by Maureen Ash
Feigning acceptance of Adgate’s explanation, the Templar said, “I need to ask a few questions of your wife. Now that she has had time to get over the shock of being in such close proximity to where a murder took place, I would like to ask her whether or not she has recalled any information that may help us.”
Bascot felt, rather than saw, Adgate stiffen. “I am afraid my wife is indisposed,” he protested. “She has taken a chill and is keeping to her bed in an effort to recover from it.”
But Bascot did not intend to be so easily thwarted. “Be that as it may, I must insist on speaking to her, else it will be necessary for her to come to the castle so that Lady Nicolaa or Sir Richard can ask their questions directly.”
Faced with the unacceptable alternative, Adgate acquiesced to Bascot’s demand, asking only that the Templar give his wife a few moments to don suitable attire before coming down.
Bascot nodded and the furrier left the room, instructing his assistant to show the Templar into an adjoining chamber and pour him a cup of wine. The room into which Bascot was led, with Gianni at his heels, was a sumptuous one; a gleaming oak table set with candlesticks and condiment dishes of silver graced the middle of the room and richly embroidered tapestries hung on the walls. In front of a fire blazing in a capacious hearth were ladder-backed chairs and settles and a thick rug lay on the floor. There were two casements and the shutters of both had been partially opened to reveal square panes fitted with thinly shaven horn that allowed light to enter but prevented coldness from seeping into the room. The assistant bid the Templar be seated and poured wine into a silver cup and placed it in front of him.
His duty completed, the servant left the room and Bascot looked at Gianni and raised an eyebrow. “There is much wealth here,” Bascot mused. “If Tercel was making Adgate a cuckold, the furrier has more than enough riches to pay for the hire of an assassin.”
Gianni nodded in solemn agreement as the door opened and Adgate returned, leading his young wife by the hand. Clarice was a very handsome woman, with clear skin and a ripe red rosebud mouth, but now her pretty face was withdrawn and there were dark hollows under her lovely green eyes. She came forward hesitantly and seated herself on the edge of a chair.
Bascot regarded her for a moment before he spoke. She did not look up at him while he did so, directing her gaze downwards to where her hands were tightly entwined in her lap. “On the night of the feast, mistress, you told Sir Richard that you left the hall early and, after going to the chamber in the old tower which you and your husband had been allotted, went immediately to bed and slept undisturbed until morning. Are you absolutely certain all was quiet during all that time?”
Clarice answered in a voice so low it was barely audible. “Yes, lord, I am.”
“And earlier, when you crossed the bail, did you see anyone lingering around the entrance to the old tower when you went in—a servant, perhaps, or one of the guests?”
Clarice shook her head and said nothing, keeping her eyes downcast. Bascot, irritated by her withdrawn attitude, decided to act on instinct and said sharply, “But you were acquainted with the man who was murdered, mistress, were you not?”
Clarice’s gaze flew up to Bascot’s face and he saw fear in her eyes. Adgate, who had been hovering behind his wife’s chair, placed a hand on her shoulder and answered in her stead. There was a touch of panic in the protective movement and, the Templar noted with surprise, also a fleeting curl of distaste on the furrier’s full lips when his fingers touched his wife’s body.
“My wife might have been in the shop on one or two of the occasions when he called—she is often in there helping me display some of the ladies’ furred cloaks to prospective customers—but that can hardly be called an acquaintanceship.”
The Templar ignored the furrier and, once again, spoke directly to Clarice. “When he came into your husband’s shop, mistress, did you engage in conversation with him?”
Clarice remained mute and looked helplessly up at her husband. Adgate once again gave a reply to the question. “As I have said, Sir Bascot, she may have seen the dead man once or twice, but that is all. Now, I must insist that you allow my wife to return to her bed. She is ill, as you can see, and the memory of how near she was to death is very distressing to her.”
Bascot stood up. “Very well, furrier. I will leave my questions there—for now. But I, or Sir Richard, will want to speak to both you and your wife again. Be ready to present yourselves at the castle tomorrow at mid-morning. Perhaps your wife will have recovered sufficiently by then to answer my questions more fully.”
