by Maureen Ash
“Do you think, then, that John may not have been the target after all?” Nicolaa asked. “That it was the washerwoman and the steward who were meant to be killed all along?”
“I am not sure,” the Templar said with frustration. “At the moment, and while the motive remains unclear, it is difficult to be certain of anything.”
“Because so much is unclear,” Bascot added, “and unless the vintner or his men confess or their guilt otherwise proven, there are other lines of enquiry that I feel should be pursued, including an effort to determine if there was some link between the washerwoman and the steward that may be pertinent.”
“It is certainly worth trying,” Nicolaa agreed. “Perhaps the pair discovered a crime committed by one of the household servants and planned to tell John—such as a theft, for example. That would incur a dire penalty, branding or the loss of a finger, or both. It would be a strong motive for the thief to eliminate them.”
“The servant from London—I mistrusted his story,” Miles said thoughtfully. “I am sure he is hiding something about himself that is incriminating and it could be just such a crime.”
“I would also like to interview the bath attendant again,” Bascot added. “He worked closely with the washerwoman; even though he denied it, he may have had some enmity towards her.”
“I agree,” Nicolaa said. “If it’s as you suspect, de Marins, that the vintner and his men are innocent, then the evidence given by both of these men should be examined more closely.”
Bascot paused for a moment, and then said, “It might also be worthwhile to speak to the cook. I do not think he can be considered a suspect, even though he had ample opportunity to lace Inglis’ mixture with poison and has some sharp knives in his kitchen that could have been used on the washerwoman. He is far too timorous a creature to do the latter, nor does he have the physical strength it would have required to subdue her, but he seems to have a lot of knowledge about the running of the townhouse and may have information that could prove useful.”
“We could also ask Mistress Cooper if her murdered sister said anything about the steward that might reveal a connection between the two,” Miles offered, “and her neighbour, Mistress Bottler, who often gossiped with the washerwoman when she visited.”
Nicolaa nodded. “There is much to be done,” she said decisively and turned to Bascot, “and far too much for you to accomplish on your own, de Marins. If the interrogation of the vintner and his men proves futile, I would suggest that Miles and Gianni visit Mistress Cooper to ask her whether or not the washerwoman ever spoke of her relationship with the steward. They are already known to her and the neighbour, and they might be more willing to speak openly to them than a stranger. That will leave you free to go to the townhouse and speak with the bath attendant and the servant from London.”
When the Templar gave his agreement, Miles grinned with satisfaction. He was enjoying being part of the investigation and wanted to continue his involvement.
After a little more discussion, Marshal stood up, stretching his tall frame and suppressing a yawn. “The bells for Compline rang some hours ago and it is time I sought my pallet at the priory guesthouse. I think it would be best if we leave the questioning of the wine merchant and his servants until the morrow, de Marins, when our minds have been refreshed by sleep.” He gave a grin. “Besides, if one, or all, of them are guilty, a night spent behind bars may loosen their tongues.” He turned to Nicolaa. “Would you oblige me by sending one of your men-at-arms to the castle to inform Criel we will not be there until the morning?”
At Nicolaa’s nod of assent, the Templar also rose from his seat. “To go tomorrow will also suit me well, Sir William. I have yet to report to the warden of the Templar hostel near Northgate and, as you say, it grows late. I had best be on my way.”
“You are welcome to stay here, de Marins,” Nicolaa offered. “There are empty chambers aplenty where a pallet can be laid.”
Bascot took only a moment to reflect on her offer before gratefully accepting. “Doing so will give me an opportunity to study the notes Gianni made of the interviews he and Miles conducted,” he said. “It would not have been convenient to do so at the hostel, for I might have disturbed any other brothers sleeping there.”
Nicolaa smiled. She knew the Templar’s habits of old and that he would not seek any rest until he had apprised himself of every scrap of information. “I will instruct Dauton to give you an ample supply of candles,” she told him.
