A Holy Vengeance (10 page)

“Your daughter had been wed almost two years. Were she and her husband complaisant together?”

The armourer looked at him in surprise, but answered as honestly as he could. “I believe they were happy enough, except for her barrenness. Wiger was not the one I would have chosen for Emma but I gave my consent because she told me she was very much in love with him. I must admit that I would have preferred a man of more substance for her husband; one that I could be certain would be able to care for her properly after I am gone. But that concern is moot now, is it not, for I am left alive and she is the one who is gone . . .”

Tears welled in Ferroner’s eyes and Bascot stood up. It was obvious the armourer was incapable of giving any more information. With a motion to Gianni and Roget to follow him, the Templar left the disconsolate father to his sorrow, and an existence that was now devoid of love or purpose.

As Bascot, Gianni and Roget made their way back to the workshop to question Wiger and the rest of Ferroner’s employees, Nicolaa de la Haye was receiving Master Drogue, the apothecary she had requested to attend her.

A man approaching his sixtieth year, Drogue had recently been elected head of the Lincoln branch of his guild. Although the apothecaries’ craft was an ancient one, their guild was relatively new, having formerly been part of the pepperers’ association. Drogue was highly respected in the town, and well liked. His choice as leader by the other guild members was not surprising.

A tall, thin man, almost cadaverous in appearance, he had a high domed forehead and insightful brown eyes. His gown was a sober dark grey and on his head was a close-fitting black skullcap. Nicolaa knew him to be kind, honest and gentle and that he could be trusted with a confidence.

“I have asked you to come, Master Drogue,” she told him, “on a matter of some delicacy. It concerns the young woman, Robert Ferroner’s daughter, who was recently murdered at the shrine of St. Dunstan. You have heard of the crime?”

“I have, lady,” the apothecary replied. “The town has talked of it constantly since it happened.” He gave a sad shake of his head. “A most horrifying deed.”

“I am in the process of trying to gather information about the victim,” Nicolaa explained to him, “and believe you may be able to help me. In the last few months, do you recall if the murdered woman ever came to you for a consultation?”

Master Drogue’s high brow furrowed as he considered the question. “Not that I remember, lady. But I have one apprentice and two assistants. If her requirement was simple, it may have been one of them who attended her. May I know the nature of her ailment?”

“I have been told it was to seek a remedy for infertility,” Nicolaa replied.

Drogue nodded knowingly. “A not uncommon problem, and due, it is thought, to excessive humidity in the womb. I have instructed my staff, for this condition, to recommend the remedy I most favour, which is to place a poultice of lady’s mantle across the lower abdomen and keep it there while drinking an infusion of raspberry leaves—both of which my shop supplies. I shall check my records to see if Mistress Ferroner came to us for help, but there is also the possibility that she may have visited another apothecary or even a physician for assistance. If it was the latter, he could have submitted his prescription without divulging her name.”

Nicolaa was not of the opinion that Emma Ferroner had sought the advice of a doctor. That part of Constance Turner’s evidence had rung true when she had said that her friend had not wished to consult a physician lest he involve her husband. If the victim, as the perfumer had said, was guilt ridden about her distaste for sexual congress, she would never wish it revealed to her spouse.

“I am fairly certain she did not consult a leech, Master Drogue, but would like to confirm, as has been claimed, as to whether or not she sought out the services of a member of your guild. I will take up your offer to consult your records. Would it be too much trouble to also ask you to find out if she attended any of the other apothecaries in the town?”

“Of course not, lady,” the apothecary replied.

“I am most grateful for your assistance,” Nicolaa replied thankfully. “I would, however, ask you, and the other guild members,” she added, “to hold the nature of my enquiry strictly in confidence. This is a murder investigation, and all information that is garnered must be kept privily until such a time as it is known whether or not it is pertinent.”

The elderly apothecary solemnly gave his assent and prepared to take his leave, setting down his wine cup and beginning to rise from his seat. Nicolaa forestalled him, however, saying there was one more matter she wished to discuss with him, intending to ask him if he had ever heard anything detrimental about Mistress Turner. Although the prisoner only made perfumes and unguents, her products were, in a small measure, allied to the apothecary trade, and the guild guarded their reputation jealously. If she had infringed on their rights, or sold any product that was not wholesome, she was certain Drogue would be aware of it and, if so, her trespass would have a bearing on the honesty of her claim that she did not sell medicaments.