Adgate started to protest, but the Templar cut him short. “I find it hard to believe that your wife would be so stricken with distress for the death of a man you claim she barely knew, or that she was so indisposed that she heard nothing while this same man was being murdered in the building where she was abed. I would advise you both to reflect on the matter until tomorrow and, when you come to the castle, be ready to tell the truth.”
Clarice let out a great sob as Bascot and Gianni left the chamber. Once outside the shop, Bascot untied the reins of his horse and, as they both settled themselves atop the animal, said to Gianni, “Lady Alinor was right, there is something that both Adgate and his wife are not telling us. It only remains to discover what it is.”
LATER THAT EVENING, HER WORK IN THE CHANDLERY FINISHED for the day and the household set in order, the candle-maker’s daughter, Merisel, slipped into the chamber where her ailing mother lay in bed. The illness that had seemed slight on the day of the feast had taken a turn for the worse and Mistress Wickson now lay on her pallet, grey-faced and short of breath.
Merisel went to her side and, reaching out a hand, smoothed her mother’s disordered hair back from her brow. Edith Wickson did indeed look ill, large dark circles had formed under her soft brown eyes and her mouth was tremulous. She had always been of an energetic and dithering nature, flittering from one task to another in an effort to please her demanding husband; to see her lying so still was worrying. “Are you feeling any better, Mother?” Merisel asked.
“A little,” Mistress Wickson replied. “Have you attended to all that needs to be done?”
“I have,” Merisel replied. “Do not worry, you will soon be well and able to see to the tasks yourself.”
Edith Wickson fiddled nervously with the heavy braid of greying brown hair which lay over her shoulder and said, “Your father told me that a Templar came today to question him about the murder in the castle. And that he spoke to you as well. What did he ask?”
“Only if we knew the man who was murdered in the castle and if we had seen him speaking with anyone in the town.”
“And what did you tell him?”
Merisel shrugged. “The truth, of course. That I had neither made his acquaintance nor knew of anyone that had.”
Mistress Wickson took her daughter’s hand and pressed it as tears welled in her eyes. “You are a good girl, Merisel, and serve your father and myself well. You know that I only want what is best for you.”
Merisel smiled. “I am glad you feel so, Mother,” she replied, but a shiver of unease rippled through her. It was unlike her mother to be so melancholy. She reached for a small phial sitting on a table beside the bed. “Come, take the medicine I got from the apothecary. It will help you sleep more peacefully. If you do not get enough rest, it will take you longer to recover.”
Obediently, Mistress Wickson sipped the foul mixture from the spoon her daughter held out to her, then lay back and closed her eyes. But as Merisel doused the candle and left the room, the girl could not erase the conversation she had with the Templar from her mind, nor the anxiety her mother had shown when she had asked about it.
Eleven
EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, SOME FIFTY MILES SOUTHWEST OF Lincoln, Richard de Humez, Petronille’s husband, was pacing the floor of a small chamber in his manor house near Stamford, agitatedly running a hand over the thinning hair on his pate. Seated on a chair across the ro
om was a local knight, Stephen Wharton, whose small demesne abutted the fief de Humez held from the king. They had been friends for many years but now de Humez’ face was filled with consternation as he stopped his pacing and faced Wharton.
“I find it hard to believe that what you have just told me about Tercel is true. Why did you not apprise me of these facts when you urged me to give him a post in my household?”
Wharton, a man of about fifty years of age with an open, honest face and mild blue eyes, tried to find words that would pacify the baron. De Humez was a fussy and precise individual who was a little too conscious of his high position, but he was a decent man and they had been friends for a long time.
“Truly, Dickon, I did not think the matter of any importance. . . .”
De Humez’s response was full of irritation. “Of no importance! How can you deem it a falderal that a retainer of mine—one I took into my service on your recommendation—believed himself to be the bastard son of a man who was once king of England! And that he might have been murdered to prevent him substantiating that claim!”
