A Plague of Poison tk-3

by Maureen Ash

  Mauger felt his senses reel as he realised that the wine both the castellan and her son had drunk had not been sweetened with the honey he had adulterated. The tainted pot that he had left in the buttery was there, in front of him, being freshly opened and the honey about to be added to a cup of wine that he must either drink or give an acceptable reason for refusing. A memory of the dog he had killed flashed into his mind, accompanied by vivid pictures of the symptoms it had suffered before its death; how it had writhed in spasms of agony and spewed the contents of its stomach and bowels. The thought of undergoing such a fate made the beating of his heart accelerate, and the sound drummed in his ears as Nicolaa directed that the merchant be generous with the sweetener lest the wine’s taste be spoiled by parsimony.

  As the cup was held out to him by Harald Severtsson, Mauger took a step backwards, his hand reaching for the knife that was secreted in his tunic. Nicolaa looked at him, her protuberant blue eyes filled with condemnation. “You seem reluctant to drink the wine that you recommended to my son, Martin-is that perhaps because you know that poison has been added? And, if so, how do you know that? Could it be because your name is not Martin, but Mauger Rivelar, and you seek to murder us in the same way you have killed six others?”

  In desperation, Mauger sought to escape and, drawing his blade, he stabbed out at Harald Severtsson, catching the merchant in the flesh of his upper arm. As Harald staggered back Mauger pushed past him, upsetting the table and the flagons of wine as he did so but gaining his way to the clear space beyond. Without pause, he began to run towards the door of the hall feeling a momentary rush of exhilaration and the hopeful expectancy of escape. But another obstacle suddenly appeared in his path-one that would not be so easy to circumvent as the merchant. Gerard Camville, moving his bulk with the speed that made him such a formidable opponent in battle, was in front of him, sword drawn and the point imbedded in the cloth of the leech’s tunic. Mauger could feel the bite of the steel as it lanced his flesh.

  “I would as soon gut you now, pig, as later,” Camville growled. “The choice is yours.”

  Thirty-seven

  Once Mauger had been hauled away, with considerable roughness, by Ernulf and one of the men-at-arms, Brother Andrew hastened to tend the wound that Harald had sustained. It proved not to be serious, and as the monk was binding it, the young merchant gave Nicolaa a smile and said, “I think, lady, that the offer you made me yesterday of sharing in a cup of wine would now be most welcome. And, if it pleases you, I would prefer it not to be sweetened.”

  Nicolaa de la Haye poured the wine herself and, with a disdainful glance at Ivor, said to Harald, “Your courage does you credit, merchant. You have brought honour to your family’s name.”

  As Richard explained to the puzzled spectators the meaning of what they had witnessed and how it was not the potter, Wilkin, who had murdered six people in Lincoln, but the leech, Martin, who was truly the poisoner, Bascot asked the sheriff for permission to take the news of Mauger’s capture to Wilkin.

  Camville gave his assent and said, “Tell the potter that he will need to be kept in the holding cell for a day or two until his innocence has been proclaimed throughout the town. He will not be safe abroad in Lincoln until all are assured he had no part in the murders.”

  As Bascot left the hall, he found that his gratification at the successful apprehension of Mauger was mingled with a deep sorrow for the anguish of all those who had been affected by the crimes the bailiff’s son had committed. The act of murder was itself a type of poison, reaching out a like malignant hand to taint all of those it touched.

  Wilkin was overjoyed at the news, as was Everard d’Arderon. When Bascot went directly from the holding cell to the preceptory and told the older Templar knight that the charges against the potter would now be dropped, d’Arderon seemed to regain some of his old ease of manner.

  “Our prayers have been answered, de Marins,” he said. “I shall send immediately to the apiary and ensure that Adam and the rest of Wilkin’s family are told he will soon be released.”

