A Deadly Penance tk-6

by Maureen Ash

  Notwithstanding the practicalities, Bascot knew that the preceptor’s indulgence was primarily due to the fact that d’Arderon was appreciative of the gift that his confrere had for solving secret murders, and was convinced it had been sent by heaven for a purpose. The year before, when Bascot had solved the mystery surrounding the murder of a young harlot found strangled in the Templar chapel, a sacrilege which had threatened to blight the reputation of the Order, the preceptor had afterwards spoken very solemnly of the matter. “This is not the first time that you have resolved a case of murder, de Marins,” he had said, “but in this instance, all of our brothers will give thanks to God that He bestowed this ability on you. If it is the Lord’s will that you are ever again called upon to be used as an instrument of His justice, it will be my joyful duty to give you my wholehearted support.”

  Although d’Arderon had not voiced it, Bascot knew that this sentiment was the main reason for the preceptor’s acquiescence and hoped, as he had done each time he had been asked to investigate an unlawful killing, that he would not fail in his commission of the task. The slaying of another human being without just cause was heinous; not only was it an offence to God, but also to mankind. Now, as he left the Minster grounds and guided his horse across Ermine Street towards the castle, he sent a humble plea heavenward for guidance.

  As Bascot neared the eastern gate into the bail, a straggling group of men and women on horseback were leaving the ward. All were sumptuously attired in heavy cloaks of fine material as they guided their rounceys over the slippery cobbles that led to Bailgate. The Templar recognised one or two-the head of the cordwainer’s guild and that of the armourers-and they nodded in his direction as they passed. Their faces were solemn and, near the end of the procession, one young woman was crying copiously. An older man wearing a richly furred hat atop a shock of greying hair rode by her side and he reached across to pat her arm consolingly. The message Nicolaa de la Haye had sent to the preceptor had included the information that the murder had occurred during a feast the castellan was hosting in the keep and that the guests had been guild leaders from the town, some of whom had stayed overnight. Bascot assumed that these were the burgesses who had spent the night in the castle and were now making their way back to their homes.

  When Bascot reached the hall Eudo, the Haye steward, quickly came forward and said that he had been instructed to ask the Templar, if he arrived, that he attend the castellan in the private chamber she used as an office. Bascot crossed the hall, threading his way through servants setting up the trestle tables that would be used for the midday meal, and made his way to the doorway of one of the four towers that formed the corners of the keep.

  Nicolaa’s office was situated in an upper storey and, when Bascot knocked at the door, a masculine voice bade him enter and he found that Richard was with his mother in the room. The castellan’s son was standing near a small table with a cup of wine in his hand, while Lady Nicolaa was seated behind the oak table she used as a desk. A brazier burned in one corner and the room was filled with warmth.

  “You are well come, de Marins,” Richard said warmly. “I hope your presence here means that Preceptor d’Arderon will allow you to spend some time assisting us with the investigation into this murder.”

  Bascot confirmed this was so and accepted the offer of a seat and a cup of wine. When he had made himself comfortable, Richard told him of how Tercel had been found and that a small crossbow given to Nicolaa by her father had been the instrument of his death.

  “From the progression of the death rictus, I would estimate that he was killed sometime yesterday evening,” Richard added, “possibly while the feast was still in progress. The meal for the guild leaders, which was, of course, of sumptuous fare, was served a little later than usual, just before Compline, and went on for some hours, while our household, including my aunt’s retinue, ate at the regular time and occupied the tables at the back of the hall. All of the townsmen and their wives, with one exception, stayed in the hall until near midnight. We have questioned all of the servants-both our own and my aunt’s-and the last time Tercel was seen was just as the first course of the servants’ meal was being brought out, when he left the table allotted to my aunt’s retinue and made his way to the jakes at the back of the hall.”

  Bascot nodded his comprehension of the sequence of events and Richard continued his recounting. “As mother mentioned in her note to you, because of the inclemency of the weather, she told all of her guests that if any wished to stay overnight, accommodation would be provided for them. Most accepted the offer. I have interviewed all of those who remained to ask if they noticed anything untoward, but the majority of them did not know the murdered man…”

  Just then, there was a knock at the door and Richard paused to give permission for the person outside to enter. To Bascot’s pleasant surprise, Gianni came into the room, some sheets of parchment in his hand.

  The boy’s eyes widened at seeing Bascot and he gave the Templar a smile that was full of glad welcome. Bascot had not seen the lad for some months and was surprised to observe that Gianni had matured considerably in the intervening time. The lad did not know his age but Bascot thought he had been about twelve years old at the time they had travelled to England together. Now, three years later, that estimate was proved reasonably accurate for there was a faint shadow of shorn facial hair above Gianni’s upper lip and, with his unruly mop of brown curls trimmed into some semblance of order, he was acquiring a manly look. His liquid brown eyes remained the same though, and sparkled with delight at the Templar’s presence.

  Gianni went over to where Nicolaa was seated and, with a deferential nod, handed her the papers he was carrying. She thanked him and told him to take a seat at the small lectern that stood in the corner of the room, the place where her secretary, John Blund, usually sat to take dictation.

