A Deadly Penance (9 page)
” ‘Cos I saw the murderer, that’s why, and it wasn’t either of these two,” Willi replied, keeping his voice low so that neither the maidservant nor the groom would hear what he said.
Mark’s eyes grew round. “You saw him? When was that then?”
“When they wus takin’ us across to the stables. I saw someone comin’ out of that old tower on the other side of the bail. All wrapped up in a cloak and skulkin’ along in the shadows. Can’t think of any reason for a person to be actin’ like that if they wasn’t doin’ anythin’ wrong. Must of been the murderer.”
“Are you goin’ to tell anyone about it?” Mark asked fearfully.
“Why should I? It’s nuffink to do with me.”
“You might get some extra food if you wus helpful,” Mark suggested. “They’d be right pleased if you told them what you knows.”
“Nah,” Willi replied with a shrug of his shoulders. “They’d only start askin’ me all kinda questions and I wants to keep my head down low ‘cause I’se not staying long at this place they’re takin’ us. I only come with the priest that brought me to the castle ‘cause I was hungry. Me da said I wus to wait where he left me and if he comes back and finds me gone, he’ll give me a right good thrashin’ for not doin’ what I wus told.”
“How comes you’re here if you’ve got a da?” Mark asked in puzzlement. “All the rest of us is orphans. The priest where I went to get alms asked me that partiklar like. Said I couldn’t go to the home if I had someone to look arter me.”
“I lied, didn’t I?” Willi replied breezily. “My da went lookin’ for work and told me to stay where I wus and get alms from the priest at St. Peter’s church. He said he’d only be gone a day or two, but he was gone longer than that and I wus starvin’ so bad my stomach hurt. So when the priest asked me if I had a ma or da, I told him I didn’t so’s I’d get somethin’ to eat. But I didn’t ‘spect I’d be sent to the castle, nor that I’d be taken outside the town, so I’m not gonna stay at this place they’re takin’ us for long. Soon as I gets a chance, I’m goin’ back to Lincoln so’s I can find my da.”
Mark thought over what Willi had told him. “You wants to be careful,” he cautioned. “If that murderer saw you lookin’ at him and finds you wanderin’ around the town, he might just kill you so’s you can’t tell no one it wus him you seen. You’ll be safer out at Riseholme.”
Willi looked at Mark and realised his newfound friend had made an assumption that was erroneous. He started to correct him, but then changed his mind. The less the other boy knew, the better. Instead he gave Mark a glare and said, “I ain’t told no one what I saw ‘cept you. And if you tells on me, I’ll say you s
aw the murderer as well. Then you’ll be in just as much danger as me.”
aw the murderer as well. Then you’ll be in just as much danger as me.”
Mark quickly assured Willi that he would not reveal what he had been told but, after he had done so, added, “I’d still be right chary of going back to town if I wus you. If you isn’t, you might just end up dead as well.”
Ten
W
HEN BASCOT AND GIANNI WENT INTO THE CHANDLER’S manufactory they were met, as in the shops of Gildas and Hacher, with a comforting blast of heat. From the front entrance, the chandlery opened out into a huge workshop lined with troughs containing melted beeswax. Alongside each trough was a line of workers holding rods from which depended rows of linen wicks. Slowly and carefully they lowered the rods and dipped the wicks into the melted wax until a layer formed around each one. The rods were then hung up so the wax could dry and, as soon as it was hardened, the process was repeated until each candle was of a desired thickness. Some of the finished products were narrow and tapered, some broad and shallow while others, tall and fat, contained exactly enough wax to burn for twenty-four hours. These last would be scored with lines, each one denoting the passage of one hour, and used as a guide for the passage of time. It was a simple task but one, nonetheless, that required delicacy and a certain amount of expertise to ensure that each candle was of a perfect weight and smoothness.
