A Holy Vengeance
Author: Ash, Maureen
Date: 2015-09-15
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group

Templar Knight Mysteries

The Alehouse Murders

Death of a Squire

A Plague of Poison

Murder for Christ’s Mass

Shroud of Dishonour

A Deadly Penance

The Canterbury Murders

A Holy Vengeance

A Holy Vengeance

A Templar Knight Mystery

Maureen Ash

InterMix Books, New York

AN IMPRINT OF PENGUIN RANDOM HOUSE LLC

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A HOLY VENGEANCE

An InterMix Book / published by arrangement with the author

Copyright © 2015 by Maureen Ash.

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eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-40526-4

PUBLISHING HISTORY

InterMix eBook edition / September 2015

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Penguin Random House is committed to publishing works of quality and integrity.

In that spirit, we are proud to offer this book to our readers; however, the story, the experiences, and the words are the author’s alone.

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Contents

Templar Knight Mysteries

Title Page

Copyright

Cast of Characters

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Epilogue

Author’s Note

About the Author

Cast of Characters

Principal Characters

Bascot de Marins—A Templar knight

Gianni—A mute Italian boy, former servant to Bascot, now a clerk in castle scriptorium

Nicolaa de la Haye—Hereditary castellan of Lincoln castle

In the Castle

Roget—Captain of the town guard

Ernulf—Serjeant of Lincoln garrison

Clare—Sempstress

Eudo—Steward

John Blund—Secretarius

Preceptory

Everard d’Arderon—Preceptor

Feradac MacHeth—Deputy preceptor

Wilikin—Scullion

Clerics

William of Blois—Bishop of Lincoln

Roger de Rolleston—Dean

Burton Village

Rudd—Reeve

Greetwell Village

Gwen Hurdler—Villager

Thomas Hurdler—Gwen’s husband

Letty—Young girl

Newark

Goddard—Serjeant of Newark castle

Mistress Sloper—Widow

Others

Robert Ferroner—Armourer

Emma Ferroner—Robert’s daughter

Wiger—Emma’s husband

Constance Turner—Perfumer

Agnes—Constance’s maidservant

Noll—Master armourer, employee of Robert Ferroner

Thea—Robert Ferroner’s housekeeper

Lorinda—Robert Ferroner’s paramour

Granny Willow—Lorinda’s grandmother

Dern—Alekeeper

Aliz—Prostitute

John Glover—Soap manufacturer

Mabel Glover—John’s wife

Nan—John’s mother

Ivo and Cerlo—Town guards

Master Drogue—Apothecary

Selso—Alekeeper

Prologue

Lincoln Town—Late Summer 1179

“I am come, Robert Ferroner, to hold you accountable before witnesses. You gave me a pledge of marriage and it is past time for you to honour it. When will you do so?” The young woman spat out the accusation, dark eyes ablaze and arms akimbo.

Her scathing words shattered the lazy hum of conversation among those gathered at the small marketplace alongside the riverbank, and everyone turned to stare. There were bargemen and sailors come ashore for a cup of ale, workmen from nearby manufactories, and a small knot of gossiping goodwives. They had all been enjoying the late afternoon sunshine and relaxing from their day’s labours when she had suddenly appeared in their midst and flung out her challenge. With mouths agape, they swung their heads in the direction of the young man to whom she was speaking.

He had been standing at leisure, munching on an apple and chatting to a fruit-seller, but at the sound of his name, he turned swiftly. About twenty years of age, tall and burly, he had massive shoulders and a leonine head of straw-coloured hair. The son of a prominent armourer who had premises farther along the riverside, he had already, despite his young age, earned a dissolute reputation because of his predilection for ale and loose women. Usually bluff and genial to all, he stood his ground and gave the young woman a defiant answer as a frown appeared on his brow.

“I did not promise to wed you, Lorinda, and never will do. Why would I marry such as you? You are little better than a harlot.”

The crowd was agog, attention avid as they listened to every word of the exchange.

Lorinda advanced a few paces towards her erstwhile lover, head thrown back on her graceful neck so that her long dark hair flew in a mass of curls about her shoulders. No head covering such as decent women wear contained her beautiful tresses, and her gown was cut too low for modesty. She was very handsome, and many a man in the crowd licked his lips at the sight of her. Even in a fury, she was extremely desirable.

“You shall rue the day you refused me,” she replied in words of menace, her upper lip curled with contempt. “And even more so, you shall regret your foul slander of my virtue. I hereby curse you, Robert Ferroner, to be thrice damned—in the woman you marry, the children she bears you, and in your fortune. And when you are living in a hell here on earth, you will remember me, and that it was Lorinda who put you there.”

With these last words, she turned and stalked off, black hair flying and the skirt of her scarlet kirtle billowing around her ankles. The crowd, after a collective gasp, fell silent, and it was not until she had disappeared from view that they turned to look at the armourer’s son.

He was standing as still as if he had been turned to stone, his countenance blanched white. Suddenly he shook his great head and, seeming to come to his senses, turned to face the crowd.

“It would seem I have been well and truly chastised for my wanton behaviour,” he said, making a feeble attempt to inject levity into the humiliating situation. “And there will be more punishment to come when my father hears of it.”

A few of the men in the crowd gave a weak smile at his words; John Ferroner’s disapproval of his son’s wild ways was well-known, but the group of goodwives shook their heads reprovingly. They all, to a woman, were heartily censorious of his lewdness, and it would take more than a display of feigned remorse to change their opinion.

“’Twould serve you right, young Ferroner, if your father took a rod to your back,” one old beldame declared, withered lips pursed in disapproval. Her female companions nodded in agreement.

“Since it was his own rod that got him into trouble in the first place,” one of the bargemen called out waggishly, “it might be wiser if his sire instead forged a shackle to contain it.”

The bawdy comment broke the tension, and even the women smiled at the jest. Responding with a look of mock horror, Robert said he had best get home before such a notion occurred to his father, and with a cheeky bow in the direction of the gaggle of women, he turned and walked away.

As he made his way along the path to the armoury, Robert was not quite as sanguine as he had striven to appear. It did not take much reckoning to know what had caused Lorinda’s outburst, for it could only be that she had heard he had recently become enamoured of Edith, the daughter of a cloth merchant in the town, a lovely young woman he had asked to be his wife a few days ago. While it was true he had tumbled Lorinda a few times out in the greenwood during the summer, it had only been in a casual fashion. He had spent the earlier part of most of the evenings he had lain with her in an alehouse and had consequently been ale-shotten when they coupled. While he may have uttered a few words of endearment during their lovemaking, he was quite certain that, even with his wits mazed by ale, he had never made a promise to wed her. Why would he? She had not been a maid when he first lay with her, and even if he had cared for her, which he didn’t, he would never have contemplated taking other men’s leavings for a wife. If she had mistakenly interpreted his passionate murmurings as such, that was her fault.

But rightly or wrongly, he now feared that Lorinda’s allegation would ruin his bid for Edith’s hand. His beloved was a girl of chaste virtue and had already gently scolded him for his libertine ways. He had promised her that he would lead a life of sober respectability if she consented to marry him, and that was a pledge he intended to keep. But when the gossip about himself and Lorinda reached her—as it was sure to do—would she still look with favour on his suit? How could he convince her that his last romp with Lorinda had been almost a month ago, long before he had asked for Edith’s hand, and that he had not dallied with her since, much less spoken of marriage to her?

And quite apart from concerns about Edith’s reception of the disastrous incident, he had to admit that Lorinda’s curse had shaken him, for she was the granddaughter of a witch, a woman who had congress with the Devil. If Lorinda was as skilled in the dark arts as her grandam, might not the curse prove true? A shudder passed through his large frame at the thought of such a terrifying prospect. Crossing himself, he fervently murmured a plea for Christ’s protection, then repeated to himself the words from the psalm that was a favourite among those who crafted armour—“The Lord is my strength and my shield”—until he was fortified. By the time he reached his father’s workshop, he had resigned himself to acceptance of the heavy penance his father would most surely mete out when he learned of his errant son’s latest misbehaviour.

* * *

Later that day, Lorinda was sitting on a stool in her grandmother’s small cot in the greenwood south of Lincoln, her temper still boiling. She had told her grandmother, Granny Willow, what had passed in the marketplace and how she had laid a curse on Robert Ferroner. Granny, a small, sturdy woman with a gentle and surprisingly unlined face for her age, had been sorting some herbs she had picked that morning when her granddaughter had stormed in and, after laying the small wicker basket of plants aside, had listened in silence to Lorinda’s tirade, and was shocked by it. She had raised her granddaughter almost from birth, ever since the day when the girl’s mother—Granny’s only child—and her husband had been crushed to death when the wain in which they had been riding was overturned by a fractious bullock. Lorinda had not been an easy child to care for and reminded Granny of her own mother, after whom Lorinda had been named. Wilful, high tempered and selfish, with a good measure of lasciviousness thrown in. This latest turmoil in her granddaughter’s life was but one more incident in a succession of tempestuous love affairs that had been going on since she reached puberty. The only difference with Ferroner was that, unlike all of Lorinda’s previous lovers, it had been he who ended their liaison instead of her. Because of this, Granny now wondered if her granddaughter truly cared for the armourer’s son or if her fury had been aroused solely by injured pride. At the moment, however, Granny was more concerned about Lorinda’s soul than the reason for her indignation.

“If Ferroner is foolish enough to prefer that whey-faced draper’s daughter to me,” Lorinda continued heatedly, “then he shall pay for it, and count the cost dearly. I shall never forgive him for his betrayal, never.”

“Be careful you are not the one who is punished, Lorinda,” Granny warned. “Ill-wishing someone, deserved or not, is an invitation to the Devil to come into your heart, and may rebound on you instead. You must not think any more of reprisal, but instead of your own welfare and that of the child you are carrying.”

Although Lorinda had told Robert Ferroner that Granny Willow was a witch, she had done so only in order to create, in his eyes, a reflected aura of mystery about her own self. Her grandam was not, in fact, a witch, but a simple cunning woman, called so because of her extraordinary talent for preparing medicaments from herbs and other plants, especially a decoction made from white willow bark which she administered to those suffering from a fever or joint pain. It was due to its marvellous efficiency that she had come to be called by the name of the tree from which it was made. Far from dealing in the dark arts or having traffic with the Evil One, she was a devout Christian, honoured and respected by all of the villagers from the nearby hamlet of Coleby. Her admonition to Lorinda was heartfelt. At her advanced age, Granny had seen many a person’s life ruined from failure to resist the Devil’s tempting. Satan was wily, taking any opportunity to steal a soul from Christ, and she now feared her granddaughter had fallen into his evil trap.

But Lorinda paid her grandam’s admonition no heed. “If the Devil tempted me, Granny, it was worth it.” She gave a mirthless laugh as she recalled her triumph, fully realising that Ferroner believed her grandam might have taught Lorinda her supposed evil powers and, if so, that her malediction would come to pass. “You should have seen his face when I laid the curse on him,” she added. “He was terrified. And so he should be, for I promise you the day will come when he will sorely repent his rejection of me.”

Granny, realising any further caution would be futile, said no more and listened with a heavy heart as her granddaughter rose from her seat and announced her intention to leave their home and seek her fortune elsewhere. Lorinda had yet to learn that heaven, as well as hell, could extract retribution and that, of the two, a holy vengeance was far more terrible.

Chapter 1

Twenty-five Years Later—Summer 1204

As the cathedral bells tolled the hour of Prime, the first religious service of the day, the guards on Newport Arch, the northern exit from Lincoln town, swung open the heavy oaken gates to admit traffic. There was already a throng of people waiting to leave, anxious to start their journey before the sun got too hot to make travelling comfortable. In front of them stretched the continuation of Ermine Street, the great thoroughfare that started in London and went all the way through Lincoln and on to York. The crowd was motley—pedlars and tinkers, merchants and labourers, messengers and beggars, all setting out northwards to their various destinations, and already other travellers could be seen coming southwards, carts laden with early fruit and vegetables to take into the town and sell in markets, bent on an early arrival. Forest lined either side of the road, mainly of oak, but with a few birch and hawthorn trees, all proudly wearing new foliage.

In the midst of those leaving the town were two young women. One of them was Emma Ferroner, daughter of Robert and his lovely Edith, and born a year after their wedding. Tragedy came to the devoted couple soon after this happy event, for a virulent fever descended on Lincoln town and struck down many of the townsfolk, including Edith and, soon afterwards, her mother as well, who contracted the sickness when she came to nurse her daughter. Emma was not aware of the curse that had been laid on her father, only that, in later years, whenever he spoke of her mother, he seemed to unreasonably blame himself for her death. He had always been overly protective of herself as well, almost as though he feared that she, too, would come to harm if he didn’t constantly watch over her. It had been with the greatest difficulty that she had persuaded him to let her come to the shrine with only a female friend for company, claiming it would be better if he, or her husband, accompanied her. His attitude had always puzzled her, but eventually she had assigned it to the fact that he was merely an excessively doting parent. With the passage of years, the incident that had taken place between her father and Lorinda had faded from people’s memories, and among those old enough to recall it, none were so unkind as to relate it to his daughter.

Emma was now a young matron, married to Wiger, one of the apprentices in her father’s armoury, the ownership of which had, in due course, passed down to Robert after the death of his sire. She had not, unfortunately, inherited her mother’s beauty, except for a pair of lustrous green eyes, the colour of a newly budded leaf in spring. She was plain-featured, tall and a bit ungainly, with an angular frame that was sparsely fleshed, and, unfortunately, had unsightly pockmarks on her face, scars left by a near-fatal contraction of pox she had suffered during her childhood. But she was very much in love with her new husband, and the only blight upon her life was her inability to conceive a child.

Her companion was Constance Turner, a perfumer in the town, who had agreed to walk with her friend the scant two miles to St. Dunstan’s shrine, which lay along a track that branched off Ermine Street and led to the village of Burton. Once there, Emma intended to implore the saint to cure her barrenness.

“I am certain that St. Dunstan will heed your prayer, Emma,” Constance said as they turned onto the path that led to the shrine. “He is the patron saint of armourers, after all, and has been known to look with favour on all who ply the trade.”

“Yes, I should have gone to him before,” Emma replied. “Month after month I have kept hoping I would find myself with child, but it has been almost two years now since Wiger and I were wed, and still there is no sign of a babe.”

She turned towards her companion, her green eyes sparkling with hopeful anticipation. “It was my father who suggested that I seek St. Dunstan’s aid. He said my mother often came here in the early days of their marriage, just after he had inherited the armoury from my grandsire and was full of doubts about his competency to run it. It was because of her pleas, he said, that he prospered and made such a success of the business, and he thought that with Wiger soon to finish his apprenticeship and become an armourer, too, the saint may look upon me with the same kindness he showed my dam . . .”

She broke off, saddened by the absence of her long-dead mother. “Oh, Constance, how I wish that she was with me still. I have never missed her more than I do now. What shall I do if St. Dunstan will not help me?”

Her friend laid a hand consolingly on Emma’s arm. “You must not be downhearted, Emma; you are still young and there is plenty of time.”

Constance sent up a prayer of her own that the saint would hear Emma’s plea. They had been friends for over two years, since just before Emma’s marriage to Wiger. A silly quarrel a few months ago had left them estranged for a while, and the perfumer had been gratified and truly honoured when Emma had turned up at her house a few days ago and asked if she would come with her to the shrine.

“I have no female relatives left alive,” she had said to Constance, “and it is only fitting that a woman accompanies me. We were good friends once—can we be so again? I would dearly welcome your presence.” The perfumer had readily given her assent, and it had been arranged that Emma would go yesterday to Constance’s home—which was situated much closer to Newport Arch than the armoury—and stay the night so they could leave early this morning.

As they followed the track that led to the little dell where the shrine was located, the noise of the wheeled carts on the main thoroughfare slowly faded, replaced by birdsong and the rustling of small animals in the undergrowth. It was a pleasant walk, and Constance could feel Emma’s tension ease as they approached the sanctuary.

The shrine was a small one, built decades before by a grateful blacksmith who, it was said, had been saved from death by the saint on this very spot. The story went that the blacksmith had been on his way home to Burton in the midst of a howling snowstorm when he realised he was being stalked by a pair of wolves. In a desperate effort to increase his pace, he had not noticed a tree root buried under the snow and, tripping over it, had fallen to the ground and wrenched his ankle so badly that he could not stand. The wolves, sensing his weakness, began to circle, preparing to launch their attack. The only weapon the blacksmith possessed had been his hammer, which he had been carrying with other small tools in a sack slung on his back. Calling upon his patron saint to help him, he retrieved the hammer and used it to defend himself when the wolves leapt upon him. Within moments the blacksmith found, to his astonishment, that his weapon had rung true and both animals were lying dead at his feet, their skulls crushed by the desperate blows he had rained upon them. His heart full of grateful thanks for his delivery, he vowed to use the bounty he would receive for the wolves’ heads to build a shrine dedicated to his protector in the little dell where he had been so miraculously saved.

The stones on which the blacksmith had built the small altar were now weathered and pitted with age, but the small metal figure of the saint that the blacksmith had crafted and placed on top of the stones remained bright through regular polishing by the inhabitants of Burton. A wooden shelter, which the villagers also refurbished every year, protected the figure. St. Dunstan’s face was serene in aspect and, as the two women approached, it seemed as though his blank eyes regarded them with kindness.

Looking up at the tiny chapel, Emma and Constance could see that horseshoes had been affixed to the edges of the shelter. St. Dunstan, who had been an abbot, twice a bishop, and finally archbishop of Canterbury in his long lifetime, had once, so it was said, nailed a horseshoe to the Devil’s hoof as a reprisal for trying to tempt him, and so horseshoes were considered to be his talisman. A variety of wildflowers—vetches, bellflowers, eglantine and foxgloves—raised their faces to the sky around the edge of the little dell and the air was full of the spicy smell of gilliflowers, which grew in profusion near the shrine.

As the two women walked into the pool of sunshine that flooded the spot, they heard a croaking sound from the branches of a nearby tree and looked up to see a large raven staring down at them. On a branch above was another one, presumably its mate. Close to the bole of the tree was their nest, built of sticks and twigs, and the heads and beaks of two or three of their offspring, not yet fledglings, could be seen just above the rim.

“That’s a good sign, Emma,” Constance said, pointing to the hatchlings. “The ravens have had babbies; perhaps it is an omen that you will too.”

“Oh, how I hope so,” Emma replied. “My father told me that the ravens are the guardians of the shrine and that there has been a pair nesting here ever since it was built.” After giving Constance’s fingers an excited squeeze, she took a step towards the shrine and removed a small silver horseshoe from the pocket in her gown. Her father had forged it himself and had it blessed by the parish priest for her to give as an offering to the saint. Placing it at the foot of the altar, she knelt down and bowed her head in prayer, hands with palms together in front of her. To give her privacy, Constance moved back a few paces to stand by the gilliflowers.

As she waited while her friend murmured her fervent plea, the perfumer noticed that the little dell had suddenly fallen silent. The rustlings of small animals had ceased, as had the birdsong. She glanced up and saw that both of the ravens, heads turned to one side, were staring intently into the woods on the other side of the clearing with their beady black eyes. Nervously she began to move back towards the shrine, glancing in that direction as she did so.

The dell seemed unnaturally still and she felt a tingle up her spine. As she opened her mouth to call out an alarm to Emma, there was a sudden eruption of movement from the trees and a figure clad in a rough cloak leapt from the greenwood and ran towards the shrine. The intruder’s mantle had a cowl which was fastened tightly over his head so his features could not be seen and in his hand the blade of a knife glittered. He made no sound as he rushed towards Emma, the weapon held aloft. Before Constance could utter a scream of warning, the knife was thrust into her friend’s back and blood spurted. As Emma fell forward onto her face, her attacker struck at her once more and then, with a swift movement, darted towards Constance. She turned to run, but he grabbed her arm, and even though she pulled and twisted with all her might, she was unable to wrench herself free. Suddenly, as he raised the knife to strike her, the air was filled with a whirring sound and the two ravens, croaking harshly, dived at her assailant’s head. He let out a fearful scream of pain as their sharp beaks struck his pate, and he dropped the knife as he frantically tried to beat them off with his hands. But the birds were relentless, continuing to swerve and dart around him until he was forced to flee back into the forest. The ravens did not cease their pursuit, however. Flying above the tops of the trees, they followed his progress, croaking loudly all the while.

Constance watched fearfully until the ravens’ cries grew faint with distance and then hastened to the fallen figure of her friend.

The blood from the wounds in Emma’s back had stopped flowing, a bad sign, Constance knew, for it meant that her heart had stopped beating. Dropping to her knees, she gently turned the body over and pushed back the coif that bound her friend’s pale brown hair. No sign of breath came from Emma’s nose or mouth, and her lovely eyes were open and vacant, staring unseeing at the roof of the shrine.

Constance began to cry, tears dropping unbidden as she tried to take in what had happened, until a small sound nearby caused her to spin around in renewed alarm. But it was only the ravens gliding softly back into the dell, flying up to their perch on the branch of the tree where they had their nest. Both sat silent and unmoving, regarding her solemnly.

Comforted by their presence, and feeling protected, Constance turned back to her friend. With heartfelt sobs, she clasped one of Emma’s limp hands to her bosom and begged the saint to watch over her passage to heaven.

Chapter 2

Her prayer finished, Constance rose shakily and tried to steady her racing heart. Normally levelheaded, and priding herself on her ability for rational thought, she now found that panic was threatening to overwhelm her. Taking deep breaths, she looked around the dell. The encircling trees were still and there was no sign of movement anywhere. She glanced up at the ravens perched above her; both seemed to be on guard, turning their heads from side to side as they scanned the perimeter of the open space. She must get help, she knew, and the village of Burton was not as far a distance as going back to Ermine Street. But she was fearful of going alone in either direction—what if Emma’s assailant was lurking in the greenwood?

Undecided, she stood for a few moments and then noticed the glimmer of metal in the grass. It was the dagger the murderer had dropped. With repugnance, she went over and picked it up. Her friend’s blood was smeared on the blade and she almost dropped it when her fingers touched the gore. She did not know how to use such a weapon but felt she would be safer if she had it, and so, with resolution, she grasped the handle of the knife firmly, took a deep breath and then ran as fast as she could down the track that led to Burton.

* * *

It was past midday by the time Constance finally arrived back in Lincoln with Emma’s body. When she had reached the village, heart beating wildly, she had run through the open gate in the wooden palisade that enclosed the compound. The hamlet was of moderate size, comprising over a dozen small thatched cots, a barn, a cowshed and a tiny church. Several women were inside, some plying spindles, others just gossiping, and a few small children were playing near the well that sat in the middle of the open space. Beyond the palisade, men were at work in fields of wheat and barley. Constance had run towards the woman closest to her, a young matron testing the dampness of rags that had been laid out to dry on top of a few red currant bushes, and blurted out what had happened.

“My friend has been killed and the murderer may still be nearby. Please help me; I am in fear for my life.”

She had not stopped to think of the spectacle she presented—a bloody knife in her hand, her coif all askew and her pale blue kirtle stained with dirt where she had knelt on the ground beside Emma. The young woman, startled, had taken one look at her and begun to scream, and all the other women had come running. Belatedly realising the cause of the young goodwife’s fear, Constance had thrown the knife away from her. “I am not come to harm you, but for help,” she pleaded. “My friend, she is dead . . . dead . . . and I do not know what to do.”

One of the other women, older and more sensible than the rest, went over to a small bell attached to a nearby post and rang it firmly, and then approached Constance. Reaching down slowly, and keeping her eyes on the strange woman who had burst into their midst, she picked up the bloody dagger and, swiftly wrapping it in one of the clean rags from her neighbour’s washing, tucked it in the pocket of her kirtle.

“The alarum will bring the men in from the fields, mistress,” she said quietly. “Until then, come and tell our priest what has happened.”

Things had moved quickly after that. The priest, an elderly cleric, had taken her into the small village church, sat her on a stool and given her a glass of watered ale and then listened without speaking while she told her tale. Soon another man had come in; he was of middle years, said his name was Rudd and that he was reeve, the headman, of the village. The priest repeated her story and Rudd went out again to send a few of the younger and more stalwart men of the village to search the greenwood for Emma’s attacker.

By the time he returned to tell her there was no sign of any stranger nearby, Constance had regained her composure, and had listened calmly as Rudd told her that Emma’s body had been brought to the village and that he and one of his sons would take it in a cart to Lincoln.

“You had best come with us, mistress,” he added, with a suspicious glance at her, “and accompany me while I report this crime to the sheriff. There is only your witness to account for how your friend came to die.”

The journey did not take long, but it was a rough one, and they went by a route that was different from the one she and Emma had taken. Instead of going south to the shrine, the reeve had guided the cart to the north-east on a track that was little more than a footpath. It had debouched onto Ermine Street much farther north from Lincoln than was necessary, but Constance made no demur for she was still too shocked to wonder at the significance. Nor did she consider the reason that the village priest had blessed the ox and cart with holy water before they left Burton, deeming it merely a ritual designed to comfort the soul of her dead friend. Later, she was to remember both incidents with horror, but for the moment, she did not pay them much heed.

The ox that was drawing the wain was an elderly beast with a lumbering gait, and as she sat in the back of the cart cradling Emma’s head in her lap it had bumped and swerved alarmingly. Rudd’s son sat beside her as they lurched along, watching her every movement while keeping the knife the murderer had used, still wrapped in a rag, firmly clasped in his hand. With dismay, she realised that the reeve, and all the other villagers, suspected that it might have been she who killed Emma. Throughout the short journey, she prayed constantly that she would be able to prove her innocence.

When the reeve drove the cart through Newport Arch, the town lay spread out below, for Lincoln was built on a knoll, with the castle and the Minster sharing the height of the apex. As the reeve guided the wain the short distance to the castle gate, Constance was reminded how little time had elapsed since she and Emma had passed by the fortress that morning on their way to the shrine. They had set out on their short journey with hope and in high spirits, and now, just a few hours later, Emma was dead. It was hard not to believe it had all been a nightmare from which she would soon awake.

The castle gateward, when Rudd told him the reason they had come, quickly waved them through and called for his serjeant, a grizzled veteran named Ernulf.

After directing the gateward to take the cart bearing Emma’s body to a sheltered spot beside the stables, the serjeant told Rudd that the sheriff, Gerard Camville, was away from Lincoln and that his wife, Nicolaa de la Haye, the hereditary castellan of Lincoln castle, was deputising for her husband until he returned.

“I’ll go and tell Lady Nicolaa what has passed,” Ernulf said to the reeve. “Wait here until I return.”

* * *

A short time later, Constance and Rudd were standing in the hall of the keep before the castellan. A woman of small stature and slightly plump, and one who was much revered by the townsfolk of Lincoln for her fairness and compassion, Lady Nicolaa was sitting at the table on the dais when they entered. Beside her was a lad of about sixteen years of age with a pen in his hand and a few pieces of parchment laid in front of him. Constance had seen the castellan before, but only from a distance, and she recognized the clerk as the mute Sicilian youngster named Gianni who was employed in the castle scriptorium, and well-known in the town.

Servants were bustling to and fro, some sweeping rushes, others trimming candles and one pair carrying a keg of ale to the back of the hall as Constance and the reeve approached the dais. All of them cast curious glances in their direction as they went to stand in front of Lady Nicolaa.

When the castellan asked about the body of the young woman that had been brought to the castle, Rudd, in halting tones, said that she had been murdered, slain in the dell close to his village where St. Dunstan’s shrine was located. He then added that he had been told by the woman he had brought with him, Mistress Turner, that the victim’s name was Emma Ferroner, and that she was the daughter of a prominent armourer in the town.

“Stabbed in the back twice, she was, lady, and, according to Mistress Turner here”—the reeve gestured in Constance’s direction—“the deed were done while she was praying. Then Mistress Turner ran to our village for help and I sent some men to scour the woods for the murderer, but we didn’t find him. Then me and my son brought the poor young woman’s body here along with Mistress Turner. This here’s the knife what was used to kill her,” he added, brandishing it aloft. “Mistress Turner was holding it when she came to our village.”

Nicolaa nodded at his succinct explanation and asked him to hand the blade to her clerk. While the lad was unwrapping the rag that covered it, the castellan turned her pale, slightly protuberant blue eyes on Constance. “So you were with the victim when she was killed?” she asked.

“I was, lady,” Constance replied. “He tried to stab me, too, but the ravens at the shrine drove him off.”

“Ravens?” Nicolaa said, her delicate eyebrows drawing into a surprised arch. “You say the assailant was chased away by birds?”

The reeve interjected and said, “There’s allus been a pair of ravens guarding the shrine, lady, ever since I was a lad and before, so ’tis said. They never leave, not even in winter, and we puts out bits of suet and other scraps for them to feed on if snow comes.”

“And how did you come into possession of the weapon?” Nicolaa asked Constance.

“The murderer dropped it when the ravens attacked him,” the perfumer replied, “so I picked it up to defend myself in case he was still in the greenwood while I ran to get help.”

Nicolaa leaned back in her chair. A strange tale, she thought. It was not beyond the bounds of possibility that the ravens would defend the saint’s shrine. Had not these very same birds stood guard over the huge fortress in London ever since William the Conqueror had built it two centuries before? The same species had also, she remembered, protected the body of St. Vincent of Saragossa from being devoured by wild animals after he had been executed, and had stayed for many decades to keep watch over the shrine on his grave. But these instances, and others, had been witnessed by many people, while the tale she had just been told had been overlooked by only one person, the young woman standing in front of her.

She took a moment to regard the perfumer. She was handsome rather than pretty, with a wide mouth that held a promise of sensuality and intelligent hazel eyes. Nicolaa recalled that Mistress Turner had, a couple of years previously, been involved in another case of murder when her servant had given information that had helped to catch the man who had cruelly slain a prostitute. Was it coincidence that she was once again peripherally embroiled in another killing, or was her tale a fabrication to cover up her own guilt?

The castellan, wishing to learn more before she pursued these thoughts, decided she would leave the question for the time being and spoke to her clerk. “Gianni, bring me the knife so that I may examine it.”

The lad quickly got to his feet, came down from the dais, retrieved the dagger and laid it on the table in front of his mistress. The blade was long and narrow and bore smudged traces of blood, as did the rag in which it had been wrapped. There was a thin rim of grime embedded in the join of the hilt that looked as though it had been there some time. Although sharp and sturdy, it was plainly made and inexpensive, a household or workman’s tool such as would be sold at any of the ironmongers’ stalls in Lincoln. At a nod from his mistress, Gianni carefully turned the weapon over once or twice so that she could see both sides of the blade and hilt. There was nothing remarkable about it.

Nicolaa thanked him and then looked at Constance. “Tell me how you and your friend came to be at the shrine, what happened when the attack took place and anything else you witnessed that may be of importance.”

Feeling herself under a vigilant scrutiny from those seemingly innocuous pale blue eyes, and the shadow of doubt that had appeared when she had told how the ravens had saved her, Constance nervously related why Emma had wanted to go to the sanctuary and how it came about that she had accompanied her.

“Emma had been married two years and not yet become enceinte,” Constance explained, “and because both her father and husband are armourers, she thought that if she prayed to their patron saint he might help her conceive a child.”

Tears came unbidden to her eyes as she recalled how optimistic her friend had been, but she stifled them as she continued, “Emma and I were friends, and as she had no female relatives and wanted a woman to be with her, she asked me if I would go. Emma lives—lived—with her husband in quarters at her father’s house, next to the armoury, which is just outside the lower end of town on the Witham River, and a far distance to walk to the shrine. To save time, she stayed in my house last night and we left at first light to go to the dell.”

Constance paused for a moment, collecting her thoughts. Looking straight at Nicolaa, and hoping she would not be disbelieved, she took a deep breath before she went on. “We had just reached the shrine, and Emma had knelt to pray, when a man burst from the trees and plunged that knife into her back. I turned to run, but he seized my arm and I believe he would have killed me too if it hadn’t been for the ravens. Just as he was raising the knife to stab me they flew at him, pecking at his head and face. He dropped the weapon and ran, and they chased him into the woods.”

“Did you recognise him?” Nicolaa asked.

Constance shook her head. “He had a hood on his head that was pulled down low, and some sort of wrapping over his chin so I could not see any part of his face except his eyes. They were a dark brown in colour and full of anger.” She shivered in remembrance of the terrifying moment.

“And his build—was he tall or short, thin or well fleshed?”

After a moment’s thought, Constance said, “He must have been only of middling height, lady, for he did not tower over me when he grabbed my arm, so was most likely only a handspan taller than myself. As to his girth—it was hard to tell under the cloak, but I would judge he was slender.”

“Could you see anything of the clothes he was wearing? And if there was anything distinctive about them?”

Again Constance shook her head. “The mantle he wore was of brown homespun, but the swathe of it covered the whole of his body down to the knees, so it was impossible to see any of his other garments.”

After a moment’s concentration she added, “I have a hazy recollection, as he ran away, that his legs beneath the cloak were encased in dark hose, and his boots low-slung. But that is only an impression, lady; I was so frightened that my memory could be playing me false.”

Nicolaa leaned back in her chair and looked over at her clerk. While Constance had been speaking he had been writing down her words on a piece of parchment. “Do you have all of that, Gianni?” she asked. At his confirming nod, she turned back to Constance.

“Do you know of anyone who has quarrelled with your friend, or has reason to bear her enmity?”

Constance paused for the space of a heartbeat, recalling her own argument with Emma. But it had no bearing on the murder and she did not mention it. “Not that I am aware of, lady,” she replied, inferring that her pause had been due to reflection on the question. “Emma was a kind soul, friendly to all who knew her. I cannot imagine her doing any harm so great as to make someone want to kill her.”

But the castellan’s instincts were sharp. Had the perfumer’s hesitation been due to honest consideration of her answer, or had she used the time to craft a lie? She stared at Constance for a short space before continuing. “What about her husband and father? Do you know if anyone has a grudge against either of them?”

This time, Constance’s response was swift. “I cannot answer that question, lady, for I do not know them well. I have met her father on a few occasions when I went to the armoury with Emma, but her husband I have only spoken to once. The armoury is a smoky, noisy place and Emma preferred to come to my house when we kept company together.”

Nicolaa pursed her lips in thought for a moment and then turned back to the reeve, intending to dismiss him, but she saw, by the anxious expression on his face, that he had something more he wished to relate and asked if he had anything further to add.

“Yes, lady, I does,” he said nervously. “When two of the young men from my village were carrying the poor woman’s body back to our compound, a dreadful thing happened.” The reeve hesitated, his countenance drawn with fear.

“And that was . . . ?” Nicolaa prompted.

“Lady, an adder—a black one—slithered across the path in front of them and almost tripped them up.”

Droplets of sweat began to form on Rudd’s brow as he went on, “’Tis well-known that the Devil often comes in the guise of a serpent; I reckon the Evil One is behind this death, either Him or someone who’s doing His bidding.”

This last was stated with a sidelong glance at Constance and she was shocked to her very bones at the inference. This sighting of the viper near the shrine must have been the reason that the reeve had taken the cart along a different path to return to Lincoln. It also explained why the priest had blessed the wain and the beast that drew it before they left. All of the villagers had believed that Satan was responsible for Emma’s murder, and that she might be his accomplice.

Nicolaa, however, received the news calmly. “Are you certain the snake was an adder,” she asked the reeve, “and not just one of the common variety that abound in the countryside?”

“I am, lady,” he insisted. “They said ’twas black as Satan’s heart, such as is never the colour of any ordinary snake I’ve ever see’d.”

Although the castellan nodded in understanding, she was reluctant to put much credence in the reeve’s tale. Black adders were very rare; they were more usually grey or brown with a zigzag marking on their back. It was far more likely that the men had just stumbled and, in their distressed state of mind, thought they had seen a “serpent” but had seen instead a small branch that had fallen on the track and perhaps moved when it had been dislodged by their passage. But since the reeve, and the other villagers, were taking the matter seriously, she made an attempt to allay their fears.

“Snakes are foul creatures that are always attracted to places where evil has been done,” she said. “Rest assured that now the corpse has been removed, it will have gone and be seen no more.”

Rudd was doubtful of her explanation but did his best to hide it. Burton was one of the villages in Lady Nicolaa’s demesne and he had no choice but to accept her opinion. To do otherwise might bring repercussions down on his head.

Satisfied with his acquiescence, no matter how unwilling, the castellan turned the subject of the conversation in another direction, one that she knew would divert him from his fear.

“I am grateful for your assistance in this matter, Rudd, and would reward you for your services.” She gestured to her steward, Eudo, to come forward and instructed him to give the reeve six silver pennies from the household coffers as recompense for his trouble.

Rudd promptly cast his misgivings aside, gave a bob of deference, and smiled as he gratefully followed Eudo away from the dais.

Once he was gone, the castellan spoke to Constance in a cool voice that held not a vestige of the warmth that had been in her tone when she had spoken to the reeve. “I will make arrangements for your friend’s family to be notified of her death and her body removed to their parish church. As for you, Mistress Turner, I have no more questions for you at this time, but will wish to speak to you again. You, too, may leave, and return to your home, but will hold yourself ready for my summons.”

A chill of fear struck Constance at the castellan’s pronouncement. But hope resurged as she curtsied and turned away when Nicolaa give instructions to the serjeant, Ernulf, who had been standing nearby throughout the whole of the interview, to send one of his men into town to inform Roget, the captain of the town guard, to attend her immediately. Roget had once been a special friend to Constance and, if she had to withstand more interrogation from Lady Nicolaa about Emma’s death, his presence would greatly sustain her.

Chapter 3

Less than an hour later, Roget entered the castle ward. A tall, rangily built man, with powerful shoulders and a confident stance, in his younger years he had been a mercenary in a band of routiers employed by the late King Richard when the monarch went on crusade to the Holy Land. One side of his face was marred by the scar of an old sword slash and his strong white teeth were gapped in places, both remnants of his soldiering, but, nonetheless, he was still possessed of a rough handsomeness. The miscreants of the town feared him, and with good cause; he had a softness for a woman’s pretty face, but none for those, male or female, who broke the law. The copper rings threaded in his tangled black beard jingled as he spotted Ernulf waiting for him and he gave the serjeant a welcoming grin which soon faded when he was told of the reason he had been summoned.

“A young woman stabbed at a shrine?” he exclaimed. “What kind of chien would do this?”

“There’s more,” Ernulf informed him reluctantly. “Constance Turner was with the girl when it happened. Was nearly murdered herself, according to the reeve from Burton, who brought her back with him to report the crime.”

This news distressed Roget even more and he let out an oath. Ernulf was one of the few that knew the captain had once been an admirer of the perfumer, and had become so when he had met her while assisting in the investigation into the murder of a prostitute who had lived next door to Constance. The attraction had lasted for a few weeks, and then, for some reason that had never been explained to the serjeant, or anyone else who had been aware of their friendship, Roget had ceased to keep company with her.

What the serjeant didn’t know was that although Roget had been enamoured of the winsome perfumer, and she with him, the captain had soon realised that Constance was a respectable woman who would never let a man bed her without marriage, and he had honoured her too much to make any attempt to try to persuade her. Ever since he had been a young boy, Roget had sworn he would never marry, but with Constance, and for the first time in his life, he had been tempted to ask a woman to become his wife. It had been with only the greatest reluctance that he had not done so, and that was not because of his desire to remain unwed, but because he felt unworthy of her. He knew only too well that he was only a rough soldier, one who drank hard and had slept with many women in Lincoln—not only harlots, but also those maids and wives, of which there were quite a few, who found his roguish charm attractive. What had he to offer Constance but a scurrilous reputation, a captain’s small stipend, and an uncertain future? He had never explained to her why he had ceased to visit her, but he still held a great affection for her and had, from a distance, tried to watch over her well-being. And now he had just been told that she had almost been killed. Even though he knew it would have been impossible for him to foresee that she would be attacked out in the greenwood, he cursed himself for his lack of vigilance.

Crossing the bail with a heavy heart, he went into the keep and entered the hall. At the far end, the castellan was still seated at the table on the dais. In addition to Gianni, an elderly clerk named John Blund, who was Lady Nicolaa’s secretarius, was sitting with her. In his hand was a sheaf of parchment, which he was consulting as he spoke to his mistress.

“These are all the details I have in the archives about the armourer Robert Ferroner, lady,” Blund was saying as Roget approached the raised platform. “Your memory was correct in that Ferroner has his armoury on a small portion of the strip of land along the Witham riverbank that is part of your demesne. It is situated on the eastward side of High Bridge. According to my file, he has been there many years, and inherited the armoury from his father, John, who taught his son the trade. The fee for his holding is five shillings per annum.”

Blund laid his sheaf of paper down and added, “Except for a couple of blacksmiths who do not possess his superior skills, he is the only armourer in Lincoln of any repute. His business, therefore, is a prosperous one, and your husband, Sir Gerard, has often availed himself of Ferroner’s services. I have records of purchases going back over quite a number of years for suits of chain mail, and repairs to the same, as well as a supply of swords, helms, maces, spurs and the like for the castle armoury.”

Roget noticed that the elderly clerk’s hand trembled a little while he was speaking, and his face was very pale. The captain had heard a report that Blund’s health was failing lately and it now seemed, sadly, that the rumour was true. Blund was making an effort to hold his thin shoulders erect, however, and remained attentive to the mistress he had served for so many years. Nicolaa, too, had noticed the strain in her loyal servant and reached over and patted his hand.

“Thank you for your assistance, John. Your records are, as ever, impeccable. But I fear you have risen from your sickbed too soon to return to work. You may go and rest now—Gianni can make any further notes that are necessary.”

“By your leave, lady, I will stay here if you will allow it,” Blund replied. “This is a heinous crime; not only has a young woman been brutally killed, but a shrine has been desecrated, and in case I may be of more assistance to your enquiry into the death, I would rather remain.”

“You are a stubborn man, John,” Nicolaa responded with a smile, “but out of gratefulness for your long service, I will concede to your wishes.”

As the elderly secretarius, gratified, leaned back in his chair and took an abstemious sip from the wine cup in front of him, the castellan turned her attention to Roget.

“Has Ernulf apprised you of the crime that took place this morning?” she asked.

“He has, lady,” Roget replied. “And as Master Blund has said, it is a crime très terrible.”

“I wish you to go and inform the victim’s family of what has happened,” Nicolaa said to him. “You know where the armoury is located?” Roget nodded a confirmation and she continued. “The bare facts of the matter are that Ferroner’s daughter, Emma, was visiting the shrine in the company of a friend when she was struck down by an unknown assailant. Her body is now in the castle precincts but as soon as I have confirmation from her father or husband as to which church they attend, I will arrange for her remains to be taken there and prepared for interment. Give them my condolences and inform them that I shall do everything in my power to bring the killer to justice. Also ask them if they know of any person who may have borne enmity towards the dead woman, or anyone else in their family.”

