by Maureen Ash
“Let the boy go, mistress,” he said softly. “He is an innocent soul and has done you no harm. Release him and give yourself into Lady Nicolaa’s charge.”
Margaret gave a short bark of harsh laughter that contained no mirth. “And why should I do that, Templar? So Richard Camville can hang me from a gibbet? I think not.” She took a jerky step away from the two knights. “Stay back, both of you. If you do not give me safe passage into the town, I promise you will see this boy dead, just like Tercel.”
Bruet added his voice to Bascot’s in an attempt to persuade the sempstress to release the boy. “Do as Sir Bascot says, Margaret, I beg of you. I do not know why you killed Tercel or are threatening this boy’s life but I am sure Lady Petronille will speak up for you. I know she values your service highly.”
For a moment, a shadow of remorse crossed Margaret’s face and she looked once again, if only for a moment, sane and sober. “No, she will not, Hugh, for her conscience is too tender. And that is my one regret, that I have caused distress to such a good lady. Tell her . . . tell her that I am sorry, and Elise also. I never meant to harm the girl badly, only to prick her, but she moved towards me as I thrust with my scissors. I thought that if another one of milady’s servants was attacked, Lady Petronille would be persuaded to take us all back to Stamford, a place we should never have left.”
Once more Bruet tried to reason with her. “Margaret, I beg of you, let the child go and give yourself up.”
The sempstress shook her head and her face regained its former malevolence. “It is too late for that, Hugh. Far too late,” she said bitterly.
Dragging Willi with her, she began to move slowly along the walkway towards the watchtower above the gate while Bascot and Bruet watched in helpless frustration. At the door of the watchtower, the gateward was looking in their direction with a puzzled expression. To the right, along the expanse of palisade that stretched to the west, the guard who had been pacing the wall was approaching, his hand hovering uncertainly over the hilt of the short sword at his belt.
“Tell the gateward to let me pass,” Margaret directed harshly. “And make that man-at-arms stay back,” she added, moving her head in the direction of the approaching guard. “If you don’t, the boy dies. I cannot be hung more than once, so another murder will be of no consequence.”
Holding up his hand to stop the man-at-arms on the palisade walkway, Bascot called out to the gateward. “The woman and the boy are going down into the ward. Let them by without hindrance.”
The gateward nodded and withdrew as Margaret slowly pulled the boy in his direction. Willi’s eyes were round with terror.
As they came out from under the shadow of the old tower, they were exposed to the gaze of those in the bail. A servant noticed them up on the walkway and pointed upwards excitedly; soon others were gazing in their direction, trying to make sense of what they were witnessing. A man-at-arms called out to Ernulf, who came running to the front of the crowd that had gathered. After taking a few moments to assess the situation, he sent one of the soldiers towards the entrance that led out onto Ermine Street.
Margaret realised his intention. “Instruct the serjeant to leave the gates open, Templar,” she commanded.
As Bascot called down to Ernulf, two figures appeared in the huge portal. It was Simon Adgate and Merisel Wickson. Both looked up aghast at the figures on the parapet and the furrier came farther into the ward, motioning for his companion to stay back.
“Margaret, what are you doing up there?” he called in astonishment. “And why are you threatening that boy?”
“Stay out of this, Simon,” the sempstress responded grimly. “It is naught to do with you.”
Adgate looked back towards Merisel and spoke to her quietly. When the girl gave a frightened nod, the furrier turned and once again faced the parapet. “I am coming up there, Margaret,” he said, a look of determination on his face, “and you will give the child, unharmed, to me.”
“This is no concern of yours, Simon,” she screamed at him. “I am telling you not to interfere.”
“I have heeded your wishes for far too long, Margaret,” he replied. “It is time to put an end to this mayhem.”
With limping strides he went towards the ladder Ernulf was accustomed to use to go up onto the ramparts and began to ascend. In agitation, Margaret began to shriek at him, telling him to go back. As she did so, her hold on Willi loosened and, with a courage born of desperation, the boy began to struggle, kicking out with the sturdy boots he had been given on the day he came to the castle. One of the thick heels caught the sempstress with a sharp rap on the shin and she recoiled in pain.
It was all the advantage Bascot needed. Leaping forward, he took hold of her arm and the hand that held the scissors. With an outraged cry, the sempstress tried to shake herself loose from his grip, but he held her fast as Willi sprang away from her and into the safety of Bruet’s waiting arms.
Twenty-eight
AS TWO MEN-AT-ARMS ESCORTED MARGARET ACROSS THE BAIL to a holding cell in the castle gaol, Bascot walked over to where Simon Adgate stood with a trembling Merisel Wickson. As he saw the Templar approach, the furrier laid a hand gently on the girl’s shoulder and whispered something in her ear. With a nod, she turned around and, with but one fleeting glance over her shoulder, ran quickly out onto Ermine Street and disappeared.
“Your intervention was timely, furrier, and you have my thanks for making it,” Bascot said when he came up to Adgate. “But I am afraid I must still ask if you were complicit in the murder.”
“No, I was not, lord,” the furrier responded quietly.
“Nonetheless, you could have saved today’s anguish if you had told me Margaret was Tercel’s mother.”
