A Deadly Penance

by Maureen Ash

  AS BASCOT RODE AWAY FROM ADGATE’S SHOP, HE PONDERED on whether or not he should visit Gildas on the way back to the castle and ask the barber if he knew the names of the furrier’s cousins. The story of how Tercel had been conceived had saddened him; the dead man’s mother must surely have suffered great anguish during that terrible experience, and it would be a calamity if now, after all these years, her secret was exposed for no other purpose than to eliminate her from the suspicion. Although it was commonly believed that women who had been sexually assaulted were the cause of their own misfortune, Bascot had seen the aftermath of many such incidents during the time he had been on crusade in the Holy Land with the Templars, and knew that conviction to be a falsehood. After a battle, there were always a few men in a victorious army, both Christian and infidel, who violated the unprotected women belonging to the foe they had vanquished. And he was well aware that the men who perpetrated such bestiality in war had their counterparts among a peaceful populace, and were entirely capable of inflicting their unnatural lust, by stealth, on an unwary maid. He could not, in all conscience, take the risk of betraying Tercel’s mother by openly enquiring about her and decided he would first discuss what he had learned with Lady Nicolaa and Sir Richard. If they felt it necessary to continue the investigation into her identity, perhaps a way could be found to do so discreetly, at least until they could be assured she bore no fault for her son’s death.

  Perhaps, he reflected, Ernulf and Gianni had found the missing boy and he would be able to tell them the identity of the murderer. The Templar fervently hoped that was so. It would save any more painful delving into the past of the people who had been connected to the dead man and, even if one of them was found to be guilty it would, at least, make the judgement a certain one.

  His course settled in his mind, he turned onto the main thoroughfare of Mikelgate and saw, a little way farther along, the figure of Hugh Bruet standing beside his horse with one of the de Humez men-at-arms, engaged in conversation with a small group of townspeople. As the Templar approached, Bruet hailed him and, when Bascot drew near, the knight told him of the attack on Elise.

  “This is the spot where she was stabbed, and I hoped I might be able to find someone who saw the person that did it,” he said to Bascot, “but, so far, I’ve not been successful. Everyone had their eyes fixed on the talking bird and saw nothing untoward before Margaret screamed. I’ve asked all of the shopkeepers along this stretch and a few of the roving vendors that were nearby, as well as some of the goodwives that were on the street, but they all claim they didn’t see anyone with a knife approach the girl. If I didn’t know better, I’d say Elise’s attacker was a wraith.”

  The Templar commiserated with the knight, and Bruet, deciding he could do no more, mounted his horse and said he would return to the castle as well. “I am reluctant to admit to Lady Petronille that I found nothing that could help us catch the villain who wounded the maid,” he said. “And I do not relish having to face de Humez when we go back to Stamford. I was sent to protect his lady and her household; now one of them is dead and another sorely hurt. Margaret was right when she said that Lincoln has changed since the days of her youth. Even with Sheriff Camville’s heavy hand upon it, the town abounds with thieves and murderers.”

  Bascot had forgotten that the sempstress was from Lincoln, but now recalled that Petronille had previously mentioned that Margaret had been in her retinue at the time of her marriage to Richard de Humez and had later accompanied her mistress to Stamford. “There are far more people within the town walls than were here so many years ago,” Bascot opined in response to Bruet’s statement. “As a population increases, the incidence of crime swells in proportion.”

  Bruet gave a grunt of agreement. “You are right. And I must admit that it is little better in Stamford. Thankfully, the de Humez manor house is some distance from the town and not so much bothered with the criminal activity that takes place there. I pity the townsmen who have wives and children to protect. Sometimes they must regret ever having been wed.”

