A Holy Vengeance Read online

  The captain guided Bascot up a different track from the one on which they had previously walked. It led, as Selso had said, towards the southern wall of Lincoln, and the ambiance improved as they left the riverbank behind.

  “This alehouse appears to be only a little way from Ferroner’s workshop,” Bascot commented as Roget led them to a building they had passed on their trip to the armoury.

  “Not far,” the captain replied as they went inside.

  This alehouse was of very different type than the one they had just visited. Two flaring torches lit the entryway, the interior walls had been freshly washed with lime, and the floor lain with clean rushes. A goodly number of tables were discreetly placed about the room with a candle-holder on each one, and stout oak stools—some with wooden backs—were provided for seating. There was only one serving maid, but she was young and pretty, a vast improvement on the slatterns that had been in Selso’s establishment. Behind a counter at the rear of the room were half-a-dozen ale barrels and a couple of kegs of wine, with a row of mugs on a shelf above, some of wood but most made of leather or pewter. The room was half-full of customers, all dressed in garb of decent material, and mainly of middle years, with only a few younger men sprinkled amongst them. A couple of patrons had salt encrusted on the cuffs of their tunics, indicating they were probably salt-makers, and there was a man of about Bascot’s age whose hair and clothing were lightly covered with a fine sprinkling of a greyish white substance that appeared to be remnants of the ash that was part of the mixture used to make soap, suggesting he was a soap-maker. The Templar wondered if he might be Nan Glover’s son, or one of his employees.

  The proprietor, Dern, was also a vast improvement on Selso. Tall, slim and dark-haired, he was fastidious in appearance, dressed in a dark tunic without stain or rent, and hands that looked as though they had been freshly scrubbed.

  A quick glance around the room revealed that Wiger was not there. A few of the customers turned their heads to give a curious glance at the Templar badge Bascot wore on the shoulder of his leather jerkin, but their interest was only cursory and they paid little more attention.

  Dern gave the pair a civil greeting when they approached him and then asked if they wished to be served with ale or wine.

  “Neither,” Bascot replied. “I am here to speak to you in connection with the investigation that is being conducting into the recent murder of Emma Ferroner. Is her husband, Wiger, one of your patrons?”

  “He comes in occasionally,” Dern replied cautiously, “but I have not seen him in here since his poor wife was killed.”

  “Are there any particular customers of yours with whom he keeps company? Ones who might be considered friends of his?” Bascot asked, following up his intent to try to find a drinking crony of the victim’s husband.

  “Not really. He is a genial man, and usually makes conversation with whoever happens to be in here when he arrives. Many of my patrons are friends of his father-by-marriage; he often sits with one of them, but not any in particular.”

  The Templar took a moment to consider the alekeep. His answers had seemed accommodating but could be considered evasive, and had been intoned with a smooth urbanity that was grating.

  Bascot nodded, giving the impression he accepted the explanation. “Does he ever visit the bawds you keep upstairs?”

  “Not that I recall, lord. The women are usually hired by men that have yet to marry, or are widowed, to save them the trouble of going into town and visiting a stewe, and Wiger has—or had—a wife to warm his bed.”

  Again the answer was suave, and spoken with an ingratiating smile that was patently false. Irritated, but sensing they would be hard pressed to extract any pertinent information from the alekeep, the Templar signed to Roget that they might as well leave.

  “I would not trust that oily bastard to tell the truth if he swore it on the Virgin,” Roget growled once they were outside.

  “Nor would I,” Bascot replied. “His answers were too smooth by far. It may be that he is just protecting his profits. Many a man grows garrulous in his cups and reveals more than is wise to his servitor. If Dern gets a reputation for repeating any indiscretions he hears, he would soon lose custom, but I would like to be certain that is the only reason for his reticence.”

  “Do you wish me to take him in for questioning?” Roget asked. “It would give me great pleasure to wipe that smile off his face with my fist.”

  The Templar thought for a moment. “Not yet. Let us first see if we can find out more about him. You know all of the drinking houses in Lincoln. Ask around among the alekeeps about Dern’s reputation. A man like that usually has something to hide and if we can discover what it is, we can use it to make him more forthcoming about Wiger. If you are unsuccessful, then it will be time to resort to harsher measures.”

  * * *

  Late that night the murderer lay on his pallet sweating profusely. It had taken all of his self-control not to flee when the Templar had walked into the alehouse where he was drinking. That damned monk, may the Devil curse him, was getting too close with his interminable questions. He now had no choice but to carry out the scheme he had devised earlier, and he must do it soon.

  Chapter 22

  Early the next morning Bascot made his way to the castle. The night before, after he had left Roget and returned to the commandery, he had found d’Arderon still up and awaiting his arrival. Feradac MacHeth had been with him, both wanting to tell Bascot, as second-in-command of the enclave, that a place had been made ready for d’Arderon to take his corrodiary in an enclave in the south, near London.

  “But I will not go until I learn whether or not you have been able to catch this murderer,” d’Arderon said to Bascot. “This is the last battle in which I will be involved, even if only on the periphery, and I will see it through to the end.”