“Yes, lady,” Roget said and, thinking he was dismissed, turned to go, but Nicolaa forestalled him.

“I have one more task for you to perform after that, Captain,” she said. “There was a witness to the crime, a perfumer named Constance Turner, who, according to the evidence she gave, was also attacked but fortuitously, it seems, escaped harm. I recall her name being mentioned in connection with evidence that was given regarding a previous murder in the town. Was she one of those you questioned during the investigation into that death?”

“She was, lady,” Roget replied.

“After you have been to the armoury, I wish you to go to Mistress Turner’s home and interrogate her further. I am not completely satisfied with her testimony. She claims to have been a good friend to the victim, but even the best of acquaintances can often feel jealousy or resentment towards each other. I find it hard to imagine she would have stabbed the girl herself, for she does not seem of a type to do so, but it may be that she knows more than she admits about the identity of the man who did, or his reason for committing the crime. See if you can discover whether or not she is hiding something that may be pertinent.”

The realisation that Lady Nicolaa considered Constance a suspect struck Roget harshly. It was all he could manage to give the castellan his halting assurance to do as she bid and leave the hall, feeling as though his familiar world was tumbling down about him.

Chapter 4

Later that afternoon, a spotty-faced scullion named Wilikin, a lay servant in the Templar preceptory situated just outside the eastern wall of the town, was trundling a barrow full of fish back to the enclave. He had been sent by the cook earlier that morning to collect the preceptory’s regular order from the fish market below Bailgate, the huge gate that gave access from the upper part of the town where the castle and Minster were located into the lower populated area. As he wended his way back to the commandery, he was full of anxious excitement. While collecting the fish, he had overheard a conversation between a castle servant and the fishmonger about a murder that had happened in the greenwood near Burton. It had both enthralled and alarmed him and he was in great haste to get back to the safety of the enclave.

When the Templar brother on the gate signalled him through, he had to bypass a number of knights and men-at-arms that were at sword practice in the open space in the middle of the compound, some split into pairs and engaged in mock battle with each other, while a few more were hacking with blunted swords at large man-sized poles set into the ground at the far end. At the moment, there were more of the militant monks in the enclave than was usual, for a troupe from a northern preceptory had arrived the day before, using the Lincoln commandery as a staging post on their way south to Dover, where they would embark on a ship destined for the Holy Land. Wheeling his barrow hastily around the perimeter of the compound, and almost gaining himself a knock on the head from the edge of one of the knight’s shields, Wilikin pushed his burden up to the door of the kitchen and, carelessly leaving the barrow standing out in the heat of the sun, quickly ran inside.

The cook, an older lay servant, looked up impatiently from where he was chopping onions and carrots. “How many times have I told you, Wilikin, that the fish must be put away as soon as you return, not left outside to spoil in the heat? Take them into the storehouse, you dolt, and lay them out to keep cool in the pans of water I’ve set ready on the floor.”

Wilikin, usually biddable, ignored the order and burst out with his revelation.

“There’s been murder done in the greenwood,” he exclaimed, his words almost tumbling over each other in his haste to tell the story. “I heard one of the castle servants talking about it at the fish market—a young woman was stabbed at St. Dunstan’s shrine, and it was the Devil who killed her.”

The cook dropped his knife and crossed himself. One glance at Wilikin told him the lad was truly frightened. The blemishes on his face stood out like drops of blood against the pasty whiteness of his skin, and it was obvious his tale was not one of the fanciful daydreams he was often wont to weave.

“Calm yourself, boy, and tell me exactly what you heard.”

With much stuttering and wild gesticulations, the scullion related how the woman, daughter of an armourer who lived just outside the lower walls of the town, had gone to the shrine to pray and had been attacked and killed.

“And why is it thought the Devil murdered her?” the cook asked.

“Because Satan was seen there,” Wilikin declared in a trembling voice, “by two men from Burton village who went to get the body. He’d changed His shape by then into an adder—a black one—and almost murdered them as well!”

“May Christ preserve us,” the cook declared, shaken by the report. If what Wilikin had told him was true, then Lucifer was stalking the greenwood around Lincoln. How long before He came into the town? Taking a moment to calm himself, he then wondered if Wilikin, who was none too bright, might have got the details confused. Taking the lad gently by the arm, he sat him down on a stool, poured him a small cup of ale, and instructed him to tell the tale again.

“And more slowly this time, lad,” he added.

The scullion did as he was bid—it was not often he was given ale to drink outside of mealtimes—and repeated what he had heard. The cook listened in silence until he was told that the dead woman had been accompanied to the shrine by a female companion—a perfumer in the town—who, it was said, was suspected of committing the crime.

“But you just told me ’twas Satan that killed the woman, Wilikin,” the cook protested. “How then is it believed that the perfumer committed the deed?”

“That’s the same thing the fishmonger said when he heard that part,” the scullion replied eagerly, his answer ready. “And the servant said the perfumer must be guilty of something because Lady Nicolaa ordered Roget, the captain of the town guard, to go and interrogate her again, and the castellan wouldn’t have done that unless she was suspicious of her.”

His voice held a ring of triumph at the end of his recounting and he was satisfied that the cook now believed him. And he was right. As Wilikin sat back and supped the rest of his ale, the cook crossed himself again and gave a dire shake of his head.

“’Tis an old battle between St. Dunstan and the Evil One, and now Satan’s cocking His snout at the saint to prove how powerful He’s become. You mark my words, lad—the Devil will strike again, and when He does, I intend to make sure we’re not anywhere He can get at us. You’re not to leave the enclave, and neither will I; we’re going to stay right here under the protection of the Templars.

* * *

During the next couple of hours the news spread among the lay servants. The cook first repeated the tale to the young man with a crooked back that took care of sweeping the compound and cleaning the latrine, who then told it to the grooms in the stable. From there it reached the blacksmith, a lay brother who had been in the Lincoln commandery for many years. By the time the story was told to him, it had been wildly embellished, and now included many false details, such as that tears of sorrow had been seen falling from the eyes of St. Dunstan’s statue for the sacrilegious deed done at his feet and that the Devil had been heard laughing in the nearby greenwood.

The blacksmith, a sensible man, tried to discount some of the more vivid details but the tale still worried him, for he had a married sister with a large family who lived in the town and he was fearful for her safety, and that of her husband and children. After musing on the problem for a while, he went to seek out one of the Templar knights, a monk who held the office of Draper in the enclave, by the name of Bascot de Marins. The knight had been involved in a number of murder investigations since his arrival in Lincoln four years before and had an extraordinary talent for finding out the truth. If anyone could discover whether or not the Devil had come to stalk the inhabitants of the town, it would be him.

Bascot was in the armoury when the blacksmith approached him, engaged in ensuring, as part of his duty as Draper, that the supply of sword belts, helms and other gear had no need of replenishment. He was a knight approaching his fortieth year, of medium height, dark-haired and wearing a patch over his missing right eye. Of reticent temperament, he did not often speak of the years he had spent in the Holy Land fighting on behalf of the Order, or of the time when he had been captured by the Saracens and imprisoned and tortured. His expertise in finding out secret murderers was attributed, by those who knew him well, to the insight he had gleaned during his eight years of captivity, when he had witnessed the cruelty perpetrated by the infidel and the effect the subsequent suffering had on himself and his fellow prisoners.

When the blacksmith had finished relating what he had been told, he looked at Bascot with fearful eyes. “Do you think the Devil truly committed this murder, Sir Bascot?” he asked.

The Templar tried to reassure the lay brother, although the tale had also alarmed him, and for an additional reason besides the claim that Satan was believed responsible for a woman’s death. “All secret murderers have evil in their hearts,” he said to the blacksmith, “but it is very rare for one to be the Devil Himself. Usually they are just mortal men who have succumbed to the temptation to kill for reasons of revenge or profit. Until it is proven beyond doubt that Lucifer is guilty of the crime, it would be precipitate to become alarmed.”

The smith nodded, relieved by the Templar’s words.

“Was the name of the victim, or the perfumer, told to you?” Bascot asked him.

The blacksmith shook his head. “But I believe the dead woman may be the daughter of an armourer to whom, on occasion, I have sent items from the enclave’s armoury for repairs that are beyond my skill,” he said thoughtfully. “His name is Ferroner, and his workshop is just outside the lower part of the town, near Briggate. A few weeks ago I took him a pair of mail leggings on which some of the chain had been badly damaged and he mentioned to me that he despaired of having a grandchild because his only child, a daughter, had been married for almost two years and there was no sign of her becoming gravid. If she is the one who was murdered, he will be devastated.”

After a moment’s silence in which they both murmured a prayer for the soul of the slain woman, whoever she might be, Bascot asked again, “And you are certain there was no mention of the perfumer’s identity?”

The Templar had a special reason for his insistence. He had a great liking for Roget and, along with Ernulf, and Gianni—a lad who was as dear to the Templar as if he were his own son—was also aware of the captain’s attraction to Constance Turner. If it proved to be her that was under suspicion, the captain would be sorely grieved. Bascot had been with Roget when he had met the perfumer during a previous murder investigation, and found it hard to believe that such a rational and forthright young woman could be the person that rumour described as committing such a violent murder.

After the blacksmith assured him the perfumer had not been named, Bascot urged him to put the mystery surrounding the killing from his mind and return to work. “I will ask our priest, Brother John, to say prayers at Vespers today for both the victim and her family,” he said, “and to send up a plea that the sheriff be given heavenly aid to assist him in unravelling this coil.”

Chapter 5

It was past time for the evening meal before Roget had carried out both of the tasks entrusted to him and was on his way back to the castle ward. As he rode his horse slowly up Steep Hill, the sharp incline that led up from the lower town to the castle, he was in no better mood than when he had descended it earlier that day.

The setting sun still maintained its heat as he reflected on his commission of the duties that Lady Nicolaa had given him. First he had gone to Ferroner’s workshop to inform the victim’s husband and father of her death, a sad task that had struck pity in his heart.

Robert Ferroner’s armoury was a moderately sized establishment set close to the riverbank, with a large horizontal waterwheel mounted on wooden piers jutting out over the Witham River to provide power for the operation of the huge bellows that fired the forge. The wall in which the forge was set was constructed of stone, the other three of stout timber, and the side that faced the river had been fitted with two large shuttered casements which could be opened in warm weather to allow a passage of air to cool the men working inside. On entering, Roget saw six or seven men engaged in various tasks, one of them the armourer himself. The captain recognised Ferroner at once; they had met a few weeks before when Roget had needed to levy a fine on two of the armourer’s apprentices for being drunk and belligerent in a local alehouse.

Ferroner was a big bear of a man, bald headed and cheerful, and when Roget walked over to the anvil where he was working, the armourer greeted him heartily. “Ha, Captain, you are well come, unless it is to tell me that some of my men are in trouble again for making too merry with their ale?” This enquiry was accompanied by a rumble of mirth, and Roget felt a pang of guilt for the knowledge that he must soon destroy the armourer’s good-humour.

Not giving an immediate answer to Ferroner’s question, the captain looked around the huge premises in a desperate bid to stall for time while he thought how he could best convey his dire news. Two of the workshop employees were close in age to Ferroner and probably held master status; one engaged in riveting together a knight’s helm and the other overseeing a young man drawing red-hot strips of metal through an iron loop to make them tubular so they could be fashioned into links for mailed armour. The rest of the men were of all of younger age and engaged in minor tasks—one of them working a small hand-fired bellows set alongside the larger one, another polishing finished pieces with a mixture of sand, vinegar and urine, and the rest putting final touches on smaller and simpler items such as stirrups and spurs. All of their eyes had turned upon Roget when he entered the armoury, some covertly, others openly curious. The heat was intense, a combination of the powerful warmth of the blazing summer sun and the glowing fires of the forges making it almost unbearable. Most of the men were stripped bare to the waist, their only cover a leather apron as protection against burning sparks, and heavy leather gloves that extended up past their wrists to the elbow. The smell of molten metal was strong in the air, tinged with the pungent scent of human sweat.

“No, Master Ferroner,” Roget finally replied to the armourer’s query, “I have not come about any of your men’s unruly behaviour but on another, much sadder, duty.”

The armourer put down the mace on which he had been working, a finely crafted weapon of the type known as a “morning star,” which had a number of deadly spikes attached to a round metal ball, and looked at the captain with apprehension.

“What has passed?” he asked quietly, his beefy face apprehensive. “Has something happened to my daughter? She was away last night staying with a friend so they could go early to St. Dunstan’s shrine. There hasn’t been an accident, has there?”

Roget tried to think of a way he could soften the blow he was about to deliver, but knew there was none. “I am afraid your daughter is dead, Master Ferroner,” he said gently. “An unknown assailant attacked and killed her this morning while she was at the shrine.”

A howl of anguish broke from the armourer, and he fell back against a post on which shirts of chain mail were hanging, just as though he had been struck a heavy blow from the mace on which he had been working. “No, it cannot be!” he groaned. “Are you certain it is Emma and not some other maid who has been mistaken for her?”

“There is no doubt, I am afraid,” Roget replied sadly. “Her friend, Mistress Turner, was with her at the time of her death and has made certain identification.”

The armourer fell to his knees and began to sob, and one of the younger employees, a tall man with a shock of fair hair and finely chiselled features, ran forward and knelt beside him. “What is it, Robert? What has happened?”

“It is Emma—she is dead, Wiger, dead of murder.” Ferroner’s voice had sunk to a whisper, and the other man, his countenance shocked, looked up at Roget.

“I am Emma’s husband. Is this true?”

At Roget’s nod, Wiger got to his feet, his voice hoarse with stupefaction. “How did it happen?”

Briefly, and with as few words as possible, the captain conveyed the details that had been related to him. As he spoke the other employees crowded round, sympathy for their master and Wiger written large on each of their faces, as they shook their heads in disbelief that such a tragedy had taken place.

When Roget had finished telling them all that was known of what had befallen Emma Ferroner, he told both the armourer and her husband that Lady Nicolaa sent her condolences and also her assurance that she would make every effort to bring the murderer to justice. Then he asked both of them if they knew of anyone who had cause to wish Emma dead.

“There is no one,” Ferroner declared, getting slowly to his feet. “She was a good maid all of her life, like her dead mother before her.” He raised his huge hands and clenched them into fists. “It is I who am to blame. I should never have let her go to the shrine without protection, may God forgive me. And now she is dead, just like my wife.”

Sobs again began to rack his frame, and Wiger, his own eyes filled with tears, tried clumsily to comfort him, telling him that it was not his fault; he could not have foreseen that any harm would come to Emma on such an innocuous journey. A chorus of “ayes” came from the assembled men as they added the same assurances. But Ferroner did not listen, just stumbled from the workshop and out the door, begging to be left alone with his grief.

Roget had taken his leave shortly after, feeling it would be best to wait until a few hours had passed and the armourer’s sorrow, and that of young woman’s husband, had time to settle before making any attempt to question them further.

He had then ridden to the town’s gaol and drunk a quick cup of ale to bolster his courage before riding up the main thoroughfare of Mikelgate to the turning where Constance Turner’s house was situated.

The perfumer’s maid, Agnes, opened the door when he rapped on it. She was a little rabbit of a girl, with dolorous eyes and a timid expression. When she saw Roget, she burst into tears. “Oh, Captain, murder has once again touched this house. How can this be happening?”

Although he could see the little maid was distraught, today his concern was all for Constance, and he made no reply to the maid as he stepped across the threshold. “Fetch your mistress for me, will you, Agnes?” he said to her. “I will wait here while you do so.”

Moments later the perfumer appeared. The soft flesh around her lovely hazel eyes was puffy from weeping, and strands of hair peeped in a disorderly manner from beneath her snow-white coif. Usually neat and tidy, she had never before appeared to Roget in such disarray.

“You are sent by Lady Nicolaa?” she asked as she came to stand in front of him.

When he gave a grim nod, Constance spoke to Agnes, who was hovering behind them. “Bring wine for the captain and cordial for me. We will be in the chamber where I receive my clients.”

Leading Roget into a small room just off the vestibule which contained a tiny table, two chairs and a shelf on which stood a collection of vials filled with the perfumes and unguents she made, Constance motioned for him to take a seat. “I am pleased to see you again, Roget, though I would wish it were not for such a terrible reason. The castellan said she would have more questions for me. What are they?”

As he had walked to her house, Roget had tried to determine what manner to adopt when he interrogated the woman he admired so much. He would be gentle, he decided, but direct. He knew her to be a virtuous woman, and was certain she would never lie, so he told her exactly what Lady Nicolaa had said, and of her doubts about Constance’s testimony.

“She feels you are hiding something. Surely that is not true?”

The perfumer looked down at her hands, clutched together tightly in her lap, and then raised her head. “The castellan is a perceptive woman. Yes, I did omit something because I felt it was of no importance, but now I see that I was wrong to do so.”

Roget, astonished by her admission, said nothing, and she went on to explain her statement.

“The castellan asked me if I knew of anyone who had quarrelled with Emma and I told her I did not, but that was a falsehood. A few weeks ago I had an argument with Emma—a petty disagreement that left us estranged for a time—but we had lately become reconciled and were good friends again when we went to the shrine.”

Her soft hazel eyes begged his understanding as she added, “If I did not speak of it, it was only because I knew it had no bearing on her death, and not for any other purpose. But I should have realised that my omission, if discovered, could be misconstrued. It is always a sin to lie and I deserve whatever penance befalls me.”

A short time later Roget left Constance’s house. She had told him the cause of the argument between her and her friend and she understood that he would have to relate it to Lady Nicolaa. As he entered the castle ward, he mouthed an oath. He was accustomed to dealing with petty thieves, rowdy trouble-makers and belligerent drunkards; they formed the largest part of his responsibility to keep peace in the town, and he was comfortable meting out justice to such miscreants. But seeking out secret murderers had never been his forte, especially those that involved women, even though he had accompanied the Templar on two or three occasions during Bascot’s hunt for such villains.

As he walked up the steps of the fore-building and into the keep, he hoped the castellan would not treat Constance too harshly. He believed the perfumer had, as she claimed, no involvement in the murder of her friend, but try as he might, he could not summon up any hope that Lady Nicolaa would be of the same opinion.

Chapter 6

Gianni sat at Nicolaa’s side in her private chamber as she listened to Roget’s report, writing the information down on his wax tablet so that it could be transferred to parchment later. He glanced often at his mistress as he wrote, noting the lines of incredulity that furrowed her forehead as she was told of Constance Turner’s lie. Gianni was concerned about his mistress, and had been for some months, ever since shortly after they had been summoned to Canterbury by King John in the early days of the previous December. Gianni had been included in the escort she had taken with her on the journey, his duty to act as her secretarius in place of the ageing John Blund, for whom the trip would have been too arduous. It had been while they had been in Canterbury that Gianni had noticed a change in her demeanour, and he was certain it had something to do with the king.

One of John’s servants had been brutally murdered just after they arrived, slain while she was preparing his bath. His mistress had been drawn into the search for the killer, just as had Gianni himself, but the murderer had not been discovered until the Templar, Bascot de Marins, had been summoned to assist in the hunt. But while the investigation was being carried out, there had been private meetings between Gianni’s mistress and King John from which she had emerged very angry, and other times when she had been secreted with the Templar which had left both looking grim. It had been just before they had returned to Lincoln that Lady Nicolaa had started to become withdrawn and, unusually for her, irritable. In the four years that Gianni had known her she had always been of a calm temperament, and composed even in the face of adversity. But now she was prone to short bursts of ill temper, usually prompted by unfounded suspicions of wrongdoing among her servants and the tenants on her vast demesne, which had alarmed all who served her. This was most unlike their fair-minded mistress, and Gianni was puzzled as to the cause.

Perhaps, he surmised, her malaise was due to the disastrous events that had taken place after King John had met with his council at Oxford earlier this year. Although his nobles had agreed to a hefty tax to send an army to prevent the encroachment of the French into the monarch’s lands across the Narrow Sea, barely two months had passed before Normandy had been lost. Then, a few weeks later, the king’s mother, Queen Eleanor, had died, causing much sorrow throughout the land. All of England had been plunged into mourning for both events. It would not be surprising if Lady Nicolaa, who, along with her husband, Gerard Camville, was a noble of high degree, felt the losses more keenly than most and it was this that was making her disgruntled. Gianni hoped she would soon be restored to her usual good spirits, for at the moment, Roget was feeling the brunt of her irascibility.

“And do you mean to tell me, Roget, that you believe this woman’s tale?” Nicolaa stormed at the captain. “How can you be so credulous?”

Not giving the captain time to answer, Nicolaa tapped her fingertips impatiently on the table in front of her. “She lied to me when she told me that she knew of no one with whom the dead woman had quarrelled, and now, when pressed, she admits that she herself had an argument with her slain friend. And the reason for this squabble, she claims, is that the armourer’s daughter wanted her to make some sort of potion, to which request Mistress Turner refused.”

Nicolaa paused and, despite Roget’s crestfallen expression, continued in a stern tone. “I am well aware that you have a tendresse for a pretty face and form, Roget, but by now you should know that a woman is just as capable of murder as a man, and can often be far more devious in her machinations. Mistress Turner is the only witness to the crime—we have only her word that her friend was slain by an unknown assailant, who was conveniently chased away by a pair of ravens before she herself could be harmed. She substantiates her possession of the murder weapon by claiming that the assailant dropped it—what murderer is likely to lose his blade so carelessly? Does it not strike you that all this could be a fabrication to cover up her own guilt, and that it was she who killed her friend?”

Miserably Roget nodded.

Nicolaa leaned back in her chair. “Tomorrow morning you will bring Mistress Turner in for further questioning, but this time I will interrogate her, not you. In the meantime, instruct Ernulf to send one of the castle men-at-arms to stand guard outside her house to ensure she does not flee Lincoln in the interim. That is all, Roget. You may leave now.”

As the captain left the room, Nicolaa sighed, and Gianni could see regret on her face for the harsh manner in which she had treated him. She rubbed her hand across her forehead. The margin of hair which showed beneath her coif, and which had once been red, now had more strands of grey in it than formerly. He wished he knew what was troubling her, and of a way to alleviate it.

* * *

The castellan dismissed Gianni a few moments later and he went out into the ward and across to the barracks which housed the castle garrison. As he had expected, Roget was inside, ensconced in a cubbyhole at the back which Ernulf used as his sleeping quarters.

The captain had a cup of wine in his hand and was drinking deeply. Ernulf, sitting across from him, had obviously been told by Roget of the castigation he had just received, for there was an expression of commiseration on his face. They both looked up when Gianni pulled back the leather curtain that served as a door, and nodded in greeting.

After he and the Templar had first arrived in Lincoln four years before, Gianni had often, over the ensuing years, come to this little room with Bascot and curled up unobtrusively in a corner as his former master sat in company with either Ernulf or Roget, or sometimes both together. On all of those occasions, Gianni had been just a young lad of insignificant stature and rank; but lately he had grown both in size and in position, so instead of sitting apart from the conversation, he pulled up a stool and sat down beside the captain, laying a hand on his arm in a gesture of consolation.

Roget tried to smile and failed. “Ah, mon jeune ami, you were a witness to my betrayal of the fair Constance. Because of me she will be arrested and found guilty, I know it. I am un conchon, a swine, who does not deserve her friendship.”

“Seems to me as how you had no choice but to tell Lady Nicolaa about Mistress Turner’s lie,” Ernulf reproached him. “You was only doing your duty.”

“Ah, but I should have told it differently, made it seem unimportant. Instead I have placed her in the way of great harm. I have betrayed her, Ernulf, and you know it.”

He shook his head, the old jagged scar down the side of his face puckered as he gritted his teeth in frustration. Neither Gianni nor Ernulf had ever seen him so dispirited.

“You’re certain Mistress Turner is innocent?” Ernulf asked him.

“Of course,” Roget replied emphatically. “She swore to me that the killing happened exactly as she described it, and that she did not have a hand in it. And I believe her.”

The serjeant glanced worriedly at Gianni and then took Roget’s cup from his hand and refilled it. “Then we must find a way, old comrade, to prove that she is innocent,” he said. “Gianni here knows the Templar’s ways in searching out a secret murderer, and we’ll follow them. Somewhere out there the bastard that did this is hiding, and when we find him, I promise you he’ll rue the day he was born.”

* * *

Nicolaa de la Haye, after dismissing Gianni, had gone to the privacy of her bedchamber, ordering a page to bring her a cup of cider. Once it came, she took the drink and, sitting by her bed, sipped it slowly as she reviewed her treatment of Roget. She had been too hard on him; he was a stalwart soldier and had served both her and her husband as captain of the town guard with utmost loyalty for some years. She should not have reprimanded him so severely.

Taking another sip of the cider, she admitted to herself that since her return from Canterbury she had been ill-humoured and, at times, unreasonable. She was also well aware that the change in her demeanour had caused more than a little dismay to all of those who served her. Wondering looks when she issued a sharp reproof where none was merited, surprised glances at her lack of patience and, worst of all, a dispiritedness of which she was the cause.

With a pang of regret she recalled her long-dead father’s words from many years before when he had been teaching her, as his heir, how to comport herself with the multitude of people that lived and worked on the demesne she would one day rule. “An unruly temper is a bane to all, Nicolaa,” he had said, “but especially to the one who possesses it. Such a lack of control is dangerous. It distorts the judgement and inspires umbrage.” How right he had been. She had always followed his dictates and they had guided her well. Now she was falling prey to the very action he had warned her against.

Damn John, she thought, remembering his recent betrayal of her trust, and damn herself for being so gullible. She had always supported the king, even when others hadn’t, most especially her husband, Gerard, who detested the monarch. She had truly believed John to be a finer man than he was given credit for, but now she saw that she had been in error. Either that or events had changed his nature drastically. At Canterbury he had inveigled her into sharing a dishonourable secret he had kept hidden, one that had left her feeling tainted after its revelation. She could not cleanse herself of the knowledge, but it was unforgivable that she should make others suffer for her own lapse in judgement.

She drained her cup and placed in on the table by her bed. Turning back the embroidered coverlet that was draped over a feather-filled mattress, she made a resolution. Tomorrow her servants would see the return of their old mistress, the woman that was noted for her equability and fairness. And she would start with Roget.

Chapter 7

As soon as Constance Turner became aware that a castle man-at-arms was on guard outside her door, she knew that the castellan intended to take her in for further questioning. She had been alerted to the soldier’s presence by a late-arriving customer, a woman who had come to buy a compound made from rye flour and rosewater that, gently rubbed on the skin, would conceal blemishes. The woman, on seeing the guard, had asked why he was there, and Constance, fumbling for a reply, had said that he had been sent to protect her lest the man who had slain Emma, fearful that she had recognised him, might come to her home to despatch her as well.

More lies upon lies, Constance thought as she had uttered the untruth. I am paying now for not being honest in the first place.

The customer had been agog to hear the details of the murder—news of which had spread quickly through the town—but Constance had forestalled her by saying she was very upset by the experience and could not bear to discuss it.

Once the customer had been given the lotion and reluctantly taken her leave, Constance had called Agnes to her. “If I should be forced to be absent for any length of time,” she said gently to her young servant, “I have left money in the small chest by my bed to sustain your needs.”

As she pressed the key of the tiny strongbox into Agnes’s hand, the girl had started to cry. “Oh, mistress, you cannot mean to leave me here alone!”

“I may have no choice, Agnes. I am certain I will be taken to the castle in the morning for a further interview about Emma’s death. It may be that I shall not return.”

“Oh, mistress,” Agnes had sobbed. “Whatever shall I do without you?”

“You will survive, Agnes,” Constance had said firmly, “just as I must try to do.”

As the distraught little servant left the room, weeping profusely, Constance went to put her workroom in order, tidying all her perfumes and lotions away, and ensuring that those in the process of steeping were firmly stoppered. Taking one last look around the chamber where she so pleasurably spent most of her waking hours, she shut the door and went to try to get a few hours of sleep.

* * *

In the Templar enclave, Bascot de Marins was sitting with the preceptor, Everard d’Arderon, discussing the expected arrival of a temporary commander to take d’Arderon’s place.

“He will be here tomorrow, I am told,” d’Arderon said, his face lined and weary. Now past his sixtieth year, he had been ailing the last few months with pains in his left arm and chest, and had decided to take his corrodiary—retirement to a secluded enclave—available to all Templar brothers whose health was failing. “I would wish, Bascot, that I had left this life on the field of battle,” he said sadly, “but it would seem it is not to be the Lord’s will, and with that I must be content.”

Bascot regarded the preceptor with compassion. He had served under d’Arderon for three years now, and had a great liking for him. In his younger days, the preceptor had spent many years in the Holy Land, battling against the infidel, and had been seconded to the Lincoln preceptory only because he had contracted a recurring tertian fever which impaired his ability to serve on active duty. Now, his well-being further compromised by this latest ailment, he had finally decided to retire. He would be greatly missed by all of the brothers in the commandery.

“Do you know the identity of the brother that will take over from you?” Bascot asked.

D’Arderon nodded. “He is a Scot, by the name of Feradac MacHeth. Distantly related to the Earl of Ross, I believe. I have never met him, but have heard good reports of his character. He happened to be at the London commandery when my request to be allowed to retire arrived, and the London Master, Thomas Berard, nominated him for the post until a permanent preceptor is chosen. He is, I believe, about your own age, and joined the Order at Temple Ballentradoch in his homeland. He has been on active duty in Outremer, and in Portugal, and is reputed to be a valiant knight, and one that has served with distinction.”

Bascot nodded. He could hear the sadness in d’Arderon’s voice. MacHeth’s reputation was on a par with the preceptor’s own in his younger days. They discussed the information that needed to be handed over to Brother Feradac—details of the properties that were held by the Order in Lincolnshire, lists of equipment and foodstuffs in the commandery’s store, and the schedules of the troupes of Templar brothers that would arrive in the next few weeks. Finally, seeing d’Arderon was tiring, Bascot rose to leave, but as he did so, the preceptor broached a subject that was not connected to their duties.

“I was told earlier today by Brother John that a young woman, the daughter of an armourer whose services we have used on occasion, has been murdered in the greenwood just north of Lincoln. And while she was praying at a shrine to St. Dunstan, I understand. Have you heard of it?”

“Yes, Preceptor, I have, although the details, so far, are sketchy.”

D’Arderon heaved a sigh. “It is a crime of great sacrilege and, I am told, has unsettled many of the lay brothers.” He looked up at Bascot. “Lady Nicolaa has sought your help on many murder investigations; she may well do so with this one. If she does, de Marins, you have my permission to assist her. It is our duty to fight evil wherever it is found, whether in the Holy Land or our own Christian countries. Such a villain must be caught, and without delay.”

Bascot bowed his head in acquiescence. He, too, had been appalled by the crime, and wanted justice for the victim. If it was God’s will to use him as His instrument in bringing that about, he would be more than happy to comply.

* * *

It lacked yet an hour to dawn and the greenwood was silent around the shrine of St. Dunstan. Above, in the still darkness of the sky, the moon was full and riding low on the horizon, gliding with an almost imperceptible movement just above the tops of the surrounding trees. In its glimmer, it could be seen that the villagers of Burton had nailed the little silver horseshoe that Emma had brought as an offering—and dropped when she had been attacked—at the apex of the wooden covering over the shrine, hoping it would help to dispel any evil influence that lingered after her murder.

At the edge of the dell a man stood viewing the scene before him. He was cloaked and hooded, and scanned the trees around the shrine carefully before slowly creeping forward to the spot where he had slain the woman. The ravens would be ensconced in their nest, he was sure, and would not stir while night’s darkness continued to reign.

It was still hard for him to realise that he had actually fulfilled the promise he had made and killed the armourer’s daughter. That was why he had come, to relive the moment he had stabbed her to death and convince himself it had been real. He had imagined it for so long—not the where or the how, but the act of slaying her—that now it seemed as though it were a dream. He sighed with satisfaction. The task had not been easy but, in the end, he had triumphed. Now the one person he loved so dearly could be at peace.

With one last lingering look at the moonlit spot where his victim had fallen, he turned and left the dell and, as he did so, two pairs of beady black eyes in the trees above the shrine followed his progress. It was the ravens. The man had not noticed them watching him as he stood in front of St. Dunstan’s statue relishing the memory of his victory. Had he done so, it might have shaken his complacency.

Chapter 8

A short time after first light, Roget arrived at Constance Turner’s house and dismissed the castle man-at-arms that had been on duty overnight. Lady Nicolaa’s habits were well-known to all who served her. She was an early riser and, after attending Mass in the small private chapel in the keep, would expect the morning meal to be laid ready for eating. He did not want to further irritate her with tardiness, and so intended to bring Constance to the keep just as the meal was finishing.

When he rapped softly at the door, it was quickly opened by Agnes. Her face was full of anxiety and her eyes pleading. “I am sorry, ma petite, I have come for your mistress,” he said to her.

Before the girl could emit more than a choked sob, Constance appeared behind her, lightly cloaked for the journey. “I have been expecting you, Captain,” was all she said, and then, giving Agnes a comforting peck on the cheek, stepped over the threshold and fell into step beside him.

The sun shone brightly on the cobbles as they walked up Steep Hill to the castle ward. Not a word was exchanged between them. Constance could see the misery on Roget’s dark visage, and regretted that she was the cause of it. He was a forbidding figure to all the malcontents in the town, but she knew that he was possessed of a tender heart for any who were innocent, especially those weaker than himself. Once again she castigated herself for the lie she had told; even though she knew it had been of no importance, she should have realised it would not appear that way to others.

When they entered the hall, they were met by the castle steward, Eudo. “Lady Nicolaa has instructed me to tell you that she will receive you in the solar,” he said to Roget, and the captain began to wend his way through the servants that were dismantling the trestle tables used earlier for breaking fast and the maidservants collecting remnants of food to be distributed as alms to the poor.

Constance held her head high as she followed him. She could not fail to notice the surreptitious glances that were cast her way by the servants. There was little sympathy in their gazes and she knew they all wondered if she was a murderess.

The solar was a spacious chamber at the top of the keep usually used by Nicolaa to entertain visitors. It was comfortably furnished and had casements along the outer wall, now open to admit a cooling breeze before the heat of the day began. A huge fireplace dominated the far end of the room, the grate empty of logs and swept clean, and it was in front of this that the castellan was sitting in a padded chair with arms. At her side, Gianni was perched on a stool, his writing tablet on his knee.

“Thank you, Captain, for bringing Mistress Turner so promptly,” Nicolaa said to Roget, surprising him with her courtesy. Her demeanour was very different from the day before, and she seemed more like her usual self—cool and decisive, her pale blue eyes clear and penetrating.

“You may wait at the back of the solar until I summon you,” she said to Roget, and he turned and walked to the far end of the chamber, out of earshot.

Motioning for Constance to come and stand in front of her, Nicolaa said, “You are here, mistress, to tell me why you lied about your quarrel with the armourer’s daughter and the cause of it. You may proceed.”

Nervously, Constance repeated what she had said to Roget. “I omitted to inform you, lady, because I felt it was of no import. The argument between Emma and myself took place some weeks ago and we had lately been reconciled. Our disagreement has no bearing on her death.”

“And the nature of this dissension was something to do with a potion she wished you to prepare for her?” Nicolaa asked.

Constance nodded. “As you already know, she was desperate to conceive a child. She told me she had been to one or two apothecaries in the town and purchased mixtures from them that it was claimed would increase her fertility, but to no avail. She thought that I might be able to help her.”

“If the apothecaries’ remedies had failed, why did she believe that you, who are only a perfumer, could render her assistance when learned practitioners had failed to do so?”

“She wished me to prepare a mixture that she had not asked the apothecaries for, one that might make her more receptive to impregnation . . .” Constance trailed off and glanced hesitantly at Gianni, whose olive-coloured complexion had flushed red upon hearing such intimate details.

Nicolaa glanced at her young clerk and, noting his embarrassment, she gestured to the flagon of cider that sat on a small table beside her and said, “Gianni, this cider has become too warm to drink on such a hot morning. Go and instruct one of the stewards to give you a fresh one, and tell him to make sure it has been cooled in the buttery. I will take note of the information Mistress Turner gives in your absence, and you can add it to the record later.”

Thankfully, Gianni arose from his stool and left the room. Nicolaa turned back to Constance. “Continue,” she instructed.

“It is a well-known fact that a woman must enjoy the act of copulation in order to conceive,” Constance said, “but although Emma was very much in love with Wiger, she found that, even after almost two years of marriage, their coupling was still painful and so it was difficult for her to take any pleasure in it. She believed that the only hope of remedying her barrenness was to take an elixir that would increase her desire and thereby enable her to conceive a child.”

“A love philtre, you mean?” the castellan said, disapproval written on her face. Such concoctions smacked of witchcraft, and were not included in the province of God-fearing apothecaries.

“Yes, lady,” Constance replied. She paused for a moment, and then said, “Many of my customers are inclined to gossip about intimate matters when they come to purchase my wares, and some of them have mentioned that, in the first weeks of their marriage they had the same difficulty as Emma but that, after a time, it disappeared. I told her of this and said that if she would have patience, the same could happen to her.”

The castellan nodded in understanding. Some discomfort was to be expected when a virgin bride surrendered her chastity upon marriage, especially if the husband was lusty, and for some women it was of longer duration than others.

“But while Emma was prepared to tell me, her friend,” Constance continued, “that she did not enjoy her husband’s caresses, she feared to tell an apothecary in case her complaint should be repeated to Wiger. It was for the same reason that she did not consult a physician, who would, she was sure, wish to speak to her husband in regard to her problem.”

“While that must have been a difficult situation for her to contend with,” Nicolaa agreed, “it does not explain why she thought that you might be able to help her. Have you knowledge of such mixtures?”

“A little,” Constance admitted. “My father was an apothecary, lady, and I had once told Emma of his profession. He was a very learned man and taught me much before he died, but I have chosen not to use the skills he imparted to me. I make only perfumes and unguents for cosmetic purposes. I do not prepare any mixtures that are medicaments, especially those that contain poisonous plants such as mandragora, which is an ingredient usually used in a concoction such as Emma wanted.”

“Not even to help your friend?” Nicolaa asked sceptically.

Constance’s wide mouth set in a firm line. “No,” she averred.

“And why is that?”

“My father’s death was due, albeit indirectly, to his attempt to aid a woman in distress over a sexual difficulty,” Constance replied shortly. “Nothing would persuade me to follow the same path.”

“Explain that statement to me,” Nicolaa directed.

The perfumer’s shoulders slumped. “I have not always lived in Lincoln, lady,” she said. “I came here four years ago from Boston, after my father died. As I said, he was a very skilled apothecary, but some of his theories about ailments and their cause were . . . different . . . from those commonly accepted, and the other apothecaries in the town regarded him as an incompetent because of it.”

She raised her soft hazel eyes and met Nicolaa’s steadily. “One of the premises he held was particularly distasteful to them, and it was, in an oblique way, related to the very problem with which Emma wished me to help her. Shortly before my father died, a young girl claiming to have been raped became gravid as a result of the assault. As you know, if pregnancy results from this crime, it negates the charge of sexual attack, for it is believed a woman cannot become pregnant unless she enjoys the copulation. This girl was very young and, after she found herself to be carrying a babe, she was so shamed by the accusation that she hung herself. My father, who was a friend of the girl’s parents, was distraught on the family’s behalf, and especially for their poor dead daughter, who had been in such despair that she would rather consign her soul to damnation by committing suicide than live with the opprobrium heaped upon her. He had always opposed the premise that a woman cannot conceive unless she enjoys the act, and vociferously castigated the officials in the town for driving her to the commission of such a terrible sin. His recriminations earned him only one reward—expulsion from the apothecaries’ guild.”

Constance paused for a moment, overtaken with emotion, before continuing in a less abrasive tone. “My father died shortly afterwards of a stoppage of the heart, and I will always believe it was despair that caused his fatal condition. I had no family left—my mother died when I was in infancy—and I took the small savings he left me and moved to Lincoln, so I would be far away from those who I believe were responsible for his demise. I also made a vow that I would never use such knowledge as I had to prepare medicaments, especially those pertaining to intimate matters. I saw what it did to my father, and I do not intend to allow it to happen to me.”

Nicolaa had no doubt that the perfumer was telling the truth. It glistened in her eyes and in the manner in which she was barely holding tears in check.

“Did you explain all of this to the armourer’s daughter when you refused her request for aid?”

Constance shook her head. “No, I only told her that I would not help her, not the reason why. She became very upset with me when I declined and we did not speak for some weeks. When she came to see me a few days ago, she was repentant, and begged my forgiveness. We made the quarrel up, and it was then that she asked me to go with her to the shrine.”

“Very well, mistress, I accept your explanation,” Nicolaa decided, “but that still does not answer the question of why you did not tell me about this disagreement before. If it was, as you claim, of no relevance, then what was your purpose in keeping it secret?”

“There were two reasons, lady. One, I admit, was that if you knew I had quarrelled with Emma it might prompt you to view me as a suspect. The other is that she told me about her repugnance of her husband’s lovemaking in confidence. If I had repeated to you the nature of our discord, I feared that a report of it might be relayed to him. Wiger has enough grief to bear for the loss of his wife; I did not want to distress him further with the knowledge that she found his embraces distasteful.”

At that moment, Gianni returned bearing a flagon of cider. The castellan motioned for him to retake his place upon the stool and continue with his task of taking notes.

Nicolaa leaned back in her chair as she considered the perfumer’s statement. Finally, she asked, “Was there any witness to the conversation between you and your friend when you refused to aid her?”

“No, lady. I live alone except for a young maidservant. She was not present when we discussed the matter.”

“Then unfortunately, as is the case with the evidence you gave about the murder, you have no one who can substantiate your claim.”

The castellan paused for a moment and then said, “I am inclined to give some credence to your statement, but as there is no verification, I must investigate it further before dismissing you as a suspect. You will be confined here in the castle gaol until such a time as that has been done.”

Constance made no protest. She had been expecting such a decision and was prepared for it. The castellan motioned for Roget to come forward and instructed him to take Mistress Turner to a holding cell. Before he could lead her away, however, Nicolaa asked her one final question.

“On what premise did your father form his innovative theory about female conception?”

“He based his conclusion on his many observations of the enforced mating of kine and horses,” Constance replied. “His father—my grandsire—had an extensive holding outside Boston on which there were a large number of dairy cows and workhorses. During his childhood, my father had often witnessed that cows unwilling to mate had to be held in place while copulation with a bull took place. The same with horses; a reluctant mare needed to be tethered while the stallion mounted her. Although this could be considered akin to rape if their species were human, the union would still, more often than not, be productive of offspring. He reasoned that if it is that way with cattle and horses, it could be so with people.”

