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.”
“I can understand her feelings of guilt and desire for atonement,” Nicolaa said, “but surely she cannot have believed that such a deadly penance would be pleasing to God. Killing Tercel was an act inspired by the Devil, not heaven.”
Adgate looked at Petronille, his eyes directing one last unspoken plea to the mistress that had earned Margaret’s long-standing devotion. But, although she was moved by his earnestness, Petronille shook her head regretfully. “I cannot help her, Master Adgate. Murder is an evil act, no matter how well-intentioned.”
The furrier’s face fell at her words, and she added gently, “You must remember that Margaret’s crimes were not limited to the taking of her nephew’s life. She maliciously wounded my daughter’s maidservant and held a young boy hostage. I am sorry for your misery, but her crimes were cold and calculating and, much as it pains me to say of someone I previously held in high regard, I do not find her worthy of clemency.”
Adgate nodded dumbly, his face a mask of hopelessness, and Nicolaa, taking pity on the man, said reflectively, “I do think, however, that Edith Wickson deserves to be shown some charity. Throughout all of this matter, she has been the innocent party. Through no fault of her own she was viciously assaulted and now, after all of these years, the consequences of that terrible act have returned to cause further misery in her life.”
The castellan turned to her son. “As your father’s deputy, Richard, the final decision rests with you but I think, with circumspection, Edith’s name could be kept out of the proceedings at Margaret’s trial. Since it was the sempstress’ aim to shield her sister, I am sure she will agree if it is charged that she killed Tercel because of an unstated affront he had given her. If the judges wish to know more of the matter, it can be told to them in confidence.”
Richard considered the proposition for a moment, and then nodded his head. “Yes, Mother, I agree. Justice will still be served whether Mistress Wickson is mentioned or not. Father will have returned by the time the itinerant justices arrive in Lincoln for the next session of the assizes, but I do not believe he will have any objection to making it so once he has heard the details.”
Adgate was fulsome in his thanks and conveyed his gratitude both on his own behalf and that of Edith. “Nothing can alleviate the grief she feels for her son’s death and her sister’s part in it, but she has also been fearful that if her husband should discover her shameful secret, he will renounce her and thereby make their daughter, Merisel, suffer the pain of public ignominy. I am sure, when I tell her of your understanding, it will bring her some comfort.”
Thirty
Late the next morning, Nicolaa de la Haye was sitting in the solar with Petronille and Alinor when a servant entered the chamber bearing a letter from her husband, Gerard Camville. It had just arrived by messenger from London and said that the sheriff expected to return to Lincoln within a week.
“Gerard sent this before he received the despatch I wrote telling him about the murder,” she said to her sister. “But, nonetheless, it contains news that makes me relieved we discovered that your servant was not Lionheart’s bastard.”
Petronille and Alinor listened as she read out the portion of the letter to which she was referring. It had been written, at Gerard’s dictation, by a cleric, and explained in detail how reports had lately come to the capital from Falaise in Normandy, where the king had imprisoned Arthur, his legitimately born nephew, after capturing him when his young relative had made an attempt to seize Queen Eleanor. It was said that the king had ordered Arthur to be castrated and blinded, and so make it impossible for him to become a figurehead for those who would remove the crown of England from John’s head.
As her two companions listened in horrified silence, Nicolaa went on to say that the king’s instruction had been circumvented by the intervention of Hubert de Burgh, the noble into whose care John had given Arthur, but it was rumoured that the king now intended to remove his nephew from the baron’s custody and incarcerate his nephew at Rouen instead.
“Surely John does not still intend to carry out his threat,” Petronille exclaimed. “Arthur is his own blood kin; such cruelty would be unthinkable.”
The news saddened Nicolaa. She had always given John her support and, despite his mercurial temperament, knew that his motives were often misconstrued. Had the king, with his impetuous tongue, made the threat, but with no intention of carrying it out? She could imagine him, in anger, saying such a thing for, like his father before him, he was given to excessive displays of temper, and it was unlikely the remark had been more than a venting of his frustration with his nephew’s rebellious actions. If this was so, it was unfortunate he had not taken more care of those who heard him say it. John had many enemies, ones who would be only too pleased to repeat anything that would prove detrimental to his cause. She could only hope that the details of the incident had been exaggerated as