  As they reached the top of Mikelgate, and neared the turning of Danesgate, Bruet’s words echoed in Bascot’s mind and, his thoughts still partially on the woman who was Tercel’s mother and the ordeal she had undergone, his perspective of her suddenly shifted. Throughout the investigation they had been looking for a married woman or one that had been widowed. They had also considered the possibility that she had died, but never once had they entertained the notion that she may have remained unwed. And therein they might have made an error. The trauma of her experience could well have made her eschew marriage and the only implication that she had not done so was entirely due to Lionel Wharton’s letter, and the passage where he stated that such was her intention. But the knight would not have known whether or not she had actually done so, for he had no knowledge of her fate once she left the convent. Suppose she had refused to wed her intended bridegroom and had retained her spinster status? This was a likelihood for which no allowance had been made, mainly because there were few women in society that, unless they entered a convent, remained unmarried—the practise of forming useful alliances through females relative was just as common in the merchant class as in those of noble status—but, nonetheless, there were some females who chose this path in life, and it was entirely possible, nay, even probable when one took into account her devastating experience, that Tercel’s mother was one of them.

  As he mentally examined the viability of this premise, a number of coincidences occurred to him and he realised there was one woman they had all overlooked. She fit the description admirably—being of the right age, a resident of Lincoln at the time of Tercel’s conception and had remained unwed. She had also been in the castle on the night of the feast and present when Elise had been stabbed. And because of her close proximity to the murdered man, it also explained why no evidence of him making a search for her within the town had been found. He had no need to go abroad to seek her, she had been in his company all along, for she was living within the castle walls. Bascot was now certain that he knew her identity, and he was also confident that, despite the furrier’s denial, it had been she who had killed her son.

  By this time they had passed Danesgate and the street where Gildas’ shop was located. He was about to go back and ask the barber for the names of Adgate’s cousins as further proof of his theory but instead turned to Bruet.

  “The sempstress, Margaret—do you know whether or not she still has family in Lincoln?”

  “I am not sure,” the knight replied, a little startled by the question. “She said to me once that her parents were dead, but I don’t recall her mentioning any other relatives.”

  “It is important, Bruet,” Bascot said tersely, curbing his impatience. “Has she ever said anything about a cousin, or the trade that he followed?”

  Recognising that the Templar’s peremptory tone was dictated by the importance of his question rather than rudeness, the knight took no offence but pursed his lips and thought back over the years he had spent in Margaret’s company while they both served in the de Humez retinue. “About a cousin, no, but she did tell me once that her father was a draper. She said she learned to sew in the shop where he sold his bolts of cloth, helping to stitch vestments for those customers who did not have a wife with sufficient skill to make them.” Bruet paused. “Is that what you want to know?”

  Bascot made no answer. Reinbald had told him that all of the Adgate family had been engaged in the clothing trade. He had no doubt now that Margaret was the woman they were seeking and, as the assurance came to him, hard on its heels came the thought that if the missing boy, Willi, had been found and could identify her, she might seek an opportunity to silence his tongue before he could pronounce her guilt. If Ernulf had taken Willi back to the castle, he would not have removed the lad from danger, but placed him directly in its path.

  “Bruet,” he said urgently, “do you know if Ernulf found the boy that ran away?”

  The abrupt chang
e of subject disconcerted the de Humez knight and he looked at Bascot in surprise. “The one from the foundling home? I think he may have. I saw the serjeant return with a red-headed youngster in tow just a short while before Elise was brought into the bail. . . .”

  His words were cut off as Bascot dug his spurs deep into the sides of his mount and urged the horse forward up the sharp incline of Steep Hill towards the castle. For a moment, a bewildered Bruet looked after him and then, putting his heels to his own mount, he followed in the Templar’s wake.

  Twenty-seven

  IN THE CASTLE SOLAR, LADY NICOLAA ROSE FROM HER SEAT. “The midday meal will soon be served below. Let us leave discussing this matter for the moment and take some sustenance. Perhaps food will sharpen our wits.”

  She called to where Ernulf and Willi were standing. “Take the boy with you, Ernulf, and let him eat at your table. Afterwards, you may bring him back here.”

