by Maureen Ash
Nicolaa touched the material with a forefinger. “Strange how past experiences often repeat themselves, de Marins,” Nicolaa opined. “I recall that, shortly after you arrived in Lincoln, it was a tiny piece of material that helped lead you to the person who murdered four people in an alehouse.”
Gianni, who was busily writing down all that had been seen and heard that morning, looked up and the Templar nodded. “Except that time, lady, it was Gianni who was guided to the finding of it, not myself.”
He tucked the bit of fabric back into his scrip. “Apart from those involved in the investigation, it would be wise to keep this information private. The less information the killer realises we have about him, the easier it will be to take him unawares.”
The castellan gave a nod of agreement.
“And as for the reeve’s evidence that the ravens were making a disturbance at the shrine two days prior to the killing,” Bascot continued, “if we find a suspect who has no witness to his presence anywhere else at that time, it will strengthen the case against him.”
“This new information goes some way towards eliminating Mistress Turner’s culpability, but it does not exonerate her completely,” Nicolaa said thoughtfully. “Thanks to the ravens, her evidence is now proved truthful in that it was someone else who carried out the murder, but there is still no surety that she was not an accomplice. I cannot dismiss the fact that she lied about having an argument with the victim.
“I will keep her in custody for the time being,” she decided. “You said you wished to interrogate her after you had visited the armoury, de Marins. Is that still your intent?”
“No, I will speak to her beforehand. Now it is certain we are looking for a mortal killer, there is an urgency to discover his motive and, to that end, I would like to learn more about the victim; who her friends were, where she went in the town and so on. If I am in possession of such facts, I can be alert for any untruths that may be told by those I interview at the armoury. Mistress Turner knew Emma Ferroner well, and if, as seems indicated, the perfumer is innocent, she should be able to provide me with the information. If she is not willing to do so, then her reluctance will confirm her guilt.”
“Very well,” Nicolaa said. “And to a similar purpose, I have sent a message to Master Drogue, the apothecary that supplies the medicaments used here in the castle, requesting that he attend me. The perfumer said that Emma Ferroner had visited some of the apothecaries in the town seeking an aid to conception. Master Drogue is one of the most prominent practitioners of his craft in Lincoln and will be able to ask among his colleagues as to whether or not that is true, which will go further towards confirming, or refuting, Mistress Turner’s testimony.”
The Templar stood up. “The hour grows late, lady, and I must return to the commandery. I will interview the perfumer in the morning and afterwards go with Gianni and Roget to the armoury.”
The castellan rose from her seat as well. “I am greatly encouraged, de Marins, by what has taken place today. Let us pray that tomorrow will be just as successful.”
* * *
As Bascot left the keep, Roget was just emerging from the barracks. When he saw the Templar, he came striding across the bail.
“Hola, de Marins. I am relieved to see you here. Ernulf has just told me that you are going to investigate this crime. Constance is innocent, I am certain, just as I also know you will prove it.”
“With God’s help, I trust it will be so,” Bascot replied cautiously.
The captain shook his head sadly. “Constance is very distressed,” he said, “and although that is to be expected, I do not like to see her so.”
“So you still have some affection for her?” Bascot asked.
“I do, mon ami,” Roget admitted. “Even though we parted, she is very dear to me.”
“I will speak to her tomorrow,” the Templar told him, “and then Lady Nicolaa has given permission for you to accompany me to the armoury and question Emma Ferroner’s father and husband, and the men in the workshop.”
“I will be in the bail at first light to meet you,” Roget promised.
* * *
The Templar wended his way back to the preceptory, saddened by the emptiness of the Minster as he passed through. Normally on a summer evening, even this late, there would still be people lingering to gossip, and a few vendors hawking the last of their wares. Now, not even a mangy dog was in sight; all was lonely and still.
When he went into the enclave, he found d’Arderon and Brother Feradac still sitting at a table in the refectory, even though the evening meal had been eaten some time before. They had been waiting for him, eager to know how the murder investigation was progressing.
Taking a place alongside the Scottish brother, he gave them a brief summation of the details surrounding Emma Ferroner’s death, of his and Gianni’s visit to the shrine and the evidence the ravens had given him. Both monks crossed themselves, giving thanks for the heavenly intercession, and then listened with furrowed brows as Bascot told them of the townspeople’s anxiety that Satan was stalking Lincoln.
“They are too frightened to attend services at any of the churches, even the cathedral, for fear they will be killed through the Devil’s agency. While the evidence given by St. Dunstan’s ravens proves to both my and Lady Nicolaa’s satisfaction that they are mistaken, I fear it is too nebulous to convince them of their error. Even though I am certain Beelzebub was not directly involved in this murder, it is a victory for Him nonetheless.”
“And one that must be overthrown,” d’Arderon said in his old decisive manner. “And I think there is a way that can be accomplished.”
The ailing preceptor turned to MacHeth. “We have extra brothers in the enclave at the moment. What say you to organising them into patrols to guard the cathedral and other places of worship in the town? Their presence should give the townsfolk the courage to enter and partake in Mass and, with God’s grace, will confound Satan as well.”
