A Deadly Penance tk-6

by Maureen Ash

  As far as the goldsmith was concerned, Ernulf shook his head in denial. “He’s his wife’s second husband. She was a widow when he married her about ten years ago, and he was unwed afore that.”

  “And his wife-do you know the date of her first marriage?”

  “Must be nigh on thirty years ago. Her first husband was a goldsmith, too. Right parsimonious cowson he was, as well. I remember the first time I saw them both, when I was nobbut a young lad and had just been taken into service here in the castle. Some miscreant had broken into the goldsmith’s manufactory a couple of weeks before and stole a load of his stock. When the thief wasn’t caught right away, the goldsmith come hotfoot to the castle to complain to milady’s father that the town guard weren’t doing their duty and he should be recompensed for his loss.” Ernulf smiled at the memory. “He got short shrift from my lord. Sir Richard told him that if he was too miserly to pay for a good watchman to guard his wares then he couldn’t expect the town guard to do the job for him. The goldsmith’s wife was with him when he came and a right snooty piece she was then, and still is, I reckon. I was in the hall when they arrived, taking some food with some of the other men-at-arms after comin’ off a shift of night duty and she looked at all of us men-at-arms like we was pig dirt under her shoes. She couldn’t be the one you’re looking for-she was married to her first husband far too long ago.”

  Of the three remaining couples on Nicolaa’s list, Ernulf, after some careful thought, was able to reject another two couples. The head of the wine merchant’s guild, the serjeant was certain, had been married under the requisite number of years. “Wed his wife no more than twenty years ago,” he finally declared. “I remember it right well ’cause the town guard had to be called out to deal with some guests that had become unruly at the marriage feast,” Ernulf said with a knowing grin. “Seems the wine merchant had been a little too openhanded with his stores at the celebration and some of the bride’s young relatives who had travelled to Lincoln for the ceremony-she hails from a town in the north-had become so cup-shotten they had to spend the night in the town gaol.”

  “And the head of the draper’s guild?” Bascot had asked. This townsman was one of those whose first wife had died a few years before and had recently remarried. The Templar hoped that Ernulf’s memory would stretch to a recall of the details of his first betrothal and, after some cogitation on the serjeant’s part, was pleased to find that it did.

  “Seems to me the draper’s first wedding was around about the time of the terrible earthquake we had in 1185,” Ernulf said, scratching his stubbly grey beard as an aid to concentration. “I can call to mind that the draper had to put off his marriage until the lintel over the porch of All Saint’s-that’s the church where he and his bride were to take their vows-was made safe for them to stand under.” The serjeant nodded his head as the details slowly became clearer in his mind. “Yes, that’s right. He wasn’t the only one who had to delay his wedding; there were two or three others who had to put off the ceremony. Lady Nicolaa sent the castle stonemason to help with the repairs about the town and the mason told me the draper’s father was right upset about the postponement.” Here Ernulf gave Bascot a knowing wink and added, “Seems as though he was in a rush ’cause the belly of his son’s bride-to-be was swelling up right fast and he was afeared his first grandchild would be born afore they got wed.”

  “And the bride, she was a local girl?” Bascot asked.

  “Aye,” Ernulf responded. “Daughter of a friend of the draper’s mother.”

  Disappointed, Bascot went on to the last name on the list, that of a seal maker, John Sealsmith. But, in this instance, Ernulf, for the first time, could not be of help.

  “He set up his business in Lincoln about a dozen years ago, as far as I can recall,” the serjeant said. “He’s a surly bastard and doesn’t give away too much about his private business. I did hear he had been in Doncaster before that, but as to the year he got married or whether or not he and his wife originally came from our town, I’ve no knowledge.”

  Deciding he had no recourse but to visit the sealsmith and question him personally, Bascot shared a final cup of ale with Ernulf and made his way back to the preceptory. After attending the evening services in the Templar chapel and sharing the light collation that constituted the evening meal with his brothers, he had gone to bed and ruminated on what he had learned, but it had been to no avail and he had spent a restless night. It was with relief that he had risen at dawn for the service of Matins and, as he knelt in the chapel, had asked God for guidance in solving this latest mystery. Now, as he rode across the bail, he hoped that the visit to the sealsmith would be worthwhile. If it was not, he would ask Gianni for the notes the lad had transcribed and go through them carefully to see if there was some detail that had been missed.