“You will, no doubt, have heard that a perfumer in the town, Constance Turner, had been incarcerated in relation to Mistress Ferroner’s death?”

“So rumour says, lady,” Drogue replied. “Speculation is rampant, of course, as to the reason for her arrest. Kinder souls think it is for her own protection in case she recognised the murderer and is in danger of being attacked by him, while others, less charitable, claim it is because she killed her friend due to possession by a demon.”

He looked straightly at Nicolaa and added, “For my own part, I would hope the former is the true reason. She is an intelligent young woman who has known much sorrow in her life, and does not deserve more.”

“You are acquainted with her?” Nicolaa asked with a touch of surprise, and choosing not to comment on the reason that the perfumer had been incarcerated. Although she trusted Drogue to honour his word to be discreet, the fewer people that knew of the circumstances surrounding Mistress Turner’s arrest, the better.

“Not well,” Drogue replied, “but I was an acquaintance of her father.” He paused for a moment in reflection. “I met him on several occasions many years ago, in Boston. I had a relative there who is long since demised but was, at that time, alive and whom I was in the habit of visiting once or twice a year. I first met Master Turner on one of these visits, and at subsequent times thereafter, for he was friendly with my relative and often came to share his board at mealtimes. Our common profession gave us much to discuss and I liked him, even though some of his theories were rather eccentric—such as that bleeding a patient with fever was not necessary and might even do harm, a most unorthodox idea. I am not surprised that some of the more conservative brethren among the apothecaries in Boston were displeased with his views but I, for one, found his opinions stimulating rather than objectionable. It was with great sadness that I heard he had been ostracised over his defence of a young girl who claimed to have been raped, and how the tumult in which he became embroiled after her suicide distressed him so much that he became ill and died.”

“Have you spoken to Mistress Turner since she moved to Lincoln?”

Drogue nodded. “She came to see me when she first moved here four years ago, to give me greetings in honour of my friendship with her father and also, in courtesy, to tell me of her intention to live in Lincoln and earn her livelihood as a perfumer. I wished her well, but apart from nodding to her on a few occasions when we have passed in the street, have not spoken to her since.”

“Has she ever, to your knowledge, attempted to prescribe medicaments?” Nicolaa asked.

“Not that I have heard, and I would have been told if she had,” Drogue assured her.

“I know your meeting with her was a brief one, but were you able to form any impression of her character?”

As he had with the other questions Nicolaa had asked him, and was his nature, Drogue considered his answer well before he made it. “I believe so, for that was not the only time I had been in her company. I met her on two previous occasions before she came to Lincoln, when she accompanied her father to dine at my kinsman’s house in Boston. Although a young girl at the time, she was lively and cheerful, and paid careful attention to the conversations that went on around her and, when asked for her opinion, gave cogent replies. When she came to see me after her arrival here in town, I noticed that her previous animation was much diminished. The troublesome time that her father had experienced, and his ensuing death, had, I think, an adverse effect on her personality. I found her much more reserved than formerly and very cautious in manner.”

He lifted sorrowful eyes to Nicolaa. “It was a shame to see such a bright and clever young woman brought so low. If you are asking me if I think she could commit murder, lady, I would deem it most unlikely.”

As Gianni followed the Templar and Roget down the path to the armoury, he tried to dispel the fear that had engulfed him when Robert Ferroner had said that his daughter had been killed by a witch. Despite the fact that the evidence suggested that the murderer had not been possessed by a demon, Gianni was not entirely convinced. In Sicily cunning women were called
strega
and had very powerful magick at their command, able to summon up evil fairies that could force humans to do their bidding.

He remembered one such incident as though it was only yesterday, even though he had been only a young child when it happened and it had taken place in the days before the Templar had brought him to England. He, along with a number of other homeless waifs, had lived on a wharf in Palermo and there had been an old crone who had sold oranges and apples near the docks, laying them out for sale on the doorstep of the tumbledown shack in which she lived. She was known to be a
strega
and had threatened all of the urchins in the area that if any of them were foolish enough to try to steal her fruit, she would retaliate by casting a spell on them. But food was very scarce and there came a time when one of the youngsters, a boy of no more than nine or ten, became so overcome with hunger that, despite her threat, the temptation of the tantalising fruit became too much for him and he ran up and snatched one of the apples. As he sped away with his prize, the crone had raised the knobby stick she always carried and shaken it at him, promising that he would soon regret the theft. That very night the boy was killed, thrown off the pier and into the sea by a drunken sailor he had tried to rob. His lifeless body was found the next morning, washed up on the shore by the incoming tide.

