A Deadly Penance tk-6

by Maureen Ash

  Sixteen

  In the scriptorium, it was almost time for the evening meal by the time Gianni had finished transcribing the notes he had taken during the morning’s discussion between Nicolaa and the others. He had one more task to finish before he could go down to the hall and partake of some food; that of copying out the relevant passages in the letter penned to Stephen Wharton by his brother. Since Wharton intended to begin his journey back to Stamford the next morning, the copying had to be done by the end of the day so that the letter could be returned to the knight before he left Lincoln. Lambert, the other clerk in the scriptorium, offered to bring Gianni some refreshment from the hall while he completed the task and the lad enthusiastically nodded his head. He had barely had time to snatch more than a crust of bread and a small chunk of cold meat at the midday meal and his stomach was growling with hunger.

  Unrolling the long sheet of parchment, he read through the opening paragraphs detailing various bequests to servants and disposal of property until he found the portion that dealt with Aubrey Tercel. Anchoring the letter on his lectern with two small blocks of wood, he set to work. He had already noted that the letter, even though in a scholarly hand, was informally worded and guessed that, as Lionel Wharton had been about to embark on crusade, he had dictated it in haste to a priest or cleric. The passage about Tercel had been taken down in a similar fashion; the sentences overlong and often repetitive. When he came to the part that dealt with the woman who had been his mother, it was written in the same rambling manner and Gianni had to stop and read it twice to ensure the meaning. After he had finished, he laid aside his quill and pondered on the fact that there was a slight ambiguity in the words.

  When Lambert returned with a platter laden with a bowl of rabbit pottage, half of a small loaf of oat bread and two cups of ale, Gianni showed the relevant portion to him and, through the sign language that Lambert had taken the pains to learn so he and his young colleague could communicate, asked his opinion as to the precise meaning of the passage.

  Lambert laid the platter down and read through the document as Gianni hungrily wolfed down the stew and bread. When the older clerk had finished, he rubbed a finger along his prominent jaw and said, “I see what you mean, Gianni. The way this is written-‘The woman who became enceinte was in Winchester’-could mean that she lived in the town, which is the way Stephen Wharton construed it but, conversely, it might just as well signify that she merely happened to be in the town at the time she lay with her lover. It does not necessarily indicate that she resided there.”

  Lambert’s dark eyes lit up with appreciation. “You have done well to spot that, Gianni,” he said. “I think it might be worthwhile to bring it to Lady Nicolaa’s attention.”

  Later that evening, Simon and Clarice Adgate sat in the furrier’s hall, the meal they had been served hardly touched. Uppermost in Clarice’s mind was the message that had been brought earlier that day by one of Nicolaa de la Haye’s men-at-arms, requesting her presence at the castle early the next morning.

  “I do not understand why they wish to speak to me again,” she said to her husband anxiously. “I have told them all I know.”

  Simon did not seem to have heard her and Clarice regarded her husband from beneath lowered eyes. He had been this way ever since the morning they had learned of her lover’s death. When they had gone into the hall to break their fast on that dreadful day, and one of the other merchants had told them that Aubrey’s body had been found up on the ramparts, she had burst out crying and had been too grief-stricken to take particular note of Simon’s reaction. But later, as he had led her to a seat and brought her a glass of wine, she had realised, to her horror, that he had guessed of her entanglement with Tercel, for he had bent over her as he had given her the wine and muttered tersely, “Try to comport yourself in a more discreet fashion, Clarice, otherwise it will be obvious to others, as well as myself, that you knew the dead man far better than was seemly.” Ever since that moment, he had been engulfed by an air of preoccupation.

  But even so, and while his manner had been scornful, he had not once castigated her for her adultery, not even after that dreadful interview with the castellan and her son when she had admitted the affair. Although he had tried to protect her when the one-eyed Templar had come to question her, he had rarely spoken to her directly since he had become aware of her infidelity. She could not understand why he did not voice his anger, for it was within his rights as her husband to beat her for her lecherous behaviour or, at the very least, take away the furs and costly gowns with which he had so generously provided her. She was grateful that, so far, he had not done so and fervently hoped it would remain that way.

  As the castle household was preparing to settle down for the night, the two female servants in Petronille’s retinue, Margaret and Elise, were sitting at a small table in the hall, drinking a cup of camomile cordial before they went to help their respective mistresses disrobe for the night.

  The pair did not normally seek out each other’s company. Their ages were too far apart for easy companionship and Elise found Margaret’s reserved demeanour repressive while the opposite was true for the sempstress, who considered Elise’s lighthearted manner too bold. But since the murder, the two had been drawn together, partly because the servants in the Lincoln castle household had become a little reserved in their company, almost as though they would, by association, become tainted with the tragedy, but mainly because they served the two ladies peripherally involved in the drama.

  “I understand from Lady Alinor that her mother became very distraught after a meeting with Stephen Wharton today, although she did not tell me the reason,” Elise said to Margaret, hoping to find out what it was that had so upset Petronille.

