by Maureen Ash
Nicolaa thought of the repercussions of what she had just been told and became angry that John had kept the reason for his nephew’s disappearance from the rest of the world, especially the Bretons. “And is it John’s intent to leave the people of Brittany indefinitely ignorant of their ruler’s fate?” she demanded. “Their present situation is untenable, for there is no one to take Arthur’s place except his sister, Eleanor, and John imprisoned her at Corfe castle after he quelled the rebellion at Mirabeau. Does he intend to release her?”
Walter shook his head. “The king has deemed it wise to keep her far from the influence of Philip of France, for whom she, like her brother, has much sympathy. She will remain in custody unless, and until, she promises to swear fealty to John, which so far she has refused to do.”
“Which leaves the people of Brittany with only a young child as claimant to the throne of the Duchy,” Nicolaa protested, referring to Alix, Constance of Brittany’s infant daughter by her third marriage. “Can it be wondered they are furious?”
The archbishop conceded the point but said, in John’s defence, that the king had little choice in the matter. “Immediately after the incident, John maintained a small hope that his nephew would partially recover or at least regain his reason. By the time it became apparent that he would not, it was too late to reveal what had happened. No one would ever have believed that the injuries were accidental and instead would have been convinced that they were the result of the maiming and torturing John had threatened earlier, and rashly, to inflict on the boy.
“What else could he do, lady,” the archbishop said in a tone of mild reproach, “but hide the truth until he has had an opportunity to repel the invasion of Philip of France?”
***
Nicolaa barely listened as Walter outlined John’s concern that the security of Arthur’s condition may have been breached, perhaps at the priory where he was being cared for, or by one of the two guards that Briouze had bribed to assist in transporting the young count to St. Gervais. Her outrage was building at the clandestine manner in which the incident had been handled and now, her own unwilling involvement in the deception.
“It is quite possible that Arthur’s wretched state has nothing to do with these murders,” the archbishop added, “but it would be foolish not to take into consideration that if John’s covert action with regard to his nephew has been discovered, and the murderer is taking reprisal on the king because of it, then the whole matter could be revealed when the killer is apprehended. And that must, at all costs, be prevented. Even though many believe Arthur already dead, his fate is still an unproven rumour and, with the passage of many months since his disappearance, his name has begun to dim in people’s memory. Can you imagine the outcry, lady, if it was suddenly revealed that he was alive, and in such a piteous condition? No one would doubt that his injuries had been inflicted by John, and they would revile the king for it. There are already many English nobles who are dissatisfied with John’s rule; it is almost certain they would use his supposed mistreatment of his nephew as an excuse to withdraw their support and encourage others to join in rebellion. And Philip of France would be jubilant; what a coup it would be for him to have his enemy deemed such a villainous knave. It would not take long for John’s cause to be completely undermined.”
“Deception often has undesirable repercussions,” Nicolaa said acidly. “That is why it is never wise to employ it.”
“I will not argue that point with you, lady,” Walter said, “but only ask if you are willing to comply with the king’s request.”
Nicolaa was seething with a fury she was scarcely able to contain. Why had John decided to keep the matter hidden? If Walter’s recounting of the king’s confrontation with his nephew was a true one, Briouze was a witness who could have testified that Arthur’s injury had been an accident and the priory infirmarian could have confirmed that, in all likelihood, the blow to the lad’s head had not been deliberately inflicted. All of this artifice could have been avoided if only John had been honest, and there would have been no need for this conspiracy of silence.
And she was all too aware that the knowledge she now possessed could be dangerous—that if she did not acquiesce with John’s so-called request, reprisals could follow, not only towards herself and her husband, but also to her son. The threat, if unspoken, was there nonetheless. She felt as though she were a game bird snared in a fowler’s net, and knew it would be futile to struggle against her royal captor. Her regard for John was all but gone, and her confidence in him severely shaken.
And she need not ask what the fate of the murderer would be if he was caught and John’s fear realised. Both she and Walter knew the answer. He would be swiftly and covertly executed, and never heard of again.
The archbishop gazed at her with a hint of compassion in his eyes, as she thought how easily she had been gulled into cooperating with the murder investigation. If Sheriff de Cornhill had not been incapacitated there would have been no need for her involvement, but as he was—and she had no doubt he would have been subjected to the same coercion as herself if he had been available—John had chosen her to be the instrument of his deceit. This was the reason he had sent for the Templar, being confident that, through her, de Marins could be manipulated. Unbidden, her husband’s words echoed in her mind—“Be careful what you promise, wife,” Gerard had said. “John’s word cannot be relied on.”
Good advice but, unfortunately, she had been too tardy in heeding it. Rising stiffly from her seat, she told Walter that she would do as John asked. “But you may tell the king, Your Grace, that since he has left me little choice in the matter, I do so with a heavy heart and much aversion.”
Chapter Nineteen
Earlier that morning, John and Isabella, along with the queen’s two attendants, three packhorses laden with baggage and an armed escort of mercenaries were just leaving Dover castle on their way to St. Sepulchre’s when a castle man-at-arms could be seen approaching on the road from Canterbury, riding fast. The soldier brought his mount to a hasty stop in front of the king, dismounted and, after giving John a respectful salute, handed him a message from Constable Criel.
