A Holy Vengeance (3 page)

After a moment’s concentration she added, “I have a hazy recollection, as he ran away, that his legs beneath the cloak were encased in dark hose, and his boots low-slung. But that is only an impression, lady; I was so frightened that my memory could be playing me false.”

Nicolaa leaned back in her chair and looked over at her clerk. While Constance had been speaking he had been writing down her words on a piece of parchment. “Do you have all of that, Gianni?” she asked. At his confirming nod, she turned back to Constance.

“Do you know of anyone who has quarrelled with your friend, or has reason to bear her enmity?”

Constance paused for the space of a heartbeat, recalling her own argument with Emma. But it had no bearing on the murder and she did not mention it. “Not that I am aware of, lady,” she replied, inferring that her pause had been due to reflection on the question. “Emma was a kind soul, friendly to all who knew her. I cannot imagine her doing any harm so great as to make someone want to kill her.”

But the castellan’s instincts were sharp. Had the perfumer’s hesitation been due to honest consideration of her answer, or had she used the time to craft a lie? She stared at Constance for a short space before continuing. “What about her husband and father? Do you know if anyone has a grudge against either of them?”

This time, Constance’s response was swift. “I cannot answer that question, lady, for I do not know them well. I have met her father on a few occasions when I went to the armoury with Emma, but her husband I have only spoken to once. The armoury is a smoky, noisy place and Emma preferred to come to my house when we kept company together.”

Nicolaa pursed her lips in thought for a moment and then turned back to the reeve, intending to dismiss him, but she saw, by the anxious expression on his face, that he had something more he wished to relate and asked if he had anything further to add.

“Yes, lady, I does,” he said nervously. “When two of the young men from my village were carrying the poor woman’s body back to our compound, a dreadful thing happened.” The reeve hesitated, his countenance drawn with fear.

“And that was . . . ?” Nicolaa prompted.

“Lady, an adder—a black one—slithered across the path in front of them and almost tripped them up.”

Droplets of sweat began to form on Rudd’s brow as he went on, “’Tis well-known that the Devil often comes in the guise of a serpent; I reckon the Evil One is behind this death, either Him or someone who’s doing His bidding.”

This last was stated with a sidelong glance at Constance and she was shocked to her very bones at the inference. This sighting of the viper near the shrine must have been the reason that the reeve had taken the cart along a different path to return to Lincoln. It also explained why the priest had blessed the wain and the beast that drew it before they left. All of the villagers had believed that Satan was responsible for Emma’s murder, and that she might be his accomplice.

Nicolaa, however, received the news calmly. “Are you certain the snake was an adder,” she asked the reeve, “and not just one of the common variety that abound in the countryside?”

“I am, lady,” he insisted. “They said ’twas black as Satan’s heart, such as is never the colour of any ordinary snake I’ve ever see’d.”

Although the castellan nodded in understanding, she was reluctant to put much credence in the reeve’s tale. Black adders were very rare; they were more usually grey or brown with a zigzag marking on their back. It was far more likely that the men had just stumbled and, in their distressed state of mind, thought they had seen a “serpent” but had seen instead a small branch that had fallen on the track and perhaps moved when it had been dislodged by their passage. But since the reeve, and the other villagers, were taking the matter seriously, she made an attempt to allay their fears.

“Snakes are foul creatures that are always attracted to places where evil has been done,” she said. “Rest assured that now the corpse has been removed, it will have gone and be seen no more.”

Rudd was doubtful of her explanation but did his best to hide it. Burton was one of the villages in Lady Nicolaa’s demesne and he had no choice but to accept her opinion. To do otherwise might bring repercussions down on his head.

Satisfied with his acquiescence, no matter how unwilling, the castellan turned the subject of the conversation in another direction, one that she knew would divert him from his fear.

“I am grateful for your assistance in this matter, Rudd, and would reward you for your services.” She gestured to her steward, Eudo, to come forward and instructed him to give the reeve six silver pennies from the household coffers as recompense for his trouble.