  When he went into the castle keep, Bascot found Eudo, the Haye steward, waiting for him with a request from Nicolaa de la Haye that he join her in her private chamber before he went into town.

  Upon entering the room, the Templar was surprised to see that Stephen Wharton was with the castellan. Gianni was seated at his usual place at the lectern in the corner.

  “I had thought you would be on your way back to Stamford by now,” Bascot said to Wharton. “It is well past first light.”

  “It is at my request that Stephen has delayed his departure,” Nicolaa said. “Gianni noticed a passage in the letter Wharton received from his brother that lacks clarity and it indicates that we may be wrong in assuming Tercel’s mother was from the town of Winchester. She may only have been a visitor there-perhaps passing through in the company of other travellers bound for one of the ports on the south coast, or for the purpose of a visit to relatives-and, if that is the case, she could have come from anywhere in the kingdom.” She handed Bascot the copy Gianni had made of the relevant portion of Lionel Wharton’s letter.

  “My brother was not literate,” Wharton said when Bascot had read it. “He would have dictated this to a clerk or priest to pen for him and, because he could not read what had been written, may not have noticed the ambiguity.”

  The Templar handed the piece of parchment back to Nicolaa de la Haye, and spoke to Wharton. “At the time your brother brought the babe to you, did he say anything that might help to clarify the meaning of the wording?” he asked.

  The knight shook his head in negation. “No. As I explained, I assumed the babe was his, a by-blow conceived on a favourite leman and that, for reasons he did not wish to disclose, he had chosen not to leave the child in her care.”

  “And Tercel made no comment on this passage when he read the letter?” Bascot asked.

  “No, he did not, and nor did I,” Wharton replied. The knight rubbed a hand over his face in exasperation. “We were both distracted by the content, not the detail. Aubrey’s concentration was focussed on the ring, citing it as proof of his royal paternity, and I was engaged in trying to dissuade him from his ridiculous notion. If your young clerk had not noticed the uncertainty in that passage, I would never have questioned my assumption that Aubrey’s mother came from Winchester.”

  Nicolaa turned to Bascot. “If she did not-and of that we cannot be absolutely sure-then the enquiries you are making will be to no purpose.”

  “It is still possible that our first interpretation is the correct one, lady,” Bascot responded, “so all may not yet be lost.” He spoke again to the Stamford knight. “Describe for us, if you will, the night your brother brought the babe to you. Can you remember exactly what he said?”

  Wharton reflected for a moment. “It was in the month of March and Lionel came late in the evening, rushing into my manor house and the chamber where I was going over some of the household accounts. He told me that he had a great boon to ask of me…”

  “Was he carrying the babe himself?” Bascot asked.

  The Stamford knight looked at the Templar in astonishment. “Well, no, of course not. He had left the child outside…”

  “With whom
?” Bascot asked. “A servant on your staff?”

  “No, the boy was in the care of a wet nurse. Lionel left her and the babe in the hall.”

  “And did you see this woman? Could she have been the mother?”

  Wharton grimaced. “I saw her after I had agreed to Lionel’s request and he called for her to bring Aubrey to my chamber. I cannot credit that she was the mother. She was admirably suited to nurse the babe, plump and with an ample bosom, but she was also past the first bloom of youth and, by her dress, of servant stock. I do not believe she could have been sought after in marriage by a Lincoln merchant.”

  “But it is conceivable that the mother could have handed the babe into the nurse’s care, so she would have seen the woman who bore Tercel, even if she did not know her name.”

  “I suppose so, yes,” Wharton admitted.

  “Did your brother call the nurse by name?” Nicolaa asked. “Did you notice anything about her that might enable us to find her?”

  “No. After she brought the babe to my chamber, I sent for my wife, explained the situation to her and she took charge of Aubrey. The nurse left the room once the child was gone. I presume that Lionel, when he departed, took her with him.”

