A Holy Vengeance (17 page)

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.

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.”