  By the time Bascot returned to the castle, the servants who had been out in the countryside were coming back from their excursion, faces flushed and happy, and with a multitude of boughs bearing apple and cherry blossoms piled in the cart and wildflowers entwined in the tresses of the men and women. Kegs of ale were broached as the branches were tied to ropes and affixed to the top of the maypole, and the music of pipes and tabors accompanied the women as they picked up the ends of the ropes and began to dance in an intertwining fashion about the pole until it was covered in the fairy-like flowers. Food was brought out and laid on trestle tables, and everyone ate their fill as the dancing continued throughout the rest of the afternoon and evening. It was a day full of merriment and laughter, and by the time night fell, all were sated with contentment.

  The next morning, after attending mass, Bascot and Gianni went into the hall for the morning meal. John Blund was sitting in his customary place, just below the salt, and the Templar took a seat beside him. Now that the poisoner had been caught and the complement of household knights was back to its full strength, Bascot knew he could not delay his trip to London any longer. But first he hoped to resolve the question of furthering Gianni’s education. He asked Blund if he had had sufficient time to give the matter his consideration.

  The secretary’s face brightened at the question. “I have given much thought to the matter, Sir Bascot, and have arrived at what I hope you will feel is an acceptable solution. It was my intention to seek you out this very day and tell you of it.”

  Blund motioned to the empty space across from him, where Lambert, his assistant, usually sat. “Lambert is already at his tasks in the scriptorium, even though the hour is early. We have been sore pressed, in the absence of Ralf, to keep up with our duties because the many small chores to which he attended-sharpening quills, ruling lines on parchment, mixing ink and so forth-take up so much of our time. It is this situation that has prompted me to my suggestion.”

  His faded blue eyes rested on Gianni as the boy hefted the jug of ale that was on the table and began to fill his master’s cup. “You told me that your servant already has some literacy, is that correct?” When Bascot assured him that was so, Blund went on to ask, “Do you think he would be able to fulfil those minor tasks of which I have just spoken? And perhaps even do a bit of copying of documents that are of minor importance?”

  “Yes,” Bascot replied. “He has had scant scribing tools to practice with; it was necessary that he knew how to take care of them in order to prolong their use. As for the copying, he has spent these last few months improving his hand, and it is now almost as good as my own.”

  Blund smiled with satisfaction. “Then here is what I would propose, Sir Bascot. It will take us some time to find a competent replacement for poor Ralf, and our work is piling up. Would you be agreeable to sparing the boy to assist us in the scriptorium for an hour or two each day? If so, in return, Lambert is willing to give the boy the same amount of time in instruction in the evening, after our day’s work is completed. I have already spoken to Lady Nicolaa about the matter,” Blund told him with a smile. “She told me she wishes to reward your servant for the part he played in uncovering the true identity of the poisoner and is more than willing to pay Lambert for these additional services out of her personal funds.”

  The Templar glanced at Gianni and saw the excitement in the boy’s face. “I think, Master Blund, that your suggestion is an excellent one. Both my servant and I owe you our thanks.”

  After Bascot finished his meal and left the hall, he knew there now remained only one task to be completed before he left for London. He would have to tell Gianni where he was going and why.

  Bascot waited a few days before he told Gianni of his impending journey. He wanted to be sure that the boy was able to fulfil his duties in the scriptorium and also that the lessons given by Lambert were not beyond his limited knowledge. By the end of the week, Gianni’s en
thusiasm for his tasks and his contented face told him that the boy was happy in his new role and would, Bascot felt, not be too distressed by his master’s absence.

  The night before his departure, he sat the boy down in their chamber in the old keep and explained that he would be leaving Lincoln the next morning and the reason for his trip. As he had expected, fear had immediately darkened the boy’s expression.

  “I promise that I will return, Gianni,” Bascot assured him, “but I cannot say when that will be. Until that time, you are to sleep in the barracks with Ernulf, and he will watch over you. Each morning, you will go to the scriptorium and carry out the duties you are assigned by Master Blund, and for the rest of the day, you will study the lessons that Lambert gives you each evening. Lady Nicolaa has assured me she will supervise your welfare.”

  The look in Gianni’s eyes made his words sound hollow. Bascot felt as though he was betraying the boy even though he had explained that it was for Gianni’s welfare that he was about to take the step of leaving the Templar Order. As he sought for some way to reassure the lad, Gianni snatched up the wax tablet and wrote a few brief words on it and then handed it to his master. “Your heart is with the men of the red cross. It will break if you leave it.”