HEN BASCOT AND GIANNI WENT INTO THE CHANDLER’S manufactory they were met, as in the shops of Gildas and Hacher, with a comforting blast of heat. From the front entrance, the chandlery opened out into a huge workshop lined with troughs containing melted beeswax. Alongside each trough was a line of workers holding rods from which depended rows of linen wicks. Slowly and carefully they lowered the rods and dipped the wicks into the melted wax until a layer formed around each one. The rods were then hung up so the wax could dry and, as soon as it was hardened, the process was repeated until each candle was of a desired thickness. Some of the finished products were narrow and tapered, some broad and shallow while others, tall and fat, contained exactly enough wax to burn for twenty-four hours. These last would be scored with lines, each one denoting the passage of one hour, and used as a guide for the passage of time. It was a simple task but one, nonetheless, that required delicacy and a certain amount of expertise to ensure that each candle was of a perfect weight and smoothness.
To one side was a small hearth where honeycombs were being dissolved. Two young men attended this process and the aromatic scent of the crushed herbs they were adding to the melting beeswax was pleasing to the nostrils. Standing at the back of the large chamber were immense racks hung with finished candles. These needed to dry for at least eight days and, in good weather, would be trundled outside to allow the sun to bleach the wax to a fine brightness. Overseeing all of the work, and pacing back and forth as she did so, was a girl of about eighteen years of age dressed in a dark grey gown over which was draped a voluminous apron.
The chandler, a man appropriately named Thomas Wickson, came bustling forward when he saw Bascot and Gianni enter. He was a narrow-shouldered man with an ample belly swelling the front of his elaborately embroidered dark red tunic and it soon became obvious that he was puffed up not only by his girth, but with self-importance. When asked about Aubrey Tercel and whether he had noticed the cofferer’s movements during the feast, Wickson said that since he had not been aware of the victim’s identity, nor his appearance, he had not had any reason to take note of his activities. Wickson made it clear, by the dismissive way in which he spoke, that he considered the murder to be outside his realm of interest, and Bascot changed the direction of his questions, asking the chandler why he had not taken advantage of Nicolaa de la Haye’s offer to spend the night in the castle. With a little moue of regret, Wickson explained that his wife had been indisposed and therefore unable to accompany him to the feast, and he had been impatient to get home and see how she was faring.
“My daughter, Merisel, went with me in my wife’s stead,” Wickson said, waving a hand in the direction of the young girl standing by the men dipping wicks into the troughs of melted wax. “My marital union has not been blessed with sons, but Merisel is a daughter to be proud of,” he said, “and will one day inherit my business. She will bring a goodly dower to the man who is fortunate enough to take her to wife,” he added with a satisfied smile. “And, I can assure you, her hand in marriage will not be lightly given.”
At the sound of her name, Merisel looked up. She was not overly comely, but was fresh-faced, with pale hazel eyes and a determined chin. As she noticed the Templar looking in her direction, she dipped her head in respect.
“Since your daughter was present at the feast, I would like to speak to her,” Bascot said to the c say daugchandler, “and ask if she knows anything about the murdered man that may prove useful.”
Wickson looked as though he was about to object, but the stern glance the Templar gave him did not brook refusal, and the chandler called Merisel to come forward.
Standing quietly in front of the Templar, she listened without interruption as Bascot explained his purpose in being there and then posed his questions—had she ever made the acquaintance of Aubrey Tercel and, if so, had she observed his movements during the time she had been in the castle?
Merisel responded politely in the negative to each of the questions, meeting his gaze with seemingly frank and open honesty. Only when he asked if she knew of anyone in the town who had a connection with the murdered man did Bascot have a doubt about her denial. Her glance slid sideways for a fraction of a second before she said that she did not.
“Are you certain, mistress?” Bascot insisted. “It is reasonable to assume that the murder has been a topic of conversation among your friends and customers and if someone has mentioned, even only in passing, that they had spoken to him, I would be interested to know of it.”
This time her answer came steadily enough and the Templar wondered if he had imagined the uncertainty in her previous reply. “I seldom have time for idle gossip, lord,” she said. “All of my days are spent here, in the chandlery and, because of my mother’s recent illness, I also have the responsibility of her household duties, so I have had little opportunity to engage others in conversation.”
Aware that the girl had neatly sidestepped a direct answer to his question, Bascot was reluctantly forced to leave the matter there. In some fashion, he thought, the girl was not telling the complete truth. It may have only been that, in front of her father, she did not want to admit that she had noticed Tercel’s handsome appearance and perhaps admired him, or discussed him with other girls her own age. She was of an age that is ripe for marriage; it would be unnatural if she did not cast her eyes on any personable young men who chanced to be in her company. But even if that was so, it did not mean that she had any information that might prove pertinent. Nonetheless, he told Gianni to take note of her name and put a question mark beside it.
