A Holy Vengeance Read online

  “Perhaps,” he said to Nicolaa, “but it is a strange blade for a man seasoned to arms to use. I would have expected such a killer to use one more suitable for his purpose.” A long thin knife such as a misericorde—a dagger often carried by knights that was comprised of not much more than a narrow spike and was an effective killing weapon—would have been much more efficient. It would have slid into the spaces between the ribs with ease.

  “And then there is the fact that the assailant dropped it,” he added. “An experienced assassin would be ready for attack from any quarter; when the ravens flew at him is it not more likely he would have struck out at them with his weapon than panicked and dropped it?”

  “That troubled me, too,” the castellan admitted. “Do you think the perfumer could have killed her friend and is fabricating this story of an assailant to cover her own guilt?”

  The Templar mused on her question before he made a reply. “I suppose it is possible, although the thrusts must have been delivered strongly, perhaps too hardly for a woman’s strength. And surely it is not likely she would have enough knowledge of the human anatomy to deliver such well-directed blows.”

  “She is young and appears vigorous. The passion of the moment may have lent power to her arm,” the castellan responded to his first objection. “And,” she added with regard to the second, “her father was an apothecary. Might she not have learned the structure of the skeleton through him?”

  “Perhaps,” Bascot admitted. “It is a likelihood we shall have to bear in mind.”

  He looked again at the knife; the killer must have wielded it from a sideways position so that the blade entered her body horizontally, for the blade was too wide to have entered vertically without being impeded by bone. He asked Clare if this was so and she gave him confirmation that the wounds were horizontal in placement.

  He again turned the knife over in his hands. There was nothing on it to give any indication of who might have owned it. At the join of the blade with the haft was a strip of grimy residue where it had not been cleansed properly. Other than that, there was nothing remarkable about its appearance. He re-wrapped it in the square of linen and put it aside on the bench and then asked Clare if she had seen any marks other than the stab wounds on the body.

  “Only two small abrasions, lord, one on her forehead and the other on her cheek, that likely happened when she fell face forward and struck the ground after she was stabbed.”

  “And you examined her clothing as well?” Bascot asked.

  “I did,” she confirmed, “and except for the blood on the back of her gown, and some traces of dirt on the front from the greenwood floor, there was nothing that seemed untoward.”

  “And her appearance,” Bascot said, “would you describe her to me?”

  Clare reflected on the request for a moment before answering. “She was tall for a woman, lord, and lean, with not much flesh on her bones. Her hair was pale brown and her complexion fair.” She hesitated for a moment, and then added, “Although it seems disrespectful to speak so of the poor woman, she was not well-favoured. Not only were her features plain, but she had some small scars on her face, as well as on her torso and arms and legs. The marks looked old, and I do not think were inflicted by accident or intent, but were probably the result of a skin infection she suffered during her childhood. She had one attractive attribute, however, and that was her eyes. They were of a luminous shade of green that, with life’s animation, would have been beautiful.”

  “You have done well, Clare,” Nicolaa commended, knowing how distasteful the sempstress had found the experience. “You may return to the keep now. If Sir Bascot has any further questions, I will send for you.”

  As the young woman walked quietly away, Bascot studied the castellan. The last time he had seen her had been at the end of January, almost five months before, when he had returned a sealed letter she had entrusted to him in Canterbury with the instructions to keep it, unopened, until she should arrive safely back in Lincoln. She had never revealed to him what the missive had contained, but he was certain it had some connection to the king. She had seemed strained throughout the whole murder investigation in Canterbury and her malaise had not improved on the last occasion he had been in her company. But now, he was pleased to note, she seemed to have regained the composure that had been natural to her during the years he had known her. Her small figure was upright and radiated a familiar confidence.

  “Well, de Marins, what is the next step you wish to take?” she asked. “You will want to speak to the relatives of the dead woman, I expect. Do you wish to do that next? Or would you rather interrogate Mistress Turner?”