Rudd promptly cast his misgivings aside, gave a bob of deference, and smiled as he gratefully followed Eudo away from the dais.

Once he was gone, the castellan spoke to Constance in a cool voice that held not a vestige of the warmth that had been in her tone when she had spoken to the reeve. “I will make arrangements for your friend’s family to be notified of her death and her body removed to their parish church. As for you, Mistress Turner, I have no more questions for you at this time, but will wish to speak to you again. You, too, may leave, and return to your home, but will hold yourself ready for my summons.”

A chill of fear struck Constance at the castellan’s pronouncement. But hope resurged as she curtsied and turned away when Nicolaa give instructions to the serjeant, Ernulf, who had been standing nearby throughout the whole of the interview, to send one of his men into town to inform Roget, the captain of the town guard, to attend her immediately. Roget had once been a special friend to Constance and, if she had to withstand more interrogation from Lady Nicolaa about Emma’s death, his presence would greatly sustain her.

Less than an hour later, Roget entered the castle ward. A tall, rangily built man, with powerful shoulders and a confident stance, in his younger years he had been a mercenary in a band of routiers employed by the late King Richard when the monarch went on crusade to the Holy Land. One side of his face was marred by the scar of an old sword slash and his strong white teeth were gapped in places, both remnants of his soldiering, but, nonetheless, he was still possessed of a rough handsomeness. The miscreants of the town feared him, and with good cause; he had a softness for a woman’s pretty face, but none for those, male or female, who broke the law. The copper rings threaded in his tangled black beard jingled as he spotted Ernulf waiting for him and he gave the serjeant a welcoming grin which soon faded when he was told of the reason he had been summoned.

“A young woman stabbed at a shrine?” he exclaimed. “What kind of
chien
would do this?”

“There’s more,” Ernulf informed him reluctantly. “Constance Turner was with the girl when it happened. Was nearly murdered herself, according to the reeve from Burton, who brought her back with him to report the crime.”

This news distressed Roget even more and he let out an oath. Ernulf was one of the few that knew the captain had once been an admirer of the perfumer, and had become so when he had met her while assisting in the investigation into the murder of a prostitute who had lived next door to Constance. The attraction had lasted for a few weeks, and then, for some reason that had never been explained to the serjeant, or anyone else who had been aware of their friendship, Roget had ceased to keep company with her.

What the serjeant didn’t know was that although Roget had been enamoured of the winsome perfumer, and she with him, the captain had soon realised that Constance was a respectable woman who would never let a man bed her without marriage, and he had honoured her too much to make any attempt to try to persuade her. Ever since he had been a young boy, Roget had sworn he would never marry, but with Constance, and for the first time in his life, he had been tempted to ask a woman to become his wife. It had been with only the greatest reluctance that he had not done so, and that was not because of his desire to remain unwed, but because he felt unworthy of her. He knew only too well that he was only a rough soldier, one who drank hard and had slept with many women in Lincoln—not only harlots, but also those maids and wives, of which there were quite a few, who found his roguish charm attractive. What had he to offer Constance but a scurrilous reputation, a captain’s small stipend, and an uncertain future? He had never explained to her why he had ceased to visit her, but he still held a great affection for her and had, from a distance, tried to watch over her well-being. And now he had just been told that she had almost been killed. Even though he knew it would have been impossible for him to foresee that she would be attacked out in the greenwood, he cursed himself for his lack of vigilance.

Crossing the bail with a heavy heart, he went into the keep and entered the hall. At the far end, the castellan was still seated at the table on the dais. In addition to Gianni, an elderly clerk named John Blund, who was Lady Nicolaa’s
secretarius
, was sitting with her. In his hand was a sheaf of parchment, which he was consulting as he spoke to his mistress.

“These are all the details I have in the archives about the armourer Robert Ferroner, lady,” Blund was saying as Roget approached the raised platform. “Your memory was correct in that Ferroner has his armoury on a small portion of the strip of land along the Witham riverbank that is part of your demesne. It is situated on the eastward side of High Bridge. According to my file, he has been there many years, and inherited the armoury from his father, John, who taught his son the trade. The fee for his holding is five shillings per annum.”