“It may seem as though I have deceived you, Dickon, but truly, that was not my intent,” Wharton said abjectly. “I thought his notion was merely a passing fancy, one that he would soon dismiss when he saw the futility of pursuing it further. But now that he has been killed, I fear he may have been asking questions in quarters where they would not be well come. . . .”
“And was murdered to ensure his silence,” de Humez finished gravely. The baron walked over to the table and poured himself another cup of wine. When he had drunk deeply from the cup, he sat down heavily on a padded chair beside the roaring fire in the grate.
“You had better tell me the whole sorry tale, Stephen. And then, if you value my friendship, you will go to Lincoln and repeat it to my sister-by-marriage, Nicolaa de la Haye.” His eyes narrowed as he added, “And God help you if this so called fantasy of Tercel’s has put my wife and daughter in danger. I am not normally a vengeful man, but you can be assured that in this instance I will ensure you pay to the fullest measure for your actions.”
Wharton took a nervous swallow of his wine. De Humez held a large fief from the king and was far above him in wealth and social standing. He hoped that what he was about to relate had nothing to do with Tercel’s death but if, by some rare chance it did, he prayed that his own role in the matter would be overlooked, at least by the man seated across from him.
BASCOT ARRIVED AT THE CASTLE JUST AFTER TERCE. HE HAD spoken at length with Richard Camville and Lady Nicolaa the afternoon before, relating the little he had learned from the barber-surgeons and the chandler before revealing his suspicions about Simon Adgate and telling them that he had commanded the furrier and his wife to come to the castle for further questioning at mid-morning. Nicolaa had requested that Bascot be present at the interview and the Templar had willingly consented. Now, as he left his horse in the castle stable and made his way into the hall, the Haye steward, Eudo, came forward and told him that the castellan and her son were in the solar and had asked that, when he arrived, he joined them there.
As Bascot went up the stairs in the western tower, Gianni came from the landing that led off to the scriptorium, his wax tablet in his hand. Together they ascended to the top storey, where the solar was located. When they entered the chamber they found Alinor seated alongside her aunt and cousin. From the purposeful set of her mouth, Bascot could see that she had been told of his suspicions about Clarice Adgate and agreed with them.
She gave him a smile as he took a seat beside her. “Well done, de Marins,” she said. “It would seem you have already discovered the murderer. Adgate’s wife must have been having an affair with Tercel and somehow the furrier managed to kill him for his trespass.”
Bascot shook his head. “I am not certain of that, lady, only that Adgate and his wife are hiding something. It may be,” he added, remembering the momentary look of revulsion on the furrier’s face as he touched his wife’s body, “that Clarice Adgate is the woman your maid supposed Tercel was involved with but, beyond that, it does not necessarily follow that her husband is the one who killed him. Adgate was overlooked for all the hours during which the murder was committed.”
“It could be that the furrier hired an assassin to do the deed for him,” Alinor opined.
“He certainly has enough wealth to do so,” Bascot agreed. “But surely such an act would be more easily accomplished within the confines of the town. And it would be a haphazard assassin that would not come armed with his own weapon and instead have need to take one from the castle armoury.”
As everyone nodded their agreement, Bascot leaned forward and spoke to Nicolaa. “Lady, I think it would be more profitable if we spoke to Adgate and his wife separately. When I spoke to her, she continually looked to the furrier for guidance. If it is her intimate connection with Tercel that the pair is hiding, she may be more forthcoming if he is not on hand to protect her from any reckless admission.”
Nicolaa nodded and, at that moment, a servant came into the solar and told the castellan that the furrier and his wife had arrived and were downstairs in the hall. “Send the woman up first,” she instructed the servant. “And tell the husband he is to wait below until he is called.”
A few minutes later Clarice Adgate came hesitantly into the room. She was dressed in a sober gown of dark grey and her coif was of plain white linen. The only ornamentation on her person was a simple gold chain about her neck bearing a small pendant etched with the image of the Virgin Mary. She fingered this nervously as she gave a small curtsey of deference to Lady Nicolaa and the other nobles. Her eyes flicked from one to the other in apprehension.
