by Maureen Ash
“I vowed, along with Margaret, that I would never reveal her sister’s shame,” Adgate said with abject resignation. “But now, I have no choice.”
“Let your conscience be easy, furrier,” Bascot said. “You do not have to tell me, for the truth is plain to see. The woman you and Margaret have been protecting is the chandler’s wife, Edith Wickson, is it not?”
“Yes, lord, it is,” Adgate confirmed miserably.
An hour later, Nicolaa and Richard, along with Petronille and Alinor, were in the solar, listening as Bascot related the details of his conversation with Adgate. Hugh Bruet was there as well and so was Gianni, the latter taking down notes of what his former master was recounting. The furrier had been left outside the chamber in the company of a man-at-arms.
When Bascot had finished, Nicolaa asked, “Do you think Adgate is telling the truth when he says that he and Mistress Wickson were not involved in the murder?”
“I cannot be certain, lady, but I think so. He is a very shaken man but also, I believe, an honest one. If you will recall, he has never told us an outright untruth, but has simply avoided revealing what he knows. As for Mistress Wickson, the furrier tells me that after he told her that her illegitimate son was searching for her, she feigned illness on the night of the feast out of fear that, if she came to the castle, Tercel might, because of some passing resemblance between them, recognise her as his mother. After he was killed, so Adgate says, the news of his death made her truly ill and she has not risen from her sickbed since. These facts bear out what we were told by her husband-who, apparently, is not privy to her secret-and led to the conclusion that she could not have been, at least actively, involved in the crime.”
“Did Adgate tell you how Tercel discovered that Edith Wickson was his mother?” Richard asked.
“He was not aware that she was,” Bascot said, surprising them all. “Adgate says that when he came and asked to speak to him privily, he seemed to believe that Margaret was his dam. He told the furrier that he had challenged the sempstress with his accusation, but that she would not admit to it, nor tell him who his father was. Adgate, of course, told him that Margaret was telling the truth, but his protestations fell on deaf ears. What happened next is only conjecture on the furrier’s part, but he thinks that Margaret killed Tercel because she feared he was getting too close to his objective, and would soon discover that it was her sister, not she, who had birthed him. She murdered him to prevent that from happening.”
“But what gave Tercel cause to think that Margaret, out of all the women in Lincoln, was his mother?” Nicolaa said.
Bascot shook his head. “Adgate spoke to Margaret only once before she committed the murder. That was shortly after she first arrived in Lincoln when he attended the second service of Christ’s Mass in the cathedral and saw her among the congregation. He was delighted to see her after all the years she had been away, and went over to her and asked why she had not contacted him when she arrived. He says she seemed distant and told him that she was very busy with her duties, but would try to visit his shop soon. When he asked if she intended to call on Edith, Margaret said that she would do so in her own time and asked him to convey her love to her sister, but asked that neither Adgate nor Edith try to contact her for the present. Even then she must have had some intimation of Tercel’s interest in her, but she never mentioned it to Adgate, nor did she do so when the furrier, alarmed by Tercel’s visit and his subsequent murder, defied Margaret’s request and sent a message to the castle asking her to meet him. How Tercel came to discover that Margaret was in Winchester at the time of his conception must, I fear, remain a mystery.”
“I think that perhaps I may be able to explain it,” Bruet said quietly and they all turned towards him.
“How so?” Nicolaa asked.
“It is something that puzzled me at the time but, since I did not know you were searching for a woman who had travelled to that town all those years ago, I dismissed it.” The taciturn knight seemed uneasy at being the focus of attention, but continued without hesitation. “It happened the day after we arrived in Lincoln, just before Christ’s Mass. As Margaret and I were walking into the hall to break our fast, she mentioned how tired the journey had made her, saying it had fatigued her far more than a much longer trip she had made to Winchester when she had been a young girl. She laughed, saying it must be because her bones had grown old and were not so resilient. Tercel was just behind us when she made the remark and the next day I heard him ask her in what year she had made the journey of which she had spoken. I did not hear her reply, but just a few days before Tercel was killed, I saw him and Margaret in conversation with each other. She was angry and I heard her castigate him for eavesdropping and making a ridiculous deduction from a chance statement.”
Bruet looked solemnly around the company. “With hindsight, the exchanges between them now reveal their significance, but it was one that I was not aware of at the time. I did, I confess, ponder on their conversation later but, as I said, came to the conclusion that the matter was of no importance.”
“Nonetheless, Tercel must have somehow discovered that Adgate was related to Margaret, for even though she took the precaution of trying to hide their relationship as best she could, he still went to question the furrier about her,” Nicolaa said to Bascot. “Does Adgate know how that came about?”
As Bascot began to shake his head, Petronille spoke up. Still in shock from learning that the woman she had held in such close company had committed murder, her voice was slightly tremulous as she explained, “I fear I am to blame for that. I knew that Margaret still had some family in Lincoln and that one of them was a furrier although, in all the years she has served me, she never mentioned a sister. When I instructed Tercel to obtain some fur samples for me to examine, Margaret was there, and I asked her if her relative still had his furrier shop in the town and that, if he did, I would be pleased to give him my patronage. I recall now that she was somewhat noncommittal in her reply, saying that she had lost touch with him many years ago and did not know if he still lived here, but I did press her for his name and told Tercel to ask among the fur merchants he visited for Adgate’s shop and, if he found it, to select some of his wares for my approval. I am afraid it must have been that conversation that led him to the furrier.”
