by Maureen Ash
Richard was the first to move. He leaned forward and replenished his mother’s wine cup and Nicolaa, after taking a brief sip and setting her mouth in a determined line, said, “Tercel’s quest would have been a monumental one. There are above seven thousand people in Lincoln, and over a third of them are women. If we are to consider only those of the correct age, that still leaves approximately a thousand who could be considered suitable.”
She looked around the company. “That is a formidable number among which to search for a woman whose name and appearance are not known, and it is highly unlikely that my sister’s servant—who was unfamiliar with Lincoln and had been here only a few weeks—would have been successful. I think we must ask ourselves if there is any merit in following this trail, or if it may prove to be merely a waste of time.”
“I agree that Tercel’s enquiries might have been futile, lady,” Bascot said, “but there is always the chance that the very act of his asking questions about his mother may have stirred up alarm in someone who knew her identity. Even if he did not find her, his searching may have precipitated his murder.”
Nicolaa regarded the Templar for a moment and then said, “You could be right, de Marins. But to try and trace his movements and see if we can discover, among the many people he must have spoken to, which conversation prompted his death, will surely prove impossible.”
“Such a detailed search might not be necessary, lady,” Bascot said, “if we limit the parameters within which we make it, and we can do that by taking into consideration why it was that he was killed here in the bail and, more specifically, on a night when you had a large number of guests in the hall. Unless it was to take advantage of the distraction your visitors provided, it must have been because this was the only occasion when the murderer was in close enough proximity to Tercel to slay him. Should that be so, we can exclude your retainers, and those of Lady Petronille. All of them are normally in the ward and could have killed him at any time during his stay in the castle. We are then left with the visitors who were here throughout that evening. Were there any females among the guests that are of the right age to be his mother?”
Nicolaa took a sip of her wine and mentally reviewed the women who had been in the hall on that night. “There were a dozen guild leaders in the company and, with the exception of Thomas Wickson, all were accompanied by their wives. Over the last few months, and through encouraging them to contribute to the foundling home, I have come to know all of them more familiarly than would be my normal custom. Discounting Clarice Adgate because of her youth, the other ten are all of mature years. Five of them, to my certain knowledge, have either been married to their spouses far too long to be considered a candidate, or are widows who have married for a second time but were wed to their first husbands some time before the date of Tercel’s conception. Of the remaining five, two of these, during the course of conversation, told me they were born and bred in Lincoln, so they could not have come from Winchester. We are then left with three whose backgrounds I am not aware of—one is the wife of the head of the goldsmith’s guild, the second that of the draper’s and the last, the sealsmith’s.”
“Tercel’s mother may have died in the interim since his birth,” Bascot said. “But that does not mean that her husband, if he knew the secret, would not want to protect her memory and, in doing so, his own reputation. You mentioned that some of the guild leaders have been married twice—what of their first wives? Could any of them have come from the south of England?”
“A good point,” Richard conceded. “Adgate was married before. He told me so when I was questioning him about his current wife’s infidelity.”
“And at least two of the others were, the guild leader of the wine merchants and the man who is head of the baker’s league,” Nicolaa confirmed, and then paused. She shook her head at the proliferation of daunting possibilities but, as the Templar had said, they had decided to investigate only a small number of people. Good fortune may be with them. She turned to Wharton. “Tercel was, according to you, Stephen, born in January of 1177?”
“That is so,” the knight confirmed. “He was only a few weeks old when he was brought to me a few weeks after Christ’s Mass exactly twenty-six years ago.”
“Then we are looking for a marriage that must have taken place later in that year or possibly the one after. And for a bride that came from Winchester. But if I summon all of the likely candidates to the castle and the guilty party is among them, our questions about the date of their marriage and the place from whence the wife came will give alert to our suspicions.”
“I agree, lady,” Bascot said. “It is a task that must be undertaken very carefully and not in a confrontational manner.”
“Ernulf may be able to help,” Nicolaa said musingly. “He was born in Lincoln and knows most of the townsfolk. He also has a prodigious memory. It is quite possible he will know the details we seek.”
Bascot nodded. “He has helped me before with his knowledge. I shall speak to him directly. If there are any of whom he is not certain, we can look more closely into their background.”
Alinor now leaned forward with a suggestion of her own. “It might be helpful if one of us had another word with Mistress Adgate,” she said. “It is possible that Tercel, during his trysts with her, may have asked about, or mentioned, Adgate’s first wife, or one of the other women at the feast, especially if he was trying to garner information about a particular individual. If he did, it might point our way more quickly.”
As the others considered her proposal, Alinor added, “I would be more than willing to interview her, Aunt, and . . .” She paused and gave her cousin a measuring glance. “. . . perhaps it might be just as well if Richard were present. The furrier’s wife appears receptive to a handsome face and figure; mayhap his company will prove an aid to her memory.”
Alinor’s jocular remark lifted, if only by a fraction, the gloom that had spread over them all since the body had been found. Although the castellan’s handsome son was to be wed in a few months time, Richard had long had the reputation of being a womanizer and, as his mother and cousin were only too well aware, was a consistently successful one.