Nicolaa stared thoughtfully after the perfumer as she was taken from the room. Her father sounded as though he had been an intelligent and observant man, even if his theories were radical. If his daughter had inherited these traits, might she not have exceptional skills as well, including the ability to dissemble? Was her tale a complete fabrication, or was it the truth?

Chapter 9

A short time later, Nicolaa was still sitting in the solar alone. She had given Gianni a brief précis of that portion of Mistress Turner’s evidence he had missed—wording it so that the lad did not suffer any embarrassment—and then he had gone to write up his notes. The castellan walked over to the window and, because the solar was situated at the top of the keep, she could see a far distance. To the south, beyond the bail and the castle walls, lay the town, the diverse collection of buildings almost seeming to slide down the side of the knoll on which the castle and Minster were set, terminating at the banks of the Witham River. Once again a murderer was disturbing the peace of those who lived in the bailiwick for which she and her husband were responsible, and she was determined to see justice done in order to bring a modicum of solace to the family of the slain woman.

As she was pondering the problem, a servant came to tell her that Roger de Rolleston, dean of Lincoln cathedral, was in the hall and requesting a private audience with her. She nodded in assent and told the manservant to show him up and to bring some refreshment for his comfort.

A few moments later, the dean was shown into the room and a flagon of herbal cordial flavoured with honey was set on a table near the unlit fireplace. Motioning her guest to be seated, she returned to her own chair.

Dean Roger was a man of young years for his office. He was of medium height, a bit pudgy, and had kindly blue eyes. Mild mannered and equable, he was popular with the other clerics in the town and also the townsfolk.

“Bishop William has sent me to enquire into the progress that is being made in the search for the murderer of the young woman at St. Dunstan’s shrine.”

Bishop William’s full name was William of Blois, and he had just been elected to his post the previous year. The see had been vacant for over two years after the death of the saintly Hugh of Avalon, and William had finally been appointed. So far, he had proved himself very capable in his new office.

“We are not much further forward than when her body was found,” Nicolaa replied. “Why is the bishop concerned about the matter?”

Dean Roger took a sip from his cup before speaking. “Even though the murder took place only yesterday, lady, there is a burgeoning panic in the town. Rumour is rife and they are fearful.”

“How so?” Nicolaa asked.

“Because it is being said that Satan is responsible, either by taking on the shape of a man and committing the evil deed Himself, or by sending a demon to possess some hapless individual and forcing him to kill on hallowed ground. The whole populace is now afraid that this devilish assailant will seek out another holy place to commit murder and, as a result, are reluctant to attend Mass lest they, too, be struck down.”

The dean placed his cup down beside him and raised troubled eyes to Nicolaa. “Mass at the cathedral this morning was attended by only a faithful few, and even they were full of anxiety, not giving full attention to the service but looking around them continuously, each one at his neighbour, wondering if the killer was amongst them. I have been told this also happened in most of the other churches in Lincoln today.”

Nicolaa was horror-stricken. “But this panic is unwarranted. There is no proof that the Devil was involved; the simple facts are that a young woman was stabbed to death by an unknown assailant, and that is all.”

Dean Roger shook his head sadly. “Logic will not prevail here, lady, I regret to say. The only way to quell their fear is for the murderer to be caught and his motive proved to be an earthly one. If this does not happen soon, I fear our houses of worship will be empty and, whether or not Satan is responsible, He will surely rejoice at the outcome.”

Nicolaa stirred uneasily in her chair. There were many references in the Bible to men and women being possessed by demons and, as much as she did not want to believe that such was the case in this death, she could not, with any surety, deny that it was a possibility.

“Bishop William has promised to reconsecrate St. Dunstan’s shrine in the hope it will allay alarm,” the dean continued, “but it would, of course, greatly assist our purpose if the murderer was captured and the people’s fear put to rest. That is why I am come, to enquire if you are hopeful of an early arrest.”

“I cannot answer your question with any certainty,” Nicolaa replied. “I shall do my utmost to discover the murderer’s identity with all speed but, as I am sure you will agree, the outcome is in God’s hands, not mine.”

“Just so, lady,” the dean replied. Thanking her politely for her time, he drained his cup and rose from his seat. “The bishop would be obliged if you would keep him apprised of the situation and has asked me to relay to you his assurance that if he can be of any assistance in the search for the assailant, you have only to ask and his help will be given.”

Nicolaa felt a great weight descend on her as the dean left the chamber. This was a situation that could not be allowed to continue, and one that she, as castellan of Lincoln castle, and deputy in his absence for her husband, Gerard, sheriff of Lincoln, bore the responsibility of resolving. The murderer must be apprehended with all haste if the disquietude of the townspeople was to be mollified. Setting her cup down on the table, she left the solar with an air of determination and made her way to the scriptorium.

The chamber where Nicolaa’s clerks carried out their duties was set at the top of one of the corner turrets of the keep, and had larger casements than those on the lower floors to allow a good proportion of daylight to enter. There were three lecterns in the room; Gianni was working at one of them while Lambert, a clerk of more mature years, was transcribing documents at the desk next to him. John Blund was seated at a table, making notes from the information recorded on the sheets of parchment in front of him. The air was filled with the pungent odour of ink and an atmosphere of serenity.

When the castellan entered, they were all surprised, for she almost never came to the chamber unannounced. Quickly scrambling up from their seats, they all gave her a nod of deference, but she made a signal for them to be reseated, while she herself remained standing.

“I regret the need to disturb your working day, John, and interrupt the duties of your clerks,” she said to Blund hurriedly, “but a matter of some urgency has arisen about which I must speak to you all.”

Blund nodded respectfully, and waited for her to continue. “It is concerning the murder that took place yesterday. The killer must be found with all despatch, and I have need of someone to lead the investigation on my behalf.” She paused for a moment and then said, “I have in mind for Gianni to assist me in this matter, John, but I am loath, in view of your ill health, to burden you with the extra work that will be laid on your and Lambert’s shoulders by his absence. Can you manage without him for a few days?

“Of course, lady,” Blund replied, noting Gianni’s look of surprise and gratification at their mistress’s request, and Lambert’s quick nod of acquiescence. “The midsummer rolls will not be submitted for a week or two yet, and those from Lady Day have all been checked and filed away. There are only the daily accounts to contend with at the moment, and Lambert and I can easily cope with those on our own.”

“Very well,” the castellan said gratefully. “I appreciate your cooperation.”

She turned to Gianni. “You will attend me immediately,” she instructed. “We have much to discuss and time is of the essence.”

* * *

Once seated in her private chamber, the castellan quickly related to Gianni how alarm had spread through the town because of the murder and why, and that it was crucial to learn the killer’s identity as soon as possible.

“This investigation must be undertaken swiftly,” she said, “and that is why I have taken you away from your duties.”

Gianni nodded obediently, and tried to conceal his apprehension. He, like all of Christendom, was fearful of the Devil and His minions. To hunt down a human murderer was physically dangerous, it was true, but his heart quailed at the thought of confronting a satanic killer. Dark memories from his early childhood of witnessing the power of evil surged unbidden into his mind, and it was with great difficulty that he forced them aside so he could listen attentively as Lady Nicolaa went on.

“While I know that you are fully capable of conducting this investigation on your own, Gianni, you are as aware as I that your inability to speak makes it difficult for you to question witnesses or potential suspects.”

Again Gianni nodded. In the initial stages of the investigation of the king’s murdered servant in Canterbury, Miles de Laxton, a literate household knight who had accompanied them on the journey south, had assisted Gianni in gathering relevant information by reading the questions that the lad had written down on his wax tablet, and the ensuing interrogations had proved a simple task. But now Miles was away, included in the escort Gerard Camville had taken with him on his few days’ sojourn outside Lincoln, and so was not available.

“Neither Roget nor Ernulf, unfortunately,” Nicolaa continued, “can read or write, and cannot aid you in this aspect. Apart from Lambert—who cannot be spared from the scriptorium—there is no other person among my servants that is suitable, so I have it in mind to ask Preceptor d’Arderon if he will allow Bascot de Marins to come to our aid.”

This time Gianni’s nod was a thankful one. The Templar was a soldier of Christ, and his strong faith would be a protective shield against the wiles of the Devil. Quite apart from that, Bascot was a man the lad loved above all others; not only had the Templar rescued him from starvation in his native Palermo by taking him on as his servant and bringing him to England, but he also had taught Gianni to read and write and was responsible for the fulfilment of the lad’s heartfelt aspiration to become a clerk. His company was welcome at any time, but most especially now.

“If de Marins cannot be spared,” Nicolaa added, “then we must rethink our tactics, but I hope it will not come to that, and we will not concern ourselves with the problem until after I have received Preceptor d’Arderon’s reply.”

As the castellan began to dictate the message that was to be sent to the Templar enclave, Gianni sent up a prayer of his own that his former master would be allowed to come to the aid of his mistress—and himself.

Chapter 10

The temporary preceptor, Feradac MacHeth, had arrived earlier that morning and was with d’Arderon when Lady Nicolaa’s request arrived. The Scot was a tall, rangily built knight, with wiry sandy-coloured hair and freckled skin. To d’Arderon’s relief, he appeared full of energy, even though he had recently been sent back to England from Portugal after a prolonged bout of dysentery had left him too debilitated to carry out his duties.

“I’m almost recovered now, Brother Everard,” he assured the preceptor in an accent that held barely a trace of his Scottish origins. “I was expecting to soon be able to return to my post when your request arrived, and so Master Berard thought it would be worthwhile to complete my convalescence here, and fulfil your duties until a permanent preceptor is found to take your place.”

“I am grateful to both you and Master Berard,” d’Arderon replied. “I must admit that I have left my retirement past time, but I was loath to leave.”

“Do not be downhearted, Brother, and take comfort in the knowledge that you have served Christ and the Order well for many a year. Our Lord willing, you will have a long and comfortable rest.”

At that moment one of the castle men-at-arms arrived with the message from Lady Nicolaa. D’Arderon scanned it; his literacy was not of a high standard but he managed to comprehend the drift of it, and told MacHeth what it contained and that he intended to comply with the request.

“I have heard of Brother Bascot,” MacHeth replied, “and his talent for rooting out secret murderers. It is a gift from God and, you are right, it should be used whenever there is need.”

* * *

A short time later Bascot went to the castle. As he rode through the Minster grounds after leaving the preceptory, he was surprised to see that the huge open space around the cathedral was devoid of human presence, with only one or two stray dogs in sight. There were no parishioners, nor even any of the stall-holders that sold hot pies and other pastries to those that came to attend the services. It was an eerie sight, and one that sent an uneasy chill through him.

When he arrived at the keep, the steward, Eudo, came hurriedly to greet him, and told him that Lady Nicolaa had left word he was to be granted immediate access to her presence.

“She is in the herb garden, Sir Bascot,” Eudo said, “and will, I know, be very pleased to receive you.”

The Templar knew the environs of the castle well from the time when he and Gianni had lived there when they first came to Lincoln, and made his way to the sheltered space in a corner of the bail where herbs for cooking, cleansing and medicinal purposes were grown. At this time of year the aroma from the growing plants was delightful. Scents of mint, marjoram, rosemary and thyme co-mingled in heady profusion, bringing pleasure to the senses.

When he went through the gate into the garden, he saw Lady Nicolaa seated on a stone bench, her serving maid, Clare, standing beside her holding a small parcel of wrapped linen. Gianni was also there and his face lit up with pleasure when he saw his former master. The Templar responded with a heartfelt smile of his own. He and the lad had not seen each other since they had been in Canterbury some months before, but the bond between them was strong and parting could never diminish it.

The castellan also gave him a warm greeting. “I take it by your presence here, de Marins, that Preceptor d’Arderon has given permission for you to investigate this latest murder?”

“He has, lady, and was more than willing to do so,” Bascot replied.

“Then you are well come indeed, de Marins. I trust that with your aid this villain will be found without delay. Come, sit by me and I will give you the details.”

When Bascot was seated, Nicolaa hesitated for a moment and then said, “Before I begin, I must first warn you that the townspeople have become very alarmed by this killing because the crime was perpetrated in a place of holiness. They are, I have been told, convinced that the Devil took on the guise of a mortal and committed the crime Himself, or else He sent an evil entity to possess the man who did it, even though there is, so far, no evidence to indicate the truth of either conception. As a result, they are fearful the murderer may strike again in another sacred precinct and so are reluctant to attend Mass, or any other service. The town’s churches are almost empty.”

The deserted appearance of the cathedral grounds was now explained and Bascot nodded. “It is not surprising they should think thus. Secret murder in a holy place is a crime of great sacrilege, and it is difficult to comprehend that anyone other than Satan would be responsible for such a deed. Let us pray that we will soon be able to resolve the truth of the matter.”

Nicolaa heaved a sigh of relief. De Marins, as a Templar knight and a soldier for Christ, was one of those of whom St. Bernard of Clairvaux, the main supporter of the Order, had written, “are secure on every side, for their souls are protected by the armour of faith, just as their bodies are protected by the armour of steel. They are thus doubly armed, and need fear neither demons nor men.” To have Bascot’s help would greatly facilitate the investigation if a demonic entity was involved.

The castellan then apprised Bascot of the information that had been gleaned so far—that the woman who had been murdered was Emma Ferroner, the daughter of a prominent armourer, how the death was reported to the reeve of Burton village by Constance Turner, that the reeve had then transported the corpse back to Lincoln bringing Mistress Turner with him, of the perfumer’s subsequent arrest, and that Roget had advised the victim’s father and husband of her death. She also told him that Gianni would be excused from his clerical work to aid in the investigation.

“I am not fully certain of Mistress Turner’s guilt, de Marins,” she added, relating how the perfumer had claimed to have been saved from death herself by a pair of ravens that guarded the shrine and of her own doubts about whether this was true or not. “If she is telling the truth, then we must look further afield for the person responsible.”

She paused for a moment and then said, “In accord with your premise that a victim’s corpse should always be examined for traces of the murderer’s identity, and since, for propriety’s sake, it was appropriate that a woman carry out the chore, I sent Clare earlier this morning to inspect the body, just as she did with the king’s slain female servant in Canterbury. Unless you wish a further examination to be made after you have heard her report, I shall arrange for Mistress Ferroner’s remains to be taken to the chapel of St. Thomas, the parish church where she is to be buried.”

Bascot looked at Clare in anticipation. She was a fresh-faced and comely young woman who was a sempstress in the castle household but also acted, on occasion, as Lady Nicolaa’s tirewoman. It had been in the latter capacity that she had been included in the castellan’s entourage when Nicolaa had travelled to Canterbury a few months ago and had, as just mentioned, assisted in the subsequent murder investigation by scrutinising the murdered woman’s body for traces of her killer. On that occasion, although she had been dismayed by the gruesome nature of the chore, she had been very competent; he expected she would prove to be the same this time.

“As stated by Constance Turner, and now confirmed by Clare, Mistress Ferroner’s life was taken by two stab wounds in the back. The perfumer said that she expired almost immediately,” Nicolaa continued, “and also told us that the knife used to murder her friend was dropped by the assailant at the scene of the crime when the ravens attacked him, and she retrieved it later. To confirm that it truly is the weapon that was used, Clare has compared the width of the blade with the wounds on the body and tells me it matches.”

She turned to the sempstress and directed her to show the knife to Bascot.

Clare unwrapped the bundle she was holding and handed him the weapon with a shudder of distaste. “I inserted the knife into both of the wounds, lord. It fits them exactly, right up to the hilt.”

Bascot looked carefully at the weapon. It was an ordinary knife, with a blade of moderate width and a length of about seven inches, of a type that would be used for trimming leather, cutting reeds or similar tasks, and long enough to have pierced the heart and brought about the quick death that Mistress Turner had described. He looked up at Clare.

“What is the position of the wounds?” he asked.

“They are both on the left side of the back, high up, between the spine and the shoulder blade,” she replied, “and betwixt two pair of ribs, one above the other.”

The Templar looked at Nicolaa and raised his eyebrows, and the castellan, in turn, nodded. “The work of a hired assassin, do you think?” she asked.

Bascot gave her query some thought before he answered. Both of them were aware, Bascot by his military expertise and the castellan through her involvement with the training of the garrison soldiers, that it is not always an easy task to kill by striking at the back of an enemy or victim. The upper part of the torso is well protected by the bones of the skeleton, both front and back, and it often requires numerous thrusts to effect injury serious enough to cause death. To find the vulnerable spot between the upper ribs with just two blows, as had happened in this case, requires the fine hand of an experienced killer.

“Perhaps,” he said to Nicolaa, “but it is a strange blade for a man seasoned to arms to use. I would have expected such a killer to use one more suitable for his purpose.” A long thin knife such as a misericorde—a dagger often carried by knights that was comprised of not much more than a narrow spike and was an effective killing weapon—would have been much more efficient. It would have slid into the spaces between the ribs with ease.

“And then there is the fact that the assailant dropped it,” he added. “An experienced assassin would be ready for attack from any quarter; when the ravens flew at him is it not more likely he would have struck out at them with his weapon than panicked and dropped it?”

“That troubled me, too,” the castellan admitted. “Do you think the perfumer could have killed her friend and is fabricating this story of an assailant to cover her own guilt?”

The Templar mused on her question before he made a reply. “I suppose it is possible, although the thrusts must have been delivered strongly, perhaps too hardly for a woman’s strength. And surely it is not likely she would have enough knowledge of the human anatomy to deliver such well-directed blows.”

“She is young and appears vigorous. The passion of the moment may have lent power to her arm,” the castellan responded to his first objection. “And,” she added with regard to the second, “her father was an apothecary. Might she not have learned the structure of the skeleton through him?”

“Perhaps,” Bascot admitted. “It is a likelihood we shall have to bear in mind.”

He looked again at the knife; the killer must have wielded it from a sideways position so that the blade entered her body horizontally, for the blade was too wide to have entered vertically without being impeded by bone. He asked Clare if this was so and she gave him confirmation that the wounds were horizontal in placement.

He again turned the knife over in his hands. There was nothing on it to give any indication of who might have owned it. At the join of the blade with the haft was a strip of grimy residue where it had not been cleansed properly. Other than that, there was nothing remarkable about its appearance. He re-wrapped it in the square of linen and put it aside on the bench and then asked Clare if she had seen any marks other than the stab wounds on the body.

“Only two small abrasions, lord, one on her forehead and the other on her cheek, that likely happened when she fell face forward and struck the ground after she was stabbed.”

“And you examined her clothing as well?” Bascot asked.

“I did,” she confirmed, “and except for the blood on the back of her gown, and some traces of dirt on the front from the greenwood floor, there was nothing that seemed untoward.”

“And her appearance,” Bascot said, “would you describe her to me?”

Clare reflected on the request for a moment before answering. “She was tall for a woman, lord, and lean, with not much flesh on her bones. Her hair was pale brown and her complexion fair.” She hesitated for a moment, and then added, “Although it seems disrespectful to speak so of the poor woman, she was not well-favoured. Not only were her features plain, but she had some small scars on her face, as well as on her torso and arms and legs. The marks looked old, and I do not think were inflicted by accident or intent, but were probably the result of a skin infection she suffered during her childhood. She had one attractive attribute, however, and that was her eyes. They were of a luminous shade of green that, with life’s animation, would have been beautiful.”

“You have done well, Clare,” Nicolaa commended, knowing how distasteful the sempstress had found the experience. “You may return to the keep now. If Sir Bascot has any further questions, I will send for you.”

As the young woman walked quietly away, Bascot studied the castellan. The last time he had seen her had been at the end of January, almost five months before, when he had returned a sealed letter she had entrusted to him in Canterbury with the instructions to keep it, unopened, until she should arrive safely back in Lincoln. She had never revealed to him what the missive had contained, but he was certain it had some connection to the king. She had seemed strained throughout the whole murder investigation in Canterbury and her malaise had not improved on the last occasion he had been in her company. But now, he was pleased to note, she seemed to have regained the composure that had been natural to her during the years he had known her. Her small figure was upright and radiated a familiar confidence.

“Well, de Marins, what is the next step you wish to take?” she asked. “You will want to speak to the relatives of the dead woman, I expect. Do you wish to do that next? Or would you rather interrogate Mistress Turner?”

“First I would like Gianni to accompany me to the shrine,” Bascot said, with a glance at the lad, who nodded in agreement, “to ensure the killer has not left any traces that have been overlooked. From there we can go to Burton. The murderer may have been in the neighbourhood prior to attacking the victim—one of villagers might have seen him without realising the purpose of his presence there.”

The Templar paused. “Once that has been done, we will speak to the family. You said that you sent Roget to apprise them of Mistress Ferroner’s death?”

At Nicolaa’s nod, he requested that the captain accompany them to the armoury when he and Gianni went there. “He is familiar to the father and husband,” he explained, “and will be a useful liaison while I interview them.”

“And Mistress Turner?” Nicolaa asked.

“We will leave her until last,” Bascot replied. “If we are armed with as many facts as it is possible to obtain, it might make it easier to ascertain whether or not she is telling the truth.”

Chapter 11

Leaving the castellan in the herb garden, the Templar and Gianni went out to the stables to order a mount saddled for the lad. As they waited for a groom to attend to the task, the pair stood in easy company and Bascot noted that Gianni was developing a maturity that was evident in the confidence of his stride and the upright manner in which he held his shoulders. His unruly mop of black curly hair had been shorn and a shadow of darkness on his cheeks revealed he had now begun to shave. In his dark green tunic with the de la Haye emblem of a five-pointed star on the breast, and the leather pouch containing his writing implements strapped to the belt around his waist, he looked every inch the valued and competent clerk he had striven so hard to become. The Templar’s heart swelled with pride as he regarded him.

With Bascot on the grey gelding he had ridden from the commandery and Gianni on a palfrey, they left the bail and turned onto Ermine Street and, a few moments later, passed through Newport Arch and headed north.

As they turned off and rode along the path to the sanctuary, it soon became obvious that Bishop William had not made any delay in carrying out his intention to reconsecrate the shrine. Before they had left the herb garden, Nicolaa de la Haye had told the Templar about Dean Roger’s visit and, as he and Gianni neared the dell where the shrine was located, they saw three palfreys in the care of a groom, all caparisoned with coverings emblazoned with the insignia of the see of Lincoln. Farther ahead a group of villagers were gathered about the statue of St. Duncan, heads bowed respectfully as a priest, in full liturgical regalia consisting of a chasuble worn over an alb and a stole at the neck, intoned the final words of the rite. Two Benedictine monks stood a little behind him to assist in the ceremony, attired in the black robes of their order. As Bascot and Gianni quietly dismounted and stood at the back of the crowd, one of the monks held out a flask of holy water to sprinkle around the base of the statue. As the priest turned to take the vial, the Templar recognised him as Dean Roger, who was a familiar figure in the cathedral precincts. The bishop must indeed be concerned about the repercussions that had followed the murder, the Templar reflected, to send such a high-ranking cleric to conduct the cleansing.

After leading the small congregation in a closing prayer and then a paternoster, the dean brought the service to an end. In the overhanging branches of an oak tree, two ravens were perched, silently watching the proceedings.

Before leaving the dell, Dean Roger spoke a few words of encouragement to the villagers, telling them that, henceforth, they need have no fear to tend the shrine or take the path that led past it. “Any trace of the evil act that was done here has now been expunged,” he assured them, “by the blessing of Our Lord Jesus Christ Himself.”

With this closing remark, he and the monks made their way from the tiny glade, and went back to where their mounts were waiting.

Before the crowd of villagers could disperse, Bascot walked over and spoke to one of them, a man who seemed to have a bearing of authority. “I am Bascot de Marins of the Templar Order, and have been sent by Lady Nicolaa de la Haye to investigate the murder that took place here,” he said. “I would like to speak to Rudd, the reeve of Burton village. Are you he?”

“I am,” the man confirmed. “How may I help you, lord?”

“I would like to ask if you, or any of the other villagers, have recently seen any strangers in the area—either on the morning that the young woman was slain, or during the days before.”

The reeve was a man who suited his name, for both his hair and countenance were a fiery red. Rubbing the rusty-coloured stubble on his chin with his fingers, he hesitated before answering but, when he did, he was forthright. “I begs your pardon, lord, if I seems too forward, but all of us in the village is certain as how ’twas the Devil that killed that poor young woman. Two days afore she was murdered, just about midday, the ravens wus makin’ a terrible fuss, croakin’ and cawin’ like we’ve never heard, and we cum runnin’ to see what was the matter.

“We couldn’t find anything amiss here in the dell, so we thought it might be that some crows had attacked them—crows will do that, you know, for even though they are smaller birds, they can fly faster than ravens and swoop and dive more quickly—while trying to steal food that penitents had left for the guardians of the shrine, but we couldn’t see any. Now, after we’ve all had time to think it over, we’re sartin sure that the birds were tryin’ to warn us that Satan, or one of his demons, was near.”

Bascot glanced up at the birds, still sitting bright-eyed and watchful. Or, the Templar thought, it could have been that they had been disturbed by a mortal murderer, come to inspect the place where he planned to commit his crime.

The Templar told Rudd nothing of his thoughts, just thanked him for the information and then watched as he and the other villagers walked back down the path that led to Burton. Once they had gone, he went over to the shrine. Of simple construction, similar to many found in the countryside all over England, it bore no obvious marks of the recent tragedy. The ground, having been trampled by the feet of the dean and his assistants and also the villagers during the reconsecration, was too scuffed to find any trace of the murderer’s passage.

“It is a shame that so many have been here since the death took place,” Bascot said to Gianni after relating what the reeve had said, and his own opinion that in addition to a devilish presence, the disturbance could just as easily been caused by a man come to reconnoitre the spot where he would lie in wait for his victim. “If the killer left behind any sign of his identity, it has now been obliterated.”

Gianni made a gesture encompassing the encircling woods to ask if he should search the trees for traces of the assailant. Bascot nodded. The lad had sharp eyes; if there was anything to be found, he would discover it.

As Gianni walked to the edge of the dell and stepped carefully into the greenwood, and began peering at the ground and into the undergrowth, Bascot reviewed what Lady Nicolaa had told him of Mistress Turner’s evidence. The murdered woman must have fallen not far from where he was standing, just a foot or two from the base of the pile of weathered stone on which the statue of St. Dunstan stood. As he tried to re-enact the murder in his mind, a small movement distracted him. It was one of the ravens, which had flown down and alighted on the ground a small way from where he was standing. As he turned his head towards it, it hopped closer, carrying something in its beak. Bascot watched with interest, standing very still and waiting to see its intent. The bird came closer until it was level with him and then dropped whatever it was carrying beside his feet. After one bright upward glance from its black eye, it hopped away again and took flight back up into the tree.

The Templar reached down and picked up what the raven had been carrying. It was a scrap of rough linen, of a quality used to fashion inexpensive summer cloaks worn by people of lesser means, and entwined in the weave of the fabric were a few strands of hair, dark auburn in colour. He recalled that Lady Nicolaa had told him that Constance Turner had said that when the ravens attacked the assailant they had pecked at his head as they had driven him away. This scrap of material must be a part of the hood attached to the murderer’s cloak, he thought, and the birds had torn it off during their onslaught, taking along a few strands of the killer’s hair as they did so.

Realizing he had just been given an important piece of evidence, Bascot looked up gratefully into the boughs of the tree. Both birds were now on one of the lower branches, perched side by side, watching him. Bowing his head, he offered up a prayer of thanks to God and St. Dunstan for the vigilance of the sentinels they had sent to guard the shrine.

Chapter 12

“From what Gianni and I learned at the shrine today, lady, there is no longer any doubt in my mind. I have certain proof that neither the Devil nor a demon was responsible for Emma Ferroner’s death,” Bascot said to Nicolaa after they had returned to the castle and been shown into her private chamber.

Handing the castellan the scrap of cloth the ravens had given him, he related how he had come by it. “You will recall that Mistress Turner told us that the ravens flew at Emma Ferroner’s assailant and attacked him with their beaks. Her witness is borne out by that piece of material, for they must have torn it from the hood covering the murderer’s head, and that is why one of the birds gave it to me. St. Dunstan, through his shrine’s guardians, is sending us a message, lady. Of what import would this piece of evidence be if the murderer had been the Devil? He can change shape at will; whatever clothing He assumed would have vanished in the transformation along with this scrap of fabric.”

The castellan crossed herself and looked down at the cloth. “Thanks be to God,” she murmured, “and St. Dunstan. The saint and Lucifer are old enemies; they know each other well and therefore, through this evidence, he is telling us that it is not the Devil that committed the crime.”

“And neither, do I believe, is it a man possessed by a demon. While it is true that, as described in the Bible, inhabitation by such an entity is possible, it is also very rare. And in the few cases I have heard described, the occupancy usually results in a severe physical disability or a mazing of the wits. I do not think such a poor tortured soul would, as is indicated by what the reeve told me, have had the foresight to go to the shrine two days prior to his crime in order to reconnoitre the place where he intended to kill.”

“Yes,” Nicolaa agreed. “When I was young, I remember there was a woman in one of the villages in my father’s demesne who claimed she had a demon inside her head that was making her brain ache insufferably. She apparently kept banging her head on the ground and on walls in an effort to make the demon depart. My father sent for a priest to go to the village and exorcise her, but before he had time to get there she had thrown herself into the village pool and drowned. I think your deduction is correct, de Marins; our murderer has been too canny to be possessed by a demon.”

She pondered for a moment and then said, “This evidence is incontrovertible for me, but I fear the townsfolk are too panic-stricken to follow the reasoning, even if they are told it was obtained by St. Dunstan’s intercession. As Dean Roger reminded me, logic is unlikely to prevail in this instance. The only proof that will satisfy the populace is for the culprit to be apprehended and revealed to be just a mortal man who has an earthly motive for murder.”

After examining the scrap of cloth in her hand, she added, “From this piece of evidence, it would appear that Mistress Turner was telling the truth after all.”

“Yes, and there are further signs that prove her story,” the Templar replied. “Gianni made a thorough search of the woods, and found that some of the bushes in the undergrowth had leaves and stems that were badly broken as though someone had trampled them in haste. That fits with the perfumer’s description of the assailant’s wild flight when the ravens chased him.”

The castellan walked over to the narrow casement set in the outside wall of her private chamber, and held the small piece of material up to the light. It was roughly triangular in shape, with a blunt end that tapered to a narrow apex where a few threads of the fabric hung loose. The hairs that were entangled in the cloth were all approximately six inches in length and dark brown, but glinted with a reddish hue when held up to the narrow bar of sunlight streaming through the window.

Nicolaa returned to her desk and laid the scrap on the table. “The strands are short, so it is unlikely they came from a woman’s head,” she said, “although that is not impossible if they were torn from the hairline. But it is more likely they belong to a man, as Mistress Turner asserted, and not a female garbed in masculine clothing.”

“I agree, lady,” Bascot replied. “But even though we can assume the gender with a degree of confidence, it will still be difficult to identify the owner. That colour of hair is not uncommon and there are many people with rents in the hoods they wear that have been torn by innocent accident or simply through wear. Nonetheless, this evidence will greatly aid us. Any man that has hair of a different hue can be eliminated from suspicion—at least from commission of the actual deed—and if we have a suspect that fits the criterion of hair colour and who possesses a hood with a tear of that shape, it will go far towards confirming his guilt.”

Nicolaa touched the material with a forefinger. “Strange how past experiences often repeat themselves, de Marins,” Nicolaa opined. “I recall that, shortly after you arrived in Lincoln, it was a tiny piece of material that helped lead you to the person who murdered four people in an alehouse.”

Gianni, who was busily writing down all that had been seen and heard that morning, looked up and the Templar nodded. “Except that time, lady, it was Gianni who was guided to the finding of it, not myself.”

He tucked the bit of fabric back into his scrip. “Apart from those involved in the investigation, it would be wise to keep this information private. The less information the killer realises we have about him, the easier it will be to take him unawares.”

The castellan gave a nod of agreement.

“And as for the reeve’s evidence that the ravens were making a disturbance at the shrine two days prior to the killing,” Bascot continued, “if we find a suspect who has no witness to his presence anywhere else at that time, it will strengthen the case against him.”

“This new information goes some way towards eliminating Mistress Turner’s culpability, but it does not exonerate her completely,” Nicolaa said thoughtfully. “Thanks to the ravens, her evidence is now proved truthful in that it was someone else who carried out the murder, but there is still no surety that she was not an accomplice. I cannot dismiss the fact that she lied about having an argument with the victim.

“I will keep her in custody for the time being,” she decided. “You said you wished to interrogate her after you had visited the armoury, de Marins. Is that still your intent?”

“No, I will speak to her beforehand. Now it is certain we are looking for a mortal killer, there is an urgency to discover his motive and, to that end, I would like to learn more about the victim; who her friends were, where she went in the town and so on. If I am in possession of such facts, I can be alert for any untruths that may be told by those I interview at the armoury. Mistress Turner knew Emma Ferroner well, and if, as seems indicated, the perfumer is innocent, she should be able to provide me with the information. If she is not willing to do so, then her reluctance will confirm her guilt.”

“Very well,” Nicolaa said. “And to a similar purpose, I have sent a message to Master Drogue, the apothecary that supplies the medicaments used here in the castle, requesting that he attend me. The perfumer said that Emma Ferroner had visited some of the apothecaries in the town seeking an aid to conception. Master Drogue is one of the most prominent practitioners of his craft in Lincoln and will be able to ask among his colleagues as to whether or not that is true, which will go further towards confirming, or refuting, Mistress Turner’s testimony.”

The Templar stood up. “The hour grows late, lady, and I must return to the commandery. I will interview the perfumer in the morning and afterwards go with Gianni and Roget to the armoury.”

The castellan rose from her seat as well. “I am greatly encouraged, de Marins, by what has taken place today. Let us pray that tomorrow will be just as successful.”

* * *

As Bascot left the keep, Roget was just emerging from the barracks. When he saw the Templar, he came striding across the bail.

“Hola, de Marins. I am relieved to see you here. Ernulf has just told me that you are going to investigate this crime. Constance is innocent, I am certain, just as I also know you will prove it.”

“With God’s help, I trust it will be so,” Bascot replied cautiously.

The captain shook his head sadly. “Constance is very distressed,” he said, “and although that is to be expected, I do not like to see her so.”

“So you still have some affection for her?” Bascot asked.

“I do, mon ami,” Roget admitted. “Even though we parted, she is very dear to me.”

“I will speak to her tomorrow,” the Templar told him, “and then Lady Nicolaa has given permission for you to accompany me to the armoury and question Emma Ferroner’s father and husband, and the men in the workshop.”

“I will be in the bail at first light to meet you,” Roget promised.

* * *

The Templar wended his way back to the preceptory, saddened by the emptiness of the Minster as he passed through. Normally on a summer evening, even this late, there would still be people lingering to gossip, and a few vendors hawking the last of their wares. Now, not even a mangy dog was in sight; all was lonely and still.

When he went into the enclave, he found d’Arderon and Brother Feradac still sitting at a table in the refectory, even though the evening meal had been eaten some time before. They had been waiting for him, eager to know how the murder investigation was progressing.

Taking a place alongside the Scottish brother, he gave them a brief summation of the details surrounding Emma Ferroner’s death, of his and Gianni’s visit to the shrine and the evidence the ravens had given him. Both monks crossed themselves, giving thanks for the heavenly intercession, and then listened with furrowed brows as Bascot told them of the townspeople’s anxiety that Satan was stalking Lincoln.

“They are too frightened to attend services at any of the churches, even the cathedral, for fear they will be killed through the Devil’s agency. While the evidence given by St. Dunstan’s ravens proves to both my and Lady Nicolaa’s satisfaction that they are mistaken, I fear it is too nebulous to convince them of their error. Even though I am certain Beelzebub was not directly involved in this murder, it is a victory for Him nonetheless.”

“And one that must be overthrown,” d’Arderon said in his old decisive manner. “And I think there is a way that can be accomplished.”

The ailing preceptor turned to MacHeth. “We have extra brothers in the enclave at the moment. What say you to organising them into patrols to guard the cathedral and other places of worship in the town? Their presence should give the townsfolk the courage to enter and partake in Mass and, with God’s grace, will confound Satan as well.”

“An excellent plan, Preceptor,” MacHeth exclaimed, his face lighting up. “With your permission, I will go now and make the arrangements.”

Chapter 13

The next morning, just before the hour of Prime, a complement of four Templar knights and four men-at-arms left the enclave en route to the cathedral. MacHeth had sent a message the night before to the bishop and Lady Nicolaa advising them of d’Arderon’s intent to send the brothers out on patrol. The eight soldiers of Christ, he told them, would split into pairs, each comprising a knight and one of the men-at-arms and, in rotation, visit each of the places of worship in Lincoln, timing their arrival to coincide with one of the daily services so that once news spread of their presence, the townsfolk would feel protected while they attended Mass.

The militant monks made an impressive sight as they rode through the deserted Minster; all were armed and wearing coats of mail, and the cross patté was emblazoned on the white surcotes of the knights and the black ones of the men-at-arms. In the van, the Beauséant, the banner that was carried into battle, was held aloft. When they arrived at the cathedral entrance, Bishop William was there to greet them, dressed in the black robes of the Benedictine Order, Dean Roger by his side, and a group of lesser clerics behind.

“Brothers in Christ, I welcome you,” the bishop said with fervent sincerity.

“And I return your greeting in His name,” MacHeth replied. “Together we shall fight this battle against the evil that has invaded the town and, to Our Lord’s glory, we shall win.”

After handing the Beauséant to one of the other knights, MacHeth and a man-at-arms went inside the cathedral to wait until it should be time for the service at Prime to begin, while the rest of the troupe rode off down into the town, splitting up as another pair of a knight and man-at-arms stopped at the church of St. Michael, the next at St. Cuthbert’s, and the third at St. Martin’s, all arriving in time to attend early Mass. As they rode down Mikelgate, there were only a few people on the streets, mainly vendors setting out their wares ready for marketing, but those that were there stood and stared in wonder. It would not be long before word spread throughout the town that the Templars had come to protect them against the wiles of the Devil.

* * *

Bascot did not leave the preceptory until after he had attended the morning service in the enclave’s chapel. As he rode through the Minster grounds, MacHeth and the accompanying man-at-arms were just leaving to go to another church, ensuring they were on time for the next service to be held at Terce. Bascot joined them and together they rode through the gate that led out onto Ermine Street and were gratified to see that a few vendors were already hesitantly making their way up Steep Hill towards the cathedral, no longer fearful of entering the Minster grounds. As MacHeth and the man-at-arms rode past them, they dropped to their knees and crossed themselves, giving audible thanks for their protection.

In the ward, Bascot left his horse at the stables, and went into the keep. Lady Nicolaa, with Gianni, was waiting for him in the hall, and told him that she had just sent a message to Preceptor d’Arderon thanking him for his vigilance.

“A most ingenious plan,” she said gratefully. “Nearly all of the townspeople, like myself, have never witnessed the Templars prepared and ready for battle. Such an impressive sight will hearten them, I know, and bring them back into Lincoln’s churches while we carry out our hunt for the murderer.”

* * *

Just before the sun had risen that morning, the door to Constance’s cell was opened, and a maidservant, under the watchful eye of the guard outside, brought her a wooden platter on which was laid some cold meat and day-old oaten bread, along with a flagon of watered ale. The servant gave her only a nod of greeting, laying the platter and ale on the floor, and then left, taking the remains of the pottage the perfumer had been given the night before, and barely touched, away with her.

Constance had not slept, tossing and turning on the hard straw pallet, listening to the footsteps of the guards on duty as they tramped circuits of the walkway at the top of the palisade. Once or twice she had fallen into a light doze, from which disturbing dreams had startled her awake. Stifling a sob, she took a sip of the ale, and tried to tidy her clothing and hair. Aside from her fear that she would be found guilty of Emma’s death, she was worried about Agnes. How was her little maidservant faring? Constance was quite sure she was almost as frightened as her mistress, and sitting in terror in the empty house where they had, up until now, lived so happily together.

A few moments later, as the sun rose in the sky, she heard the call of the gateward as the massive doors leading into the bail from Ermine Street were opened. Then came the bustle of the castle servants going about their duties—the stamp of horses’ hoofs as the grooms led them out for exercise, the ring of the blacksmith’s hammer on his anvil and the squawking of geese and chickens in anticipation of being fed.

She rose from the pallet on which she had been sitting and, going to the grill in the door, saw the Templar knight Bascot de Marins, ride his horse to the stable door, dismount and go into the keep. A few moments later, he reappeared with Lady Nicolaa’s clerk, Gianni, beside him. Roget had come into the ward as well, and walked over to stand outside the barracks with the serjeant, Ernulf. The Templar and Gianni went over to the pair and, after exchanging a few words of brief conversation, Sir Bascot, in company with the young clerk, came up to her cell and instructed the guard to unbar the door.

When they came in, Constance dipped a curtsey in greeting to the Templar knight. She had met him before on the occasion that Agnes had given evidence when the prostitute was murdered and, as Roget had told her that he was now investigating Emma’s death, rightly assumed he had come to ask her more questions. She remembered him as having a reserved manner that had impressed her and would much rather be interrogated by him than by the formidable castellan.

“I am sorry to see you here, mistress,” he said courteously when he came into the cell, motioning for her to seat herself on the pallet.

“I thank you, lord, for your compassion,” Constance replied as he took up a place on the only other piece of furniture available, an old three-legged stool. Gianni stood beside him, wax tablet and stylus in his hands.

“I have come to ask you to tell me what you know about Emma Ferroner and her family, but before you do that, I would first like you to tell me all that you saw and heard when your friend was slain.”

Now, by the evidence of the ravens, assured that it had not been the perfumer who had struck the blows that killed her friend, the Templar had decided to treat her, for the moment, as if she were also innocent of complicity in the crime. If she was, she may have information that could be vital.

“But I have already related what happened to Lady Nicolaa,” Constance protested, not wanting to revisit the memory of the flashing knife descending on Emma’s back.

“I know it will be distressing,” Bascot said gently, “but sometimes small details are remembered in the retelling that might prove helpful.”

Reluctantly Constance nodded and asked him where he would like her to begin.

“Am I correct in assuming that nothing eventful occurred during the journey from your house to Newport Arch and subsequent passage out onto Ermine Street?” he asked.

At Constance’s nod, he told her to begin her recounting at the time when she and Emma had turned off the highway and entered the path that led to the shrine. “Take your time and tell me slowly,” he added, “and do not leave out any detail, no matter how small.”

