A Deadly Penance tk-6

by Maureen Ash

  The chandler, a man appropriately named Thomas Wickson, came bustling forward when he saw Bascot and Gianni enter. He was a narrow-shouldered man with an ample belly swelling the front of his elaborately embroidered dark red tunic and it soon became obvious that he was puffed up not only by his girth, but with self-importance. When asked about Aubrey Tercel and whether he had noticed the cofferer’s movements during the feast, Wickson said that since he had not been aware of the victim’s identity, nor his appearance, he had not had any reason to take note of his activities. Wickson made it clear, by the dismissive way in which he spoke, that he considered the murder to be outside his realm of interest, and Bascot changed the direction of his questions, asking the chandler why he had not taken advantage of Nicolaa de la Haye’s offer to spend the night in the castle. With a little moue of regret, Wickson explained that his wife had been indisposed and therefore unable to accompany him to the feast, and he had been impatient to get home and see how she was faring.

  “My daughter, Merisel, went with me in my wife’s stead,” Wickson said, waving a hand in the direction of the young girl standing by the men dipping wicks into the troughs of melted wax. “My marital union has not been blessed with sons, but Merisel is a daughter to be proud of,” he said, “and will one day inherit my business. She will bring a goodly dower to the man who is fortunate enough to take her to wife,” he added with a satisfied smile. “And, I can assure you, her hand in marriage will not be lightly given.”

  At the sound of her name, Merisel looked up. She was not overly comely, but was fresh-faced, with pale hazel eyes and a determined chin. As she noticed the Templar looking in her direction, she dipped her head in respect.

  “Since your daughter was present at the feast, I would like to speak to her,” Bascot said to the chandler, “and ask if she knows anything about the murdered man that may prove useful.”

  Wickson looked as though he was about to object, but the stern glance the Templar gave him did not brook refusal, and the chandler called Merisel to come forward.

  Standing quietly in front of the Templar, she listened without interruption as Bascot explained his purpose in being there and then posed his questions-had she ever made the acquaintance of Aubrey Tercel and, if so, had she observed his movements during the time she had been in the castle?

  Merisel responded politely in the negative to each of the questions, meeting his gaze with seemingly frank and open honesty. Only when he asked if she knew of anyone in the town who had a connection with the murdered man did Bascot have a doubt about her denial. Her glance slid sideways for a fraction of a second before she said that she did not.

  “Are you certain, mistress?” Bascot insisted. “It is reasonable to assume that the murder has been a topic of conversation among your friends and customers and if someone has mentioned, even only in passing, that they had spoken to him, I would be interested to know of it.”

  This time her answer came steadily enough and the Templar wondered if he had imagined the uncertainty in her previous reply. “I seldom have time for idle gossip, lord,” she said. “All of my days are spent here, in the chandlery and, because of my mother’s recent illness, I also have the responsibility of her household duties, so I have had little opportunity to engage others in conversation.”

  Aware that the girl had neatly sidestepped a direct answer to his question, Bascot was reluctantly forced to leave the matter there. In some fashion, he thought, the girl was not telling the complete truth. It may have only been that, in front of her father, she did not want to admit that she had noticed Tercel’s handsome appearance and perhaps admired him, or discussed him with other girls her own age. She was of an age that is ripe for marriage; it would be unnatural if she did not cast her eyes on any personable young men who chanced to be in her company. But even if that was so, it did not mean that she had any information that might prove pertinent. Nonetheless, he told Gianni to take note of her name and put a question mark beside it.

  Even though the temperature had risen a little during the morning, it was still chilly outside when the pair left the chandlery. As it was now almost the noon hour, Bascot went into the shop of a nearby baker and purchased two pastries filled with cooked meat and onions for their midday meal. They ate the food standing in the street just outside the baker’s door and, when they had finished, Bascot extracted a couple of candi from the pouch at his belt. Gianni’s face broke into a wide smile as the Templar tossed one to him and the lad popped it into his mouth and crunched the sweet with obvious relish.

