A Deadly Penance

by Maureen Ash

  He turned slightly on his pallet and looked at Mark. The other boy was awake and his eyes gleamed in the small light from the fire. Willi had told his friend of his intentions yesterday and Mark had agreed to cover for his absence as much as he could by saying Willi was in the outside latrine or had gone to the kitchen, so as to delay the inevitable search that would be made. With a nod towards Mark, Willi rose from his pallet and carefully rolled up the rough woollen blanket that had covered him. It was still very cold outside; he would need the blanket to keep him warm.

  Making as little noise as possible, he tiptoed across the open expanse of the barn, holding his breath and praying he would not be heard. With trembling fingers he lifted the wooden bar that secured the entrance and heaved a sigh of relief when it rose without a sound. The door had leather hinges that had been well oiled and it, too, silently slid open wide enough for him to squeeze through. Carefully, he pushed it shut behind him and looked around the yard. The almost-full moon gave enough light for him to see his way to the fence that surrounded the property. All was quiet. There were a couple of dogs near to the building where the servants lived, but they knew his scent and were not likely to bark. With stealthy steps he crossed the yard. One of the pigs in the sty grunted, but there was no sound from the other animals—not the cows in their shed or the chickens in the coop. A sudden shape loomed out of the darkness and he jumped in alarm, but it was only one of the nanny goats, staring at him with her protuberant eyes as her jaw moved sideways in a chewing motion, making the tuft of hair on her chin waggle. She continued to gaze after him as he ran across the yard and climbed the fence. A few more steps and he was across the track and into the cover of the greenwood. Breathing a sigh of relief, he hoisted the rolled blanket onto his shoulder and began to trudge his way through the deep pile of leaves that had fallen to the ground the previous winter, heading for Lincoln.

  NICOLAA AND PETRONILLE STARTED OUT ON THEIR JOURNEY to Riseholme as soon as they had broken their fast. Hugh Bruet, the knight who had accompanied Petronille to Lincoln, led the escort along with Ernulf and two men-at-arms from the castle garrison. Bruet was pleased to be away from the castle, for it alleviated the twinge of conscience he had been suffering since the murder and dimmed his memory of a minor happening that had caused him to wonder about its import. He did not believe that what he had seen and heard had anything to do with the death but, even so, he wondered if he should have told Richard Camville about it. But to do so might bring another into disrepute, and cast aspersions where none were warranted. He was glad to be going to Riseholme; it would provide him with a brief reprieve from his dilemma. A ride in the brisk morning air might clear his thoughts.

  Unaware of Bruet’s concerns, Nicolaa and Petronille had mounted their palfreys and set off with a lightness of heart induced by a sense of revisiting the days of their youth. As adolescent girls they, along with their younger sister, Ermingard, had often accompanied their father on the trips he had made to inspect one or another of his properties. They had always looked forward to these excursions and the chance it gave them to ride out into the open countryside and away from the confines of the castle. And today they were reminded of the pleasure those trips had brought, for the cold snap had broken and a beneficent early spring sun was shining its warmth on their faces, just as it had then. As they rode, they chatted comfortably with one another. Although it was only a short distance to their destination, they passed a few fields being readied for the plough and once, through a gap in the forest, saw some newly born lambs gambolling beside their mothers. By the time they reached the turnoff that led to Riseholme, Nicolaa was pleased to see that her sister’s cheeks had turned a rosy hue and a smile curved her mouth. It had been many weeks since Petronille had looked so happy.

  As the party cantered along the turnoff to Riseholme, the castellan was surprised to see her bailiff and two or three servants searching among the bushes on the far side of the road. When the bailiff saw his mistress’ party approaching, he quickly doffed the soft cap he was wearing and came to meet them.

  “What is wrong, Stoddard?” Nicolaa enquired. “Have some of the animals got loose?”

  The bailiff flushed a bright red. “No, lady, one of the children, a boy named Willi, is gone. We didn’t notice his absence until we were all gathered to go to Mass in the village chapel. We are trying to find him.”

  “Gone?” Nicolaa exclaimed. “Do you mean he has run away?”

  “It appears so, lady,” Stoddard said with some embarrassment. “The boy was here last evening when all of the children went to sleep. He must have left sometime during the night, but the servant who was assigned to watch over the waifs didn’t hear him go.”

  Turning to their escort, Nicolaa directed Bruet and Ernulf to take the men-at-arms and search the woods for the boy and then, urging her mount into a trot towards the gate into her property, spoke sharply to the bailiff. “I would have speech with this servant, Stoddard. It seems he has been remiss in his duties.”

  When Nicolaa, with Petronille following behind, entered the yard, the other children were standing huddled together in a group, the cook and a kitchen maid hovering alongside them. The unfortunate manservant who had slept in the barn was just emerging from searching the shed where the cheeses were kept and, when he saw Nicolaa, his face blanched and he quickly ran forward and fell to his knees. “I am sorry, lady. I should have been more vigilant, I know, but I didn’t think as how any of the little ones would want to run away from where they were so well treated. He must have crept out while I was sleeping.”

