A Holy Vengeance Read online

  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.

  Chapter 21

  Bascot and Roget, meanwhile, were making their way along a well-worn track by the banks of the Witham. They had left their horses with the guard on duty at Stonebow, the principal portal that led out of the town, deciding to walk to their destinations. The captain had said there were three alehouses on this side of Briggate, as the road that led down to the bridge over the river was called, but that one of them was a very far piece farther along, and patronised mainly by the tanners who conducted their businesses in the area.

  “Even the ale tastes of the urine and dung they use to soak the hides for tanning,” Roget said, “so I don’t think Wiger would go there.”

  “And the other two?” the Templar asked.

  “Both nearer and the closest one is much more likely,” Roget replied. “It is the alehouse where I arrested two of Ferroner’s apprentices for being drunk and starting a fight, so it might be that Wiger drinks there too.”

  As they started off, it was just beginning to get dark and the day’s heat waning, freshened by a cool breeze coming off the river. As they passed through Saltergate, where the salt-makers had their market, and then continued down towards the riverside, they heard the high-pitched whistle of an osprey circling overhead giving warning to its mate that it was time to return to their nest for the night.

  The area into which Roget led the Templar was rough despite the prosperity generated by the local manufactories, inhabited by the workers employed in the various trades and their families, along with bargemen and sailors from the docks. Both men were armed, Bascot with his sword and the captain had a broad-bladed dagger in his belt and was carrying a thick cudgel. The quarter moon above cast a dark glint on the sluggish waters of the river, and the buildings were all in shadow, lit only by the occasional flaring torch in front of a doorway. The air was filled with the aroma of fish from a catch that had been unloaded earlier in the day, and the heady scent of cinnamon and nutmeg wafted from a boat tied up at the quayside laden with a small store of the precious commodities. Mingling with these distinctive smells was the occasional whiff of urine from the tanner’s premises farther downstream, the odour of burning charcoal from the salt-maker’s premises and the pungent aroma of lye from a soap-maker’s manufactory. It was an area where honest toil was waged alongside thievery and drunkenness, a combination that the docks on the Witham had in common with other quays all over the world.

  As they strode along the muddy path, the few men loitering in the streets made a quick retreat and disappeared. The captain was a feared officer and one not known for his patience with law-breakers. The additional threat of an armed Templar in his company made them even more nervous. As they walked, Roget explained to Bascot that down here on the riverbank, unlike in the town, neither he nor his men made regular patrols, but only a circuit once in every two or three weeks, just to remind any would-be miscreants that criminal behaviour would not be tolerated within Sheriff Camville’s bailiwick. It had been on one of these patrols that Roget had arrested the armourer’s men.

  When they entered the alehouse that Roget had spoken of, they found it unkempt and dirty. The alekeeper was standing at the back of the room beside a couple of broached ale barrels, keeping watch on two slatterns serving customers. He was a short man and squat, with a huge paunch and lank, greasy hair. There were quite a few customers, all sitting at benches alongside a scattering of rickety tables, a motley crew of bargemen and industrial workers. The air stank of sweat and the yeasty aroma of ale, and the noisy hum of raucous conversation could be heard before Roget pushed aside the leather curtain that screened the doorway.

  As Bascot stepped through the opening, Roget beside him, silence fell in the low-ceilinged chamber. The patrons suddenly all became intent on staring into their ale cups or found something of interest to gaze at on the other side of the room. The pair strode over to where the proprietor stood and the Templar nodded to his companion, who was already acquainted with the alekeeper, to speak to him first.

  “I see that your trade has picked up since the last time I was here, Selso,” Roget said in a deceptively mild manner. “Not selling tainted ale anymore, I would reckon.”

  The alekeep gave Roget a nervous look, and then glanced at the faces of his customers, who all, despite their seeming disinterest, were listening intently to the conversation. “Now you knows, Captain,” the alekeep replied with an uneasy smile, “that only happened the once, when my old wife, by accident, added some castor seeds to a brew she was making.”

  Roget gave a snort of derision. “By accident, was it? I think, Selso, that perhaps it was you she was trying to purge and not your customers. And if she was, I wouldn’t blame her. It could be she was trying to rid you of some of that lard you carry round your belly. A gut like that—ma foi, c’est incroyable—is not one any woman would wish to have beside her on a pallet at night.”

  The captain’s comments brought a round of laughter from the men drinking ale, and the atmosphere relaxed a little.

  “The reason we are come, Selso,” Roget continued, “is that the Templar here, Sir Bascot de Marins, is conducting an investigation into the murder of Robert Ferroner’s daughter and wants to ask you some questions about her husband, Wiger. Is he one of your regular customers?”

  Cowed at being the butt of the captain’s joke, Selso’s answer was surly. “Used to be, but not anymore. He hasn’t been in here since he was wed. Thinks himself too grand now for the likes of me and my customers.”

  “Do you know where he does drink?” Roget pressed.

  Selso shrugged his pudgy shoulders. “How should I? I keep only my
own ale, not everyone else’s.”

  Roget grabbed the front of the man’s filthy tunic and lifted him off the ground. “Show some respect for the Templar’s rank, you filthy piece of merde, or I will accomplish with my fists what your wife failed to do.”

  The alekeeper went white and began to jabber an answer to Bascot. “I’ve heard he drinks down in Dern’s place, lord, up by the city wall, but I don’t know for certain, I swear before God I don’t.”

  Roget dropped the alekeeper and he fell to the floor. Ignoring him, the captain turned and spoke to the alehouse patrons. “Does anyone know where Wiger drinks, or where he is tonight? A free cup of ale for an answer, mes amis.”

  Most of the customers shook their heads, but one man, a bargeman by the look of him, said, “Selso’s right, Captain. I’ve seen Wiger in Dern’s place myself the last couple of times I’ve been in there. I don’t go there often ’cause the drink’s too costly—Dern charges a fourthing more for a jug of ale than Selso does—so I only goes when I want to hire one of the doxies he keeps upstairs. The last time I went was just a few days ago and Wiger was in there then.”

  “Merci, mon copain,” Roget said to the informant and, taking a silver half-penny from the purse at his belt, threw it to the man. “Have your next cup of ale on us, and be careful that Selso pours it from a keg that his wife has not tampered with.”

  Merriment broke out as the coin flew in a spinning arc and the sailor caught it deftly. As Bascot and Roget left the alehouse, good-humour had been fully restored.

  Once they were outside, the Templar asked his companion if he was familiar with the alehouse that the sailor had mentioned.

  Roget shook his head. “I know where it is, but that is all. We do not have any need to patrol there because, as the bargeman said, it is expensive and most of the patrons are men of means, merchants who own businesses roundabout here.” He gave a grin. “Burghers are not the sort to give the type of trouble I need to attend to. They settle their differences by complaining to their guild, or bringing a suit in the sheriff’s court, not by trying to break each other’s heads open.”