The women drew their breath in sharply at Adgate’s bald statement and Richard cursed under his breath. The furrier paused and then, at a nod from the castellan’s son, continued.
“Edith, rendered unconscious by the attack, lay in the passageway for some time, her absence unnoticed until Margaret returned to the hired rooms and found that her sister had not returned. Alarmed, she and my uncle immediately set out back along the path to the castle to try and find her, but to no avail. It wasn’t until the guard on the castle gate heard them calling out Edith’s name and sent some of the castle’s men-at-arms to join them in the search that she was found. She was in a dreadful state; her clothes were torn asunder and blood was gushing from the wound in her head. The gateward, seeing the severity of her condition, decided that the queen must be informed and despatched one of the soldiers to tell her.”
The furrier’s voice, choked with emotion, was barely audible as he went on. “The men-at-arms carried Edith to the castle bail and Queen Eleanor herself came out to meet them. Margaret told me that when the queen saw Edith’s pitiful condition, she directed that my cousin be taken to her own private rooms and the royal physician called to attend her. The queen even draped her own cloak over Edith’s prostrate form, not caring that it would be stained with blood, and walked by my cousin’s side as the soldiers carried her into the keep.”
Visibly shaken by the strain of his recounting, Nicolaa gave Adgate a moment to compose himself, and then gently urged him to continue. “The queen’s physician was unable to rouse Edith from her stupor,” he told them haltingly, “but he confirmed what everyone feared, that the object of the attack had been to defile her. He thought it best that my cousin was given over to the care of women for, he said, when she regained her senses, the presence of a male so near to her person might cause her great distress. The queen ordered Edith taken to a nearby nunnery and the good nuns, only too willing to oblige a request from the royal lady, readily took my cousin into their care.”
“It must have been a terrible ordeal for such a young girl to suffer,” Nicolaa said. “And, from what you say, she was never able to identify the man who attacked her.”
“No, she was not, lady,” Adgate confirmed. “In fact, she hardly remembered anything of it at all, for which we all gave thanks to God. But, notwithstanding that, she lay unconscious for some days and, when she finally came to her senses, could not stand erect without losing her balance. The infirmarian in the convent thought that the blow to her head was the cause of her unsteadiness but, whatever it was, it took some weeks for her to recover from it.”
“And she remained in the convent during that time?” Petronille asked.
“Yes, Queen Eleanor had asked the nuns not to remove her from their care until her health was restored,” Adgate replied. “But by the time she finally managed to keep upright, the infirmarian in the convent noticed that she was beginning to show signs of gravidity and my uncle and Margaret-who had remained in the town awaiting the time that Edith should be well enough to travel back to Lincoln-were devastated by this further disaster. They had told their acquaintances in Winchester that Edith had tripped and fallen, hurting her head badly, and had been taken to the nunnery to be cared for. The queen, too, had concealed the truth about Edith’s injury, instructing her guards to tell no one what they had seen on that night. But now that Edith was with child, my uncle and Margaret knew it would be impossible to hide what had truly happened from the prying eyes of the world, and my cousin’s reputation would be ruined. There was also the problem of Edith’s impending marriage to Thomas Wickson. While the fact that my cousin had been assaulted could be hidden from him, it would be impossible to hide the babe swelling in her womb and they knew he would never countenance taking her as a bride when he learned of her condition. They did not know what to do until the queen, having heard from the nuns that Edith was with child as a result of the attack, sent for them to attend her.”
The furrier’s eyes were shining with admiration as he told of his uncle and Margaret’s visit to the queen. “She received them with great sympathy and, learning of their dilemma over Edith’s impending marriage, suggested that it might be best if my cousin was removed to a nunnery nearer to Lincoln-one not far from Stamford where the abbess was a personal friend of the queen’s-and kept there until her confinement was over. That way, the queen said, the approaching birth could be kept privy from any who knew Edith or her family and, once the child was born, my cousin could return to Lincoln without her future husband, or any of their neighbours, having knowledge of what had befallen her. My uncle, grateful for the queen’s support, readily agreed to the plan, and she sent for Lionel Wharton, who had lately arrived in Winchester carrying despatches from Lionheart. When he arrived, the queen told him of Edith’s predicament and said that since he lived near Stamford, she wished him to covertly escort my cousin to her destination and once there, and with her authority, to make whatever arrangements were necessary for the duration of Edith’s confinement and also for the child’s welfare after it was born. And so it was done.”
“And how was Edith’s absence explained to those who knew her?” Nicolaa asked.
“My uncle and Margaret returned home after Edith was gone from Winchester and they told Thomas Wickson, and all their friends and neighbours, a tale that was as near to the truth as they dared. They said that Edith had been taken with a falling sickness and that a physician in Winchester had kindly arranged for her to be incarcerated in a nunnery on the outskirts of the town with every hope that, if she was kept in quietness and solitude for a few months, she would recover. No mention was made that she had been removed to a place much closer to Lincoln in case Wickson, or one of his family, should wish to visit her.”
His recounting nearly finished, Adgate took another deep breath and finished his story in a concise fashion. “After the birth of the babe, Edith’s father, pretending to have journeyed to Winchester, went to the convent and brought her home, telling everyone, including the chandler, that she was now restored to her former health. A few weeks later, she and Wickson were married. And that is how the matter has stood for all of these years.”
“And would have stayed so had not Stephen Wharton revealed the contents of his brother’s letter,” Nicolaa observed.
At Adgate’s look of non-comprehension, Nicolaa told the furrier how Stephen Wharton had come to Lincoln shortly after the murder with the letter he had discovered after Lionel’s death. After explaining the contents to Adgate, she told him that a ring had been enclosed with the missive. “It must have been given to Sir Lionel by the queen,” she said, “as a token of her authority in his dealings with the abbess at the nunnery near Stamford.”
“And explains his use of the phrase that he ‘owed a debt of loyalty’ to the person who bid him see to the welfare of Edith and the child. Queen Eleanor was fiercely devoted to Lionheart and it would not be untoward for Lionel, who was carrying out a commission for his lord’s mother, to have referred to the matter in such a manner. Tercel completely misconstrued the meaning of the letter and the ring.”
“I agree, Richard,” Nicolaa said to her son. “And it is appalling that the queen’s, and Lionel Wharton’s, innocent acts of charity should have been twisted in such a fashion.”
They were all silent for a moment as they contemplated how the dead man’s egotistical desire to be raised above his station had been the cause of his demise.
Aware that he had aroused their compassion, Adgate began to plead that clemency be shown to Margaret. He knew, he said, that she could not be exonerated of guilt, but maintained that she would never have committed such a crime if it had not been for her desire to protect her sister. “Margaret was beside herself with guilt for letting Edith go out alone that night. For many a day, after she returned home, Margaret came to me and cried piteously, saying that if she had not been so selfish as to indulge in dalliance with the manservant, she and Edith would have walked home together and the villain would not have had the opportunity to carry out the attack. I tried to dissuade her, but she would not be swayed. She spent hours on her knees repeating acts of contrition, trying to find some way she could make reparation for her laxity. I ask you to be merciful to her.”