by Maureen Ash
Nicolaa reached over and patted her sister’s hand. “It was not discernment you were lacking, Petra, but knowledge; facts that were not evident until long past the time of which you are speaking. Please, do not judge yourself so harshly, but instead join me in giving thanks that Elise was not mortally wounded, and that the boy, Willi, suffered no hurt.”
Petronille was comforted by her sister’s words and asked, “What will you do with the lad now? He cannot be considered a candidate for the foundling home if he has a living parent.”
“I have sent Willi back to Riseholme with the assurance that instructions will be given to the keeper at the alehouse his father frequents that if the boy’s sire returns, he is to be given a message directing him to come to the castle to claim his son.”
She paused for a moment, recalling the boy’s white face when Bruet brought him back to the keep after the Templar had rescued him from Margaret’s clutches. He was so pale that the freckles on the bridge of his nose stood out like drops of blood. “The boy was content with my promise. I think he realises that his father has been gone too long to expect his safe return. The weather, until lately, has been so frigid that many of those who lack shelter out in the countryside have died of exposure and it could well be that his father has suffered a similar fate. But Willi was very brave and continues to hope, even though he knows his optimism is likely to prove unwarranted.”
She paused and smiled, remembering her interview with the young boy. “Four more orphaned children were taken to Riseholme earlier this morning and I sent Willi with them. The newcomers were all a little apprehensive, but he took charge of them in a most natural fashion and allayed their fears. I think that if his father does not return he will, in the years to come, prove a valuable addition to my household staff, just like young Gianni.”
“And Margaret?” Alinor said. “Has Richard spoken to her and asked if she agrees to keep Edith Wickson’s name out of the charges that will be brought at her trial?”
“Yes, Richard said she seemed thankful for the offer and was more than willing to comply. And she did confirm that neither Simon Adgate nor her sister was involved in her machinations. She said that she never told Agate of her intention to kill Tercel and that she has not, since she arrived in Lincoln, had occasion to speak to her sister.”
Nicolaa frowned as she continued. “She is, Richard told me, still unrepentant of her crime. Apparently, on the day of the feast, and after Adgate had refused to reveal his father’s name, Tercel threatened Margaret, saying that if she did not tell him what he wanted to know, he would go to you, Petra, and disclose the fact that she was his mother and had borne him illegitimately. She was fearful that if he carried out his threat, not only would she lose her position, but that Edith’s involvement would be discovered. Tercel gave her twenty-four hours to comply with his demand and she was desperate to find a way to silence him. That night, when he left the hall, she followed him and watched as he went into the old tower. Nonplussed as to why he should go there, she was waiting in the shelter of one of the buildings for him to come out, considering whether or not she could successfully despatch him by a stealthy attack with her scissors, when Mistress Adgate appeared and followed Tercel into the building. Realising what they were about, it did not take Margaret long to decide she could use the situation to her advantage.”
Nicolaa paused. “It was at this point in her tale that Richard says he became certain Margaret has lost her sanity. She looked at him with wildness in her eyes and said that she knew she had not committed any sin in killing Tercel for, from that point on, God showed her the way. All of a sudden, she said, Our Lord put into her mind the tale she had been told of how I had fired the crossbow in my youth and told her that the weapon would suit her purpose admirably. She hurriedly returned to the hall, retrieved a tinderbox and candle from the supply kept in the buttery, went back out into the bail and crossed the ward to the armoury. Once inside she lit the candle and by its light found the crossbow and armed it—after living so many years in a baron’s household, she had often watched the de Humez squires being instructed in the use of an arbalest, so had no trouble doing so. She then went into the old tower and, by listening, determined which chamber Tercel and Mistress Adgate were using and, with the crossbow, waited outside the door.”
Nicolaa shrugged. “The rest we know. When Clarice Adgate left the chamber and went downstairs, Margaret lured Tercel up onto the ramparts and killed him. It was a daring move and filled with danger—the crossbow could have misfired or the guards have been alerted—but while I decry her actions, I have to admire her courage.”
