by Maureen Ash
Margaret pressed her prim lips together. “Lady Nicolaa is undoubtedly a woman of good judgement, but even so, she is not infallible.” Then, as she saw the effect her words had on her young companion, she leaned forward and placed a consoling hand on the girl’s arm. “I did not mean to alarm you,” she said softly, her face contrite and her voice full of concern. “As I said, there is a only a slim chance that it was a woman, and even less that she is one of those here in the castle. I am certain the murderer was a man and, if it was, you have nothing to be frightened of.”
Elise nodded silently, but her stomach churned with alarm. Even though Margaret had assured her that her fears were groundless, it would be wise to be watchful.
IN THE CANDLE MANUFACTORY, MERISEL WICKSON LAY ON THE pallet in her bedchamber pondering on her mother’s illness. Mistress Wickson did not appear to be recovering from the strange malady that had overcome her; even the apothecary was nonplussed as to its source. Merisel had gone to him twice now, each time giving a further description of her mother’s ailment and, in the end, he had finally opined that she had been taken with one of the maladies that often plague women as they approach the end of their childbearing years, saying he could do no more than give her an additional dose of the elixir that helped her mother to rest.
But Merisel was not satisfied with his diagnosis. Her mother, although often indecisive, was not usually physically weak and it was most strange that she had, in the space of one day, succumbed to a mysterious illness that had left her enervated and in a fragile state of mind. Uppermost in Merisel’s thoughts was that this sudden ailment had come upon her mother just after she had received a visit from her cousin, Simon Adgate, behind the closed door of the hall in their home.
Simon did not come often to their house and, to Merisel’s uncertain knowledge, her mother had never gone to his. The rarity of the furrier’s visits was due to an argument that had taken place a few years earlier during what had begun as a casual conversation between Adgate and her father, when Simon had declared that the rights of the tallow candlemaker’s guild was equal to that of Wickson’s, who fashioned their product from beeswax. Her father had not been head of his guild at the time, but he was very prideful, especially where his business was concerned, and his insistence that the superiority of his product should give his guild more privileges than one that was, in his opinion, inferior in status, had caused hard words between them and he and the furrier had rarely spoken since.
It was due to this incident that on the infrequent occasions when Simon came to their home, he timed his visits to occur when the chandler was engaged in his workshop so that he could visit his cousin without her husband’s company. Adgate had always spoken kindly to Merisel each time she had seen him, asking after her health and well-being and, by the solicitous manner in which he addressed her mother, was made aware that he was very fond of her.
But on this last occasion of his calling, Merisel had been coming down the passageway next to the chamber in which they were ensconced and had noticed that the tone of their voices, even though muffled by the closed door, had a tinge of urgency about them. There had also been a thread of anxiety in the few words she had heard her mother speak. Merisel had paused for a moment and listened, not out of a desire to eavesdrop but because she feared her mother was in distress. But the door was of thick oak and the sounds had been muted. She had not been able to catch the gist of the conversation, only part of an odd sentence here and there, but she was certain she had heard the name of Tercel mentioned, along with the words “threat” and “be careful.” A few moments later, the door had opened and her mother and Adgate had come out. Both of them had seemed flustered when they saw Merisel standing outside the door, her mother gasping in surprise and asking her daughter, more tersely than was usual, what she was doing there. Merisel had held up the soiled apron she was on her way to replace with a freshly laundered one and, with an expression of relief, her mother had dismissed her. Simon, too, had seemed reassured by her explanation, and had given her a friendly nod as she continued on down the passage to the clothes hamper where a supply of clean linen was kept.
