by Maureen Ash
“We saw nothing that had ’owt to do with the murder,” he said in a broad accent. “Just like we told Sir Richard at the time.”
“Nonetheless,” Bascot said sternly, “I still wish to speak to both you and your wife.”
His ill temper still evident, the seal maker gave the task of overseeing the molten silver to one of his young apprentices and, stomping to a door set in the interior wall of the workshop, called loudly for a servant to fetch his wife.
Imogene Sealsmith was a rather dowdy woman of middle years, with small dark eyes and an upturned nose that gave her the look of an inquisitive bird. Far more amenable than her husband, it was she, rather than the seal maker, who responded to Bascot’s questions, repeating the same answers she had given Richard Camville; that she and her husband had never made the acquaintance of the victim or noticed him during the feast. It was not until Sealsmith, distracted by a clumsy movement of the apprentice tending the forge, darted over to take charge of the small ladle full of molten silver, that Imogene was more forthcoming.
“ ’Tis true that neither my husband nor myself had ever spoken to the man that was killed,” she said quietly, “but from what I have heard since his death, I think it might have been him that I saw arguing with Simon Adgate outside our gates the day before we went to the castle for the celebration.” She paused and gave the Templar a glance of satisfaction when she saw she had gained his interest. “Was he a man with fair hair, personable looks and a swagger of self-importance?”
Judging her a woman with a love of indulging in salacious gossip, Bascot answered cautiously, keeping his own voice low so that her husband could not overhear. “There are many men who would fit that description, mistress. Perhaps I could judge better if you tell me why you think the person you saw may have been the murdered man.”
With a disapproving sniff for his seeming doubt of her claim, the sealsmith’s wife could not deny herself the enjoyment of relating her reason for making it. “All of us who live hereabouts knew that Clarice Adgate had taken a lover; she was seen leaving her home on several occasions when her husband was away from his shop, all dressed up in fine furs and without a maidservant or a basket for shopping or the like. And one of our neighbours saw her slipping into an alehouse in the town, one that has rooms above that can be rented for an hour or two, so we knew she was meeting someone she shouldn’t. We had speculated on who her lover might be and when I saw Adgate arguing with that young man, I reckoned it was him that Clarice had been meeting and that the furrier was giving him a warning to leave his wife alone.”
“Did you hear what was said between them?” Bascot asked, careful to hide his distaste for the relish she took in relating the tale.
Mistress Sealsmith shook her head regretfully and admitted she had not. “But I’m certain I’m right when I say he was Clarice’s paramour,” she insisted. “All of us who stayed in the castle overnight saw how she burst into tears when we were told of the murder and who it was that had been killed.” She turned her birdlike eyes on Bascot with speculative glee. “And maybe I’m right again when I say it might have been Adgate who murdered him.”
Now, to Nicolaa de la Haye and the others he told what Imogene Sealsmith had related. When he was finished, Alinor gave a smile of satisfaction. “It is as I suspected,” she declared. “The furrier knew Tercel far better than he admits. I would wager Adgate knew of his wife’s infidelity long before the night of the feast and it was he who arranged the death of her lover.” She turned to Nicolaa. “You should summon the furrier to the castle, Aunt, and force him to tell you what he is hiding.”
“Which may merely be that he was aware of his wife’s adultery and did not want to admit it for fear we would suspect him of the murder,” Nicolaa said wearily. “As I have said, the facts contradict his involvement in the death.”
“Still, lady,” Bascot said, “I think it would be worthwhile to try and find out more about Adgate.” He turned to Richard. “I believe he told you that he was happily married to his first wife. If it was she who was Tercel’s mother, then it could be that Adgate is trying to protect her memory, perhaps in collusion with a brother or other close male relative. If that is so, it could be the relative who, in fact, committed the murder.”
Nicolaa considered the suggestion. “That is certainly a possibility. But if we question Adgate directly, he will be alerted to our interest, and his guilty partner, if there is one, will abscond before we can lay hands on him. We must find another way to obtain information about his first wife. If we begin to ask questions of those who live in his vicinity, our suspicions might reach his ears, so the only alternative is to search for details of their marriage in the parish records. But without knowing in which church the nuptials took place, it will be a tiresome task.”
“I think, lady, that there might be an easier way,” Bascot said. “And I know just the person who may be able to smooth the path.”
Late that evening, Nicolaa and her sister were in the castellan’s bedchamber, preparing to retire. They had removed their outer clothing and, after donning furred bed-gowns, were sitting in front of a glowing brazier enjoying a posset of heated wine mixed with camomile flowers to aid their sleep. Lest she upset her sister, the castellan had responded guardedly to Petronille’s enquiry about how the murder investigation was progressing.
Petronille heard her sister out in silence and then sighed. “So, it remains uncertain who killed my poor servant, or the motive for doing so,” she said and then, raising tired eyes to Nicolaa, added, “I am sorry I was so intractable the other day. I fear I allowed my grief for Baldwin to cloud my thinking.”