Blund laid his sheaf of paper down and added, “Except for a couple of blacksmiths who do not possess his superior skills, he is the only armourer in Lincoln of any repute. His business, therefore, is a prosperous one, and your husband, Sir Gerard, has often availed himself of Ferroner’s services. I have records of purchases going back over quite a number of years for suits of chain mail, and repairs to the same, as well as a supply of swords, helms, maces, spurs and the like for the castle armoury.”

Roget noticed that the elderly clerk’s hand trembled a little while he was speaking, and his face was very pale. The captain had heard a report that Blund’s health was failing lately and it now seemed, sadly, that the rumour was true. Blund was making an effort to hold his thin shoulders erect, however, and remained attentive to the mistress he had served for so many years. Nicolaa, too, had noticed the strain in her loyal servant and reached over and patted his hand.

“Thank you for your assistance, John. Your records are, as ever, impeccable. But I fear you have risen from your sickbed too soon to return to work. You may go and rest now—Gianni can make any further notes that are necessary.”

“By your leave, lady, I will stay here if you will allow it,” Blund replied. “This is a heinous crime; not only has a young woman been brutally killed, but a shrine has been desecrated, and in case I may be of more assistance to your enquiry into the death, I would rather remain.”

“You are a stubborn man, John,” Nicolaa responded with a smile, “but out of gratefulness for your long service, I will concede to your wishes.”

As the elderly
secretarius
, gratified, leaned back in his chair and took an abstemious sip from the wine cup in front of him, the castellan turned her attention to Roget.

“Has Ernulf apprised you of the crime that took place this morning?” she asked.

“He has, lady,” Roget replied. “And as Master Blund has said, it is a crime
très terrible
.”

“I wish you to go and inform the victim’s family of what has happened,” Nicolaa said to him. “You know where the armoury is located?” Roget nodded a confirmation and she continued. “The bare facts of the matter are that Ferroner’s daughter, Emma, was visiting the shrine in the company of a friend when she was struck down by an unknown assailant. Her body is now in the castle precincts but as soon as I have confirmation from her father or husband as to which church they attend, I will arrange for her remains to be taken there and prepared for interment. Give them my condolences and inform them that I shall do everything in my power to bring the killer to justice. Also ask them if they know of any person who may have borne enmity towards the dead woman, or anyone else in their family.”

“Yes, lady,” Roget said and, thinking he was dismissed, turned to go, but Nicolaa forestalled him.

“I have one more task for you to perform after that, Captain,” she said. “There was a witness to the crime, a perfumer named Constance Turner, who, according to the evidence she gave, was also attacked but fortuitously, it seems, escaped harm. I recall her name being mentioned in connection with evidence that was given regarding a previous murder in the town. Was she one of those you questioned during the investigation into that death?”

“She was, lady,” Roget replied.

“After you have been to the armoury, I wish you to go to Mistress Turner’s home and interrogate her further. I am not completely satisfied with her testimony. She claims to have been a good friend to the victim, but even the best of acquaintances can often feel jealousy or resentment towards each other. I find it hard to imagine she would have stabbed the girl herself, for she does not seem of a type to do so, but it may be that she knows more than she admits about the identity of the man who did, or his reason for committing the crime. See if you can discover whether or not she is hiding something that may be pertinent.”

The realisation that Lady Nicolaa considered Constance a suspect struck Roget harshly. It was all he could manage to give the castellan his halting assurance to do as she bid and leave the hall, feeling as though his familiar world was tumbling down about him.

Later that afternoon, a spotty-faced scullion named Wilikin, a lay servant in the Templar preceptory situated just outside the eastern wall of the town, was trundling a barrow full of fish back to the enclave. He had been sent by the cook earlier that morning to collect the preceptory’s regular order from the fish market below Bailgate, the huge gate that gave access from the upper part of the town where the castle and Minster were located into the lower populated area. As he wended his way back to the commandery, he was full of anxious excitement. While collecting the fish, he had overheard a conversation between a castle servant and the fishmonger about a murder that had happened in the greenwood near Burton. It had both enthralled and alarmed him and he was in great haste to get back to the safety of the enclave.

