A Holy Vengeance Read online

  “I was told earlier today by Brother John that a young woman, the daughter of an armourer whose services we have used on occasion, has been murdered in the greenwood just north of Lincoln. And while she was praying at a shrine to St. Dunstan, I understand. Have you heard of it?”

  “Yes, Preceptor, I have, although the details, so far, are sketchy.”

  D’Arderon heaved a sigh. “It is a crime of great sacrilege and, I am told, has unsettled many of the lay brothers.” He looked up at Bascot. “Lady Nicolaa has sought your help on many murder investigations; she may well do so with this one. If she does, de Marins, you have my permission to assist her. It is our duty to fight evil wherever it is found, whether in the Holy Land or our own Christian countries. Such a villain must be caught, and without delay.”

  Bascot bowed his head in acquiescence. He, too, had been appalled by the crime, and wanted justice for the victim. If it was God’s will to use him as His instrument in bringing that about, he would be more than happy to comply.

  * * *

  It lacked yet an hour to dawn and the greenwood was silent around the shrine of St. Dunstan. Above, in the still darkness of the sky, the moon was full and riding low on the horizon, gliding with an almost imperceptible movement just above the tops of the surrounding trees. In its glimmer, it could be seen that the villagers of Burton had nailed the little silver horseshoe that Emma had brought as an offering—and dropped when she had been attacked—at the apex of the wooden covering over the shrine, hoping it would help to dispel any evil influence that lingered after her murder.

  At the edge of the dell a man stood viewing the scene before him. He was cloaked and hooded, and scanned the trees around the shrine carefully before slowly creeping forward to the spot where he had slain the woman. The ravens would be ensconced in their nest, he was sure, and would not stir while night’s darkness continued to reign.

  It was still hard for him to realise that he had actually fulfilled the promise he had made and killed the armourer’s daughter. That was why he had come, to relive the moment he had stabbed her to death and convince himself it had been real. He had imagined it for so long—not the where or the how, but the act of slaying her—that now it seemed as though it were a dream. He sighed with satisfaction. The task had not been easy but, in the end, he had triumphed. Now the one person he loved so dearly could be at peace.

  With one last lingering look at the moonlit spot where his victim had fallen, he turned and left the dell and, as he did so, two pairs of beady black eyes in the trees above the shrine followed his progress. It was the ravens. The man had not noticed them watching him as he stood in front of St. Dunstan’s statue relishing the memory of his victory. Had he done so, it might have shaken his complacency.

  Chapter 8

  A short time after first light, Roget arrived at Constance Turner’s house and dismissed the castle man-at-arms that had been on duty overnight. Lady Nicolaa’s habits were well-known to all who served her. She was an early riser and, after attending Mass in the small private chapel in the keep, would expect the morning meal to be laid ready for eating. He did not want to further irritate her with tardiness, and so intended to bring Constance to the keep just as the meal was finishing.

  When he rapped softly at the door, it was quickly opened by Agnes. Her face was full of anxiety and her eyes pleading. “I am sorry, ma petite, I have come for your mistress,” he said to her.

  Before the girl could emit more than a choked sob, Constance appeared behind her, lightly cloaked for the journey. “I have been expecting you, Captain,” was all she said, and then, giving Agnes a comforting peck on the cheek, stepped over the threshold and fell into step beside him.

  The sun shone brightly on the cobbles as they walked up Steep Hill to the castle ward. Not a word was exchanged between them. Constance could see the misery on Roget’s dark visage, and regretted that she was the cause of it. He was a forbidding figure to all the malcontents in the town, but she knew that he was possessed of a tender heart for any who were innocent, especially those weaker than himself. Once again she castigated herself for the lie she had told; even though she knew it had been of no importance, she should have realised it would not appear that way to others.

  When they entered the hall, they were met by the castle steward, Eudo. “Lady Nicolaa has instructed me to tell you that she will receive you in the solar,” he said to Roget, and the captain began to wend his way through the servants that were dismantling the trestle tables used earlier for breaking fast and the maidservants collecting remnants of food to be distributed as alms to the poor.

  Constance held her head high as she followed him. She could not fail to notice the surreptitious glances that were cast her way by the servants. There was little sympathy in their gazes and she knew they all wondered if she was a murderess.

  The solar was a spacious chamber at the top of the keep usually used by Nicolaa to entertain visitors. It was comfortably furnished and had casements along the outer wall, now open to admit a cooling breeze before the heat of the day began. A huge fireplace dominated the far end of the room, the grate empty of logs and swept clean, and it was in front of this that the castellan was sitting in a padded chair with arms. At her side, Gianni was perched on a stool, his writing tablet on his knee.

  “Thank you, Captain, for bringing Mistress Turner so promptly,” Nicolaa said to Roget, surprising him with her courtesy. Her demeanour was very different from the day before, and she seemed more like her usual self—cool and decisive, her pale blue eyes clear and penetrating.

  “You may wait at the back of the solar until I summon you,” she said to Roget, and he turned and walked to the far end of the chamber, out of earshot.