“I agree with Alinor’s suggestion, Mother,” Richard proclaimed and then added with mock seriousness, “and, in the hope that my capabilities will fulfill her high expectations, will gladly give her any assistance she requires in her interview with Mistress Adgate.”
“I am quite certain your charm will not fail me, Cousin,” Alinor replied dryly, “for if she should prove impervious to it, she will be the first woman who has ever done so.”
AFTER THE COMPANY LEFT TO PURSUE THEIR VARIOUS LINES OF enquiry and Stephen Wharton went to make arrangements for his return to Stamford the next day, Nicolaa was left alone in the solar. After a few moments’ reflection, she sent a servant to summon her secretary and went to her private chamber to await his arrival. Pouring herself a cup of cider, she paced the length of the room with the goblet in her hand, pondering whether or not to apprise King John of the possibility that his deceased brother might have spawned another bastard son. John, since his coronation, had been plagued by the rebellious actions of a legitimate nephew, Arthur of Brittany, the posthumous son of another Plantagenet brother, Geoffrey. Many of the king’s subjects felt that Arthur should have been given the crown instead of John, and the dissention had been a thorn in his side for some time, especially since Philip, the king of France, had espoused Arthur’s cause and encouraged him to take up arms against his royal uncle. Only last year, Arthur had attempted to seize his grandmother, the widowed Queen Eleanor, from her castle at Mirabeau and, had John not ridden valiantly to his mother’s rescue, would have held Eleanor as a hostage against his claim for the English crown. To advise the king that he may have had yet another close relative, albeit an illegitimate one, and that he had been murdered, might not be welcome news to John, but given the monarch’s suspicious nature, may be the most advisable course of action.
Nicol
aa had always been open and honest with the king and she knew that he had never doubted her loyalty. But her husband, Gerard, on the other hand, was not viewed in such a favourable light. Many years ago, while Lionheart was on the throne, Gerard had formed an alliance with John in an act of rebellion against the monarch but, once the brief insurgence was over, their reluctant friendship had turned rancorous. If she did not apprise John of this latest development and he heard of it from another source, it could be that he would view the matter as an aborted attempt at subversion by Gerard. She decided that candour, as it had always been, would be prudent, and when her secretary entered the chamber a few moments later, told him that she wished to dictate a letter that was to be despatched to the monarch at his castle in Falaise, Normandy, where Arthur was being held prisoner. After that, she told him, she would also compose one for him to send to Gerard in London. Just in case there were any repercussions from the king, it was best that her husband be forewarned.
Sixteen
IN THE SCRIPTORIUM, IT WAS ALMOST TIME FOR THE EVENING meal by the time Gianni had finished transcribing the notes he had taken during the morning’s discussion between Nicolaa and the others. He had one more task to finish before he could go down to the hall and partake of some food; that of copying out the relevant passages in the letter penned to Stephen Wharton by his brother. Since Wharton intended to begin his journey back to Stamford the next morning, the copying had to be done by the end of the day so that the letter could be returned to the knight before he left Lincoln. Lambert, the other clerk in the scriptorium, offered to bring Gianni some refreshment from the hall while he completed the task and the lad enthusiastically nodded his head. He had barely had time to snatch more than a crust of bread and a small chunk of cold meat at the midday meal and his stomach was growling with hunger.
Unrolling the long sheet of parchment, he read through the opening paragraphs detailing various bequests to servants and disposal of property until he found the portion that dealt with Aubrey Tercel. Anchoring the letter on his lectern with two small blocks of wood, he set to work. He had already noted that the letter, even though in a scholarly hand, was informally worded and guessed that, as Lionel Wharton had been about to embark on crusade, he had dictated it in haste to a priest or cleric. The passage about Tercel had been taken down in a similar fashion; the sentences overlong and often repetitive. When he came to the part that dealt with the woman who had been his mother, it was written in the same rambling manner and Gianni had to stop and read it twice to ensure the meaning. After he had finished, he laid aside his quill and pondered on the fact that there was a slight ambiguity in the words.
When Lambert returned with a platter laden with a bowl of rabbit pottage, half of a small loaf of oat bread and two cups of ale, Gianni showed the relevant portion to him and, through the sign language that Lambert had taken the pains to learn so he and his young colleague could communicate, asked his opinion as to the precise meaning of the passage.
Lambert laid the platter down and read through the document as Gianni hungrily wolfed down the stew and bread. When the older clerk had finished, he rubbed a finger along his prominent jaw and said, “I see what you mean, Gianni. The way this is written—‘The woman who became enceinte was in Winchester’—could mean that she lived in the town, which is the way Stephen Wharton construed it but, conversely, it might just as well signify that she merely happened to be in the town at the time she lay with her lover. It does not necessarily indicate that she resided there.”
Lambert’s dark eyes lit up with appreciation. “You have done well to spot that, Gianni,” he said. “I think it might be worthwhile to bring it to Lady Nicolaa’s attention.”
LATER THAT EVENING, SIMON AND CLARICE ADGATE SAT IN the furrier’s hall, the meal they had been served hardly touched. Uppermost in Clarice’s mind was the message that had been brought earlier that day by one of Nicolaa de la Haye’s men-at-arms, requesting her presence at the castle early the next morning.
