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BOOK: A Deadly Penance

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“Perhaps it is a blessing that Tercel died before he could make public his claim of royal kinship,” Alinor opined. “If it had remained unproven, the king might well have unleashed his anger on him in a similar manner to that with which he is threatening Arthur.”

Not wishing to dwell on the subject, Nicolaa did not reply and instead asked her niece how the injured maid, Elise, was faring. “She is still slightly feverish,” Alinor told her, “but the leech says she is out of danger, for which I am truly thankful.”

“If only I had remembered earlier who Tercel reminded me of when he first came into our service, I might have prevented some of this misery,” Petronille mused. “But it wasn’t until Simon Adgate was standing before us yesterday that I realised there was a family resemblance between Margaret and my cofferer, for it was also there in Adgate’s face. A certain cast of the cheekbones and the way the eyes are set—a subtle similarity, but there nonetheless. But I never connected it with Margaret’s feminine features; it was only when I saw the same expression on a man’s face that it came to me. If I had realised from the beginning that Margaret could be related to Tercel, especially when you were looking for his mother …”

Nicolaa reached over and patted her sister’s hand. “It was not discernment you were lacking, Petra, but knowledge; facts that were not evident until long past the time of which you are speaking. Please, do not judge yourself so harshly, but instead join me in giving thanks that Elise was not mortally wounded, and that the boy, Willi, suffered no hurt.”

Petronille was comforted by her sister’s words and asked, “What will you do with the lad now? He cannot be considered a candidate for the foundling home if he has a living parent.”

“I have sent Willi back to Riseholme with the assurance that instructions will be given to the keeper at the alehouse his father frequents that if the boy’s sire returns, he is to be given a message directing him to coing him me to the castle to claim his son.”

She paused for a moment, recalling the boy’s white face when Bruet brought him back to the keep after the Templar had rescued him from Margaret’s clutches. He was so pale that the freckles on the bridge of his nose stood out like drops of blood. “The boy was content with my promise. I think he realises that his father has been gone too long to expect his safe return. The weather, until lately, has been so frigid that many of those who lack shelter out in the countryside have died of exposure and it could well be that his father has suffered a similar fate. But Willi was very brave and continues to hope, even though he knows his optimism is likely to prove unwarranted.”

She paused and smiled, remembering her interview with the young boy. “Four more orphaned children were taken to Riseholme earlier this morning and I sent Willi with them. The newcomers were all a little apprehensive, but he took charge of them in a most natural fashion and allayed their fears. I think that if his father does not return he will, in the years to come, prove a valuable addition to my household staff, just like young Gianni.”

“And Margaret?” Alinor said. “Has Richard spoken to her and asked if she agrees to keep Edith Wickson’s name out of the charges that will be brought at her trial?”

“Yes, Richard said she seemed thankful for the offer and was more than willing to comply. And she did confirm that neither Simon Adgate nor her sister was involved in her machinations. She said that she never told Agate of her intention to kill Tercel and that she has not, since she arrived in Lincoln, had occasion to speak to her sister.”

Nicolaa frowned as she continued. “She is, Richard told me, still unrepentant of her crime. Apparently, on the day of the feast, and after Adgate had refused to reveal his father’s name, Tercel threatened Margaret, saying that if she did not tell him what he wanted to know, he would go to you, Petra, and disclose the fact that she was his mother and had borne him illegitimately. She was fearful that if he carried out his threat, not only would she lose her position, but that Edith’s involvement would be discovered. Tercel gave her twenty-four hours to comply with his demand and she was desperate to find a way to silence him. That night, when he left the hall, she followed him and watched as he went into the old tower. Nonplussed as to why he should go there, she was waiting in the shelter of one of the buildings for him to come out, considering whether or not she could successfully despatch him by a stealthy attack with her scissors, when Mistress Adgate appeared and followed Tercel into the building. Realising what they were about, it did not take Margaret long to decide she could use the situation to her advantage.”

Nicolaa paused. “It was at this point in her tale that Richard says he became certain Margaret has lost her sanity. She looked at him with wildness in her eyes and said that she knew she had not committed any sin in killing Tercel for, from that point on, God showed her the way. All of a sudden, she said, Our Lord put into her mind the tale she had been told of how I had fired the crossbow in my youth and told her that the weapon would suit her purpose admirably. She hurriedly returned to the hall, retrieved a tinderbox and candle from the supply kept in the buttery, went back out into the bail and crossed the ward to the armoury. Once inside she lit the candle and by its light found the crossbow and armed it—after living so many years in a baron’s household, she had often watched the de Humez squires being instructed in the use of an arbalest, so had no trouble doing so. She then went into the old tower and, by listening, determined which chamber Tercel and Mistress Adg Mistresate were using and, with the crossbow, waited outside the door.”

Nicolaa shrugged. “The rest we know. When Clarice Adgate left the chamber and went downstairs, Margaret lured Tercel up onto the ramparts and killed him. It was a daring move and filled with danger—the crossbow could have misfired or the guards have been alerted—but while I decry her actions, I have to admire her courage.”

“I wish she had come to me when Tercel first made his demands,” Petronille said. “I would have kept her confidence and sent him back to Stamford for Dickon to deal with.”

“I do not think it ever occurred to her to do so,” Nicolaa replied. “Richard says he is certain that the guilt she feels for being the cause of her sister’s fate has turned her brain. He said she kept repeating that Tercel had been spawned by an incubus, and that by killing him she had not broken either the laws of God or those of man. When Richard pointed out that if she wished to keep her sister’s name out of the legal proceedings during her trial, it would be unwise to use that premise as her defence, she said it did not trouble her whether the true reason was given in evidence or not, for Our Lord would know that she was innocent. It was in God’s name, she said, that she had taken her vow of secrecy all those years ago and He would know that she had kept faith.”

