A Holy Vengeance (12 page)

“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.

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.