The king read it swiftly and then, after a moment of stunned incredulity, slowly scanned it once more. As he did so, a slow burn of fury engulfed his face.
Isabella, seeing her husband’s expression, asked what news the message contained.
“There has been another murder in the royal townhouse,” he said tersely. “Inglis, the steward, has been poisoned. And, once again, it appears that either myself, or you, were the intended victim.”
Isabella stared at him in disbelief for a moment and then crossed herself. “May God have mercy on his soul.”
“This reinforces my opinion that it is best to keep you as far away from Canterbury as possible,” John declared. “You will remain here at Dover.”
Isabella gazed longingly along the road on which they had been preparing to travel. It had taken all her wiles to persuade John to remove her from the cold, gloomy fortress behind them and now she was being ordered to stay. Defiance rose within her, and just as the king was raising his hand to signal Godeschal de Socienne—who was at the head of the troupe of soldiers—to turn the horses around, she spoke sharply to her husband.
“Wait, John! You have not thought this through. This malefactor must be a man. If he managed to successfully infiltrate the servants at the townhouse without discovery, could he not just as easily do the same here at Dover, disguised as a groom or some other manservant? Surely I would be safer behind the walls of the nunnery in the company of women.”
“How can you be certain it is a man?” John objected. “Poison is a woman’s weapon.”
“But it can be just as easily used by a man, my lord. The first murder could not have been done by a female. Your washerwoman was very strong; it would have taken a powerful assailant to kill her so swiftly, overpowering her before she
had time to cry out. Only a man could have accomplished such a feat; is it not reasonable to assume that the same villain killed the steward?”
John considered her premise. There was a grain of truth in what she said. Her safety was of paramount importance to him, especially as she might be carrying his son and heir in her womb, so it might be wise to accede to her wishes.
Finally, and with some reluctance, he acquiesced. “But you will stay within the walls of St. Sepulchre until I give you leave to depart,” he admonished her, “and I will not countenance any argument for you to do otherwise. Is that understood?”
Isabella nodded obediently and pulled her fur-lined hood a little closer around her face to conceal a small smile of satisfaction. Her husband was malleable if handled correctly. Although there were times when a display of temper was effective, there were others when it was wise to play the obedient wife.
***
At the royal townhouse in Canterbury the atmosphere was oppressive. Guillaume Aquarius, the king’s bath attendant, sat alone in his room and reviled the silence surrounding him. He had been forced to keep to his own company, for the other servants, even the two Norman grooms that had come with the king to England, had all, since the murders, regarded him with disdain. It was as though he had, by discovering Molly’s body, become tainted with the odium of her death. Mealtimes were intolerable; no one spoke to him or displayed the least amiability towards him and, unable to leave the townhouse to seek the company of other people in a church or an alehouse, he was very lonely. He thought he would lose his wits if he had to withstand the atmosphere much longer.
He had not expected to be treated in such a churlish fashion by the rest of the staff. He had thought they would be morbidly curious, perhaps, or maybe sympathetic, but not that they would shun him. And, after being questioned by the knight, he knew he was one of the foremost suspects for committing Molly’s murder. And now that Inglis had been poisoned, he would probably be blamed for that as well. He shivered when he recalled the glance that had passed between the knight and his young mute companion when he had told them the name of his birthplace. Pontorson was very close to the border of Brittany, and he knew they were speculating as to whether or not he had Breton connections amongst his family and friends. Only a fool would not know what this implied; Arthur, count of Brittany, was rumoured to have been slain by the king, and it was entirely possible that it had been a Breton sympathizer who, attempting to take reprisal on John for the murder of their count, had killed two of his servants in the process. He should have lied about his name, but had been fearful that the king might be told what he had said and recall his true one.
A cold sheen of sweat appeared on Aquarius’ high domed forehead. He had not expected that this commission in England would be fraught with such dangers. He had severely overestimated his abilities, he thought, and decided to do whatever was necessary to keep himself safe, even if it meant risking the safety of another.
***
Miles and Gianni found Cecily Wattson’s home without difficulty by following Edith Bottler’s directions. She had told them that the widow’s deceased husband had been a parchment seller, and had owned quite a lucrative business near the cathedral which, at his death, had been inherited by his two sons. “He also had a large house near Westgate,” she had added, “and it was left to Cecily as her widow’s portion. She still lives there, and supports herself by renting out the rooms on the upper floor as lodgings, mostly to pilgrims. You will find it easy enough; it has a picture of the blessed St. Thomas on the lintel above the door.”
And so it had proven. The house was of two stories and well-kept with a stone foundation above which rose walls of tarred oak beams infilled with wattle and daub. The sign Edith had mentioned was a garish one, depicting the slain archbishop with a sword cleaving his tonsure and globules of red paint spattered about his pate to represent the blood that had gushed from the terrible wound that had killed him.
