sensed lay within. And, if he further examined his conscience without self-deception, he knew that it had not been lust that had driven him, but the envy with which other men would regard him for having such a desirable woman in his bed.
Not even for one moment had he ever considered that Clarice, coming from such an impoverished background, would dare to stray from his bed. He had thought she would be grateful that he, a respectable and wealthy merchant, had taken her in marriage, and that he had cajoled her into loving him by the expensive clothes and furs with which he had adorned her lovely body. How wrong he had been. While it was true that she carried out her duties in his shop well enough, he had soon realised it pleased her mercenary heart to touch and display the fine furs that he sold. Her soul was grasping, seeking only the gratification of her senses. She had no thought for anyone other than herself.
With a surge of regret he remembered his first wife, his dear Martha. They had been wed such a short time before she was taken from him by death, and they had been so much in love. After she had died, fond memories of her had made him unable to countenance the thought of marrying again and the years had slipped by without notice. Now, with the folly of an aging man, he was wed to a woman who had proved no better than a whore. How ironic it was that if, by some chance, Clarice was with child, there was a more than a probable chance that the heir he had longed for had been sired by another man. For all his success in business, Adgate knew he had been a fool in his private life.
Clarice came up and stood nervously beside him as the servant who had accompanied her back to the hall told Simon he was wanted in the solar by Sir Richard and Lady Nicolaa. Adgate gave his wife not a glance or a spoken word, just followed the servant across the hall and up the tower stairs. Before he went into the chamber, he tried to square his shoulders and exude a degree of confidence. He had no other option now but to tell the truth; that he had not been aware of his wife’s infidelity until the moment when he and Clarice had been told of the murder. Had it not been for his wife’s tears and tender murmurings of the dead man’s name when she heard the news, he would, even now, still be in ignorance of her unfaithfulness. Pushing aside the pain the memory caused him, he reflected that honesty had always been his guide in business; he must trust it would suffice now. If he was careful with a recounting of the facts, questions about any other entanglements he had with Tercel might not be asked.
When he walked into the solar, the circle of nobles daunted him for a moment and he checked his stride. After a moment’s hesitation, he summoned up the courage to stand determinedly in front of them, and he kept his manner deferential as Richard Camville told him that his wife had admitted she had gone to keep a tryst with Tercel in an upper chamber of the old tower on the night he had been killed.
“She also told us, furrier,” Richard added, “that she met with him on several previous occasions. Are you certain you had no suspicion of this liaison?”
“No, lord, I did not,” Adgate said. “Not until the morning after he was killed.”
“I find that hard to believe,” Richard said bluntly.
“Nonetheless, lord, it is true,” Adgate asserted.
“You will have to convince me of the validity of that statement,” Richard declared. “The man who made you a cuckold has been murdered; that gives you a prime motive for killing him.”
Adgate recoiled against the accusation, but he held Richard’s gaze firmly as he replied. “It was not I who murdered him, lord. From what I understand, Tercel was slain early in the evening. I never left the hall until I retired to the chamber my wife and I had been assigned by your steward. The other guild leaders I sat beside at the feast can confirm that.”
“You could have paid someone to do the deed for you, Adgate,” Richard replied. “Lincoln is no different than other towns; one can always find a man who is willing to carry out such a service if the fee is handsome enough.”
Adgate did not lose his composure at the suggestion. “As I said, Sir Richard, I had no knowledge of my wife’s infidelity. How then would I have reason to hire an assassin?”
Bascot admired the man’s imperturbability, but he noticed that beads of sweat were forming on the furrier’s brow. Evidence of tension was entirely understandable in Adgate’s situation; to be accused of murder is not a matter to be taken lightly, whether guilty or not. Still, the Templar wondered if his agitation was due merely to the ordeal he was undergoing or if it stemmed from some other cause.
Richard continued his questioning. “We have only your word to support your claim that you were unaware of Mistress Adgate’s unfaithfulness. And I find it hard to believe that you did not notice her attraction to Tercel during the times he came to your business premises. You are a successful merchant and therefore not, I would think, a man who is easily gulled. How is it that your wife was able to do so?”
“I fear I was too complaisant in my affection for her,” Adgate replied tightly. “I was married before, and happily, to my first wife and remained so until she died. While I have experience in commerce, I have little in dealing with women, other than those who come with their husbands to buy my wares. Had I paid Clarice more attention, perhaps she would not have sought comfort elsewhere. Although my wife’s actions were inexcusable, I must admit that I am perhaps partly to blame.”
The words galled him, but he had to admit they contained a modicum of truth. He should have been more observant and noticed that his pretty young wife had an inclination for licentiousness. Then he could have made an effort to forestall her infidelity.
“Your answers are glib, furrier, and do not entirely satisfy me,” Richard proclaimed. “Nonetheless, I will accept your protestation of innocence-for now. You may go, but hold yourself ready to be questioned further in this matter.”
It was with great relief that Adgate turned and left the room.
After the furrier had exited the solar, Nicolaa, Richard, Alinor and Bascot discussed what they had been told.
“I think Mistress Adgate is now telling the truth,” the Templar said, “but I am not so sure about her husband. Still, his testimony that he did not leave the hall is borne out by the others who were in his company, so unless he is lying about being unaware of his wife’s adultery and did, in fact, hire an assassin-and I must admit I think that unlikely-we must look elsewhere for the murderer.”
“But where?” Nicolaa responded. “Who else would have had reason to wish Tercel dead? He had only been in Lincoln a short time…”
“But, even so, we must remember that he went quite often into the town,” Bascot reminded her, “and had time enough to make the acquaintance of any number of people within the city walls. It could be one of these that led to his death-suppose he took another lover besides Mistress Adgate and the other woman became jealous at sharing his attentions with the furrier’s wife, for example; or he struck up a friendship with a citizen in the town which became rancorous for some reason or another. There are many possibilities and the only way we can discover if any of them are worthwhile considering is to try and trace Tercel’s movements since he came to Lincoln-where he went and to whom he spoke.”
“Not an easy task, de Marins,” Nicolaa said repressively.
Bascot agreed, but added, “The chore may be made a little lighter, lady, if your own servants and that of Lady Petronille were asked if he mentioned, even if only in passing, any of the places he went in the town; whether he was in the habit of visiting a certain alehouse, or had a favourite pie shop, for instance. Any small detail they can recall may assist us.”
Nicolaa rose from her seat with a sigh. “You are right, de Marins. Every possibility must be pursued if we are to prevent this murderer from escaping retribution. Richard and I will question all of the servants again and let you know when you return tomorrow if anything of import has been uncovered.”
As the company all left the solar, Stephen Wharton, fifty miles to the southwest, had returned to his demesne and was preparing to travel to Lincoln. He did not look forward to the trip; it would take him the better part of two days and involve a stop overnight, probably at Grantham, but it was not the distance that was bothering him, it was what lay at the end of the journey. Richard de Humez had listened to his tale in near silence, the baron’s irritation gaining momentum long before the story was told. Wharton hoped Nicolaa de la Haye would be more understanding, for he truly had not intended any harm by concealing the flight of fancy in which Tercel had engaged. Now, as one of the grooms brought out his horse, saddled and ready for him to mount, he wondered if he had been
