Bascot looked around the empty room. “You have two clerks, do you not, Master Blund? Where is the other one? Why was he not here when Ralf was taken ill?”

The secretary looked at the Templar with eyes that were glazed and gave his answer absently. “Lambert is below, in the hall. I saw him as I came back to the castle. He had come to tell me that his hand was sufficiently healed for him to return to his duties.”

Martin explained to Bascot. “Lambert took a tumble down a flight of stairs a few days ago and sprained the wrist of his scribing arm. He has not been in the scriptorium since then, and would have been absent this morning.”

The leech rose to his feet. “I am sorry for Ralf’s loss, Master Blund,” he said, his ruddy countenance set in lines of solemnity. “Does he have any relatives that must be informed?”

“No,” Blund replied. “Ralf was an orphan, left in the care of the Priory of All Saints when he was only a small child. That is how he came to his duties here; I was looking for a young lad to train as assistant, and the prior recommended him. And now, so soon, he will be returned to the care of the church, to be buried.”

Martin gave a commiserating shake of his head and turned to Bascot. “There is no more I can do here. With your leave I will return to the hall and ask the chaplain to attend the body. I shall also tell Lady Nicolaa of Ralf’s death, and how he came by it.”

The Templar gave his assent, and Martin left the room, shooing downstairs the flock of servants that had gathered in the doorway until only Gianni remained, his eyes wide and frightened. Bascot helped the distraught secretary to his feet and set him on a stool. In the silent and oppressive atmosphere of the scriptorium they waited for the priest to arrive.