  The business premises of the furrier, Simon Adgate, was a little farther down in the town, on a street that led off Mikelgate, and hard by the church of St. Peter at Motston. The church bell had just finished tolling the hour of Sext when they reached the shop. Dismounting, the Templar tied his horse to a post in front of the door and they went up to the entrance.

  As Bascot pushed open the heavy panel of oak, he found a guard standing in the enclosed entryway just inside. The watchman wore a metal studded jerkin and carried a cudgel tucked in a belt around his waist. Noticing the Templar badge on Bascot’s shoulder, he respectfully asked the one-eyed knight his name and the nature of his business. When told that he had come on behalf of Lady Nicolaa and wished to speak to the furrier, the guard led him through a door and into the shop, recommending him into the care of a man who was, the watchman said, Simon Adgate’s assistant.

  The assistant, a youngish man with a foppish manner, obsequiously assured the Templar that, if he would care to wait, he would fetch Adgate from upstairs. As he scurried away, Bascot and Gianni looked around the room into which they had been shown. Furs of every kind were carefully hung on hooks placed around the walls of the shop. There were soft pelts of sable, bluish grey furs of vair and snow-white ermine, all dressed and ready to be attached to an assortment of garments, and a few which had already been sewn onto cloaks and tunics and spread across a wide display counter. Two large coffers, the lids thrown back, also held a wide variety of pelts-marten, rabbit, fox and wolf spilled over the edges of the chests. There was much wealth in the generous display of goods and Bascot could understand the need for a guard. An intruder would have no need for stealth, he would merely need to snatch a handful of expensive furs and beat a hasty retreat to make his daring worthwhile.

  Gianni lightly touched Bascot’s sleeve and inclined his head towards a pile of squirrel skins lying on top of a counter. They were similar to the ones that the sempstress had sewn on Alinor’s gown.

  A moment later, Simon Adgate came into the room. Seen close to, Bascot noticed that despite the fact that Adgate’s hair was so pale a grey it was almost completely white, it topped a face that had retained its youthful vigour, with alert eyes and a full, mobile mouth. His frame, beneath the lavishly furred overtunic that he wore, was robust and his hands were large and strong. The furrier was extremely hale for a man that must be approaching sixty years of age.

  “Greetings, Sir Bascot,” Adgate said in a reserved manner. “My assistant tells me that you wish to speak to me on behalf of Lady Nicolaa-how may I help you?”

  “We have been told that Aubrey Tercel, the man who was murdered while the feast was in progress, purchased some furs for his mistress, Lady Petronille, a few weeks after their arrival in Lincoln. Was it from your establishment that he bought them?”

  With a glance at his assistant, who was within earshot and, by his inquisitive attitude, listening to their conversation, Adgate said that it was.

  “Why did you not mention this to Sir Richard when he asked if you were acquainted with him?” Bascot asked.

  “I must apologise for my neglect,” Adgate said with seeming contrition. “It was merely a business transaction and so I did not think it of any importance.”

  “Did you attend to him personally?”

  “Yes, I did,” Adgate said uneasily. “When my assistant realised that the purchase might prove to be a substantial one, he sent for me and I showed Tercel a selection of the fur
s that I carry.”

  “As I understand it,” Bascot pressed, “he came into the shop on more than one occasion. Did you see to his requirements each time?”

  Adgate nodded, and the Templar could sense mounting tension in the man. “Surely, during three times of meeting, you must have spoken of matters other than the furs,” Bascot suggested. “Did he tell you anything about himself, or the places he had been in the town?”

  Adgate shook his head and walked over to the pile of furs that Gianni had pointed out earlier. Bascot noticed that the furrier walked with a slight limp. Picking up a pelt of sable, Adgate brought it back and showed it to the Templar. “As you can see, my goods are of the finest quality,” he said, running his fingers caressingly through the rich, dark fur. “I have no need to engage in idle chatter with a customer to persuade them to make a purchase. Tercel saw the quality of my goods and so, I assume, did Lady Petronille when he took the squirrel furs to show her. Our conversation dealt entirely with the business transaction. We spoke of nothing else.”