Constance took a deep breath as she began to reiterate the tale, saying they had met no one on the path, and the greenwood had been full of sunshine and birdsong.

“When we came to the dell where the shrine is located, we saw the ravens and noticed that their nest in a nearby tree had fledglings in it, which we thought might be a good omen for Emma. Then she went over to pray to the saint, kneeling down in front of his statue,” she added, “and I stepped a little apart to give her privacy.”

“How far away did you go?” the Templar asked.

“Only a few paces,” Constance replied, “about the length of this cell,” she added, signifying that the space between her and Emma had been about ten feet.

“And did you look about you once you had moved away from her?”

Constance frowned as she tried to concentrate. “Not really. There was a clump of gilliflowers in full flower right next to where I was standing and their scent was at its peak. I remember looking at them, thinking that before we returned to town I would pick some to take home to make perfume. I don’t recall noticing anything else.”

“And how long before the murderer appeared?”

“It could not have been more than a minute or two,” Constance replied. “One moment I was looking down at the flowers and then I suddenly realised that the birdsong had ceased and the greenwood was silent. It alarmed me and I turned towards Emma to call out to her that something was wrong when a man with a knife in his hand burst from the trees on the eastern side of the dell. Before I had time to warn her he had run over to Emma and attacked her.”

Tears moistened her eyes as she struggled to go on, and Bascot spoke to her gently. “It is very important that you tell me all that you saw. Take a moment to compose yourself and then continue.”

Constance nodded and, after wiping her eyes on the sleeve of her dress, described how the murderer had twice plunged his blade into her friend’s back. “It happened so fast, lord, that I could barely believe what I had seen. One moment Emma was on her knees praying and the next she was sprawled facedown on the ground with blood oozing from her back. It was as though my eyes were playing tricks on me.”

“I understand,” Bascot said. “Are you certain the assailant was male?”

“I believe so, lord. He did not have the bearing of a woman.”

“Tell me your impression of his manner when he approached your friend,” Bascot directed. “Did he seem frenzied, or was he purposeful?”

The perfumer was puzzled at the nature of his question, and gave it some thought before she answered. “He came all in a rush,” she replied after a moment and then, with a catch in her voice, went on, “and had the knife lifted high before he reached her. Then he . . . then he . . . then he dashed it down and plunged it in her back twice, very quickly.”

“And where was he standing—behind her back or to one side?”

“Beside her, lord, on her right,” Constance replied quietly, making a successful attempt to control her emotions. “I was on her left hand and, after she fell, he darted around her feet and ran to where I was standing and grabbed my arm. It was then that the ravens flew down at his head.”

The Templar nodded. The actions of the killer that the perfumer had described gave some question as to whether he had been a hardened assassin, just as he and Lady Nicolaa had discussed. The attack seemed unplanned in its method and delivering his thrusts from a sideways position also sounded as though it could have been accidental, which might indicate the assailant was a novice. These were points that needed to be considered in their search for the culprit.

Resuming his questioning of the perfumer, he asked her if she recalled whether or not she had looked at the murderer’s hand when he took hold of her. “If so, did you notice if there were any distinguishing marks on it, moles or scars or the like?”

Constance did her best to try to visualize his hand, realising her answer to this particular question could help to identify Emma’s assailant. She closed her eyes and sat in deep concentration for a moment.

Finally she shook her head, “I am sorry, lord. Except for the strength of his grip, I can recall nothing remarkable about his hand.”

“Then I would like you to describe his actions when the ravens attacked him.”

“He gave a shriek when they came at him and began pecking at his head,” she said slowly. “They were cawing and croaking and making a fearsome noise and he dropped the knife as he turned and ran, curling his arms up over his head to protect it. The last I saw of him was as he disappeared into the greenwood, but the ravens did not give up their pursuit, flying up above the trees as though they were tracking him.”

As the Templar and Nicolaa had agreed, this was a strange reaction for a hired murderer, and reinforced the possibility they were seeking a man untrained in arms.

“Thank you, mistress,” Bascot said to Constance, not altogether disappointed by her witness. “Now I would like you to tell me all that you can about Mistress Ferroner’s nature and the routine of her life—whether or not she was complaisant with her father, for example, and her husband, what other female friends she had and if there was anything or anyone with which she was dissatisfied.”

Constance gave the question long consideration before she answered.

“Emma was lonely, I think,” Constance said slowly. “For female company, that is. The armoury is a place only for men and is never visited by women. And since her mother is long dead and she had no other female relatives, the only other woman she saw on a daily basis is the older female servant who takes care of her father’s house.

“As for friends, there was only myself, I think, and the elderly woman that used to attend Emma after her mother died, but left when she was full grown.”

“This attendant—what was her name?”

“Nan Glover,” Constance told him. “She is a widow who was in dire straits at the time Emma’s mother died, and grateful when Master Ferroner offered her the position. Emma was very fond of her and used to go and visit her sometimes after Mistress Glover left the armourer’s employ and went to live with her son. But she did not go very often lately, because the son recently married and Emma did not like his wife.”

“And how did you make Emma’s acquaintance?”

“Mistress Glover brought her to me one day, a little while after Emma had become betrothed, and asked me to show her my wares. She bought a couple of my products and then lingered for a while in conversation. She was, then, very merry, looking forward to her forthcoming wedding and excited about the prospect of becoming a wife and having children.”

“You said ‘was,’” Bascot observed. “Did that change after the nuptials had taken place?”

“Not at first,” Constance replied. “But as time went by and she did not conceive a babe, she became downhearted. It was a great shame to her that she was barren, and she worried, I think, about the disappointment she was causing both her husband and her father.”

“I believe you went to her home on a few occasions,” Bascot said. “Was this after she was wed, or before?”

“Once before, and twice afterwards,” Constance replied.

“And what were your impressions of the relationship between your friend and her father and husband?”

The perfumer smiled as she spoke of Master Ferroner. “It was plain to see that he doted on Emma but he is, I think, a man who is shy in the company of women. He was very polite to me and seemed to welcome my friendship with his daughter but, on each occasion, made an early excuse to leave so we could talk, as he called it, ‘of female fripperies.’”

“And Emma’s husband?”

The smile left the perfumer’s face. “He is a handsome man,” she said quietly, “and Emma told me that, according to her father, he shows promise of great skill in the art of making armour.”

The Templar noticed that the perfumer had spoken of Wiger, the husband, in dispassionate terms, and not at all in the fulsome manner in which she had described Emma’s father.

“Do you like him?” he asked.

“I neither like nor dislike him,” she answered evasively. “I met him only briefly on one of the occasions that I visited Emma at her home.” She shrugged her shoulders. “He was courteous towards me, but since we did not speak much together, I had no opportunity to form an opinion of his character.”

Her reserve on this subject was obvious, and Bascot, sensing he had obtained all of the information she was able, or willing, to give, stood up and took his leave of her. With Gianni beside him—who had written down on his tablet all that Mistress Turner had said in the shortened form of writing that he used for taking notes—he left the cell.

Once outside Bascot asked Gianni for his opinion of the information the perfumer had given. With a flurry of hand gestures that the lad used to communicate with his former master, he made it plain that he thought she had more to tell about the murdered woman’s husband, Wiger.

“That was how it seemed to me also,” Bascot replied. “I, as well as you, received the impression that she does not hold him in high regard. When we go to the armoury, Gianni, we must take careful note of Wiger’s attitude and what he has to say about his relationship with his wife.”

As the lad nodded his agreement, Roget, who had been watching for them from outside the barracks, came up and asked how the interview had passed. At the Templar’s assurance that he had learned nothing to convince him of Constance’s guilt, Roget was relieved, and the three of them left the bail to go to the armoury.

Chapter 14

As they reached the lower end of Mikelgate, the main thoroughfare of the town, and passed through Stonebow Gate, the Templar told Roget how he had decided to proceed when they reached the armourer’s place of business.

“There are indications that suggest this killing was not a random act of violence,” he said as they approached the banks of the Witham River, “so the victim must have been known to the murderer. Since she had spent her whole life up to the time of her death in her father’s house and all of his employees must know her well, it is possible the killer may be amongst them. A spurned lover perhaps, or someone of whom she had complained to her father for some reason. So first we must ascertain if all of Ferroner’s men were at work on the morning of the murder. If they were, then we must ask the armourer if there have been any employees he has lately dismissed that might bear him, or his daughter, a grudge.”

At Roget’s nod of agreement, the Templar went on to tell him that evidence had been obtained that indicated the murderer had hair of an auburn colour—adding a caution that this detail was to be kept privily between those involved in the investigation—which would help to eliminate any suspects that had hair of a different shade.

“But this information can only be used as a guide,” he added, “for even though it is unlikely that anyone who has hair of another hue is the person who actually committed the murder, that does not, as in the case of Mistress Turner, prevent them from being complicit in the act.”

Roget made no response except for a furrowing of his brows when Constance’s possible guilt was mentioned. Not wanting to give the captain false hope, Bascot refrained from mentioning that because of the perfumer’s seeming dislike of Wiger, he and Gianni were interested in learning more about him, lest it distort Roget’s objectivity.

When they arrived at the armoury, the casements that fronted the riverbank were open, as they had been when Roget had come on the day of Emma’s death. Although all of the employees in the workshop were busy at their trade, Master Ferroner was not amongst them. At their entrance, a tall young man with pale blonde hair came forward whom Roget told Bascot was Wiger, Ferroner’s son-by-marriage. The Templar regarded him closely. He was well set up in appearance, blue-eyed, with clean-cut features and broad shoulders, a man whom women would find attractive. Was it possible that this was at the root of Constance Turner’s dislike? he wondered. Had she become enamoured of her friend’s husband and arranged the murder so as to free him for herself? Bascot did not dismiss the notion completely, but his impression of the perfumer’s character throughout their brief acquaintanceship was that she was possessed of a high integrity and unlikely to succumb to such a base motive.

“I am come to investigate the murder of your wife,” Bascot told Wiger. “In order to do that I must gather all of the information about her that I can and, to that end, would like to speak to her father, yourself and all of the men employed here.”

“Master Ferroner is not here today,” Wiger informed him. “He is too struck down with grief to put his mind to work. I have only come myself because some of the commissions we are working on are already behind schedule and cannot be left untended.”

“Nonetheless, I must speak to him,” the Templar said, noting that Wiger had been careful to justify his own presence in the workshop. Was his explanation a true one, or was he not as sorrowful as he wished to appear? “Where is he?”

“He should be at home,” Wiger told him. “We both kept watch over Emma’s body last night in the death house at St. Peter’s church, and did not return until early this morning. Unless he has gone back to continue his vigil, he should still be there. His house is just behind the workshop.”

Following the directions Wiger gave, the Templar, Gianni and Roget went out through a door in the rear of the building and could see, about five hundred yards away, at the end of a cobbled path, the armourer’s home. It was a handsome residence, not large but imposing, comprised of two stories, the walls constructed of timber frames inset with wattle and daub freshly painted with lime and with two of the casements, those on the ground floor, filled with panes of thick green glass, an innovation only recently come into fashion and that only those with means could afford. The edifice was topped with a sturdy roof of dark red tiles. A young maidservant answered their knock on the door and when Roget told her Bascot’s name and that the Templar needed to speak to the armourer urgently, she hesitated.

“I am not Master Ferroner’s regular housekeeper, lord,” she explained to Bascot in a tone of deference. “My aunt Thea holds that post, but she has gone to keep vigil over the master’s daughter at the church so he could come home and partake of some food, and she asked me to stay here until she returns. Her instructions were that I was to let no one disturb the master for any reason.”

“It is very important that I speak to him,” Bascot insisted, but not unkindly. “I would not be here otherwise.”

Reluctantly, she nodded and went to apprise the armourer of his visitors. A few moments later she returned and, telling Bascot that Ferroner had agreed to see him, led them into a small hall where he was sitting at a long oaken table. A trencher laid with an ample meal of bread, cheese and some cold bacon sat untouched in front of him.

He looked up at their entrance with red-rimmed eyes and gave a nod of greeting, and motioned for them to be seated across from him. Roget had formerly described the armourer to Bascot as a vigorous and genial man, but that depiction did not apply to him now. His massive frame was slumped on the chair on which he was sitting and his face was drawn with lines of sorrow.

The Templar told him that he had been sent by Nicolaa de la Haye to investigate the murder of his daughter, and had come to gather information about her in the hope it would lead to the apprehension of her killer.

“I have heard of you, Sir Bascot,” Ferroner said to the Templar in a drained voice, “and of the success you have had in seeking out the identity of those who commit secret murder. But while I wish you well in the hunt, finding Emma’s killer will not bring her back to me.”

“No, it will not,” Bascot admitted. “But it will bring justice to her soul.”

“Aye, you are right, I suppose,” Ferroner replied downheartedly. “But before I answer your questions, I would ask you one. While I was keeping vigil at the church last night, a kindly neighbour who had come to keep me company told me that the townsfolk believe that my daughter was slain through the Devil’s agency. Was his report a true one?”

“It is,” the Templar admitted, “but we have evidence that proves this fear may be groundless . . .”

“And I have reason to believe that it is not,” Ferroner interrupted.

“How so?” Bascot asked, startled.

Ferroner sighed heavily and went on to explain. “Many years ago a curse was laid on me by a woman who had a close relative skilled in magicking. She thrice damned me and laid a malediction on the woman I married, the children she bore me and my fortune—and it has now all been fulfilled. My wife is dead, and even though Our Lord protected my darling Emma until she grew to adulthood, her life has finally been taken, and what use will my wealth be to me now without them to share it? She told me that she would make life a hell on earth for me and that I would remember her as the one who put me there, and that is what has happened. No, the curse is the cause of it all, for it was laid by a woman I am now certain had concourse with Satan. There is too much coincidence for it to be otherwise.”

The Templar felt Gianni stiffen in the seat beside him at the armourer’s terrible statement, and even Roget, battle hardened as he was, stirred uncomfortably in his chair. Bascot became uneasy. If this tale of a witch being responsible for the murder was bruited abroad, it would strengthen the townsfolk’s belief that the Devil was involved and lead to increased alarm.

“Who was this woman,” he asked the armourer, “and what was the reason for her enmity?”

Ferroner paused for a moment, and then, in a guilt-ridden voice, gave his answer. “Her name was Lorinda and, about twenty-five years ago, before I was wed, I met her at the midsummer fayre and we became lovers. She seemed content enough with our liaison, but after a time, I began to suspect her purpose, for she began pestering me to wed her, saying I was her first lover and she would not have lain with me unless marriage was in the offing. I knew she was lying about being a maid before I bedded her—she was too skilled at lovemaking to have been a virgin—so I refused, saying I had no intention of taking her to wife. Her anger was terrible and we argued violently before we parted. I must admit that I was relieved to be rid of her, but then, one day almost a month later, she suddenly appeared in the marketplace on the riverbank and, in front of a crowd of bystanders, again demanded that I marry her. I was embarrassed at her making such a spectacle and once more I spurned her, but this time I used harsher words than I had on the previous occasion. It was then that she laid the curse on me.”

Ferroner looked at the Templar straightly. “When I first met Lorinda at the fayre she mentioned to me in passing that her grandam was a witch, and now, Sir Bascot, that both my wife and Emma are dead, I have no doubt that she, too, possesses the skill to conjure up a demon and has instructed it to slay my loved ones. How can I think otherwise when all the evil she intended has come to pass? It is all my fault—if I had not committed the sin of lechery and lain with her, my wife and Emma would not have died.”

There could be no doubt of Ferroner’s sincerity; it radiated from the tense set of his shoulders and the fear in his eyes. “What became of this woman?” Bascot asked. “Does she still live in Lincoln?”

“She never told me where she came from, just that she lived in a village south of town, and I never saw or heard of her after that day in the marketplace,” the armourer replied, “but wherever she went I am certain her sinister spell was the cause of the both of the tragedies that have blighted my life.”

The Templar knew he must try to dissuade the armourer from his premise, not only for Ferroner’s own sanity, but to forestall adding to the panic already invading the town.

“I sympathise for your losses, Master Ferroner,” he said, “but you told me this all happened many years ago. Is it likely that, even if this woman possessed the power, she would still be interested in extracting retribution after such a long time?”

Ferroner pondered the Templar’s statement for a moment. “Perhaps not, but how can I be certain?”

“By helping to catch your daughter’s killer,” Bascot replied. “Once he is identified and arrested, his purpose will be revealed, and then your fears can either be confirmed or laid to rest.”

“Very well, Sir Bascot,” Ferroner finally replied heavily, and only after a long moment of weighty consideration. “I will do as you ask, even though I think it futile. What is it you wish to know?”

* * *

The armourer listened carefully to all of Bascot’s questions and gave as detailed answers as he was able. When asked if any of his employees had been absent on the day that his daughter had been killed, he told the Templar that none had been away from work for the last two weeks, since the day when one of the apprentices had been taken with stomach gripes and unable to come to the workshop. He also stated that he had not had occasion to dismiss any of his workmen since their hiring, so there was no one with that type of grievance against him.

Disappointed, Bascot then asked how many people had been aware of Emma’s visit to the shrine. “Neither I nor Wiger, nor Emma herself, made any secret of our longing for her to bear a babe, so there was no reason to conceal that she was going to request aid of the saint,” the armourer told him. “All of the men in the workshop knew, as did my maidservant here in the house and, of course, Mistress Turner. Apart from that I cannot be certain; it is possible one of those we told may have mentioned it to an acquaintance but, if so, I do not know who they may be.”

The Templar then asked the armourer the extent of his fortune. “Your workshop appears successful, Master Ferroner,” he said, “and I would judge that you are a moderately wealthy man. Is that correct?”

The armourer nodded. “I have always tried to be prudent. Most of my earnings have either gone back into the business or been put by for Emma to inherit when I die. I do give a little to the church to help the poor, but it is only an insignificant amount.”

Roget had already told Bascot that Ferroner was known to be very generous in aiding those less fortunate than himself and surmised that the armourer’s “insignificant amount” would be substantial. He had a soft heart, Roget had said, and could always be relied upon to help anyone who was in need with funds from his considerable fortune.

The next question was a hard one to put to a man who was so distraught, but Bascot asked it nonetheless. “Now that your daughter is gone, is there another relative who will become your heir?”

With a glint of tears in his eyes, Ferroner gave his response. “If you are looking for a person who killed my Emma to gain profit, there is no one. She was the last of my line. I shall leave what I have to the church.”

Although he was reluctant to distress the armourer further, there was still the need to ask him to look at the weapon that had been used in the commission of the crime. Bascot took it from his scrip and placed it on the table.

“I know this will be distasteful for you, Master Ferroner, but this is the blade that took your daughter’s life. Have you ever seen it before?”

Steeling himself, the armourer picked up the knife, repugnance on his face. Turning it over once or twice, he examined it, and then tested its sharpness with the ball of his thumb. Finally he peered at the hilt and haft, and then shook his head. “If I had, I would not remember. ’Tis of ordinary craftsmanship, such as is made by blacksmiths throughout all of England and of a type that is commonplace. I can only tell you that it was not made in my workshop; the blade is too inferior.”

Although Ferroner had done his best to aid in any way he could, and Bascot felt that he had pressed the grieving armourer almost as far as he could withstand, there was yet one last question that had to be asked, and that was in regard to Emma’s marriage.

“Your daughter had been wed almost two years. Were she and her husband complaisant together?”

The armourer looked at him in surprise, but answered as honestly as he could. “I believe they were happy enough, except for her barrenness. Wiger was not the one I would have chosen for Emma but I gave my consent because she told me she was very much in love with him. I must admit that I would have preferred a man of more substance for her husband; one that I could be certain would be able to care for her properly after I am gone. But that concern is moot now, is it not, for I am left alive and she is the one who is gone . . .”

Tears welled in Ferroner’s eyes and Bascot stood up. It was obvious the armourer was incapable of giving any more information. With a motion to Gianni and Roget to follow him, the Templar left the disconsolate father to his sorrow, and an existence that was now devoid of love or purpose.

Chapter 15

As Bascot, Gianni and Roget made their way back to the workshop to question Wiger and the rest of Ferroner’s employees, Nicolaa de la Haye was receiving Master Drogue, the apothecary she had requested to attend her.

A man approaching his sixtieth year, Drogue had recently been elected head of the Lincoln branch of his guild. Although the apothecaries’ craft was an ancient one, their guild was relatively new, having formerly been part of the pepperers’ association. Drogue was highly respected in the town, and well liked. His choice as leader by the other guild members was not surprising.

A tall, thin man, almost cadaverous in appearance, he had a high domed forehead and insightful brown eyes. His gown was a sober dark grey and on his head was a close-fitting black skullcap. Nicolaa knew him to be kind, honest and gentle and that he could be trusted with a confidence.

“I have asked you to come, Master Drogue,” she told him, “on a matter of some delicacy. It concerns the young woman, Robert Ferroner’s daughter, who was recently murdered at the shrine of St. Dunstan. You have heard of the crime?”

“I have, lady,” the apothecary replied. “The town has talked of it constantly since it happened.” He gave a sad shake of his head. “A most horrifying deed.”

“I am in the process of trying to gather information about the victim,” Nicolaa explained to him, “and believe you may be able to help me. In the last few months, do you recall if the murdered woman ever came to you for a consultation?”

Master Drogue’s high brow furrowed as he considered the question. “Not that I remember, lady. But I have one apprentice and two assistants. If her requirement was simple, it may have been one of them who attended her. May I know the nature of her ailment?”

“I have been told it was to seek a remedy for infertility,” Nicolaa replied.

Drogue nodded knowingly. “A not uncommon problem, and due, it is thought, to excessive humidity in the womb. I have instructed my staff, for this condition, to recommend the remedy I most favour, which is to place a poultice of lady’s mantle across the lower abdomen and keep it there while drinking an infusion of raspberry leaves—both of which my shop supplies. I shall check my records to see if Mistress Ferroner came to us for help, but there is also the possibility that she may have visited another apothecary or even a physician for assistance. If it was the latter, he could have submitted his prescription without divulging her name.”

Nicolaa was not of the opinion that Emma Ferroner had sought the advice of a doctor. That part of Constance Turner’s evidence had rung true when she had said that her friend had not wished to consult a physician lest he involve her husband. If the victim, as the perfumer had said, was guilt ridden about her distaste for sexual congress, she would never wish it revealed to her spouse.

“I am fairly certain she did not consult a leech, Master Drogue, but would like to confirm, as has been claimed, as to whether or not she sought out the services of a member of your guild. I will take up your offer to consult your records. Would it be too much trouble to also ask you to find out if she attended any of the other apothecaries in the town?”

“Of course not, lady,” the apothecary replied.

“I am most grateful for your assistance,” Nicolaa replied thankfully. “I would, however, ask you, and the other guild members,” she added, “to hold the nature of my enquiry strictly in confidence. This is a murder investigation, and all information that is garnered must be kept privily until such a time as it is known whether or not it is pertinent.”

The elderly apothecary solemnly gave his assent and prepared to take his leave, setting down his wine cup and beginning to rise from his seat. Nicolaa forestalled him, however, saying there was one more matter she wished to discuss with him, intending to ask him if he had ever heard anything detrimental about Mistress Turner. Although the prisoner only made perfumes and unguents, her products were, in a small measure, allied to the apothecary trade, and the guild guarded their reputation jealously. If she had infringed on their rights, or sold any product that was not wholesome, she was certain Drogue would be aware of it and, if so, her trespass would have a bearing on the honesty of her claim that she did not sell medicaments.

“You will, no doubt, have heard that a perfumer in the town, Constance Turner, had been incarcerated in relation to Mistress Ferroner’s death?”

“So rumour says, lady,” Drogue replied. “Speculation is rampant, of course, as to the reason for her arrest. Kinder souls think it is for her own protection in case she recognised the murderer and is in danger of being attacked by him, while others, less charitable, claim it is because she killed her friend due to possession by a demon.”

He looked straightly at Nicolaa and added, “For my own part, I would hope the former is the true reason. She is an intelligent young woman who has known much sorrow in her life, and does not deserve more.”

“You are acquainted with her?” Nicolaa asked with a touch of surprise, and choosing not to comment on the reason that the perfumer had been incarcerated. Although she trusted Drogue to honour his word to be discreet, the fewer people that knew of the circumstances surrounding Mistress Turner’s arrest, the better.

“Not well,” Drogue replied, “but I was an acquaintance of her father.” He paused for a moment in reflection. “I met him on several occasions many years ago, in Boston. I had a relative there who is long since demised but was, at that time, alive and whom I was in the habit of visiting once or twice a year. I first met Master Turner on one of these visits, and at subsequent times thereafter, for he was friendly with my relative and often came to share his board at mealtimes. Our common profession gave us much to discuss and I liked him, even though some of his theories were rather eccentric—such as that bleeding a patient with fever was not necessary and might even do harm, a most unorthodox idea. I am not surprised that some of the more conservative brethren among the apothecaries in Boston were displeased with his views but I, for one, found his opinions stimulating rather than objectionable. It was with great sadness that I heard he had been ostracised over his defence of a young girl who claimed to have been raped, and how the tumult in which he became embroiled after her suicide distressed him so much that he became ill and died.”

“Have you spoken to Mistress Turner since she moved to Lincoln?”

Drogue nodded. “She came to see me when she first moved here four years ago, to give me greetings in honour of my friendship with her father and also, in courtesy, to tell me of her intention to live in Lincoln and earn her livelihood as a perfumer. I wished her well, but apart from nodding to her on a few occasions when we have passed in the street, have not spoken to her since.”

“Has she ever, to your knowledge, attempted to prescribe medicaments?” Nicolaa asked.

“Not that I have heard, and I would have been told if she had,” Drogue assured her.

“I know your meeting with her was a brief one, but were you able to form any impression of her character?”

As he had with the other questions Nicolaa had asked him, and was his nature, Drogue considered his answer well before he made it. “I believe so, for that was not the only time I had been in her company. I met her on two previous occasions before she came to Lincoln, when she accompanied her father to dine at my kinsman’s house in Boston. Although a young girl at the time, she was lively and cheerful, and paid careful attention to the conversations that went on around her and, when asked for her opinion, gave cogent replies. When she came to see me after her arrival here in town, I noticed that her previous animation was much diminished. The troublesome time that her father had experienced, and his ensuing death, had, I think, an adverse effect on her personality. I found her much more reserved than formerly and very cautious in manner.”

He lifted sorrowful eyes to Nicolaa. “It was a shame to see such a bright and clever young woman brought so low. If you are asking me if I think she could commit murder, lady, I would deem it most unlikely.”

Chapter 16

As Gianni followed the Templar and Roget down the path to the armoury, he tried to dispel the fear that had engulfed him when Robert Ferroner had said that his daughter had been killed by a witch. Despite the fact that the evidence suggested that the murderer had not been possessed by a demon, Gianni was not entirely convinced. In Sicily cunning women were called strega and had very powerful magick at their command, able to summon up evil fairies that could force humans to do their bidding.

He remembered one such incident as though it was only yesterday, even though he had been only a young child when it happened and it had taken place in the days before the Templar had brought him to England. He, along with a number of other homeless waifs, had lived on a wharf in Palermo and there had been an old crone who had sold oranges and apples near the docks, laying them out for sale on the doorstep of the tumbledown shack in which she lived. She was known to be a strega and had threatened all of the urchins in the area that if any of them were foolish enough to try to steal her fruit, she would retaliate by casting a spell on them. But food was very scarce and there came a time when one of the youngsters, a boy of no more than nine or ten, became so overcome with hunger that, despite her threat, the temptation of the tantalising fruit became too much for him and he ran up and snatched one of the apples. As he sped away with his prize, the crone had raised the knobby stick she always carried and shaken it at him, promising that he would soon regret the theft. That very night the boy was killed, thrown off the pier and into the sea by a drunken sailor he had tried to rob. His lifeless body was found the next morning, washed up on the shore by the incoming tide.

Later that day, alerted by a couple of witnesses who had seen the sailor assault the boy, two members of the town guard had come to arrest him. He had vehemently denied his crime, saying he had no memory of the incident and had slept soundly all through the night without disturbance. When the guards laid their hands on him to take him to gaol, he had fought with a strength beyond that of a mortal man, slaying one of the guards with the knife he carried and fatally wounding another. He was hung a few days later, and the people who witnessed his death had fearfully reported that evil fairies had been seen dancing on his shoulders as he expelled his last breath.

Gianni shivered. Could it be that Ferroner was right, and just as that Sicilian strega had caused the sailor to kill the boy, this English cunning woman had magicked up an imp of Satan that compelled some luckless man to slay the armourer’s daughter? And what would happen to those who tried to apprehend this bedevilled murderer? Would they, too, like the town guards in Palermo, be attacked and killed by the superior might of such a man? Silently sending up a plea to Lord Jesus for protection of all those involved in the investigation, he hastened his steps to follow his former master into the armoury workshop, hoping his prayer would be effective.

* * *

It was almost midday by the time all of Ferroner’s employees had been interviewed. There were six workmen in all: two that had achieved the status of master armourers, and four apprentices, of whom Wiger was one. Bascot, with Gianni beside him making a record of each employee’s answers, had spoken to them all separately in a little shack that was used to store iron ingots. The burning rays of the June sun made the inside of the shack almost as hot as the workshop, and one of the younger apprentices kept them supplied with ewers of ale to quench their thirst. Roget stood on guard outside the door to ensure no one could overhear the questions that were being asked, or the answers.

Deciding to leave Wiger until last, intending to try to find out from the rest of Ferroner’s employees more about the relationship between Emma and her husband, the Templar spoke to the other apprentices first. All were in various stages of learning their craft and none had been with the armourer long enough to have more than a passing acquaintanceship with Emma, or much knowledge of her activities. With regard to the relationship between her and her husband, none had noticed any discord or resentment on the part of either.

Of the two master armourers, the first one had been working for Ferroner for only the past year, having recently moved to Lincoln from Grantham and been hired soon after his arrival in the town, and therefore did not have any useful information, but the other master, a man named Noll, had been friends with Ferroner since they were young lads, and knew both him and his daughter well. He was a short, stocky man, and very hirsute, with a mat of thick dark hair covering his arms and shoulders under the scant cover of the leather apron he wore. Old burns had left bald patches on his shoulders and forearms, and there was also a large scar on his left biceps that looked as though it, too, had been caused by an accident with molten metal, and which he absently rubbed as he spoke.

“Robert’s father was a grand man, and ’twas through him that I came to work here,” he informed Bascot. “He always made me welcome from the time I was just a little lad and soon had me plyin’ a tiny hammer just like Robert. Later, when I was old enough, he offered to make me an apprentice and I gladly accepted.”

“And Mistress Emma—you knew her well?”

“Aye, I did, and her poor dead mother,” was the response. “I was right fond of Emma from the day she was born; she was the delight of her father’s heart and a merry little girl who gave pleasure to all who knew her.” He looked up at Bascot with deep sorrow in his dark brown eyes. “I can’t believe that she is gone; ’twill be the death of Robert, he doted on her so.”

It was evident from his anguish that here was a man who would never wish any harm to Emma and could not be considered as a suspect. Bascot asked him if he knew of anyone who had borne her enmity.

“Not to my knowledge, lord,” Noll replied. “But I hadn’t seen much of her since she got wed. Afore that, when she was younger, she often used to come to the workshop with Nan Glover, the woman who attended her after her mother died, to bring us all a bit of pasty or some other treat. But after Nan left, she didn’t come so much, so I didn’t often have many opportunities to talk to her and learn how she was faring, or if she had quarrelled with anyone.”

“Was she happy in her marriage, do you know?”

The master armourer’s face darkened. “I won’t tell you no lies, lord, for the truth of the matter is that I don’t like Wiger, nor do I think he made her a good husband.”

“And why is that?” Bascot prompted, his senses quickening.

Noll heaved a sigh. “Well, he seemed alright when he first came to work here. He was only a lad then, and mucked in willing enough with the rest of us. His father was a blacksmith, an acquaintance of Robert’s, and when the father was killed one day—kicked in the head by a horse he was shoeing—Robert offered the lad an apprenticeship. He was eager to learn and has become more than competent at our trade, I’ll admit, but I think he only chased after Emma because he had an eye, through her, to owning the armoury one day. If he has a love for anything, it’s this workshop.”

“Then you do not believe he cared for Emma personally?” Bascot asked.

The armourer snorted. “Never paid her no mind once the bloom of their marriage wore off, did he? Out drinking near every night after we’d finished work, and I saw him pass her by on the path from Robert’s house the other day without so much as a look in her direction. ’Twas much different than when he was first wooing her, all smiles and lovin’ looks whenever she appeared, but once they were wed he had no more interest in her, for he knew that one day, when Robert passed on, through his marriage to Emma he would lay his hands on the armoury. If she conceived a child, it would have strengthened his relationship to Robert even further, so her barrenness must have been a sore disappointment to him.”

Noll’s vehemence died down a bit and then he added, “It fair used to gall me when he looked around the workshop after his and Emma’s marriage, eyes gleaming with avarice, as though the armoury was already his own. No, Emma made a bad choice there, although she may not have realised it.”

“Does Wiger have another woman tucked away, do you think? Perhaps one he knew from before his marriage?” Bascot asked.

Noll shook his head. “Not as I knows of or, if he does, he keeps her well hidden. As to afore he was wed, and to be fair, I never heard of him courtin’ any other maid; probably visited a harlot when he had the need, like many a young man, but even of that I have no evidence.”

The Templar decided to broach the subject of the curse that Ferroner had mentioned. Although Bascot, as he had said, did not think the curse was a true one, old sins did cast long shadows and it might be that the woman Ferroner had rejected all those years ago was somehow involved in his daughter’s murder.

When Bascot asked Noll about it, his response was a sad nod. “Aye, I reckon Robert told you about that, did he?”

When the Templar confirmed the assumption, Noll gave another sigh. “I wish he would forget that old misery. He took guilt on himself because of that curse when his wife, Edith, died, and now he’s doin’ it again with poor Emma. As I’ve told him many’s the time, that woman, Lorinda, was no more than a doxy, lookin’ to snare herself a wealthy husband, and had no more power over dark forces than any other bitch of her kind, which is none. Could have been that her grandam was a witch, I suppose—although I never heard of anyone who knew the old woman directly—but that doesn’t mean that Lorinda was one. And even if it’s true, like they are sayin’ in the town, that it was the Devil or a demon that killed Emma, I don’t believe that, even if she could, it was Lorinda who magicked either of them up. Why would she? If she’s still alive she’ll be an old woman by now and long past caring about a squabble from so many years ago.”

“Did you ever see her?” Bascot asked.

“Oh, aye. I was in the marketplace when she started her ruction and laid the curse on Robert. Witnessed it all, I did, along with a fair few others. Lorinda were beautiful, I’ll give her that, but she was bold with it, dressing herself in a gaudy gown that no chaste woman would wear, and her hair all tumblin’ down like a harlot’s. ’Twas plain what she was, and what she was after, and the only reason she laid that curse was because she was angry at Robert for refusing her.”

“Ferroner said he never saw her again after the day she confronted him. Do you know where she lived?”

“No, I don’t, Sir Bascot, and nor did anyone else, even Robert. She had been seen walkin’ along the road southwards of the river once or twice, so she must have lived in one of the hamlets south of town, but there are many villages in that direction—Bracebridge, Coleby, Waddington, Boothby, to name but a few—so it could have been any one of them, or none at all. All I knows is that she was never heard of coming back to Lincoln again.”

Moving away from the subject of the curse, Bascot took the murder weapon from his scrip and showed it to Noll, telling him it was the knife that had been used to despatch Emma. “Have you ever seen it before?” he asked.

Muttering imprecations on the head of the man that had wielded it, Noll picked up the blade and examined it. As Ferroner had done, he pronounced it just a knife of common manufacture, and that he did not recognise it.

After thanking Noll for being so forthright, Bascot dismissed him and told Roget to send in Wiger next.

Chapter 17

During the previous interviews, Bascot had seated himself on one of the barrels of nails stacked on the floor, with Gianni perched next to him. When Roget sent Wiger in, the Templar did not, as he had done with all of the previous employees, tell him to be similarly seated, but instead kept him standing for a good long moment while he regarded him. Although the newly made widower was making an effort to present a grief-filled countenance, the Templar saw that, unlike Robert Ferroner and Noll, there did not seem to be any sorrow in his eyes, only wariness.

Bascot was certain Noll’s opinion that Wiger had wed Ferroner’s daughter for pecuniary gain was a true one, and felt only scorn for the man standing in front of him. Quite often marital alliances were made for the material advantage the union would bring, especially in the noble classes, but usually both parties, man and woman, were aware of that purpose and no pretence of love was made between them. But with Emma, a plain-featured young woman who had been the daughter of a prosperous man, this was not the case, for both her father and Constance Turner had said that she was in love with him. Wiger had used his handsomeness to gain himself a wealthy wife; had he now, for some reason, wanted to be rid of her?

Bascot made no attempt to console Wiger for his loss and began his questions without preamble.

“I have been told that you had been wed to Master Ferroner’s daughter for almost two years. What was the date of your marriage?”

Wiger, a little startled at the brusqueness in the Templar’s tone, hesitated momentarily before replying. “We were married in the autumn of the year before last, lord.”

“And did you wed her out of love or for the fortune she would one day inherit?”

The bald question took Wiger aback, and he stammered out his answer. “I . . . I . . . wed her because I loved her, and for no other reason.”

His response lacked conviction and Bascot pressed him. “Then you found no need to take a lover?”
This time Wiger seemed to have regained some of his composure and answered carefully. “Emma was all that a man could want in a wife. She gave me no cause to seek out the company of another woman.”

The Templar had noted the ambiguity of the answer and again let a short silence reign before asking, “Do you know of anyone who would have wanted your wife dead?”

“No, lord, I do not.” The answer was, this time, a little more assertive, but Wiger’s face was etched with fear.

With an abrupt movement, Bascot took the murder weapon from his scrip and tossed it across the open space between them. Startled, Wiger fumbled a little as he tried to catch it, and it fell to the ground. With an apprehensive look at the Templar, he reached down and picked it up by the hilt.

“That is the blade that killed your wife,” Bascot barked. “Have you ever seen it before?”

Wiger turned the knife over once or twice in his hand, and then shook his head. “No, lord, I have not.”

The Templar leaned forward and spoke in a menacing tone. “In my experience, it is usually someone close to a victim that is guilty of their murder. You, Wiger, are high on my list of suspects.”

“But, lord,” the nervous man exclaimed, “I could not have killed her. I was here in the armoury at the time she was attacked.”

“That does not eliminate the possibility that you hired an assassin to despatch her,” Bascot declared. “If any reason is uncovered, even the slightest indication, that you had cause to conspire at your wife’s death, you will be taken to the castle gaol and questioned by the sheriff’s men. Do you understand?”

Miserably, Wiger nodded, fully aware of the rough treatment that would ensue from such an eventuality, and Bascot dismissed him.

“What think you of his testimony, Gianni?” Bascot asked after Wiger had left.

The lad waggled his fingers back and forth, and the Templar nodded. “A little truth, some evasion and the hint of a lie. And since that is the case, we must find out more about him, and whether, despite losing the profit he hoped to gain through his wife, there is still a motive for him to wish her dead.”

* * *

“It would seem there is no connection to the murderer to be found in the armoury, but there are still several lines of enquiry to follow,” Bascot said as he, Gianni and Roget rode back to the castle. “First, I would like to visit the alehouses in the area. Noll said that Wiger made a habit of drinking in the evenings; if we can discover which one he frequented, we might be able to learn from the alekeep or other patrons if he has ever mentioned having a paramour. I also think it might be profitable to speak to the woman who used to be Mistress Emma’s companion, Nan Glover. She may be able to tell us of any enemies the dead woman might have had.”

Gianni made a few quick gestures with his hands. “Yes,” the Templar confirmed. “There is always the hope that Lady Nicolaa has discovered something of importance from the apothecary she sent for.” He tapped his horse lightly with his spurs to urge the mount on a little faster. “But if not, then we must wait for God to show us the way.”

* * *

As the trio rode up Mikelgate towards the bail, they noticed that the panic among the townspeople seemed to have been allayed by the presence of MacHeth and the other Templar brothers. The churches were beginning to fill up again as the hour for the service at Sext approached, and people were going into the places of worship without reserve. Many of those standing on the street smiled as Bascot passed by. They were grateful for his protection, and that of the other Templar brothers, while evil was threatening their town.

The man who had slain Emma Ferroner was among the crowd and was not so pleased. He had been delighted when he heard that the townsfolk believed the killing had been perpetrated by the Devil. He had not chosen the murder site for such a purpose, but it had, nonetheless, served him well by providing detraction to the discovery of his identity. But he had heard of the reputation of the Templar monk for solving secret murder and feared he might not be so easily gulled. There were obscure links between himself and the victim that, if uncovered, would reveal his culpability. For the first time the elation that had buoyed him after the slaying began to diminish. Killing the armourer’s daughter had been an act of loyalty and courage, and he had not expected to suffer punishment for it.

As he mused on the problem now confronting him, a plan slowly came to him and he smiled as he realised that its commission would safely eradicate any trace of his involvement in the murder. Such a scheme would not only reinforce the townsfolk’s mistaken notion about the Devil, but also lead the monk down a false trail.

Chapter 18

“Let us sum up the information we have,” Nicolaa de la Haye said a short time later, after Bascot had given her a report of his visit to the armoury and she had told him and Gianni of her conversation with Drogue. “Firstly, the victim was a plain-featured woman who was heiress to a goodly fortune, wedded to a husband who married her for financial profit. While that may be despicable, it would appear he cannot be considered a suspect, for, now that she is dead, he will lose all that he might have gained had she lived.”

The castellan tapped the table with a forefinger as she continued, “Secondly, we have a grieving father who claims his daughter was killed by a witch who placed a curse on him twenty-five years ago. But no one knows where this woman lived at the time of his liaison with her; it will be almost impossible to locate her so many years later in order to determine whether or not she has any connection with the death.

“Lastly we have the witness to the crime, Constance Turner, who, although protesting her innocence, still lied to us when she concealed that she had recently been estranged from the victim. We can exclude her from being the actual assailant by means of the scrap of material St. Dunstan’s ravens gave us that proves, just as she claimed, that the murderer was chased away by them, but even so, it does not exempt her from collusion in the deed.”

Nicolaa leaned back in her chair and expelled her breath in disgruntlement. “There is not much there to lead us to the killer, de Marins. What do you suggest we do next?”