  Bascot felt his breath catch in his throat. It was not for himself the boy was concerned, but for his master. He was not worthy to have such a lad for a servant, much less an adopted son.

  The Templar had never, since the time they had met, laid a hand on the boy in any but the most casual of ways; he had seen the fear of men that lurked in Gianni’s eyes when he had first found him and knew that it stemmed from evil acts that he most likely had witnessed or even been subjected to. Now, he reached out a hand, laid it on the boy’s shoulder and gripped the thin flesh beneath his fingers with a clasp of affection.

  “Sometimes God demands a sacrifice as proof of devotion, Gianni. I am sure this one will be well worth it.”

  These words echoed in Bascot’s mind the next morning as he ordered one of the grooms in the castle stables to saddle a mount, and he felt comforted by them, relieved of any doubt as to the rightness of his decision.

  On Ermine street, just a few miles south of Lincoln, a party of Templar knights was riding north-wards. They had left the guesthouse of an abbey near Waddington just as dawn was breaking, intending to reach Lincoln before the day was far advanced. At their head rode the master of the English branch of the Templars, Amery St. Maur. He was a man of some forty years, broad-shouldered and with a beard of dark brown. His slate grey eyes surveyed the world with a look of keen intelligence, but his mouth held a hint of humour in its thin curve, and while he had often proved his courage in battle, he was praised more often for his innate sense of justice than his military prowess.

  The troupe reached the outskirts of Lincoln and skirted the walls on the westward side. As they approached the castle gate, the guard saw them and blew twice on his horn to signal their approach then sent one of the men-at-arms to tell the sheriff of the knights’ imminent arrival. By the time the knights clattered over the drawbridge and into the bail, Gerard Camville was standing in the ward to greet them. Across the expanse of the open space, by the stable door, Amery St. Maur saw Bascot de Marins.

  “You are well come, St. Maur,” the sheriff said when the party had dismounted. The two men were well-known to each other since the time that one of Gerard’s brothers had gone on crusade to the Holy Land with King Richard a decade before. “I did not expect to see you this far north so soon,” Gerard said. “Just before I left London I had heard that you were in Canterbury, with the king.”

  “Aye, I was,” St. Maur replied. “I attended the celebration of Christ’s resurrection at Eastertide and witnessed John and Isabella’s ceremonial crowning for the service, but I left soon afterwards. There is need for my presence at our enclave in York, and it is there I am bound. Since the journey took me through Lincoln, I thought I would stop here on the way to discuss with Lady Nicolaa a matter that King John mentioned to me while we were both in Canterbury.”

  “My wife will be pleased to see you,” Gerard said. “Will you come and take a cup of wine with us?”

  “Gladly,” St. Maur replied. “But first, I would have a word with de Marins.”

  Bascot went down on one knee as St. Maur walked toward him. The two had met only once before, on that long-ago night in London when Bascot had taken his vows and had been initiated into the Order. The reticent young knight that the Templar master remembered, so full of ardour to become a soldier for Christ, was now much changed. Thomas Berard had described the injuries that de Marins had sustained throughout the long years of his captivity, and the knight’s wavering of faith after his return to England, but the master had not expected to see a man who wore the results of his ordeal so plainly. It was not the black leather patch that covered his missing right eye which made it so, but the weary resolution in the vision of the other. Here was a man who had undergone great suffering at the hands of his heathen captors but had kept his devotion to Christ unsullied throughout. It was only amongst those of his own faith that his inner strength had been tested, and the master could see that his long endurance was beginning to flag.

  St. Maur bade Bascot rise, giving him the kiss of peace on both cheeks as he did so. “I am pleased to see that the health of your body has been recovered,” he said, and then gestured to the saddled horse that the groom was bringing through the stable door. “Are you about to embark on a journey?”

  “Yes, Master,” Bascot replied. “I am going to London, to request permission from Master Berard to resign from the Order.”

