A Holy Vengeance Read online

  “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.

  Chapter 4

  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.”

  Chapter 5

  It was past time for the evening meal before Roget had carried out both of the tasks entrusted to him and was on his way back to the castle ward. As he rode his horse slowly up Steep Hill, the sharp incline that led up from the lower town to the castle, he was in no better mood than when he had descended it earlier that day.

  The setting sun still maintained its heat as he reflected on his commission of the duties that Lady Nicolaa had given him. First he had gone to Ferroner’s workshop to inform the victim’s husband and father of her death, a sad task that had struck pity in his heart.

  Robert Ferroner’s armoury was a moderately sized establishment set close to the riverbank, with a large horizontal waterwheel mounted on wooden piers jutting out over the Witham River to provide power for the operation of the huge bellows that fired the forge. The wall in which the forge was set was constructed of stone, the other three of stout timber, and the side that faced the river had been fitted with two large shuttered casements which could be opened in warm weather to allow a passage of air to cool the men working inside. On entering, Roget saw six or seven men engaged in various tasks, one of them the armourer himself. The captain recognised Ferroner at once; they had met a few weeks before when Roget had needed to levy a fine on two of the armourer’s apprentices for being drunk and belligerent in a local alehouse.

  Ferroner was a big bear of a man, bald headed and cheerful, and when Roget walked over to the anvil where he was working, the armourer greeted him heartily. “Ha, Captain, you are well come, unless it is to tell me that some of my men are in trouble again for making too merry with their ale?” This enquiry was accompanied by a rumble of mirth, and Roget felt a pang of guilt for the knowledge that he must soon destroy the armourer’s good-humour.

  Not giving an immediate answer to Ferroner’s question, the captain looked around the huge premises in a desperate bid to stall for time while he thought how he could best convey his dire news. Two of the workshop employees were close in age to Ferroner and probably held master status; one engaged in riveting together a knight’s helm and the other overseeing a young man drawing red-hot strips of metal through an iron loop to make them tubular so they could be fashioned into links for mailed armour. The rest of the men were of all of younger age and engaged in minor tasks—one of them working a small hand-fired bellows set alongside the larger one, another polishing finished pieces with a mixture of sand, vinegar and urine, and the rest putting final touches on smaller and simpler items such as stirrups and spurs. All of their eyes had turned upon Roget when he entered the armoury, some covertly, others openly curious. The heat was intense, a combination of the powerful warmth of the blazing summer sun and the glowing fires of the forges making it almost unbearable. Most of the men were stripped bare to the waist, their only cover a leather apron as protection against burning sparks, and heavy leather gloves that extended up past their wrists to the elbow. The smell of molten metal was strong in the air, tinged with the pungent scent of human sweat.

  “No, Master Ferroner,” Roget finally replied to the armourer’s query, “I have not come about any of your men’s unruly behaviour but on another, much sadder, duty.”

  The armourer put down the mace on which he had been working, a finely crafted weapon of the type known as a “morning star,” which had a number of deadly spikes attached to a round metal ball, and looked at the captain with apprehension.

  “What has passed?” he asked quietly, his beefy face apprehensive. “Has something happened to my daughter? She was away last night staying with a friend so they could go early to St. Dunstan’s shrine. There hasn’t been an accident, has there?”

  Roget tried to think of a way he could soften the blow he was about to deliver, but knew there was none. “I am afraid your daughter is dead, Master Ferroner,” he said gently. “An unknown assailant attacked and killed her this morning while she was at the shrine.”

  A howl of anguish broke from the armourer, and he fell back against a post on which shirts of chain mail were hanging, just as though he had been struck a heavy blow from the mace on which he had been working. “No, it cannot be!” he groaned. “Are you certain it is Emma and not some other maid who has been mistaken for her?”

  “There is no doubt, I am afraid,” Roget replied sadly. “Her friend, Mistress Turner, was with her at the time of her death and has made certain identification.”

  The armourer fell to his knees and began to sob, and one of the younger employees, a tall man with a shock of fair hair and finely chiselled features, ran forward and knelt beside him. “What is it, Robert? What has happened?”

  “It is Emma—she is dead, Wiger,
dead of murder.” Ferroner’s voice had sunk to a whisper, and the other man, his countenance shocked, looked up at Roget.

  “I am Emma’s husband. Is this true?”

  At Roget’s nod, Wiger got to his feet, his voice hoarse with stupefaction. “How did it happen?”

  Briefly, and with as few words as possible, the captain conveyed the details that had been related to him. As he spoke the other employees crowded round, sympathy for their master and Wiger written large on each of their faces, as they shook their heads in disbelief that such a tragedy had taken place.

  When Roget had finished telling them all that was known of what had befallen Emma Ferroner, he told both the armourer and her husband that Lady Nicolaa sent her condolences and also her assurance that she would make every effort to bring the murderer to justice. Then he asked both of them if they knew of anyone who had cause to wish Emma dead.

  “There is no one,” Ferroner declared, getting slowly to his feet. “She was a good maid all of her life, like her dead mother before her.” He raised his huge hands and clenched them into fists. “It is I who am to blame. I should never have let her go to the shrine without protection, may God forgive me. And now she is dead, just like my wife.”

  Sobs again began to rack his frame, and Wiger, his own eyes filled with tears, tried clumsily to comfort him, telling him that it was not his fault; he could not have foreseen that any harm would come to Emma on such an innocuous journey. A chorus of “ayes” came from the assembled men as they added the same assurances. But Ferroner did not listen, just stumbled from the workshop and out the door, begging to be left alone with his grief.

  Roget had taken his leave shortly after, feeling it would be best to wait until a few hours had passed and the armourer’s sorrow, and that of young woman’s husband, had time to settle before making any attempt to question them further.