“I would like to continue with the search to discover more of a personal nature about Emma Ferroner,” he replied. “Mistress Turner was able to tell me a little, but I feel there is more to be learned about the victim, especially in regard to her relationship with her husband. To that end, I would like to go and speak to Nan Glover, the woman who was Emma’s attendant after her mother died. Apparently she was not only an intimate of the armourer’s daughter while she was growing up, but continued to be a friend to Emma until her death. She may have some information that proves helpful.”

“Very well,” Nicolaa agreed. “Anything else?”

“Yes. I would also like to investigate the husband, Wiger, more fully. Although the colour of his hair indicates that he cannot be the killer, that does not, as in the instance of Constance Turner, exempt him from complicity in the crime. It may be that he has a lover who is getting impatient with his married state, or been keeping company with some other wealthy woman who would be willing to marry him if he were free, and so hired a murderer to despatch his wife. We need to find out more about him before he can be completely exempted. I was told by one of Ferroner’s employees that Wiger had lately formed the habit of visiting alehouses in the evening, so I would like to go to those closest to the armoury and, if we can determine which one he patronised, question the alekeep and other customers. A man often grows careless with his speech when he in his cups, and he may, in conversation, have revealed some fact that is incriminating.”

“Very well,” Nicolaa said. “It will, of course, be best to visit the alehouses in the evening when they are full of patrons who have stopped by to quench their thirst after finishing the day’s work. You will go tonight?”

Bascot nodded. “Yes, after Gianni and I have spoken to Nan Glover. And I would appreciate it if Roget could accompany me. I am not familiar with the locations of the alehouses outside the southern walls of the town and will need a guide to show me where they are.”

“I will tell the captain to make himself ready to attend you,” the castellan promised.

Chapter 19

The house where Noll had said that Mistress Glover now lived with her son and his wife was not far distant from the castle and so Bascot and Gianni decided to walk there. As they made their way down Steep Hill and past the market at the bottom of the incline, the Templar glanced at the lad, concerned that he seemed downcast. He had been that way since shortly after they had arrived at the armoury, and although he had taken down the information given during the interviews with Ferroner’s employees in a competent fashion, and listened with seeming attention during the discussion with Nicolaa de la Haye, Bascot was certain he had, nonetheless, been distracted.

“You seem preoccupied, Gianni,” Bascot said, as they left behind the busy throng in the marketplace and turned down Danesgate, the side street where the house belonging to Mistress Glover’s son was located. “Does something ail you?”

Miserable, Gianni began to shake his head in negation when he stopped in his tracks, suddenly realising that his fear of the strega had almost caused him to lie to the man who had always shown him the love of a father. He could not allow his dread to cripple his mind, he decided, especially while he was carrying out the very important task of helping to investigate a murder. Taking a deep breath, he nodded at Bascot.

With the help of words written on his wax tablet, accompanied by gestures, Gianni told Bascot how Robert Ferroner’s mention of a strega had frightened him and the reason why.

Bascot pondered what Gianni had told him and how terrifying the experience must have been. Sicily, like the rest of Christendom, had a deep belief in the existence of witches, and it was referenced in many places in the Bible that such creatures were real. Nonetheless, the Templar was certain that many who claimed to be witches were spurious, using the false reputation as a means of controlling others or, if they were alone or elderly, as a means of protection against those that might wish them harm.

The latter could easily be the case with the old crone of whom Gianni had spoken. She had brandished her supposed talent for magick as a defence against any who might be tempted to steal from her pitiful stock of fruit. If that was the case, then the boy’s death was easily explained—the sailor whom the youngster had tried to rob had lashed out in a drunken stupor and accidentally thrown the boy off the pier with no intent to kill him and, afterwards, still mazed by the ale he had drunk, had not retained any memory of the act. As for fighting off the guards and fatally wounding two of them, his strength could have been born of desperation rather than evil genius. The other frightening part—of how wicked fairies had been seen dancing at the moment of the sailor’s demise—could merely be due to embellishment by a few over-excited spectators at his hanging. If that was the case, then the old fruit-seller had not actually possessed any devilish powers, but must have revelled in the outcome. Her reputation as a witch had been enhanced and her wares made safe from thievery.

The same could be true of Ferroner’s rejected lover. After failing to entice him into marriage with her natural charms, she had resorted to the implied knowledge of her grandam’s witchery to try to force him into wedlock. That her scheme had not worked had been her misfortune, but she had, nonetheless, succeeded in laying a yoke of trepidation on the armourer that was still plaguing him many years later. Just as Ferroner’s fear of the curse was real, so was Gianni’s dread of witches. Such burdens were crippling to the soul and the Templar knew he must try to find a way to help the lad.

Laying a hand on Gianni’s shoulder, the Templar first commended him for having the courage to reveal his disquietude and then said, “I fully understand your apprehension, Gianni, but ofttimes the only way to quell an anxiety is, with Our Lord’s aid, to face and overcome it. If you do not, you will never be free of it. If it should become necessary to search for this woman, it is my hope that, for your own well-being, you will accompany me, but I will not censure you if you do not. What say you?”

Gianni looked into the Templar’s pale blue eye, which had the clarity of a cloudless dawn, and knew that with this man at his side, he had no cause to be frightened. Slowly and gravely he nodded his willingness to go.

Bascot gave the boy’s shoulder a final firm clasp and Gianni, his confidence restored, now walked with steady steps beside his former master to the house where Ferroner’s employee Noll had told them they would find Nan Glover.

It was a well-maintained building that belonged to Mistress Glover’s son, John, who was proprietor of a soap-making manufactory on the riverbank near Robert Ferroner’s armoury. Of modest proportions, it was two stories high, the lower one of stone and the upper of wood, and the casement shutters had been painted an attractive shade of blue.

When they knocked at the door and asked the maidservant who answered for Emma’s former attendant, they were shown into a small hall where a woman of late middle years was sitting in a comfortable padded chair stitching at a tapestry. With her was a much younger, and very handsome, female companion, wearing a fine silken gown and bedecked with expensive jewellery. She had a slightly haughty cast to her expression, but when the maidservant announced that one of the visitors was a Templar knight, she rose quickly from her seat and gave him a fulsome welcome.

“I am honoured, Sir Bascot, to have you in my home,” she said, introducing herself as Mabel Glover, the wife of Nan’s son. “How may I serve you?”

“It is your husband’s mother that I wish to speak to, mistress,” he informed her and then turned to the older woman. “You are Nan Glover, are you not?”

“I am,” she replied. “Please excuse my not rising, Sir Bascot. I have a weakness in my joints that makes it difficult for me to move.” As she spoke, she gestured to a wooden cane that rested on the arm of her chair.

“Do not trouble yourself, mistress,” Bascot said to her kindly. “I will not take up much of your time but, with your permission, would like to speak to you privately about Emma Ferroner. At Lady Nicolaa’s request, I am investigating her murder and, having been told that you attended her for many years, am hoping that you can answer some questions I have about her background.”

Nan Glover readily gave her assent, and Mabel, after asking if the Templar wished any refreshments to be brought, hovered for a moment or two until it became obvious that he was not going to speak to her mother-by-marriage until she had left the room.

Annoyed, and with a barely concealed moue of resentment at not being included in the forthcoming interview, she flounced out of the door.

Once she was gone, Mistress Glover said, “I beg your forgiveness for Mabel’s brashness, lord. She is from Nottingham and, having only been here for the short time that she and John have been wed, has still to learn that our Lincoln ways are not so forward. I am sure she meant no disrespect.”

After the Templar had assured her that he had not been offended by Mabel’s manner, Mistress Glover bade him take a seat beside her and tell her what it was he wanted to know.

The Templar sat down, and when Gianni took up a position standing behind him, his writing tablet in his hand, asked Nan Glover if she would mind notes being taken of their conversation. She nodded her acquiescence and then he said to her, “I would like to find out more about Mistress Ferroner’s character—what kind of person she was and if she had any enemies. Will you tell me what you knew of her?”

“Of course,” Nan Glover said with tears springing in her eyes. “I was so sorry to hear of her death, and the manner of it, as was my son, John. He and Emma played together often throughout the years when she was in my charge and he looked upon her as a younger sister. We both loved her well. But, to my regret, I have not seen much of her recently, so I can only tell you of her circumstances during the time she was in my care.”

“That is all I expect,” Bascot told her.

The elderly widow settled herself more comfortably in her chair and laid aside the tapestry on which she had been working. “I was a friend of Robert Ferroner’s wife before she died; Emma was only a baby when her mother was taken from her and a suitable woman was required to tend to her needs. I, like Robert, had been made bereft of my spouse when my child was very young. My poor husband, who was a glove maker, cut himself with a pair of scissors one day in his workshop and it festered. ’Twasn’t long after that his whole arm turned black and his heart stopped, God rest him.”

She wiped her eyes with the cuff of her sleeve. “But you won’t want to hear my sorry tale,” she said and staunchly resumed relating the history of her association with the armourer and his daughter. “After my husband died, I couldn’t continue with his business for I had never learned the skill. And, as our son had been born late to us, I was no longer a young woman. I sorely needed employment to sustain myself and John, but the aching in my joints had already begun to plague me and I had not the strength to carry out more than the easiest of labour. Robert Ferroner knew of my straitened circumstances and offered me the post of his daughter’s attendant, which I gratefully accepted. I left my son in the care of my husband’s brother—who had just then started up in the business of soap-making—and although he could not afford to take both myself and John into his care, he and his wife had no children of their own and kindly agreed to shelter my son. The arrangement turned out most happily in the end, for my husband’s brother made a great success of his manufactory and a few years ago, when he died, he left the business to John. But, as I said, at the time we were all undergoing a degree of hardship and so, with my child safely housed and cared for, I was able to take up my duties as Emma’s companion.

“She was a lovely girl, lord,” Mistress Glover continued earnestly. “Robert doted on her, and gave her everything she wanted—new dresses, sweetmeats, pretty ribbons and toys. But I think that even if she had not been so pampered, her sunny nature would have been the same—always laughing and loving to all around her and never any crying or a cross word at all. At least she was that way until . . .”

Her words ground to a halt and her expression turned sad. “What is it, mistress?” he asked. “Did something happen to change her?”

Nan Glover did not answer him directly but said instead. “I take it you have not seen her visage?”

The Templar shook his head, but recalled Clare’s description of Emma as being uncomely and was not surprised when Mistress Glover gave a sad sigh. “Emma was not exactly ill-favoured, but she was very plain. She had none of her mother’s prettiness, but instead inherited her father’s height and large bones along with the strong cast of his features—which are becoming in a man, but not a woman.”

She looked up at Bascot. “To put it straightly, she was not very attractive in either features or form, but I think that would not have proved an insurmountable barrier to her self-esteem until the time when she was about seven years old and was stricken with the pox. She nearly died, Sir Bascot, and we all gave thanks to God that she survived, but the illness left her face and parts of her body badly marked. Nonetheless, the scars did not trouble her at first—and all of us who cared for her made light of them for they seemed a small penance to pay in exchange for her life—until one day soon afterwards I took her to church and, while we were standing among the congregation, she heard a neighbour—who was not aware of Emma’s presence behind her—make an unfortunate remark about her appearance, something along the lines that Robert Ferroner’s daughter was now so ugly that only a frog would find her pleasing.

“Oh, she was so upset, Sir Bascot,” Nan Glover said sorrowfully. “She ran out of the church before I could stop her and when she got home she cried for hours. I tried to tell her that a kind heart and a loving nature—both of which she had—were far more important than an attractive face, but she would have none of it.” She shook her head sadly. “Girls of that age are so impressionable; one unkind word or glance can blight their lives forever.”

“And after that?” Bascot prompted.

“She became very shy and withdrawn,” Nan Glover told him. “She would not go out at all with me, even to the shops in the market, saying what need had she of new ribbons, or gewgaws and the like, for nothing would ever make her pretty. When we went to church she made me stand with her at the very back of the nave and never spoke to anyone in the congregation, insisting that we leave immediately the service was over. I tried to tell her father of what had happened but, in his eyes, even though her visage was marred, she was still beautiful and he dismissed her behaviour as a girlish whim she would grow out of.

“And so Emma became somewhat of a recluse,” Nan Glover continued. “I despaired of her ever having any friends and indeed, to my knowledge, she only ever made one, a perfumer in the town named Constance Turner.”

She looked at Bascot with a worried expression. “I have been told that Mistress Turner is suspected of murdering poor Emma. I cannot believe she would do so, lord. She is a gentle soul, and not capable of such a deed.”

“I have been told that it was you who introduced Emma to Mistress Turner,” Bascot asked. “Is that correct?”

“Yes, I did. A neighbour had mentioned to me that a new perfumer had come to town and made fragrances that were wonderful and, thinking that a comforting scent might lift Emma’s spirits, I finally persuaded her to visit Mistress Turner on one of the days she came here to visit me. I was very pleased when they took to each other straightaway and later became friends.”

She paused for a moment in thought. “It seemed to me that the perfumer is a lonely girl, too; perhaps that was the attraction between them. But whatever the reason, she was good for Emma. Not only did she suggest a fragrance that was suitable; she also provided an unguent that could be applied to the disfigurements on her face and help to cover them and then gave her, gratuitously, a lotion to darken her eyebrows. Emma was most pleased with the results.”

Nan looked up with a smile on her face. “However unattractive the rest of Emma’s features were, she had beautiful eyes. Does not the apostle Matthew say in the Bible that the light of the body is in the eye? That’s how Emma’s were. She was possessed of a pure heart and it shone through whether she was unhappy or not. Mistress Turner immediately noticed this, and the darkening of Emma’s eyebrows made all the difference, for they framed the radiance of her soul. I was very grateful they became friends and it made my heart easier for them both.”

“Were you acquainted with Wiger, the man that Emma married?”

Nan Glover’s countenance darkened. “Yes, I knew him. He had come to work in the armoury before I left Robert’s employ and I was there when he first began to pay court to Emma. He is very handsome and she was flattered, but I did not trust his purpose. I felt he only paid attention to her because she was the daughter of a wealthy man. There was something in his eyes, lord, when he looked at her—a slight disdain, perhaps—and even though, out of Christian charity, I tried very hard not to judge him, I felt uneasy. I hoped Emma would see through him, or at least Robert would, so I was not too pleased when I heard she had accepted his proposal of marriage. But even though I believe he wedded her for mercenary purposes, it is my fervent hope that he gave the poor girl some happiness before she died. I must admit she seemed elated the last time she came here, so perhaps my opinion of him was wrong.”

“And when was that?” Bascot asked.

Nan Glover’s eyes filled with tears. “A few days before she was murdered, lord. She came to tell me that she was going to the shrine to ask the saint for help in conceiving a babe, and had brought to show me the little horseshoe she was taking as an offering. She told me she would have liked me to be her companion when she went but knew that, because of my frailty, it would be impossible for me to make the journey, and so had asked Mistress Turner to accompany her instead. I said I would send up my own prayers to St. Dunstan, asking that he listen to her plea, and she thanked and kissed me most tenderly before she left. Oh, to think that was the last time I will ever see her.”

Tears now began to course down her withered cheeks and she fumbled for a scrap of linen in her pocket to wipe them dry. After giving her a few moments to compose herself, Bascot, with a reassuring glance at Gianni, broached the subject of the curse about which Ferroner had told him. Mistress Glover and the armourer were of a similar age and it was quite possible that she had heard of the confrontation between him and his erstwhile paramour at the time it had happened. If it became necessary to try to trace the woman who had laid the malediction, there was a hope that Nan, through gossip, might have obtained more information about her than Ferroner or Noll had been able to offer.

“Oh, my, yes,” she replied when he asked her if she had heard of the incident. “It was the talk of Lincoln for some days afterwards. Robert had, just a few days before, asked Edith to be his wife, and she was most upset when she heard of it. Indeed it took him a few weeks to convince Edith that he had finished with that woman long before he had made his offer of marriage, and also to make her believe that he was earnest in his pledge to forego his old wayward habits. But theirs was a true love match, Sir Bascot, and Robert kept his promise not to indulge in any more wild behaviour. They were very happy for the short time they were together before she died.”

“I have been told that the name of the woman who cursed him was Lorinda,” Bascot said, and Nan Glover nodded. “It was also said that she was never seen in the town again after the day she challenged him in the marketplace.” Again the elderly woman signified by another confirming movement of her head that the information was correct. “Do you know what happened to her?” he asked.

Mistress Glover answered with some reluctance. “Not exactly, lord,” she hedged, “but . . . well, I am not certain . . . but I have reason to believe she may have gone to Newark.”

“What makes you think that?”

“I have never told anyone this before, Sir Bascot,” she replied quietly and with some doubt in her voice as to the wisdom of imparting the revelation she was about to make. “At the time, the gossip about Lorinda and Robert was still fresh in everyone’s minds and I did not wish to upset Edith by bringing back bitter memories. But she has been long dead, and so now is poor Emma, so I don’t suppose it matters who hears of it.”

The Templar nodded and waited for her to continue, which she did.

“’Twas about two years after Robert and Edith were married that my husband had occasion to go to Newark, to get some fine leather from a tanner there to craft a pair of expensive gloves for a customer. My husband said, although he was not certain, that he saw a woman who greatly resembled Lorinda on the main thoroughfare in the town, carrying a young child in her arms.”

“Did your husband speak to her?”

“Oh, no, lord. He had never made her acquaintance, so had no reason to. He did notice that she was with a companion, a finely dressed man who looked like a wealthy merchant, with whom she was laughing and chatting. She, too, was dressed in costly attire. They both went into a very grand house that a passerby told my husband belonged to the head of the drapers’ guild, so it would seem that Lorinda had fared well after her disastrous entanglement with Robert. That was all my husband learned, lord, and when he came home and told me about it, we decided to keep it to ourselves lest, as I said, it brought distress to Edith.”

“And your husband never saw Lorinda there again?”

Nan Glover shook her head. “He seldom travelled to Newark—it is a very long walk there and back if you cannot find a carter to give you a ride—and he only went that time because of his customer’s impatience and the worry that he would lose the commission if he did not make haste to get the material to fashion the gloves.”

Seeing that Mistress Glover was tiring, the Templar thanked her for her time and brought the interview to a close.

As he and Gianni exited the room, Mabel Glover was standing in the hall, as though she had been waiting to waylay them before they left.

“I hope my husband’s mother was able to help you, Sir Bascot,” Mabel said with an ingratiating smile, and quite the opposite attitude she had displayed just a short time before. “Emma was a lovely girl and did not deserve to meet such a terrible death. I have heard in the town that it is believed to be a man crazed by a demon who killed her. Is that true?”

Recalling that Constance Turner had told him that Emma did not like Nan’s daughter-by-marriage, he put Mabel’s display of concern down to nosiness. Irritated by her false manner, he answered her shortly, sensing that her blatant insincerity, if it was habitual, could easily have been the reason that Emma Ferroner had not wished to be in her company.

“The investigation is ongoing, mistress,” he said bluntly. “Questions about the identity of the murderer will not be answered until it is completed.”

Her face fell at the curtness of his reply, and she said no more as he and Gianni left the house.

Chapter 20

The woman who had laid such a weighty curse on Robert Ferroner was not, at that moment, very far away, for she was in the common room of a dilapidated lodging house in the Lincoln suburb of Butwerk. The area was a poor one, containing most of the town’s brothels or, as they were more commonly called, stewes, and there were also one or two hostels offering cheap accommodation. It was in one of the latter that Lorinda had taken refuge. A small fee was charged for shelter, and the lodgers—mainly itinerant tinkers, packmen and a few beggars—all shared, once a day, a pottage kept bubbling in a cauldron and slept on pallets laid around the perimeter of the large chamber on the ground floor.

Lorinda had returned to the Lincoln area only a couple of weeks before; during the years since she had left Granny Willow’s cot, she had travelled throughout Lincolnshire and the surrounding area, living in various towns, taking lovers and sometimes bearing children as she went. Life had not been kind to her, but most of her troubles, although she failed to recognise it, had arisen due to her tempestuous disposition.

Her beauty had faded, not only with age, but also due to an ailment that had stricken her a few years before—a swelling in her throat that an apothecary had told her was called a guttur—which had grown larger with time and was slowly choking her; she was well aware that her time left alive was sorely limited. She had become very thin and her features gaunt because of the difficulty the lump caused in swallowing food, and her flashing dark eyes were now bulbous. Fearing that even though her features were much altered, she might still be recognised in the small village where she had been born, she had come to the town instead, and taken further precautions to preserve her anonymity. In much the same way as a swan, once beautiful but now bedraggled with age and sickness, will embark on its last migration to the place where it had been born, she had returned home.

But even if her appearance had changed, her nature had not. As always, she railed against her fortune and was determined that, during her last days, those who had given her grievance would pay for the harm they had done her.

* * *

When Bascot and Gianni had left to go and speak to Nan Glover, Roget had been in the bail and the Templar told him that Lady Nicolaa had given permission for them to go together to the alehouses near the armoury that evening.

Deciding to wait in the ward until it should be time to leave, Roget went to visit Constance. He tried to speak to her as often as he could but made his visits brief in case Lady Nicolaa should hear of them. If she suspected his attachment to the prisoner, she might remove him from the investigation and he knew he would not be able to bear it if he was rendered helpless to aid the woman he loved.

As on previous occasions, he found her wan and pale, and the food she had been brought that morning remained untouched on the floor. But when he entered the cell, she made an effort to smile and thanked him for coming to see her. Roget made an attempt to lift her spirits, telling her he was certain it would not be long before she was proved innocent and set free. She responded bravely, saying his confidence in such a satisfactory outcome gave her much comfort. After a few further moments of awkward conversation, he reluctantly bid her farewell and, with a heart full of misery, left the cell and walked across to where Ernulf had just finished overseeing a change of the guards in the garrison.

After going inside the barracks and getting a flagon of ale from his store, Ernulf poured them both a cup to drink while they stood in the sunshine and Roget told the serjeant how much it distressed him to see Constance in such terrible straits.

“Although she is making a show of courage, I can see she is very frightened,” he said.

“Aye, well, that’s understandable,” Ernulf replied sympathetically. “Poor little lass must be terrified.”

“Aside from her own plight,” Roget added morosely, “she is very worried about her little maidservant, Agnes, and how she is faring all alone in the house. I wish there was something I could do to ease Constance’s mind about her.”

Just then the manservant who held the post of kennel-master appeared on the other side of the bail and, seeing Ernulf and Roget outside of the barracks, hailed them and walked across to where they stood. He, too, was in a dejected mood and when they asked him why, he told them that he had an unpleasant chore in front of him that evening.

“One of a litter of six puppies recently born to one of the sheriff’s bercelets needs to be put down,” he said sadly. “He was the last to leave his dam’s womb, and while it’s often the case that the final one is the weakest, this one is strong enough but has hardly any sense of smell. He couldn’t even find his dam’s teat when he was first whelped, and now it’s the same with the food trough. If he didn’t follow the other pups to the meat, he’d starve to death, so he’ll never be able to track any prey, which is his purpose. ’Tis a shame, for he’s a friendly little hound, but if he can’t work, he’s useless.”

The captain pondered the kennel-master’s words for a moment, and then asked if he thought the unfortunate puppy might prove a good companion for a woman.

“Oh, aye, he would,” was the kennel-master’s reply. “He’s a merry little fellow and full of play; just the right temperament for a female.”

With a sidelong glance of triumph at Ernulf, Roget’s face split into a grin. “Then I would like to see him. If he’s all that you say, I think I know someone who would welcome his company.”

The pair walked over to the kennels, a low wooden structure on the north side of the bail. Inside there was a strong odour of dog, and a constant yipping and barking from the animals penned in a large compound on one side of the building. In a more secluded corner were a few stalls for dogs that were ailing or whelping, with a smaller fenced-in space at the far end where puppies that had been weaned were kept until they were big enough to join their fully grown counterparts. Inside this stall were the bercelet puppies that the kennel-master had spoken of: short-haired hounds with long floppy ears and large paws, about four months old. They all ran forward to the low gate enclosing the stall and began to bark when the kennel-master appeared, and he pointed to one that had the same black-and-tan markings as the others, but also a circle of dark hair around one eye. This puppy had not followed the others to the gate, but had plumped himself down on his hindquarters and, with his head cocked to one side, was regarding the kennel-master and Roget in an inquisitive manner.

“That’s him,” the kennel-master said. “As you can see, he’s bright enough, and doesn’t lack intelligence. I should think he’d make a good watchdog when he’s a bit bigger, but I should warn you he won’t catch a thief unless he can see or hear him, for he’ll never be able to track by scent.”

Roget laughed and reached over the gate and grabbed the puppy by the neck. It came up into his arms willingly and then started to lick at his face and to chew on the copper rings entwined in his beard.

“He’s a fine little dog for the purpose I have in mind,” Roget said to the kennel-master. “Instead of putting him down, will you let me have him in exchange for a flagon of wine?”

The kennel-master readily agreed. “Sir Gerard won’t mind; he hates having any of the hounds put to death, even those that have no hunting skills.”

The bargain struck, Roget left the bail with the puppy in the crook of his arm and walked down Steep Hill to the flesh market. There he bought a good-sized chunk of pork and, for an extra half-penny, an old leather bag in which to carry it. From the market he made his way to the street where Constance Turner’s house was situated and knocked on the door.

For a long time there was no answer and Roget began to be worried, and then suddenly the door opened just a crack and Agnes’s little face peered out.

“It is me, Captain Roget. Open the door and let me in.”

The young maidservant pulled the heavy door open further, and Roget could see that recent events had, indeed, taken a toll on her. Always not much more than skin and bone, she was now emaciated and had dark circles under her eyes. Roget suspected that, as Constance had feared, she was not eating or sleeping properly.

He strode into the hall and put the puppy down, and the animal immediately ran to where Agnes was standing and pawed at the edge of her skirt. She looked up in surprise at Roget, and then bent to touch one of the puppy’s silky ears.

“I didn’t know you had a dog, Captain,” she said.

“I don’t,” Roget replied. “I have brought him here for you, Agnes, to keep you company until your mistress is set free and, if she is willing, for you to keep him afterwards.”

“For me?” Agnes said in wonder, gazing at the little dog. “But he is beautiful. How can you bear to part with him?”

“Quite easily, ma petite, if he will make you happy.”

Joy lit up the little servant’s face and she gathered the puppy into her arms, where he sat quite contentedly. She started to stammer her thanks, but Roget assured her there was no need. “Your mistress is very worried about you and it will console her to know that you are not alone; that is recompense enough for me.”

Embarrassed by her heartfelt gratitude, he quickly swung the battered leather bag containing the meat from his shoulder and handed it to her. “In there is a haunch of meat that will make a good pottage. It will not only feed him for several days but you as well. You must keep up your strength, Agnes, if you are to look after him.”

“Oh, I will, I promise,” Agnes said, her eyes aglow. “I will go and cook it right now.”

Roget left the perfumer’s house feeling comforted by the maid’s elation. At least he could now tell Constance that she need not worry quite so much about the girl’s well-being.

* * *

Later that evening, after Bascot and Roget had left to visit the alehouses, Gianni went to a small unused chamber that Nicolaa de la Haye had allotted to him as a quiet place to write up the notes he had taken during the interviews Bascot had conducted. As he laid out his writing implements and inkpot in preparation, he knew he might have difficulty in concentrating, for his thoughts were all on the action the Templar had decided to take concerning the tale Nan Glover had told of her husband’s sighting of the strega in Newark many years before.

Once they had left Emma’s old attendant, his former master had said that if he and Roget found no further information that evening that might implicate Wiger as a firm suspect, he intended that he and Gianni should go to Newark and see if Lorinda might be living there.

“Even though she may have moved on since then,” Bascot had said, “it is a place to start searching.”

Despite his assurance to his former master, Gianni still felt a vestige of terror grip his vitals at the thought of coming face-to-face with the witch. Resolutely, he repeated the line from the twenty-third Psalm that said that those who believed in the Lord need fear no evil and then, with a heavy heart, picked up his pen and determinedly set to work.

Chapter 21

Bascot and Roget, meanwhile, were making their way along a well-worn track by the banks of the Witham. They had left their horses with the guard on duty at Stonebow, the principal portal that led out of the town, deciding to walk to their destinations. The captain had said there were three alehouses on this side of Briggate, as the road that led down to the bridge over the river was called, but that one of them was a very far piece farther along, and patronised mainly by the tanners who conducted their businesses in the area.

“Even the ale tastes of the urine and dung they use to soak the hides for tanning,” Roget said, “so I don’t think Wiger would go there.”

“And the other two?” the Templar asked.

“Both nearer and the closest one is much more likely,” Roget replied. “It is the alehouse where I arrested two of Ferroner’s apprentices for being drunk and starting a fight, so it might be that Wiger drinks there too.”

As they started off, it was just beginning to get dark and the day’s heat waning, freshened by a cool breeze coming off the river. As they passed through Saltergate, where the salt-makers had their market, and then continued down towards the riverside, they heard the high-pitched whistle of an osprey circling overhead giving warning to its mate that it was time to return to their nest for the night.

The area into which Roget led the Templar was rough despite the prosperity generated by the local manufactories, inhabited by the workers employed in the various trades and their families, along with bargemen and sailors from the docks. Both men were armed, Bascot with his sword and the captain had a broad-bladed dagger in his belt and was carrying a thick cudgel. The quarter moon above cast a dark glint on the sluggish waters of the river, and the buildings were all in shadow, lit only by the occasional flaring torch in front of a doorway. The air was filled with the aroma of fish from a catch that had been unloaded earlier in the day, and the heady scent of cinnamon and nutmeg wafted from a boat tied up at the quayside laden with a small store of the precious commodities. Mingling with these distinctive smells was the occasional whiff of urine from the tanner’s premises farther downstream, the odour of burning charcoal from the salt-maker’s premises and the pungent aroma of lye from a soap-maker’s manufactory. It was an area where honest toil was waged alongside thievery and drunkenness, a combination that the docks on the Witham had in common with other quays all over the world.

As they strode along the muddy path, the few men loitering in the streets made a quick retreat and disappeared. The captain was a feared officer and one not known for his patience with law-breakers. The additional threat of an armed Templar in his company made them even more nervous. As they walked, Roget explained to Bascot that down here on the riverbank, unlike in the town, neither he nor his men made regular patrols, but only a circuit once in every two or three weeks, just to remind any would-be miscreants that criminal behaviour would not be tolerated within Sheriff Camville’s bailiwick. It had been on one of these patrols that Roget had arrested the armourer’s men.

When they entered the alehouse that Roget had spoken of, they found it unkempt and dirty. The alekeeper was standing at the back of the room beside a couple of broached ale barrels, keeping watch on two slatterns serving customers. He was a short man and squat, with a huge paunch and lank, greasy hair. There were quite a few customers, all sitting at benches alongside a scattering of rickety tables, a motley crew of bargemen and industrial workers. The air stank of sweat and the yeasty aroma of ale, and the noisy hum of raucous conversation could be heard before Roget pushed aside the leather curtain that screened the doorway.

As Bascot stepped through the opening, Roget beside him, silence fell in the low-ceilinged chamber. The patrons suddenly all became intent on staring into their ale cups or found something of interest to gaze at on the other side of the room. The pair strode over to where the proprietor stood and the Templar nodded to his companion, who was already acquainted with the alekeeper, to speak to him first.

“I see that your trade has picked up since the last time I was here, Selso,” Roget said in a deceptively mild manner. “Not selling tainted ale anymore, I would reckon.”

The alekeep gave Roget a nervous look, and then glanced at the faces of his customers, who all, despite their seeming disinterest, were listening intently to the conversation. “Now you knows, Captain,” the alekeep replied with an uneasy smile, “that only happened the once, when my old wife, by accident, added some castor seeds to a brew she was making.”

Roget gave a snort of derision. “By accident, was it? I think, Selso, that perhaps it was you she was trying to purge and not your customers. And if she was, I wouldn’t blame her. It could be she was trying to rid you of some of that lard you carry round your belly. A gut like that—ma foi, c’est incroyable—is not one any woman would wish to have beside her on a pallet at night.”

The captain’s comments brought a round of laughter from the men drinking ale, and the atmosphere relaxed a little.

“The reason we are come, Selso,” Roget continued, “is that the Templar here, Sir Bascot de Marins, is conducting an investigation into the murder of Robert Ferroner’s daughter and wants to ask you some questions about her husband, Wiger. Is he one of your regular customers?”

Cowed at being the butt of the captain’s joke, Selso’s answer was surly. “Used to be, but not anymore. He hasn’t been in here since he was wed. Thinks himself too grand now for the likes of me and my customers.”

“Do you know where he does drink?” Roget pressed.

Selso shrugged his pudgy shoulders. “How should I? I keep only my own ale, not everyone else’s.”

Roget grabbed the front of the man’s filthy tunic and lifted him off the ground. “Show some respect for the Templar’s rank, you filthy piece of merde, or I will accomplish with my fists what your wife failed to do.”

The alekeeper went white and began to jabber an answer to Bascot. “I’ve heard he drinks down in Dern’s place, lord, up by the city wall, but I don’t know for certain, I swear before God I don’t.”

Roget dropped the alekeeper and he fell to the floor. Ignoring him, the captain turned and spoke to the alehouse patrons. “Does anyone know where Wiger drinks, or where he is tonight? A free cup of ale for an answer, mes amis.”

Most of the customers shook their heads, but one man, a bargeman by the look of him, said, “Selso’s right, Captain. I’ve seen Wiger in Dern’s place myself the last couple of times I’ve been in there. I don’t go there often ’cause the drink’s too costly—Dern charges a fourthing more for a jug of ale than Selso does—so I only goes when I want to hire one of the doxies he keeps upstairs. The last time I went was just a few days ago and Wiger was in there then.”

“Merci, mon copain,” Roget said to the informant and, taking a silver half-penny from the purse at his belt, threw it to the man. “Have your next cup of ale on us, and be careful that Selso pours it from a keg that his wife has not tampered with.”

Merriment broke out as the coin flew in a spinning arc and the sailor caught it deftly. As Bascot and Roget left the alehouse, good-humour had been fully restored.

Once they were outside, the Templar asked his companion if he was familiar with the alehouse that the sailor had mentioned.

Roget shook his head. “I know where it is, but that is all. We do not have any need to patrol there because, as the bargeman said, it is expensive and most of the patrons are men of means, merchants who own businesses roundabout here.” He gave a grin. “Burghers are not the sort to give the type of trouble I need to attend to. They settle their differences by complaining to their guild, or bringing a suit in the sheriff’s court, not by trying to break each other’s heads open.”

The captain guided Bascot up a different track from the one on which they had previously walked. It led, as Selso had said, towards the southern wall of Lincoln, and the ambiance improved as they left the riverbank behind.

“This alehouse appears to be only a little way from Ferroner’s workshop,” Bascot commented as Roget led them to a building they had passed on their trip to the armoury.

“Not far,” the captain replied as they went inside.

This alehouse was of very different type than the one they had just visited. Two flaring torches lit the entryway, the interior walls had been freshly washed with lime, and the floor lain with clean rushes. A goodly number of tables were discreetly placed about the room with a candle-holder on each one, and stout oak stools—some with wooden backs—were provided for seating. There was only one serving maid, but she was young and pretty, a vast improvement on the slatterns that had been in Selso’s establishment. Behind a counter at the rear of the room were half-a-dozen ale barrels and a couple of kegs of wine, with a row of mugs on a shelf above, some of wood but most made of leather or pewter. The room was half-full of customers, all dressed in garb of decent material, and mainly of middle years, with only a few younger men sprinkled amongst them. A couple of patrons had salt encrusted on the cuffs of their tunics, indicating they were probably salt-makers, and there was a man of about Bascot’s age whose hair and clothing were lightly covered with a fine sprinkling of a greyish white substance that appeared to be remnants of the ash that was part of the mixture used to make soap, suggesting he was a soap-maker. The Templar wondered if he might be Nan Glover’s son, or one of his employees.

The proprietor, Dern, was also a vast improvement on Selso. Tall, slim and dark-haired, he was fastidious in appearance, dressed in a dark tunic without stain or rent, and hands that looked as though they had been freshly scrubbed.

A quick glance around the room revealed that Wiger was not there. A few of the customers turned their heads to give a curious glance at the Templar badge Bascot wore on the shoulder of his leather jerkin, but their interest was only cursory and they paid little more attention.

Dern gave the pair a civil greeting when they approached him and then asked if they wished to be served with ale or wine.

“Neither,” Bascot replied. “I am here to speak to you in connection with the investigation that is being conducting into the recent murder of Emma Ferroner. Is her husband, Wiger, one of your patrons?”

“He comes in occasionally,” Dern replied cautiously, “but I have not seen him in here since his poor wife was killed.”

“Are there any particular customers of yours with whom he keeps company? Ones who might be considered friends of his?” Bascot asked, following up his intent to try to find a drinking crony of the victim’s husband.

“Not really. He is a genial man, and usually makes conversation with whoever happens to be in here when he arrives. Many of my patrons are friends of his father-by-marriage; he often sits with one of them, but not any in particular.”

The Templar took a moment to consider the alekeep. His answers had seemed accommodating but could be considered evasive, and had been intoned with a smooth urbanity that was grating.

Bascot nodded, giving the impression he accepted the explanation. “Does he ever visit the bawds you keep upstairs?”

“Not that I recall, lord. The women are usually hired by men that have yet to marry, or are widowed, to save them the trouble of going into town and visiting a stewe, and Wiger has—or had—a wife to warm his bed.”

Again the answer was suave, and spoken with an ingratiating smile that was patently false. Irritated, but sensing they would be hard pressed to extract any pertinent information from the alekeep, the Templar signed to Roget that they might as well leave.

“I would not trust that oily bastard to tell the truth if he swore it on the Virgin,” Roget growled once they were outside.

“Nor would I,” Bascot replied. “His answers were too smooth by far. It may be that he is just protecting his profits. Many a man grows garrulous in his cups and reveals more than is wise to his servitor. If Dern gets a reputation for repeating any indiscretions he hears, he would soon lose custom, but I would like to be certain that is the only reason for his reticence.”

“Do you wish me to take him in for questioning?” Roget asked. “It would give me great pleasure to wipe that smile off his face with my fist.”

The Templar thought for a moment. “Not yet. Let us first see if we can find out more about him. You know all of the drinking houses in Lincoln. Ask around among the alekeeps about Dern’s reputation. A man like that usually has something to hide and if we can discover what it is, we can use it to make him more forthcoming about Wiger. If you are unsuccessful, then it will be time to resort to harsher measures.”

* * *

Late that night the murderer lay on his pallet sweating profusely. It had taken all of his self-control not to flee when the Templar had walked into the alehouse where he was drinking. That damned monk, may the Devil curse him, was getting too close with his interminable questions. He now had no choice but to carry out the scheme he had devised earlier, and he must do it soon.

Chapter 22

Early the next morning Bascot made his way to the castle. The night before, after he had left Roget and returned to the commandery, he had found d’Arderon still up and awaiting his arrival. Feradac MacHeth had been with him, both wanting to tell Bascot, as second-in-command of the enclave, that a place had been made ready for d’Arderon to take his corrodiary in an enclave in the south, near London.

“But I will not go until I learn whether or not you have been able to catch this murderer,” d’Arderon said to Bascot. “This is the last battle in which I will be involved, even if only on the periphery, and I will see it through to the end.”

As Bascot had nodded and taken his leave of the ailing preceptor, his throat was too choked with emotion to make a reply. D’Arderon had been one of the foremost of the Order’s champions when he was young and now he still refused to leave the field even though, by doing so, he was putting his well-being in jeopardy. He was a valiant soldier who would be sorely missed by all who knew him.

As he rode across the Minster grounds towards the castle, he silently sent up a prayer asking that he would be successful in his hunt for the murderer and that d’Arderon would live long enough to share the victory.

Turning his mind to the investigation and the information that had been gathered so far, Bascot had to admit that this current enquiry was proving the most baffling of all the ones in which he had so far been involved. There were no obvious suspects, unholy implications had been suggested, and the only traces of the murderer were a commonplace knife, a few strands of hair and a scrap of fabric. He thought back over the long parade of witnesses that had been interviewed and the testimony they had given, beginning with Constance Turner, then moving on to the armoury, and suddenly realised, with a start, that there was one person who had been missed when he had questioned Ferroner’s employees—his housekeeper. She had been absent on the day that he and Roget had gone to the workshop and not been interviewed. He must arrange to speak with her without delay.

* * *

In the keep, Gianni sat in the small chamber that had been allotted him by Nicolaa de la Haye, reviewing the summary of interviews he had compiled the night before. His concentration had been sketchy when he had first started the work due to his preoccupation with the strega, but finally he had been able to turn his mind to the task and had worked late into the night to finish the report. It was, by then, near the midnight hour and he had decided that rather than go to his pallet in the scriptorium where he usually slept, and risk disturbing Master Blund and Lambert, he would take his rest on the floor of the chamber where he had been working. But his sleep had been fitful, and disturbed by murky dreams that vanished as soon as he tried to recall them, and he had been awake long before first light. As soon as it was time for early Mass, he had attended the service in the castle chapel and then raced back to the hall to grab some bread and cheese from the tables being laid for the morning meal before hurrying back to the chamber to re-read the report.

He had barely finished when a page knocked at the door to tell him that Sir Bascot had arrived and, with Lady Nicolaa, was awaiting his presence in the solar. Gathering up the summary and his wax tablet, he hastened his steps up to the large airy chamber at the top of the keep. When he entered, his mistress and the Templar were deep in conversation, presumably concerning the piece of parchment Lady Nicolaa was holding in her hand. As Gianni approached they both bid him good morning and his mistress motioned for him to take a seat on the stool beside her.

“We have just been discussing a message I received from Master Drogue, the apothecary I asked for assistance,” Nicolaa said. “He made great haste in complying with my request and late last night sent me the information he uncovered.”

She handed the parchment to Gianni and he scanned it quickly. In the missive, Drogue reported that he had spoken to all of the members of his guild and that the only record of Emma Ferroner ever having a requirement for their services was on an occasion five years before when Mistress Glover had come for a mixture to relieve a nasty cough that was plaguing her charge.

“As you will recall, Gianni, from the brief note I gave you of Mistress Turner’s testimony, this report completely belies it, for she stated that Emma Ferroner told her that, just a few months before her death, she had visited two apothecaries in the town requesting an aid for fertility. Either the dead woman was lying, or the perfumer is.”

The castellan leaned back in her chair and heaved a sigh. “This investigation is, I fear, developing into a mixture of falsehoods and contradictions which may prove impossible to unravel.”

She turned to Bascot. “Did you learn anything of interest last night when you went to the alehouses on the riverbank?”