  The serjeant did as he was bid, placing his meaty hand on Willi’s shoulder in a kindly fashion and motioning with his head for the boy to leave the room. When they entered the hall, Ernulf told the boy to go to the back of the huge chamber where some of the off-duty men-at-arms were already seated while he got them both a mug of ale. “You’ll be safe enough in the soldiers’ company, lad,” he said to Willi. “Go and tell them I said you were to sit in the middle of the bench.”

  As Ernulf moved towards the ale keg that sat at the rear of the hall, Willi looked around. No one was near him and the door into the keep was ajar, the attendant who manned it distracted by a conversation he was having with another servant. Without giving himself time to ponder the wisdom of his decision, Willi darted between the tables and, weaving his way through the trail of servants bearing platters from the kitchen, slipped through the opening. Once outside, he sped down the steps of the forebuilding and started across the bail. The eastern gate of the castle stood wide open, and no gateward was in sight. Taking a deep breath, he started towards it, rushing past members of the outside household staff making their way to the hall for the midday meal, when suddenly his footsteps faltered and he came to a halt. Just a few paces in front of him was the woman he had seen outside the armoury on the night of the murder and, from her grim smile, he knew that she recognised him. Before he could run around her, she stepped forward and grasped him tightly by the shoulder.

  “So, you are the boy that will be my death warrant,” she said. “I think it would be best if I forestall that event.”

  Without another word she dragged him across the ward and into the old tower, pushing him ahead of her up the stairs. “We will hide in here until everyone is in the hall and then, my lad, you and I are going to leave the bail. If you behave yourself, I will let you go once we are outside the castle walls.”

  Willi struggled to free himself, but her grip was like iron. Behind him he heard a shout and knew the voice was Ernulf’s. The boy tried to yell out to the serjeant, but the woman clamped her hand across his mouth and the words died unspoken. “If you don’t keep quiet, you will suffer the consequences,” she warned and Willi saw light flash on the blades of a pair of scissors she had drawn from the scrip at her belt. “I have killed once already, and will not hesitate to do so again. Do you understand, boy?”

  Willi nodded his head mutely as she dragged him into the tower and shut the door behind them.

  BASCOT AND BRUET RODE INTO THE BAIL JUST AS WILLI WAS being dragged into the old tower by his captor. As they rode into the ward, the Templar noted the movement of the door, which was not far from the gate and on his sighted side, but was so intent on reaching the hall that he gave it no more than a fleeting glance. As he slid from his horse, he saw Ernulf standing in the middle of the bail looking frantically around him. Running down the steps of the forebuilding to the keep were two men-at-arms who, once they reached the bottom, ran over to where the serjeant was standing. Ernulf looked shaken and Bascot asked him what was amiss.

  “The boy, Willi, we found him this morning and brought him back to the castle, but now he’s run away again,” Ernulf said, his breath ragged. “Did you see him when you came through the gate?”

  The Templar shook his head. “Did he tell you whether or not he saw the murderer?”

  “Yes,” Ernulf replied. “He says it was a woman and he’d know her if he saw her again, but he doesn’t know who she is. Lady Nicolaa told me to keep him safe until he can identify her, and now he’s gone. I’ve got to find him.”

  Bascot’s heart sank as he heard the serjeant proclaim the gender of the murderer. It had to be Margaret that the boy had seen. His thoughts tumbled furiously as Ernulf turned to the men-at-arms and ordered them to search the bail. “Every shed and storehouse, and look in the kitchen as well. . . .”

  Bascot cut the serjeant’s words off in mid-flow. “Where is Margaret, Lady Petronille’s sempstress?” he asked tersely.

  Distracted, and in haste to be off, Ernulf stumbled over his reply. “Margaret? I don’t know. She wasn’t in the solar, and I didn’t see her in the hall. I think I remember Lady Alinor saying she sent her to the stables to speak to the groom that brought the injured girl from the town. Do you think she might know where Willi has gone?”

