by Maureen Ash
The bailiff, who had been standing by the door, came forward at a gesture from his mistress, his cap in his hand.
“What did you observe about the boy that is gone?” she asked. “Did he seem discontent, or was he disobedient?”
“He appeared happy enough, lady,” the bailiff assured her. “Tucked into the food right well and did the few chores assigned to him with a willing heart. I didn’t notice anything amiss. If I had of done, I’d have taken him to task about it.”
“And the other children-were they aware he was planning to run away?”
“They say not, lady, but Willi took a blanket with him when he went and now they seem to fear they will all be sent back to the streets of Lincoln because of the theft. It might be that fright is stopping up their tongues.”
“Then they must be assured their situation will not change,” Nicolaa replied. “Bring them in and I shall speak to them.”
The bailiff turned to go but, before he went to do her bidding, he added, “Willi was friendly with one of the other children, a lad named Mark. It is possible he may have told him of his intention to leave and the reason for it.”
“I will bear that in mind,” Nicolaa assured him.
The children were shepherded in by the cook, with the little girl, Annie, still clinging to her skirt. When they were arrayed in front of her, the castellan said, “First of all, I want you all to know that none of you will be sent back to Lincoln. Even though we are concerned that Willi ran away, he was not a prisoner here and neither are the rest of you. If you wish to leave you will be allowed to do so, but if you want to stay then, providing you obey the rules that have been laid down for your conduct, you have a home here until you are old enough to fend for yourselves.”
Relief was etched on the faces of the two older children, Mark and Emma, and the latter placed her arms around her little sister and said, “See, I told you, Annie. We won’t be made to leave just ’cause Willi stole that blanket.”
Annie hiccupped and looked up at the cook who gave her a reassuring pat on the head. Joan, in her usual noncommittal way, said nothing.
“Now,” Nicolaa continued, looking directly at Mark, “if any of you know why Willi left, or where he intended to go, I want you to tell me. Even though the weather is warmer, it is still too cold to be out in the woods alone. And if he should meet with a wild animal in the woods, he may be in danger of serious injury.”
A silence followed her words. Mark stood with his lips pressed together and Emma shook her head. Annie, because of her tender years, was confused and looked at her sister in puzzlement, while Joan began to fiddle with the hem of her kirtle.
“Very well,” Nicolaa said. “If none of you can help me, you may go with cook and break your fast. Since you missed Mass this morning, you will say two paternosters before you eat…”
“He went to find his da,” Joan suddenly burst out. “And he’s going to be killed by the murderer.”
Stoddard, who was standing by Nicolaa’s chair, was the first to react to the astonishing statement. “What nonsense is this, Joan? Willi doesn’t have a father; he’s an orphan like the rest of you. And as for being killed…”
“He does so have a da,” Joan burst out, her torrent of words startling after she had been almost silent for so long. “ And he saw the murderer, too, the one who killed that man in the castle.”
“Joan, you must not tell lies…” Stoddard began impatiently, but Nicolaa held up her hand.
“How do you know this Joan?” she said quietly.
“I heard him tell Mark,” the girl said triumphantly.
Twenty
Another silence fell as everyone looked at Mark. The boy was glaring at Joan, his small fists clenched at his sides. It was obvious the girl was telling the truth. Nicolaa, raising her hand, motioned to the bailiff.
“Stoddard, take all of the children except Mark to the kitchen and have the cook attend their needs.”
As the bailiff and the other orphans left the room, young Mark stood forlorn in front of the two women, his hands now clasped in front of him and near to tears.
Nicolaa spoke gently. “Mark, what do you know of Willi’s disappearance and this tale that he saw the man who committed the murder?”
The boy raised his head, his mouth trembling. “I gave my promise that I would not tell,” he said, with an attempt at bravery.
“And you did not,” Nicolaa assured him. “Joan did. But now that the secret is out, for Willi’s own safety, you must tell us all you know.”