  As Bascot had nodded and taken his leave of the ailing preceptor, his throat was too choked with emotion to make a reply. D’Arderon had been one of the foremost of the Order’s champions when he was young and now he still refused to leave the field even though, by doing so, he was putting his well-being in jeopardy. He was a valiant soldier who would be sorely missed by all who knew him.

  As he rode across the Minster grounds towards the castle, he silently sent up a prayer asking that he would be successful in his hunt for the murderer and that d’Arderon would live long enough to share the victory.

  Turning his mind to the investigation and the information that had been gathered so far, Bascot had to admit that this current enquiry was proving the most baffling of all the ones in which he had so far been involved. There were no obvious suspects, unholy implications had been suggested, and the only traces of the murderer were a commonplace knife, a few strands of hair and a scrap of fabric. He thought back over the long parade of witnesses that had been interviewed and the testimony they had given, beginning with Constance Turner, then moving on to the armoury, and suddenly realised, with a start, that there was one person who had been missed when he had questioned Ferroner’s employees—his housekeeper. She had been absent on the day that he and Roget had gone to the workshop and not been interviewed. He must arrange to speak with her without delay.

  * * *

  In the keep, Gianni sat in the small chamber that had been allotted him by Nicolaa de la Haye, reviewing the summary of interviews he had compiled the night before. His concentration had been sketchy when he had first started the work due to his preoccupation with the strega, but finally he had been able to turn his mind to the task and had worked late into the night to finish the report. It was, by then, near the midnight hour and he had decided that rather than go to his pallet in the scriptorium where he usually slept, and risk disturbing Master Blund and Lambert, he would take his rest on the floor of the chamber where he had been working. But his sleep had been fitful, and disturbed by murky dreams that vanished as soon as he tried to recall them, and
he had been awake long before first light. As soon as it was time for early Mass, he had attended the service in the castle chapel and then raced back to the hall to grab some bread and cheese from the tables being laid for the morning meal before hurrying back to the chamber to re-read the report.

  He had barely finished when a page knocked at the door to tell him that Sir Bascot had arrived and, with Lady Nicolaa, was awaiting his presence in the solar. Gathering up the summary and his wax tablet, he hastened his steps up to the large airy chamber at the top of the keep. When he entered, his mistress and the Templar were deep in conversation, presumably concerning the piece of parchment Lady Nicolaa was holding in her hand. As Gianni approached they both bid him good morning and his mistress motioned for him to take a seat on the stool beside her.

  “We have just been discussing a message I received from Master Drogue, the apothecary I asked for assistance,” Nicolaa said. “He made great haste in complying with my request and late last night sent me the information he uncovered.”

  She handed the parchment to Gianni and he scanned it quickly. In the missive, Drogue reported that he had spoken to all of the members of his guild and that the only record of Emma Ferroner ever having a requirement for their services was on an occasion five years before when Mistress Glover had come for a mixture to relieve a nasty cough that was plaguing her charge.

  “As you will recall, Gianni, from the brief note I gave you of Mistress Turner’s testimony, this report completely belies it, for she stated that Emma Ferroner told her that, just a few months before her death, she had visited two apothecaries in the town requesting an aid for fertility. Either the dead woman was lying, or the perfumer is.”

  The castellan leaned back in her chair and heaved a sigh. “This investigation is, I fear, developing into a mixture of falsehoods and contradictions which may prove impossible to unravel.”

  She turned to Bascot. “Did you learn anything of interest last night when you went to the alehouses on the riverbank?”

  “Nothing that is of immediate assistance, lady.” He told her about his and Roget visit to Dern`s premises and that, as neither of them had been satisfied with the answers the alekeep had given them, the captain was going to try to find out more about him to see if they could pressure him into telling what he knew.

  “You believe his answers untruthful?” Nicolaa asked.

  “More that he seemed too ready with them,” the Templar replied. “Almost as though he was expecting to be interrogated, and I would like to find out the reason why.”

  He paused for a moment and then said, “There are a couple of other aspects, lady, that also merit further investigation. The first is that there is one other possible witness, Master Ferroner’s housekeeper, who was not questioned on the day we went to the armoury. She had daily contact with the victim and her husband and might be aware as to whether or not Wiger had any motive for wishing his wife dead. The second is that it might be profitable to try and find Lorinda, the woman who laid the curse on the armourer so many years ago . . .”

  At that moment there was a loud knock at the door of the solar and Ernulf burst in. “I am sorry to interrupt you, Lady Nicolaa,” the serjeant said, red-faced from his hurried ascent up the stairs, “but another woman has been murdered—stabbed dead at the holy spring near Greetwell.”

  Chapter 23

  Bascot and Gianni immediately went to get their mounts and, with Ernulf and two of the castle men-at-arms, sped through Newport Arch and along the path that led east to the little village of Greetwell. The site of the murder was not more than two miles distant and, as they rode, the Templar asked Ernulf about the place where the murder had been committed.