“An excellent plan, Preceptor,” MacHeth exclaimed, his face lighting up. “With your permission, I will go now and make the arrangements.”
Chapter 13
The next morning, just before the hour of Prime, a complement of four Templar knights and four men-at-arms left the enclave en route to the cathedral. MacHeth had sent a message the night before to the bishop and Lady Nicolaa advising them of d’Arderon’s intent to send the brothers out on patrol. The eight soldiers of Christ, he told them, would split into pairs, each comprising a knight and one of the men-at-arms and, in rotation, visit each of the places of worship in Lincoln, timing their arrival to coincide with one of the daily services so that once news spread of their presence, the townsfolk would feel protected while they attended Mass.
The militant monks made an impressive sight as they rode through the deserted Minster; all were armed and wearing coats of mail, and the cross patté was emblazoned on the white surcotes of the knights and the black ones of the men-at-arms. In the van, the Beauséant, the banner that was carried into battle, was held aloft. When they arrived at the cathedral entrance, Bishop William was there to greet them, dressed in the black robes of the Benedictine Order, Dean Roger by his side, and a group of lesser clerics behind.
“Brothers in Christ, I welcome you,” the bishop said with fervent sincerity.
“And I return your greeting in His name,” MacHeth replied. “Together we shall fight this battle against the evil that has invaded the town and, to Our Lord’s glory, we shall win.”
After handing the Beauséant to one of the other knights, MacHeth and a man-at-arms went inside the cathedral to wait until it should be time for the service at Prime to begin, while the rest of the troupe rode off down into the town, splitting up as another pair of a knight and man-at-arms stopped at the church of St. Michael, the next at St. Cuthbert’s, and the third at St. Martin’s, all arriving in time to attend early Mass. As they rode down
Mikelgate, there were only a few people on the streets, mainly vendors setting out their wares ready for marketing, but those that were there stood and stared in wonder. It would not be long before word spread throughout the town that the Templars had come to protect them against the wiles of the Devil.
* * *
Bascot did not leave the preceptory until after he had attended the morning service in the enclave’s chapel. As he rode through the Minster grounds, MacHeth and the accompanying man-at-arms were just leaving to go to another church, ensuring they were on time for the next service to be held at Terce. Bascot joined them and together they rode through the gate that led out onto Ermine Street and were gratified to see that a few vendors were already hesitantly making their way up Steep Hill towards the cathedral, no longer fearful of entering the Minster grounds. As MacHeth and the man-at-arms rode past them, they dropped to their knees and crossed themselves, giving audible thanks for their protection.
In the ward, Bascot left his horse at the stables, and went into the keep. Lady Nicolaa, with Gianni, was waiting for him in the hall, and told him that she had just sent a message to Preceptor d’Arderon thanking him for his vigilance.
“A most ingenious plan,” she said gratefully. “Nearly all of the townspeople, like myself, have never witnessed the Templars prepared and ready for battle. Such an impressive sight will hearten them, I know, and bring them back into Lincoln’s churches while we carry out our hunt for the murderer.”
* * *
Just before the sun had risen that morning, the door to Constance’s cell was opened, and a maidservant, under the watchful eye of the guard outside, brought her a wooden platter on which was laid some cold meat and day-old oaten bread, along with a flagon of watered ale. The servant gave her only a nod of greeting, laying the platter and ale on the floor, and then left, taking the remains of the pottage the perfumer had been given the night before, and barely touched, away with her.
Constance had not slept, tossing and turning on the hard straw pallet, listening to the footsteps of the guards on duty as they tramped circuits of the walkway at the top of the palisade. Once or twice she had fallen into a light doze, from which disturbing dreams had startled her awake. Stifling a sob, she took a sip of the ale, and tried to tidy her clothing and hair. Aside from her fear that she would be found guilty of Emma’s death, she was worried about Agnes. How was her little maidservant faring? Constance was quite sure she was almost as frightened as her mistress, and sitting in terror in the empty house where they had, up until now, lived so happily together.
A few moments later, as the sun rose in the sky, she heard the call of the gateward as the massive doors leading into the bail from Ermine Street were opened. Then came the bustle of the castle servants going about their duties—the stamp of horses’ hoofs as the grooms led them out for exercise, the ring of the blacksmith’s hammer on his anvil and the squawking of geese and chickens in anticipation of being fed.
She rose from the pallet on which she had been sitting and, going to the grill in the door, saw the Templar knight Bascot de Marins, ride his horse to the stable door, dismount and go into the keep. A few moments later, he reappeared with Lady Nicolaa’s clerk, Gianni, beside him. Roget had come into the ward as well, and walked over to stand outside the barracks with the serjeant, Ernulf. The Templar and Gianni went over to the pair and, after exchanging a few words of brief conversation, Sir Bascot, in company with the young clerk, came up to her cell and instructed the guard to unbar the door.