Later that day, alerted by a couple of witnesses who had seen the sailor assault the boy, two members of the town guard had come to arrest him. He had vehemently denied his crime, saying he had no memory of the incident and had slept soundly all through the night without disturbance. When the guards laid their hands on him to take him to gaol, he had fought with a strength beyond that of a mortal man, slaying one of the guards with the knife he carried and fatally wounding another. He was hung a few days later, and the people who witnessed his death had fearfully reported that evil fairies had been seen dancing on his shoulders as he expelled his last breath.

Gianni shivered. Could it be that Ferroner was right, and just as that Sicilian
strega
had caused the sailor to kill the boy, this English cunning woman had magicked up an imp of Satan that compelled some luckless man to slay the armourer’s daughter? And what would happen to those who tried to apprehend this bedevilled murderer? Would they, too, like the town guards in Palermo, be attacked and killed by the superior might of such a man? Silently sending up a plea to Lord Jesus for protection of all those involved in the investigation, he hastened his steps to follow his former master into the armoury workshop, hoping his prayer would be effective.

* * *

It was almost midday by the time all of Ferroner’s employees had been interviewed. There were six workmen in all: two that had achieved the status of master armourers, and four apprentices, of whom Wiger was one. Bascot, with Gianni beside him making a record of each employee’s answers, had spoken to them all separately in a little shack that was used to store iron ingots. The burning rays of the June sun made the inside of the shack almost as hot as the workshop, and one of the younger apprentices kept them supplied with ewers of ale to quench their thirst. Roget stood on guard outside the door to ensure no one could overhear the questions that were being asked, or the answers.

Deciding to leave Wiger until last, intending to try to find out from the rest of Ferroner’s employees more about the relationship between Emma and her husband, the Templar spoke to the other apprentices first. All were in various stages of learning their craft and none had been with the armourer long enough to have more than a passing acquaintanceship with Emma, or much knowledge of her activities. With regard to the relationship between her and her husband, none had noticed any discord or resentment on the part of either.

Of the two master armourers, the first one had been working for Ferroner for only the past year, having recently moved to Lincoln from Grantham and been hired soon after his arrival in the town, and therefore did not have any useful information, but the other master, a man named Noll, had been friends with Ferroner since they were young lads, and knew both him and his daughter well. He was a short, stocky man, and very hirsute, with a mat of thick dark hair covering his arms and shoulders under the scant cover of the leather apron he wore. Old burns had left bald patches on his shoulders and forearms, and there was also a large scar on his left biceps that looked as though it, too, had been caused by an accident with molten metal, and which he absently rubbed as he spoke.

“Robert’s father was a grand man, and ’twas through him that I came to work here,” he informed Bascot. “He always made me welcome from the time I was just a little lad and soon had me plyin’ a tiny hammer just like Robert. Later, when I was old enough, he offered to make me an apprentice and I gladly accepted.”

“And Mistress Emma—you knew her well?”

“Aye, I did, and her poor dead mother,” was the response. “I was right fond of Emma from the day she was born; she was the delight of her father’s heart and a merry little girl who gave pleasure to all who knew her.” He looked up at Bascot with deep sorrow in his dark brown eyes. “I can’t believe that she is gone; ’twill be the death of Robert, he doted on her so.”

It was evident from his anguish that here was a man who would never wish any harm to Emma and could not be considered as a suspect. Bascot asked him if he knew of anyone who had borne her enmity.

“Not to my knowledge, lord,” Noll replied. “But I hadn’t seen much of her since she got wed. Afore that, when she was younger, she often used to come to the workshop with Nan Glover, the woman who attended her after her mother died, to bring us all a bit of pasty or some other treat. But after Nan left, she didn’t come so much, so I didn’t often have many opportunities to talk to her and learn how she was faring, or if she had quarrelled with anyone.”

“Was she happy in her marriage, do you know?”

The master armourer’s face darkened. “I won’t tell you no lies, lord, for the truth of the matter is that I don’t like Wiger, nor do I think he made her a good husband.”