“I wish she had come to me when Tercel first made his demands,” Petronille said. “I would have kept her confidence and sent him back to Stamford for Dickon to deal with.”
“I do not think it ever occurred to her to do so,” Nicolaa replied. “Richard says he is certain that the guilt she feels for being the cause of her sister’s fate has turned her brain. He said she kept repeating that Tercel had been spawned by an incubus, and that by killing him she had not broken either the laws of God or those of man. When Richard pointed out that if she wished to keep her sister’s name out of the legal proceedings during her trial, it would be unwise to use that premise as her defence, she said it did not trouble her whether the true reason was given in evidence or not, for Our Lord would know that she was innocent. It was in God’s name, she said, that she had taken her vow of secrecy all those years ago and He would know that she had kept faith.”
The three women pondered for a moment on Margaret’s misguided devotion and then Petronille said musingly, “It is strange how old sins can resurface, and that so often, when they do, the repercussions do not fall on the perpetrators, but on those who have been victimised. Edith was completely innocent of any crime, as was her son, yet it is they and, by association, Margaret, who have paid for the crime. The villain who was responsible has entirely escaped justice.”
“It may be that the rapist has already been dealt vengeance, Mother,” Alinor said. “Such a rogue is certain to have attempted similar offences in the intervening years and may have been caught. If so, he will have long ago paid the ultimate penalty for his crime.”
“I hope you are right, Daughter,” Petronille said sadly. “But even if that has not happened, it comforts me to know that he will suffer the flames of eternal damnation when he dies.”
IN THOMAS WICKSON’S CHANDLERY IN LINCOLN TOWN, EDITH Wickson sat alone in the bedchamber she shared with her husband. From the bottom of a coffer she took a square of satin that had been wrapped around some wisps of fine blonde hair and tied with a length of narrow yellow ribbon. Rubbing her thumb over the silky softness she remembered the kind young nun who had clipped the strands from her newly born baby’s head and given them to her. How often over the years since Aubrey’s birth had she taken them out and held them close to her breast, wondering what had become of the child she had only glimpsed once, and then so fleetingly, as he had slipped from her womb.
She knew herself to be timid in nature; had she not been so she would have gone to the feast and gazed on the man Aubrey had become. Now she would never have the chance. And she would never see Margaret again. Dear Margaret, who had always been so protective of her younger sister and had suffered such pangs of guilt for letting Edith go out alone onto the dark streets of Winchester on that fateful night. Simon had told her that Margaret was sure to hang for her crimes, even if the reason for the murder was not made public. Not only had her sister killed Aubrey, who was, in truth, her own nephew, she had also attacked a maidservant and wounded the girl most grievously. There was nothing to be gained, and all to be lost, by revealing the truth now.
A tear fell down Edith’s cheek and she replaced the tress of hair in its soft covering and put it back into the bottom of the chest. She wondered if all the lies had been worth such a heavy cost. Would it have been better to have admitted the truth at the time and borne the shame? But then she would never have marrie
d Thomas Wickson and Merisel, her beloved daughter, would not have come into existence.
She stood up and straightened her coif, then patted her tear-stained face dry with the hem of her kirtle. She had lost her son many years ago, but she still had her daughter, and in that precious gift she would rejoice.
IN SIMON ADGATE’S HOUSE IN THE LOWER PART OF TOWN, THE furrier, as proscribed by law, meted out the punishment a husband was allowed to inflict on an adulterous wife. On his return from the castle, he ordered Clarice to their bedroom and once there, brusquely commanded her to remove her coif. Turning a deaf ear to her tearful pleas for clemency, he cut off her luxurious auburn plaits with a sharp pair of scissors and removed the expensive fur trimmings from the cuffs and neck of her gown. Then, taking his sobbing wife firmly by the arm, he marched her downstairs, past the astonished eyes of his shop assistant and guard, and through the front door of the premises.