“Willi does have a da,” Mark said quietly, despair in his voice, “but he’s been gone for a long time and Willi was hungry. When he went to get alms at St. Peter’s, and the priest asked him if he had anyone to look after him, he lied, but it was only so’s he could get some food. But when we was sent here, he was worried that when his da came back, he wouldn’t be able to find him, so Willi decided to go back into town and look for him.” The boy raised his fearful face to Nicolaa. “He only lied ’cause he was starvin’, lady, he didn’t mean no harm.”
“Very well, Mark,” Nicolaa said, “we shall let that pass for now. What of this claim that he made about seeing the murderer?”
The boy hesitated and the tears he had so far managed to stem spilled down his face. Petronille, her kind heart full of sympathy, recalled her own dead son. Baldwin had not been much older than this boy when he had died and, due to his illness, was almost as thin. She reached out a hand and said to Mark, “Come here, child, and stand beside me.”
With stumbling steps Mark went to the chair where she was seated. She took his hand in hers and pressed it gently. Her skin was soft and a faint perfume of spring flowers rose from her clothes. “Do not be fearful,” she said to him softly. “Neither you nor Willi are going to be punished. But you must tell my sister exactly what Willi said, for that is the only way we can protect him.”
Reassured by her compassionate manner, Mark haltingly told Nicolaa what Willi had claimed. “It was the night we wus all taken to the castle, just after we’d been in that big room where all the townsfolk was sittin’, and we wus being taken to the stables to sleep,” he explained. “As we wus goin’ across the ward, Willi said he saw someone lurkin’ around that big old tower near the gate. The next day, after we heard that a man had been shot by a crossbow up at the top of the tower, Willi said he had seen the man what done it.”
“He said it was a man and not a woman?” Nicolaa interrupted.
Mark screwed up his face in concentration as he thought back over what Willi had told him. He couldn’t remember if Willi had said it was a man; Mark might have just assumed that it was. “I think so, but I’m not sure,” he said honestly.
“Did he see the man’s face?” Nicolaa asked.
“I don’t know, lady,” Mark replied earnestly. “He wouldn’t tell me much ’cause he thought I might tell on him, even though I swore I wouldn’t. But I warned him that if the killer had seen Willi lookin’ at him, he might find him out if he went back to Lincoln and murder him, too.” Mark looked at Nicolaa fearfully. “And I’se right, isn’t I, lady? Will you be able to save him?”
“I shall do my best, Mark,” Nicolaa assured him. She rose from her chair and spoke to Petronille, her expression grave. “If Ernulf and the men-at-arms do not find the boy in the greenwood, we must return to Lincoln at once and organise a search for him.”
As Bruet, Ernulf and the men-at-arms were returning to the Riseholme manor house after a fruitless search in the woods, Bascot and Gianni were entering the shop of the barber-surgeon, Gildas. The rotund little barber came forward with a beaming countenance when he saw them and, as before, greeted the Templar warmly.
“Sir Bascot,” he said in jovial tones. “I did not expect to see you again so soon. Have you found the murderer yet?”
“No, unfortunately, we have not,” Bascot replied. “It is on a different matter that I have come and one that I would like to discuss with you in confidence. Do you have a private room
where we can speak without your customers overhearing?”
The little barber’s chest swelled out with importance as he replied, “Of course, Sir Bascot. If it please you, there is a room in the back where we may speak privily.”
Gildas led Bascot and Gianni to a small chamber lined with shelves laden with pliers, razors and piles of clean cloths. There was only one chair in the room, and Gildas bowed the Templar to it and perched on a small stool nearby. Gianni stood at the door, blocking the passage of any who should inadvertently try to enter.
Bascot phrased his next words carefully. He did not want to alert Gildas to the true nature of his enquiry but, at the same time, it was most important that he extract the information he sought. With a tinge of guilt for deceiving the cheerful little man in front of him, he said, “I wish to speak to you about Simon Adgate, Gildas. Have you ever made his acquaintance?”