The three women pondered for a moment on Margaret’s misguided devotion and then Petronille said musingly, “It is strange how old sins can resurface, and that so often, when they do, the repercussions do not fall on the perpetrators, but on those who have been victimised. Edith was completely innocent of any crime, as was her son, yet it is they and, by association, Margaret, who have paid for the crime. The villain who was responsible has entirely escaped justice.”

“It may be that the rapist has already been dealt vengeance, Mother,” Alinor said. “Such a rogue is certain to have attempted similar offences in the intervening years and may have been caught. If so, he will have long ago paid the ultimate penalty for his crime.”

“I hope you are right, Daughter,” Petronille said sadly. “But even if that has not happened, it comforts me to know that he will suffer the flames of eternal damnation when he dies.”

I
N THOMAS WICKSON’S CHANDLERY IN LINCOLN TOWN, EDITH Wickson sat alone in the bedchamber she shared with her husband. From the bottom of a coffer she took a square of satin that had been wrapped around some wisps of fine blonde hair and tied with a length of narrow yellow ribbon. Rubbing her thumb over the silky softness she remembered the kind young nun who had clipped the strands from her newly born baby’s head and given them to her. How often over the years since Aubrey’s birth had she taken them out and held them close to her breast, wondering what had become of the child she had only glimpsed once, and then so fleetingly, as he had slipped from her womb.

She knew herself to be timid in nature; had she not been so she would have gone to the feast and gazed on the man Aubrey had become. Now she would never have the chance. And she would never see Margaret again. Dear Margaret, who had always been so protective of her younger sister and had suffered such pangs of guilt for letting Edith go out alone onto the dark streets of Winchester on that fateful night. Simon had told her that Margaret was sure to hang for her crimes, even if the reason for the murder was not made public. Not only had her sister killed Aubrey, who was, in truth, her own nephew, she had also attacked a maidservant and wounded the girl most grievously. There was nothing to be gained, o be gaiand all to be lost, by revealing the truth now.

A tear fell down Edith’s cheek and she replaced the tress of hair in its soft covering and put it back into the bottom of the chest. She wondered if all the lies had been worth such a heavy cost. Would it have been better to have admitted the truth at the time and borne the shame? But then she would never have married Thomas Wickson and Merisel, her beloved daughter, would not have come into existence.

She stood up and straightened her coif, then patted her tear-stained face dry with the hem of her kirtle. She had lost her son many years ago, but she still had her daughter, and in that precious gift she would rejoice.

I
N SIMON ADGATE’S HOUSE IN THE LOWER PART OF TOWN, THE furrier, as proscribed by law, meted out the punishment a husband was allowed to inflict on an adulterous wife. On his return from the castle, he ordered Clarice to their bedroom and once there, brusquely commanded her to remove her coif. Turning a deaf ear to her tearful pleas for clemency, he cut off her luxurious auburn plaits with a sharp pair of scissors and removed the expensive fur trimmings from the cuffs and neck of her gown. Then, taking his sobbing wife firmly by the arm, he marched her downstairs, past the astonished eyes of his shop assistant and guard, and through the front door of the premises.

As they emerged into the street, Simon’s determination to persist with the chastisement began to falter. With her shorn head, tattered garments and tear-streaked face, Clarice was a pitiful sight. But remembrance of her deceitful behaviour quickly extinguished his incipient feelings of sympathy and, taking a deep breath, he pulled her alongside him through the streets of Lincoln towards Stonebow gate and her father’s house on the banks of the river.

Alerted by the sounds of Clarice’s outcry, it took only moments for a crowd to gather. The news of what had happened in the castle bail had spread throughout the town like wildfire and although the details of Adgate’s involvement were not known, speculation ran rife. All of the neighbours had been surreptitiously watching the furrier’s house and, when he returned home with set face and clenched jaw, had been waiting for the next scene in the drama to unfold.

As Clarice stumbled along beside her husband, the spectators followed in their wake. Although there were a few amongst them, such as Imogene Sealsmith, who were meanspirited enough to derive pleasure from her disgrace, most of them were neighbours who wished to show their support for the action Adgate was taking. They had lived alongside the furrier for many years, and knew him to be, for all his wealth, a man of tender conscience, always ready to exchange a friendly word or give assistance to those in need and were unanimous in their condemnation of his young wife’s betrayal.

By the time Adgate reached his destination, the tanner had been alerted by the hubbub and was waiting at the door
of his humble wooden cot. He had already heard the rumours that were circulating about his errant daughter and how she had brought shame to his good name. His face set in harsh lines of anger, he watched in grim silence as Adgate led Clarice to his door.

When the furrier reached his father-by-marriage, he spoke not a word, just released his grip on Clarice’s arm and strode away. The crowd parted before him as though cleaved by a gale force wind. Once the furrier was out of sight, they turned back to where the tanner stood, and regarded his daughter with silent disapproval.

Clarice’s father surveyed them all for a moment until, with a sudden movement, he pulleent, he d his daughter inside the house and slammed the door shut. It was not long before they heard the sound of a leather belt slapping against tender flesh, accompanied by a wave of wailing. Only then did the crowd disperse, confident that, in accordance with the law, the furrier’s unfaithful wife was receiving the beating her husband had failed to administer.

Thirty-one