  Nicolaa considered his words. She was a fair mistress and not given to harsh punishment, but all of her servants knew that if any of them proved to be lazy or disobedient, they could not expect a second chance, but would be dismissed from their posts without hesitation.

  “Had you punished the boy for any reason?” she asked harshly.

  “No, lady, there’s been no need,” the servant assured her and Stoddard, with a nod, confirmed his words.

  “All of the children have been as quiet as mice since they came,” the bailiff said. “We all thought as how they were happy here. I don’t know what made Willi run away, but one thing I can promise you, it wasn’t because he was abused.”

  Nicolaa gave a short nod. She had no cause to disbelieve Stoddard. He had managed the property for some years, as had his father before him. She looked toward the rest of the children. All of their faces were etched with fear and the smallest one was clinging to the cook’s skirt and starting to cry.

  “I will question the rest of the children and see if they know anything about this boy’s disappearance,” Nicolaa said to Stoddard as she dismounted from her palfrey. “Bring them inside the manor house. I will speak to them there, but first I wish you to attend me.”

  Nicolaa walked quickly into the building, calling for two cups and a flagon of cider to be brought into the small room that served as a hall. A manservant ran forward and placed two chairs in front of an unlit fireplace and then struck flint and tinder to some dried moss to set the logs burning. Although the chamber was unused by the servants, it was kept in readiness in case Nicolaa should visit. Now, a maidservant hurried to bring two pewter cups which she placed on a small table alongside a flagon of cider. At a nod from her mistress, she poured the fragrant drink into the cups and, sketching a bow of deference, served them to Nicolaa and Petronille.

  The bailiff, who had been standing by the door, came forward at a gesture from his mistress, his cap in his hand.

  “What did you observe about the boy that is gone?” she asked. “Did he seem discontent, or was he disobedient?”

  “He appeared happy enough, lady,” the bailiff assured her. “Tucked into the food right well and did the few chores assigned to him with a willing heart. I didn’t notice anything amiss. If I had of done, I’d have taken him to task about it.”

  “And the other children—were they aware he was planning to run away?”

  “They sa
y not, lady, but Willi took a blanket with him when he went and now they seem to fear they will all be sent back to the streets of Lincoln because of the theft. It might be that fright is stopping up their tongues.”

  “Then they must be assured their situation will not change,” Nicolaa replied. “Bring them in and I shall speak to them.”

  The bailiff turned to go but, before he went to do her bidding, he added, “Willi was friendly with one of the other children, a lad named Mark. It is possible he may have told him of his intention to leave and the reason for it.”

  “I will bear that in mind,” Nicolaa assured him.

  The children were shepherded in by the cook, with the little girl, Annie, still clinging to her skirt. When they were arrayed in front of her, the castellan said, “First of all, I want you all to know that none of you will be sent back to Lincoln. Even though we are concerned that Willi ran away, he was not a prisoner here and neither are the rest of you. If you wish to leave you will be allowed to do so, but if you want to stay then, providing you obey the rules that have been laid down for your conduct, you have a home here until you are old enough to fend for yourselves.”

  Relief was etched on the faces of the two older children, Mark and Emma, and the latter placed her arms around her little sister and said, “See, I told you, Annie. We won’t be made to leave just ’cause Willi stole that blanket.”

  Annie hiccupped and looked up at the cook who gave her a reassuring pat on the head. Joan, in her usual noncommittal way, said nothing.

  “Now,” Nicolaa continued, looking directly at Mark, “if any of you know why Willi left, or where he intended to go, I want you to tell me. Even though the weather is warmer, it is still too cold to be out in the woods alone. And if he should meet with a wild animal in the woods, he may be in danger of serious injury.”

  A silence followed her words. Mark stood with his lips pressed together and Emma shook her head. Annie, because of her tender years, was confused and looked at her sister in puzzlement, while Joan began to fiddle with the hem of her kirtle.

  “Very well,” Nicolaa said. “If none of you can help me, you may go with cook and break your fast. Since you missed Mass this morning, you will say two paternosters before you eat. . . .”

  “He went to find his da,” Joan suddenly burst out. “And he’s going to be killed by the murderer.”

  Stoddard, who was standing by Nicolaa’s chair, was the first to react to the astonishing statement. “What nonsense is this, Joan? Willi doesn’t have a father; he’s an orphan like the rest of you. And as for being killed . . .”

  “He does so have a da,” Joan burst out, her torrent of words startling after she had been almost silent for so long. “And he saw the murderer, too, the one who killed that man in the castle.”

  “Joan, you must not tell lies. . . .” Stoddard began impatiently, but Nicolaa held up her hand.

  “How do you know this Joan?” she said quietly.

  “I heard him tell Mark,” the girl said triumphantly.

  Twenty

  ANOTHER SILENCE FELL AS EVERYONE LOOKED AT MARK. THE boy was glaring at Joan, his small fists clenched at his sides. It was obvious the girl was telling the truth. Nicolaa, raising her hand, motioned to the bailiff.

  “Stoddard, take all of the children except Mark to the kitchen and have the cook attend their needs.”

  As the bailiff and the other orphans left the room, young Mark stood forlorn in front of the two women, his hands now clasped in front of him and near to tears.