When the Templar brother on the gate signalled him through, he had to bypass a number of knights and men-at-arms that were at sword practice in the open space in the middle of the compound, some split into pairs and engaged in mock battle with each other, while a few more were hacking with blunted swords at large man-sized poles set into the ground at the far end. At the moment, there were more of the militant monks in the enclave than was usual, for a troupe from a northern preceptory had arrived the day before, using the Lincoln commandery as a staging post on their way south to Dover, where they would embark on a ship destined for the Holy Land. Wheeling his barrow hastily around the perimeter of the compound, and almost gaining himself a knock on the head from the edge of one of the knight’s shields, Wilikin pushed his burden up to the door of the kitchen and, carelessly leaving the barrow standing out in the heat of the sun, quickly ran inside.

The cook, an older lay servant, looked up impatiently from where he was chopping onions and carrots. “How many times have I told you, Wilikin, that the fish must be put away as soon as you return, not left outside to spoil in the heat? Take them into the storehouse, you dolt, and lay them out to keep cool in the pans of water I’ve set ready on the floor.”

Wilikin, usually biddable, ignored the order and burst out with his revelation.

“There’s been murder done in the greenwood,” he exclaimed, his words almost tumbling over each other in his haste to tell the story. “I heard one of the castle servants talking about it at the fish market—a young woman was stabbed at St. Dunstan’s shrine, and it was the Devil who killed her.”

The cook dropped his knife and crossed himself. One glance at Wilikin told him the lad was truly frightened. The blemishes on his face stood out like drops of blood against the pasty whiteness of his skin, and it was obvious his tale was not one of the fanciful daydreams he was often wont to weave.

“Calm yourself, boy, and tell me exactly what you heard.”

With much stuttering and wild gesticulations, the scullion related how the woman, daughter of an armourer who lived just outside the lower walls of the town, had gone to the shrine to pray and had been attacked and killed.

“And why is it thought the Devil murdered her?” the cook asked.

“Because Satan was seen there,” Wilikin declared in a trembling voice, “by two men from Burton village who went to get the body. He’d changed His shape by then into an adder—a black one—and almost murdered them as well!”

“May Christ preserve us,” the cook declared, shaken by the report. If what Wilikin had told him was true, then Lucifer was stalking the greenwood around Lincoln. How long before He came into the town? Taking a moment to calm himself, he then wondered if Wilikin, who was none too bright, might have got the details confused. Taking the lad gently by the arm, he sat him down on a stool, poured him a small cup of ale, and instructed him to tell the tale again.

“And more slowly this time, lad,” he added.

The scullion did as he was bid—it was not often he was given ale to drink outside of mealtimes—and repeated what he had heard. The cook listened in silence until he was told that the dead woman had been accompanied to the shrine by a female companion—a perfumer in the town—who, it was said, was suspected of committing the crime.

“But you just told me ’twas Satan that killed the woman, Wilikin,” the cook protested. “How then is it believed that the perfumer committed the deed?”

“That’s the same thing the fishmonger said when he heard that part,” the scullion replied eagerly, his answer ready. “And the servant said the perfumer must be guilty of something because Lady Nicolaa ordered Roget, the captain of the town guard, to go and interrogate her again, and the castellan wouldn’t have done that unless she was suspicious of her.”

His voice held a ring of triumph at the end of his recounting and he was satisfied that the cook now believed him. And he was right. As Wilikin sat back and supped the rest of his ale, the cook crossed himself again and gave a dire shake of his head.

“’Tis an old battle between St. Dunstan and the Evil One, and now Satan’s cocking His snout at the saint to prove how powerful He’s become. You mark my words, lad—the Devil will strike again, and when He does, I intend to make sure we’re not anywhere He can get at us. You’re not to leave the enclave, and neither will I; we’re going to stay right here under the protection of the Templars.