***
In Canterbury castle, Criel and Chacal were standing together in the hall. The constable found himself trying to check his temper; he was not normally a choleric man but the mercenary was taxing his patience. When Chacal’s men had gone to the royal townhouse to relieve the castle men-at-arms for the night shift, the captain had returned to the keep, saying he wished to be present while the prisoners were interrogated. After the constable explained that he had received a message from William Marshal that the prisoners would not be examined until the next morning, Chacal had announced his intention of doing so himself, and right away.
“I have as much right as Marshal or the Templar to interrogate them,” he had said belligerently when Criel denied him access to the cells. “It is my reputation that has been ruined by these murders, and if one of those bastards is guilty, I don’t intend to wait until tomorrow to find out.”
“The earl has ordered that no one be allowed to speak to them until he and de Marins arrive,” Criel replied, not hiding his annoyance at the mercenary’s peremptory tone. “You will have to wait.”
“I take my orders, as you do, from the king, not the Earl of Pembroke,” Chacal declared. “If John were here, he would not deny me access.”
“Then you will have to wait until the king accommodates you,” Criel rasped, his hand falling to the hilt of his sword. “Until then, Marshal’s order will be obeyed.”
For one long moment Chacal glared at the constable, his remorseless grey eyes narrowed to slits, considering the challenge. Then suddenly, and without further argument, he swung on his heel and stalked out.
Criel let out a sigh of irritation. He could understand the mercenary’s desire to prove he had not been incompetent—it was entirely possible that his failure to keep a safe watch would result in dismissal from de Socienne’s band—but he had no intention of disobeying a direct order from the earl. He would be heartily glad when this investigation was over—hopefully with a successful conclusion—and both the king and his band of routiers were gone from Canterbury.
***
Fifteen miles away, in Dover castle, another confrontation was in progress, but this one was being conducted in soft tones and with subtlety. King John had just informed his wife that he intended to return to Canterbury in the morning, telling her it was imperative he meet with the archbishop to discuss the forthcoming council in the new year.
“I shall stay, as before, at the guesthouse in the cathedral priory,” he informed her. “If there is need, you can send a message to me there.”
“But am I not to go with you, my lord?” Isabella asked, her voice deceptively submissive. “It will be lonely here without your company.”
“Not yet, my love,” John said gently. “Until this murderer has been caught, Canterbury is not safe.”
Isabella’s eyes flashed with temper, but she was careful to keep her expression hidden. Although only fifteen years of age, she had been wedded to John for three years now, and was astute enough to understand how his mind worked. With a little guile she was certain she could inveigle him into agreeing with her wishes. The castle at Dover was bitterly cold; the wind blowing across the Narrow Sea and sweeping around the fortress high on the cliff-tops made it impossible for her and her two attendants to venture outside, even swathed in heavy fur-lined cloaks. And as the castle was primarily a military fortification inhabited only by Constable de Burgh and the soldiers of the garris
on, there was no entertainment or interesting companions to provide diversion. Despite her husband’s prohibition, she was impatient to return to the town.
“Could I not stay in the guesthouse of the priory at St. Sepulchre’s?” she asked demurely. “Surely I will be safe enough there with the nuns to watch over me? Please, John. It is close to the town and you will be able to visit me often.”
The priory was just outside Canterbury and ruled over by a most capable, and formidable, prioress. Many ladies of noble birth, or considerable wealth, sought refuge in a nunnery for one reason or another—to escape being wed to an undesirable suitor, to hide an unwanted pregnancy or for a time of restful solitude in the early days of widowhood—and the accommodations were often luxurious. If Isabella were fortunate, there would be at least one or two highborn ladies in residence whose company would help to while away the dreary hours, and there was also the possibility that, once she was near to Canterbury, she could persuade John to allow her further liberties, such as attending services at the cathedral.