“Nothing that is of immediate assistance, lady.” He told her about his and Roget visit to Dern`s premises and that, as neither of them had been satisfied with the answers the alekeep had given them, the captain was going to try to find out more about him to see if they could pressure him into telling what he knew.

“You believe his answers untruthful?” Nicolaa asked.

“More that he seemed too ready with them,” the Templar replied. “Almost as though he was expecting to be interrogated, and I would like to find out the reason why.”

He paused for a moment and then said, “There are a couple of other aspects, lady, that also merit further investigation. The first is that there is one other possible witness, Master Ferroner’s housekeeper, who was not questioned on the day we went to the armoury. She had daily contact with the victim and her husband and might be aware as to whether or not Wiger had any motive for wishing his wife dead. The second is that it might be profitable to try and find Lorinda, the woman who laid the curse on the armourer so many years ago . . .”

At that moment there was a loud knock at the door of the solar and Ernulf burst in. “I am sorry to interrupt you, Lady Nicolaa,” the serjeant said, red-faced from his hurried ascent up the stairs, “but another woman has been murdered—stabbed dead at the holy spring near Greetwell.”

Chapter 23

Bascot and Gianni immediately went to get their mounts and, with Ernulf and two of the castle men-at-arms, sped through Newport Arch and along the path that led east to the little village of Greetwell. The site of the murder was not more than two miles distant and, as they rode, the Templar asked Ernulf about the place where the murder had been committed.

“’Tis a site dedicated to St. Mary,” the serjeant replied. “There’s a spring there and in the past, so it’s said, many ailing children have been cured after being anointed with the water.”

“Who found the slain woman?” Bascot asked.

“A chapman travelling to Lincoln. He went to Greetwell and told the reeve, who sent one of the villagers to the castle to report it.”

They soon arrived at the spot. It was a pretty place; a simple stone cross stood alongside a small pool formed by the bubbling spring, and the water was encircled by an abundant growth of reeds and rushes amidst which a few ducks were bobbing.

In front of the cross lay the body of the murdered woman. Close by her side, a man was kneeling, sobbing in anguish. Bascot’s view of the victim was partly obscured by the grieving man so that all he could see were the back of her head rail, which was stained red with blood, and her feet, which were shoeless. She appeared to be lying facedown next to a large stone beside which a small clay pot lay toppled on its side.

Behind the distraught man was a crowd of villagers—men, women and children of varying ages—with two little toddlers of no more than three and four years at the front. They were weeping and struggling as they tried to escape the restraining grasp of an elderly woman. Next to them was a younger female, crying copiously as she gently rocked a grizzling baby she was holding in her arms. The rest of the villagers were equally horror-stricken, some weeping, others down on their knees praying, and one or two moaning with distress. A little apart from the crowd stood a man with a large leather satchel slung on his shoulder, his face white with shock. Bascot surmised this must be the chapman that had discovered the body. About half a mile down the track that led past the pool could be seen the wooden palisade enclosing the hamlet of Greetwell.

The Templar, anger rising hot and heavy in his heart at the distress caused by this second murder, reined his mount to a halt and dismounted, as did Gianni, Ernulf and the soldiers. As they did so, an older man who had been standing near the front of the group of villagers came running forward, made a bob of his head in deference to Bascot and said he was the reeve of the village and the one who had sent the message to the castle for help.

“’Tis a terrible day for us, lord,” he said, wringing his hands together, “and none of us have a mind as to what to do next. God be praised you have arrived so quickly.”

The Templar spoke to him gently. “Lady Nicolaa sends her condolences for the tragedy that has befallen your village, and I add mine to them,” he said, “and also our assurances that every effort will be made to find and punish the man who committed this crime.”

“All of us gives thanks for your kind words and Lady Nicolaa’s promise, lord, but I fear ’tis beyond the means of mortal man to catch this murderer,” the reeve replied, his countenance drawn with dread, “for ’twas the Devil that slew her, just like that other poor woman at St. Dunstan’s shrine.”

Bascot had fully expected this fear would be aroused because of the rumours that had circulated after Emma Ferroner’s death and made an effort to dispel it. “There is no proof as yet that Satan was involved in the other murder,” he said, “and so it would be unwise to leap to the conclusion that He is also responsible for this one.”

But the reeve was not to be shaken in his conviction, and shook his head firmly. “We knows the Devil did the killing, lord, for He left His mark for us to see.”

“How so?” Bascot asked.

“He stabbed her to death with His horns, lord, and one of them is still sticking out of her back.”

* * *

The Templar sensed Gianni, along with Ernulf and the two men-at-arms, stiffen at the reeve’s statement. “Show me,” he ordered tersely.

The reeve made no movement, just ducked his head and said fearfully, “I daresn’t go no closer to the body, lord, lest I get touched by the evil.”

The Templar walked over to the corpse and, as he came near, his step faltered for a moment. The dead woman’s body was a gruesome sight, the back of her gown all torn and bloody and there, just as the reeve had said, and with the tip still shallowly inserted in one of the many wounds in the posterior of her torso, lay a sinister-looking horn. As it lay there, the tip covered with gore, it did indeed seem the personification of evil. Had his assurance to the reeve been premature? Was the Evil One truly, and in fact, responsible for this murder? From the significance of the weapon that had been used, it seemed as though it could be so. Steeling himself, and murmuring an invocation to Christ for protection, he strode purposely forward, knelt down by the woman and carefully regarded the horn. It was, in shape and colour, identical to that of a goat—an animal associated with the Devil—and of a size consistent with a fully grown buck. The larger end was facing towards him and as he peered at it closely he could see that the interior was hollow, and the edges had been smoothed in a similar fashion to those used for drinking vessels.

A strong suspicion crossed his mind as he remembered how he and Lady Nicolaa had wondered whether or not the killer had been a hired assassin or an amateur, but to confirm it he would need to examine the wounds more closely. He glanced up at the man kneeling on the other side of the body. His eyes were distended with horror and he kept reaching out a hand towards the victim and then pulling it back as though frightened to make contact, all the while keeping his gaze fearfully on Bascot.

“Are you the husband of this woman?” Bascot asked.

The man nodded with an almost imperceptible movement of his head.

“What is your name?”

“I be Thomas Hurdler, lord.”

“And your wife’s name?”

“Gwen,” he whispered.

“And are those your children over there?” The Templar gestured towards the two wailing youngsters being restrained by one of the village women.

“Yes, lord,” the man croaked, “and the babby, too.”

“I want you to go and give your children comfort,” Bascot said kindly. “It will ease their distress if you are with them while I make a closer examination of your wife’s body.”

As though he was in a daze, it took the bereaved husband a moment or two to comprehend the order, but finally he got to his feet and went over to the tots and took them in his arms. With heartrending sobs they clung to him and hid their faces in the breast of his rough woollen smock.

Bascot turned his attention back to the victim. Slowly, and with a silent prayer for heaven’s aid, he removed the horn, eliciting a collective gasp from the watching villagers as he did so. Holding it in one hand, he reached forward with the other and, pushing aside the edges of the rents in the woman’s gown, carefully scrutinised each of the gashes on her back. There were five altogether, two on the left shoulder blade, one on the spine, another on the back of a rib and a slightly deeper one just above her waist. This last was the wound from which the horn had been protruding. All were narrow slits, the edges straight and clean, consistent with lacerations made by a knife, and none severe enough to cause death. They were definitely not puncture wounds such as a horn would make.

He passed his gaze over the rest of the body. Both of the woman’s hands were curled into fists close alongside her, and there was dirt embedded beneath each of her short, stubby nails as though she had dug her fingers into the ground beneath her to try to stand upright. This impression was confirmed by her shoes, rough wooden clogs protruding from under the hem of her garment and both embedded in a deep runnel where they must have fallen off as she scored the ground with her feet as she struggled to get free of her attacker.

Next he examined her rough linen head rail. It was, as he had noticed earlier, soaked with blood, far more than was on her kirtle, and slightly askew. Picking up the stone that lay near the woman’s head, he saw that one side was jagged and had flecks of sticky blood on it that were not yet quite dry. Reaching forward, he pushed aside her head covering. Beneath it was a welter of bloody hair and brain matter mixed with shards of shattered skull. His suspicion was confirmed. It had been a violent blow to the head with the stone that had killed her, not the stabbings.

Bascot sat back on his haunches, his earlier fear that the Devil had committed this murder now completely allayed. This death had not been brought about by the Evil One, nor even a seasoned assassin, but by an inexperienced killer who had made a bungling attempt to cover his tracks.

Chapter 24

Bascot looked up at the watching villagers. Before he could search for evidence that would aid the investigation, he must first find a way to convince them that the murderer had not been the Devil, not only for their own well-being but so they would not be averse to giving information. There had been no sign of a priest among the crowd that might lend him support, but the village appeared to be a very small one—no more than a half-dozen families judging by the number of people gathered before him—and because of that was probably one of those tiny hamlets where the spiritual needs of the inhabitants were met by the priest of a neighbouring, and larger, settlement. He would have to attend to the matter on his own.

He laid the horn aside and carefully turned the body over. Gwen Hurdler had been a young woman of about twenty-two or three years of age, with a fresh complexion, blonde hair and pale blue eyes. The latter were wide-open, as though the shock of the attack had frozen her features into an expression of surprise. Gently the Templar closed her eyelids and straightened her limbs so that it looked as though she were only sleeping. Murmuring a prayer for heaven’s aid, he rose to his feet.

Holding the goat’s horn high, he addressed the villagers. “This horn is not from the Devil, but has been taken from an ordinary goat after it was butchered. I am sure many of you have similar ones in your possession, taken from a goat or other kine and used as drinking vessels.”

A fleeting look of amazement crossed the faces of most of the villagers, followed by some tentative nods from one or two, so he pressed on. “The murderer of Mistress Hurdler is evil, of that there can be no doubt, but I promise you he is a mortal man. The wounds in the victim’s back were made by a knife and then the tip of the horn placed inside one of them with the purpose of gulling you into believing she was killed by Satan. His reason for doing this was to prevent a search being made for him.”

Glimmers of hope appeared on the faces of some of the men and women and Bascot gave thanks that the logic of his argument seemed to be making sense to them. “I am going to take this horn back to Lady Nicolaa to be used as evidence in the investigation into Mistress Hurdler’s death,” he added, “and I swear to you, on my oath as a servant of Christ, that it was not the Devil, or one of His minions, who is responsible for the murder committed here this day.”

With that he stooped and wiped the blood from the horn on the grass at his feet and then, wrapping it in a couple of large dock leaves torn from a nearby plant, placed it in his scrip. When the task was accomplished, he was gratified to see expressions of relief on the faces of the villagers and knew that his reasoning had been accepted.

Thomas Hurdler was the first to move. Handing his two eldest children again into the care of his elderly neighbour, he moved swiftly to kneel again by the body of his wife but, this time, he gathered her up into his arms and held her close. As he did so, he spoke aloud his thanks to God that, although he had lost his wife, her soul had not been tainted by the Devil. The tension was broken by his action and the villagers came forward to crowd around him. His children were brought forward to say goodbye to their mother and words of solace were offered to the bereaved husband along with promises of help in the difficult days ahead.

The reeve walked over to where Bascot stood and, in a sincere voice, expressed his humble thanks that the Templar had exposed the murderer’s deception. “We would have believed it, lord, had it not been for you, and there would have been a blight on our lives that would most like have destroyed every one of us, especially poor Thomas.”

He then asked Bascot’s permission to remove the victim’s corpse to the village so it could be cleansed and wrapped in a shroud to await the attention of a cleric. The Templar assented but said that, before everyone dispersed, there were some questions that needed to be asked of all those who lived in the hamlet. As the reeve was calling for the villagers’ attention, Bascot turned to Ernulf and told him to send the men-at-arms to search the nearby woods for any sign of the killer. “There is only a slim chance that he has remained in the area, but it is wise to make certain.”

Once the soldiers had drawn their short swords and ran off into the greenwood, the Templar turned to the assembled villagers and asked them to tell what they knew of the dead woman’s movements that morning.

“If it is known, I would like to determine what time she left your village, and also if anyone saw her, or any other person, on the path that leads to the spring.”

It was the reeve who answered him. “Thomas told me that Gwen rose just before dawn to come here to pray and collect some water in a pot to anoint their ailing babby,” the reeve said, motioning towards the fretful infant in the arms of the young woman. “As to anyone seeing her, lord, none of us did ’cause we wus all still in our beds at the time.”

“And it was you, chapman, who discovered her?” Bascot asked the man with the pack, motioning him to come forward.

“Aye, lord, I did,” the chapman responded. “’Twas not long after first light when I saw her layin’ there.” The itinerant pedlar was a man of middle years, sturdy of frame and with a face that was heavily weathered. Even though he, along with all the villagers, now believed that there had been no involvement of the Devil in the crime, he still appeared shaken by his grisly discovery.

“So she must have been slain very shortly after she arrived at the spring,” Bascot said. “Tell me from which direction you came.”

The chapman pointed to the west, back towards Lincoln. “I usually comes this way when I’m leaving town to go on my travels, and I likes to leave early so’s I can take a rest before the noonday heat.”

“And you saw no one on the path as you approached the spring?”

“Not that I noticed, lord,” the chapman replied. “But it’s usually a quiet place round about here with no danger of being robbed by thieves, so I’ll admit I wasn’t looking about me too careful.”

Bascot nodded and then asked the reeve to step apart with him a few paces. Gianni came with them. After his former master had assured everyone that the murderer had not been the Devil, he had begun taking notes of any pertinent information and would add this conversation to the rest.

The reeve, in response to the Templar’s query of whether the murdered woman had any enemies, gave a definite shake of his head. “She were a good woman, lord, and has never, to my certain knowledge, given offence to anyone.”

“And she and her husband were satisfied in their marriage?” the Templar asked. “No arguments, jealousies or anything of that nature?”

After the reeve assured him most positively that they had been a happy couple, Bascot walked back and again addressed the villagers, asking if they had seen any strangers in the area lately.

All of them shook their heads and the Templar was about to tell them they could take the victim’s body back to the village when a little voice piped up from within the crowd.

“I see’d a stranger,” a young girl said. She was about seven or eight years old, with bright blue eyes and frizzy hair trussed up in disorderly plaits.

A woman standing beside the child immediately tried to hush her. “Be quiet, Letty. This is not a time for you to be telling silly tales.”

“But I did see a stranger, mammy,” the little girl insisted, “early this morning. And I saw him kill Mistress Hurdler, too. He stabbed at her over and over again with a knife just like Da does when he’s clubbin’ a rat with his cudgel and she was screechin’ somethin’ terrible. Then he took up a stone and bashed her on the head and she went quiet.”

The Templar glanced up at the reeve and he gave a silent shake of his head. The murder had taken place too far from the village for anyone to hear the victim’s screams.

As the little girl’s mother lifted a hand to administer the child a smack for telling an invented tale, Bascot stopped her. “Let her speak,” he ordered and motioned for the little girl to come closer.

She did so shyly and the Templar hunkered down so he was at her eye level. As she looked wonderingly at the leather patch on his right eye, she picked up the end of one of her plaits and began to chew on it.

“Tell me how it was that you came to see the man, Letty,” Bascot said to her softly, hoping she hadn’t been too traumatized by witness of the dreadful scene to remember any details.

Taking her hair from her mouth, the little girl thought for a moment and the Templar could see that, although young, she was clearheaded and made of firm mettle. If she had been distressed by the morning’s events, it had not affected her wits.

Pointing towards one of the thick clumps of tall reeds growing at the edge of the pond, she said, “I wus over there lookin’ for duck eggs,” she said, “and Mistress Hurdler was kneelin’ down prayin’ when the murderer cum out of the greenwood and run over and killed her.”

“Did Mistress Hurdler know you were there?”

Letty shook her head. “I wus here afore her and hid in the reeds so’s she wouldn’t see me, ’cos I’m not s’posed to go outside the vill on my own.”

This last was said with a fearful glance at her mother, but before the woman could admonish her child, Bascot held up his hand to forestall her.

“It’s alright, Letty,” he said to the child. “Just this once you are forgiven, but you must promise me you will never do it again.”

The girl gave a solemn nod of future obedience and, just then, the two men-at-arms appeared from amongst the trees, shaking their heads to indicate they had not found anyone.

Bascot turned back to the child. “Did you see the face of the man who attacked Mistress Hurdler?” he asked her. “Or the colour of his hair?”

“I couldn’t see his face ’cos he had a piece of cloth over it like this”—she demonstrated by covering her nose, mouth and chin with her hand—“but his hood fell down when he was killing her, so’s I did see his hair. It was the same colour as Tildy’s.”

As she said this she pointed to another young girl nearby whose auburn hair, in the early morning sun, showed glints of dark red. It was the same colour as the strands snagged in the material the ravens had given him.

Gratified at the girl’s witness, and delighted to have confirmation that the murderer of Gwen Hurdler must have been the same man that killed Emma Ferroner, Bascot asked her if she had noticed anything else about him.

“Yus,” she replied, more confident now that she knew her mother would not mete out punishment for her earlier misbehaviour. “I could smell him. He smelt just like them nuts the chapman’s got in his bag.”

Confused, everyone, including Bascot, looked at the chapman. Alarmed, the pedlar, who had been listening to Letty’s witness along with the rest of the villagers, took a step back. “I don’t have any nuts in my bag, child,” he said shakily. “Only needles, balls of twine and the like.”

“Yus, you does,” Letty insisted. “They’ve got little stems on ’em and you said they wus called ’pices.”

After a few moments of puzzlement, the chapman relaxed and took a relieved breath. “She means spices, lord. I carry a few for those customers that can afford to buy them and the only one that looks like she said is cloves. She must have seen and smelt them during one of the times I’ve emptied out my bag for the women here in the village to look at my wares.”

He swung his satchel from his shoulder, opened it and carefully removed the contents. There were bits and pieces of household necessities—bone needles and iron pins, balls of string, candles, a few nails, some cheap spindles and, last of all, a small bag from which he drew forth little packets of spices, all meticulously wrapped in waxed cloth to protect them from damp. Selecting one, he opened it to reveal a small handful of cloves, and proffered them for Letty’s inspection. They did, indeed, look like little nuts with stems on.

As the pungent smell wafted up, the child nodded. “That’s what that man smelt like, them ’pices.”

The Templar pondered the information. He recalled smelling that same pungent aroma recently, but where? Cloves were used for a variety of things—in cooking, to flavour mulled wine, for freshening breath, and to ease toothache. But he knew that his memory of the scent had not been due to any of these circumstances so he cast his mind back to the places he had been recently. Suddenly the instance when he had noticed the aroma came to him. It had been at the shrine of St. Dunstan, but it had not been cloves that had given off the piquant fragrance but rather some gilliflowers that were growing in profusion near the saint’s statue. The two scents were almost identical. He recalled Constance Turner mentioning the gilliflowers when he had spoken to her, how she had said she had intended, before her friend was murdered, to pick some to make perfume. He looked back at Letty, and then around the ground near the stone cross. A few wildflowers were growing there, but no gilliflowers—only buttercups, forget-me-nots and the like.

If the scent had emanated from the murderer at the time he had killed the armourer’s daughter, Constance Turner would not have noticed it because of the similar perfume of the flowers growing near her feet, but here, where there were no gilliflowers to mask the scent, the child’s sharp young nose had detected the aroma on his person. Bowing his head he gave thanks for Letty’s witness. Not only had she confirmed the colour of the murderer’s hair, signifying he was the same man that had slain Emma Ferroner, but she had also given another clue to his identity in that the scent of cloves was constant on his person. Small details, perhaps, but he was thankful for them all the same.

After a few further words with the reeve, Bascot left the village with his companions, eager to return to the castle and relate this new information to Lady Nicolaa.

Chapter 25

A short time later Bascot was in the castellan’s private chamber with Gianni, telling her what had taken place at the holy spring. When he took the goat’s horn from his scrip and told her of the attempt the murderer had made to give the impression it had been used by the Devil as a weapon on the victim’s body, she made a moue of repugnance.

“This miscreant’s stratagem may have been wickedly inventive, but it was a foolish one all the same,” she declared.

“Just so, lady,” Bascot agreed. “He tried to kill the village woman in the same manner as Emma Ferroner, by stabbing her in the back, and must have intended to insert the goat’s horn into one of the wounds to make it look as though Satan had killed her. But fortune did not hold with him this time; his knife struck bone with every thrust and he was forced to bludgeon his victim to death with a rock. This most certainly confirms that the killer is not a man accustomed to wielding arms. If he was hired to commit the deed, then he is a tyro.”

After instructing Gianni to place the horn in a box for safekeeping, the castellan asked Bascot if he had found any connection at all between the two victims.

“They appear to have nothing in common, lady, or have even known of the existence of one another. Before we left Greetwell, I asked the reeve if he or any of the villagers were acquainted with Emma Ferroner and he said that they had never heard of her until the chapman, while they were waiting this morning for help to arrive from the castle, told them about her murder. Nor did there seem to be any accidental link tying them together—Mistress Hurdler, along with the rest of the village women, hardly ever made the journey into Lincoln. The only connection between them appears to be that they were both killed by the same man, which leads me to believe that this second murder was committed in order to promote the assumption that the Devil was responsible for both. If his ruse had prevailed, our investigation would have been misled, which was exactly what he wanted.”

He paused for a moment and then went on. “I still believe the heart of this coil lies with Emma Ferroner. If that is so, then Mistress Hurdler was chosen as a victim purely at random. In order to promote his deception, it was necessary for the murderer to kill again at another holy site and he chose the one near Greetwell because it is not a heavily populated area, so he could be fairly sure of not being seen when he made the attack. Then he simply waited—perhaps throughout the hours after dusk last night as well as this morning—for someone to appear who was weak enough to succumb easily. To her misfortune, it was Gwen Hurdler. Had not little Letty somehow escaped his notice through being hidden by the rushes, I am certain it would have been she who died.”

The castellan rose from her seat and began to pace, an action she indulged in only when agitated.

“Your theory makes sense, de Marins, but even though you may have convinced the Greetwell villagers that Mistress Hurdler’s death was not demoniacally inspired, I fear it will still be impossible to accomplish that same task here in town,” she declared. “The townsfolk may well view it from the perspective that as this second murder appears to have been haphazard, and committed with no obvious malice towards the victim, then it must, as they are convinced is the case with Emma Ferroner, have been perpetrated by the Devil. Panic will break out afresh and even though we have seen through the murderer’s ploy, it will still have been, to that extent, successful.”

“Then we should, with all speed, look deeper into who had probable cause to wish Emma Ferroner dead. There are still some lines of enquiry to pursue and they must be followed up quickly. She was heiress to a moderate fortune, and where there is money, there can be avarice. She was also not completely happy in her marriage, which could have caused her husband to take a lover—thus provoking a desire in either him or his paramour to be rid of her. I would like to delve deeper into both of these motives and also to interview a witness that has yet to be seen—Robert Ferroner’s housekeeper. She was away from her duties on the day that all the armourer’s other employees were questioned and so was missed. It is possible that, since her work kept her in close company with Mistress Ferroner, she may have some information that is pertinent.”

“Yes, I recall you began to mention her earlier before you were interrupted by Ernulf bringing news of the attack at Greetwell.”

“That is so, lady,” Bascot replied. “Additionally, I think it would be wise to try and discover the whereabouts of the woman Lorinda, if only to eliminate her as a possible suspect.”

The castellan had been about to resume her seat but now, after dabbing at her damp brow with a small square of linen, said, “This chamber is too small and stuffy for constructive thought. Come, let us go up to the solar, where the air is fresher, and we can discuss the matter further.”

* * *

Early that same morning, Roget had started his enquiries into the background of the alekeep, Dern. Most of the alehouses in Lincoln were shut at such an early hour, but he did not allow this to deter him. Constance’s life was at stake and he was desperate to prove her innocence. Accordingly, he rapped impatiently on the door of each alehouse he visited until someone answered. He was determined to find evidence, if it existed, that would force the alekeep into revealing more about Wiger and whether or not he had a motive for killing his wife. Anything that might lift suspicion from Constance was well worth the effort, and he was not prepared to allow anything to stand in pursuit of justice for the woman he loved.

He had made enquiries at four or five alehouses before he found an alekeep who had been able to tell him a little of Dern’s history. Most of the others had known nothing more than his name and that he kept an establishment outside the southern wall of the town. The captain had begun to despair until he walked into a small, but tidy, alehouse on the western side of Lincoln, near All Saints Church. At first the alekeep, aroused from his sleep, had been non-committal, merely acknowledging that he knew who Dern was, but when Roget had told him that he was hoping for information that would help with the investigation into the murder of the armourer’s daughter, he had been more forthcoming.

“Aye, I knows Dern,” he had said, “although I wish to God I didn’t.”

“Why is that?” Roget asked. “Do you have some quarrel with him?”

The alekeep had shaken his head and the captain had asked to be served with a pot of ale, offering to also buy one for his host, to encourage further conversation.

After drawing two cups and taking a long draught from the one he poured for himself, the alekeep became more communicative. “One of my sisters was married to Dern’s cousin,” he said, wiping some dregs of ale from his lips with the back of his hand. “The cousin is dead now—he was a boatman and, one night when he had too much to drink, fell off a dock down on the Witham River, and drowned. Anyway, we don’t talk about Dern much out of consideration for my sister’s brood of babbies. He’s not a man we want them to know they are related to.”

Roget felt a surge of exhilaration. “What has Dern done, mon frère, that makes your family so ashamed of a connection with him?”

“’Twas a long while ago,” was the reply, “and most of the folk in Lincoln would not know about it, but Dern’s father used to run an alehouse out near Coleby, a few miles south of town. His mother died before Dern was grown and he helped in the alehouse for a few years until his father took sick. That was when Dern showed his true nature. My sister’s husband said he deliberately left his sire unattended while he was ill so he would die all the sooner and, when he expired, Dern took the bit of silver his father had put by, sold the alehouse out at Coleby and opened up the one he runs now, outside the city wall.”

“That was a callous act, certainly,” Roget said, disappointed there was not more to the tale. Even if Dern had secretly murdered his father, it would be difficult to find any proof after such a long time.

“Ah, but that was only the beginning of his wickedness,” the alekeep continued. “He had a young sister he took with him when he left. She was not much past puberty at the time. When Dern bought the alehouse down on the banks of the Witham, he put her to harlotry in a room upstairs and charged men good money to lay with her. ’Tis even claimed he used her himself at times.”

The alekeep spat on the floor in disgust. “And there were rumours he kept other young girls on his premises for any other deviants like himself whose taste also runs to bedding children.”

“Ma foi, what a bâtard.” Roget was shocked. Dern was not only a paedophile; he was also a panderer of defenceless little girls. The captain’s gorge rose in his throat at the depravity.

“Aye, he is,” the alekeep agreed. “The rest of his family was so disgusted with his behaviour that my sister’s husband and two other kinsmen went to confront him, but Dern got word they was comin’ and hired himself a couple of bodyguards. When his cousin and the others arrived, the bodyguards beat all three of them so badly they could hardly stand and Dern gave warning that if they ever came back, he would see to it that none of them ever walked again. That’s why none of us admit to being related to him, or speak of him at all, God rot him.”

Chapter 26

As Roget was hastening to the castle to give Lady Nicolaa a report of his findings about Dern, she was seated in the solar with Bascot and Gianni, listening to the Templar explaining why it might be worthwhile to try to discover the whereabouts of Robert Ferroner’s former paramour, Lorinda.

“It is, as the armourer said, too much of a coincidence that with the murder of his daughter, the curse, by that one act, is suddenly fulfilled, even though twenty-five years have passed since it was laid on him,” he said to Nicolaa. “True coincidences are rare, and I mistrust events of seeming concurrence; if looked at closely enough, they are usually related in some fashion. A search should be made for her if only to make certain she is not responsible.”

“Yes, you could be right,” Nicolaa said slowly. “But she will be difficult to locate. The armourer told you that no one seemed to know where she came from except that her home might have been in one of the villages south of Lincoln. That is an area too extensive to search and would consume much time, and time is a factor of which we have little.”

“If we follow up the sighting that Mistress Glover’s husband made when he saw Lorinda in Newark and find that she took up residence there, the effort expended in the search will be negligible,” Bascot argued. “Newark is not very far from Lincoln, only seventeen or eighteen miles; it would only take a few hours to go there and back. Master Glover told his wife that the house he saw her about to enter belonged to the head of the drapers’ guild. Although many years have passed, it should not be difficult to discover the identity of such a prominent citizen and ask if he or his family know anything about her.”

Nicolaa considered his proposal. “’Tis a long chance there will be any trace of her after all this time, but since we do not have many other trails to follow, I agree it is one worth taking.” She looked up at the light streaming through the window. “The day is only half gone and the light stays late at this time of year. If you leave now you should arrive there late this afternoon, and will still be able to make some enquiries before the day is done.”

“On the way to Newark, lady,” Bascot added, “I would like to stop off and interview Ferroner’s housemaid. Our route south lies near the armourer’s house and it should take only a few moments to speak to her, so the small detour should not delay us long.”

The castellan nodded. “Very well, de Marins, you have my leave to pursue both enquiries. Let us pray one of them will prove successful. I would advise you to take Ernulf with you when you go to Newark. He is a close comrade of the serjeant of the castle garrison there—they have known each other from the time when they were both very young, I believe—and their friendship might help expedite your search. I will also draft a letter to Robert de Gaugi, the constable of the castle, directing him, in Gerard’s name, to give you any assistance you require. In the meantime, I will question Mistress Turner regarding the report Master Drogue gave me and try to find out if she is, once again, lying.”

As Nicolaa had just finished dictating a hasty message addressed to de Gaugi for Gianni to pen and take with them, the door to the solar opened and Roget came in. His satisfaction was obvious as he told Lady Nicolaa he had unearthed some information about Dern that might prove helpful to intimidate him. The Templar signed to Gianni that they would stay to hear what the captain had to say, and when Roget was done, Gianni touched Bascot on the arm. During the course of his recounting, the captain had mentioned that Dern’s family came from Coleby and, after extracting the record of the interview that had been held with Ferroner’s employee Noll, Gianni pointed to the place where the master armourer had mentioned the names of a few of the villages south of Lincoln where Lorinda might have lived. One of them was Coleby.

“Well done, Gianni,” Bascot said and gave Nicolaa the information. “I would judge Dern to be roughly thirty-five or six years of age, so he would have been about ten years old when Lorinda disappeared from the area. If she lived in or near Coleby, he might have known her and, if so, where she went.”

Nicolaa was pleased they had discovered a possible connection between the two individuals. “Although it is a tenuous thread, it is still worth looking into, especially as you believe the alekeep is hiding something.”

She rose from her seat, a little more energized now the investigation seemed to be moving forward. “Do you go on your way, de Marins, and, please God, bring back some proof that will aid us. In the meantime, I will have Roget pay another visit to Dern.”

She turned to the captain. “I want this alekeep arrested and brought to the castle for questioning. If he knows where to find villains to assault his kinsmen, then it is certain he will also be able to locate a miscreant willing to kill for money. Take a couple of your men and press him hardly and see if you can verify the charge of pandering young females against him. Whether or not he has any culpability in these murders remains to be seen, but if the accusation of child abuse is true, he will pay for it, and dearly.”

As they all left the room, the castellan instructed the page standing in attendance by the door to bring Constance Turner to the solar. She could sense they were getting closer to the heart of this mystery. Now she, for her part, must do her utmost to determine whether or not the perfumer was involved in it.

* * *

At about the same time as Constance was being taken from her cell, the bishop of Lincoln, William of Blois, was seated in an antechamber with Dean Roger. The bishop was a tall man with very white skin and dark brown hair; the contrast made his tonsured pate shine like a beacon on top of his head. A thoughtful man, but vigorous, he was determined to take some action to calm the fears of the townsfolk.

“With the Templars’ help we are making God’s presence felt, Roger,” he said to the dean, “but Brother MacHeth told me that some of the monks who have been going out with the patrols are due to leave in three days’ time. We must take advantage of the short space they will be here to reinforce the people’s faith. And I think I know of a way that can be done.”

The dean made no retort; he knew that the bishop would tell him of his plan in his own methodical way.

“Before the Templars go, I have it in mind to hold an open-air service in front of the market cross in the town, with the Order’s brothers in attendance. The central theme of the Mass will be a request for Christ to rid us of this evil,” the bishop said. “Not a true exorcism, you understand, for that would make it seem that we are admitting the rumour of the Devil’s involvement is true, just a plea to Our Lord for aid. Along with the Templars, all of our brethren in the cathedral will accompany us, and I will arrange for a message to be sent to every priest in Lincoln to attend as well, so that a united front is shown by all the clerics in the town. It will hearten the populace to witness our Christian forces en masse and be made aware of the strength of the army fighting on God’s behalf.”

“Do you wish one of our brethren to act as a crier for the service?” Roger asked. Normally, one of two or three volunteer townsmen with ringing voices would perform the task of walking through the streets and calling out any messages that were to be conveyed to the general populace but, in this instance, the dean felt, and he was sure that the bishop would concur, that it would be more appropriate if someone from the cathedral performed the task.

Bishop William nodded. “Send Brother Abelard,” he said. “He is tall enough to be seen over the heads of most men and his voice is so stentorian it will be heard by everyone within earshot, including Lucifer Himself.”

Chapter 27

When Bascot and Gianni left the solar, Roget came with them and waited while the Templar spoke to Ernulf and told him that, on Lady Nicolaa’s orders, he was to accompany them to Newark.

“I think it will be best, Roget,” Bascot said while Ernulf went to get provisions for their journey, “if you do not go to Dern’s alehouse until after we have spoken to Ferroner’s maidservant so you can report the result of the interview to Lady Nicolaa before we return.”

Roget agreed and a few minutes later they all rode out of the ward, stopping at the town gaol for a few moments while the captain selected two guards to accompany him to the alehouse.

The day was, again, a fine one, although there was a little lessening in temperature. A cool breeze wafted over the small contingent as they made their way down Mikelgate and through Stonebow gate.

Roget and his men waited with Ernulf a little way from the armoury while Bascot and Gianni went around the perimeter of the workshop and onto the path that led to Ferroner’s house. His employees were all visible through the open shutters on the side of the building but none took any notice of their passing.

“I did not see the armourer in the workshop, so he must not yet have returned to work,” Bascot remarked to Gianni after scanning all of the men that were inside. “If he is in his house, we shall have to ask his permission to interview his maidservant alone. She may not be so forthcoming in his presence.”

When they knocked on the door, it was answered by a dour-faced woman in her middle years. Bascot asked her if she was Thea, the woman who held the post of Ferroner’s housekeeper.

“I am,” she told him. “My niece told me of your earlier visit. But if you wish to see the master again today, he is not here. He is at St. Thomas’ church making funeral arrangements for his daughter. She is to be buried tomorrow morning.”

“It is you I have come to see, mistress. You were absent when we were here before and so your statement was not taken along with the rest of your master’s employees. We are here to do that now.”

With a downturned movement of her lips, which Bascot took to be her agreement, she led them into the hall and remained standing as Bascot seated himself at the table and Gianni readied his tablet and stylus to take notes. At Bascot’s instruction to take a seat across from him, Thea seemed a little uncomfortable at not remaining upright in the presence of a man of his rank, and it was with reluctance that she did as she was bid.

“I fear you have had a wasted journey, lord,” she said brusquely once she was seated. “I have been told of the questions you asked the others and have nothing to add to the answers they gave. I am not aware of anyone who bore Master Ferroner’s daughter any enmity, nor had any reason to wish her dead. I believe what the people in the town are saying is true; she was killed by the Devil or a man possessed of a demon—may God protect the rest of us from such evil—for she had no enemies at all.”

“Her murder must still be investigated, mistress, and every witness to her daily routine questioned,” Bascot said to her carefully. “Since you were absent on the previous occasion, I have come to take your testimony now.”

With another downward turn of her mouth, she accepted his explanation and said, “What is it you wish to ask me, lord?”

“You were in close company to your mistress here in the house, and also to her husband,” Bascot said, “and, because of that, had ample opportunity to witness the relationship between them. I have already been told they were not complaisant with each other. Did you ever hear them argue?”

Thea shook her head. “The mistress was beguiled by her husband. Even if she had cause for anger, she would never have voiced it.”

“And did she have cause, in your opinion?”

The housekeeper hesitated for a moment and then, in a low voice, said, “Will Master Ferroner be told of what I say, lord? I ask this not because I fear his censure, but because I do not wish to cause him more sorrow.”

“If your information proves to have no connection with Mistress Ferroner’s death, her father will not be apprised of it,” Bascot promised her.

With a curt nod, Thea spoke. “When the master was not present, Wiger treated Mistress Emma uncharitably. Often I would hear her sobbing in their bedchamber in the morning after he and Master Ferroner had left for work and, more than once, when Wiger did not think I could overhear him, I heard him berate her for not conceiving a child. He played the lickspittle to both her and the master until he and Mistress Emma were wed, and even for a few months afterwards, thinking himself assured of reaping the rewards of the master’s fortune once a child was born. Then, when it seemed she might be barren, he took his disappointment out on her.”

The Templar was disgusted at Wiger’s cruelty, but carefully kept his countenance smoothed of emotion. “Do you think he took a lover?” he asked.

Thea shrugged. “He may have done, for he was often out in the evenings, but I have no proof that would attest to it. I did see him once in the company of another woman, down near the salt market, with whom he seemed to have an easy familiarity, but that does not mean she was his lover. “

“The woman you saw him with, did you recognize her?”

“No, lord, I did not.”

“Can you describe her for me?”

“As far as I can remember, she was handsome, and about Mistress Emma’s age, I would judge, or maybe a year or two older. Tall, I recall, and with a flamboyant air about her.”

“What about the colour of her hair or eyes, did you notice?”

“Not really, lord,” Thea replied, and then frowned in concentration. “It was a cold day and her hair was covered with a hood, but her eyebrows were dark, I think, so I suppose her hair must have been of the same hue—brown or maybe auburn. And I was too far away to see the colour of her eyes.”

Bascot stood up. The description could fit any one of a number of women in Lincoln, but the Templar was glad to have it all the same. “You have been very helpful,” he said to her. “If you recall anything more that might be relevant, send a message to Lady Nicolaa at the castle and she will arrange for it to be taken down as witness.”

The maidservant gave another of her curt nods, and the Templar and Gianni left the house and went back to where Roget and Ernulf were waiting.

Chapter 28

After a brief conversation with Bascot, Roget stood and watched as the Templar and his companions rode off in the direction of the Fosse Way, the road that led to Newark. Then, with an evil grin, he turned to the two men he had brought with him. Lady Nicolaa had said not only to arrest the alekeep, but to press him hard, and he intended to do just that. All of the town guards under the captain’s direction were rough and intimidating, but he had chosen the two most fearsome to accompany him today. One was a burly individual named Ivo, a bull-necked, bald-headed individual who closely resembled a mastiff; the other was a tall hulking youth of Saxon heritage with a long blonde moustache called Cerlo. The latter’s ability with the double-headed Saxon axe that he wore at his belt was legendary.

“When we go inside this chien’s premises,” he said to them, “bar the door and let no one leave. After that, wait for my direction.”

His two henchmen nodded and followed their captain the short distance along the path to Dern’s alehouse. When they went inside, there were only a few patrons seated at the tables, for the day was early yet. Those that were there, by their appearance, seemed to be mainly barge owners from the riverbank, while a couple of men whose clothes were dusted with a light sprinkling of flour appeared to be bakers taking a brief respite after their early morning labours of tending ovens. In one corner, a young man sat all on his own, his clothing lightly dusted with ash, signifying he must work at the nearby soap manufactory. Roget thought he might be one of those who had been there on his previous visit with the Templar, but he could not be certain. All of them looked up in alarm when Roget and his men’s walked in, especially after Ivo slammed the door shut and placed a locking bar across it. Many of the patrons had started to rise as though to leave when the captain and his guards had first appeared, but when they saw that escape was impossible, they sank nervously back down onto their seats.

Roget, taking his time, strolled up to the counter where Dern stood, and the alekeep backed up a few paces, his eyes wary. Beside him a woman was standing but, unlike Dern, she regarded the captain with a defiant expression. She was a few years younger than the alekeep—the sister, perhaps, that Dern had deflowered at a very young age? Roget wondered—and was tall and handsome in a seductive way. She was obviously a prostitute, for her hair, long and bright auburn in colour, was uncovered—a manner in which no respectable woman would wear it—and fell in soft waves to her waist. The gown she wore was green, tight-fitting across her ample bosom, and cinched at the waist with a girdle of silver. Her face was painted; her lips were stained with carmine and a ring of kohl enhanced her dark brown eyes, but cosmetics could not hide the ruthless aspect of her visage.

The captain turned his attention to Dern. “I am here with an order for your arrest sanctioned by Lady Nicolaa de la Haye. The charge against you will be that of pandering children. I am to search your premises, Dern, for proof that you have been forcing young females to work as prostitutes and, if you have, I swear before le Bon Dieu, your punishment will be a heavy one.”

With a swiftly barked order to Cerlo, Roget directed the guard to ascend the set of stairs at the back of the premises and bring down whomever he found in the rooms above.

The woman beside Dern began to protest vociferously, although the alekeep stayed silent. “You cannot do this,” she spat at the captain. “All of the girls that my brother hires out as bawds are willing to be here, whatever their age may be.”

As Cerlo had, by now, drawn his axe and was speeding up the stairs, Dern had already realised that any protest was useless. His demeanour was far different from the way it had been on Roget’s previous visit to the alehouse; his urbane manner all but gone and his shoulders slumped in a dejected manner. “Leave it, Aliz,” he said to her wearily. “There is no use protesting; it will be in vain.”

Aliz rounded on her brother. “I will not leave it, you coward. Do you want our customers gone, our business ruined . . .”

Her recriminations were drowned out by a series of loud thumps and bangs from upstairs, mingled with the outcries of male voices. A few moments later, Cerlo reappeared, shepherding in front of him four people. The first to descend the stairs was a young harlot of about eighteen years of age wearing only a thin wrapper whom Roget recognised as the maid that had been serving ale to the customers when he and the Templar had come to the alehouse before. She had a bush of blonde hair tied back in a rough braid and weary eyes. Behind her was a man of about fifty, with grizzled hair and a thick jaw. He was naked from the waist down and his fine velvet tunic barely covered his nether regions. Following them was another man, fat, bare to the waist and struggling to hold up his untied hose. His pasty face was white with terror as he stumbled down the stairs. Last of all was a young girl of about nine or ten, her flat-chested frame barely concealed by a thin coverlet. Her long dark hair hung lank on her shoulders, and her lips were stained red with beet juice. On one of her cheeks could be seen the yellowing remains of an old bruise. With every step she took, Cerlo gently guiding her, she let out a great sob of terror.