“I wonder if that is why he paid his attentions to Clarice Adgate?” Richard suggested. “Perhaps he hoped to find out more about Margaret through the furrier’s wife.”
“I asked Adgate that same question,” Bascot replied. “But he said that while that may have been Tercel’s initial intention, he would soon have discovered it to be a fruitless quest, for Clarice did not know that Margaret, or Edith Wickson, were related to him.”
“I find that hard to believe,” Alinor said. “When you marry a man, it is natural to meet his relatives, or at least be told their names.”
“I agree it would be commonplace for most brides,” Bascot replied, “but apparently, according to Adgate, he is not on friendly terms with Edith’s husband and visits her only rarely, so she was not present when he and Clarice took their vows. He also told me that, very soon after their marriage, his new wife made it evident that her sole reason for agreeing to marry him had been for the material advantage she would gain and that she showed no interest in meeting the wives of the other members of his guild, let alone enquiring about any family he might have. Because of her attitude, he never mentioned any details of his relationship with either Edith or Margaret to her. If that is so-and I cannot see any reason to doubt Adgate’s words-then Tercel must have soon realised he would gain no useful information from Clarice. Since he appears to have had continued his affair with her for several weeks, it is more than likely that he continued the association purely out of lust.”
“There still remains one last piece of the puzzle that has yet to be explained,” Nicolaa said, “and it is at the crux of the matter, for it is the one that prompted Tercel to begin his ill-fated quest. How did Lionel Whar
ton come to be involved with Edith and her illegitimate child and why did he leave Tercel a ring inscribed with an emblem used by Lionheart? Can the furrier shed any light on that aspect of this misadventure?”
“I believe that he can, lady,” the Templar replied, “but I did not question him in detail about it, for I thought that you and Sir Richard might prefer to do so yourselves.”
Twenty-nine
When Simon Adgate was brought into the solar, the man-at-arms who had been guarding him brought him across the room to stand before the group of nobles. The furrier’s limp was more pronounced than formerly and his shoulders were slumped in dejection. With a bowed head he listened as Richard, in stern tones, admonished him for not revealing his kinship with Margaret earlier. It was not until Richard added that, for the moment, they were prepared to accept his statement that neither he nor Edith Wickson had been involved in the murder, that Adgate raised his head and his expression lightened.
“The sempstress will be questioned shortly,” Richard told him. “If she confirms what you claim, then charges will not be laid against either of you.”
Adgate’s relief was palpable and he humbly thanked the castellan’s son, on behalf of himself and his Mistress Wickson, for accepting, albeit with reservations, his protestation of their innocence.
“But there are still some aspects about Tercel’s birth that need to be explained,” Richard said. “How is it that Lionel Wharton came to be involved in the matter?”
“It was because of Queen Eleanor,” Adgate replied. “Even though she was being treated most cruelly at the time by her husband, King Henry, she still found it within her heart to concern herself in the plight of my poor cousin. She is a great lady.”
At mention of the queen’s name, the nobles looked at one another in confusion and Nicolaa leaned forward and said to Adgate, “I think you had better explain what happened from the beginning, furrier, and tell us, to the best of your knowledge, what you know of the events that took place so many years ago.”
“I did not learn the details until after the happenings, lady, for I was not in Winchester when they occurred,” Adgate replied. “I, and the girls’ parents, learned of them some weeks later, when my uncle and Margaret returned to Lincoln. But although I received the accounting at second hand, I believe it is accurate.”
“Then continue,” Nicolaa directed, and Adgate, taking a deep breath, began the tale.
“The purpose for which my uncle, Thomas Adgate, went to Winchester was to take some Lincoln greyne -the red cloth for which our town is so famous-to show to Queen Eleanor. He had been urged to do so by a longtime acquaintance of his, a draper of Winchester, who had learned of the queen’s interest in the material. Margaret and Eleanor begged to be taken along on the trip and my uncle, a widower with no children of his own, indulged the girls and acceded to their request. Not long after they all arrived, an interview with the queen was arranged and my uncle took samples of greyne to the fortress where Queen Eleanor was incarcerated. The girls went with him and were allowed to wait in an antechamber while he kept the appointment. They were both overjoyed to be so near to the presence of such a noble lady and even more so when, while they were sitting there, the queen’s young daughter, Princess Joanna, passed through the chamber and stopped to talk to them. The princess was most kind and must have been lonely for the company of girls her own age for, a few nights later, she invited both Margaret and Edith to come to the castle and listen to a troubadour that was to play for the queen and her ladies. It was on that evening, as Edith was making her way back to the rooms my uncle had hired for their stay in Winchester, that the attack took place.”