  “First I would like Gianni to accompany me to the shrine,” Bascot said, with a glance at the lad, who nodded in agreement, “to ensure the killer has not left any traces that have been overlooked. From there we can go to Burton. The murderer may have been in the neighbourhood prior to attacking the victim—one of villagers might have seen him without realising the purpose of his presence there.”

  The Templar paused. “Once that has been done, we will speak to the family. You said that you sent Roget to apprise them of Mistress Ferroner’s death?”

  At Nicolaa’s nod, he requested that the captain accompany them to the armoury when he and Gianni went there. “He is familiar to the father and husband,” he explained, “and will be a useful liaison while I interview them.”

  “And Mistress Turner?” Nicolaa asked.

  “We will leave her until last,” Bascot replied. “If we are armed with as many facts as it is possible to obtain, it might make it easier to ascertain whether or not she is telling the truth.”

  Chapter 11

  Leaving the castellan in the herb garden, the Templar and Gianni went out to the stables to order a mount saddled for the lad. As they waited for a groom to attend to the task, the pair stood in easy company and Bascot noted that Gianni was developing a maturity that was evident in the confidence of his stride and the upright manner in which he held his shoulders. His unruly mop of black curly hair had been shorn and a shadow of darkness on his cheeks revealed he had now begun to shave. In his dark green tunic with the de la Haye emblem of a five-pointed star on the breast, and the leather pouch containing his writing implements strapped to the belt around his waist, he looked every inch the valued and competent clerk he had striven so hard to become. The Templar’s heart swelled with pride as he regarded him.

  With Bascot on the grey gelding he had ridden from the commandery and Gianni on a palfrey, they left the bail and turned onto Ermine Street and, a few moments later, passed through Newport Arch and headed north.

  As they turned off and rode along the path to the sanctuary, it soon became obvious that Bishop William had not made any delay in carrying out his intention to reconsecrate the shrine. Before they had left the herb garden, Nicolaa de la Haye had told the Templar about Dean Roger’s visit and, as he and Gianni neared the dell where the shrine was located, they saw three palfreys in the care of a groom, all caparisoned with coverings emblazoned with the insignia of the see of Lincoln. Farther ahead a group of villagers were gathered about the statue of St. Duncan, heads bowed respectfully as a priest, in full liturgical regalia consisting of a chasuble worn over an alb and a stole at the neck, intoned the final words of the rite. Two Benedictine monks stood a little behind him to assist in the ceremony, attired in the black robes of their order. As Bascot and Gianni quietly dismounted and stood at the back of the crowd, one of the monks held out a flask of holy water to sprinkle around the base of the statue. As the priest turned to take the vial, the Templar recognised him as Dean Roger, who was a familiar figure in the cathedral precincts. The bishop must indeed be concerned about the repercussions that had followed the murder, the Templar reflected, to send such a high-ranking cleric to conduct the cleansing.

  After leading the small congregation in a closing prayer and then a paternoster, the dean brou
ght the service to an end. In the overhanging branches of an oak tree, two ravens were perched, silently watching the proceedings.

  Before leaving the dell, Dean Roger spoke a few words of encouragement to the villagers, telling them that, henceforth, they need have no fear to tend the shrine or take the path that led past it. “Any trace of the evil act that was done here has now been expunged,” he assured them, “by the blessing of Our Lord Jesus Christ Himself.”

  With this closing remark, he and the monks made their way from the tiny glade, and went back to where their mounts were waiting.

  Before the crowd of villagers could disperse, Bascot walked over and spoke to one of them, a man who seemed to have a bearing of authority. “I am Bascot de Marins of the Templar Order, and have been sent by Lady Nicolaa de la Haye to investigate the murder that took place here,” he said. “I would like to speak to Rudd, the reeve of Burton village. Are you he?”

  “I am,” the man confirmed. “How may I help you, lord?”