A few of the patrons sitting in the chairs gasped at the sight of the little maiden. It was obvious such dubious pleasures were not known of, or available to, all, but only to a select few of the alekeep’s more debauched customers.

“Found this lot in two of the chambers upstairs, Captain,” Cerlo said to Roget, “and this filthy nithing,” he added, using the old Anglo-Saxon word for a wretch of the vilest sort, while giving the fat man a great shove so that he stumbled and fell to the floor, “was holding the little ’un down with his hand over her mouth while he took his pleasure of her. She was stark naked so I put a cover over her,” he added, his voice dripping with contempt.

Roget’s face darkened and an immense anger surged through him. He spoke first to the older prostitute. “Are you here willingly, chérie?” he asked.

With a shamefaced nod, she confirmed that she was and Roget told her to take the younger girl back upstairs and find proper clothing for them both. When they had gone, he looked at Cerlo. The huge Saxon had an unspoken question in his eyes, and Roget gave him a brief nod. With a quick movement, Cerlo grabbed the man that had been with the child and hauled him to his feet. When he was standing upright, the Saxon raised his arm and administered a backhanded slap that sent the man reeling. As he fell to the floor, Cerlo lifted his heavily booted foot and brought it down sharply on the man’s genital area. Ignoring the screams of pain that ensued, Cerlo administered another vicious kick to his private parts, and then did it once more for good measure.

“Don’t reckon he’ll be tempted to pleasure babbies again, Captain,” Cerlo said to Roget with satisfaction as the man writhed in agony and began to vomit. “Or ever be able to, God willing.”

Roget turned to the crowd of shocked customers. “All of you can leave now. Be warned by what you have just seen. The sheriff does not countenance child molesters in his bailiwick, and neither do I; the same punishment will be meted out to any who are discovered.”

There was a massive scramble among the patrons as they all leapt to their feet and made for the door. When Ivo unbarred the portal and threw it open, they nearly knocked each other over in their haste to depart.

By this time, the two harlots had come back downstairs. The older girl had donned the gown she had been wearing when serving ale, while the little one had on a kirtle that was far too big, but covered her decently.

“Do you know of anyplace where you can find a bed for the night?” Roget asked the older jade.

She shook her head miserably. “I ran away from my home—I used to live in a village near Canwick, south of the river—when my ma died and my da took another wife who was always thrashing me. I cannot go back there.”

Roget spoke to Dern, who was standing quietly beside Aliz, his face resigned. “Give me your purse, alekeep,” he ordered.

Dern removed the scrip at his belt and handed it to the captain. Roget loosened the drawstring and tipped the contents into his hand. There was a goodly quantity of silver coins, almost a pound in total. He put the money back in the purse and gave it to the harlot. “That will keep you in lodgings until you decide where you wish to go. If you want to continue being a doxy, there are far better stewes in Lincoln than this one.”

The prostitute’s eyes lit up as she took the money and she thanked Roget profusely before she hurried to the door and left. Her customer, his face as white as newly fallen snow, glanced nervously from the captain to the customer writhing in agony on the floor. His visage cheered considerably when Roget addressed him and said, “You seem to be a man of normal appetites, so I will release you. Take more care in the future as to which brothels you patronise.”

The man waited to hear no more. Gabbling his thanks, he ran to the door and went through it. Even half-garbed as he was, he was overjoyed to be free.

Roget now turned and beckoned to the little girl who was standing wide-eyed by Cerlo, her sobbing reduced to frightened hiccups. “How did you come to be here, ma pauvre?” he asked her gently.

“She brought me here,” she said, pointing to Aliz. “She came to my village and told my da she would pay him money to take me and train me to be her maidservant. But it was a lie; when I got here she made me go upstairs with an old man and lie with him. I kicked and screamed, but she held me down while he bedded me and, after he was done, she sent up another man. I tried to get away, but she always kept the door locked when I was alone, so I couldn’t.”

With a murderous glance at Dern and his sister, Roget told the little girl he would arrange for her to go back home, and to go and wait beside Ivo until he and his men were ready to leave. With a visible lightening of her features, she ran to the burly guard and stood close beside him.

Roget now turned to Dern and his sister. “So all of your young harlots are willing, are they?” he said to Aliz in a tone of barely controlled fury. “It would seem that you are a liar, mistress, just like your brother. And I have little patience with those who tell me falsehoods, and even less with those who are panderers of children.”

He spoke to Cerlo. “This place is a villainous lair. Smash it into firewood.”

The Saxon guard went to work with great pleasure, taking his axe first to the ale barrels and wine kegs that stood behind the counter, and then to the fine tables and chairs standing about the room. As splinters of wood flew through the air, and the mess of spilled wine and ale pooled into a huge puddle on the floor, Roget spoke to Dern and his sister.

“You are both under arrest, and will be taken to the castle gaol to await the sheriff’s justice. When the castle men-at-arms learn what you have done to that child, I doubt your stay there will be a pleasant one.”

Cerlo, finished with his task, and leaving the room a mess of destruction, ran up the stairs to perform a similar havoc on the chambers upstairs. When he was done, he and Ivo, with rough hands, escorted Dern and his sister outside, leaving the now unconscious paedophile on the floor. With a big smile on her face, the little girl who had been forced into prostitution trotted happily alongside Roget, her hand in his, comforted by his presence.

Chapter 29

In the castle, Nicolaa de la Haye was engaged in interviewing Constance Turner. Before the perfumer had been brought to the solar, the castellan had sent for Clare to attend her. The sempstress had proved herself to be very observant both during the murder investigation in Canterbury and with her examination of Emma Ferroner’s corpse and, with Gianni absent, the castellan wished for another pair of sharp eyes to witness the forthcoming interview.

“Stand behind me, Clare,” she told the sempstress when she appeared, “and watch closely. Either the perfumer is a schemer skilled at fabrication, or else she is a naïve innocent. I would have your opinion on which you believe it is.”

A few moments later, Constance was shown into the airy chamber, and Nicolaa instructed the man-at-arms who had brought her to wait at the back of the solar while she conducted the interrogation. Once he had taken up his position, the castellan regarded Constance sternly for a few moments before she spoke.

“You told me that Emma Ferroner claimed to have visited apothecaries in the town seeking a remedy for her barrenness,” she finally said. “But I have made enquires and there is no record of her ever having done so. How do you explain that?”

“But that is what she told me,” Constance said in puzzlement.

“Then either she was lying, or you are,” Nicolaa said tersely.

Constance was terrified, and bemused, by the bald statement, and did not know how to answer. “Lady, I swear to you that is what she told me she had done and I had no cause to disbelieve her.”

Constance waited with trepidation as Nicolaa slowly drummed her fingers on the table beside her in impatience. It was obvious the castellan’s choler was rising, and the perfumer feared the outcome. She could not know that any deception reminded Nicolaa of the king’s duplicity in Canterbury, and her discovery of his sly machinations. The castellan steeled herself to dismiss the memory; each person must be judged on his or her own merit, or lack thereof. It was quite possible that Emma had told Constance the lie in order to persuade her to make a love potion.

Deciding to change the tack of her questions, Nicolaa said bluntly, “We have evidence that Wiger may have had a lover. Did Emma ever mention this to you?”

“She did speak of such a fear,” Constance replied, “but she had no evidence to support it.”

“And why did you not tell us of her suspicion earlier? Is this another example of you telling a falsehood by omission?”

Constance began to tremble. “No, lady. In truth, I had forgotten about it. She spoke of it briefly, that is all, and said it was because Wiger spent so many evenings absent from home, claiming he had been in an alehouse, that she was beginning to wonder if he was, instead, visiting a lover. After we discussed it for a while, we decided she was probably mistaken. Wiger holds Master Ferroner in high esteem and would have been too fearful of incurring his wrath if the armourer had discovered that his son-by-marriage was being unfaithful to his daughter.”

Constance took a deep breath before she added, “I am sorry I neglected to tell you of her notion, but it was only a passing one, and we never spoke of it again.”

The castellan leaned back in her chair. “But we have only your word that this is so, and thus far, two of your claims have proved untrustworthy. You state that you and Emma had a mild dispute some weeks prior to her death over a potion she asked you to prepare. Perhaps it was not a potion you argued about, but her husband. He is an attractive man, so I am told. Did Emma fear that it was you Wiger was taking to his bed, and that was the true cause of your dissension? Perhaps, after you had persuaded her it was not true and had returned to your former amity with her, you and Wiger, frustrated by her suspicions, decided to kill her, so that you could be together without hindrance.”

Constance fell to her knees, wringing her hands in front of her. “I vow to you, lady, in the name of Our Lord Jesus Christ, and of all the saints, that I had no hand in Emma’s death. I only spoke to Wiger on the one occasion he was in Emma’s home when I visited her there and that is the only contact I ever had with him. I am neither betrayer nor murderer.”

The castellan regarded the frightened perfumer for a moment, and then glanced at Clare, who gave a little shrug of her shoulders to signify that she was uncertain as to whether or not Constance was telling the truth. Neither was Nicolaa; the prisoner had lied before and was therefore suspect, but until the Templar and Roget returned with reports of whether or not they had discovered anything that might prove her innocence, she would leave Mistress Turner to the solitary confinement of her cell.

* * *

Constance was not the only one who was terrified at that moment. The murderer was too. Not only had he bungled the killing at the spring by Greetwell village, but he had been in Dern’s alehouse when Roget and his two men had burst in. Now he was hiding in a small storeroom in the soap manufactory where he worked, hoping he would escape detection.

As he sat huddled in a corner, he cursed himself for trusting in the plan he had made to throw the Templar off his trail. He had thought that by killing another woman at a holy site and making it appear that the Devil had committed the crime, both the monk and the townsfolk would be confounded. But as soon as he had launched his attack on the woman, it had quickly become obvious that his success in so quickly despatching Emma Ferroner was not, on this occasion, to be repeated. He had thought that it would require only one or two knife thrusts to kill her, as had happened with the armourer’s daughter, and then he would be able to insert the goat’s horn into one of the wounds so it would appear that it had been the Devil’s murder weapon. But he had struck at the woman’s back again and again and each time the blade had penetrated no more than an inch, obstructed by bone at every attempt. She had been screaming all the while and finally, to silence her, he had been forced to smash her head in with a stone. Even though he had left the horn pressed into one of the shallow wounds, he had no doubt the Templar would easily determine its placement was but a ruse and he had fled from the scene of his crime back into town, stopping for only a few hasty moments to wash the blood off the knife and his hands in a narrow stream. After returning the blade to the place from which he had taken it, he had then made his way to Dern’s alehouse, hoping a sup of ale would calm his shattered nerves.

He had barely managed to sit himself down at a table before Roget and two of the town guards had burst in, and he had nearly soiled himself with fear that his arrest was imminent. But, to his great relief, it had been only a short space of time before he had been allowed to leave with the rest of the customers, although the spectacle of the huge Saxon guard assaulting the paedophile had increased his anxiety. Once safely out the door and onto the street, he had run as fast as he could to the manufactory, slipped unseen past the other employees in the workshop, and hidden in the storeroom. But he was certain Dern would be arrested and, once the alekeep was questioned, it was more than possible that his connection to Dern would be revealed.

He looked around the small chamber, which was filled with pottery jars of soft soap and wooden boxes packed with clove-scented soap bars. The overpowering aroma of the spice made his senses reel as he miserably tried to console himself with the thought that whatever befell him, fulfilling his vow had been worth it. But this time his attempt at self-justification failed.

Chapter 30

A short time later, Bascot, Gianni and Ernulf were approaching Newark. The journey down the Fosse Way had been a speedy one for the road was well-maintained and the weather fine.

It was just past None when they arrived at the town that stood at the intersection of the Fosse Way and the Trent River and were approaching the entrance to the castle standing guard over the strategic waterway. The fortification was of fairly recent construction, having been originally erected in 1073 on the site of an old Saxon manor by the then bishop of Lincoln, Robert Bloet. Fifty years later the construction had been enhanced by another Lincolnshire cleric, Alexander, to the present formidable stronghold. It was quadrangular in shape and built of stone, with a curtain wall over forty feet high and a massive gatehouse, into which the keep had been incorporated. In the bail were the usual buildings enclosed in such fortifications—stables, an armoury, storehouses for grain and other provisions, a blacksmith’s forge and a garrison to house the men-at-arms.

They were immediately admitted to the castle ward after Bascot identified himself and told the sentry that they had come on behalf of Lady Nicolaa de la Haye. Ernulf asked the gateward to tell Serjeant Goddard they had arrived and a few moments later a short, stocky man with a nut-brown face and bald pate came swiftly towards them from the direction of the garrison.

“Ernulf, my old friend,” he exclaimed with a smile. “I am well pleased to see you. It has been too long since last we met.”

On the journey down, Ernulf had confirmed that Nicolaa had been correct in her recollection that he and Goddard had long been friends. “He is Lincoln town born, same as me,” he had said to Bascot and Gianni, “and we have known each other since we were nobbut lads. We both took service as men-at-arms with Lady Nicolaa’s father, Sir Richard, and followed him in King Henry’s train on one of his forays against the French in Normandy. Had a few right good skirmishes with those bastard Frenchmen, we did, and when we returned to England, I stayed with Sir Richard at Lincoln and Goddard was assigned here to Newark. I’ve seen him a few times over the years, but not often enough. It’ll be good to be in his company again.”

After the greetings were over Ernulf explained to Goddard why they had come and that Bascot wished to speak to Robert de Gaugi, constable of the castle.

“I am afraid he is not here at the moment, lord,” Goddard told the Templar. “He has been called away to attend the king at Oxford.”

“When do you expect him to return?” Bascot asked.

“Not for a few days yet. Is there any way in which I can help you?”

The Templar explained that their purpose in coming to Newark was to find a woman who might have been an acquaintance of the head of the drapers’ guild approximately twenty-five years before.

“As far as I know, that position has stayed in the same family these last fifty years, passed down from father to son, so it must have been one of the Slopers. Alan Sloper is the head of the guild now, but he is a man of only about thirty, so it might be his father, Adam, who knew the woman you are looking for. But I am sorry to tell you, lord, that he died a year or two ago. His widow is still living and has taken up residence with her son and his wife—might she be able to help you?”

“Possibly,” Bascot replied. “Where is the son’s residence?”

“Just across the way on Castle Street. If you wish, I can take you there now, or would you prefer to partake of some refreshment first?”

“Let us go now,” Bascot told him. “The matter is urgent.”

Goddard led them across the bail to a gate on the eastern side and they went through. In front of them was a broad thoroughfare with several fine stone houses on the far side. The serjeant pointed to one a little way along from where they were standing. “It’s that one, lord. Shall I take you across and introduce you?”

Bascot shook his head. “No, just Gianni and I shall go. You and Ernulf can catch up on your reminiscences.”

A broad grin filled both Ernulf and Goddard’s faces as the Templar, with Gianni beside him, weaved their way through the wagons, drays and foot traffic on Castle Street and went up to the house that the serjeant had pointed out to them.

When Bascot knocked at the door it was answered by a neatly attired maidservant. After he had given her his name, he said that he wished to speak to Adam Sloper’s widow if she was at home. The maid gave a courteous bob and informed him that she was, and then led them into a small private chamber off a spacious hallway. Inside was a woman of about fifty years of age, working industriously on a large tapestry fastened to a standing frame.

She looked up in surprise when the maid announced Bascot’s name and rank, and immediately rose to her feet. She was of medium height, and slim, dressed in a fine gown of blue velvet and with a snow-white linen coif on her head. Her features, although showing lines of age, were still attractive and she must have been very pretty in her youth.

“I am sorry to disturb your labours, mistress,” the Templar said to her, “but I am come on behalf of Lady Nicolaa de la Haye in Lincoln in relation to a murder that recently took place there, in the hope that you might be able to provide information that will help her investigation into the death. My companion, Gianni, is a clerk in Lady Nicolaa’s retinue and, with your permission, will record any relevant details of which you have knowledge.”

As was to be expected, surprise showed on the widow’s face, but she kept her composure. “I cannot see how I may assist you, Sir Bascot, for I have not been in Lincoln for a very long time. But I will do my best to answer any questions you have.”

Mistress Sloper bade them be seated and ordered her maid to bring wine. The Templar took a comfortable padded chair opposite the settle on which the widow reseated herself, and Gianni stood behind him in attendance.

While they waited for the maidservant to bring the refreshments, Bascot studied the widow. If Lorinda had been her husband’s mistress, it was unlikely that he would have brought her to the house where he lived with his wife. Mistress Sloper did not give the impression that she would have easily suffered such an impertinence. It was more than likely that Lorinda had come there in the company of an acquaintance, or family member, and with that in mind, once the servant was gone, he began his questions.

“We are looking for a woman who was seen entering your house nearly twenty-five years ago. She was in the company of a man, and carrying a small child at the time. It may be that she was only here on that one occasion, and so you will not remember her, but in the hope that her relationship with her companion was of a more prolonged nature, and that he is known to you, I would ask if you recall her.”

Mistress Sloper nodded in understanding. “In those early days of my marriage, we had many guests, most of them to do with matters of business regarding the drapers’ guild, so such a circumstance is possible,” she said. “What is her name, and her station?”

“As far as her station is concerned, I do not believe she would have had any connection through your husband’s guild matters, for she did not come from merchant stock. But we do know her name; it was Lorinda, and she hailed from the Lincoln area.”

At mention of Lorinda’s name, the widow’s face blanched. “Sweet Jesu,” she breathed. “I have not heard the name of that woman spoken in many a year, and have been thankful for it.”

“You knew her, then?” Bascot asked, hope surging through him.

“To my misfortune, yes,” Mistress Sloper replied. “She was the leman of my brother, Geoffrey, and brought him more misery than he ever deserved.”

Shaken by her memories, the widow took a sip of her wine before she continued. “I do not know how he met her, but he did come here with her one day, and she brought her child with her, a little daughter not more than eighteen months old.”

Her eyes glowed with anger as she went on. “She was a woman of low repute, Sir Bascot, but was, I admit, very beautiful, and that must have been what attracted Geoffrey. As I said, I do not know how he came to make her acquaintance, but I do know that he did so during a visit here, when he came from Nottingham to stay with me and my husband shortly after we were wed. He was very smitten and mentioned her just after he arrived, extolling her beauty fulsomely, but when he brought her to meet me I could see by her clothing and bold manner that she was little better than a whore. I was ashamed and embarrassed that my brother would bring such a creature into my home and told him to remove her at once. He became very angry with me and led her out in a huff, and we did not speak to each other after that day for a very long time.

“Shortly after our dispute he took Lorinda back to Nottingham—that is where my family is from—and kept her in his house in defiance of the disapproval of both myself and our two older sisters. They, too, refused to receive her.”

“And is Lorinda still in your brother’s house in Nottingham, mistress?”

“No, as I said, she was no better than a trollop, and her actions proved it. After she bore my brother a child—a daughter—she pestered him to marry her. Although Geoffrey was a fool over her, he is also parsimonious, and would not go so far as to give her any claim on his estate by making her his wife. After that, apparently, she became difficult to live with, berating him that he did not care for her, and sulking in front of his friends. Finally, one day, and without warning, she left, taking both her older daughter and my brother’s little girl with her.”

“And you do not know where she went, or what became of her after that?” Bascot asked, disappointed.

“Not of Lorinda, no. But a few years later the daughter she bore Geoffrey came to Newark and went to see him. She begged him to take her under his protection for she could no longer countenance living with her mother, who, she said, had taken up with men of low morals—thieves and the like—in the village where Lorinda had gone after she left my brother.”

“Did she say which village that was?” Bascot interjected.

“She might have done but, if she did, I do not recall it,” Mistress Sloper replied.

“And did your brother take his daughter in?” the Templar asked.

The widow nodded. “As her father, and even though she was baseborn, he felt a responsibility for the girl and asked his wife—for he had married by then, but had no children—if she would allow him to bring her into their home. She is a kind woman, my brother’s wife, and gave her consent willingly, and I must admit the girl comported herself in a seemly manner while she lived under their roof.”

“Then she is no longer there?” Bascot asked, disappointed.

“No, but it was only recently that she left, on the occasion of her marriage.”

“And where is she living now?”

“In the town you have just come from, Sir Bascot. The man she wed is from Lincoln and he took her back there just after the ceremony.”

At this news, Bascot felt hope surge once again. “What is this daughter’s name, and the name of her husband?” he asked.

“Mabel is what she is called—Geoffrey named her after our eldest sister. As to the man she married, his name is Glover, and he is the owner of a soap manufactory in Lincoln.”

Chapter 31

Within a very short space of time, Bascot, Gianni and Ernulf were speeding back to Lincoln on fresh mounts provided by Goddard from the Newark castle stables. The Templar had told Ernulf what Mistress Sloper had revealed and why there was need for haste.

“It is certain that Mabel has kept her relationship to Lorinda hidden from her mother-by-marriage,” he had said, “and, perhaps, from her new husband as well. Nan Glover is too honest a woman not to have told us of it when I asked about Lorinda. And now we find that Mabel has married into a family that were very close to the victim and she has not told them that the woman who once bore great enmity towards Robert Ferroner—a man who is Nan Glover’s good friend and was her former employer—is her mother. Why has she kept the identity of her dam secret? Does she know where Lorinda is and also the whereabouts of this older bastard daughter that Mistress Sloper told us of? Is it because Mabel herself, or her mother and half-sister, are involved in Emma’s murder? We must return to Lincoln as speedily as we can and find out the answers to these questions.”

* * *

Earlier that day, back in Lincoln, Lorinda had been sitting in the common chamber of the hostel when an itinerant tinker, one of the other inhabitants of the lodging house, returned to partake of his portion of the communal stew kept bubbling on the hearth. As he greedily devoured his bowl of pottage, he related to the other residents a bit of gossip he had heard that morning out in the town, saying that an alekeep by the name of Dern who had his premises just outside the southern wall of the town, along with a harlot called Aliz, had been taken into custody by the captain of the town guard. A frisson of alarm filled Lorinda. Both of the people that had been arrested had links to her which she did not want discovered, and since the tinker, when questioned, was not certain of the reason for their arrest, saying only that he had been told it had “something to do with forcing a child into prostitution,” she decided to go out into the town and see if she could find out more information herself.

A few minutes later she was on her way, and although she had already been out onto the streets of Lincoln once or twice since her arrival and not been recognized, she still took the precaution of wrapping the ends of her coif securely about her face so that as much of her features as possible was hidden from view.

The lump in her throat, which had first made its appearance on the outside of her neck and then slowly grown within, made her breathless from the slightest exertion, so she walked slowly, and with her hands, which had developed a tremor, clasped tightly together in front of her to still their shaking. As she passed through Claxledgate and into the confines of the town, her thoughts focused bitterly, as they so often had during the last twenty-five years, and especially recently, on Robert Ferroner. One of her incursions into the town after her return had been down to the banks of the Witham, and from there she had walked up to the armoury and peered in through the open shutters to see if she could catch a glimpse of her former paramour. He had, indeed, been working inside and, had it not been for his height and girth, she would not have recognised him. A straggle of greying strands below a bald pate was all that was left of his mane of golden hair and his face was lined with age.

How much more handsome he had been on the day she had first met him at the summer fayre. She had been immediately smitten. And so, she had believed, had he with her. Within a few minutes of their introduction to each other by a girl of Lorinda’s acquaintance in the town, they had been strolling together amongst the stalls, drinking mead and eating honeyed plums while listening to the lilting airs played on citoles and shawms by a band of roving minstrels. Only an hour had passed before Robert had kissed her and their lips had melted together with a taste sweeter than fine wine. It was by mutual and eager consent that, before the day had ended, they had gone out into the greenwood and there, on a bed of soft moss in a leafy bower, had their first coupling. How delightful the future had seemed on that day and the ones that followed; he had been the first, and only, man she had ever loved and she had been certain he would marry her. What other meaning could she have construed from the loving words he had whispered to her when they bedded? But it had not been long before her entrancement had come to a brutal end. Just a bare month later the same friend that had introduced her to Robert had said she had heard he had asked another woman to be his wife. His betrayal had wounded Lorinda deeply.

Throughout the years she had been away she had kept track of him through itinerant chapmen, merchants and carters whose trade often took them to Lincoln. He came to be a man well-known for his talent as an armourer and, as his business became more and more successful, there was always gossip about him. She had rejoiced when she had learned of the death of his wife shortly after their only child had been born and then, later, when she heard news that his daughter had been taken seriously ill. But, to her chagrin, the girl had survived and there had been no more hearsay about him until, a few months ago, she had learned that his daughter was married and that he was impatiently awaiting the birth of his first grandchild.

How different her life would have been if he had honoured his pledge to marry her. Down through the years that had elapsed, she would have had comfort, security and respect and not been forced to travel the highways and byways in search of a lecherous man willing to provide food and shelter in exchange for her body. And now, in her illness, she would have been cosseted, attended by a leech and prescribed a medicine that might have eased her distress.

Her musings had taken her to the bottom of Steep Hill. The town had not much changed in her long absence, and there was still a marketplace there with stalls selling meat, fish and poultry. She mingled with the goodwives gathered around the mongers and stood quietly on the fringe of the crowd so she could listen to any gossip being exchanged.

The first bit of information came not from one of the women but from a stall-holder, who had his customers riveted with his eyewitness testimony of the arrest of the alekeep and his jade.

“I see’d the captain and his men comin’ up the street dragging that pair along with ’em,” he exclaimed. “And they had one of the little girls Dern was usin’ as a harlot as well, holding on right tightly to the captain’s hand she wus, near scared to death, poor little thing. She were no more than a babby, I tell you, and painted just as though she was a jezebel. Dern and that harlot he calls sister deserve to swing for what they’ve done to her.”

The crowd of women nodded as they gave voice to their agreement, and then one of them said, “My husband says he heard that one of the captain’s men nigh on killed the man he found layin’ with the child. Well done, I says, the dog deserved all he got.”

Again there were murmurs of concordance and one after another bystander chimed in with further details that had been learned, such as that the alehouse had been smashed to pieces and that Roget had given all of the customers that were in there a stern warning that if he should learn that any of them had been guilty of swiving a child they would be treated just as harshly as the miscreant that had bedded the little girl.

Lorinda was uneasy at the turn events had taken. Slowly she turned away and directed her steps back towards the hostel. She tried to hurry, even though her breathing became more laboured when she did so. She was expecting a visitor this afternoon, the only person left to her that she could trust, and did not want to be late. There was a desperate need for them to discuss what effect Dern’s arrest would have on their plans.

* * *

As Bascot and his companions, having pressed their mounts as hard as they dared after leaving Newark, were approaching Lincoln, John Glover, Mabel’s husband, had finished his day’s work and was on his way home.

A tall, sandy-haired man of a usually pleasant demeanour, he walked through Stonebow with his brow furrowed. His life had changed dramatically since he had married Mabel, and not for the better. When he had first met her last year while attending a meeting of the soap-maker’s guild in Nottingham, he had been immediately attracted to her and quickly determined that he wished to make her his wife. In accordance with that intention, he had approached her father, a man of excellent reputation, to ask if his suit would be acceptable, and her sire had reluctantly revealed that although he had raised Mabel as if she were his legitimate daughter, she had not been born in wedlock, but to a woman that had, for a while, been his leman.

“I do not know the whereabouts of Mabel’s mother,” he had added, “and nor, as far as I am aware, does my daughter. All I can tell you is that her dam, Lorinda, had another illegitimate daughter as well, an older girl, the result of her dalliance with a paramour she was involved with before I met her, and that I have seen neither of them since the day many years ago when Lorinda left me. The only other information I can give you is that Mabel came to live with me because she found the company her mother was keeping distasteful and wanted no part of it, which spoke well for her moral sense. Nonetheless, I will understand if you find Mabel’s background unsuitable. If, however, you feel you can withstand it, you have my willing permission to court her.”

John, with hindsight, now wished he had considered the older man’s words more carefully but, at the time, he had been very enamoured of Mabel and had cast any doubts he may have had aside. Later, after she had accepted his proposal and they were wed, he had asked Mabel for, and had been given, more details about where her mother had taken her after she had left Nottingham.

It was a shocking tale and had filled John with disquietude. His new wife had told him that after Lorinda had left Mabel’s father, she and her older half-sister had been taken by their mother to live with their great-grandmother, Granny Willow, near the village of Coleby.

“Although Granny was very poor, I must admit I was happy living with her,” she had said with a small smile of gratified remembrance. “She was kind to both myself and my half-sister but unfortunately, she was very old and before too many years had passed, became ill and died. It was then that my life took a turn for the worse. After Granny was buried, my mother took us to live with a man she had taken up with—an old acquaintance from her younger days, I think—and by whom she had just borne a son. The man’s name was Gar and he ran an alehouse near the village where we lived.

“It was a terrible place,” Mabel had added tearfully. “Full of drunkards and thieves. My half-sister, Aliz, did not seem to mind it as much as I for she was greatly attracted to Gar’s eldest son, Dern, calling him brother even though he was none. But I hated it and wanted to leave. Our mother would never tell either Aliz or myself the identity of our fathers—I could barely remember mine, let alone recall his name—but before Granny Willow died, I overheard her and my mother speaking about the man who had sired me, mentioning his name and where he lived, so I ran away to see if I could find him, and I did.”

She had looked up at him with her dark soulful eyes and begged him to understand her dilemma. “I have never seen or spoken to my mother or either of my half-siblings from the day that I left and I promise you, have no intention of ever seeking them out.”

John, believing that the sins of a mother should not be laid on a child, had given Mabel his assurance that her past made no difference and, in accordance with her wishes, had sworn he would never reveal what she had told him to anyone else, even his mother.

And so things had stood until Mabel had, soon after their marriage, come to take up residence with him in Lincoln. A couple of weeks after they arrived, he had taken her down to the banks of the Witham to show her the soap manufactory he owned and it had been after they had left the building and were returning home that a young woman who was walking towards them on the path they were taking had given a start of recognition and hailed Mabel by name. His wife had jumped like a frightened hare and tried to run back into the manufactory, but she was not quick enough, and the woman had caught up with them.

Nervously, Mabel had told him that the stranger was her half-sister, Aliz, and John was horrified. The woman who was now related to him through his marriage was dressed, and comported herself, like a prostitute. She was wearing a tight gown of gaudy yellow silk, her hair was uncovered and her face painted. She was the very image of a harlot. As she gave Mabel a merry greeting and said how pleased she was to see her, asking where she had been since she had run away from Coleby, John felt his heart sink with shame.

Not wishing any passersby to see either him or his new wife in the company of a bawd, John had ushered them back into the manufactory and taken them into the room he used as his office, so that Mabel could give her half-sister some sort of response to her enquiry. Mabel had stammered out a reply to Aliz’s question, giving only a scant few details, saying simply that the reason she had fled all those years ago was to try to find her father, which she had accomplished, and he had kindly given her a home. She then told her half-sister that John was her husband, that they were newly married and she was now living in Lincoln.

After listening intently to the brief tale, Aliz had given a rueful laugh and said, “Well, you fared better than I, Mabel. If I had known the identity of my father when we were both young I might have done the same thing as you and gone to throw myself on his mercy.”

She then told Mabel that Gar, her mother’s lover, had died a couple of years after Mabel had left and that she and his eldest son, Dern, had come to Lincoln and opened up an alehouse. It was, she said, not far from where they were now standing, being in close proximity to the manufactory. As she spoke, a shiver of shame passed through John as he realised that the alehouse she had spoken of was one that he sometimes frequented. Although he knew there were prostitutes for hire on the premises, he gave thanks to God that he had never been tempted to avail himself of their services. If he had, it was quite possible that he would have lain with Aliz, which would have made him uncomfortably close to the sin of committing incest through bedding a close female relation of the woman he later made his wife.

Then Mabel had asked Aliz if she knew what had become of their mother and her half-sister replied that she, too, had passed away, just a short time earlier. “When Gar died, she and Garson, our half-brother, disappeared, but recently a chapman who had been in Gainsborough came to the alehouse saying he had been paid to bring me the news that our mother was dead. He said he was approached by a man in Gainsborough and asked if he would be going anywhere near Lincoln this summer and, when he said he was, asked if he would be willing, for a small payment, to deliver the message. The pedlar knew no more than that; not how she died or when, or even the name of the man who gave him the commission. It might have been Garson, but if it was, he did not tell the chapman his name.”

Aliz did not seem much grieved that their dam was dead, and neither did Mabel, who now changed the course of the conversation, saying to her half-sister that although she was very glad to see her, she would rather their relationship to each other was kept between themselves. “Old secrets are best left unshared,” she had said confidingly. “There might be unpleasant repercussions if they are repeated to all and sundry.”

Aliz’s eyes, so chillingly similar to his wife’s, had narrowed in response to Mabel’s statement and then she had given a mirthless laugh. “You have not changed, Mabel, since you were a child. You were insufferably arrogant then, and still are. But do not worry, I will not tell anyone you are kin to a prostitute—at least not yet. And never will, unless I find there is no profit in keeping it to myself.”

Her words had brought a ripple of foreboding to John that had soon proved true, for Aliz had not waited long to claim a reward for her silence and, just recently, had increased her demands to an unacceptable level. Now, as he plodded miserably up Mikelgate towards home, he rued the day he had so foolishly asked Mabel to be his wife.

Chapter 32

Bascot, Gianni and Ernulf reached the castle gate just after the evening meal had been served. Leaving their tired mounts in the hands of the grooms in the stables, they hurried into the keep.

Lady Nicolaa was seated alone on the dais—the big chamber seemed empty without the presence of her husband and the contingent of household knights he had taken with him on his hunting trip—and, having finished eating, was about to rise from her seat and retire to the solar. Roget was there, too, at one of the lower tables, and quickly followed the Templar and his companions as they hurried up to the dais to speak to the castellan.

“I can tell by the expression on your faces that the trip to Newark proved worthwhile,” Nicolaa said when they stood before her. “There has been a development here, too. Come, let us go up to the solar where we can discuss these matters in private. Roget, you will attend me as well.”

As they all followed her up the stairs in a corner turret, Roget quickly told Bascot and the others of the child prostitute he had found in the alehouse and how he had arrested Dern and the jade he called sister. “Even if they aren’t involved in these murders,” he said, “they are a pair of filthy cochons that merit a punishment très sévère.”

When they entered the solar Nicolaa invited the Templar to take a seat beside her. Once Gianni had taken out his tablet and seated himself on a stool, and Roget and Ernulf were standing in front of their mistress, Bascot related what had been discovered in Newark.

“Mabel Glover has kept her relationship to Lorinda hidden, I am certain, from her husband’s mother, Nan, and possibly from her husband as well. That in itself arouses suspicion, so we need to question Mabel as to why she has been reticent.”

Roget, at mention of John Glover, gave an exclamation of surprise. “But he was there in Dern’s alehouse, de Marins, on the evening that we went there. I know him well from seeing him about the town.”

After Roget had given a description of Glover, Bascot recalled noticing him amongst the patrons in the alehouse. The principal reason he had done so was because of a light sprinkling of ash on the customer’s tunic that suggested he was a soap-maker. At the time, the Templar had wondered, in passing, if the man might, in fact, be Nan Glover’s son. But he also remembered that the strands of hair showing beneath the rim of Glover’s velvet hat had been light in colour, a sandy hue that was nearer to blonde than auburn.

“He is too fair-haired to be the murderer, lady,” the Templar said. “But even so, it seems he has a connection with Dern. He should be interrogated along with his wife.”

The castellan issued her orders quickly. “I tire of this coil and the lies that have been told by all and sundry. Ernulf, take two men-at-arms and fetch the soap-maker and his wife back here immediately and place them in a separate cell alongside Dern and the prostitute. Roget, find Wiger and bring him in and incarcerate him as well—we are still not certain his testimony has been truthful. Keep them all apart until I instruct you as to the order in which I wish to question them. If at all possible, I intend to get to the heart of this mystery before another day has dawned.”

* * *

After some discussion Nicolaa and Bascot decided that they would interrogate John Glover first. Accordingly, when Ernulf reported that all of the suspects had been arrested and incarcerated, the castellan directed that the soap-maker be brought before her.

The serjeant escorted Glover up directly and, when he came in, his appearance was haggard; his spare frame sagged dejectedly and his complexion was pasty white.

“Do you know why you have been arrested, Master Glover?” Nicolaa asked.

“No, I do not, lady,” he responded.

“Then I will tell you. We have been searching for a woman named Lorinda in the course of our investigation into the two murders that have recently been committed, and have only just discovered that she is your wife’s mother. Are you aware of this relationship?”

“I am,” Glover said. “Mabel told me about her shortly after our marriage.”

“Since it was your own mother who gave us information enabling us to locate this woman, I am surprised that she did not seem to know of this.”

“Mabel was ashamed of her bastardy, and of the woman who bore her, so she asked me to keep it a secret, even from my own dam,” he explained.

The castellan then asked if his wife knew of her mother’s whereabouts.

“We have been told she is dead,” Glover replied.

Disappointed, Nicolaa glanced at Bascot.

The Templar leaned forward and continued the questioning. “Who was it that told you about Lorinda’s demise?” he asked.

“My wife’s half-sister,” Glover replied.

“Then your wife must have stayed in touch with her mother and half-sister after she went to live in Nottingham?”

“No, she did not,” Glover said. “She knew nothing of what had happened to them until just after we were married and I brought Mabel here to Lincoln. It was only then, when we happened to meet her half-sister purely by chance, that she learned of her mother’s demise.”

“And what is her half-sister’s name?”

“Aliz.”

Roget muttered an oath under his breath and Bascot, in a sharp tone, rapped out his next question. “Is this Aliz a prostitute?”

“Yes,” Glover replied shamefacedly.

“And where does she ply her trade?”

“In an alehouse down on the riverbank operated by a man named Dern.”

* * *

At the soap-maker’s statement, Nicolaa ordered Ernulf to bring Mabel Glover to the solar at once. As the serjeant hurried off, Bascot continued to question her husband.

“Is that not the same place in which I saw you sitting at a table just after Emma Ferroner was murdered?”

“It is, lord,” Glover replied.

Then I assume that Dern is a friend of yours?” Bascot said.

The soap-maker was aghast. “No, he is not, I swear to you. It is true that I used to go in there occasionally before I married Mabel, but ever since I learned that her half-sister is a jade there, I have never returned except for that one evening.”

The Templar was certain that the man before him was not telling all he knew and shot his next words in a scathing manner.

“I do not believe you, Glover. In the course of our murder investigation we have been conducting a search for Lorinda, a woman whose relationship to your wife has been kept secret both by her and by you. And now we learn that you seem to be on intimate terms with Dern—who we are told is called ‘brother’ by your wife’s half-sister and is possibly another relative of your wife’s—and is even now under arrest and about to be questioned as to possible collusion in Mistress Ferroner’s death. There are too many connections to you in this matter for me not to believe that you are also involved.”

“Murder Emma?” Glover burst out unbelievingly. “You suspect me of conspiring to kill her?” He lifted pain-filled eyes to Bascot. “I would never have countenanced such a heinous crime, I promise you. Emma was my good friend—we had known each other since we were children and I loved her dearly, like a sister, as did my mother. Why would I want her dead?”

At that moment the door opened and Ernulf led in Mabel. As she walked across the room, she made an attempt to carry herself with the same haughty stance that the Templar remembered from when he had met her on his visit to Glover’s home. When she saw the abject state of her husband, however, her boldness vanished and was replaced by trepidation.

“Bring Mistress Glover to stand by her husband,” Nicolaa instructed Ernulf and, as Mabel came forward, high spots of colour appeared on her cheeks and she began to tremble.

The soap-maker turned to his wife. “They suspect me of killing Emma, Mabel, and all because of you and your secrets. I am going to tell them all of it, wife, and be damned to you and your relations. I have had enough of all of you.”

Mabel made no response to her husband’s outburst, and stood silently as Glover told of the events that had taken place since he had brought his new wife to Lincoln—how they had met Aliz on a pathway near the manufactory, how she had recognized Mabel and that, in the ensuing conversation between them all, Aliz had told them that she had received a message that Lorinda was dead.

“Just before we parted from Aliz,” he added, “Mabel asked her to keep their relationship a secret and it seemed that she agreed. But a few days later, and at regular intervals thereafter, she came to the manufactory to extort money and other favours from me, threatening to break the promise she had given if I did not meet her demands. On the evening that you saw me there, Sir Bascot, I had tired of her scheming and had gone to tell her that I intended to make an end to her extortion. When I went in, Dern told me that she was with a customer upstairs and that, if I wished to wait, I could speak to her when she was done with him.”

He lifted imploring eyes to Bascot. “That is why I was seated at the table, but after you and the captain left, Dern disappeared upstairs and never came back. Tired of waiting, I left the alehouse, thinking that I would instead confront Aliz on her next visit to my manufactory. I have not seen her since.”

He paused and again appealed to his interrogators. “I had no hand in Emma’s murder, I swear to you. Nor would I, if I had known that you were seeking Lorinda, have kept hidden the fact that she was Mabel’s mother.”

The castellan spoke to the soap-maker’s wife. “Your half-sister calls Dern her brother. Is he yours also?”

Mabel nervously shook her head. “Even though she calls him such, he is no blood relation to either of us. His father was the man that my mother went to live with shortly after she left Nottingham and took Aliz and I back to live in Coleby.”

At this information, Bascot leaned forward; Aliz could be the child that Nan Glover’s husband had seen with Lorinda in Nottingham.

“Is Aliz older than you by a year or two?” he asked Mabel.

She nodded.

The Templar paused for a moment. Could Aliz’s father be involved in this coil? A man who, perhaps, had enmity for the armourer and had conspired with Dern or the prostitute to bring him grief by murdering his child?

“What is the name of the man who sired your half-sister?”

“She does not know, Sir Bascot,” John Glover replied. “She told me that her mother would never reveal the identities of their sires to either her or Aliz and that she only discovered the name of her own father due to overhearing a conversation between Lorinda and her grandmother.”

The Templar looked at Mabel. Although the soap-maker might believe what his wife had said, he was not so certain she was telling the truth. As Glover had said, she liked to keep secrets; might she not have kept this one as well?

“If you know the name of your half-sister’s father, mistress, you had better speak it now, for if it is proved that you are lying, you will be charged with withholding important evidence from this murder enquiry.”

Mabel went white. “Lord, I am sorry for my reticence,” she said beseechingly. “I did not realise his name would be so important else I would have told my husband. I did overhear who Aliz’s father was; his name was said, along with my own father’s, when my mother and Granny Willow were speaking together about them.”