As they emerged into the street, Simon’s determination to persist with the chastisement began to falter. With her shorn head, tattered garments and tear-streaked face, Clarice was a pitiful sight. But remembrance of her deceitful behaviour quickly extinguished his incipient feelings of sympathy and, taking a deep breath, he pulled her alongside him through the streets of Lincoln towards Stonebow gate and her father’s house on the banks of the river.
Alerted by the sounds of Clarice’s outcry, it took only moments for a crowd to gather. The news of what had happened in the castle bail had spread throughout the town like wildfire and although the details of Adgate’s involvement were not known, speculation ran rife. All of the neighbours had been surreptitiously watching the furrier’s house and, when he returned home with set face and clenched jaw, had been waiting for the next scene in the drama to unfold.
As Clarice stumbled along beside her husband, the spectators followed in their wake. Although there were a few amongst them, such as Imogene Sealsmith, who were meanspirited enough to derive pleasure from her disgrace, most of them were neighbours who wished to show their support for the action Adgate was taking. They had lived alongside the furrier for many years, and knew him to be, for all his wealth, a man of tender conscience, always ready to exchange a friendly word or give assistance to those in need and were unanimous in their condemnation of his young wife’s betrayal.
By the time Adgate reached his destination, the tanner had been alerted by the hubbub and was waiting at the door of his humble wooden cot. He had already heard the rumours that were circulating about his errant daughter and how she had brought shame to his good name. His face set in harsh lines of anger, he watched in grim silence as Adgate led Clarice to his door.
When the furrier reached his father-by-marriage, he spoke not a word, just released his grip on Clarice’s arm and strode away. The crowd parted before him as though cleaved by a gale force wind. Once the furrier was out of sight, they turned back to where the tanner stood, and regarded his daughter with silent disapproval.
Clarice’s father surveyed them all for a moment until, with a sudden movement, he pulled his daughter inside the house and slammed the door shut. It was not long before they heard the sound of a leather belt slapping against tender flesh, accompanied by a wave of wailing. Only then did the crowd disperse, confident that, in accordance with the law, the furrier’s unfaithful wife was receiving the beating her husband had failed to administer.
Thirty-one
IN THE TEMPLAR PRECEPTORY, BASCOT DE MARINS WAS ATTENDING to the neglected paperwork. It was already into the month of March and there was much to be done before Eastertide arrived in the first week of April. Outside, the weather had become even warmer and a few spatters of rain had fallen, signalling the end of the cold spell. Soon, the winter season over, Templar brothers from all over the kingdom would be on their way to London and thence to active duty in Outremer and Portugal, and it was Bascot’s duty to ensure that all those who passed through Lincoln were well equipped with arms and clothing. The list he was compiling was necessary to that task, being drawn from inventories he had taken and was now comparing to the expected requirement. He must ensure there were enough supplies on hand to outfit the newly arrived knights and men-at-arms before they were sent to their various posts.
But try as he might, his mind would not focus on the columns of figures, and kept returning to the murder of Aubrey Tercel, and the violent assault that had, all those years ago, set in motion a train of events that had eventually led to the young man’s death. In one way, the solution to this most recent murder investigation had been the least satisfying of all those he had undertaken. And although he did not condone Margaret’s actions, he felt some sympathy for the woman; she had not committed the murder for selfish reasons, but to protect a sister who was dear to her, and her desperation, although misguided, was understandable. It was not Edith Wickson and her family who should have suffered so much pain, but the miscreant who had attacked and raped Edith all those years ago. The injustice left a vile aftertaste of bitterness.
Knowing he would not be able to complete the task in front of him while his thoughts were so distracted, Bascot threw down the quill pen he had been using, laid his papers aside and went out into the compound.