Now, Merisel pondered on that meeting between her mother and Adgate. At the time, she had put it from her mind as having no import. But when a customer, the day after the murder, had told Merisel and her father about it and she had later related the conversation to her mother while taking her some soup at midday, she had been disturbed by Mistress Wickson’s reaction. Her mother, her cheeks suddenly bloodless, had turned her face to the wall, murmuring that she was tired and wanted to rest. When Merisel had asked her if she had known the man who had been killed, her mother’s reply had been barely audible as she said, “No, no, I never met him. Please leave me now. I am too weak to talk anymore.” From that moment, Mistress Wickson’s illness had taken a downward turn.
It was because of her mother’s denial that Merisel had lied to the Templar knight when he had asked if she knew of anyone that had made the acquaintance of or had any connection with the dead man. Whatever the reason for her mother’s falsehood—if it was one—Merisel did not intend to be the cause of involving her ailing dam in a murder investigation. But even though she had no intention of revealing what she had heard, Merisel could not forbear from ruminating on the implications of her mother and Simon Adgate’s exchange and the fact that it had been just after their meeting, and the mention of Tercel, that her mother had proclaimed she was ill and could not accompany her husband to the feast. There must be a connection between the two events.
It was not in Merisel’s nature to allow such a mystery go unresolved, especially one that might have made her mother ill, but she feared that if she questioned her dam directly, it might cause her further upset. The only recourse was to go to Simon Adgate and ask him to explain what she had overheard and why her mother had denied knowledge of the murdered man when Merisel had heard her speak his name. But even though the furrier had seemed, on the few occasions she had met him, to have an amiable nature, would he be willing to discuss with her matters that he and her mother so obviously wished to keep private? Or would he, despite his seeming kindness, castigate her for prying into affairs that were none of her concern? Well, she thought, if she did not ask, she would never find out and, summoning up the resoluteness that was part of her character, decided to go and see him the very next day.
Seventeen
AS BASCOT RODE TO THE CASTLE THE NEXT MORNING, HE wondered if finding Tercel’s mother might not prove an impossible task. The previous afternoon he had sat with Ernulf in the barracks and they had gone over the names on the list that Nicolaa de la Haye had given him. Ensconced in the serjeant’s cubicle, and sharing a jack of ale, Ernulf was anxious to help. He still felt some guilt for his men not apprehending the murderer, or at least finding the corpse long before sunup, and was anxious to redeem himself. He listened carefully as Bascot told him the circumstances of the dead man’s background and how his unidentified mother, or one of her relatives, might be responsible for his death. The Templar cautioned him that the whole matter must be kept privily lest the guilty party be alerted and then Ernulf, with a grim nod, had given consideration to each of the guild leaders.
Bascot was already aware of Ernulf’s wide knowledge of the townsfolk and their backgrounds—it had been of use to the Templar on more than one occasion in the past—and now he found that the castellan had been correct in stating that Ernulf also had an excellent memory. Completely unconsciously, the serjeant recalled seemingly disparate facts by associating them with those that were important to him and, after a few moments’ cogitation, had been able to immediately eliminate two of the guild leaders—a baker and a goldsmith—and their wives.
“The baker was married in the same year that Lady Nicolaa’s father had the gatehouse repaired—’twas the year before my lord’s death—and I recall how everyone was complaining that the baker’s wares were suffering because of his distraction with his young bride,” Ernulf said with a smile. “No
t that he didn’t get himself right after a week or two when his energy began to flag, but we had a good laugh about it at the time. But that was at least a year afore the time you are wantin’, so his wife couldn’t be the girl you are seeking and, besides, she was the daughter of another baker in the town, so I know she isn’t from Winchester.”
As far as the goldsmith was concerned, Ernulf shook his head in denial. “He’s his wife’s second husband. She was a widow when he married her about ten years ago, and he was unwed afore that.”
“And his wife—do you know the date of her first marriage?”