John blew out his cheeks in exasperation. Even though Isabella could be capricious, he was still enamoured of his young wife and hated to disappoint her. While it was true that his prime reason for seeking her hand in marriage had been to ally himself with the powerful Count of Angoulême, he had also been entranced by her beauty and determined to possess it. After their marriage, it had delighted him to find that she was a willing partner in bed-sport and although he possessed a reputation for being a lecher, he had only, on two or three isolated occasions, felt the desire to be intimate with another woman since the day they had been wed. Now, his inclination to please her warring with his fear that she might be in danger if in close proximity to Canterbury, he tried another tack to dissuade her.
“My love, you told me your courses were late. If you are enceinte, it would be unwise to put our future heir in jeopardy by taking an unnecessary journey in such foul weather.”
“Pah,” she exclaimed, waving her hand scornfully and rising to her feet. “How could any child of ours quail at such a minor inconvenience? He will be possessed of the strength of his forbears, yours and mine, not some frail bundle that never dares to venture outside lest the wind blow on him too strongly.”
As she strode to and fro, she could see, by the uncertainty on her husband’s face, that she was winning the argument. Even though her menses had come upon her that morning and she knew she was not gravid, there was no need to inform John of that fact just yet, and so she continued her diatribe, deciding that a little display of pique might finally persuade him.
“Any son, or daughter, of ours will inherit the courage and valour of his lineage,” she declared, holding her head high. “Do you dare to infer that such a one might be too puny to withstand a scant few hours on horseback?”
Faced with the impossibility of admitting such a charge, John had no choice but to agree. “Very well,” he said. “But we will start out very early in the morning. Ensure that you and your ladies are ready by dawn else you will be left behind.”
Chapter Sixteen
Next morning, Nicolaa was awoken by the cathedral bells ringing the hour of Prime. Her night’s sleep had been a restless one, disturbed by bizarre images of the murdered washerwoman—whom she had never seen—and the dead steward, a person also unknown to her. Their faces had been nothing more than a blur, but their bodies had been contorted in the throes of agonizing death, with the familiar figure of the king pacing in the background. After tossing and turning for some hours, she had finally fallen into a deep slumber and, when the bells rang out the hour, had woken with a feeling of unease, lacking any sense of rejuvenation.
Glancing around the chamber, she saw that the fire in the hearth had been rekindled and on a small table beside her bed was a cup of mulled herbal posset, the steam still rising from the surface. Alongside was a bowl filled with warm water, a fresh towel and a small square of linen with which to perform her ablutions. Clare must have attended to these comforts and Nicolaa was thankful that the sempstress was, once again, proving her worth. The girl respected her mistress’s penchant for privacy but, at the same time, anticipated her needs and supplied them without intrusion.
After sluicing her face and hands and donning a warm gown and kirtle, Nicolaa went down to the hall. Miles de Laxton and Gilles de Laubrec were there before her, as was young Gianni and Clare, all breaking their fast on cold mutton and small loaves of white manchet bread. Dauton came quickly to attend her and when she enquired if Sir Bascot had yet arisen, she was informed that he had got up much earlier and had gone to attend Mass at the nearby church of St. Margaret before going to meet the Earl of Pembroke at the castle.
“With your permission, lady, Gianni and I will now be leaving ourselves to visit Mistress Cooper,” Miles said, finishing the last morsel of bread that lay on his trencher. “Even though the interrogation of the vintner and his men has not yet been carried out, if they should be proved innocent, as de Marins expects, our going now will save wasting time waiting for the result.”
Nicolaa gave the knight a nod of assent and asked if a report of yesterday’s happenings had been sent to the priory guesthouse to await John’s return from Dover. Miles confirmed that a man-at-arms had been despatched with it at first light. She then addressed de Laubrec. “I intend to go to the cathedral for the morning service, Gilles, and Clare will accompany me. You will come along as escort. Please see that mounts are made ready; it is too cold to go on foot.”
De Laubrec hurried off to do her bidding, and a short time later they were riding through the streets of Canterbury to the cathedral, their horses’ hooves scuffing through a thin layer of snow. The thoroughfares, for the most part, were uninhabited. The cold weather seemed to be keeping most of the townsfolk inside and only a few goodwives, well wrapped up, were out shopping. It did not take them long to reach the cathedral gate.