  Motioning for Constance to come and stand in front of her, Nicolaa said, “You are here, mistress, to tell me why you lied about your quarrel with the armourer’s daughter and the cause of it. You may proceed.”

  Nervously, Constance repeated what she had said to Roget. “I omitted to inform you, lady, because I felt it was of no import. The argument between Emma and myself took place some weeks ago and we had lately been reconciled. Our disagreement has no bearing on her death.”

  “And the nature of this dissension was something to do with a potion she wished you to prepare for her?” Nicolaa asked.

  Constance nodded. “As you already know, she was desperate to conceive a child. She told me she had been to one or two apothecaries in the town and purchased mixtures from them that it was claimed would increase her fertility, but to no avail. She thought that I might be able to help her.”

  “If the apothecaries’ remedies had failed, why did she believe that you, who are only a perfumer, could render her assistance when learned practitioners had failed to do so?”

  “She wished me to prepare a mixture that she had not asked the apothecaries for, one that might make her more receptive to impregnation . . .” Constance trailed off and glanced hesitantly at Gianni, whose olive-coloured complexion had flushed red upon hearing such intimate details.

  Nicolaa glanced at her young clerk and, noting his embarrassment, she gestured to the flagon of cider that sat on a small table beside her and said, “Gianni, this cider has become too warm to drink on such a hot morning. Go and instruct one of the stewards to give you a fresh one, and tell him to make sure it has been cooled in the buttery. I will take note of the information Mistress Turner gives in your absence, and you can add it to the record later.”

  Thankfully, Gianni arose from his stool and left the room. Nicolaa turned back to Constance. “Continue,” she instructed.

  “It is a well-known fact that a woman must enjoy the act of copulation in order to conceive,” Constance said, “but although Emma was very much in love with Wiger, she found that, even after almost two years of marriage, their coupling was still painful and so it was difficult for her to take any pleasure in it. She believed that the only hope of rem
edying her barrenness was to take an elixir that would increase her desire and thereby enable her to conceive a child.”

  “A love philtre, you mean?” the castellan said, disapproval written on her face. Such concoctions smacked of witchcraft, and were not included in the province of God-fearing apothecaries.

  “Yes, lady,” Constance replied. She paused for a moment, and then said, “Many of my customers are inclined to gossip about intimate matters when they come to purchase my wares, and some of them have mentioned that, in the first weeks of their marriage they had the same difficulty as Emma but that, after a time, it disappeared. I told her of this and said that if she would have patience, the same could happen to her.”

  The castellan nodded in understanding. Some discomfort was to be expected when a virgin bride surrendered her chastity upon marriage, especially if the husband was lusty, and for some women it was of longer duration than others.

  “But while Emma was prepared to tell me, her friend,” Constance continued, “that she did not enjoy her husband’s caresses, she feared to tell an apothecary in case her complaint should be repeated to Wiger. It was for the same reason that she did not consult a physician, who would, she was sure, wish to speak to her husband in regard to her problem.”

  “While that must have been a difficult situation for her to contend with,” Nicolaa agreed, “it does not explain why she thought that you might be able to help her. Have you knowledge of such mixtures?”

  “A little,” Constance admitted. “My father was an apothecary, lady, and I had once told Emma of his profession. He was a very learned man and taught me much before he died, but I have chosen not to use the skills he imparted to me. I make only perfumes and unguents for cosmetic purposes. I do not prepare any mixtures that are medicaments, especially those that contain poisonous plants such as mandragora, which is an ingredient usually used in a concoction such as Emma wanted.”

  “Not even to help your friend?” Nicolaa asked sceptically.

  Constance’s wide mouth set in a firm line. “No,” she averred.

  “And why is that?”

  “My father’s death was due, albeit indirectly, to his attempt to aid a woman in distress over a sexual difficulty,” Constance replied shortly. “Nothing would persuade me to follow the same path.”

  “Explain that statement to me,” Nicolaa directed.

  The perfumer’s shoulders slumped. “I have not always lived in Lincoln, lady,” she said. “I came here four years ago from Boston, after my father died. As I said, he was a very skilled apothecary, but some of his theories about ailments and their cause were . . . different . . . from those commonly accepted, and the other apothecaries in the town regarded him as an incompetent because of it.”

  She raised her soft hazel eyes and met Nicolaa’s steadily. “One of the premises he held was particularly distasteful to them, and it was, in an oblique way, related to the very problem with which Emma wished me to help her. Shortly before my father died, a young girl claiming to have been raped became gravid as a result of the assault. As you know, if pregnancy results from this crime, it negates the charge of sexual attack, for it is believed a woman cannot become pregnant unless she enjoys the copulation. This girl was very young and, after she found herself to be carrying a babe, she was so shamed by the accusation that she hung herself. My father, who was a friend of the girl’s parents, was distraught on the family’s behalf, and especially for their poor dead daughter, who had been in such despair that she would rather consign her soul to damnation by committing suicide than live with the opprobrium heaped upon her. He had always opposed the premise that a woman cannot conceive unless she enjoys the act, and vociferously castigated the officials in the town for driving her to the commission of such a terrible sin. His recriminations earned him only one reward—expulsion from the apothecaries’ guild.”