  “’Tis a site dedicated to St. Mary,” the serjeant replied. “There’s a spring there and in the past, so it’s said, many ailing children have been cured after being anointed with the water.”

  “Who found the slain woman?” Bascot asked.

  “A chapman travelling to Lincoln. He went to Greetwell and told the reeve, who sent one of the villagers to the castle to report it.”

  They soon arrived at the spot. It was a pretty place; a simple stone cross stood alongside a small pool formed by the bubbling spring, and the water was encircled by an abundant growth of reeds and rushes amidst which a few ducks were bobbing.

  In front of the cross lay the body of the murdered woman. Close by her side, a man was kneeling, sobbing in anguish. Bascot’s view of the victim was partly obscured by the grieving man so that all he could see were the back of her head rail, which was stained red with blood, and her feet, which were shoeless. She appeared to be lying facedown next to a large stone beside which a small clay pot lay toppled on its side.

  Behind the distraught man was a crowd of villagers—men, women and children of varying ages—with two little toddlers of no more than three and four years at the front. They were weeping and struggling as they tried to escape the restraining grasp of an elderly woman. Next to them was a younger female, crying copiously as she gently rocked a grizzling baby she was holding in her arms. The rest of the villagers were equally horror-stricken, some weeping, others down on their knees praying, and one or two moaning with distress. A little apart from the crowd stood a man with a large leather satchel slung on his shoulder, his face white with shock. Bascot surmised this must be the chapman that had discovered the body. About half a mile down the track that led past the pool could be seen the wooden palisade enclosing the hamlet of Greetwell.

  The Templar, anger rising hot and heavy in his heart at the distress caused by this second murder, reined his mount to a halt and dismounted, as did Gianni, Ernulf and the soldiers. As they did so, an older man who had been standing near the front of the group of villagers came running forward, made a bob of his head in deference to Bascot and said he was the reeve of the village and the one who had sent the message to the castle for help.

  “’Tis a terrible day for us, lord,” he said, wringing his hands together, “and none of us have a mind as to what to do next. God be praised you have arrived so quickly.”

  The Templar spoke to him gently. “Lady Nicolaa sends her condolences for the tragedy that has befallen your village, and I add mine to them,” he said, “and also our assurances that every effort will be made to find and punish the man who committed this crime.”

  “All of us gives thanks for your kind words and Lady Nicolaa’s promise, lord, but I fear ’tis beyond the means of mortal man to catch this murderer,” the reeve replied, his countenance drawn with dread, “for ’twas the Devil that slew her, just like that other poor woman at St. Dunstan’s shrine.”

  Bascot had fully expected this fear would be aroused because of the rumours that had circulated after Emma Ferroner’s death and made an effort to dispel it. “There is no proof as yet that Satan was involved in the other murder,” he said, “and so it would be unwise to leap to the conclusion that He is also responsible for this one.”

  But the reeve was not to be shaken in his conviction, and shook his head firmly. “We knows the Devil did the killing, lord, for He left His mark for us to see.”

  “How so?” Bascot asked.

  “He stabbed her to death with His horns, lord, and one of them is still sticking out of her back.”

  * * *

  The Templar sensed Gianni, along with Ernulf and the two men-at-arms, stiffen at the reeve’s statement. “Show me,” he ordered tersely.

  The reeve made no movement, just ducked his head and said fearfully, “I daresn’t go no closer to the body, lord, lest I get touched by the evil.”

  The Templar walked over to the corpse and, as he came near, his step faltered for a moment. The dead woman’s body was a gruesome sight, the back of her gown all torn and bloody and there, just as the reeve had said, and with the tip still shallowly inserted in one of the many wounds in the posterior of her torso, lay a sinister-looking horn. As it lay there, the tip
covered with gore, it did indeed seem the personification of evil. Had his assurance to the reeve been premature? Was the Evil One truly, and in fact, responsible for this murder? From the significance of the weapon that had been used, it seemed as though it could be so. Steeling himself, and murmuring an invocation to Christ for protection, he strode purposely forward, knelt down by the woman and carefully regarded the horn. It was, in shape and colour, identical to that of a goat—an animal associated with the Devil—and of a size consistent with a fully grown buck. The larger end was facing towards him and as he peered at it closely he could see that the interior was hollow, and the edges had been smoothed in a similar fashion to those used for drinking vessels.

  A strong suspicion crossed his mind as he remembered how he and Lady Nicolaa had wondered whether or not the killer had been a hired assassin or an amateur, but to confirm it he would need to examine the wounds more closely. He glanced up at the man kneeling on the other side of the body. His eyes were distended with horror and he kept reaching out a hand towards the victim and then pulling it back as though frightened to make contact, all the while keeping his gaze fearfully on Bascot.

  “Are you the husband of this woman?” Bascot asked.

  The man nodded with an almost imperceptible movement of his head.

  “What is your name?”

  “I be Thomas Hurdler, lord.”

  “And your wife’s name?”

  “Gwen,” he whispered.

  “And are those your children over there?” The Templar gestured towards the two wailing youngsters being restrained by one of the village women.