“And why is that?” Bascot prompted, his senses quickening.

Noll heaved a sigh. “Well, he seemed alright when he first came to work here. He was only a lad then, and mucked in willing enough with the rest of us. His father was a blacksmith, an acquaintance of Robert’s, and when the father was killed one day—kicked in the head by a horse he was shoeing—Robert offered the lad an apprenticeship. He was eager to learn and has become more than competent at our trade, I’ll admit, but I think he only chased after Emma because he had an eye, through her, to owning the armoury one day. If he has a love for anything, it’s this workshop.”

“Then you do not believe he cared for Emma personally?” Bascot asked.

The armourer snorted. “Never paid her no mind once the bloom of their marriage wore off, did he? Out drinking near every night after we’d finished work, and I saw him pass her by on the path from Robert’s house the other day without so much as a look in her direction. ’Twas much different than when he was first wooing her, all smiles and lovin’ looks whenever she appeared, but once they were wed he had no more interest in her, for he knew that one day, when Robert passed on, through his marriage to Emma he would lay his hands on the armoury. If she conceived a child, it would have strengthened his relationship to Robert even further, so her barrenness must have been a sore disappointment to him.”

Noll’s vehemence died down a bit and then he added, “It fair used to gall me when he looked around the workshop after his and Emma’s marriage, eyes gleaming with avarice, as though the armoury was already his own. No, Emma made a bad choice there, although she may not have realised it.”

“Does Wiger have another woman tucked away, do you think? Perhaps one he knew from before his marriage?” Bascot asked.

Noll shook his head. “Not as I knows of or, if he does, he keeps her well hidden. As to afore he was wed, and to be fair, I never heard of him courtin’ any other maid; probably visited a harlot when he had the need, like many a young man, but even of that I have no evidence.”

The Templar decided to broach the subject of the curse that Ferroner had mentioned. Although Bascot, as he had said, did not think the curse was a true one, old sins did cast long shadows and it might be that the woman Ferroner had rejected all those years ago was somehow involved in his daughter’s murder.

When Bascot asked Noll about it, his response was a sad nod. “Aye, I reckon Robert told you about that, did he?”

When the Templar confirmed the assumption, Noll gave another sigh. “I wish he would forget that old misery. He took guilt on himself because of that curse when his wife, Edith, died, and now he’s doin’ it again with poor Emma. As I’ve told him many’s the time, that woman, Lorinda, was no more than a doxy, lookin’ to snare herself a wealthy husband, and had no more power over dark forces than any other bitch of her kind, which is none. Could have been that her grandam was a witch, I suppose—although I never heard of anyone who knew the old woman directly—but that doesn’t mean that Lorinda was one. And even if it’s true, like they are sayin’ in the town, that it was the Devil or a demon that killed Emma, I don’t believe that, even if she could, it was Lorinda who magicked either of them up. Why would she? If she’s still alive she’ll be an old woman by now and long past caring about a squabble from so many years ago.”

“Did you ever see her?” Bascot asked.

“Oh, aye. I was in the marketplace when she started her ruction and laid the curse on Robert. Witnessed it all, I did, along with a fair few others. Lorinda were beautiful, I’ll give her that, but she was bold with it, dressing herself in a gaudy gown that no chaste woman would wear, and her hair all tumblin’ down like a harlot’s. ’Twas plain what she was, and what she was after, and the only reason she laid that curse was because she was angry at Robert for refusing her.”

“Ferroner said he never saw her again after the day she confronted him. Do you know where she lived?”

“No, I don’t, Sir Bascot, and nor did anyone else, even Robert. She had been seen walkin’ along the road southwards of the river once or twice, so she must have lived in one of the hamlets south of town, but there are many villages in that direction—Bracebridge, Coleby, Waddington, Boothby, to name but a few—so it could have been any one of them, or none at all. All I knows is that she was never heard of coming back to Lincoln again.”

Moving away from the subject of the curse, Bascot took the murder weapon from his scrip and showed it to Noll, telling him it was the knife that had been used to despatch Emma. “Have you ever seen it before?” he asked.

Muttering imprecations on the head of the man that had wielded it, Noll picked up the blade and examined it. As Ferroner had done, he pronounced it just a knife of common manufacture, and that he did not recognise it.

After thanking Noll for being so forthright, Bascot dismissed him and told Roget to send in Wiger next.