by Maureen Ash
“The matter I wish to discuss with you concerns the investigation into the murder of the king’s washerwoman, and this has become even more urgent now that another servant has been killed,” Walter said quietly. “I arrived back in Canterbury from Westminster on the morning after the first death and, later that day, the king told me what had happened, and has kept me apprised of the course of the investigation and privy to the reports you have sent.” He touched the tips of his fingers briefly on the pile of parchment as he spoke. “John and I have also discussed the various motives that could be behind the perpetration of these murders, including the possibility there is a connection to the imprisonment of his nephew, Arthur.”
Walter raised his shrewd hazel eyes and gave Nicolaa a piercing look. “It is about this last that I wish to speak to you.”
Nicolaa felt a frisson of dread as the archbishop leaned back in his chair and, resting his elbows on the arms, steepled his fingers in front of him. “There are certain . . . circumstances about Arthur’s fate,” he said softly, “that, should they become common knowledge, might endanger the security of the realm. It is not only in the interest of the king, but of all of his subjects, that they are kept confidential. It is, therefore, most important that if, during the course of the murder investigation, some fact should arise that compromises that security, steps are taken to see that it is suppressed.”
“I do not see how this matter concerns me, Your Grace,” Nicolaa replied, trying to forestall him from saying more. Marshal had told her that John had carefully sidestepped revealing the whereabouts of his nephew, or whether he had been tortured, and if that was what the archbishop was about to disclose, she had no wish to know of it. Such knowledge could be dangerous to those that possessed it and, by association, to their families. “It is the Templar who is investigating the murders, not I.”
Walter leaned forward and poured them both a cup of wine from a flagon on the table. Nicolaa took only a small sip; she wanted to keep all of her wits about her during this conversation.
“That is true, lady, but de Marins was formerly in your retinue and, since he is staying with you and your entourage at the house on Watling Street, will be more than likely to share any information he garners with the lady whom he once served and, I am told, still holds in great esteem. And therein lies the reason for the favour that the king wishes me to ask of you.”
Chapter Seventeen
About the same time as Nicolaa was being shown into the archbishop’s presence, William Marshal and Bascot were finishing their interrogation of the wine merchant and his employees in the castle. They had been fetched from the cells by two guards and made to stand in the hall before the earl and Bascot while they were questioned. De Ponte had been vociferous in his protest at their arrest, his red beard bristling with indignation as he had declared that as an influential burgess of the town, and one whose family had lived in Canterbury since a decade after the conquest of England by King William I, he should not have been subjected to such treatment.
“There are not, and never have been, any lawbreakers in my family,” he had said stoutly, “and I demand to know on what grounds you ordered the incarceration of myself and my men.”
Marshal had answered him mildly, undisturbed by the outburst. Tapping the note from a local apothecary that Criel had handed him that morning, he said, “Your employees had access to a room in the royal townhouse where a deadly poison was discovered.” His words brought a gasp of dismay from the merchant, and the earl leaned forward and read the words in front of him. “It says here that a flagon of wine—which came from a keg that you supplied, Master de Ponte—contained conium maculatum, commonly known as hemlock, a lethal poison that kills in a very short time. You are very fortunate, Master de Ponte, that it was the steward who died from swallowing it, and not the king, else your handling would have been much harsher.”
The wine merchant’s face was ashen. “My lord, I had no hand in this, I swear to you, as God is my witness.”
Marshal leaned forward, his craggy features hard and his voice like granite. “Can you prove that, Master de Ponte? Can you provide a witness that will vouch for your innocence and testify that neither you nor any of your men are responsible for placing this poison in the king’s buttery?”
“No, no . . . of course not,” de Ponte replied. “How can I verify that an act did not take place? It would be impossible.”
“Exactly,” Marshal said. “So, merchant, you will cease your bluster and answer my questions without further ado.”
Terrified, de Ponte had submitted meekly, as had his men. They all swore that they had not known about the mixture Inglis used and could not, therefore, have adulterated it. Ailwin, the eldest of the three employees and the man who was in charge of the boat, claimed that he never left the craft while deliveries were in progress, so could not have committed the crime. The two younger men—Turgot and Eric—were visibly trembling by this time, but found the strength to vigorously deny their involvement.
Questioned as to their backgrounds, all three of the delivery men claimed, as had de Ponte, that they were from the Canterbury area and had no connection with the king’s household other than to deliver the wine. They had all spoken at one time or another to Inglis, they said, but only while they were engaged in taking their master’s wares into the townhouse; the steward had been brusque, but had never given cause for them to bear enmity. As for the washerwoman, only de Ponte admitted to being acquainted with her, and that only because her family, like his own, were longtime residents of Canterbury, but he claimed not to have spoken to her since she had arrived in town this last time, or have had any reason to wish her death. Additionally, both Turgot and Eric claimed that the steward had been in the buttery all of the time they were delivering the wine, directing them as to the placement of the kegs and so, even if they had known it was there, they had no opportunity to tamper with the honeyed concoction.