  “So we have no clue as to who she may be, either,” Nicolaa said with dissatisfaction. “Are you certain your brother said nothing on that night that may help us gain a clearer meaning of the place where the mother lived?”

  Wharton raised his shoulders in a gesture of apology. “Not that I can recall, lady, I am sorry.”

  In the solar, Richard and Alinor were sharing a flagon of watered wine while they awaited the arrival of Clarice Adgate. They had both been told of the possibility that Tercel’s mother might not have been, as had first been believed, a resident of Winchester and were discussing how to alter their questioning of the furrier’s wife accordingly. About an hour after Terce, a servant came to tell them that Adgate and Clarice were below, in the hall.

  “Send the wife up first,” Richard instructed and then said to Alinor, “She was more forthcoming the last time when left without her husband’s presence. Mayhap it will be so again.”

  Clarice came into the chamber with a similar attitude as before, her steps hesitant and a look of apprehension on her face. Richard smiled at her warmly and the girl responded with a lightening of her expression. Alinor chuckled inwardly at the effect her handsome cousin had on women and let him take the lead in the questioning.

  “We appreciate the candour you showed the other day in telling us of your liaison with my aunt’s cofferer, mistress,” Richard said smoothly, “and, while we do not have any more questions about that side of your relationship with him, we would like to ask if you and he spoke together of any matters not related to your affection for each other.”

  Clarice looked at him in bewilderment. “What matters, lord?”

  “Anything at all,” Richard replied easily. “Did he mention the people he had become acquainted with while he had been in Lincoln, for instance, and ask you about their families?”

  The furrier’s wife frowned in concentration. “I do not think so,” she answered nervously. “We spoke little of other people besides us two…,” she added, her fair skin blushing a deep shade of pink. “And if he did mention anyone, I am afraid I cannot now remember it.”

  Alinor, her impatient nature surging to the forefront, said brusquely, “Then give it more consideration, mistress! If a woman has so much passion for a man that she betrays her husband to be with him, then she hangs on his every word, and savours every tidbit of conversation he offers. Cast your mind back and try to recall if he mentioned anything about the places he had been in Lincoln or the names of any of the people he met.”

  Cowed by Alinor’s stern tone, Clarice’s lip trembled, and she made an effort to reply. “He did say he had visited the shops of other furriers in Lincoln but had found none whose stock compared with Simon’s. And I remember that he once remarked on the excellence of the wine sold by the merchants in Lincoln.” She looked at Alinor anxiously. “Is that what you wish to know, lady?”

  Before his cousin could make a response, Richard interjected, “That is just the sort of information that we are seeking,” he assured her. “Did he happen to tell you which furriers or wine merchants that he visited?”

  Calmed by Richard’s understanding tone, Clarice turned to him gratefully but, nonetheless, shook her head in regret. “No, but on one of the occasions he came to my husband’s shop, Simon took him through to the hall to share a cup of wine. It was… it was the day before the feast. I think Aubrey may have had another commission from Lady Petronille to purchase more furs; at least that is what I assumed, for he had mentioned that his mistress had been well pleased with the ones he had purchased previously. He and Simon were in the hall quite a long time and it is possible that, while they were speaking together, Aubrey mentioned the names of the other furriers he had visited, perhaps in reference to a comparison of prices.”

  With a sigh of relief, Richard instructed a servant to bring Simon Adgate to the solar and, wishing to discuss privily what Clarice had told them, instructed her to wait for her husband’s arrival at the far end of the room. As she moved out of earshot, Alinor said to Richard in an undertone, “What a witless jade. I cannot understand why Adgate married her.”

  Richard grinned. “There are other attributes that a man looks for in a wife, Cousin, besides intelligence. And you must admit that Mistress Clarice is very comely.”

  Alinor gave Richard a sidelong glance of exasperation and said, “Be that as it may, Richard, I am still suspicious of Adgate and agree with the Templar that he may not be telling the complete truth. Let us see what he has to say about this conversation he and Tercel had behind closed doors.”