“Must be nigh on thirty years ago. Her first husband was a goldsmith, too. Right parsimonious cowson he was, as well. I remember the first time I saw them both, when I was nobbut a young lad and had just been taken into service here in the castle. Some miscreant had broken into the goldsmith’s manufactory a couple of weeks before and stole a load of his stock. When the thief wasn’t caught right away, the goldsmith come hotfoot to the castle to complain to milady’s father that the town guard weren’t doing their duty and he should be recompensed for his loss.” Ernulf smiled at the memory. “He got short shrift from my lord. Sir Richard told him that if he was too miserly to pay for a good watchman to guard his wares then he couldn’t expect the town guard to do the job for him. The goldsmith’s wife was with him when he came and a right snooty piece she was then, and still is, I reckon. I was in the hall when they arrived, taking some food with some of the other men-at-arms after comin’ off a shift of night duty and she looked at all of us men-at-arms like we was pig dirt under her shoes. She couldn’t be the one you’re looking for—she was married to her first husband far too long ago.”
Of the three remaining couples on Nicolaa’s list, Ernulf, after some careful thought, was able to reject another two couples. The head of the wine merchant’s guild, the serjeant was certain, had been married under the requisite number of years. “Wed his wife no more than twenty years ago,” he finally declared. “I remember it right well ’cause the town guard had to be called out to deal with some guests that had become unruly at the marriage feast,” Ernulf said with a knowing grin. “Seems the wine merchant had been a little too openhanded with his stores at the celebration and some of the bride’s young relatives who had travelled to Lincoln for the ceremony—she hails from a town in the north—had become so cup-shotten they had to spend the night in the town gaol.”
“And the head of the draper’s guild?” Bascot had asked. This townsman was one of those whose first wife had died a few years before and had recently remarried. The Templar hoped that Ernulf’s memory would stretch to a recall of the details of his first betrothal and, after some cogitation on the serjeant’s part, was pleased to find that it did.
“Seems to me the draper’s first wedding was around about the time of the terrible earthquake we had in 1185,” Ernulf said, scratching his stubbly grey beard as an aid to concentration. “I can call to mind that the draper had to put off his marriage until the lintel over the porch of All Saint’s—that’s the church where he and his bride were to take their vows—was made safe for them to stand under.” The serjeant nodded his head as the details slowly became clearer in his mind. “Yes, that’s right. He wasn’t the only one who had to delay his wedding; there were two or three others who had to put off the ceremony. Lady Nicolaa sent the castle stonemason to help with the repairs about the town and the mason told me the draper’s father was right upset about the postponement.” Here Ernulf gave Bascot a knowing wink and added, “Seems as though he was in a rush ’cause the belly of his son’s bride-to-be was swelling up right fast and he was afeared his first grandchild would be born afore they got wed.”
“And the bride, she was a local girl?” Bascot asked.
“Aye,” Ernulf responded. “Daughter of a friend of the draper’s mother.”
Disappointed, Bascot went on to the last name on the list, that of a seal maker, John Sealsmith. But, in this instance, Ernulf, for the first time, could not be of help.
“He set up his business in Lincoln about a dozen years ago, as far as I can recall,” the serjeant said. “He’s a surly bastard and doesn’t give away too much about his private business. I did hear he had been in Doncaster before that, but as to the year he got married or whether or not he and his wife originally came from our town, I’ve no knowledge.”
Deciding he had no recourse but to visit the sealsmith and question him personally, Bascot shared a final cup of ale with Ernulf and made his way back to the preceptory. After attending the evening services in the Templar chapel and sharing the light collation that constituted the evening meal with his brothers, he had gone to bed and ruminated on what he had learned, but it had been to no avail and he had spent a restless night. It was with relief that he had risen at dawn for the service of Matins and, as he knelt in the chapel, had asked God for guidance in solving this latest mystery. Now, as he rode across the bail, he hoped that the visit to the sealsmith would be worthwhile. If it was not, he would ask Gianni for the notes the lad had transcribed and go through them carefully to see if there was some detail that had been missed.
When he went into the castle keep, Bascot found Eudo, the Haye steward, waiting for him with a request from Nicolaa de la Haye that he join her in her private chamber before he went into town.