Finally, Marshal had allowed them to go, and as they hastily departed, he turned to Bascot and asked if he believed they had been telling the truth.
“I am almost certain of it,” the Templar replied thoughtfully. “And mainly for the reasons I mentioned earlier. If one of them had wanted to kill the king, why not just adulterate one of the kegs? And even if they had gone to the complicated lengths of poisoning the mixture, why not wait to see if this stratagem was successful before making a second attempt on John’s life? No, I do not think they are guilty.”
“I agree,” Marshal declared. “Besides, none of them, even de Ponte, appears to have the mettle for such a venture.”
“No, they do not,” Bascot concurred. “I fear we must look elsewhere for the murderer.”
***
Gianni and Miles de Laxton were not having any greater success than Marshal and Bascot, although they did discover another connection between the two victims. Arriving at Maud Cooper’s house just after Terce, they found the goodwife just about to set off to purchase the family’s daily victuals from the market in Burgate Street. When asked if she could spare them a few minutes of her time, she willingly assented and, at Miles’ request, sent one of the older boys from her numerous brood of children to fetch Edith Bottler from her home.
When the two women were both comfortably seated on stools in the downstairs room of Mistress Cooper’s home, a sturdily built little house two stories high with a workshop attached where her husband made the barrels he sold, the knight told them of Inglis’ murder and the manner of it. To his surprise, they were already aware that the steward was dead, and since the royal townhouse was virtually sealed off from the rest of the town, Miles asked how they had come by the knowledge so quickly.
“His body was seen being removed to the death house at All Saint’s church,” Edith Bottler replied and then gave a sad smile. “There’s not much that goes on in Canterbury that can be kept secret, lord,” she said. “’Tis also known that Master de Ponte and some
of his servants were taken to the castle gaol, but as to that, ’tis not yet known why.”
Her last words finished on an interrogative note, hoping that Miles would enlighten her, but the knight sidestepped the subject, saying that he and Gianni had come to try and discover if Molly’s death and the steward’s were connected, and asking if either of them could remember Molly speaking of Inglis or expressing her opinion of him.
“Aye, lord, she did,” Maud replied and then added, “She said he were a lecher.”
Both men looked at her in amazement, and Edith Bottler spoke up. “Now that weren’t exactly true, Maud,” she said in admonishment. Turning to Miles, she said, “Molly only said that he was in the habit of bedding a widow woman in the town. ’Tis not quite the same thing as going willy-nilly all about and tumbling a whole multitude of females.”
“No, it’s not,” Miles replied, trying to suppress a smile. “Do either of you know the name of this woman?”
Maud nodded. “Her name is Cecily Wattson and she lives in St. Peter’s Street, close to Westgate.”
As Gianni jotted down the information on his tablet, Miles asked both women if Molly had said anything else about Inglis. “Was she a friend of his, do you think, one with whom she might have exchanged confidences?”
Maud and her neighbour exchanged glances and then Edith said, “I don’t rightly think they were friends, lord. Molly said the steward was a testy man and often took advantage of his position.”
Miles waited for her to expand on her statement and, after a moment’s pause, she did so, choosing her words carefully. “I don’t wish to speak ill of one who has been so foully murdered, but Molly told us that Inglis often took victuals from the king’s kitchen to give to the widow when he visited her, and that she took him to task about it on one of her visits to Canterbury. He told her to keep her opinions to herself and look to her own transgressions and leave his alone.”
Maud’s face blushed with embarrassment and Miles said gently, “Did Molly ever bring you supplies from the king’s store as well, Mistress Cooper?”
“Only some half-cakes of soap once, lord, and another time she brought me some linen that was worn. ’Twas things that were not good enough for the king and Molly said they would only be thrown away, so I might as well have them.” Her words came out in a rush and then she asked worriedly, “I won’t be charged for thieving, will I, lord? I didn’t take them myself and Molly is dead. . . .”
“Do not worry, mistress. Your sister was correct. The king put a high value on your sister’s service, and would not begrudge her taking things that were no longer of any use to him,” Miles said soothingly.
At the look of relief on her face, the knight returned to the subject of Inglis, addressing Edith. “So it would appear that Molly would not have confided in the steward if there was anyone she had reason to fear, or some indiscretion to report?”
“Well, as to that, lord, I’m not exactly sure. They had both been royal servants for a very long time and Molly might have shared such a confidence with him, especially if it was to do with one of the servants at the townhouse. If she did tell him anything, there’s a chance he repeated it to Cecily Wattson. Inglis had been seeing the widow for nigh on ten years afore he was poisoned, ever since her husband went to his own grave, and if the steward was like most men, he’d of been as likely as not to spill a secret or two to the woman who was sharing his pillow.”
Chapter Eighteen
Nicolaa had waited in silence, and with some trepidation, for Archbishop Walter to elaborate on the king’s request concerning the Templar. Before he did so, however, he had leaned forward and spoken to her earnestly.