  Nicolaa spoke gently. “Mark, what do you know of Willi’s disappearance and this tale that he saw the man who committed the murder?”

  The boy raised his head, his mouth trembling. “I gave my promise that I would not tell,” he said, with an attempt at bravery.

  “And you did not,” Nicolaa assured him. “Joan did. But now that the secret is out, for Willi’s own safety, you must tell us all you know.”

  “Willi does have a da,” Mark said quietly, despair in his voice, “but he’s been gone for a long time and Willi was hungry. When he went to get alms at St. Peter’s, and the priest asked him if he had anyone to look after him, he lied, but it was only so’s he could get some food. But when we was sent here, he was worried that when his da came back, he wouldn’t be able to find him, so Willi decided to go back into town and look for him.” The boy raised his fearful face to Nicolaa. “He only lied ’cause he was starvin’, lady, he didn’t mean no harm.”

  “Very well, Mark,” Nicolaa said, “we shall let that pass for now. What of this claim that he made about seeing the murderer?”

  The boy hesitated and the tears he had so far managed to stem spilled down his face. Petronille, her kind heart full of sympathy, recalled her own dead son. Baldwin had not been much older than this boy when he had died and, due to his illness, was almost as thin. She reached out a hand and said to Mark, “Come here, child, and stand beside me.”

  With stumbling steps Mark went to the chair where she was seated. She took his hand in hers and pressed it gently. Her skin was soft and a faint perfume of spring flowers rose from her clothes. “Do not be fearful,” she said to him softly. “Neither you nor Willi are going to be punished. But you must tell my sister exactly what Willi said, for that is the only way we can protect him.”

  Reassured by her compassionate manner, Mark haltingly told Nicolaa what Willi had claimed. “It was the night we wus all taken to the castle, just after we’d been in that big room where all the townsfolk was sittin’, and we wus being taken to the stables to sleep,” he explained. “As we wus goin’ across the ward, Willi said he saw someone lurkin’ around that big old tower near the gate. The next day, after we heard that a man had been shot by a crossbow up at the top of the tower, Willi said he had seen the man what done it.”

  “He said it was a man and not a woman?” Nicolaa interrupted.

  Mark screwed up his face in concentration as he thought back over what Willi had told him. He couldn’t remember if Willi had said it was a man; Mark might have just assumed that it was. “I think so, but I’m not sure,” he said honestly.

  “Did he see the man’s face?” Nicolaa asked.

  “I don’t know, lady,” Mark replied earnestly. “He wouldn’t tell me much ’cause he thought I might tell on him, even though I swore I wouldn’t. But I warned him that if the killer had seen Willi lookin’ at him, he might find him out if he went back to Lincoln and murder him, too.” Mark looked at Nicolaa fearfully. “And I’se right, isn’t I, lady? Will you be able to save him?”

  “I shall do my best, Mark,” Nicolaa assured him. She rose from her chair and spoke to Petronille, her expression grave. “If Ernulf and the men-at-arms do not find the boy in the greenwood, we must return to Lincoln at once and organise a search for him.”

  AS BRUET, ERNULF AND THE MEN-AT-ARMS WERE RETURNING to the Riseholme manor house after a fruitless search in the woods, Bascot and Gianni were entering the shop of the barber-surgeon, Gildas. The rotund little barber came forward with a beaming countenance when he saw them and, as before, greeted the Templar warmly.

  “Sir Bascot,” he said in jovial tones. “I did not expect to see you again so soon. Have you found the murderer yet?”

  “No, unfortunately, we have not,” Bascot replied. “It is on a different matter that I have come and one that I would like to discuss with you in confidence. Do you have a private room where we can speak without your customers overhearing?”

  The little barber’s chest swelled out with importance as he replied, “Of course, Sir Bascot. If it please you, there is a room in the back where we may speak privily.”

  Gildas led Bascot and Gianni to a small chamber lined with shelves laden with pliers, razors and piles of clean cloths. There was only one chair in the room, and Gildas bowed the Templar to it and perched on a small stool nearby. Gianni stood at the door, blocking the passage of any who should inadvertently try to enter.

  Bascot phrased his next words carefully. He
did not want to alert Gildas to the true nature of his enquiry but, at the same time, it was most important that he extract the information he sought. With a tinge of guilt for deceiving the cheerful little man in front of him, he said, “I wish to speak to you about Simon Adgate, Gildas. Have you ever made his acquaintance?”

  “Yes, I have,” the barber confirmed. “I have attended him as his barber-surgeon for many years.”

  The Templar had not expected such good fortune, but had merely hoped that since Adgate and Gildas were near to each other in age, the barber might recall the furrier from the days of their youth, and remember the details of his first marriage. His hope rising, Bascot continued the conversation carefully. “I am sure you are aware that Adgate’s young wife was most distressed at being in the castle on the night of the murder.”

  Gildas gave a nod of agreement, the jowls on his fat face wobbling slightly as he did so. “Yes, we all heard of how upset she was,” he said, and then added disapprovingly, “And there were some who claimed she was more friendly with the dead man than she should have been. Such malicious gossip should not be given any credence, and so I have told all those who have repeated it to me.”