Once she had passed through the massive doors of the west portal into the cathedral and was standing in the nave, Nicolaa felt, with relief, a sense of tranquility descend on her. The soaring roof, gilded statues and sainted remains of Becket, the sweet smell of incense and the sound of a choir of monks reciting the Trina Oratio—a threefold prayer in honour of the Trinity—diminished the uncertainty fostered by the nightmares of a few hours before. With a heartfelt prayer of thanks she knelt with the rest of the sparse congregation to listen as a deacon intoned the words of the service and, once it was over, she rose to her feet with a renewed sense of purpose.
As she made her way back to the door, de Laubrec and Clare at her heels, a monk clad in the somber black robe of a Benedictine approached her and politely said that he had been sent by Archbishop Walter to ask if she would spare him a few moments of her time.
Telling Gilles and her maidservant to wait by the entrance, Nicolaa followed the monk along the short length of a side chapel and into a warren of corridors that led to a small chamber above the crypt. As she walked, she wondered why the archbishop wished to see her. After the king—and some said before—Hubert Walter was the most powerful man in England. Not only was he first primate in the land, he was also the chancellor, an office he had been awarded by John for supporting his claim to the throne following the death of King Richard. Although her husband, Gerard, through the demands of his post as sheriff, often had occasion to meet with Walter, she had never before come face-to-face with the man, their only contact through letters involving her role as hereditary castellan of Lincoln castle. As the monk gently knocked on the door, pushed it open and quietly announced her arrival, she took a deep breath and walked into the room.
***
The archbishop was a tall man, almost of a height with William Marshal, with a craggy face still retaining a faint yellowish tinge from exposure to the harsh rays of the sun in Outremer when he had accompanied King Richard on crusade a decade before. His eyes were hazel and he had a great beak of a nose, but his mouth was generous and
the deep creases alongside suggested that it was often curved in humour. Although dressed in plain robes, the skullcap he wore on his head was heavily encrusted with jeweled embroidery and, as well as the magnificent Episcopal ring inlaid with rubies and pears, other circlets set with precious stones adorned his large-knuckled fingers.
As Nicolaa entered, the archbishop turned from a brazier where he had been warming his hands and greeted her. Going down on one knee, she kissed his ring of office and received his blessing, after which he bade her be seated on a chair in front of a large oaken desk.
“I am pleased to finally make your acquaintance, lady,” he said as he took a comfortable padded chair on the other side. “Our meeting has been too long a time in coming.”
Nicolaa nodded politely and waited for him to tell her of the purpose of his summons. Walter was renowned for his astuteness just as much for, if not more than, his organizational talents and ability in matters of the law. He was a force to be reckoned with and guarded the interest of whichever monarch he served with a passion that was as sincere as it was self-serving. She doubted that his desire to speak to her was related to mundane matters.
He looked at her and smiled. “I imagine you are wondering why I asked you here.”
“I am, Your Grace,” Nicolaa replied, glancing as she did so at a pile of parchment that lay near the archbishop’s hand. She recognised Gianni’s neat script on the top piece of paper, and realised that the stack comprised the transcripts of the interviews he and Miles had conducted, and that she had forwarded to John. The one that detailed the murder of the steward was on the top and, since the king was still in Dover, must have been intercepted by the archbishop when it arrived earlier that morning.
Walter regarded her across the desk, seeing a short-statured woman of middle age with a pair of slightly protuberant blue eyes that looked into his steadily. Her face was calm and her small hands, resting easily in her lap, were still. In his long career as ecclesiastic and statesman, he had dealt with many people—amongst them the Muslim leader Saladin when he had acted as negotiator with the infidel on behalf of King Richard—and deemed himself a good judge of human character. He had been told by John that the hereditary castellan of Lincoln castle was a woman of high principle, both direct and honest, and thought that the king had summed up her character well. It was certain she would detect any attempt at subterfuge, so he decided that candour was the best métier for him to adopt.