  “Yes, she was sore distressed,” Margaret confirmed and then, to the young maid’s satisfaction, related how it was thought that Aubrey’s mother might be responsible for his death. “I agree with milady,” the sempstress proclaimed in a self-righteous manner. “It is inconceivable that a woman would kill her own child.”

  Elise was as shocked as Petronille at the suggestion, but her outspoken nature compelled her to add, “Well, somebody murdered him. And if it wasn’t his mother, and the furrier doesn’t seem to be guilty, who else could it be?”

  Margaret shrugged, a delicate lifting of shoulders clad in a sober dark gown. “All of us who shared Aubrey’s company during the last few months at Stamford were aware of his predilection for amorous involvements. It is quite conceivable that he had another paramour beside the furrier’s wife, perhaps even a woman here in the castle household. If she had a lover who was enraged by Aubrey’s trespass on the affection of a woman he claimed as his own, it is quite possible he murdered him out of jealousy. There are not many men who would ignore such an insult.”

  “You think it is a man, then, that did the killing? It is said that a woman could have fired the bow.”

  Margaret gave a dismissive shake of her head. “A woman would have killed the furrier’s wife, not her lover. It must have been a man.”

  Elise considered her companion’s pronouncement. “It could be that Mistress Adgate was the true target and Aubrey was killed by mistake.”

  The sempstress drew down the corners of her mouth in disagreement. “I think it unlikely, Elise, and that you would do well to hope it is not so.”

  Elise looked at Margaret in surprise. “Why should I do that?”

  The sempstress glanced around to ensure they were not overheard and lowered her voice. “Because it would indicate that the murderess was driven to her crime, as you have just said, by hatred of the women her lover found attractive.” At Elise’s continued look of incomprehension, Margaret explained her reasoning. “I am well aware that Aubrey often looked at you with lustful speculation. If I noticed it, I am sure others will have done so. If, as you surmise, the murderer is a woman that is driven by jealousy and is taking vengeance on the women her lover found attractive, it could be that, even though he is dead-or perha
ps especially because he is…”

  “She will want to kill me as well,” Elise finished fearfully and shivered. She looked around the hall, focussing her attention on the female servants going about the task of clearing the huge chamber after the evening meal. Some were piling soiled napery into baskets while others were dousing the candles on the board or removing the wooden platters that had been used to serve food. Most of them were young and one or two quite handsome in appearance. She was sure Aubrey’s lecherous nature would have prompted him to make advances to them as he had done to her. While she herself had rebuffed him, it could easily be, as Margaret said, that one of them had been beguiled by his handsome appearance and succumbed to his charms.

  “But Lady Nicolaa said she was sure that none of her household staff was involved in the murder,” Elise protested, remembering with relief what she had been told by Alinor.

  Margaret pressed her prim lips together. “Lady Nicolaa is undoubtedly a woman of good judgement, but even so, she is not infallible.” Then, as she saw the effect her words had on her young companion, she leaned forward and placed a consoling hand on the girl’s arm. “I did not mean to alarm you,” she said softly, her face contrite and her voice full of concern. “As I said, there is a only a slim chance that it was a woman, and even less that she is one of those here in the castle. I am certain the murderer was a man and, if it was, you have nothing to be frightened of.”

  Elise nodded silently, but her stomach churned with alarm. Even though Margaret had assured her that her fears were groundless, it would be wise to be watchful.

  In the candle manufactory,Merisel Wickson lay on the pallet in her bedchamber pondering on her mother’s illness. Mistress Wickson did not appear to be recovering from the strange malady that had overcome her; even the apothecary was nonplussed as to its source. Merisel had gone to him twice now, each time giving a further description of her mother’s ailment and, in the end, he had finally opined that she had been taken with one of the maladies that often plague women as they approach the end of their childbearing years, saying he could do no more than give her an additional dose of the elixir that helped her mother to rest.

  But Merisel was not satisfied with his diagnosis. Her mother, although often indecisive, was not usually physically weak and it was most strange that she had, in the space of one day, succumbed to a mysterious illness that had left her enervated and in a fragile state of mind. Uppermost in Merisel’s thoughts was that this sudden ailment had come upon her mother just after she had received a visit from her cousin, Simon Adgate, behind the closed door of the hall in their home.

  Simon did not come often to their house and, to Merisel’s uncertain knowledge, her mother had never gone to his. The rarity of the furrier’s visits was due to an argument that had taken place a few years earlier during what had begun as a casual conversation between Adgate and her father, when Simon had declared that the rights of the tallow candlemaker’s guild was equal to that of Wickson’s, who fashioned their product from beeswax. Her father had not been head of his guild at the time, but he was very prideful, especially where his business was concerned, and his insistence that the superiority of his product should give his guild more privileges than one that was, in his opinion, inferior in status, had caused hard words between them and he and the furrier had rarely spoken since.