“Yes, I have,” the barber confirmed. “I have attended him as his barber-surgeon for many years.”
The Templar had not expected such good fortune, but had merely hoped that since Adgate and Gildas were near to each other in age, the barber might recall the furrier from the days of their youth, and remember the details of his first marriage. His hope rising, Bascot continued the conversation carefully. “I am sure you are aware that Adgate’s young wife was most distressed at being in the castle on the night of the murder.”
Gildas gave a nod of agreement, the jowls on his fat face wobbling slightly as he did so. “Yes, we all heard of how upset she was,” he said, and then added disapprovingly, “And there were some who claimed she was more friendly with the dead man than she should have been. Such malicious gossip should not be given any credence, and so I have told all those who have repeated it to me.”
The Templar believed him. Although Gildas, with his gregarious nature, liked to prattle of the mundane events that occurred from day to day, he was not a spiteful man and Bascot knew he would frown on those who repeated any rumour that cast unfounded aspersions on the reputation of another.
“Just so,” Bascot agreed. “And it is because of these tales that I do not wish to go to Master Adgate and ask him my questions directly. This murder has already given him enough upset and I do not wish to discommode him further.”
The Templar paused for a moment to ensure Gildas was amenable to respecting the implied confidentiality and, when the barber gave a sympathetic smile, went on. “There is a need to find out some information concerning Adgate’s first wife who, I understand, died some years ago. Lady Nicolaa has had the suggestion made to her that the former Mistress Adgate may have been related to Aubrey Tercel. If this is true, then it would be most distressing for the furrier to discover that, in addition to the unkind tales about his present wife, he could also be related, albeit by marriage, to the murdered man. That is why I have come to you. The castellan has asked me to try and find out the truth in a discreet manner, if I can, and I thought that, as a long-standing citizen of Lincoln, and one who meets many of the townsfolk through your trade, you might be able to give me the information we seek. Do you happen to know the name of Adgate’s first wife, or the town from whence she came?”
Mention of the possibility that he might be of practical help to the castellan made the barber straighten up in his chair. Nicolaa de la Haye was held in high repute by the townspeople of Lincoln and the Templar had been sure Gildas would be eager to assist her. “Yes, yes, Sir Bascot, indeed I can help you, for not only has Simon been my customer for many years, but has been my friend since our youth. His first wife’s name was Martha. Both my own wife and I knew her well. But I do not think the dead man could have been related to her. Tercel was from Stamford, was he not?”
When the Templar confirmed the statement, Gildas went on. “Martha came from Hull; she was the daughter of a taw-yer in that town. Simon married her about twenty years ago, soon after he met her when he went to the port to oversee the delivery of some furs from Scandinavia. He had commissioned her father to preserve some of the furs so they could be safely sent to Lincoln before deterioration set in and when Simon went to his shop to inspect the completion of the work, Martha was there and my friend was smitten. It wasn’t many months later that they married and they were very happy until, sadly, just two years later, the poor woman was taken ill with an abscess in her breast and died. But while she was alive, she often spoke to my wife and myself of her family and, as far as I can recall, they were all from Yorkshire. I do not think it likely she was related to the murdered man; I am sure she would have mentioned it if she had any relatives in a town so close to Lincoln.”
Chagrin surged through Bascot. Adgate’s marriage had taken place too long after the time of Tercel’s birth to make it likely that his first wife had been the cofferer’s mother and, even had that not been the case, to investigate further and try to discover whether a woman from the distant town of Hull had travelled to Winchester so many years ago would be nigh on impossible.
Nonetheless, Bascot thanked the barber for his time and, as he prepared to leave, said, “It is just as well I spoke to you, Gildas, and not to Master Adgate. To have involved his dead wife’s name in such a grisly business may well have brought him further grief, and I know I can trust you to keep the matter in confidence from him.”
The barber rose from his stool, his countenance full of gratification as Bascot added, “I shall tell Lady Nicolaa of your cooperation. I know she will be most appreciative.”
