preceptor rammed his spurs into the flanks of his destrier and the startled animal leapt forward. D’Arderon kept the horse at full gallop up the hillside, heading for the enclave. Taken off guard by the suddenness of the preceptor’s reaction, it was a few moments before Bascot and Roget followed in his wake.
    When d’Arderon reached the preceptory gate, he charged through and came to a sliding halt in the middle of the compound. Dismounting in one fluid motion, he tossed the reins of his horse to a groom, and strode off in the direction of his office.
    “Emilius! De Marins! Attend me,” he barked, never once turning his head.
    The draper, who had just begun his inspection of the men-at-arm’s equipment and clothing, looked up