Snow was falling quite heavily when they knocked at the door and it was opened by a middle-aged maidservant wearing a downcast expression. She nodded solemnly when Miles asked her if this was the house of Cecily Wattson.
When the knight made a request to speak with her mistress, the servant’s reply was not encouraging. “She is not very well at the moment, lord,” she said sadly. “A close friend has just died, and she is sick with grief for his passing.”
“I take it you are speaking of Inglis, the steward at the royal townhouse,” Miles asked and, when they maid confirmed his assumption, said gently, “His death is the reason we have come. I am here at the behest of William Marshal, the earl of Pembroke, and must, I am afraid, have a few moments of Mistress Wattson’s time.”
The maid, nodding solemnly, led them down an oak-paneled passage into a comfortably furnished chamber fitted out with padded chairs and settles, and sheepskin rugs scattered about on the floor.
Cecily Wattson was sitting beside a capacious hearth in which a fire was blazing. She was a tall, amply-fleshed woman, with a snow-white coif covering hair that, judging by the rim that showed just above her forehead, was now grey. About fifty years of age, she had a pleasant face, with a round chin and a pair of handsome dark brown eyes that were red-rimmed from weeping. She looked up with scant attention when the two visitors were shown into the room, but when the maid told her of their errand, she bid them be seated and sent the servant for refreshments.
“Please forgive my distraction, lord,” she said to Miles. “I have known Inglis for many years and, as I assume you must have been told by the gossips else you would not be here, he was not only my friend but, since my husband died, my paramour.”
Miles, relieved that she was so forthright about her intimate relationship with the steward, expressed his condolences for her loss and then explained that he and Gianni were in the retinue of Lady Nicolaa de la Haye, hereditary castellan of Lincoln, and had been charged with assisting the investigation into the murders of both her lover and the washerwoman.
Mistress Wattson listened with solemn attention as he went on. “We have come to ask if you may have any information about Inglis that might lead to discovery of the person who killed him. Did he mention to you, at any time, anyone with whom he had quarreled, a servant perhaps, or someone in the town?
Cecily gave the matter a few moments’ thought and then slowly shook her head. “Not that I can recall, although he could be fussy at times, and may have argued with someone and not mentioned it to me.”
Disappointed, Miles asked when she had last seen the steward. “His regular habit was to come each week on Thursday,” she replied, “but he didn’t come this week and, in truth, I had not expected him.”
“And why was that, mistress?” Miles asked.
Stifling a sob, she explained. “He and I exchanged cross words on his last visit. He wanted us to marry, you see, and although I loved him, I did not wish to become his wife, nor any other man’s. I am happy with my life as it is; my sons and their families come to visit without the constraint of another husband having replaced their father, the pilgrims that lodge here provide me with good company and I may spend my money as I please. Inglis assured me he would not change any of that, but having been married before I am well aware that it is the husband who has the order of his wife’s ways, and I was not completely certain that Inglis would allow me to go on as I have been.”
She ceased speaking for a moment, and then, with an appealing look in her tear-stained eyes, said, “But the last time he was here, Inglis pressed his suit yet again, and I lost my patience and took him to task for his persistence. I am afraid we both lost our tempers and had a very acrimonious exchange, with many harsh words said by both of us. I never spoke to him again and, to be truthful, later regretted that I had not been more tactful. It is not surprising that, on the last occasion I saw him, he treated me with disdain and refused to acknowledge my presence.”
Despite
an obvious effort to restrain the emotion she was feeling, tears streamed down her face as she spoke these last words. Trying to distract her, Miles asked if Inglis had ever mentioned Molly, the king’s washerwoman and, if so, what he had said.
“Since she and Inglis were both murdered in the townhouse,” he told her, “and so near to each other in time, we are trying to discover if there was some link between them that may have been a common cause for their deaths.”
Blotting her tears dry with a small square of linen, the widow made an attempt to compose herself and, after a moment or two, was able to answer the question.
“Yes, he did speak of her on one or two occasions.” She gave a wan smile in remembrance. “I think he was a little envious of her, although he never admitted it. You see, although he had been the king’s steward for many years, he rarely saw any of the monarchs he served, for their visits to the townhouse could be many months apart and, even when they came, were usually not of long duration. But Molly, because she travelled with the king, was often in his company, a fact about which she was inclined to boast. I think Inglis believed she felt herself superior to him because of it.”
“If they did not have the common bond of friendship, it is not likely she would have confided in him about someone who bore her enmity,” Miles reflected regretfully.
Cecily held up her hand to correct his assumption. “Perhaps I have given you a false impression. Although I have said that Inglis might have been jealous of Molly, I do not think he disliked her. As a matter of fact, I remember him telling me once that they had jested together about the king’s habit of calling all of his bath attendants by the name Aquarius, particularly because the man who was filling the post at the time had eyes that reminded Molly of a fish. She apparently said to Inglis that it would be more appropriate to call him Pisces, after the symbol of that sign. He found the pun hilarious and told me of it. Such familiarity would suggest they shared some degree of comradeship, if only because they had both been royal servants for such a long time.”