In the middle of the enclave was an area used as a training ground where the brothers practised the military skills that were a prerequisite of the Order. On the edge of the bare circle of beaten earth, Preceptor d’Arderon was examining a shipment of blunted swords that had been sent by the Order’s armoury in London. They were of the longer, heavier type that were wielded by those of knight’s rank in mock combat, as opposed to the short swords used by the men-at-arms. D’Arderon was hefting one of them to test the balance. The preceptor looked up as Bascot came into the compound and, seeing the black look on the younger knight’s face, recalled the conversation they had had the evening before and made an accurate guess as to the cause of his gloom.
Although Bascot, in keeping with his reticent nature, had spoken little of his dissatisfaction with the outcome of this latest enquiry, D’Arderon was aware of it. The younger knight was adept at concealing his emotions, but the preceptor knew they ran deep. Even though, after so many years, it would be impossible to apprehend the villain who had attacked and violated a young and innocent girl, the failure to mete out retribution for the crime offended Bascot’s strong sense of probity. D’Arderon’s younger confrere needed an outlet on which to vent his frustration and as the preceptor’s glance fell on the wooden case that held the recently arrived weapons, a notion came to him of a way in he which he could provide one.
Picking up one of the swords, d’Arderon tossed it, haft forward, to Bascot. With an automatic reaction, Bascot caught the weapon and looked at the older knight in surprise.
“What think you of the weight?” the preceptor asked, reaching down and extracting another blade. “They seem to me to be lighter than usual.” Grasping the hilt in his two broad hands, he arced the sword experimentally through the air, then shook his head uncertainly. “I think perhaps they should be tested before they are put to use by any new initiate to the Order.”
Since there were only d’Arderon and Bascot of knight’s status in the commandery at the moment, Bascot realised that the only way the swords could be tried was for the preceptor and himself to face each other in mock battle. It was not often that d’Arderon engaged in such an exercise, although he kept himself fit by spending at least two hours each day raining blows with a heavy metal bar on one of the wooden blocks set up at the far end of the compound. Now past his sixtieth year, the preceptor’s wide, stocky body was, nonetheless, still heavily muscled and Bascot knew that despite being a score of years younger, he would be hard put to keep pace with the older knight. Still, he welcomed the challenge and appreciated the preceptor’s purpose in offering it. To put his skills to such a hard use would divert his mind from the darkness that was engulfing it.
D’Arderon sent one of the men-at-arms for two of the kite-shaped shields kept in the armoury, and told him to
also bring a pair of helms, solid steel caps fitted with nasal bars. Both the preceptor and Bascot were wearing the heavy boiled leather tunics that were commonly donned in wintertime and, since the swords were blunted, there would not be any need for chain mail. When the soldier returned with the equipment, the rest of the brothers in the enclave stood back, expectant grins on their faces, to watch the two senior officers engage in combat.
As he and d’Arderon circled each other, Bascot knew he had to be wary of the preceptor’s larger bulk. The older knight, he was certain, would not be as quick on his feet as in the days of his youth, but the strength of the preceptor’s arm would more than make up for his lack of speed. They traded a few tentative blows and then Bascot was taken by surprise as d’Arderon surged forward and rained blows on his helm. He had not expected the preceptor to move with such alacrity, a mistake he would not make again. Turning so that his sighted left side gave him more clarity of vision, Bascot locked his shield into that of his opponent, and pushed d’Arderon back, then aimed a blow at the preceptor’s momentarily exposed sword arm. D’Arderon barely had time to ward off the attack and retaliated with eagerness, his blunted sword whirling.
The battle went on for some minutes, both knights enjoying the fray, with first one gaining the advantage and then the other. The watching men-at-arms could not contain their admiration for the skill they were watching, and above the clang of metal, their whoops of approval could be plainly heard. When the small bell in the chapel tower rang out a warning that it was almost time for the service of Vespers, it was to the disappointment of all that the contest was called to a halt. Reluctantly, both combatants lowered their shields, and then grinned at one another.