Once they were out on the street, the templar decided, as a last resort, to go and speak again to Hacher, the barber Tercel had visited just before he was murdered. “I do not expect a further questioning of Hacher will be useful,” he said to Gianni, “but there is always the possibility that he may have remembered something pertinent since we last spoke to him. If he does not, I fear this investigation has come to a standstill.”
Hacher’s shop, when they walked in, was busy. Two customers were waiting on stools near the door, the assistant was trimming the beard of a man seated on a high-backed chair, and Hacher was just finishing the treatment of a man with toothache. As the barber doused the lit candle he had been holding near the customer’s aching molar in an effort to draw out the worms believed to cause the pain, he saw the Templar and nodded, saying he would be with his visitor in just a moment. Hacher then handed a small bottle of oil of cloves to the customer, whose face was a picture of misery, telling him to apply the oil to his gums overnight and return the following morning. Bascot winced at the sight. One of his own back teeth ached at times, especially after he had eaten a candi. He felt a great degree of empathy for the customer.
“If the ache persists, I will draw the tooth,” Hacher said. “And then cup a little blood to balance the humours in your body. If you wish, I have some tincture of poppy to help you sleep.”
The customer mumbled that he didn’t need it for he had pledged an offering to St. Apollonia, the patron saint of those suffering from toothache, and was sure that she would soon ease his pain. With slumped shoulders he left the shop, his hand held firmly to his jaw.
Hacher came forward to where Bascot and Gianni were standing, attempting to form a smile on his doleful countenance as he asked how he could be of assistance.
“We have come to ask you a few more questions about Aubrey Tercel. I would like you to again recall the conversations you had with him on the two occasions you trimmed his hair. Are you certain he did not mention anyone in the town to you, one of the merchants, perhaps, or some other tradesman?”
Hacher’s domed forehead wrinkled in concentration. “He told me he was in the retinue of Lady Nicolaa’s sister and held the position of cofferer,” the barber said in his slow lugubrious manner, “but I think he only did that to impress on me that he was of some importance for, just after he said that, he warned me to take especial care while attending his hair.” Hacher sniffed. “I replied that I always gave the best of my service to every patron, whether of high standing or low.”
Bascot gave
a nod of seeming sympathy, knowing he would have to be patient if he was going to get any information out of the man. “Did he speak of anything else?”
“We exchanged a few remarks about the quality of wine available in the town,” Hacher replied. “I told him I preferred, when I can afford it, a vintage made from the grapes of Portugal and he agreed with my taste and asked where I bought it. I told him there were several merchants in the town who sell the vintage and we left it at that.”
Clarice had also mentioned that she and her lover had discussed wine, but it was a common enough subject, and not likely to be of importance. “And you are certain he spoke of nothing else?” Bascot pressed.
“I do not think so,” the barber replied and then added ironically, “He did not seem a man much given to conversation.”
The Templar and Gianni left the shop, their spirits low. Even though they had achieved the goal of finding out about Simon Adgate’s first wife, the information had been of no significance and now Bascot found himself nonplussed as to which direction to take next. So far, they had only discovered what appeared to be two completely disparate motives for the crime-that of a violent reaction from a jealous lover or, alternatively, an attempt by Tercel’s mother, or someone close to her, to protect her sullied reputation. Was it possible that the two were linked together in some manner? And, if so, how?
Twenty-one
It was late in the morning by the time Nicolaa and Petronille returned to the bail. Bruet and Ernulf had been thorough in their search for the missing boy, coursing through the forest all around Riseholme for a good distance, but there had been no trace of him. The castellan had questioned young Mark exhaustively while the search was being conducted, but he had not been able to add much to what he had already told them except that it had been “a long time before it got light” that Willi crept out from where they were sleeping. Deciding that the boy must have gone a good distance, or maybe even reached Lincoln, before they arrived, she gave orders for the party to return to the castle.