“You must know that after Richard died, I was not certain that the Earl of Pembroke had the right of it when he urged me to support John’s ascension to England’s throne. I believed then that Arthur, even though young and untried, would be preferable. I even went so far as to tell Marshal that he might live to regret his choice although, in the end, I agreed to uphold it. I now realise that I was in error. Arthur is arrogant and brash. He would have been completely unsuitable as a monarch while John, for all his faults, does take his responsibilities seriously and, for the most part, carries them out well. And that is why I have supported him throughout his short time on the throne, and the reason I am supporting him now. It is important that you understand this, lady, and know that I would not ask for your cooperation if it was not necessary in order to keep John, and his hold on the throne of England, secure.”
Nicolaa nodded. Despite her reluctance to be involved in whatever plot John and the archbishop were hatching, she could hardly refuse if the situation was as serious as Walter claimed.
Assured of her willingness to listen, Walter sat back in his chair and spoke in calm, quiet tones. “What I am about to tell you is known to only the few whose inclusion was unavoidable. Arthur, and his well-being, have been the subject of many rumours since John took him prisoner at Mirabeau—that he has been maimed and tortured, or even been put to death by the king. All of them are falsehoods. The truth is that John has not committed any of these heinous acts and Arthur is still alive.” He gave a heavy sigh. “Although, lady, I must say that it might be better if he were, in fact, dead.”
Shocked by the cruel statement, Nicolaa audibly drew in her breath, and the archbishop gave a wry smile. “Your reaction is understandable, lady, but please hear me out before you pass judgement. I am not as heartless as I may appear.”
After taking a brief sip of wine, he told her what had happened earlier that year on the eve of Eastertide, and how John had Arthur brought to a private chamber late at night to make one final effort at reconciliation.
“Only William de Briouze, constable of Rouen castle, was present at the meeting between them and he was the sole witness to a violent argument that broke out between the pair, and which, unfortunately, was heard by a servant passing outside the door of the chamber. It was this servant’s overhearing that probably gave rise to the many rumours, and with the embellishment it is common for most people to add to any exciting event of which they in truth know little, it became a report that the king, in a rage, had murdered Arthur. But even though the lad’s reaction to John’s effort to heal the breach between them was his usual belligerence, castigating his uncle and claiming he was a hypocrite, the king never had any intention of harming the boy. John has assured me of this and I believe him.”
Walter gave Nicolaa a searching look, and she knew he was about to reveal the truth of the matter. “It is what happened at the end of that confrontation that has been kept hidden, and is in dire need of remaining so,” he said. “It is also the reason for your presence here.”
At Nicolaa’s nod of understanding, he continued. “The argument was heated, as I said, and realizing the futility of any further discussion, John ordered Briouze to take his nephew back to his cell. But Arthur would not go willingly, and continued to yell insults at the king. Briouze got him as far as the door when one of the hounds that had been in the chamber—a wolfhound that is a favourite of John’s—became very agitated and sprang at Arthur, knocking him backwards, through the open doorway and down the stairs. The steps are steep, and spiral. John and the constable immediately ran to see if he had sustained any injuries. Arthur was unconscious, but they saw that he had struck his head most severely and that one of his legs was twisted unnaturally.”
Walter’s voice was full of chagrin as he went on. “The king immediately sent for the infirmarian of the Priory of St. Gervais—as I am sure you will know, the priory is not too far distant from the castle. By the time the monk came to examine the lad, he was vomiting and his demeanour was nonsensical—his speech was slurred and he kept rubbing one eye as though his vision was dimmed. The infirmarian’s assessment was daunting. One of Arthur’s kneecaps had been smashed by the fall, but much more serious was the injury he had sustained to his head. It was the infirmarian’s opinio
n that Arthur’s brain had been severely damaged, and that it might result in permanent cognitive disability or even death. He suggested that the prince be taken to the infirmary so he could be properly cared for. John agreed and Arthur was secretly taken to the priory that night, and has been there ever since. There has been little improvement in his condition over the intervening months. The damage to his knee has mended as well as it ever will, but he is crippled. His vision has not improved and he is now almost blind in one eye. But severe as these injuries are, even worse is his inability to reason. Sometimes he raves unintelligibly and at other times he stares off into space and says not a word. The infirmarian is of the opinion that he will remain in such a state for the rest of his life.”
Walter paused and took a sip of wine, the tenor of his voice diminished slightly by the recounting. “As I said, Arthur still lives, but in his present state, he could not rule a henhouse, let alone the Duchy of Brittany. And if the infirmarian is correct in his prognosis, he will never be able to do so. There is no alternative but for him to remain where he is, in the care of the monks.”
Nicolaa was appalled by the tale. “Do you believe this is the truth of what happened?”
The archbishop looked at her straightly. “The details are muddled, I admit, but I am certain that it was an accident. I contacted the prior of St. Gervais after the king told me of what had passed, and he assures me that the injuries Arthur sustained are consistent with a fall down the stairs.”