“I am trying to track down any acquaintances Tercel may have made in Lincoln,” Bascot added, “in the hope that, by doing so, I may find some trace of the reason for his murder. Since it has been reported that, before his death, he expressed a liking for Portuguese wine, it may be that he visited one of the wine merchants in the town and, while in conversation with them, mentioned something of import. The master of your guild, who was in the castle on the night of the murder, had never met him. That is why I am here-to ask if you might have done so.”
Bascot then went on to describe Tercel in detail, his colouring and manner of dress and what he had learned of the dead man’s personality. When he had finished, Reinbald shook his head, the jowls on his heavy-featured face waggling slightly as he did so. He then looked interrogatively at Harald, who also gave a negative response, but reached into the open-faced cupboard behind him and extracted a roll of parchment which was, he explained, a record of their customers for the last six months. A quick perusal told him that Tercel’s name was not amongst them.
“I am sorry that we are not able to help you,” Reinbald said with genuine regret. “There are quite a few wine merchants in Lincoln; you will find it a lengthy task to check all of them.”
The Templar decided to try a different tack. Recalling Nicolaa de la Haye’s suggestion that if Tercel’s mother was not from Winchester, she may have been on a visit there with relatives at the time of her son’s conception, he said, “It is thought that the dead man had a connection with the town of Winchester, but the link is an old one, dating back to the time of his birth more than five and twenty years ago. Do you recall, Reinbald, if any of your competitors had occasion to journey to the town about that time?”
Reinbald’s face registered his surprise at the question, but he did his best to answer it. “I was a young man then,” he said with a rueful expression, “and my father was still alive. Both he and I often travelled to ports on the south coast, either to inspect a shipment that had arrived from across the Narrow Sea or to travel to vineyards in France or Spain to sample a wine before we bought it. But we never went to Winchester-it is not a port, so there would have been no need. The same would be true of other wine merchants. Their business normally only takes them to London or one of the Cinque Ports.”
Bascot nodded. It was the answer he had expected, not the one he had hoped for. There was no other place to look for a trace of Tercel’s search for his mother except, as Reinbald said, to speak to all of the other wine merchants in Lincoln; a time-consuming exercise that might well prove useless. Disappointed, he finished his wine and was about to take his leave when Reinbald added, “Now that I cast my mind back, I do recall mention of someone making a trip to Winchester about that time, but it was a neighbour of ours who went there, and he was a draper, not a wine merchant.”
A flicker of hope rose in Bascot and he settled himself back in his seat as Reinbald, his lips pursed with the effort of searching his memory, continued, “My father died in ’79, so it must have been before that. The reason I recall it is that the draper bought a fine new cart to make the journey and had it all gloriously painted in red with bright yellow trim. My father and I were of the opinion that the draper was foolish to travel such a long distance so early in the season-it was about this time of year, February or March, and the weather had been terrible-and that he had wasted his money on the embellishment for it would be ruined by the time he returned. We didn’t see the draper for many weeks after that but, when he finally arrived back in Lincoln, our prediction was proved correct. Rainstorms and heavy winds had plagued his southward journey and played havoc with the paintwork. The cart had hardly a scrap of colour left on it that wasn’t flaking or scarred.”
“Did the draper have a daughter, perhaps, that went with him?” Bascot asked hopefully. Tercel must have been conceived about the time of Eastertide so, if the draper’s trip had taken place in the year of 1176, and a daughter had accompanied him, it would have been the right time of year for the girl to have lain with a lover, fallen pregnant, and given birth to the cofferer nine months later in January of 1177. A slim chance, at best, that he had finally found some trace of the woman they were seeking, but worth investigating all the same.
To Bascot’s regret, Reinbald shook his leonine head. “He and his wife were a childless couple and getting along in years. They both died not long after my father passed away.”
At the words, the Templar began to resign himself to accept yet another failure, but was forestalled from doing so when Reinbald added, “But there were a couple of young girls, relatives of some sort, nieces I think, that used to visit them often. It could be that one of them accompanied the draper.”