By unspoken agreement, the castellan began the questioning. The management of her huge demesne had given her years of experience in dealing with situations similar to this one, when it often became necessary to ferret out the truth between the conflicting claims of tenants and villeins.
“Mistress Adgate,” she said in a deceptively kind tone, “you have come here to answer further questions about the night my sister’s retainer was killed. Previously you stated that you retired early because you were feeling unwell. What was the nature of your indisposition?”
“My head was aching dreadfully, lady,” Clarice replied, relieved at the innocuous nature of the question. “It was the excitement of the day, I think, that brought it on.”
“And you went to the room you had been assigned, got into bed and immediately fell asleep?” Nicolaa went on.
“I did,” Clarice replied.
The castellan leaned slightly forward as she posed her next question. “I am surprised that slumber came so quickly when you were suffering such pain. Did you take a medicament to ease it?”
The question took Clarice by surprise and she stumbled over the answer. “A medicament? I . . . I . . . yes, I did. I had a potion with me, a draught of poppy juice.”
Nicolaa leaned back in her chair, seemingly satisfied with the answer. “I thought you must have done; that is what made you sleep so soundly. If you will give us the name of the apothecary from which you obtained it, we will have no further questions for you.”
Clarice’s face went white as she realised the trap into which she had been led. She was, as Nicolaa had said previously, a rather foolish woman. It had not taken a great deal of expertise on the castellan’s part to lead her in the direction they wanted her to go. “I do not know which apothecary it was, lady,” she replied, her lower lip beginning to tremble. “My . . . my husband got it for me.”
“Then I will send for your husband and ask him where he bought it. I am sure he will be able to provide us with the answer,” Nicolaa replied, raising her hand to motion to the servant standing at the door.
“No, lady, please!” Clarice burst out, her agitation increasing. “Simon will not know.... I was mistaken.... It was my maidservant that got it, not my husband. . . .”
“I do not understand your confusion, mistress,” Nicolaa sai
d sternly. “Juice of poppy is a powerful sedative; surely you can remember how you came by it. Or is it, perhaps, that you did not have any? That you did not go to the bedchamber because you were ill and needed to rest, but for some other purpose?”
Clarice burst into tears and the castellan pressed her advantage. “Aubrey Tercel was your lover, was he not?” Nicolaa charged ruthlessly. When the furrier’s wife nodded her head in a forlorn fashion, Nicolaa sought to confirm the details of their suspicions. “And the reason you left the hall early was not because you were ill, but to engage in dalliance in the very bed you were later to share with your husband?”
Clarice’s answer took them by surprise. “No, we did not meet in the guest chamber,” she said miserably. “Aubrey told me to come to another room, one at the top of the tower. He said it was safer there and that if my husband should decide to retire beforetime, he would not discover us together.”
Gianni and Bascot glanced at each other. There was only one chamber large enough to be used for such a purpose and it was one that the Templar and the boy had shared while Bascot had been staying in the castle before his return to the Order. And it was located just a few steps below the walkway that led to the ramparts.
Richard now took charge of the interrogation and spoke in harsh tones to the furrier’s wife. “You have lied to us, mistress, and I do not take it kindly. If you value your freedom, and your life, you had best tell us the truth.”
Clarice nodded and slowly the whole story came out. She had, she said, formed a friendship with Tercel shortly after Christ’s Mass when he had come to her husband’s shop to purchase furs on Lady Petronille’s behalf. Simon Adgate was often away from his premises while he went to the tanning pit he owned in the lower part of the town and it was at those times that Tercel had come to the shop and engaged her in conversation and, finally, enticed her to meet him in a room he had rented above an alehouse in the town. When the feast was proposed, her paramour had suggested Clarice take advantage of her husband’s preoccupation with the celebrations to join him in the old tower and she had agreed.