Of the three remaining couples on Nicolaa’s list, Ernulf, after some careful thought, was able to reject another two couples. The head of the wine merchant’s guild, the serjeant was certain, had been married under the requisite number of years. “Wed his wife no more than twenty years ago,” he finally declared. “I remember it right well ’cause the town guard had to be called out to deal with some guests that had become unruly at the marriage feast,” Ernulf said with a knowing grin. “Seems the wine merchant had been a little too openhanded with his stores at the celebration and some of the bride’s young relatives who had travelled to Lincoln for the ceremony-she hails from a town in the north-had become so cup-shotten they had to spend the night in the town gaol.”
“And the head of the draper’s guild?” Bascot had asked. This townsman was one of those whose first wife had died a few years before and had recently remarried. The Templar hoped that Ernulf’s memory would stretch to a recall of the details of his first betrothal and, after some cogitation on the serjeant’s part, was pleased to find that it did.
“Seems to me the draper’s first wedding was around about the time of the terrible earthquake we had in 1185,” Ernulf said, scratching his stubbly grey beard as an aid to concentration. “I can call to mind that the draper had to put off his marriage until the lintel over the porch of All Saint’s-that’s the church where he and his bride were to take their vows-was made safe for them to stand under.” The serjeant nodded his head as the details slowly became clearer in his mind. “Yes, that’s right. He wasn’t the only one who had to delay his wedding; there were two or three others who had to put off the ceremony. Lady Nicolaa sent the castle stonemason to help with the repairs about the town and the mason told me the draper’s father was right upset about the postponement.” Here Ernulf gave Bascot a knowing wink and added, “Seems as though he was in a rush ’cause the belly of his son’s bride-to-be was swelling up right fast and he was afeared his first grandchild would be born afore they got wed.”
“And the bride, she was a local girl?” Bascot asked.
“Aye,” Ernulf responded. “Daughter of a friend of the draper’s mother.”
Disappointed, Bascot went on to the last name on the list, that of a seal maker, John Sealsmith. But, in this instance, Ernulf, for the first time, could not be of help.
“He set up his business in Lincoln about a dozen years ago, as far as I can recall,” the serjeant said. “He’s a surly bastard and doesn’t give away too much about his private business. I did hear he had been in Doncaster before that, but as to the year he got married or whether or not he and his wife originally came from our town, I’ve no knowledge.”
Deciding he had no recourse but to visit the sealsmith and question him personally, Bascot shared a final cup of ale with Ernulf and made his way back to the preceptory. After attending the evening services in the Templar chapel and sharing the light collation that constituted the evening meal with his brothers, he had gone to bed and ruminated on what he had learned, but it had been to no avail and he had spent a restless night. It was with relief that he had risen at dawn for the service of Matins and, as he knelt in the chapel, had asked God for guidance in solving this latest mystery. Now, as he rode across the bail, he hoped that the visit to the sealsmith would be worthwhile. If it was not, he would ask Gianni for the notes the lad had transcribed and go through them carefully to see if there was some detail that had been missed.
When he went into the castle keep, Bascot found Eudo, the Haye steward, waiting for him with a request from Nicolaa de la Haye that he join her in her private chamber before he went into town.
Upon entering the room, the Templar was surprised to see that Stephen Wharton was with the castellan. Gianni was seated at his usual place at the lectern in the corner.
“I had thought you would be on your way back to Stamford by now,” Bascot said to Wharton. “It is well past first light.”
“It is at my request that Stephen has delayed his departure,” Nicolaa said. “Gianni noticed a passage in the letter Wharton received from his brother that lacks clarity and it indicates that we may be wrong in assuming Tercel’s mother was from the town of Winchester. She may only have been a visitor there-perhaps passing through in the company of other travellers bound for one of the ports on the south coast, or for the purpose of a visit to relatives-and, if that is the case, she could have come from anywhere in the kingdom.” She handed Bascot the copy Gianni had made of the relevant portion of Lionel Wharton’s letter.
“My brother was not literate,” Wharton said when Bascot had read it. “He would have dictated this to a clerk or priest to pen for him and, because he could not read what had been written, may not have noticed the ambiguity.”
The Templar handed the piece of parchment back to Nicolaa de la Haye, and spoke to Wharton. “At the time your brother brought the babe to you, did he say anything that might help to clarify the meaning of the wording?” he asked.
The knight shook his head in negation. “No. As I explained, I assumed the babe was his, a by-blow conceived on a favourite leman and that, for reasons he did not wish to disclose, he had chosen not to leave the child in her care.”
“And Tercel made no comment on this passage when he read the letter?” Bascot asked.
“No, he did not, and nor did I,” Wharton replied. The knight rubbed a hand over his face in exasperation. “We were both distracted by the content, not the detail. Aubrey’s concentration was focussed on the ring, citing it as proof of his royal paternity, and I was engaged in trying to dissuade him from his ridiculous notion. If your young clerk had not noticed the uncertainty in that passage, I would never have questioned my assumption that Aubrey’s mother came from Winchester.”
Nicolaa turned to Bascot. “If she did not-and of that we cannot be absolutely sure-then the enquiries you are making will be to no purpose.”
“It is still possible that our first interpretation is the correct one, lady,” Bascot responded, “so all may not yet be lost.” He spoke again to the Stamford knight. “Describe for us, if you will, the night your brother brought the babe to you. Can you remember exactly what he said?”
Wharton reflected for a moment. “It was in the month of March and Lionel came late in the evening, rushing into my manor house and the chamber where I was going over some of the household accounts. He told me that he had a great boon to ask of me…”
“Was he carrying the babe himself?” Bascot asked.
The Stamford knight looked at the Templar in astonishment. “Well, no, of course not. He had left the child outside…”
“With whom?” Bascot asked. “A servant on your staff?”
“No, the boy was in the care of a wet nurse. Lionel left her and the babe in the hall.”
“And did you see this woman? Could she have been the mother?”
Wharton grimaced. “I saw her after I had agreed to Lionel’s request and he called for her to bring Aubrey to my chamber. I cannot credit that she was the mother. She was admirably suited to nurse the babe, plump and with an ample bosom, but she was also past the first bloom of youth and, by her dress, of servant stock. I do not believe she could have been sought after in marriage by a Lincoln merchant.”
“But it is conceivable that the mother could have handed the babe into the nurse’s care, so she would have seen the woman who bore Tercel, even if she did not know her name.”
“I suppose so, yes,” Wharton admitted.
“Did your brother call the nurse by name?” Nicolaa asked. “Did you notice anything about her that might enable us to find her?”
“No. After she brought the babe to my chamber, I sent for my wife, explained the situation to her and she took charge of Aubrey. The nurse left the room once the child was gone. I presume that Lionel, when he departed, took her with him.”