Even though the temperature had risen a little during the morning, it was still chilly outside when the pair left the chandlery. As it was now almost the noon hour, Bascot went into the shop of a nearby baker and purchased two pastries filled with cooked meat and onions for their midday meal. They ate the food standing in the street just outside the baker’s door and, when they had finished, Bascot extracted a couple of
candi
from the pouch at his belt. Gianni’s face broke into a wide smile as the Templar tossed one to him and the lad popped it into his mouth and crunched the sweet with obvious relish.
candi
from the pouch at his belt. Gianni’s face broke into a wide smile as the Templar tossed one to him and the lad popped it into his mouth and crunched the sweet with obvious relish.
The business premises of the furrier, Simon Adgate, was a little farther down in the town, on a street that led off Mikelgate, and hard by the church of St. Peter at Motston. The church bell had just finished tolling the hour of Sext when they reached the shop. Dismounting, the Templar tied his horse to a post in front of the door and they went up to the entrance.
As Bascot pushed open the heavy panel of oak, he found a guard standing in the enclosed entryway just inside. The watchman wore a metal studded jerkin and carried a cudgel tucked in a belt around his waist. Noticing the Templar badge on Bascot’s shoulder, he respectfully asked the one-eyed knight his name and the nature of his business. When told that he had co chatlerme on behalf of Lady Nicolaa and wished to speak to the furrier, the guard led him through a door and into the shop, recommending him into the care of a man who was, the watchman said, Simon Adgate’s assistant.
The assistant, a youngish man with a foppish manner, obsequiously assured the Templar that, if he would care to wait, he would fetch Adgate from upstairs. As he scurried away, Bascot and Gianni looked around the room into which they had been shown. Furs of every kind were carefully hung on hooks placed around the walls of the shop. There were soft pelts of sable, bluish grey furs of vair and snow-white ermine, all dressed and ready to be attached to an assortment of garments, and a few which had already been sewn onto cloaks and tunics and spread across a wide display counter. Two large coffers, the lids thrown back, also held a wide variety of pelts—marten, rabbit, fox and wolf spilled over the edges of the chests. There was much wealth in the generous display of goods and Bascot could understand the need for a guard. An intruder would have no need for stealth, he would merely need to snatch a handful of expensive furs and beat a hasty retreat to make his daring worthwhile.
Gianni lightly touched Bascot’s sleeve and inclined his head towards a pile of squirrel skins lying on top of a counter. They were similar to the ones that the sempstress had sewn on Alinor’s gown.
A moment later, Simon Adgate came into the room. Seen close to, Bascot noticed that despite the fact that Adgate’s hair was so pale a grey it was almost completely white, it topped a face that had retained its youthful vigour, with alert eyes and a full, mobile mouth. His frame, beneath the lavishly furred overtunic that he wore, was robust and his hands were large and strong. The furrier was extremely hale for a man that must be approaching sixty years of age.
“Greetings, Sir Bascot,” Adgate said in a reserved manner. “My assistant tells me that you wish to speak to me on behalf of Lady Nicolaa—how may I help you?”
“We have been told that Aubrey Tercel, the man who was murdered while the feast was in progress, purchased some furs for his mistress, Lady Petronille, a few weeks after their arrival in Lincoln. Was it from your establishment that he bought them?”
With a glance at his assistant, who was within earshot and, by his inquisitive attitude, listening to their conversation, Adgate said that it was.
“Why did you not mention this to Sir Richard when he asked if you were acquainted with him?” Bascot asked.
“I must apologise for my neglect,” Adgate said with seeming contrition. “It was merely a business transaction and so I did not think it of any importance.”
Other books
Fever 4 - DreamFever by Karen Marie Moning
The Man Who Sold the World by Peter Doggett
Family Reunion by Keyes, Mercedes
The Seventh Sacrament by David Hewson
Witchbreaker (Dragon Apocalypse) by James Maxey
Matrimonial Causes by Peter Corris
Evil Eye by David Annandale
Atlantis: Gate by Robert Doherty
Shelter From The Storm (The Bare Bones MC Book 6) by Layla Wolfe