Upon entering the room, the Templar was surprised to see that Stephen Wharton was with the castellan. Gianni was seated at his usual place at the lectern in the corner.
“I had thought you would be on your way back to Stamford by now,” Bascot said to Wharton. “It is well past first light.”
“It is at my request that Stephen has delayed his departure,” Nicolaa said. “Gianni noticed a passage in the letter Wharton received from his brother that lacks clarity and it indicates that we may be wrong in assuming Tercel’s mother was from the town of Winchester. She may only have been a visitor there—perhaps passing through in the company of other travellers bound for one of the ports on the south coast, or for the purpose of a visit to relatives—and, if that is the case, she could have come from anywhere in the kingdom.” She handed Bascot the copy Gianni had made of the relevant portion of Lionel Wharton’s letter.
“My brother was not literate,” Wharton said when Bascot had read it. “He would have dictated this to a clerk or priest to pen for him and, because he could not read what had been written, may not have noticed the ambiguity.”
The Templar handed the piece of parchment back to Nicolaa de la Haye, and spoke to Wharton. “At the time your brother brought the babe to you, did he say anything that might help to clarify the meaning of the wording?” he asked.
The knight shook his head in negation. “No. As I explained, I assumed the babe was his, a by-blow conceived on a favourite leman and that, for reasons he did not wish to disclose, he had chosen not to leave the child in her care.”
“And Tercel made no comment on this passage when he read the letter?” Bascot asked.
“No, he did not, and nor did I,” Wharton replied. The knight rubbed a hand over his face in exasperation. “We were both distracted by the content, not the detail. Aubrey’s concentration was focussed on the ring, citing it as proof of his royal paternity, and I was engaged in trying to dissuade him from his ridiculous notion. If your young clerk had not noticed the uncertainty in that passage, I would never have questioned my assumption that Aubrey’s mother came from Winchester.”
Nicolaa turned to Bascot. “If she did not—and of that we cannot be absolutely sure—then the enquiries you are making will be to no purpose.”
“It is still possible that our first interpretation is the correct one, lady,” Bascot responded, “so all may not yet be lost.” He spoke again to the Stamford knight. “Describe for us, if you will, the night your brother brought the babe to you. Can you remember exactly what he said?”
Wharton reflected for a moment. “It was in the month of March and Lionel came late in the evening, rushing into my manor hous
e and the chamber where I was going over some of the household accounts. He told me that he had a great boon to ask of me. . . .”
“Was he carrying the babe himself?” Bascot asked.
The Stamford knight looked at the Templar in astonishment. “Well, no, of course not. He had left the child outside. . . .”
“With whom?” Bascot asked. “A servant on your staff?”
“No, the boy was in the care of a wet nurse. Lionel left her and the babe in the hall.”
“And did you see this woman? Could she have been the mother?”
Wharton grimaced. “I saw her after I had agreed to Lionel’s request and he called for her to bring Aubrey to my chamber. I cannot credit that she was the mother. She was admirably suited to nurse the babe, plump and with an ample bosom, but she was also past the first bloom of youth and, by her dress, of servant stock. I do not believe she could have been sought after in marriage by a Lincoln merchant.”
“But it is conceivable that the mother could have handed the babe into the nurse’s care, so she would have seen the woman who bore Tercel, even if she did not know her name.”
“I suppose so, yes,” Wharton admitted.
“Did your brother call the nurse by name?” Nicolaa asked. “Did you notice anything about her that might enable us to find her?”
“No. After she brought the babe to my chamber, I sent for my wife, explained the situation to her and she took charge of Aubrey. The nurse left the room once the child was gone. I presume that Lionel, when he departed, took her with him.”
“So we have no clue as to who she may be, either,” Nicolaa said with dissatisfaction. “Are you certain your brother said nothing on that night that may help us gain a clearer meaning of the place where the mother lived?”