  The furrier’s little speech seemed earnest but Bascot was not gulled. There seemed to be a hint of desperation behind Adgate’s facile words and, glancing at Gianni, the Templar saw the boy surreptitiously curl the tips of the fingers of his right hand and quickly release them, a gesture that denoted apprehension. He had noticed the furrier’s uneasiness as well.

  Bascot considered Adgate’s limp. Was it an old injury or a recent one? Could it be that there was some merit to Alinor’s wild assumption that the furrier had discovered his wife and Tercel together and fought with him, and that their struggle had resulted in an injury to Adgate’s leg? But the furrier had been overlooked all that evening by another guild leader, the armourer and his wife who had sat beside Adgate and accompanied him to their respective guest chambers in the old tower. Still, there must be a reason for the furrier’s seeming alarm and perhaps, as Bascot had discussed earlier with Richard Camville and Alinor, it was related to his wife.

  Feigning acceptance of Adgate’s explanation, the Templar said, “I need to ask a few questions of your wife. Now that she has had time to get over the shock of being in such close proximity to where a murder took place, I would like to ask her whether or not she has recalled any information that may help us.”

  Bascot felt, rather than saw, Adgate stiffen. “I am afraid my wife is indisposed,” he protested. “She has taken a chill and is keeping to her bed in an effort to recover from it.”

  But Bascot did not intend to be so easily thwarted. “Be that as it may, I must insist on speaking to her, else it will be necessary for her to come to the castle so that Lady Nicolaa or Sir Richard can ask their questions directly.”

  Faced with the unacceptable alternative, Adgate acquiesced to Bascot’s demand, asking only that the Templar give his wife a few moments to don suitable attire before coming down.

  Bascot nodded and the furrier left the room, instructing his assistant to show the Templar into an adjoining chamber and pour him a cup of wine. The room into which Bascot was led, with Gianni at his heels, was a sumptuous one; a gleaming oak table set with candlesticks and condiment dishes of silver graced the middle of the room and richly embroidered tapestries hung on the walls. In front of a fire blazing in a capacious hearth were ladder-backed chairs and settles and a thick rug lay on the floor. There were two casements and the shutters of both had been partially opened to reveal square panes fitted with thinly shaven horn that allowed light to enter but prevented coldness from seeping into the room. The assistant bid the Templar be seated and poured wine into a silver cup and placed it in front of him.

  His duty completed, the servant left the room and Bascot looked at Gianni and raised an eyebrow. “There is much wealth here,” Bascot mused. “If Tercel was making Adgate a cuckold, the furrier has more than enough riches to pay for the hire of an assassin.”

  Gianni nodded in solemn agreement as the door opened and Adgate returned, leading his young wife by the hand. Clarice was a very handsome woman, with clear skin and a ripe red rosebud mouth, but now her pretty face was withdrawn and there were dark hollows under her lovely green eyes. She came forward hesitantly and seated herself on the edge of a chair.

  Bascot regarded her for a moment before he spoke. She did not look up at him while he did so, directing her gaze downwards to where her hands were tightly entwined in her lap. “On the night of the feast, mistress, you told Sir Richard that you left the hall early and, after going to the chamber in the old tower which you and your husband had been allotted, went immediately to bed and slept undisturbed until morning. Are you absolutely certain all was quiet during all that time?”

  Clarice answered in a voice so low it was barely audible. “Yes, lord, I am.”

  “And earlier, when you crossed the bail, did you see anyone lingering around the entrance to the old tower when you went in-a servant, perhaps, or one of the guests?”

  Clarice shook her head and said nothing, keeping her eyes downcast. Bascot, irritated by her withdrawn attitude, decided to act on instinct and said sharply, “But you were acquainted with the man who was murdered, mistress, were you not?”

  Clarice’s gaze flew up to Bascot’s face and he saw fear in her eyes. Adgate, who had been hovering behind his wife’s chair, placed a hand on her shoulder and answered in her stead. There was a touch of panic in the protective movement and, the Templar noted with surprise, also a fleeting curl of distaste on the furrier’s full lips when his fingers touched his wife’s body.

