by Maureen Ash
It was not long before the honey’s deadly effects became apparent. Soon the rat began to shake and twitch, then froth bubbled from its mouth and it began to convulse. The spectators watched in awestruck horror as the rodent suffered one final, and obviously painful, spasm and fell onto its side, dead. Shocked gasps broke out from those who had been watching, and the sempstress, Clare, gave a heartrending sob.
Nicolaa, too, was shaken by what she had witnessed. “There can be no doubt that the honey in that pot is contaminated,” she said in a voice that struggled with disbelief, “but it is far too toxic to have been caused haphazardly. This has been done on purpose, with malicious intent.”
She swung around to where Gosbert was standing. “That honey has been poisoned, cook. If I had not been too ill to eat the cake, it is I who would have died, not Ralf.”
The cook fell to his knees, his plump face terror stricken. “Lady, I swear by the precious blood of Our Saviour that I did not know the honey was tainted. I would never contrive at your death, never. Please believe me, I beg of you.”
Nicolaa regarded the cook for a moment, and his assistant, Eric, who was staring at the rat in stupefaction, as though he could not believe it was dead.
“I would like to believe you, Gosbert, but your innocence must be proved before I can do so.” She made a motion with her hand, and Ernulf ordered two of his men to seize Gosbert. “Until it is, you will be kept confined and under guard.”
As the cook was dragged across the bail towards the holding cells, Bascot gave Ernulf further instructions, the Templar’s thoughts leaping to the significance of what they had just witnessed. “All of the honey pots in the kitchen, Ernulf, both sealed and unsealed, must be brought out into the bail so that Thorey can test the contents. If there are not enough vermin for the purpose, obtain more from rat catchers in the town.”
He glanced at Nicolaa and she nodded, adding, “If that becomes necessary, Ernulf, you may tell the town catchers they will be recompensed out of the castle coffers for their assistance.”
As Ernulf hastened away to comply with the order, Nicolaa stood with Bascot and gazed at the dead rat.
“It seems it is not pestilence that has come to afflict us, lady, but a poisoner,” Bascot said to her softly.
Nicolaa drew a breath and shook her head slightly, as though she could, by doing so, erase the evidence that lay before her eyes. “I cannot believe that the person who did this is my cook, de Marins. But if it was not him…”
“Then the poisoner is still amongst us and free to strike again,” Bascot finished. He looked at the crowd of household staff who had gathered to watch the testing of the honey. All were standing and looking at the rat, apprehension for their own well-being dawning in their eyes. Was Nicolaa correct in her assumption of Gosbert’s innocence? And, if she was, was the guilty person there amongst the household staff, hiding his or her culpability behind a pretence of horror?
“The truth of this matter must be discovered, lady, and it must be done quickly,” Bascot said. “This attempt on your life failed, but if you are right and it was not your cook who made it, then you are in grave danger. And so is the rest of your household.”
Nicolaa nodded as she, too, surveyed the distressed faces of the watching servants and wondered if one of them had been responsible for poisoning the honey. “Attend me in my private chamber, de Marins. It is best we discuss this matter in confidence.”
Three
The room to which Bascot followed Nicolaa was the chamber where she administered the many details involved in managing the large fief she had inherited from her father. It was sparsely furnished, containing a large oak table laid with sheets of parchment, quills and an ink pot, and a small desk at which John Blund sat when taking dictation. On one side, against the wall, was a stand to accommodate jugs of wine and cups. Clare had trailed behind her mistress and the Templar as they climbed the tower stairs to the chamber, bringing with her the pot that contained the contaminated honey, which had been wrapped in a piece of straining cloth taken from the kitchen. As they entered the room the maid began to weep, silently, and looked near to collapse.
“Clare, you may leave us now,” Nicolaa said to her attendant. The castellan’s face was ashen, but her voice was steady as she spoke to the girl. “You have my permission to absent yourself from your duties for the rest of the day.”
The maid placed the pot of honey on the table and left the room. Once the door was shut, Nicolaa explained the reason for the maid’s distress. “I recently gave Ralf and Clare permission to become betrothed. His death was a great blow to her. The realisation that she was the unwitting instrument of his demise is, I fear, more than she can stand. I hope that time will ease her suffering, even if it does not eradicate it.”
Bascot nodded in commiseration and, as he did so, noticed that Nicolaa was almost as distraught as the maid. Accustomed to her usual demeanour of quiet efficiency, it gave him a start of dismay to realise that she was having difficulty maintaining her equanimity. In the eighteen months Bascot had been in Lincoln, they had together faced, and solved, the mysteries surrounding two previous incidents of murder, but neither of those had included an attempt on the castellan’s own life. He feared that this time, and in her debilitated state, the shock of coming so close to death had put her near to using up the reserves of her considerable inner strength. Pouring them each a cup of wine from the flagon on the table, he remained silent for a few moments, giving her time to recover from the awareness of how close she had come to death.
That hope was realised when, after taking a sip of the wine, she said, with a faint touch of her usual asperity, “I cannot-and do not-believe that Gosbert is responsible for this crime. He has been in my retinue for nearly twenty years, since the time my son, Richard, was a babe. If he had ever harboured any ill feeling towards me, I would have been aware of it long before now.”