Glover looked at her in astonishment. “It is past time for me to be surprised at your schemes and machinations, Mabel, for it seems they are endless,” he railed at her, “and I grow exceedingly tired of them as, I am sure, do Lady Nicolaa and Sir Bascot. Reveal what you know or I swear before God, wife or not, I will turn you out of my home before this day is done.”

Never had Mabel seen her mild-mannered husband in such a rage and she had no doubt his threat was not an idle one. Hanging her head, she reluctantly did as she was bid.

In a hesitant whisper, and with downcast eyes, she told the Templar what he wished to know. “My mother said that Aliz’s father was Robert Ferroner.”

Chapter 33

After obtaining a sworn assurance that she had never told her half-sister, or anyone else, the name of Aliz’s father, the castellan ordered the Glovers to be taken from the room. Once they were gone, she and the Templar discussed the implications of what they had just learned.

“If Aliz somehow found out that Ferroner is her father,” the castellan said, “it would give her a motive to murder Emma. Once the armourer’s legitimate daughter was removed, the way would be open for Aliz to reveal her parentage to him and lay a claim on his affections and his fortune.”

“It is possible, lady,” Bascot replied. “But I cannot see how such a need would have arisen. Ferroner is a good-hearted man, well-known for his philanthropy. He would have given Aliz pecuniary assistance whether Emma was alive or not.”

“But Emma was his heir,” Nicolaa protested. “Aliz could never step into that enviable position, and all the wealth it would bring her, unless Ferroner’s legitimate daughter was no longer living.”

The Templar nodded, but was still not convinced. He rose from his seat and walked over to the casement. He always found that looking at the world from a high place helped him to think. As he gazed with his sighted eye through the gathering gloom of the evening out over the bail and the Minster, he concentrated on what Mabel had revealed.

“Mistress Glover could also have a motive for using a hired killer,” he said. “It is very apparent that her husband is impatient with her and the trouble she has brought on him since their marriage, and we have just heard him relate how fond he was of the victim. Perhaps Mabel became jealous and, fearing she might lose his affections to her rival, paid an assassin to slay her.”

Nicolaa had to admit that this theory, too, had merit, but was still more inclined to think that the prostitute was the culprit, and said so.

“But how would Aliz have known that Emma would be at the shrine on that particular day?” Bascot argued. “In the case of Mabel, Nan Glover gave witness that Emma paid a visit to her a few days before she went to pray to St. Dunstan and revealed her plan to go there. Mabel could easily have overheard their conversation and decided to arrange for the murder to be carried out on that day, but Aliz, removed as she was, from any contact with Emma, or anyone else in the armoury, would not have been privy to the information.”

He paused for a moment, and then said, “We have yet to identify the woman that was seen by Ferroner’s housekeeper in intimate conversation with Wiger in the town. If it was Aliz, then he may have told her of his wife’s intention, thereby enabling her to make the arrangements for the murder to take place in the dell. He must be more hardly questioned if we are to find out the truth.”

As he was speaking, Ernulf and Roget returned to the solar, and the castellan gave the captain instructions to bring Wiger before them without delay.

* * *

When Roget had earlier gone in search of Wiger to take him into custody, he had found him in Selso’s alehouse, sitting with the rough customers he had shunned after his marriage. He must have been there for some time, for he was cup-shotten when Roget arrested him, but his brief spell of incarceration in a holding cell seemed to have sobered him, for he walked with a reasonably steady gait as the captain escorted him across the solar to stand in front of Nicolaa and Bascot.

“You are here to be questioned further about your possible involvement in your wife’s murder,” Bascot advised him. “Answer me truthfully and you will go free. Lie, and you will suffer.”

Wiger nodded warily and the Templar barked his next words at him. “We have been told that you were in the habit of frequenting an alehouse near the armoury run by a man named Dern. Do you dispute that?”

Carefully Wiger shook his head in negation.

“Then you will also not deny acquaintance with Aliz, the prostitute who works there?”

Again, there was a shake of Wiger’s head.

“Have you ever paid for her services?”

The armourer’s son-by-marriage swallowed once or twice before answering. “Yes, lord, before my marriage I did.”

“But not after?”

“No.”

The Templar leaned back in his chair and decided to use a gambit he had often employed before, that of making a suspect believe he had knowledge of facts that, unknown to the person he was questioning, had yet to be substantiated.

He nodded to Roget, who had moved a little apart once the interrogation had begun, to come forward and stand beside Wiger. “I warned you what would happen, Wiger, if you did not tell the truth. We have a witness who saw you in intimate conversation with the harlot in Lincoln town recently. Now, do you wish the captain to take you back to the cells and question you more roughly, or are you ready to admit you continued your liaison with her after you were wed?”

Wiger’s knees began to tremble and it was only with a great effort that he stayed upright. “I . . . I . . . I did bed Aliz after Emma and I were married,” he stammered, “but only once or twice.”

“When was the last time?”

The question came at him like an arrow shot and he stumbled over his answer. “A few . . . a few days before Emma was murdered,” he finally admitted.

“And did you tell the jade of your wife’s intention to visit the shrine and the day on which she would do so?” Bascot rapped out.

Wiger hesitated for a moment, but the Templar did not intend to allow him time to fabricate a response that could extricate him from the damning situation he was in. “I am running out of patience, Wiger,” he snapped. “Answer my question.”

“I may have done, lord,” was the shaky reply. “I recall Aliz asking me if there was any sign of Emma bearing a babe and I said we were hopeful it would be soon because Emma was going to St. Dunstan’s shrine to ask for the saint’s aid.”

“And did you tell her on what day your wife’s visit was planned?”

Wiger gave a miserable nod. “I said she was intending to go with Constance Turner at the end of that week.”

Chapter 34

“It must have been Aliz who contrived Emma’s murder,” Nicolaa said decisively after Wiger was removed from the chamber, “and also subsequently arranged the second slaying at Greetwell in the hope that it would confuse our investigation. She has motive and, through Dern, access to villains who will kill for money.”

But Bascot shook his head. “I am still not certain of her guilt,” he said. “Or even that of Mabel. We have been shown that both of these women are manipulative, a trait they seem to have had in common with their mother, and that keeps bringing my mind back to Lorinda. It is almost as though she is still alive and scheming to confound us.”

“But she is dead,” Nicolaa exclaimed.

“So we have been told, lady, but only at third hand. Aliz herself did not witness Lorinda’s death, and then she told it to Mabel, who relayed it to us.”

“You think it possible that Lorinda still lives?” Nicolaa asked.

“I do not know, lady; I only sense that these murders were committed because of an old sin, not a recent one.”

All the way throughout the preceding interrogations, Gianni’s mind had been racing furiously as he had been trying to recall details of an incident that had been itching at his mind ever since the soap-maker had been questioned. As Bascot was speaking, the memory finally clicked into place.

It was part of his and Lambert’s duties to check the castle accounts for all supplies that had been received and, once the amount and cost had been certified, to then pass them on to Master Blund for authorisation of payment. One of these bills had been for soap that, Gianni was certain, had come from Master Glover’s manufactory. But it was not the fact that Glover had supplied the soap that now interested the lad, but the nature of the wording on the bill.

He had been struggling to remember the exact way in which the soap had been listed. It had been in the spring, he remembered, just before it was time for all of the bedding in the castle to be removed for washing by the castle laundresses. Along with five gallons of soft soap, which was in liquid form and used for general purposes in the kitchen, stables and the like, an order had been filled for thirty bars of plain tallow and ash soap for the washerwomen’s task, each weighing three pounds and cut into small tablets for easy usage. But, he recalled, along with these items there had been another account for three bars of hard soap, also cut into tablets, for the use of the laundress that took care of Lady Nicolaa’s personal linen. This soap had been much more expensive than the rest because it was scented and he had been struggling to remember if the name of the aromatic ingredient had been listed. Up until that moment, the lines on the bill had been dancing tantalisingly before him, blurry and indistinct, but now, suddenly, it came to him. It was cloves.

He laid his hand on the Templar’s arm to attract his attention and then, by means of writing words on his wax table and gestures, explained what he had recalled.

“Well done, Gianni,” Bascot said, becoming once more invigorated as he gave the lad an enthusiastic smile. “So far, this investigation has led down many false trails, but now, I think, you have steered us towards the correct one. This information may reveal the link we have been searching for.”

“How so, de Marins?” Nicolaa asked. She had been able to follow most of Gianni’s gestures and had read the words that he had written on his tablet. “That soap has a strong scent while it is in the bar, but is only faint on any item on which has been used, be it one’s person or clothing, and even then its perfume lingers only for a short time. Surely any aroma that remained on the murderer would not be strong enough for the little girl at Greetwell to have noticed it.”

“If it is only used for laundering or washing of the body, I agree,” the Templar replied, “but that is not the case with a person who has been involved in its manufacture. Just as a salt-maker has traces of the salt he processes on his clothing, the grease from the soap would adhere to the cuffs and tunic of any person who handled it constantly, and leave a very strong scent. And, I believe, there is a simple way to test Gianni’s theory.”

Bascot drew the knife that had been used as a murder weapon from his scrip and said to Gianni, “If I interpreted your words correctly, you said that the soap had been cut into tablets before being delivered to the castle storeroom?”

The lad nodded and the Templar leaned forward to a table that was near his chair where a lighted candle stood. Grasping the knife by the hilt, he carefully held the joint of the blade where the thin line of greyish grime was ingrained over the flame. As he did so, the oily grit sputtered and then the colour changed from grey to black as it began to melt. Almost at once, a strong smell of cloves pervaded the air.

Nicolaa gave an exclamation of surprise. “Sweet Jesu, that is soap residue!”

“It would seem so, lady, and that this knife was used to cut clove-scented soap bars into tablets before it was employed in the murder of Emma Ferroner. Our quarry is one of the men who work in John Glover’s manufactory.”

* * *

Within moments, Ernulf had raced downstairs and brought the soap-maker back to the solar. Bemused by the speed with which he had been pushed up the stairs, Glover stood before Nicolaa and the Templar as a man dazed.

Bascot held the knife out in front of him. “Is this a tool that is used in your workplace?”

Glover looked at it and nodded in confusion. “It is very like them, yes.”

“Have any of these knives been reported missing lately?”

“How did you know that?” the soap-maker asked in astonishment. “My overseer in the workshop came to me only a couple of days ago asking permission to order a replacement for one that seems to have disappeared.”

“This is the knife that your overseer could not find. It was left at St. Dunstan’s shrine after being used to stab Emma Ferroner.”

“By the Virgin, it cannot be,” Glover exclaimed, shocked to his core. “Are you certain?”

“We are,” the Templar said firmly. “How many men do you employ to cut the blocks of hard soap into bars?”

“Only one,” Glover replied, his voice shaking. “And the hiring of him was one of Aliz’s recently increased demands to maintain her silence about the relationship between herself and Mabel. He is Garson, half-brother to my wife and Aliz, and also to Dern.”

Chapter 35

“There was yet another illegitimate child born to this woman?” Nicolaa exclaimed. “How many more are there?”

“I am only aware of three, lady,” Glover replied. “My wife, Mabel, her half-sister, Aliz, and this other half-brother, who Lorinda bore to Dern’s father before Mabel left to return to Nottingham. But since neither my wife nor Aliz have seen their mother for many years there may be more, although they would be younger than Garson, who is about nineteen years of age.”

“And Garson,” Bascot pressed, “he has only been in your employ for a short time?”

“Yes,” Glover said. “According to Aliz, he arrived in Lincoln a couple of weeks ago and came to see her, claiming he was destitute and needed work. She immediately sent him to me asking, as I said, that I put him to work in the manufactory as part of the ‘favour’ I owed her. I have never mentioned him to Mabel as I did not wish to trouble her with the news that she had yet another bastard relative living nearby.”

“Then Lorinda must have kept him with her after she left Coleby all those years ago,” Nicolaa said. “Does Aliz know if he stayed with his mother until her death?”

The soap-maker grimaced. “I never asked her, lady. She simply told me that he had come to her for assistance, needing work, and she had agreed to help him.”

“What is his appearance?” Bascot asked. “His height, girth and colouring?”

“He is of medium stature and slim,” Glover replied. “And his hair is similar to Mabel’s, dark auburn.”

Bascot glanced at the castellan, and she returned his look. Both were fairly confident that the identity of the murderer was now discovered. To be absolutely certain, Bascot asked Glover one last question.

“Was Garson in the manufactory on the morning that Emma Ferroner was killed?” the Templar.

“He is not there on any morning, Sir Bascot,” Glover told him. “He works at night only, from Compline until two hours after midnight.”

“So he should be at the manufactory now?”

Glover nodded and the Templar stood up, elated. The end of the hunt was in sight.

* * *

Minutes later, and after cautioning John Glover not to tell anyone of Garson’s culpability, even his wife, Bascot and Roget were riding towards the manufactory. On the way down Mikelgate, they stopped at the town gaol to pick up Ivo and Cerlo. John Glover had told them that the manufactory would be empty except for Garson and one other employee, an older man who acted as vat-tender, and kept watch over the soap cauldrons left simmering through the night. They did not expect their task to be a difficult one, but had decided to take the two guards to stand outside in case their quarry should manage to exit the building.

By the time they rode through Stonebow gate and turned onto the path to the manufactory, dusk had fallen and the sky above was growing dark.

The soap-maker’s building was silent as they approached. Large and high-roofed, it had wooden casements fitted to the walls that could be pulled up during hot weather, in the same fashion as the armoury. These were closed now, with only a few vents at the top of the walls left open to let in air. Soft wisps of steam puffed gently through them and out into the gloom.

The Templar and Roget left their mounts a little way from the entry door, which was open, and, while Ivo was left to stand sentry at the main entrance, Cerlo slipped around the side to keep watch over any other doors that gave egress from the building. The odours of the river were strong here, overlaid with the acrid stink of the fats bubbling in the soap cauldrons. Bascot and the captain entered the building as quietly as they could, finding themselves in a cavernous chamber with two concentric rings of a dozen hearths built into the earthen floor. All had fires burning in them with vats of varying sizes placed on grills over top of them, and steam was gently rising from each of the cauldrons. The atmosphere was one of Stygian gloom, the only light other than the glow of the fires coming from a pair of torches flaring high on the walls at the back of the chamber. Below the torches were tables on which had been placed long, uncut bars of soap, and behind were two small doors which, by their size, appeared to be internal ones leading to storerooms at the rear of the premises.

When Bascot and Roget slipped through the entrance, they immediately saw the vat-tender that Glover had mentioned. He was atop a metal ladder resting on the side of one of the larger vats and, with his hands protected by thick leather gloves, was using a long metal paddle to stir the contents. He turned his weathered face towards them as they came in and would have spoken had not Bascot brought his fingers to his mouth in a gesture instructing him to keep silent. Another motion indicated that he should descend the ladder and, when he had done so, Bascot walked up to him and asked, in a low tone, if Garson was on the premises.

The man gave a nod and pointed to one of the inner doors at the back of the workspace. Just then, the door opened and a young man of slim build and with dark hair came out. “That’s him,” the vat-tender whispered.

Roget gave a start. “Sacré, that cochon was in the alehouse when I arrested Dern and Aliz,” he exclaimed. “Leave him to me, mon ami,” he said to Bascot. “He will not escape me a second time.”

At the captain ran towards him, Garson took to his heels, heading for a door in the side of the building. Roget shouted at him to halt, but Garson took no notice and the captain sped around the vat nearest the door and skidded to a halt with his cudgel raised menacingly, blocking escape. Foiled of his intent, Garson spun around and ran back the way he had come, dodging around the back of another vat which, like the rest of the receptacles, was steaming with a hot solution of animal fat and lye, and disappeared from view. Roget immediately gave chase, but he was not quick enough to stop Garson from seizing one of the huge iron paddles heaped in a pile on the floor and, using it as a lever, upending the vat behind which he had taken refuge. With a clatter and a cloud of fiery embers, the cauldron fell on its side and the incandescent liquid gushed out, spattering down one side of Roget’s body. The captain roared with pain, and the Templar, warning the vat-turner to stay well clear of the fracas, ran to assist him, racing around the other side of the soap kettle with drawn sword in his hand.

Garson, seeing the Templar in front of him, and all routes to freedom gone, backed up against the wall, eyes wide with fear. Brandishing the iron paddle he was still holding, he made a feeble attempt at defiance, but the pitiful weapon was soon knocked aside by Bascot’s sword.

“You are taken,” the Templar growled, pushing the tip of his blade into the base of Garson’s throat. “Come quietly, or I will split your filthy gizzard wide open.”

* * *

Fortunately, Roget had not been too badly burned. His feet had been protected by the boots he was wearing, but his right leg, above his footwear, had been splashed with the noxious soap mixture, as had one of his hands. The vat-tender, having watched the pursuit of Garson with amazement, grabbed up a bucket and sped quickly towards a row of barrels filled with water at the back of the room and, scooping it full, ran to where Roget stood cursing with pain.

“Water will ease the burning,” the vat-tender yelled and tossed the bucket’s contents over the captain’s scalded limb. Then he ran back for more water, this time grabbing a second bucket as well, and instructed the captain to plunge his burned hand into its cooling depths.

After several repetitions of the procedure, the blistering pain slowly began to fade. “Par Dieu,” Roget exclaimed, taking a deep breath of relief, “now I know what the flames of Hades must feel like.”

As the vat-tender applied a salve made of comfrey kept in the manufactory to treat burns and then bound Roget’s leg and hand in strips of linen, the captain looked up at the Templar and said, “I promise you, de Marins, I will enjoy seeing that bâtard hang, knowing that he will suffer a burning torture like this in hell for all eternity.”

At that moment, Ivo, alarmed by the shouting he had heard from inside the building, came through the door, short sword in hand. When he saw that the murderer was taken, he walked over to the captain.

Taking in the upturned vat, the slimy mess of soap steaming on the floor and Roget’s soaked hose, he said with a smirk, “Just a suggestion, Captain, but the next time you decide to take a bath, it might be wiser to wait until the soap has cooled before you apply it.”

His jest brought another stream of invectives from Roget, but it eased the tension in his face and, looking down at his scalded flesh, he let out a great roar of laughter. “I tell you, Ivo, it is of no matter. I would drown myself in hot lead to free Constance and that is what has been done.”

Chapter 36

It was very late in the evening by the time that Bascot and Roget arrived at the castle with the murderer in custody. After consigning him to a pair of men-at-arms to have manacles placed on his hands and feet, they went into the keep to tell Lady Nicolaa of his successful arrest and to show her a cloak that had been found hidden in one of the storerooms in the manufactory. It had a rent in the hood in the exact shape of the piece of material that the ravens had given Bascot. This garment, along with the fact that the colour of his hair exactly matched the strands that had been entwined in the swatch of fabric, and the witness of Constance Turner and little Letty confirming his height and build, eliminated any doubt that Garson was the man responsible for both killings. It only remained now to be discovered if he had acted alone or with another’s contrivance.

With Bascot seated beside her on the dais and Gianni perched on a stool just below the raised platform, parchment and quill at the ready, the castellan ordered Eudo to clear the hall of servants with the exception of himself, Ernulf and Roget. When this had been done, Nicolaa instructed the serjeant to bring before her all of the suspects who had been taken into recent custody. Only Mistress Turner, she told him, was to be left in her cell. Once Aliz and Dern, John and Mabel Glover and Wiger were all arrayed in front of her, she gave the order for Garson to be brought in.

He presented a sorry sight as he was dragged into the hall by two of the men-at-arms. There were bruises on his face from the soldiers’ rough usage and the skin on his wrists and ankles was scraped and bloody where the manacles had been clamped. Aliz gave a gasp of dismay when she saw him and called out his name, while Mabel, who had at first not recognised him, shrank back behind her husband as soon as she realised who he was. Although Dern assumed an expression of surprise, Bascot noticed a flash of anger cross his face and resolved to watch the alekeep covertly throughout the rest of the proceedings to see if he could discover the reason why. In the case of the two women, however, there was only shock at sight of their half-brother under arrest for murder, and no other emotion. Garson made no response to their reaction, not even glancing in their direction as the soldiers shoved him forward to stand in front of Nicolaa and Bascot.

The castellan regarded the prisoner for a moment before she spoke. His visage, beneath his bruises, bore a slight resemblance to his female kin, but far more to that of his half-brother, Dern. He had the same cold brown eyes as the alekeep, and the same angular set to his jaw, but he possessed none of Dern’s self-containment; instead he attempted to adopt a surly manner that did little to hide his fear.

“There is ample proof that you are guilty of the murder of Emma Ferroner and Gwen Hurdler,” Nicolaa said to him. “When the sheriff returns you will be charged in his court for your crimes and, I have no doubt, sentenced to death. Until then you will be held under close confinement in the castle gaol.”

Garson made no defence to the pronouncement; his only response a slight shudder which he quickly suppressed. Otherwise he remained silent and kept his gaze on the floor between his feet. Finally Aliz, unable to contain her stupefaction any longer, exploded into angry speech. “You are a fool, Garson. You did not even know those women—why did you kill them?”

Her outburst seemed to awaken a spark of animation in her half-brother and he answered her in an obdurate fashion. “For our mother’s vengeance,” he said mulishly. “I vowed I would be her champion and repay Robert Ferroner for the harm he did to her and now, by killing his daughter, my promise has been fulfilled.”

“And so has your mother’s curse, has it not?” Bascot interjected, certain now that none of the others in the room had been his accomplice. His two half-sisters along with Dern and all of the other suspects were openmouthed with surprise at his frank admission.

Garson reluctantly nodded. “Ferroner deserved it; the curse was just,” he mumbled. “He should have married my mother as he promised.”

“It is not true that the armourer gave Lorinda a pledge to make her his wife,” Bascot told him. “She lied when she told you that.”

Garson stared at him with incredulity on his face. “That cannot be so. I do not believe you.”

Bascot shrugged. “That matters little to me. You are a murderer, you are caught, and you will be hanged. That is my only interest.”

* * *

An hour earlier, at the lodging house in Butwerk, Lorinda had been growing increasingly alarmed. Her son, Garson, had promised to visit her earlier that day and it was now long past dusk and he had still not appeared. It was unlike him not to keep his word; never before had he failed her. She was especially anxious as she had wanted to discuss with him how the arrest of Dern would affect her plan to extract vengeance on Robert Ferroner. Another way to carry it out must be devised now that the alekeep was in custody.

The evening’s darkness was well advanced when a beggar who had been importuning passersby on Mikelgate returned to the hostel at the end of his day’s labour. He was very excited and told all of the current residents that he had just witnessed a man who worked at a soap manufactory being led up the thoroughfare in the custody of the Templar, Bascot de Marins, and Roget, the captain of the town guard, and that the gossip of the people on the streets was that their captive was the one responsible for the recent murders. A feeling of dread descended on Lorinda as the beggar described the prisoner as a slightly built young man, not too tall and with reddish brown hair.

Surely it could not be her son, she thought. There must be some mistake, even though the physical description fit Garson and the detail that the prisoner worked for a soap-maker were all too accurate to his identity, especially when added to the fact that he had not come to see her as he had promised. But he had no reason to kill either of the two women who had been slain, especially Emma Ferroner, for her death had made Lorinda’s scheme to extract reprisal from the armourer much more difficult to bring to fruition than while his daughter had been alive.

She huddled into the corner where she was sitting, her throat constricting with panic, as she tried to convince herself that it was not her beloved son who had been taken prisoner. He was the only person, including her other offspring, for whom she felt true affection. Her daughters had abandoned her long ago, but he had stayed by her even after he reached manhood, stealing food in the times when she lacked a protector and consoling her when she became downcast. She would be desolate without him.

As her thoughts tumbled in furious confusion, there suddenly came to her the remembrance of an occasion when Garson had been about ten or eleven years old. It was one of the times when she had been asking a chapman who had recently been to Lincoln if he had any news of Robert Ferroner. Her son had noted her constant interest in the armourer, and how she questioned anyone who had travelled through the town about him, and had asked her why. When she had told him the story of Ferroner’s treachery and how she had cursed him, Garson’s young face had flamed with anger, and he had laid his little hand on hers and made a solemn promise that one day he would avenge her. “I swear to you, mother, that when I am grown I will make this man pay for his treatment of you,” he had said. He had never mentioned it again, but she recalled how his face had darkened at the very mention of the armourer ever since that day. Had he, out of loyalty, decided that he would be the instrument of making her old curse on Ferroner come true?

With a great effort, she pushed herself to her feet. She must go to him, no matter the cost to herself, she thought, and walked unsteadily to the door of the lodging house and out into the street.

As she made her way towards the town she felt the lump in her throat tighten in protest at the extra expenditure of energy required to try to hasten her steps. When she passed by the Werkdyke, the huge ditch where the town’s rubbish was dumped, the stench from the rotting mass sent her senses reeling and she almost stumbled to the ground. But thoughts of her son drove her on and she recovered enough to make it as far as Claxledgate, the portal into the town, and pass through to the other side. A few steps farther on, however, found her legs again threatening to buckle beneath her and she paused at the entrance to a back lane and leaned on a water barrel that had been placed there in case of fire.

Her faintness grew and threatened to overcome her. Desperately she tried to breathe but the stricture in her throat made it almost impossible and her body shuddered with the effort of trying to force air into her lungs. Slowly she slid to the ground, darkness gathering at the edge of her vision. All had gone awry, she thought, just as Granny Willow had warned all those years ago, when she had said that by laying such a terrible curse on the armourer, Lorinda was inviting the Devil to come into her heart. How true had been her grandam’s caution. She had let Satan into her soul and He had sent a demon to invade her son, compelling him to commit murder. The townsfolk had been right after all, she realised and, with her last breath, wished most fervently that, for Garson’s sake, she had paid more heed to Granny Willow’s warning.

* * *

In the meantime, Nicolaa was questioning Garson closely, wishing to have a detailed record for her husband, when he returned, to use at the forthcoming trial of the prisoner. The tale of the curse was, during the course of the castellan’s interrogation, revealed and, much to Aliz’s stupefaction, she, at long last, discovered her father’s identity.

As Nicolaa went on to ask the prisoner if it had been he who had sent the message to Lincoln with news of their mother’s death, the Templar rose from his seat and stepped down from the dais, taking up a position behind where Gianni was making his notes, and slightly in front of where Dern was standing. He made no further movement, just stood seemingly listening to the answer the prisoner made to the question.

Garson, with a curt movement of his head, signified that the castellan was correct; it had been he who had hired the chapman in Gainsborough to send the message.

“And then you came to Lincoln to fulfil the vow that you had made to your mother?” Nicolaa pressed.

The prisoner gave another confirmatory movement of his head.

“How did you learn that Emma Ferroner would be at the shrine on the day you killed her?” Nicolaa asked.

“I heard her say so,” he said lifting his manacled hands to point a finger at Aliz. “She would often boast of the confidences the men she swived gave her and, when I was in the alehouse after I had finished work one morning, she was telling Dern how Wiger, the night before, had told her that his wife was going to the shrine to make a plea to the saint to bless her with the baby, and which day she was going.”

Now it was Wiger’s turn to whiten with shame. If he had not lain with Aliz, his wife might still be alive. Lady Nicolaa gave him a stern look and he quailed before it as he realized the consequences of his lasciviousness. Not only had he aided the murderer to despatch his wife; he had also ruined his own life. All hope of ever owning the armoury was dashed forever and his name would be spoken with opprobrium by all who knew him once they learned of the part he had played in Emma’s death. His punishment would be a heavy one.

The castellan’s next question to Garson related to the second murder. “If your only aim was to murder Emma Ferroner, why did you slay the woman from Greetwell village?”

Garson shrugged with disinterest. “I had hoped it would lay a false trail for you to follow,” he replied in almost a mutter, “but it did not.”

The Templar now took up the questioning from where he was standing below the dais, watching Dern closely as he did so. “Were you with your mother when she died?” he asked the prisoner.

Garson again nodded, but this time more slowly.

“And she died in Gainsborough?”

Another reluctant nod.

“What was the ailment that killed her?”

“Something was wrong with her throat,” Garson mumbled. “She couldn’t breathe very well and then she died.”

The Templar studied the prisoner for a moment and knew he was lying. His former testimonies had been given without hesitation; this had not. He had also noticed the fleeting expression of smugness that had flashed across Dern’s face as his half-brother spoke. It was the attitude the alekeep had adopted when Bascot and Roget had first questioned him, and he had hidden his knowledge of Wiger’s relationship with Aliz.

“I do not believe you,” he said to Garson and then, with a sudden movement, swung around to Dern. “And neither do you, alekeep, for you know differently, do you not?”

Chapter 37

Bascot’s question took Dern by surprise and he drew back in startlement as the Templar, drawing the dagger he kept in his belt, walked over and placed the tip at his throat.

“All the world would rejoice if I were to rid it of a filthy panderer such as you,” he said quietly, “so do not test my patience. Tell me the truth here and now or you will regret it sorely. Do you, or do you not, know if Lorinda is alive and, if so, where she is?”

With Aliz and all of the other suspects gaping in amazement at the accusation, Dern, sweat forming on his brow as the blade drew a bead of blood from his flesh, gave a slight nod. “She lives, lord,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “She is in a lodging house in Butwerk.”

Garson let out a howl of anguish at his half-brother’s revelation and, despite his manacles, tried to lunge at him but the men-at-arms on either side of him held him back. The only recourse he had was to spit venom. “You cowson, Dern. You have betrayed her just as I knew you would. She should never have trusted you.”

The alekeep’s admission had also shocked Aliz and she recoiled from the man she called brother. “You knew my mother was alive and you did not tell me?” she said in disbelief, her fingers curling into talons. She, too, just like Garson, would have made an attempt to attack the alekeep had not Roget, who was standing next to her, grabbed her by the arm.

The Templar ignored Aliz and gave a slight easing of the dagger’s pressure on the Dern’s throat. “How did you find out that she was still alive?” he asked.

“She sent Garson to me a few days ago with a message that she wanted to see me,” the alekeep said, his eyes flicking nervously downward in the direction of the sharp blade. “She wanted everyone to think she was dead so as not to reveal her presence in Lincoln.”

“And why did she want to do that?” Bascot asked.

“She did it for protection,” Dern said, gulping very carefully once or twice, “in case a scheme she had devised to extract money from Robert Ferroner went awry. If it was believed she was dead, she would be in no danger of arrest.”

“And what was this scheme?” the Templar asked, reapplying the pressure of his blade.

“She . . . reckoned . . . she reckoned that the armourer would pay good money to keep his legitimate daughter, Emma, from ever finding out that she had a half-sister who was a prostitute,” Dern said haltingly. “He cared greatly for Emma and Lorinda believed he would be willing to do anything to save her from scandal.”

“And why did she expect that Ferroner would have accepted her word that Aliz was his child?” Bascot said. “It is my understanding that Lorinda lay with many men—any one of them could have been her eldest daughter’s father.”

“She claimed it was the truth,” Dern replied, “but even if it he did not believe her, she was certain he would still pay to prevent taking the risk that Emma would learn of it if the charge became public knowledge.”

“And your part in this extortion?”

“Because she is not well, Lorinda wanted me to act as a go-between; to approach Ferroner and make the demand on her behalf, and I agreed.” Dern paused momentarily and then with a hateful glance as Garson, added, “But before I could carry out the plan, Emma was murdered by my witless half-brother.”

He glanced up at Bascot nervously. “I did not know then that it was Garson who murdered her, lord. I believed, and so did Lorinda, that she had been killed, as the people in the town were saying, at the Devil’s prompting, and we were forced to revise our plan. In the end, we thought we might still get money out of Ferroner if we waited a few days until the height of his grief had passed and then revealed Aliz’s relationship to him. He is a charitable man; he might have been willing to give money for her welfare. But I never have a chance to speak to him because . . .”

“You were arrested,” the Templar finished for him.

As Dern nodded, Garson exploded with anger. “You were only interested in your share of the money my mother promised she would pay you from the sum she received from Ferroner. You cared nothing for the punishment he deserved for making her suffer. All through the years since our father died she has been destitute, at the mercy of the lovers she was forced to take to sustain us and, at other times, when she couldn’t find a man to protect her, we went hungry and had to sleep in the greenwood. And all of that is Ferroner’s fault. His betrayal merited far more than the payment of some silver, no matter how much. My mother is too softhearted; it was up to me to defend her honour, and that is what I did.”

Despite the blade so near his throat, Dern gave his half-brother a contemptuous answer. “Lorinda is old and ill—do you not think it would have benefitted her more to have money to pay for some comfort in her last days than to extract vengeance for an old insult that happened twenty-five years ago?”

The alekeep’s answer silenced Garson, but not Aliz. “And when were you going to tell me all of this, Dern? After you had got some money out of my father, or perhaps never? Garson is right, you are a cowson.”

“We could not trust you to keep quiet—that is why,” the alekeep responded spitefully. “Your tongue is always flapping; if you had not spoken of what Wiger had told you Emma would still be alive.”

Lorinda’s daughter, like Garson, was silenced in turn, and quietness fell over all of the company. Just as Bascot was rising to go to Butwerk and take into custody the woman who had caused all of this misery, there was a loud knocking at the door into the hall. At a nod from Nicolaa, Eudo pulled it open to reveal one of the town guards standing on the threshold. After a few moments’ hurried conversation, Eudo came forward and mounted the dais to whisper in the castellan’s ear.

“I think, de Marins, that it might be prudent to hear the news that has just been brought before you go to Butwerk,” Nicolaa said, motioning for the guard to come forward.

After a nod of deference, the guard began his report. “A woman’s body has been found, lady, just inside of Claxledgate, at the mouth of a lane nearby. I was on duty when she came through a short time before and, because she was elderly and looked to be ailing, asked her where she was bound so late at night. She told me that she was going to the castle and so I let her pass through. ’Twas only a few minutes later when a young boy came running up to us and said he had found a woman’s body nearby. When I went to examine her, I found it to be the same woman that had passed through the gate just a short time before. Since she had told me that she was coming here, I thought it best I report it to you straightaway in case you were expecting her.”

“Apart from her being elderly, how else would you describe her appearance?” Nicolaa asked.

“She looked to be fairly tall, and was very thin, with eyes that were starting out of her head. The rest of her features were gaunt and withered. She had on an old gown of grey and a headdress of white linen. When I removed her coif to see if I could revive her, I saw a great lump in the side of her neck. “’Twas quite a size and mebbe was the cause of her death, I reckon.”

He paused for a moment and then said, “I did ask her name, lady, when she came through the gate, and she told me it was Lorinda.”

* * *

The castellan ordered Garson, now sobbing with grief for the loss of his mother, to be taken back to a cell and kept there under close confinement until it was time for him to be tried in Gerard Camville’s court. Once he was gone, she turned to Aliz and Dern.

“Both of you will also be incarcerated until my husband’s return,” she said to them, “and will then be tried for the crime of pandering young females. Since neither he nor I are inclined to view such a heinous charge with even the slightest degree of clemency, I have no doubt that the punishment he inflicts will be a heavy one.”

As the pair was escorted from the hall, the castellan spoke to John and Mabel Glover, telling them they were free to go. The soap-maker strode from the hall without even one glance at his wife, who trailed miserably in his wake. All of those who watched them leave felt compassion for John Glover; he had just discovered that in addition to a harlot in the family of the woman he had married, there was also a vicious murderer.

Wiger was the last to be dismissed, and to him Nicolaa added a few words of caution. “While you may be innocent of any wilful connivance in your wife’s death, there is no doubt that your unfaithfulness played a part in its commission. You would be wise, therefore, to be more circumspect in future, for if you come to my attention again, I will not be so lenient.”

Chapter 38

Through the barred grill in the door of her cell, Constance had been watching the activity that had been taking place throughout the day in the bail. Roget had appeared earlier with two prisoners in tow, and after that there had been a constant flow of people arriving—the Templar, the soap-maker and his wife and Wiger. Then, after an interval, Sir Bascot and Roget had left the ward again, returning a short time later with yet another prisoner, who had then been manacled and taken into the keep. Then one of the town guards had arrived and mounted the steps of the fore-building that led up to the hall and now, just a few minutes ago, she had watched in wonder as the man in manacles and two others—a man and a woman—were brought back into the bail and re-incarcerated. What did it all mean? Had the murderer been found? Was he one of those under arrest? And, if he was, what crime had the other two committed?

Just as she was about to give up her vigil and lie down on her pallet to try and get some much-needed rest, she saw Roget running across the ward towards her.

She held her breath as he unbarred and opened the door. “You are free, ma cher coeur,” he cried as he took her into his arms. “The villain has been found and Lady Nicolaa has told me I may take you home.”

Constance’s knees almost gave way and had it not been for Roget’s strong arms supporting her, she would have fallen to the floor. “Thanks be to God,” she breathed, “and to you, Roget, for your faith in me. I thought my life would soon be over.”

“Not while I am here to protect you, Constance,” Roget said sincerely. “Never again will I leave your side, if you will have me for your husband.”

“With all my heart, I accept,” she replied joyfully. “It is all I have ever wanted since first I met you.”

Roget’s heart swelled with a true passion he had never before known for any other woman. “Then let me take you home, ma bien-aimée, so we can tell our good news to little Agnes.”

* * *

At the top of the steps leading into the keep, Bascot and Gianni watched, with smiles on their faces, as the happy pair left the ward. The Templar regarded the lad that stood beside him with tenderness in his own heart. This murder investigation had been, he thought, one of the most evil they had encountered and, he knew, had brought dark memories resurging from Gianni’s early childhood. He had noticed the youngster’s obvious relief when the guard from the town gate had revealed that Lorinda was dead. It had been almost palpable. It had not been until that moment that Bascot had finally realised how frightened Gianni had been from the day when the so-called witch had first been mentioned. Yet still he had continued with his part in the enquiry, even though to do so must have cost him dearly.

“You have shown great courage during this investigation, Gianni,” he commended the lad, “and I am proud of you.”

Gianni gave his former master a shy smile. God and the Templar had allayed all his fear of stregas; never again would any such devilish creature make him fearful. He would never forget, or fail to be grateful, to his former master for guiding him to the truth of God’s love and protection.

* * *

Late the next morning, all of the church bells in Lincoln rang out in joyous celebration for the murderer’s apprehension and Brother Abelard strode through the streets announcing that a midday Mass would still be held at the market cross, but instead of a service of supplication it would be one of thanksgiving. Nicolaa had sent the glad tidings of Garson’s arrest to Bishop William at almost midnight the night before and he had been overjoyed, deciding to keep to his plan of conducting the open-air service, and had sent back a note to the castle and also one to the preceptory of his intention.

As the hour of noon approached, the bishop, in full regalia, led the whole complement of clerics from the cathedral out of the Minster and into the town. With them rode a troupe of Templars, Everard d’Arderon at their head. By sheer strength of will, the ailing preceptor sat upon his horse as upright as the Templar pennant that flew above his head, and with great gladness in his heart that the last battle in which he would ever fight had resulted in another victory for Christ. Down Steep Hill and into the town they all went, coming to a halt in front of the huge stone rood in the middle of Mikelgate.

All of the townsfolk were already gathered and stood in respectful silence as Bishop William mounted the steps that led up to the cross. Before he had time to raise his hands and begin the service, however, there was a great gasp from everyone in the crowd as, one after another, they raised their heads and gazed into the sky above. There, descending slowly from a lofty height, were two ravens and, as the crowd watched with wonder, they alighted on the roof of a nearby building. With bright back eyes they settled down to watch the service.

“Praise be to the Lord,” Bishop William’s voice rang out in jubilant tones, “for St. Dunstan has sent his holy messengers to witness our thanksgiving. God’s mercy is great, as is His love for us. Let us bow our heads in prayer and express our eternal gratitude for delivering us from the machinations of the Devil.”

Epilogue

A special session of the sheriff’s court was held upon Gerard Camville’s return a few days later in order to try the perpetrator of the murders of Emma Ferroner and Gwen Hurdler. Garson was sentenced to death and, because of the sacrilegious nature of his crimes, given the extreme penalty of being enclosed in a wicker cage hung from the battlements and there left exposed, without water or food, in the heat of the summer sun, until he should expire. Three days later his corpse was taken out into the greenwood near Coleby, where his mother had been born and was now buried, and laid to rest alongside her corpse in an unmarked grave.

Nor did the sheriff show any mercy to Aliz and Dern. They were each sentenced to be branded on the cheek with a large capital P—for procurer—so they should forever bear the mark of their corruptness, and were afterwards to have their heads, feet and hands enclosed in stocks in the marketplace so the populace could pelt them with missiles of excrement and rotten food. Although Dern survived the punishment, Aliz did not, her skull crushed by a mouldy cabbage into which a rock had been secreted and thrown, so it was said, by the father of the little girl she had forced into prostitution.

* * *

Robert Ferroner, on having it confirmed that the woman he had scorned so many years before had been ultimately responsible for the death of his beloved Emma, sold his workshop and house and gave the proceeds to the church. Once that was done, he donned a threadbare cloak and broad-brimmed reed hat and left on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, to beg forgiveness for the profligacy of his younger days at the place where Jesus had died. He was never seen in Lincoln again.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

The setting for A Holy Vengeance is an authentic one. Nicolaa de la Haye was hereditary castellan of Lincoln castle during this period and her husband, Gerard Camville, was sheriff. The personalities they have been given in the story have been formed by conclusions the author has drawn from events during the reigns of King Richard I and King John.

The word witch is derived from the Old English word wicca (for a man) and wicce (for a woman), and denoted a person who had concourse with the Devil and was, therefore, skilled in the art of dark magic and, as a consequence, greatly feared throughout medieval society. Cunning folk, on the other hand, were essentially healers and not regarded as evil, which is borne out by the fact that the word cunning most likely originates in the Old Norse kunnani meaning knowledge. Cunning men and women were accepted without suspicion by the populace as practitioners of the healing arts and were revered due to the fact that they were often the only medical aid available in the many small hamlets throughout Britain and Europe.

In the period in which A Holy Vengeance is set, the difference between witches and cunning folk was clearly recognised. By the time a widespread persecution of witches began in the 16th century, that distinction had become blurred and many innocent women underwent terrible punishments simply because they were conversant with the medicinal properties of various plants and herbs.

For details of medieval Lincoln and the Order of the Knights Templar, I am much indebted to the following:

Medieval Lincoln by J.W.F. Hill (C.U.P.)

Dungeon, Fire and Sword by John J. Robinson (M. Evans & Company)

The Templars by Piers Paul Read (Weidenfeld & Nicolson)

Maureen Ash was born in London, England, and has had a lifelong interest in British medieval history. Visits to castle ruins and old churches have provided the inspiration for her novels. She enjoys Celtic music, browsing in bookstores and Belgian chocolate.

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