Clarice remained mute and looked helplessly up at her husband. Adgate once again gave a reply to the question. “As I have said, Sir Bascot, she may have seen the dead man once or twice, but that is all. Now, I must insist that you allow my wife to return to her bed. She is ill, as you can see, and the memory of how near she was to death is very distressing to her.”
Bascot stood up. “Very well, furrier. I will leave my questions there-for now. But I, or Sir Richard, will want to speak to both you and your wife again. Be ready to present yourselves at the castle tomorrow at mid-morning. Perhaps your wife will have recovered sufficiently by then to answer my questions more fully.”
Adgate started to protest, but the Templar cut him short. “I find it hard to believe that your wife would be so stricken with distress for the death of a man you claim she barely knew, or that she was so indisposed that she heard nothing while this same man was being murdered in the building where she was abed. I would advise you both to reflect on the matter until tomorrow and, when you come to the castle, be ready to tell the truth.”
Clarice let out a great sob as Bascot and Gianni left the chamber. Once outside the shop, Bascot untied the reins of his horse and, as they both settled themselves atop the animal, said to Gianni, “Lady Alinor was right, there is something that both Adgate and his wife are not telling us. It only remains to discover what it is.”
Later that evening, her work in the chandlery finished for the day and the household set in order, the candle-maker’s daughter, Merisel, slipped into the chamber where her ailing mother lay in bed. The illness that had seemed slight on the day of the feast had taken a turn for the worse and Mistress Wickson now lay on her pallet, grey-faced and short of breath.
Merisel went to her side and, reaching out a hand, smoothed her mother’s disordered hair back from her brow. Edith Wickson did indeed look ill, large dark circles had formed under her soft brown eyes and her mouth was tremulous. She had always been of an energetic and dithering nature, flittering from one task to another in an effort to please her demanding husband; to see her lying so still was worrying. “Are you feeling any better, Mother?” Merisel asked.
“A little,” Mistress Wickson replied. “Have you attended to all that needs to be done?”
“I have,” Merisel replied. “Do not worry, you will soon be well and able to see to the tasks yourself.”
Edith Wickson fiddled nervously with the heavy braid of greying brown hair which lay over her shoulder and said, “Your father told me that a Templar came today to question him about the murder in the castle. And that he spoke to you as well. What did he ask?”
“Only if we knew the man who was murdered in the castle and if we had seen him speaking with anyone in the town.”
“And what did you tell him?”
Merisel shrugged. “The truth, of course. That I had neither made his acquaintance nor knew of anyone that had.”
Mistress Wickson took her daughter’s hand and pressed it as tears welled in her eyes. “You are a good girl, Merisel, and serve your father and myself well. You know that I only want what is best for you.”
Merisel smiled. “I am glad you feel so, Mother,” she replied, but a shiver of unease rippled through her. It was unlike her mother to be so melancholy. She reached for a small phial sitting on a table beside the bed. “Come, take the medicine I got from the apothecary. It will help you sleep more peacefully. If you do not get enough rest, it will take you longer to recover.”
Obediently, Mistress Wickson sipped the foul mixture from the spoon her daughter held out to her, then lay back and closed her eyes. But as Merisel doused the candle and left the room, the girl could not erase the conversation she had with the Templar from her mind, nor the anxiety her mother had shown when she had asked about it.
Eleven
Early the next morning, some fifty miles southwest of Lincoln, Richard de Humez, Petronille’s husband, was pacing the floor of a small chamber in his manor house near Stamford, agitatedly running a hand over the thinning hair on his pate. Seated on a chair across the room was a local knight, Stephen Wharton, whose small demesne abutted the fief de Humez held from the king. They had been friends for many years but now de Humez’ face was filled with consternation as he stopped his pacing and faced Wharton.
“I find it hard to believe that what you have just told me about Tercel is true. Why did you not apprise me of these facts when you urged me to give him a post in my household?”
Wharton, a man of about fifty years of age with an open, honest face and mild blue eyes, tried to find words that would pacify the baron. De Humez was a fussy and precise individual who was a little too conscious of his high position, but he was a decent man and they had been friends for a long time.
“Truly, Dickon, I did not think the matter of any importance… .”
De Humez’s response was full of irritation. “Of no importance! How can you deem it a falderal that a retainer of mine-one I took into my service on your recommendation-believed himself to be the bastard son of a man who was once king of England! And that he might have been murdered to prevent him substantiating that claim!”
“It may seem as though I have deceived you, Dickon, but truly, that was not my intent,” Wharton said abjectly. “I thought his notion was merely a passing fancy, one that he would soon dismiss when he saw the futility of pursuing it further. But now that he has been killed, I fear he may have been asking questions in quarters where they would not be well come…”
“And was murdered to ensure his silence,” de Humez finished gravely. The baron walked over to the table and poured himself another cup of wine. When he had drunk deeply from the cup, he sat down heavily on a padded chair beside the roaring fire in the grate.
“You had better tell me the whole sorry tale, Stephen. And then, if you value my friendship, you will go to Lincoln and repeat it to my sister-by-marriage, Nicolaa de la Haye.” His eyes narrowed as he added, “And God help you if this so called fantasy of Tercel’s has put my wife and daughter in danger. I am not normally a vengeful man, but you can be assured that in this instance I will ensure you pay to the fullest measure for your actions.”
Wharton took a nervous swallow of his wine. De Humez held a large fief from the king and was far above him in wealth and social standing. He hoped that what he was about to relate had nothing to do with Tercel’s death but if, by some rare chance it did, he prayed that his own role in the matter would be overlooked, at least by the man seated across from him.
Bascot arrived at the castle just after Terce. He had spoken at length with Richard Camville and Lady Nicolaa the afternoon before, relating the little he had learned from the barber-surgeons and the chandler before revealing his suspicions about Simon Adgate and telling them that he had commanded the furrier and his wife to come to the castle for further questioning at mid-morning. Nicolaa had requested that Bascot be present at the interview and the Templar had willingly consented. Now, as he left his horse in the castle stable and made his way into the hall, the Haye steward, Eudo, came forward and told him that the castellan and her son were in the solar and had asked that, when he arrived, he joined them there.
As Bascot went up the stairs in the western tower, Gianni came from the landing that led off to the scriptorium, his wax tablet in his hand. Together they ascended to the top storey, where the solar was located. When they entered the chamber they found Alinor seated alongside her aunt and cousin. From the purposeful set of her mouth, Bascot could see that she had been told of his suspicions about Clarice Adgate and agreed with them.