A Deadly Penance tk-6 Page 2

  Ernulf agreed and, as the men of the day shift came up to the tower and were handed mugs of warmed ale, he dismissed the men who had been on patrol during the night.

  “Don’t take all mornin’ to drink that ale,” he warned the new arrivals. “ S taying in here won’t make the day any warmer. And Lady Nicolaa doesn’t pay you for standin’ around being idle.”

  Most of the men-at-arms smiled behind their ale cups as they nodded their acceptance of his admonishment. Ernulf had been in service in the castle since Lady Nicolaa had been a young girl and he was devoted to her. Anyone found guilty of negligence in their duty to the hereditairy castellan of in. coln castle would, at the very least, receive a severe chastisement from the serjeant, if not instant dismissal, but they accepted this easily; along with Ernulf, all of them held Lady Nicolaa in high esteem.

  After they went outside, Ernulf’s routine was to pace the perimeter of the castle wall, leaving one of the men-at-arms at the south-eastern corner and one at the south-western, before stopping at the gate that led out from the western side of the bail into open countryside and checking with the gateward there that all was in order. Once that task was completed, he would continue his perambulation of the ramparts, leaving another soldier at the north-western corner and the last man at the north-eastern before completing his circuit back at the gate that led out onto Ermine Street. Behind him the soldiers would commence their slow pacing back and forth, keeping vigilance over the section of wall they had been allotted. The serjeant would repeat this procedure at dusk, when the guard changed again.

  This morning, however, the twice-daily ritual had hardly begun before it was halted. By the time Ernulf approached the narrow bridge that connected the ramparts to the old tower, the sun had risen and dispersed the shadows within its length, revealing the body that lay stretched upon the wooden boards. Beyond the corpse, the crossbow quarrel that had killed him was embedded in one of the posts that formed the frame of the archway. A layer of frost covered the bolt and its leather fletching and, as the rime slowly melted in the early morning rays of the sun, the flecks of gore along the shaft sparkled a deep pink. As Ernulf came into view of the gruesome spectacle, he stumbled to a startled halt and uttered an oath.

  “So the night passed peacefully, did it?” he exploded. “I’ll have the flesh off the arses of those two who were guarding this stretch of the ramparts last night. This body’s already starting to stiffen, they must have passed it a dozen times, not to say never noticed somebody firin’ an arbalest right under their noses.”

  The soldiers looked down at the body in horrified amazement. “But, Sarje,” one of them dared to protest, “they wouldn’t have been able to see anything. When it’s dark, it’s all in shadow along here, ’specially on the catwalk…”

  “Do you think you’re just up here to keep watch over where any fool can see?” Ernulf shouted. “Useless cowsons-I’ve told you time and again to keep your eyes peeled and that means checking every corner.. ..”

  Ernulf bit off his words. He knew his anger was not really directed at the soldiers who had been on night duty; as the man-at-arms had just said, the narrow bridge was perhaps twenty feet long with side walls five foot in height and, at nighttime, its length would have been shrouded in darkness. No, his fury was at the villain who had killed the man lying at his feet, for the death would cause distress to one close to Lady Nicolaa. The dead man was well-known to Ernulf. He was a member of the retinue that the castellan’s sister Petronille had brought with her to Lincoln. His name was Aubrey Tercel.

  Less than an hour later Nicolaa’s son, Richard Camville, had been apprised of the situation and joined Ernulf up on the ramparts. Since Richard’s father, Gerard Camville, the sheriff of Lincoln, was at present away in London attending a convocation of the realm’s sheriffs ordered by the chief justiciar of England, the serjeant had reported the death to his son, who was deputising for his father in matters concerning the shrievality.

  When Ernulf showed Richard the body and drew his attention to the bolt that was lodged in the frame of the archway, the young man’s face became grave. He was a handsome well-built knight in his middle twenties, with his mother’s flaming red hair and his father’s restless manner, but now, as he viewed the corpse, his figure went still with disquietude.