“Do you remember their names?” the Templar asked.
The wine merchant looked up at Bascot with a smile and shook his head. “Neither of the girls were what I thought of, in those days, as comely, so I never paid them much attention. As I said, I was young, and had not yet learned there is more to a woman than a large bosom and a beguiling smile.”
Even if one of these women proved to be the girl he was seeking, the Templar knew that without a name it would be impossible to find them. Once more, Bascot prepared to thank the wine merchant for his time but, as he rose to go, Reinbald said, “But I do recall the draper’s family name, if that is of any help.”
At about the same time, Margaret and Elise, along with the groom, Nicholas, were walking down Mikelgate. The sudden surge of warmer weather had brought out many of the townspeople and the shops along the main thoroughfare were doing a busy trade. There were also other attractions; on one corner a man with an old and almost toothless brown bear was making the animal dance to the accompaniment of a reed pipe, there was a puppet show set up about halfway along the street and, a little farther on, an enterprising juggler was adroitly tossing balls into the air while a little girl went among the crowd of spectators with her hand held out for tokens of appreciation. Elise was in a merry mood and even staid Margaret had a smile on her face. Nicholas walked beside the young maid, casting appreciative glances in her direction as the trio made their way to the farther end of the street where the shop that stocked the thread Margaret needed was located.
As they neared their destination, their attention was caught by a shabby old man with an exotic bird on his shoulder. The bird’s plumage seemed to be comprised of all the colours of the rainbow and glinted red, gold, blue and green in the early spring sunshine. Quite a crowd had gathered around the man, who was telling them that the bird was called a parrot and had been brought back to England from distant lands by a sailor whose ship had taken him almost to the edge of the world. The wonder of the watching crowd increased when, on a prompting from the man, the bird began to squawk short phrases, saying “Give me some dinner” and “You’re an ugly fellow,” followed by some expletives that made the women in the crowd blush and the men roar with approval.
Margaret and Elise stopped to watch the performance and, as the owner of the parrot threw down his hat with a begging appeal for money, the sempstress gave Nicholas a fourthing-a quarter of a silver penny-to take and add to the collection.
The groom pushed to the front of the press and dropped the coin in a coarse hessian hat that lay on the ground at the parrot owner’s feet. Wondrous as the bird was, Nicholas was reluctant to leave the lovely Elise for even a moment, and quickly turned to make his way back to where she stood. He had not gone more than a step or two when he heard a cry of distress and looked towards the spot where he had left the two women he was escorting. The only one he could see was Margaret and she was looking down at the ground with an expression of horror. A similar look was on the faces of the people alongside her as they began to push and shove in a backwards motion, as though something dreadful lay at their feet. A thrill of dread ran through Nicholas and frantically he used his broad shoulders to shove a passage through the crowd to where Margaret stood. When he reached her, he saw that Elise was lying on the ground. She was unconscious, her eyes closed and breathing laboured.
As he fell to his knees beside her, Margaret did the same, pulling back the folds of the girl’s cloak as she did so. Blood was welling up from a wound in Elise’s side and running onto the cobbles beneath her body.
Quickly, Margaret ripped Elise’s kirtle apart and exposed a deep wound in Elise’s abdomen. “May heaven help her,” the sempstress exclaimed in terror, “she has been stabbed.”
Among the crowd watching the parrot was Merisel Wickson. She had been standing near Elise when the maid had fallen and been stunned by what she had witnessed. Normally she would have been in her father’s candle manufactory at this time of day, but she had gone to visit her mother’s cousin, Simon Adgate, the day before and what he had told her had been so distressing that she was having difficulty keeping her mind on her work. To try and distract her tumbling thoughts, she had begged leave of her father to go and join the crowd watching the outlandish bird and, when he had given his permission, had gone out into the street and spent a few pleasurable moments listening to the parrot’s lively speech and watching with fascination the way in which the bird turned its head back and forth as it bobbed up and down on its owner’s arm, an expectant look in its beady eyes.
