A Holy Vengeance (21 page)

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?”

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.”