“But she is not,” Adgate replied. “It is true she is my cousin, but . . .”
Bascot did not let him finish. “She has just confessed to the killing, you have no need to protect her anymore.”
“You do not understand, lord,” Adgate protested. “Margaret was not his mother. It was her sister who bore him.”
The statement took Bascot aback until he remembered his puzzlement at the way the sempstress had spoken up on the ramparts, her words implying that the man she had killed had not been her own son.
“And this sister, she is the one who went to Winchester with your uncle?” he asked Adgate, trying to make sense of what the furrier was saying.
“They both did, lord,” Adgate replied, “but although Margaret also made the journey, it was her sister who was violated.”
It had not occurred to Bascot that both of Adgate’s cousins had travelled to Winchester. He had thought of only one but now, with the furrier’s revelation, the insinuation behind Margaret’s words became clear.
“I did have a suspicion at first, terrible though it seemed, that Margaret might be responsible for Tercel’s death,” Adgate said, “and sent her a message to meet me so that I could ask if she was involved. But when she came, she assured me most fervently that she was not the one who had murdered him, and that the culprit must be the husband of one of his paramours.” He took a deep, and shaky, breath. “May God forgive me, after discovering that my own wife had lain with the man, I was only too ready to be convinced that what she said was the truth. And, until this morning, I kept to that conviction.”
“What changed your mind?” Bascot asked.
“I was told, by a witness, that it was possible Margaret had stabbed a young woman. The witness had never met my cousin and came to me for verification of her appearance. When I was given the description and, even though, in my heart, I realised there could be no mistake, I came here with the person who saw the act, intending to bring my cousin before her so she could personally identify Margaret as the woman she had seen. If it was confirmed that it was she who carried out this morning’s assault, I knew it must have some connection with the murder—that perhaps the girl she attacked had, like Tercel, learned our family secret and threatened to expose it—and I intended to im
plore my cousin to give herself up to Sir Richard’s justice.”
The witness Adgate was referring to must be Merisel Wickson, the Templar surmised, for the chandler’s daughter had been with Adgate when he came into the bail. And the candle-maker’s manufactory was very near to the spot where Elise had been attacked. Recalling the hesitancy which Merisel had shown in answering the questions he had put to her on the day he had gone to the chandlery, the Templar now saw the connection and also why, if it had been she who saw Margaret stab Elise, she had gone to Adgate instead of reporting what she saw to Bruet, who only minutes later was at the spot where the stabbing had taken place, attempting to find a witness.
“I vowed, along with Margaret, that I would never reveal her sister’s shame,” Adgate said with abject resignation. “But now, I have no choice.”
“Let your conscience be easy, furrier,” Bascot said. “You do not have to tell me, for the truth is plain to see. The woman you and Margaret have been protecting is the chandler’s wife, Edith Wickson, is it not?”
“Yes, lord, it is,” Adgate confirmed miserably.
AN HOUR LATER, NICOLAA AND RICHARD, ALONG WITH PETRONILLE and Alinor, were in the solar, listening as Bascot related the details of his conversation with Adgate. Hugh Bruet was there as well and so was Gianni, the latter taking down notes of what his former master was recounting. The furrier had been left outside the chamber in the company of a man-at-arms.
When Bascot had finished, Nicolaa asked, “Do you think Adgate is telling the truth when he says that he and Mistress Wickson were not involved in the murder?”
“I cannot be certain, lady, but I think so. He is a very shaken man but also, I believe, an honest one. If you will recall, he has never told us an outright untruth, but has simply avoided revealing what he knows. As for Mistress Wickson, the furrier tells me that after he told her that her illegitimate son was searching for her, she feigned illness on the night of the feast out of fear that, if she came to the castle, Tercel might, because of some passing resemblance between them, recognise her as his mother. After he was killed, so Adgate says, the news of his death made her truly ill and she has not risen from her sickbed since. These facts bear out what we were told by her husband—who, apparently, is not privy to her secret—and led to the conclusion that she could not have been, at least actively, involved in the crime.”
“Did Adgate tell you how Tercel discovered that Edith Wickson was his mother?” Richard asked.
“He was not aware that she was,” Bascot said, surprising them all. “Adgate says that when he came and asked to speak to him privily, he seemed to believe that Margaret was his dam. He told the furrier that he had challenged the sempstress with his accusation, but that she would not admit to it, nor tell him who his father was. Adgate, of course, told him that Margaret was telling the truth, but his protestations fell on deaf ears. What happened next is only conjecture on the furrier’s part, but he thinks that Margaret killed Tercel because she feared he was getting too close to his objective, and would soon discover that it was her sister, not she, who had birthed him. She murdered him to prevent that from happening.”
“But what gave Tercel cause to think that Margaret, out of all the women in Lincoln, was his mother?” Nicolaa said.