  “We are making good use of Gianni’s talents, de Marins,” Nicolaa informed the Templar. “He has been present during all the interviews Richard conducted and has made notes of any pertinent details. Unfortunately, there has not been much for him to record.” She held up the sheets of parchment. “He had just made a fair copy of the results, if you wish to look at them.”

  The Templar thanked the castellan and, when he saw the clear script in which the details were written, gave Gianni a nod of approval. Nicolaa noticed the gesture and, with a warm smile, said, “Gianni has done well since he began his training under Master Blund. He has now completed his formal lessons and I have given him a permanent post as clerk in the scriptorium.”

  As Gianni reddened under the praise, Bascot felt his heart swell with pride. When he remembered the frightened young boy he had rescued from certain death in Palermo, he thanked God that he had been the instrument of the lad’s survival.

  As he glanced over the list, he saw that alongside the names of two of the guests-a furrier, Simon Adgate, and his wife, Clarice-was a note that they, along with another couple, an armourer and his wife, had been allotted sleeping chambers in the old tower, just below the spot where the murder took place. It was also appended that, when questioned by Richard, none of the four people had either seen or heard anything while they were abed. Beside Clarice Adgate’s name, mention was made that she had retired to the chamber early, before the feast had started, due to feeling unwell. She must be the one guest that Richard had mentioned as not staying in the keep until the celebration was over.

  The Templar tapped the notation with a forefinger. “Is Simon Adgate an elderly man with greying hair?” he asked.

  Surprised, Nicolaa confirmed the description and asked if he had made the acquaintance of the merchant. “No, I have not,” Bascot replied, “but I passed some of the guests leaving the castle as I arrived and one of them was attired in a particularly fine fur hat, and had with him a young woman wrapped in a vair-trimmed cloak. Since it says here that Adgate is a furrier, it is likely he and his wife would be attired in clothing of such richness. When I saw them I assumed that
the woman was his daughter, because of her youth. She seemed to be in much distress.”

  “She was,” Nicolaa told him. “The thought that she had been sleeping so close to where the murder was carried out upset her greatly and she reacted with a great outpouring of tears. Her dismay seemed a little excessive, I thought, but her husband told me she has a very sensitive nature, and apologised for her outburst.”

  “She was in close proximity to where the murder took place, and at the right hour, and you have said that it could have been a woman who used the bow,” Bascot observed. “Have you discounted her as a suspect?”

  “We have,” Nicolaa replied. “Clarice Adgate is, I fear, a rather empty-headed young woman and, whatever the cause of her distress, it denotes a hysterical nature. For the murderer to successfully lure Tercel up onto the ramparts and shoot him, determination and a steady nerve were required. The furrier’s wife does not seem to me to be possessed of either of those attributes.”

  Bascot accepted Nicolaa’s assessment without hesitation. He knew the castellan to be an astute observer of human nature and had rarely known her judgement to prove faulty.

  “I have yet to make enquiries of the two guild leaders and their wives that did not remain in the castle overnight,” Richard told him. “But since it is most likely that they, in common with most of the others, would not have known Tercel personally, I do not suppose any of them will have taken particular note of his movements.”

  “I presume there was much activity in the hall last night, lady,” Bascot said to Nicolaa. “With the number of people that were present-the guests, your own household and your sister’s retinue-it would have been easy for the dead man to leave the hall relatively unnoticed in the throng.”

  “That is true,” she agreed. “Attention was also distracted by a minstrel I hired. He proved to be an excellent jongleur who kept us enthralled with his songs. But as far as we have been able to determine, no one was noticeably absent except Adgate’s wife. And the only one that saw Tercel leave the hall was one of our household servants, and that only because he almost bumped into him as he was on his way to the latrine.”

  “Your sister has been in Lincoln for some weeks now, I understand,” Bascot said. “During that time, Tercel might have made an enemy in the town. It would have been easy for an extra person to have slipped in amongst your guests when they arrived. Mayhap the murderer came from without the bail and left after he had completed his mission.”

  Nicolaa gave the notion some thought and said, “It is possible, I suppose. Petronille is an easy mistress; all of her servants have been given leave to attend services in the cathedral whenever they wish, or to go abroad in the town if their absence does not cause a disruption in the commission of their duties. It is conceivable that Tercel might have made an enemy among the townspeople during his forays into Lincoln.” She looked at her son. “My sister’s servants will have to be questioned again, to see if any of them know where he went, and whom he met, on those occasions that he left the ward.”

  Richard nodded. “It is as good a place as any to start, I suppose. Will you assist me, de Marins?”

  “With pleasure,” the Templar replied.