Adgate regarded the nobles with a look that begged understanding. “Margaret has always blamed herself for the fact that she sent Edith, who was younger than she, out alone onto the streets of Winchester that night. The reason Margaret did so was because she had caught the eye of one of Princess Joanna’s young menservants on their earlier visit and, after they left the hall where the troubadour had been entertaining the company, she stopped to talk to him for a while, telling Edith to go on ahead of her so that she could speak to him privily. Margaret never thought for a moment that Edith would be in any danger, for the rooms my uncle had taken for their stay were not far from the castle gate. As it turned out, Margaret’s assumption was a grave error. Edith had gone only a few steps outside the castle walls when she was attacked. She never saw her assailant’s face. He approached her from behind, dealt her a heavy blow to the head and then dragged her into a dark passageway where he violated her.”
The women drew their breath in sharply at Adgate’s bald statement and Richard cursed under his breath. The furrier paused and then, at a nod from the castellan’s son, continued.
“Edith, rendered unconscious by the attack, lay in the passageway for some time, her absence unnoticed until Margaret returned to the hired rooms and found that her sister had not returned. Alarmed, she and my uncle immediately set out back along the path to the castle to try and find her, but to no avail. It wasn’t until the guard on the castle gate heard them calling out Edith’s name and sent some of the castle’s men-at-arms to join them in the search that she was found. She was in a dreadful state; her clothes were torn asunder and blood was gushing from the wound in her head. The gateward, seeing the severity of her condition, decided that the queen must be informed and despatched one of the soldiers to tell her.”
The furrier’s voice, choked with emotion, was barely audible as he went on. “The men-at-arms carried Edith to the castle bail and Queen Eleanor herself came out to meet them. Margaret told me that when the queen saw Edith’s pitiful condition, she directed that my cousin be taken to her own private rooms and the royal physician called to attend her. The queen even draped her own cloak over Edith’s prostrate form, not caring that it would be stained with blood, and walked by my cousin’s side as the soldiers carried her into the keep.”
Visibly shaken by the strain of his recounting, Nicolaa gave Adgate a moment to compose himself, and then gently urged him to continue. “The queen’s physician was unable to rouse Edith from her stupor,” he told them haltingly, “but he confirmed what everyone feared, that the object of the attack had been to defile her. He thought it best that my cousin was given over to the care of women for, he said, when she regained her senses, the presence of a male so near to her person might cause her great distress. The queen ordered Edith taken to a nearby nunnery and the good nuns, only too willing to oblige a request from the royal lady, readily took my cousin into their care.”
“It must have been a terrible ordeal for such a young girl to suffer,” Nicolaa said. “And, from what you say, she was never able to identify the man who attacked her.”
“No, she was not, lady,” Adgate confirmed. “In fact, she hardly remembered anything of it at all, for which we all gave thanks to God. But, notwithstanding that, she lay unconscious for some days and, when she finally came to her senses, could not stand erect without losing her balance. The infirmarian in the convent thought that the blow to her head was the cause of her unsteadiness but, whatever it was, it took some weeks for her to recover from it.”
“And she remained in the convent during that time?” Petronille asked.
“Yes, Queen Eleanor had asked the nuns not to remove her from their care until her health was restored,” Adgate replied. “But by the time she finally managed to keep upright, the infirmarian in the convent noticed that she was beginning to show signs of gravidity and my uncle and Margaret-who had remained in the town awaiting the time that Edith should be well enough to travel back to Lincoln-were devastated by this further disaster. They had told their acquaintances in Winchester that Edith had tripped and fallen, hurting her head badly, and had been taken to the nunnery to be cared for. The queen, too, had concealed the truth about Edith’s injury, instructing her guards to tell no one what they had seen on that night. But now that Edith was with child, my uncle and Margaret knew it would be impossible
to hide what had truly happened from the prying eyes of the world, and my cousin’s reputation would be ruined. There was also the problem of Edith’s impending marriage to Thomas Wickson. While the fact that my cousin had been assaulted could be hidden from him, it would be impossible to hide the babe swelling in her womb and they knew he would never countenance taking her as a bride when he learned of her condition. They did not know what to do until the queen, having heard from the nuns that Edith was with child as a result of the attack, sent for them to attend her.”
The furrier’s eyes were shining with admiration as he told of his uncle and Margaret’s visit to the queen. “She received them with great sympathy and, learning of their dilemma over Edith’s impending marriage, suggested that it might be best if my cousin was removed to a nunnery nearer to Lincoln-one not far from Stamford where the abbess was a personal friend of the queen’s-and kept there until her confinement was over. That way, the queen said, the approaching birth could be kept privy from any who knew Edith or her family and, once the child was born, my cousin could return to Lincoln without her future husband, or any of their neighbours, having knowledge of what had befallen her. My uncle, grateful for the queen’s support, readily agreed to the plan, and she sent for Lionel Wharton, who had lately arrived in Winchester carrying despatches from Lionheart. When he arrived, the queen told him of Edith’s predicament and said that since he lived near Stamford, she wished him to covertly escort my cousin to her destination and once there, and with her authority, to make whatever arrangements were necessary for the duration of Edith’s confinement and also for the child’s welfare after it was born. And so it was done.”
“And how was Edith’s absence explained to those who knew her?” Nicolaa asked.