“That is understandable, Petra,” Nicolaa said quietly. She cursed the fact that this tragedy was upsetting her sister; Petronille had seemed to be recovering her spirits a little before Tercel was killed. Now, the unsavoury implications surrounding his death had prompted a resurgence of her grief.
“I have come to the conclusion that it might be beneficial for both of us to spend a short time away from this terrible business,” she said, having earlier decided that a few hours away from the castle while Bascot tried to find out more about Adgate’s first wife would cause no delay in the investigation. “And, to that end, have arranged that tomorrow we shall go to Riseholme and see how the foundlings are faring. My bailiff has given me good reports of their progress, but I owe it to the guild members who donated funds to give my personal attention to the children’s welfare. The weather has warmed a little and is not too inclement. If we wrap up well, the air out in the countryside may prove a bracing tonic for both of us.”
Petronille’s face lit up. She had been enthusiastic about the foundling home and perhaps, Nicolaa thought privately, seeing firm evidence that five young lives had been saved from dire poverty might divert her sister’s attention from thoughts of death.
Leaving their empty cups on a small table for collection by a maidservant in the morning, the two sisters climbed into the huge bed they were sharing. As Nicolaa laid her head on her pillow, Petronille said drowsily, “You know, I have been thinking much about Tercel and how he was when he entered our service. The first thing that struck me about him was that I had seen him before but, of course, I could not have done, for he had never left Wharton’s demesne before he joined our retinue. Yet, since his death, the impression has returned more strongly. If his mother was from Lincoln, and her son resembled her, perhaps I might have met her in her youth, before I married Dickon and went to live in Stamford.”
“It is almost certain she was of merchant class, Petra, and it is unlikely you would have done so.”
“I know,” Petronille replied. “But I cannot rid myself of the notion. It is most distressing…”
As her sister’s voice drifted off into sleep, Nicolaa once again regretted that Petronille had been exposed to the terrible crime. She hoped the visit to Riseholme would lift her spirits. If it did not, as much as she valued her sister’s company, she would urge her to return home before her
planned departure at Eastertide.
Nineteen
Very early the next morning, Willi lay awake in the foundling home, staring up at the smoke hole in the ceiling. He had decided that this would be the day he would leave Riseholme and go back to Lincoln to try and find his father. He thought it would be best to go just before dawn so that he could steal away from the property in darkness and would have only a short time to wait before it would be light enough for him to find his way to Lincoln. There was only one problem with his scheme and that was the difficulty of judging the time. The small square opening above his head showed that it was still dark, but he had dozed somewhat after he had gone to bed at nightfall and could not tell how many hours remained until first light.
He looked toward the fire in the middle of the barn. It had been banked down the night before and was now just glowing embers. Alongside him the other children slept, Mark on the pallet next to this one and the girls beyond that. Over by the far wall the manservant that stayed with them every night was snoring loudly. Willi decided he would have to leave now, even though there might still be some hours until it was light. It might be necessary to wait in the greenwood until the darkness receded but it was better than leaving it too late and take the chance of someone seeing him. He had secreted a little food in his tunic over the last couple of days and his plan was to creep out of the small door at the far end of the barn and make his way quickly into the forest that lined the track leading from Riseholme to Ermine Street. The cover of the trees extended all the way to Lincoln; once within their shelter he could walk parallel to the main thoroughfare for the three miles to the town and enter Lincoln through Newport Arch, which was always opened early. If he could hide amongst the crowd of traders and other travellers that sought entry into the town every day, he would escape the notice of the gate wardens.
He turned slightly on his pallet and looked at Mark. The other boy was awake and his eyes gleamed in the small light from the fire. Willi had told his friend of his intentions yesterday and Mark had agreed to cover for his absence as much as he could by saying Willi was in the outside latrine or had gone to the kitchen, so as to delay the inevitable search that would be made. With a nod towards Mark, Willi rose from his pallet and carefully rolled up the rough woollen blanket that had covered him. It was still very cold outside; he would need the blanket to keep him warm.
Making as little noise as possible, he tiptoed across the open expanse of the barn, holding his breath and praying he would not be heard. With trembling fingers he lifted the wooden bar that secured the entrance and heaved a sigh of relief when it rose without a sound. The door had leather hinges that had been well oiled and it, too, silently slid open wide enough for him to squeeze through. Carefully, he pushed it shut behind him and looked around the yard. The almost-full moon gave enough light for him to see his way to the fence that surrounded the property. All was quiet. There were a couple of dogs near to the building where the servants lived, but they knew his scent and were not likely to bark. With stealthy steps he crossed the yard. One of the pigs in the sty grunted, but there was no sound from the other animals-not the cows in their shed or the chickens in the coop. A sudden shape loomed out of the darkness and he jumped in alarm, but it was only one of the nanny goats, staring at him with her protuberant eyes as her jaw moved sideways in a chewing motion, making the tuft of hair on her chin waggle. She continued to gaze after him as he ran across the yard and climbed the fence. A few more steps and he was across the track and into the cover of the greenwood. Breathing a sigh of relief, he hoisted the rolled blanket onto his shoulder and began to trudge his way through the deep pile of leaves that had fallen to the ground the previous winter, heading for Lincoln.