  “I hope not,” Bascot replied grimly. He glanced towards the stables but could see no sign of the sempstress, only a few grooms attending to the chore of mucking out the stables and the castle blacksmith inspecting the shoes of one of the horses. Fear gripped his throat. The boy who could identify the person that had killed Tercel was missing and the person he was now certain had committed the crime was not in plain sight. If she had ahold of the boy, where would she have taken him? Scanning the multitude of buildings in the ward, he suddenly recalled how he had glimpsed the door of the old tower closing as he and Bruet had entered the bail. “Sir Hugh and I will search the old tower,” he said to Ernulf, “while you and your men look in the other buildings. And if you see Margaret, detain her in the keep until I come.”

  Anxious to be about his search, Ernulf gave a nod and hurried off after his men.

  An unspoken question was etched on Bruet’s face as he followed Bascot’s hasty steps to the tower and waited while the Templar cautiously pushed open the door. The interior was still and silent, the staircase that led up to the ramparts empty.

  “What did you say the lad’s name is?” Bruet asked.

  “Willi,” the Templar replied softly, “but do not call out. We will search the chambers, but quietly.”

  His curiosity barely restrained, Bruet did as the Templar bid and the two knights ascended the stairs to the second storey. They looked in the rooms that led off the landing at the second level; all were empty. As they came out again onto the stairs, a noise could be heard above, a shuffling sound and the whispering grate of a door being opened.

  “Up there,” Bascot said and ran up the steps to the third floor. As they reached the top of the staircase, there was a crash as the door out onto the walkway flew back and hit the wall behind it. It was accompanied by the sound of a young boy’s voice raised in protest. “No, I’m not going out there . . . let me go. . . .”

  The Templar and Bruet charged through the opening. In front of them, at the far end of the catwalk, was Margaret, her arm around Willi’s neck and holding a pair of scissors, point downwards, at the boy’s throat, her back pressed hard against the stone wall of the parapet.

  Bascot’s premise was now confirmed. Because of the information contained in Lionel Wharton’s letter, they had never considered that Tercel’s mother might not have married the Lincoln merchant. And she had not done so. After she had birthed the babe and given him into Lionel Wharton’s care, she had returned to Lincoln and obtained a place as a servant in Petronille’s retinue, taking the secret of her past safe with her to Stamford in the de Humez retinue. All the time they had been searching for her, she had been in their midst, and had been able to commit the murder without a shadow of suspicion being laid on her. And now she had a young child at her mercy. Bascot
had no doubt she would injure, or even kill Willi, if they made an attempt to wrest him from her.

  “Margaret, what are you doing up here with the boy . . . ?” The startled exclamation burst from Bruet, then faltered as he remembered the Templar’s questions and tried to make sense of what he was witnessing.

  Bascot laid a restraining hand on the knight’s arm. Margaret saw the motion and gave a small harsh laugh. “You may not know why I am here, Hugh, but I can see that Sir Bascot does.” She tightened her grip on Willi. “I am the one this boy saw that night, just after I had killed that misbegotten bastard Tercel. It was right here, on this very spot, that I took his life and I am glad of it. He was the spawn of an incubus and I could not let him blight his mother’s life all over again.”

  As Bruet stiffened with shock beside him, a prickle of unease ran up Bascot’s spine. Margaret was speaking of the man she had killed as though he had been born to another woman. Could it be that a resurgence of the terror she had suffered all those long years ago had deranged her mind—and that she was now justifying her crime by denying her motherhood? Whatever the reason, the staid spinster that Margaret had appeared to be was gone and, in her place, it was as though the demon of which she spoke had taken possession of her. Her coif, always so neat, was askew and her plain features twisted with lines of hatred. He must tread carefully, and try to distract her until he was close enough to get Willi free from her grasp. Motioning to Bruet to remain where he was, he took one small step forward.