  Six

  It was nearing midday by the time Simon Adgate and his wife, Clarice, arrived at their fine stone house situated near Stonebow, the principal gate at the lower end of Lincoln town. Their journey from the castle had been slow; even though the sun was shining, its meagre warmth had not completely melted the coating of ice on the cobbles and the streets were still slippery. They had been forced to guide their horses down the sharp incline of Steep Hill with great care until they reached the main thoroughfare of Mikelgate. Once away from the castle ward, Simon had ceased his attempts to comfort his wife and become aloof. By the time the couple had reached the turning where their house was located, Clarice’s crying had been reduced to quiet hiccupping sobs and she was timorously glancing sidelong at her husband’s stern face. His grey eyes were hard and the deep furrows alongside his mouth seemed as though they were set in stone.

  Adgate’s business premises adjoined his house. Since he knew that his assistant would be in the shop attending to any customers that had come out on this cold morning, he guided their horses around to the small stable at the back of the building and, after giving the animals into care of a groom, led his wife directly into the house. The middle-aged maidservant who supervised Adgate’s household heard their entry and came forward to take their outer clothing.

  “There is a good fire in the hall, Master Simon,” she said with a worried glance at Clarice’s tear-stained face. “Shall I bring some mulled wine to warm you?”

  Simon shook his head. “Take your mistress up to our bedchamber,” he instructed tersely, “and help her disrobe and get into bed. She has had a bad shock and is in need of rest.”

  As the servant took Clarice’s arm and led her up the stairs to the upper storey, Simon went into the room that served as a small hall. It was a graciously appointed chamber containing a highly polished oak table and chairs and padded settles. There were tapestries on the walls depicting hunting scenes, and many of the animals whose furs he sold were portrayed in the background-foxes, squirrels, rabbits and the weasel from which ermine was obtained. On the floor, in front of the hearth, was a fine wolfskin rug on which lay two pairs of soft shoes-one pair for himself and the other for Clarice-lined with lamb’s wool. Simon walked over to an open-faced cupboard at the end of the room and took down a silver goblet, into which he poured a full measure of wine from a flagon on the table. Then he sat down heavily on one of the settles near the fireplace, hardly feeling the warmth of the flames. It was as though the ice that covered the town had invaded his heart.

  Clarice’s outburst of tears had shocked him, and it had taken only moments for him to realise that her grief for the death of a man she was supposed to have known only in the most casual fashion was inordinate. The implication of her unseemly weeping hit him like a hammer blow and, with a sense of desolation, he realised she had been intimately involved with Aubrey Tercel. As the other guild leaders and their wives had turned to stare at her in puzzlement, his first reaction had been to protect both her and his own reputation and so he had led her apart from the group. But the effort of keeping his anger in check and forcing himself to show a solicitous concern towards her had placed him under a great strain, especially as it had been compounded with a personal fear of quite a different nature.

  As he sipped the wine, he tried to still his racing thoughts. Had his protestations that his wife’s anguish was due to her delicate nature been accepted by Lady Nicolaa and Sir Richard? He was not sure, for he had seen the dawning of speculation in their eyes. But that was the least of his worries, he thought, and again dread gripped him. There was far more at stake than the loss of his good name; if what he feared was true, then the well-being, indeed the very lives, of people that were dear to him hung in the balance. Fervently, he offered up a prayer that even if Clarice’s adulterous affair should be discovered, the other connection between himself and the dead man would remain a secret. If it did not, the consequences could be disastrous.

  In the castle barracks,Ernulf was also in a state of agitation, but for an entirely different reason. As serjeant of the garrison, it was his responsibility to ensure that the castle and its inhabitants were safe, and he felt that since the men under his command had not been alert enough to catch the murderer it was he, as their senior officer, who was at fault. Whether the murderer had come from without the walls, or within, his entry up onto the ramparts should have been seen by one of the guards and challenged. After the inquest, and following the coroner’s questioning of all of the men-at-arms who had been on duty, Ernulf had subjected them to a second inquisition in the barracks, voicing his displeasure for their lack of vigilance.

  “How could you have missed someone being killed right under your noses?” he thundered. “What if this miscreant had been an enemy come to breach the walls? I reckon
he could have led a troupe of soldiers inside the bail while you was all standin’ around scratching your arses.”

  The two guards who had stood the night watch on the stretch of the ramparts where the murder had taken place withstood the tirade without speaking while the rest of the men-at-arms glanced at them uncomfortably. The pair were all too aware they had been lax; even if it was reasonable to claim that the murderer could have slipped by them during the few minutes that their route took them away from the area near the old tower, they should have found the body long before the serjeant did. No matter that the night air had been so cold it numbed a man’s senses, or that the bitter wind had forced them to keep their heads down lest their breath freeze in their mouths, the door that gave admittance to the tower should have been regularly checked to ensure that it remained locked. If they had gone across the catwalk to perform that simple task, they would have found the corpse and raised the alarm long before dawn’s light. The delay of those few precious hours might well have enabled the murderer to escape. Ernulf had every right to be furious. They eyed him warily; it was entirely possible they would be dismissed from their posts.

  The serjeant gave a curt nod in their direction. “You two will be docked half a month’s salary for this night’s shoddy work,” he said curtly and then glared at the other men standing in front of him. “And the rest of you had better take heed. Let me catch any of you idle cowsons sleepin’ at your posts again and you’ll be standin’ on the outside of the bail, looking for work.”