* * *

During the next couple of hours the news spread among the lay servants. The cook first repeated the tale to the young man with a crooked back that took care of sweeping the compound and cleaning the latrine, who then told it to the grooms in the stable. From there it reached the blacksmith, a lay brother who had been in the Lincoln commandery for many years. By the time the story was told to him, it had been wildly embellished, and now included many false details, such as that tears of sorrow had been seen falling from the eyes of St. Dunstan’s statue for the sacrilegious deed done at his feet and that the Devil had been heard laughing in the nearby greenwood.

The blacksmith, a sensible man, tried to discount some of the more vivid details but the tale still worried him, for he had a married sister with a large family who lived in the town and he was fearful for her safety, and that of her husband and children. After musing on the problem for a while, he went to seek out one of the Templar knights, a monk who held the office of Draper in the enclave, by the name of Bascot de Marins. The knight had been involved in a number of murder investigations since his arrival in Lincoln four years before and had an extraordinary talent for finding out the truth. If anyone could discover whether or not the Devil had come to stalk the inhabitants of the town, it would be him.

Bascot was in the armoury when the blacksmith approached him, engaged in ensuring, as part of his duty as Draper, that the supply of sword belts, helms and other gear had no need of replenishment. He was a knight approaching his fortieth year, of medium height, dark-haired and wearing a patch over his missing right eye. Of reticent temperament, he did not often speak of the years he had spent in the Holy Land fighting on behalf of the Order, or of the time when he had been captured by the Saracens and imprisoned and tortured. His expertise in finding out secret murderers was attributed, by those who knew him well, to the insight he had gleaned during his eight years of captivity, when he had witnessed the cruelty perpetrated by the infidel and the effect the subsequent suffering had on himself and his fellow prisoners.

When the blacksmith had finished relating what he had been told, he looked at Bascot with fearful eyes. “Do you think the Devil truly committed this murder, Sir Bascot?” he asked.

The Templar tried to reassure the lay brother, although the tale had also alarmed him, and for an additional reason besides the claim that Satan was believed responsible for a woman’s death. “All secret murderers have evil in their hearts,” he said to the blacksmith, “but it is very rare for one to be the Devil Himself. Usually they are just mortal men who have succumbed to the temptation to kill for reasons of revenge or profit. Until it is proven beyond doubt that Lucifer is guilty of the crime, it would be precipitate to become alarmed.”

The smith nodded, relieved by the Templar’s words.

“Was the name of the victim, or the perfumer, told to you?” Bascot asked him.

The blacksmith shook his head. “But I believe the dead woman may be the daughter of an armourer to whom, on occasion, I have sent items from the enclave’s armoury for repairs that are beyond my skill,” he said thoughtfully. “His name is Ferroner, and his workshop is just outside the lower part of the town, near Briggate. A few weeks ago I took him a pair of mail leggings on which some of the chain had been badly damaged and he mentioned to me that he despaired of having a grandchild because his only child, a daughter, had been married for almost two years and there was no sign of her becoming gravid. If she is the one who was murdered, he will be devastated.”

After a moment’s silence in which they both murmured a prayer for the soul of the slain woman, whoever she might be, Bascot asked again, “And you are certain there was no mention of the perfumer’s identity?”

The Templar had a special reason for his insistence. He had a great liking for Roget and, along with Ernulf, and Gianni—a lad who was as dear to the Templar as if he were his own son—was also aware of the captain’s attraction to Constance Turner. If it proved to be her that was under suspicion, the captain would be sorely grieved. Bascot had been with Roget when he had met the perfumer during a previous murder investigation, and found it hard to believe that such a rational and forthright young woman could be the person that rumour described as committing such a violent murder.

After the blacksmith assured him the perfumer had not been named, Bascot urged him to put the mystery surrounding the killing from his mind and return to work. “I will ask our priest, Brother John, to say prayers at Vespers today for both the victim and her family,” he said, “and to send up a plea that the sheriff be given heavenly aid to assist him in unravelling this coil.”