“I do not understand why they wish to speak to me again,” she said to her husband anxiously. “I have told them all I know.”
Simon did not seem to have heard her and Clarice regarded her husband from beneath lowered eyes. He had been this way ever since the morning they had learned of her lover’s death. When they had gone into the hall to break their fast on that dreadful day, and one of the other merchants had told them that Aubrey’s body had been found up on the ramparts, she had burst out crying and had been too grief-stricken to take particular note of Simon’s reaction. But later, as he had led her to a seat and brought her a glass of wine, she had realised, to her horror, that he had guessed of her entanglement with Tercel, for he had bent over her as he had given her the wine and muttered tersely, “Try to comport yourself in a more discreet fashion, Clarice, otherwise it will be obvious to others, as well as myself, that you knew the dead man far better than was seemly.” Ever since that moment, he had been engulfed by an air of preoccupation.
But even so, and while his manner had been scornful, he had not once castigated her for her adultery, not even after that dreadful interview with the castellan and her son when she had admitted the affair. Although he had tried to protect her when the one-eyed Templar had come to question her, he had rarely spoken to her directly since he had become aware of her infidelity. She could not understand why he did not voice his anger, for it was within his rights as her husband to beat her for her lecherous behaviour or, at the very least, take away the furs and costly gowns with which he had so generously provided her. She was grateful that, so far, he had not done so and fervently hoped it would remain that way.
AS THE CASTLE HOUSEHOLD WAS PREPARING TO SETTLE DOWN for the night, the two female servants in Petronille’s retinue, Margaret and Elise, were sitting at a small table in the hall, drinking a cup of camomile cordial before they went to help their respective mistresses disrobe for the night.
The pair did not normally seek out each other’s company. Their ages were too far apart for easy companionship and Elise found Margaret’s reserved demeanour repressive while the opposite was true for the sempstress, who considered Elise’s lighthearted manner too bold. But since the murder, the two had been drawn together, partly because the servants in the Lincoln castle household had become a little reserved in their company, almost as though they would, by association, become tainted with the tragedy, but mainly because they served the two ladies peripherally involved in the drama.
“I understand from Lady Alinor that her mother became very distraught after a meeting with Stephen Wharton today, although she did not tell me the reason,” Elise said to Margaret, hoping to find out what it was that had so upset Petronille.
“Yes, she was sore distressed,” Margaret confirmed and then, to the young maid’s satisfaction, related how it was thought that Aubrey’s mother might be responsible for his death. “I agree with milady,” the sempstress proclaimed in a self-righteous manner. “It is inconceivable that a woman would kill her own child.”
Elise was as shocked as Petronille at the suggestion, but her outspoken nature compelled her to add, “Well, somebody murdered him. And if it wasn’t his mother, and the furrier doesn’t seem to be guilty, who else could it be?”
Margaret shrugged, a delicate lifting of shoulders clad in a sober dark gown. “All of us who shared Aubrey’s company during the last few months at Stamford were aware of his predilection for amorous involvements. It is quite conceivable that he had another paramour beside the furrier’s wife, perhaps even a woman here in the castle household. If she had a lover who was enraged by Aubrey’s trespass on the affection of a woman he claimed as his own, it is quite possible he murdered him out of jealousy. There are not many men who would ignore such an insult.”
“You think it is a man, then, that did the killing? It is said that a woman could have fired the bow.”
Margaret gave a dismissive shake of her head. “A woman would have killed the furrier’s wife, not her lover. It must have bee
n a man.”
Elise considered her companion’s pronouncement. “It could be that Mistress Adgate was the true target and Aubrey was killed by mistake.”
The sempstress drew down the corners of her mouth in disagreement. “I think it unlikely, Elise, and that you would do well to hope it is not so.”
Elise looked at Margaret in surprise. “Why should I do that?”
The sempstress glanced around to ensure they were not overheard and lowered her voice. “Because it would indicate that the murderess was driven to her crime, as you have just said, by hatred of the women her lover found attractive.” At Elise’s continued look of incomprehension, Margaret explained her reasoning. “I am well aware that Aubrey often looked at you with lustful speculation. If I noticed it, I am sure others will have done so. If, as you surmise, the murderer is a woman that is driven by jealousy and is taking vengeance on the women her lover found attractive, it could be that, even though he is dead—or perhaps especially because he is . . .”
“She will want to kill me as well,” Elise finished fearfully and shivered. She looked around the hall, focussing her attention on the female servants going about the task of clearing the huge chamber after the evening meal. Some were piling soiled napery into baskets while others were dousing the candles on the board or removing the wooden platters that had been used to serve food. Most of them were young and one or two quite handsome in appearance. She was sure Aubrey’s lecherous nature would have prompted him to make advances to them as he had done to her. While she herself had rebuffed him, it could easily be, as Margaret said, that one of them had been beguiled by his handsome appearance and succumbed to his charms.
“But Lady Nicolaa said she was sure that none of her household staff was involved in the murder,” Elise protested, remembering with relief what she had been told by Alinor.