  “I would like to ask if you, or any of the other villagers, have recently seen any strangers in the area—either on the morning that the young woman was slain, or during the days before.”

  The reeve was a man who suited his name, for both his hair and countenance were a fiery red. Rubbing the rusty-coloured stubble on his chin with his fingers, he hesitated before answering but, when he did, he was forthright. “I begs your pardon, lord, if I seems too forward, but all of us in the village is certain as how ’twas the Devil that killed that poor young woman. Two days afore she was murdered, just about midday, the ravens wus makin’ a terrible fuss, croakin’ and cawin’ like we’ve never heard, and we cum runnin’ to see what was the matter.

  “We couldn’t find anything amiss here in the dell, so we thought it might be that some crows had attacked them—crows will do that, you know, for even though they are smaller birds, they can fly faster than ravens and swoop and dive more quickly—while trying to steal food that penitents had left for the guardians of the shrine, but we couldn’t see any. Now, after we’ve all had time to think it over, we’re sartin sure that the birds were tryin’ to warn us that Satan, or one of his demons, was near.”

  Bascot glanced up at the birds, still sitting bright-eyed and watchful. Or, the Templar thought, it could have been that they had been disturbed by a mortal murderer, come to inspect the place where he planned to commit his crime.

  The Templar told Rudd nothing of his thoughts, just thanked him for the information and then watched as he and the other villagers walked back down the path that led to Burton. Once they had gone, he went over to the shrine. Of simple construction, similar to many found in the countryside all over England, it bore no obvious marks of the recent tragedy. The ground, having been trampled by the feet of the dean and his assistants and also the villagers during the reconsecration, was too scuffed to find any trace of the murderer’s passage.

  “It is a shame that so many have been here since the death took place,” Bascot said to Gianni after relating what the reeve had said, and his own opinion that in addition to a devilish presence, the disturbance could just as easily been caused by a man come to reconnoitre the spot where he would lie in wait for his victim. “If the killer left behind any sign of his identity, it has now been obliterated.”

  Gianni made a gesture encompassing the encircling woods to ask if he should search the trees for traces of the assailant. Bascot nodded. The lad had sharp eyes; if there was anything to be found, he would discover it.

  As Gianni walked to the edge of the dell and stepped carefully into the greenwood, and began peering at the ground and into the undergrowth, Bascot reviewed what Lady Nicolaa had told him of Mistress Turner’s evidence. The murdered woman must have fallen not far from where he was standing, just a foot or two from the base of the pile of weathered stone on which the statue of St. Dunstan stood. As he tried to re-enact the murder in his mind, a small movement distracted him. It was one of the ravens, which had flown down and alighted on the ground a small way from where he was standing. As he turned his head towards it, it hopped closer, carrying something in its beak. Bascot watched with interest, standing very still and waiting to see its intent. The bird came closer until it was level with him and then dropped whatever it was carrying beside his feet. After one bright upward glance from its black eye, it hopped away again and took flight back up into the tree.

  The Templar reached down and picked up what the raven had been carrying. It was a scrap of rough linen, of a quality used to fashion inexpensive summer cloaks worn by people of lesser means, and entwined in the weave of the fabric were a few strands of hair, dark auburn in colour. He recalled that Lady Nicolaa had told him that Constance Turner had said that when the ravens attacked the assailant they had pecked at his head as they had driven him away. This scrap of material must be a part of the hood attached to the murderer’s cloak, he thought, and the birds had torn it off during their onslaught, taking along a few strands of the killer’s hair as they did so.

  Realizing he had just been given an important piece of evidence, Bascot looked up gratefully into the boughs of the tree. Both birds were now on one of the lower branches, perched side by side, watching him. Bowing his head, he offered up a prayer of thanks to God and St. Dunstan for the vigilance of the sentinels they had sent to guard the shrine.