When they came in, Constance dipped a curtsey in greeting to the Templar knight. She had met him before on the occasion that Agnes had given evidence when the prostitute was murdered and, as Roget had told her that he was now investigating Emma’s death, rightly assumed he had come to ask her more questions. She remembered him as having a reserved manner that had impressed her and would much rather be interrogated by him than by the formidable castellan.
“I am sorry to see you here, mistress,” he said courteously when he came into the cell, motioning for her to seat herself on the pallet.
“I thank you, lord, for your compassion,” Constance replied as he took up a place on the only other piece of furniture available, an old three-legged stool. Gianni stood beside him, wax tablet and stylus in his hands.
“I have come to ask you to tell me what you know about Emma Ferroner and her family, but before you do that, I would first like you to tell me all that you saw and heard when your friend was slain.”
Now, by the evidence of the ravens, assured that it had not been the perfumer who had struck the blows that killed her friend, the Templar had decided to treat her, for the moment, as if she were also innocent of complicity in the crime. If she was, she may have information that could be vital.
“But I have already related what happened to Lady Nicolaa,” Constance protested, not wanting to revisit the memory of the flashing knife descending on Emma’s back.
“I know it will be distressing,” Bascot said gently, “but sometimes small details are remembered in the retelling that might prove helpful.”
Reluctantly Constance nodded and asked him where he would like her to begin.
“Am I correct in assuming that nothing eventful occurred during the journey from your house to Newport Arch and subsequent passage out onto Ermine Street?” he asked.
At Constance’s nod, he told her to begin her recounting at the time when she and Emma had turned off the highway and entered the path that led to the shrine. “Take your time and tell me slowly,” he added, “and do not leave out any detail, no matter how small.”
Constance took a deep breath as she began to reiterate the tale, saying they had met no one on the path, and the greenwood had been full of sunshine and birdsong.
“When we came to the dell where the shrine is located, we saw the ravens and noticed that their nest in a nearby tree had fledglings in it, which we thought might be a good omen for Emma. Then she went over to pray to the saint, kneeling down in front of his statue,” she added, “and I stepped a little apart to give her privacy.”
“How far away did you go?” the Templar asked.
“Only a few paces,” Constance replied, “about the length of this cell,” she added, signifying that the space between her and Emma had been about ten feet.
“And did you look about you once you had moved away from her?”
Constance frowned as she tried to concentrate. “Not really. There was a clump of gilliflowers in full flower right next to where I was standing and their scent was at its peak. I remember looking at them, thinking that before we returned to town I would pick some to take home to make perfume. I don’t recall noticing anything else.”
“And how long before the murderer appeared?”
“It could not have been more than a minute or two,” Constance replied. “One moment I was looking down at the flowers and then I suddenly realised that the birdsong had ceased and the greenwood was silent. It alarmed me and I turned towards Emma to call out to her that something was wrong when a man with a knife in his hand burst from the trees on the eastern side of the dell. Before I had time to warn her he had run over to Emma and attacked her.”
Tears moistened her eyes as she struggled to go on, and Bascot spoke to her gently. “It is very important that you tell me all that you saw. Take a moment to compose yourself and then continue.”
Constance nodded and, after wiping her eyes on the sleeve of her dress, described how the murderer had twice plunged his blade into her friend’s back. “It happened so fast, lord, that I could barely believe what I had seen. One moment Emma was on her knees praying and the next she was sprawled facedown on the ground with blood oozing from her back. It was as though my eyes were playing tricks on me.”
“I understand,” Bascot said. “Are you certain the assailant was male?”
“I believe so, lord. He did not have the bearing of a woman.”
“Tell me your impression of his manner when he approached your friend,” Bascot directed. “Did he seem frenzied, or was he purposeful?”
The perfumer was puzzled at the nature of his question, and gave it some thought before she answered. “He came all in a rush,” she replied after a moment and then, with a catch in her voice, went on, “and had the knife lifted high before he reached her. Then he . . . then he . . . then he dashed it down and plunged it in her back twice, very quickly.”
“And where was he standing—behind her back or to one side?”
“Beside her, lord, on her right,” Constance replied quietly, making a successful attempt to control her emotions. “I was on her left hand and, after she fell, he darted around her feet and ran to where I was standing and grabbed my arm. It was then that the ravens flew down at his head.”
The Templar nodded. The actions of the killer that the perfumer had described gave some question as to whether he had been a hardened assassin, just as he and Lady Nicolaa had discussed. The attack seemed unplanned in its method and delivering his thrusts from a sideways position also sounded as though it could have been accidental, which might indicate the assailant was a novice. These were points that needed to be considered in their search for the culprit.
Resuming his questioning of the perfumer, he asked her if she recalled whether or not she had looked at the murderer’s hand when he took hold of her. “If so, did you notice if there were any distinguishing marks on it, moles or scars or the like?”
Constance did her best to try to visualize his hand, realising her answer to this particular question could help to identify Emma’s assailant. She closed her eyes and sat in deep concentration for a moment.