  Eighteen

  “I am certain Adgate is the one who committed the murder,” Alinor exclaimed later that afternoon as she and Richard sat in the solar with Bascot and her aunt. “Richard and I first interviewed his wife alone, and then had Adgate join us. Beforehand, Clarice told us that her husband had spoken at some length with Tercel in private, in the hall of their home, and may have mentioned something about the people with whom her lover had become acquainted with in Lincoln. But when we summoned Adgate and asked him about the conversation, he said that, contrary to his wife’s recollection, they had been closeted together for only a short space of time, just long enough to discuss the cost of a fur hat Tercel wished to purchase for himself. The price had been far too high, Adgate said, and the conversation a brief one of only a few moments duration. I saw the bemusement on Clarice’s face when her husband said this. It was not the truth, I am sure of it. Adgate is lying, I know he is, and why else would a man do so unless he has something to hide?”

  “It may not be the act of murder he is keeping secret, Alinor,” Nicolaa admonished her niece patiently. “And, even if it were, you have no proof of your accusation. The other guild leaders whom Adgate sat alongside at the feast have already testified that he did not leave their company until it was time to retire, so he was overlooked for the whole time when the murder was committed. It is impossible that he is the one who carried it out.”

  “Even if he could not, I am still not as certain as you that he did not pay someone to do it for him,” Alinor insisted. “Someone who was already within the bail. It could be one of your own servants, Aunt, maybe one of the men-at-arms who were on duty on the ramparts that night.”

  Nicolaa’s response was reproving. “I think that is highly unlikely. None of my household servants have ever given me the slightest reason for distrust. The same is true of the men-at-arms. Besides, as we said before, that would imply that Adgate knew beforehand of his wife’s intended assignation in order to arrange the matter, and I am reasonably confident he did not. While I am aware that Mistress Clarice is not possessed of a great intelligence, I doubt whether she is brainless enough to let slip to her husband beforehand the details of the meeting with her lover, so how could he have been awa
re of it? And aware of it Adgate would have to have been if he was to instruct a hired assassin to wait for Tercel outside the chamber where he and Clarice had their tryst. And why go to all the trouble that such a scheme would entail? It would have been far simpler for a hired killer to murder Tercel while he was abroad in the town-slip a knife in his ribs while he was in a crowd or lure him down a deserted byway and do the deed there. We have been through all this before, Alinor, and discounted Adgate as a suspect. I know you are anxious to put an end to this matter, but you will not do so by grasping at will-o’-the-wisps.”

  Alinor got up and paced a few steps. “Mayhap that is so, but I can sense Adgate’s guilt, rolling off him like a storm cloud.” She sat back down, frustration written all over her face.

  Nicolaa turned to Bascot. “Did you have any success today in your interview with the seal maker, de Marins?”

  “Not insofar as to consider either he or his wife as suspects, lady,” the Templar replied. “As Ernulf thought might be the case, they came to Lincoln from Doncaster some twelve years ago, and had never lived here before that. In addition, Sealsmith’s wife told me that she and her husband were wed only eighteen years ago, not long enough for us to consider her as a candidate for the mother. But questioning them was not entirely in vain. Mistress Sealsmith gave me some useful information which, although gossip, I am certain is true.”

  The Templar paused for a moment as he silently reviewed his visit to the sealsmith’s manufactory. It was a moderately sized establishment, with living quarters above, and located on the same street as Simon Adgate’s shop. Although Sealsmith was called a seal maker, it was actually the matrices, the implements impressed with a design on one end for marking hot wax, that Sealsmith manufactured. When a manservant admitted Bascot and Gianni into his workshop, the seal maker was busy at a small forge melting silver for the base of a matrix. He was a burly man of middle height with a thatch of thick black hair and heavy eyebrows that joined one another across the bridge of his nose. When Bascot’s rank and name were announced by the servant, it was obvious that Sealsmith was reluctant to leave his task, for he greeted his visitor with a sullenness that was barely concealed. Upon being told that Bascot had come to ask both him and his wife some further questions about the night that Tercel had been killed, he had answered brusquely and with an air of impatience.