  Chapter 12

  “From what Gianni and I learned at the shrine today, lady, there is no longer any doubt in my mind. I have certain proof that neither the Devil nor a demon was responsible for Emma Ferroner’s death,” Bascot said to Nicolaa after they had returned to the castle and been shown into her private chamber.

  Handing the castellan the scrap of cloth the ravens had given him, he related how he had come by it. “You will recall that Mistress Turner told us that the ravens flew at Emma Ferroner’s assailant and attacked him with their beaks. Her witness is borne out by that piece of material, for they must have torn it from the hood covering the murderer’s head, and that is why one of the birds gave it to me. St. Dunstan, through his shrine’s guardians, is sending us a message, lady. Of what import would this piece of evidence be if the murderer had been the Devil? He can change shape at will; whatever clothing He assumed would have vanished in the transformation along with this scrap of fabric.”

  The castellan crossed herself and looked down at the cloth. “Thanks be to God,” she murmured, “and St. Dunstan. The saint and Lucifer are old enemies; they know each other well and therefore, through this evidence, he is telling us that it is not the Devil that committed the crime.”

  “And neither, do I believe, is it a man possessed by a demon. While it is true that, as described in the Bible, inhabitation by such an entity is possible, it is also very rare. And in the few cases I have heard described, the occupancy usually results in a severe physical disability or a mazing of the wits. I do not think such a poor tortured soul would, as is indicated by what the reeve told me, have had the foresight to go to the shrine two days prior to his crime in order to reconnoitre the place where he intended to kill.”

  “Yes,” Nicolaa agreed. “When I was young, I remember there was a woman in one of the villages in my father’s demesne who claimed she had a demon inside her head that was making her brain ache insufferably. She apparently kept banging her head on the ground and on walls in an effort to make the demon depart. My father sent for a priest to go to the village and exorcise her, but before he had time to get there she had thrown herself into the village pool and drowned. I think your deduction is correct, de Marins; our murderer has been too canny to be possessed by a demon.”

  She pondered for a moment and then said, “This evidence is incontrovertible for me, but I fear the townsfolk are too panic-stricken to follow the reasoning, even if they are told it was obtained by St. Dunstan’s intercession. As Dean Roger reminded me, logic is unlikely to prevail in this instance. The only proof that will satisfy the populace is for the culpr
it to be apprehended and revealed to be just a mortal man who has an earthly motive for murder.”

  After examining the scrap of cloth in her hand, she added, “From this piece of evidence, it would appear that Mistress Turner was telling the truth after all.”

  “Yes, and there are further signs that prove her story,” the Templar replied. “Gianni made a thorough search of the woods, and found that some of the bushes in the undergrowth had leaves and stems that were badly broken as though someone had trampled them in haste. That fits with the perfumer’s description of the assailant’s wild flight when the ravens chased him.”

  The castellan walked over to the narrow casement set in the outside wall of her private chamber, and held the small piece of material up to the light. It was roughly triangular in shape, with a blunt end that tapered to a narrow apex where a few threads of the fabric hung loose. The hairs that were entangled in the cloth were all approximately six inches in length and dark brown, but glinted with a reddish hue when held up to the narrow bar of sunlight streaming through the window.

  Nicolaa returned to her desk and laid the scrap on the table. “The strands are short, so it is unlikely they came from a woman’s head,” she said, “although that is not impossible if they were torn from the hairline. But it is more likely they belong to a man, as Mistress Turner asserted, and not a female garbed in masculine clothing.”

  “I agree, lady,” Bascot replied. “But even though we can assume the gender with a degree of confidence, it will still be difficult to identify the owner. That colour of hair is not uncommon and there are many people with rents in the hoods they wear that have been torn by innocent accident or simply through wear. Nonetheless, this evidence will greatly aid us. Any man that has hair of a different hue can be eliminated from suspicion—at least from commission of the actual deed—and if we have a suspect that fits the criterion of hair colour and who possesses a hood with a tear of that shape, it will go far towards confirming his guilt.”