  St. Maur rubbed his hand over his short pointed beard and nodded. “I met with King John recently and he told me of the offer he had made to you.” He gave Bascot an intent look as he asked, “I take it that you have decided to accept the king’s gift and abide by the stipulations he attached to it?”

  When Bascot replied that he had, St. Maur asked another question. “Is it your wish, de Marins, as well as your intention, to leave our brotherhood?”

  Bascot answered him honestly. “No, Master, it is not.”

  “Then I think there is need for us to discuss the matter further,” St. Maur said in grave tones. “Go to the commandery and await me there. Inform Preceptor d’Arderon of my arrival and tell him I will join you shortly.”

  Bound by his vow of obedience, Bascot did as he was bid and then, with d’Arderon’s permission, went to await his interview with St. Maur in the preceptory chapel.

  The Templar chapel in Lincoln had been built, like many of those in other enclaves, in a circular fashion to emulate the rotunda of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem. The interior of the chapel was plain, its small space supported by columns placed around the perimeter. On each of the two pillars alongside the altar, stone representations of cherubim had been carved on the capitals, and below them was a depiction of two knights astride one horse, the symbol that was used on the Templar seal. Niches in the walls contained torches that were kept alight day and night, and the acrid smell of burning resin filled the air, mixed with the sweeter and underlying aroma of incense. The altar was at the eastern end, with a figure of Christ on a cross above it and a statue of the Virgin Mary to one side. Bascot knelt in front of the rail that protected the table on which Mass was celebrated, and he bowed his head.

  First he put an image of Gianni in his mind, asking God to protect the boy through whatever trials awaited him, then repeated the prayer of a paternoster over and over until he heard the footsteps of St. Maur ring on the stones of the chapel floor behind him.

  The master genuflected and then knelt beside Bascot, his lips moving in silent prayer before he rose and spoke to the younger knight.

  “I have just been discussing with Lady Nicolaa the offer that King John made to you and the terms that bind it. She tells me, as I suspected, that she believed you were not content in the Order and wished to leave it. That being so, her suggestion to the
king that he reward your services by restoring your father’s fief to your possession was in anticipation of that desire. The constraints placed upon the boon were not of her design, but King John’s alone. She assures me that although she would be pleased to have you join her retinue, she has no desire to command the fealty of a man who has given it under duress.”

  St. Maur paused when he finished speaking and, clasping his hands behind his back, walked to where the statue of the Virgin Mary holding the infant Jesus in her arms stood on a plinth. After looking up at her serene face for a few moments, he walked with a measured tread back to where Bascot stood. “Am I correct in assuming, de Marins, that were it not for the boy, you would refuse the king’s offer and return to our brotherhood?”

  “You are, Master, but I must put Gianni’s welfare before my own and so cannot, as much as I would wish to.”

  “And the vows you took, de Marins, what of them?”

  “I shall honour those even though I leave the Order, Master. I will remain chaste, as I swore to do, and I have no desire for earthly riches. Any monies that accrue from the king’s gift, or my service to Lady Nicolaa, will remain intact and be given to Gianni when he is old enough to manage them.”

  “And your promise of obedience?” St. Maur pressed.

  “Any penance that is laid on me I will complete,” Bascot replied. “I would hope that it would not be so severe as to take me from Gianni’s company for the rest of my life, but if it is, I will do it and leave his care to a person of integrity.”

  St. Maur nodded. “Thomas Berard told me that such would be your intent.”

  Noting the expression of surprise on Bascot’s face, the master explained. “Before I came north to Lincoln, I called an assembly of some of our older and wiser brothers, as is the custom, to discuss your dilemma and seek their advice as to a resolution. We are always reluctant to lose any of our number, de Marins, especially one who has suffered as much as you have done in the service of Our Lord. At the meeting, that thought was uppermost in our minds, and we all gave much consideration to the part of our Rule which enjoins all brothers to defend the poor, widows and orphans. It was felt, by all of those who conferred on the matter, that your young servant is one of those we have sworn to protect and that it is incumbent on us, your brethren, to assist you in that task.”