“It may be that the honey was, perhaps, poisoned before it was sealed, in which case, as you say, Gosbert would be innocent,” Bascot opined.
“Yes,” Nicolaa agreed. “It would be a simple matter to open a jar, contaminate the contents and then replace the stopper and wax seal. And it could have been done at any time, either while it was in the kitchen or before it was delivered to the castle store.”
She pointed to the honey pot, which had been finished with a highly coloured amber glaze. “The glaze on that jar is used to denote that it is the best grade of honey, one that would only be used in a dish that is served to those of higher rank. Whether that is an indication of the poisoner’s intent to murder myself, a member of my family or one of the household knights remains to be seen. We shall have to await the results of Thorey’s testing to see if any more jars have been adulterated, and if so, of which grade.”
“The choice of that jar may have been happenstance,” Bascot suggested. “It would not be an easy matter to tamper with it while it was in the kitchen. The pot would need to be removed, adulterated and then replaced at a later time. It may simply have been that it was the easiest one to filch for the purpose.”
“Or an empty pot was filled with poisoned honey beforehand and then exchanged for a pure one,” Nicolaa observed. “But why was it done? That is the mystery. And until we find out, not only myself but everyone within the castle walls is, as you said, in danger.”
She leaned forward. “For the safety of us all, the identity of the person who committed this crime must be discovered. Are you willing to assist me in this matter?”
“Most certainly, lady,” Bascot assured her. It was a courtesy on Nicolaa’s part to ask for his help; although he was nominally a member of her retinue, she was, as ever, conscious of the fact that he was still a member of the Templar Order and not yet bound by any oath of fealty to serve either her or her husband. He appreciated her tact in observing the distinction.
“Then I would ask you, de Marins, to go to Gosbert and question him. See if he can remember anything at all that may help us. Assure him
of my faith in his innocence and explain to him that I had no choice but to incarcerate him, for if I had not done so, with young Thomas’s temper so high over Haukwell’s death, it is more than likely he would have attacked Gosbert and dealt him a serious injury.”
“I will go directly, lady,” Bascot said as he rose from his seat. “It may also help,” he added, “if we knew the nature of the venom. There are not many, I should think, who would have access to a poison of such virulence, or the knowledge to make it. Would Martin be able to tell, by the symptoms, what was used?”
Nicolaa shook her head. “Martin is an able enough bonesetter, but he has little knowledge of simples.” She gave the matter a few moments’ consideration and then said, “I could ask one of the apothecaries in the town for help, but I think it would be better to send for Brother Jehan, the infirmarian at the Priory of All Saints, and ask his opinion. He is a skilled herbalist. If it is at all possible to identify the poison, he will be able to do so.”
She reached out and, with care, tipped the honey pot up on its side, revealing a mark etched into the base of the pot. It was a cross pattee, the insignia of the Templar Order. “This honey comes from a small apiary at Nettleham and, as you see, is on property held by the Order. Most of the honey that is used in the kitchen is provided by apiaries on Haye land, but this one has a very distinct and flavourful taste, and Gosbert orders a score of pots to be delivered to the castle every year at the time of the autumn honey fair. If my cook is not able to give you any information that is useful, it may be worthwhile to visit the beekeeper at Nettleham. He has been providing us with his honey for many years, and while it does not seem likely he would have any reason for wishing harm to those who live within the castle, it may be that the honey was left unattended while it was in his care, or en route to the castle kitchen.”
Nicolaa stood up. “It would seem we are once again involved in the machinations of a murderer, de Marins. Let us pray we are as successful in catching him as we have been beforetimes.”
When Bascot came down into the bail a small crowd of servants was gathered in front of the cookhouse, watching Thorey as he tested the honey on his rats. There were about twenty pots lined up beside him and he had three cages set on the ground in front of him, a rodent in each one. Only a few of the pots bore a glaze of the same bright colour as the one that had been contaminated; most were tinged with a greenish hue, and a few had no glaze at all. Thorey’s little terrier dogs were still watching the proceedings from a short distance away, their gaze never wavering from their master’s actions.
Bascot walked up to Ernulf, who was standing with a couple of the men-at-arms near Thorey and watching as the catcher fed a piece of honey-soaked bread to each of the rodents in turn. Gianni ran to his master when he saw him emerge from the keep. The boy’s eyes were still a little fearful, but the excitement caused by the discovery of the poison and the catcher’s testing of the honey had gone a small way to alleviate his concern.
“Had to send to town for more rats,” Ernulf told Bascot. “There’s too many pots of honey and not enough rats to test them all. Thorey’s vermin are already so sated with bait that they’re refusing to take any more.”
As he spoke, they heard the guard on the eastern gate give a shout and turned to see another rat catcher stride through the huge portal. He was a much bigger man than Thorey, resplendent in a cape and peaked hat made completely of rat skins, and was carrying a long ratting pole set with sharp metal barbs. Alongside him trotted another, much younger man, dressed more conventionally in plain tunic and hose, carrying two cages, each containing half a dozen rats. The rodents were huddled close together and squeaking with fear.