Nicolaa and Petronille started out on their journey to Riseholme as soon as they had broken their fast. Hugh Bruet, the knight who had accompanied Petronille to Lincoln, led the escort along with Ernulf and two men-at-arms from the castle garrison. Bruet was pleased to be away from the castle, for it alleviated the twinge of conscience he had been suffering since the murder and dimmed his memory of a minor happening that had caused him to wonder about its import. He did not believe that what he had seen and heard had anything to do with the death but, even so, he wondered if he should have told Richard Camville about it. But to do so might bring another into disrepute, and cast aspersions where none were warranted. He was glad to be going to Riseholme; it would provide him with a brief reprieve from his dilemma. A ride in the brisk morning air might clear his thoughts.
Unaware of Bruet’s concerns, Nicolaa and Petronille had mounted their palfreys and set off with a lightness of heart induced by a sense of revisiting the days of their youth. As adolescent girls they, along with their younger sister, Ermingard, had often accompanied their father on the trips he had made to inspect one or another of his properties. They had always looked forward to these excursions and the chance it gave them to ride out into the open countryside and away from the confines of the castle. And today they were reminded of the pleasure those trips had brought, for the cold snap had broken and a beneficent early spring sun was shining its warmth on their faces, just as it had then. As they rode, they chatted comfortably with one another. Although it was only a short distance to their destination, they passed a few fields being readied for the plough and once, through a gap in the forest, saw some newly born lambs gambolling beside their mothers. By the time they reached the turnoff that led to Riseholme, Nicolaa was pleased to see that her sister’s cheeks had turned a rosy hue and a smile curved her mouth. It had been many weeks since Petronille had looked so happy.
As the party cantered along the turnoff to Riseholme, the castellan was surprised to see her bailiff and two or three servants searching among the bushes on the far side of the road. When the bailiff saw his mistress’ party approaching, he quickly doffed the soft cap he was wearing and came to meet them.
“What is wrong, Stoddard?” Nicolaa enquired. “Have some of the animals got loose?”
The bailiff flushed a bright red. “No, lady, one of the children, a boy named Willi, is gone. We didn’t notice his absence until we were all gathered to go to Mass in the village chapel. We are trying to find him.”
“Gone?” Nicolaa exclaimed. “Do you mean he has run away?”
“It appears so, lady,” Stoddard said with some embarrassment. “The boy was here last evening when all of the children went to sleep. He must have left sometime during the night, but the servant who was assigned to watch over the waifs didn’t hear him go.”
Turning to their escort, Nicolaa directed Bruet and Ernulf to take the men-at-arms and search the woods for the boy and then, urging her mount into a trot towards the gate into her property, spoke sharply to the bailiff. “I would have speech with this servant, Stoddard. It seems he has been remiss in his duties.”
When Nicolaa, with Petronille following behind, entered the yard, the other children were standing huddled together in a group, the cook and a kitchen maid hovering alongside them. The unfortunate manservant who had slept in the barn was just emerging from searching the shed where the cheeses were kept and, when he saw Nicolaa, his face blanched and he quickly ran forward and fell to his knees. “I am sorry, lady. I should have been more vigilant, I know, but I didn’t think as how any of the little ones would want to run away from where they were so well treated. He must have crept out while I was sleeping.”
Nicolaa considered his words. She was a fair mistress and not given to harsh punishment, but all of her servants knew that if any of them proved to be lazy or disobedient, they could not expect a second chance, but would be dismissed from their posts without hesitation.
“Had you punished the boy for any reason?” she asked harshly.
“No, lady, there’s been no need,” the servant assured her and Stoddard, with a nod, confirmed his words.
“All of the children have been as quiet as mice since they came,” the bailiff said. “We all thought as how they were happy here. I don’t know w
hat made Willi run away, but one thing I can promise you, it wasn’t because he was abused.”
Nicolaa gave a short nod. She had no cause to disbelieve Stoddard. He had managed the property for some years, as had his father before him. She looked toward the rest of the children. All of their faces were etched with fear and the smallest one was clinging to the cook’s skirt and starting to cry.
“I will question the rest of the children and see if they know anything about this boy’s disappearance,” Nicolaa said to Stoddard as she dismounted from her palfrey. “Bring them inside the manor house. I will speak to them there, but first I wish you to attend me.”
Nicolaa walked quickly into the building, calling for two cups and a flagon of cider to be brought into the small room that served as a hall. A manservant ran forward and placed two chairs in front of an unlit fireplace and then struck flint and tinder to some dried moss to set the logs burning. Although the chamber was unused by the servants, it was kept in readiness in case Nicolaa should visit. Now, a maidservant hurried to bring two pewter cups which she placed on a small table alongside a flagon of cider. At a nod from her mistress, she poured the fragrant drink into the cups and, sketching a bow of deference, served them to Nicolaa and Petronille.