Bascot shook his head. “Adgate spoke to Margaret only once before she committed the murder. That was shortly after she first arrived in Lincoln when he attended the second service of Christ’s Mass in the cathedral and saw her among the congregation. He was delighted to see her after all the years she had been away, and went over to her and asked why she had not contacted him when she arrived. He says she seemed distant and told him that she was very busy with her duties, but would try to visit his shop soon. When he asked if she intended to call on Edith, Margaret said that she would do so in her own time and asked him to convey her love to her sister, but asked that neither Adgate nor Edith try to contact her for the present. Even then she must have had some intimation of Tercel’s interest in her, but she never mentioned it to Adgate, nor did she do so when the furrier, alarmed by Tercel’s visit and his subsequent murder, defied Margaret’s request and sent a message to the castle asking her to meet him. How Tercel came to discover that Margaret was in Winchester at the time of his conception must, I fear, remain a mystery.”
“I think that perhaps I may be able to explain it,” Bruet said quietly and they all turned towards him.
“How so?” Nicolaa asked.
“It is something that puzzled me at the time but, since I did not know you were searching for a woman who had travelled to that town all those years ago, I dismissed it.” The taciturn knight seemed uneasy at being the focus of attention, but continued without hesitation. “It happened the day after we arrived in Lincoln, just before Christ’s Mass. As Margaret and I were walking into the hall to break our fast, she mentioned how tired the journey had made her, saying it had fatigued her far more than a much longer trip she had made to Winchester when she had been a young girl. She laughed, saying it must be because her bones had grown old and were not so resilient. Tercel was just behind us when she made the remark and the next day I heard him ask her in what year she had made the journey of which she had spoken. I did not hear her reply, but just a few days before Tercel was killed, I saw him and Margaret in conversation with each other. She was angry and I heard her castigate him for eavesdropping and making a ridiculous deduction from a chance statement.”
Bruet looked solemnly around the company. “With hindsight, the exchanges between them now reveal their significance, but it was one that I was not aware of at the time. I did, I confess, ponder on their conversation later but, as I said, came to the conclusion that the matter was of no importance.”
“Nonetheless, Tercel must have somehow discovered that Adgate was related to Margaret, for even though she took the precaution of trying to hide their relationship as best she could, he still went to question the furrier about her,” Nicolaa said to Bascot. “Does Adgate know how that came about?”
As Bascot began to shake his head, Petronille spoke up. Still in shock from learning that the woman she had held in such close company had committed murder, her voice was slightly tremulous as she explained, “I fear I am to blame for that. I knew that Margaret still had some family in Lincoln and that one of them was a furrier although, in all the years she has served me, she never mentioned a sister. When I instructed Tercel to obtain some fur samples for me to examine, Margaret was there, and I asked her if her relative still had his furrier shop in the town and that, if he did, I would be pleased to give him my patronage. I recall now that she was somewhat noncommittal in her reply, saying that she had lost touch with him many years ago and did not know if he still lived here, but I did press her for his name and told Tercel to ask among the fur merchants he visited for Adgate’s shop and, if he found it, to select some of his wares for my approval. I am afraid it must have been that conversation that led him to the furrier.”
“I wonder if that is why he paid his attentions to Clarice Adgate?” Richard suggested. “Perhaps he hoped to find out more about Margaret through the furrier’s wife.”
“I asked Adgate that same question,” Bascot replied. “But he said that while that may have been Tercel’s initial intention, he would soon have discovered it to be a fruitless quest, for Clarice did not know that Margaret, or Edith Wickson, were related to him.”
“I find that hard to believe,” Alinor said. “When you marry a man, it is natural to meet his relatives, or at least be told their names.”
“I agree it would be commonplace for most brides,” Bascot replied, “but apparently, according to Adgate, he is not on friendly terms with Edith’s husband and visits her only rarely, so she was not present when he and Clarice took their vows. He also told me that, very soon after their marriage, his new wife made it evident that her sole reason for agreeing to marry him had been for the material advantage she would gain and that she showed no interest in meeting the wives of the other
members of his guild, let alone enquiring about any family he might have. Because of her attitude, he never mentioned any details of his relationship with either Edith or Margaret to her. If that is so—and I cannot see any reason to doubt Adgate’s words—then Tercel must have soon realised he would gain no useful information from Clarice. Since he appears to have had continued his affair with her for several weeks, it is more than likely that he continued the association purely out of lust.”
“There still remains one last piece of the puzzle that has yet to be explained,” Nicolaa said, “and it is at the crux of the matter, for it is the one that prompted Tercel to begin his ill-fated quest. How did Lionel Wharton come to be involved with Edith and her illegitimate child and why did he leave Tercel a ring inscribed with an emblem used by Lionheart? Can the furrier shed any light on that aspect of this misadventure?”
“I believe that he can, lady,” the Templar replied, “but I did not question him in detail about it, for I thought that you and Sir Richard might prefer to do so yourselves.”
Twenty-nine
WHEN SIMON ADGATE WAS BROUGHT INTO THE SOLAR, THE man-at-arms who had been guarding him brought him across the room to stand before the group of nobles. The furrier’s limp was more pronounced than formerly and his shoulders were slumped in dejection. With a bowed head he listened as Richard, in stern tones, admonished him for not revealing his kinship with Margaret earlier. It was not until Richard added that, for the moment, they were prepared to accept his statement that neither he nor Edith Wickson had been involved in the murder, that Adgate raised his head and his expression lightened.