“Serjeant Ernulf,” the catcher said as he came up to where they stood. “I have come as you directed.”
“This is Germagan,” the serjeant informed Bascot. “He’s the premier rat catcher in Lincoln town.”
The catcher bowed in the Templar’s direction, sweeping his cape aside as he did so. “My lord,” he said, “I am pleased to be of service.”
Gianni’s eyes grew big with wonder as he looked at the cape and hat the catcher wore. The skins at the edges of both still had the heads of the rodents attached, and beneath the multitude of whiskered noses, small, sharp teeth gleamed ferociously as the catcher moved to take a place beside Thorey. His assistant set the cages down alongside the others, and Germagan listened intently as Thorey explained the purpose of the honey baiting. Soon, more pots had been opened and pieces of bread smeared with a spoonful of the contents before being fed to each of the caged vermin in turn. Once that was done, both catchers sat down on the ground to await the results.
“This will take some time, Ernulf,” Bascot said, “and most of the day will be gone before all those pots have been tested. I am going to question Gosbert. Lady Nicolaa is not convinced that he is guilty, and if she is correct, he may have information that will help us discover who else had an opportunity to poison the honey.”
“I didn’t reckon it was the cook, either,” the serjeant replied, his face grim. “But you can tell Gosbert from me that if it’s proved he did try to poison milady I’ll make him rue the day he was born. By the time I get through with him he’ll be begging for an easy death from a hang-man’s noose.”
Bascot made no reply; he merely left the serjeant to overseeing the testing of the honey and made his way to the holding cells.
Four
Bascot’s interrogation of the cook provided no indication of any person who, other than the cook himself, might have been responsible for placing the poison in the honey. Gosbert was relieved to hear that his mistress was not convinced of his guilt and once again adamantly denied his culpability. “Lady Nicolaa has always had a fondness for marchpane, and when I heard that her appetite was failing, I thought that if I put some atop the simnel cake, it might tempt her into eating,” he said. “Had I known the honey was tainted I would have eaten the marchpane myself rather than send it to her.”
There was outrage in the cook’s eyes as he spoke and no trace of evasion as he answered the questions the Templar put to him. He had not noticed anyone touching the honey pot that had been contaminated, he said, but it could have been easily done. At least two pots of the same grade were always kept on an open shelf in the kitchen, along with a few of the inferior type. To remove one of them and replace it at a later time would be a simple task. And it would be even easier to do as Nicolaa de la Haye had suggested, bring in the tainted pot concealed in a basket or some other receptacle and exchange it for a pure one.
“Either way would be the work of only a moment,” Gosbert said, “and with all the activity in the kitchen, especially at mealtimes, would not have been noticed.”
When Bascot pressed him for the names of those who had access to the place where the honey pots were kept, Gosbert threw up his hands in dismay.
“They are in easy reach of all the scullions and the servants that wait on the tables in the hall. Then there are the squires and pages that come to get a special dish for the household knights, and the servants that bring bags of flour or wood for the ovens, and the carters who deliver supplies of pots and ladles…”
Gosbert’s voice began to tremble as he stumbled to a halt. “How are you to find the guilty one among so many, Sir Bascot?” he asked. “I am doomed. Even though Lady Nicolaa believes me, she will not prevail against the evidence. I will be hanged for a crime I did not commit.”
The Templar tried to console the cook, telling him that it would be some time before such a thing came to pass and that, in the meantime, there was every hope the true culprit would be found.
“Cast your memory back over the last few months, Gosbert. Try to remember if there was any occasion when one of the people of whom you have just spoken was near the honey pots without good cause or seemed to be acting in a furtive manner.”
“I will do my best, Sir Bascot,” Gosbert promised fervently. “My life may well depend on it.”
When the
templar left the cell where the cook was imprisoned, he saw two monks standing by the rat catchers, who were still busy testing the honey. One of the brothers he recognised as Jehan, the elderly infirmarian from the Priory of All Saints, but the other was a much younger monk that Bascot had never met before, although he had seen him within the ward a couple of times in the company of the servant who tended the plants in the castle herb garden. Jehan was deep in conversation with Thorey and Germagan, nodding his head as they spoke while his companion listened with unswerving attention. As Bascot headed in the direction of the keep to tell Nicolaa de la Haye that Gosbert, unfortunately, had not been able to give him any useful information, the two monks left the catcher and made haste to join him.
“Greetings, Sir Bascot,” Brother Jehan said, and he introduced the monk who was with him as Brother Andrew, recently come to the priory from another enclave of the Benedictine Order. The younger monk was perhaps thirty years of age, very tall and rangily built. He had an austere appearance about him which was relieved only by the generous mobility of his wide mouth.
“I just received a message from Lady Nicolaa requesting our assistance in regard to poisonings that have taken the lives of two people in the castle household,” Jehan said. “The matter seemed an urgent one and I thought it best to come at once.” He gestured towards the younger monk. “Brother Andrew has had some training in the herbal arts and so I brought him with me. His knowledge may prove useful.”