  “A nasty death, but a quick one,” he said. “The bow must have been fired at close range to have penetrated the body so forcefully. It went straight through his heart and beyond; he would have died in an instant.”

  “The guards swear they saw no one on their rounds,” Ernulf said, “so the killer must have hidden himself here, on the catwalk.”

  “Yes, that makes sense,” Richard replied, crouching down and gauging the distance to the doorway. “It looks as though Tercel came through the archway and the murderer was waiting for him here in the shadows. Once the bow was fired, and Tercel dead, the killer then stepped over the body and returned to the bail by going down the staircase in the tower, never once having been in view of the guards.”

  “Got Tercel up here on some ruse, I expect,” Ernulf opined. “Even if he knew he was meeting an enemy, he wouldn’t have thought he was in much danger with the guards so close by.”

  Richard nodded absently and then, stepping carefully over the body, inspected the crossbow bolt embedded in the frame of the door.

  “Have you looked closely at this?” he asked.

  “No, lord,” Ernulf replied.

  “Then do so now,” Richard commanded.

  Moving carefully around the corpse, the serjeant hunkered down and then gave a gasp of disbelief. “That looks like a quarrel from that old crossbow your grandsire gave to your mother.”

  “I would swear it is the very same,” Richard confirmed. The shaft’s metal tip had not wholly penetrated the door and there, at the base, a tiny inscription could be seen-RH to NH.

  “But that crossbow was never meant to be used as a weapon,” Ernulf exclaimed. “It is only a small replica that your grandsire had made as a gift to commemorate your birth.”

  “Even so, it is capable of being fired.” Richard thought for a moment. “My mother keeps the crossbow in the armoury, does she not?”

  “Aye, in a wooden box, along with a few of the bolts that was made to go with it. The castle fletcher has the care of it and sees that the mechanism is kept free of rust and regularly oiled, but other than that, it’s never taken out of its case.”

  “Well, it was taken out last night,” Richard said, “for that bolt is too shallow to have been fired from a regular-sized arbalest. Loath as I am to say it, it would appear that whoever murdered Tercel used my mother’s crossbow to carry out the deed.”

  Three

  After directing one of the men-at-arms to find something to cover the body, Richard and Ernulf went down to the armoury and to the shelf where the box containing Lady Nicolaa’s small crossbow was kept. The wooden case shone with a coating of linseed oil and was fitted with two simple catches to keep it closed. When they opened it, the crossbow lay on a bed of much faded green velvet, nestling in a space indented to take its shape.

  Richard lifted it out. “Well, if this is the bow that was used, it has been replaced from whence it came. After the murderer had accomplished his purpose, he must have returned here and put it back in the box.”

  He lifted the arbalest up to the light coming through one of the narrow casements. It was well crafted, the stock made of yew that had been kept as polished as the box in which it rested, the winding mechanism, trigger and release nut all fashioned of steel, as was the curved portion of the bow. The bowstring of glue-soaked hemp looked fairly new, so it was apparent that the castle fletcher, during his maintenance of the implement, had changed it recently. It was small, with a span of no more than eighteen inches, far less than the two to three feet of a full-sized crossbow. On one side of the stock was a small silver plate inscribed with the words-“To Nicolaa from her loving father, Richard de la Haye.” In essence, it was a toy but
, for all that, a dangerous one.

  “I remember the day Sir Richard gave that to your mother,” Ernulf said. “It was his gift to her in celebration of your christening and, after they returned from the service at the cathedral, your grandsire presented it to her and ordered a butt set up in the bail so she could test it. Although’tis difficult for a woman to wind a regular bow, that one was small enough for her to manage, and she did it well. Took aim and hit the center of the target with her first shot.” There was pride in Ernulf’s voice as he spoke of the incident.

