A Holy Vengeance Read Online Free Page A

daughter of a prominent armourer in the town.
    “Stabbed in the back twice, she was, lady, and, according to Mistress Turner here”—the reeve gestured in Constance’s direction—“the deed were done while she was praying. Then Mistress Turner ran to our village for help and I sent some men to scour the woods for the murderer, but we didn’t find him. Then me and my son brought the poor young woman’s body here along with Mistress Turner. This here’s the knife what was used to kill her,” he added, brandishing it aloft. “Mistress Turner was holding it when she came to our village.”
    Nicolaa nodded at his succinct explanation and asked him to hand the blade to her clerk. While the lad was unwrapping the rag that covered it, the castellan turned her pale, slightly protuberant blue eyes on Constance. “So you were with the victim when she was killed?” she asked.
    “I was, lady,” Constance replied. “He tried to stab me, too, but the ravens at the shrine drove him off.”
    “Ravens?” Nicolaa said, her delicate eyebrows drawing into a surprised arch. “You say the assailant was chased away by birds?”
    The reeve interjected and said, “There’s allus been a pair of ravens guarding the shrine, lady, ever since I was a lad and before, so ’tis said. They never leave, not even in winter, and we puts out bits of suet and other scraps for them to feed on if snow comes.”
    “And how did you come into possession of the weapon?” Nicolaa asked Constance.
    “The murderer dropped it when the ravens attacked him,” the perfumer replied, “so I picked it up to defend myself in case he was still in the greenwood while I ran to get help.”
    Nicolaa leaned back in her chair. A strange tale, she thought. It was not beyond the bounds of possibility that the ravens would defend the saint’s shrine. Had not these very same birds stood guard over the huge fortress in London ever since William the Conqueror had built it two centuries before? The same species had also, she remembered, protected the body of St. Vincent of Saragossa from being devoured by wild animals after he had been executed, and had stayed for many decades to keep watch over the shrine on his grave. But these instances, and others, had been witnessed by many people, while the tale she had just been told had been overlooked by only one person, the young woman standing in front of her.
    She took a moment to regard the perfumer. She was handsome rather than pretty, with a wide mouth that held a promise of sensuality and intelligent hazel eyes. Nicolaa recalled that Mistress Turner had, a couple of years previously, been involved in another case of murder when her servant had given information that had helped to catch the man who had cruelly slain a prostitute. Was it coincidence that she was once again peripherally embroiled in another killing, or was her tale a fabrication to cover up her own guilt?
    The castellan, wishing to learn more before she pursued these thoughts, decided she would leave the question for the time being and spoke to her clerk. “Gianni, bring me the knife so that I may examine it.”
    The lad quickly got to his feet, came down from the dais, retrieved the dagger and laid it on the table in front of his mistress. The blade was long and narrow and bore smudged traces of blood, as did the rag in which it had been wrapped. There was a thin rim of grime embedded in the join of the hilt that looked as though it had been there some time. Although sharp and sturdy, it was plainly made and inexpensive, a household or workman’s tool such as would be sold at any of the ironmongers’ stalls in Lincoln. At a nod from his mistress, Gianni carefully turned the weapon over once or twice so that she could see both sides of the blade and hilt. There was nothing remarkable about it.
    Nicolaa thanked him and then looked at Constance. “Tell me how you and your friend came to be at the shrine, what happened when the attack took place and