  Constance paused for a moment, overtaken with emotion, before continuing in a less abrasive tone. “My father died shortly afterwards of a stoppage of the heart, and I will always believe it was despair that caused his fatal condition. I had no family left—my mother died when I was in infancy—and I took the small savings he left me and moved to Lincoln, so I would be far away from those who I believe were responsible for his demise. I also made a vow that I would never use such knowledge as I had to prepare medicaments, especially those pertaining to intimate matters. I saw what it did to my father, and I do not intend to allow it to happen to me.”

  Nicolaa had no doubt that the perfumer was telling the truth. It glistened in her eyes and in the manner in which she was barely holding tears in check.

  “Did you explain all of this to the armourer’s daughter when you refused her request for aid?”

  Constance shook her head. “No, I only told her that I would not help her, not the reason why. She became very upset with me when I declined and we did not speak for some weeks. When she came to see me a few days ago, she was repentant, and begged my forgiveness. We made the quarrel up, and it was then that she asked me to go with her to the shrine.”

  “Very well, mistress, I accept your explanation,” Nicolaa decided, “but that still does not answer the question of why you did not tell me about this disagreement before. If it was, as you claim, of no relevance, then what was your purpose in keeping it secret?”

  “There were two reasons, lady. One, I admit, was that if you knew I had quarrelled with Emma it might prompt you to view me as a suspect. The other is that she told me about her repugnance of her husband’s lovemaking in confidence. If I had repeated to you the nature of our discord, I feared that a report of it might be relayed to him. Wiger has enough grief to bear for the loss of his wife; I did not want to distress him further with the knowledge that she found his embraces distasteful.”

  At that moment, Gianni returned bearing a flagon of cider. The castellan motioned for him to retake his place upon the stool and continue with his task of taking notes.

  Nicolaa leaned back in her chair as she considered the perfumer’s statement. Finally, she asked, “Was there any witness to the conversation between you and your friend when you refused to aid her?”

  “No, lady. I live alone except for a young maidservant. She was not present when we discussed the matter.”

  “Then unfortunately, as is the case with the evidence you gave about the murder, you have no one who can substantiate your claim.”

  The castellan paused for a moment and then said, “I am inclined to give some credence to your statement, but as there is no verification, I must investigate it further before dismissing you as a suspect. You will be confined here in the castle gaol until such a time as that has been done.”

  Constance made no protest. She had been expecting such a decision and was prepared for it. The castellan motioned for Roget to come forward and instructed him to take Mistress Turner to a holding cell. Before he could lead her away, however, Nicolaa asked her one final question.

  “On what premise did your father form his innovative theory about female conception?”

  “He based his conclusion on his many observations of the enforced mating of kine and horses,” Constance replied. “His father—my grandsire—had an extensive holding outside Boston on which there were a large number of dairy cows and workhorses. During his childhood, my father had often witnessed that cows unwilling to mate had to be held in place while copulation with a bull took place. The same with horses; a reluctant mare needed to be tethered while the stallion mounted her. Although this could be considered akin to rape if their species were human, the union would still, more often than not, be productive of offspring. He reasoned that if it is that way with cattle and horses, it could be so with people.”

  Nicolaa stared thoughtfully after the perfumer as she was taken from the room. Her father sounded as though he had been an intelligent and observant man, even if his theories were radical. If his daughter had inherited these traits, m
ight she not have exceptional skills as well, including the ability to dissemble? Was her tale a complete fabrication, or was it the truth?

  Chapter 9

  A short time later, Nicolaa was still sitting in the solar alone. She had given Gianni a brief précis of that portion of Mistress Turner’s evidence he had missed—wording it so that the lad did not suffer any embarrassment—and then he had gone to write up his notes. The castellan walked over to the window and, because the solar was situated at the top of the keep, she could see a far distance. To the south, beyond the bail and the castle walls, lay the town, the diverse collection of buildings almost seeming to slide down the side of the knoll on which the castle and Minster were set, terminating at the banks of the Witham River. Once again a murderer was disturbing the peace of those who lived in the bailiwick for which she and her husband were responsible, and she was determined to see justice done in order to bring a modicum of solace to the family of the slain woman.

  As she was pondering the problem, a servant came to tell her that Roger de Rolleston, dean of Lincoln cathedral, was in the hall and requesting a private audience with her. She nodded in assent and told the manservant to show him up and to bring some refreshment for his comfort.

  A few moments later, the dean was shown into the room and a flagon of herbal cordial flavoured with honey was set on a table near the unlit fireplace. Motioning her guest to be seated, she returned to her own chair.

  Dean Roger was a man of young years for his office. He was of medium height, a bit pudgy, and had kindly blue eyes. Mild mannered and equable, he was popular with the other clerics in the town and also the townsfolk.