  It was due to this incident that on the infrequent occasions when Simon came to their home, he timed his visits to occur when the chandler was engaged in his workshop so that he could visit his cousin without her husband’s company. Adgate had always spoken kindly to Merisel each time she had seen him, asking after her health and well-being and, by the solicitous manner in which he addressed her mother, was made aware that he was very fond of her.

  But on this last occasion of his calling, Merisel had been coming down the passageway next to the chamber in which they were ensconced and had noticed that the tone of their voices, even though muffled by the closed door, had a tinge of urgency about them. There had also been a thread of anxiety in the few words she had heard her mother speak. Merisel had paused for a moment and listened, not out of a desire to eavesdrop but because she feared her mother was in distress. But the door was of thick oak and the sounds had been muted. She had not been able to catch the gist of the conversation, only part of an odd sentence here and there, but she was certain she had heard the name of Tercel mentioned, along with the words “threat” and “be careful.” A few moments later, the door had opened and her mother and Adgate had come out. Both of them had seemed flustered when they saw Merisel standing outside the door, her mother gasping in surprise and asking her daughter, more tersely than was usual, what she was doing there. Merisel had held up the soiled apron she was on her way to replace with a freshly laundered one and, with an expression of relief, her mother had dismissed her. Simon, too, had seemed reassured by her explanation, and had given her a friendly nod as she continued on down the passage to the clothes hamper where a supply of clean linen was kept.

  Now, Merisel pondered on that meeting between her mother and Adgate. At the time, she had put it from her mind as having no import. But when a customer, the day after the murder, had told Merisel and her father about it and she had later related the conversation to her mother while taking her some soup at midday, she had been disturbed by Mistress Wickson’s reaction. Her mother, her cheeks suddenly bloodless, had turned her face to the wall, murmuring that she was tired and wanted to rest. When Merisel had asked her if she had known the man who had been killed, her mother’s reply had been barely audible as she said, “No, no, I never met him. Please leave me now. I am too weak to talk anymore.” From that moment, Mistress Wickson’s illness had taken a downward turn.

  It was because of her mother’s denial that Merisel had lied to the Templar knight when he had asked if she knew of anyone that had made the acquaintance of or had any connection with the dead man. Whatever the reason for her mother’s falsehood-if it was one-Merisel did not intend to be the cause of involving her ailing dam in a murder investigation. But even though she had no intention of revealing what she had heard, Merisel could not forbear from ruminating on the implications of her mother and Simon Adgate’s exchange and the fact that it had been just after their meeting, and the mention of Tercel, that her mother had proclaimed she was ill and could not accompany her husband to the feast. There must be a connection between the two events.

  It was not in Merisel’s nature to allow such a mystery go unresolved, especially one that might have made her mother ill, but she feared that if she questioned her dam directly, it might cause her further upset. The only recourse was to go to Simon Adgate and ask him to explain what she had overheard and why her mother had denied knowledge of the murdered man when Merisel had heard her speak his name. But even though the furrier had seemed, on the few occasions she had met him, to have an amiable nature, would he be willing to discuss with her matters that he and her mother so obviously wished to keep private? Or would he, despite his seeming kindness, castigate her for prying into affairs that were none of her concern? Well, she thought, if she did not ask, she would never find out and, summoning up the resoluteness that was part of her character, decided to go and see him the very next day.

  Seventeen

  As Bascot rode to the castle the next morning, he wondered if finding Tercel’s mother might not prove an impossible task. The previous afternoon he had sat with Ernulf in the barracks and they had gone over the names on the list that Nicolaa de la Haye had given him. Ensconced in the serjeant’s cubicle, and sharing a jack of ale, Ernulf was anxious to help. He still felt some guilt for his men not apprehending the murderer, or at least finding the corpse long before sunup, and was anxious to redeem himself. He listened carefully as Bascot told him the circumstances of the dead man’s background and how his unidentified mother, or one of her relatives, might be responsible for his death. The Templar cautioned him that the whole matter must be kept privily lest the guilty party be alerted and then Ern
ulf, with a grim nod, had given consideration to each of the guild leaders.

  Bascot was already aware of Ernulf’s wide knowledge of the townsfolk and their backgrounds-it had been of use to the Templar on more than one occasion in the past-and now he found that the castellan had been correct in stating that Ernulf also had an excellent memory. Completely unconsciously, the serjeant recalled seemingly disparate facts by associating them with those that were important to him and, after a few moments’ cogitation, had been able to immediately eliminate two of the guild leaders-a baker and a goldsmith-and their wives.

  “The baker was married in the same year that Lady Nicolaa’s father had the gatehouse repaired-’twas the year before my lord’s death-and I recall how everyone was complaining that the baker’s wares were suffering because of his distraction with his young bride,” Ernulf said with a smile. “Not that he didn’t get himself right after a week or two when his energy began to flag, but we had a good laugh about it at the time. But that was at least a year afore the time you are wantin’, so his wife couldn’t be the girl you are seeking and, besides, she was the daughter of another baker in the town, so I know she isn’t from Winchester.”