  “I recall my father telling me of that day,” Richard said. “He said that my grandsire had never been sorry that he had sired only daughters, for my mother, his eldest and principal heir, had the heart and stomach of a man.” Richard did not have any certain memories of the man after whom he had been named, for his grandfather had died when he was just a toddler, but he recalled an occasion when a tall man with a thatch of flaming red hair had tossed him high in the air and then, with a booming laugh, caught him to his chest. He had often been told by those old enough to remember that he resembled Richard de la Haye and he supposed that it was true, for he was much taller than his father and had his mother’s bright colouring.

  Ernulf counted the bolts laid in the box alongside the crossbow. “There are only seven quarrels here,” he said. “I remember clearly that your grandfather had eight made, each engraved with his and your mother’s initials.”

  Richard rubbed his hand along the groove in the stock and nodded in confirmation. “The layer of oil has been disturbed, as though it had been recently fired. I think, Ernulf, there can be no doubt that this is the weapon that was used.”

  He replaced the crossbow and closed the box, and then gave the serjeant an order. “Send a message to Coroner Pinchbeck. Tell him there has been a suspicious death and he needs to come and make an inspection of the body. I don’t suppose the lazy bastard will want to come out in this cold weather, but tell him my father is away and cannot, as he usually does, carry out a duty that is rightfully the coroner’s. An inquest must be held and, since this death has been inflicted on the servant of a member of our family, I want all the niceties observed. We will leave the corpse in situ until Pinchbeck has been to view it. Tell him there will possibly be a deodand to collect and he will be more likely to get here quickly. If Pinchbeck runs true to his previous behaviour, once he has collected the monies, he will lose all interest in catching the murderer, but that is of no consequence. I am ready to act on my father’s behalf in the matter.”

  Ernulf nodded. A deodand was the name given to any instrument that had caused a person’s death, and it was within the province of the coroner to put a valuation on the object and take it, or its value, into custody until a law court decided if it was to be awarded to the family of the victim as a compensation for their loss, or kept for the monarch’s purse. Any item could be declared such-an animal that had caused a person’s death by a bite or a kick, a cart that had run over some unfortunate in the street and caused a fatality, or simply a weapon, such as a knife or, in this case, Lady Nicolaa’s crossbow. While Coroner Pinchbeck was usually averse to expending his energies in any direction that involved actual effort on his part, he did relish collecting fees for the royal coffers, for he felt that by doing so he enhanced his prestige in the eyes of the king.

  As Ernulf hurried away to Pinchbeck’s fine stone house in Lincoln town, Richard left the armoury and strode across the bail in the direction of the keep. Even though it was still early, he would have to rouse his mother and aunt from their bed and tell them what had happened.

  In the huge chamber that functioned as the hall of the keep, servants were clearing up the remnants of last night’s feast and placing scraps into baskets to be given as alms for the poor. The fire in the capacious hearth had been replenished with fresh logs and steaming jugs of mulled wine were being brought from the kitchen and placed on the trestle tables, ready to serve with the morning meal. Richard called to one of the maidservants and told her to go up to his mother’s bedchamber and tell her he wished to speak to her.

  The young woman returned a few minutes later, informing Richard that his mother was ready to receive him. Since Petronille was sharing Nicolaa’s bedchamber during her visit, the castellan’s son knew he would be able to speak to both women at the same time.

  Nicolaa’s bedchamber was a large one, fitted with a good-sized bed and a few comfortable chairs and stools. After knocking at the door and bidden to enter, Richard went in to find his mother and aunt seated at a table awaiting him; both wore bed robes of soft velvet and close-fitting linen bed-caps over their loosely braided hair. The resemblance between the two sisters was slight. Nicolaa had the bright red hair that Richard had inherited, but now, with the approach of her fiftieth year, was sprinkled with a few threads of grey. She was a small woman, a little plump, with slightly protuberant blue eyes that held a discerning look. Petronille, on the other hand, was dark haired and had an olive complexion, traits inherited from their mother. She was a little taller than her older sister, and had a softness about her that was not evident in Nicolaa. Consistently kind and caring, she regarded Richard with a slightly anxious look in her dark brown eyes, concerned at the reason for such an early arousal.