  “My wife might have been in the shop on one or two of the occasions when he called-she is often in there helping me display some of the ladies’ furred cloaks to prospective customers-but that can hardly be called an acquaintanceship.”

  The Templar ignored the furrier and, once again, spoke directly to Clarice. “When he came into your husband’s shop, mistress, did you engage in conversation with him?”

  Clarice remained mute and looked helplessly up at her husband. Adgate once again gave a reply to the question. “As I have said, Sir Bascot, she may have seen the dead man once or twice, but that is all. Now, I must insist that you allow my wife to return to her bed. She is ill, as you can see, and the memory of how near she was to death is very distressing to her.”

  Bascot stood up. “Very well, furrier. I will leave my questions there-for now. But I, or Sir Richard, will want to speak to both you and your wife again. Be ready to present yourselves at the castle tomorrow at mid-morning. Perhaps your wife will have recovered sufficiently by then to answer my questions more fully.”

  Adgate started to protest, but the Templar cut him short. “I find it hard to believe that your wife would be so stricken with distress for the death of a man you claim she barely knew, or that she was so indisposed that she heard nothing while this same man was being murdered in the building where she was abed. I would advise you both to reflect on the matter until tomorrow and, when you come to the castle, be ready to tell the truth.”

  Clarice let out a great sob as Bascot and Gianni left the chamber. Once outside the shop, Bascot untied the reins of his horse and, as they both settled themselves atop the animal, said to Gianni, “Lady Alinor was right, there is something that both Adgate and his wife are not telling us. It only remains to discover what it is.”

  Later that evening, her work in the chandlery finished for the day and the household set in order, the candle-maker’s daughter, Merisel, slipped into the chamber where her ailing mother lay in bed. The illness that had seemed slight on the day of the feast had taken a turn for the worse and Mistress Wickson now lay on her pallet, grey-faced and short of breath.

  Merisel went to her side and, reaching out a hand, smoothed her mother’s disordered hair back from her brow. Edith Wickson did indeed look ill, large dark circles had formed under her soft brown eyes and her mouth was tremulous. She had always been of an energetic and dithering nature, flittering from one task to another in an effort to please her demanding husband; to see her lying so still was w
orrying. “Are you feeling any better, Mother?” Merisel asked.

  “A little,” Mistress Wickson replied. “Have you attended to all that needs to be done?”

  “I have,” Merisel replied. “Do not worry, you will soon be well and able to see to the tasks yourself.”

  Edith Wickson fiddled nervously with the heavy braid of greying brown hair which lay over her shoulder and said, “Your father told me that a Templar came today to question him about the murder in the castle. And that he spoke to you as well. What did he ask?”

  “Only if we knew the man who was murdered in the castle and if we had seen him speaking with anyone in the town.”

  “And what did you tell him?”

  Merisel shrugged. “The truth, of course. That I had neither made his acquaintance nor knew of anyone that had.”

  Mistress Wickson took her daughter’s hand and pressed it as tears welled in her eyes. “You are a good girl, Merisel, and serve your father and myself well. You know that I only want what is best for you.”

  Merisel smiled. “I am glad you feel so, Mother,” she replied, but a shiver of unease rippled through her. It was unlike her mother to be so melancholy. She reached for a small phial sitting on a table beside the bed. “Come, take the medicine I got from the apothecary. It will help you sleep more peacefully. If you do not get enough rest, it will take you longer to recover.”

  Obediently, Mistress Wickson sipped the foul mixture from the spoon her daughter held out to her, then lay back and closed her eyes. But as Merisel doused the candle and left the room, the girl could not erase the conversation she had with the Templar from her mind, nor the anxiety her mother had shown when she had asked about it.

  Eleven

  Early the next morning, some fifty miles southwest of Lincoln, Richard de Humez, Petronille’s husband, was pacing the floor of a small chamber in his manor house near Stamford, agitatedly running a hand over the thinning hair on his pate. Seated on a chair across the room was a local knight, Stephen Wharton, whose small demesne abutted the fief de Humez held from the king. They had been friends for many years but now de Humez’ face was filled with consternation as he stopped his pacing and faced Wharton.