  Richard studied his aunt for a moment before he spoke. Petronille was still in a fragile state from the death of her young son, Baldwin, a few months before. Although of tender years, Baldwin had been of a very pious nature and his father, Richard de Humez, had sent Petronille and their daughter, Alinor, to Lincoln in the hope that both would recover a little more easily from their grief if they were away from the familiar surroundings of their Stamford manor house. They had come to stay just before the season of Christ’s Mass, for the holy season was a time when the absence from home of the son, and brother, they had loved so well would be particularly hard to bear. Richard hoped this latest tragedy would not be too distressing for his aunt.

  The maidservant he had directed to bring up a flagon of watered wine had come up the stairs behind him and Richard bid her fill three cups before straddling his long legs over one of the stools by the table at which the two women were sitting.

  Nicolaa and her sister listened with grave attention as he told them of how Ernulf had found Tercel’s body, and where, that morning. “He was shot with a quarrel from a crossbow,” he added and saw the eyebrows of both women rise.

  Petronille had drawn her breath in sharply when told of the death of her servant, but she kept her composure and asked, “Surely that is a strange weapon to use in such a confined space? I have not been up onto the walkway of the old tower since the days of my youth, but if it has not been altered in the intervening years, I remember it as a closely walled area, and not at all suitable for firing a bow.”

  “You are correct, Aunt,” Richard said, “but this arbalest is not one that would normally be employed during battle. It is a much smaller weapon and not intended for such a deadly purpose.”

  Realisation dawned on Nicolaa as her son was speaking. “Are you saying that the crossbow your grandfather gave me is the one that was used?”

  When Richard nodded, his mother rose from her chair and paced a few slow steps, thinking as she did so. “I haven’t handled it for more years than I care to remember and neither has anyone else, except for the castle bowyer. I would not have thought there were many people even aware of its existence. How, then, did the murderer come to know it was there?”

  “You are mistaken, Mother, in thinking it has been forgotten,” Richard said. “The tale of how you fired it when Grandfather presented it to you is the sort of story that makes good recounting, especially to newcomers to the bail. I am certain that not only our household, but most of the townsfolk of Lincoln are familiar with the weapon’s rather colourful history.”

  Nicolaa nodded. “So you think the murderer asked Tercel to meet him up on the ramparts, and then lay in wait with the arbalest, shot him and afterwards replaced the bow in its box?�
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  “It would appear so,” Richard replied.

  “A strange place to choose for an assignation,” Nicolaa mused. “Was Tercel armed?”

  “There was no weapon on him. But it could have been removed by the murderer.”

  “If it wasn’t, then that means Tercel thought he had nothing to fear. So the person who killed him must have been someone he knew, and trusted,” his mother opined. “Do you have any idea of about what time this took place?”

  “Sometime early last evening I would judge,” Richard replied. “The death rictus has just begun and, with the coldness of the night, would have been delayed for an hour or two. He must have been killed about three or four hours before midnight, or mayhap even a little earlier.”

  Petronille nodded. “I do not recall seeing Tercel at all last evening. It is likely he was murdered whilst we were eating.”

  “Aunt,” Richard said, “what sort of a man was he? Beyond being aware that he was one of your attendants, I know little about him.”

  “I am afraid I am unable to tell you much,” Petronille said, “for he has been in your uncle Dickon’s service only a short time. Our household steward is getting on in years and Tercel was being trained as his assistant. While Alinor and I were preparing for our journey here, Dickon suggested Aubrey come with me, and gave the monies we brought with us into his care so he could act as my cofferer. Tercel is, or was,” she corrected herself, “an illegitimate relative of one of Dickon’s acquaintances. He had been well educated and so was considered suitable for the post. I found him to be diligent and of a seemingly amiable nature. I cannot fathom why anyone would wish him dead.”

  “During his time in your service, Aunt,” Richard asked, “can you recall any occasion when he gave offence to anyone, especially while you have been here in Lincoln?”