A Plague of Poison

by Maureen Ash

  King John had made his offer last year, in November. Bascot had spent the intervening months pondering how to respond. He knew that he could not delay his decision indefinitely. Not only would the king expect an answer soon; it had been eighteen months since the Templar master had sent Bascot to Lincoln, and an undertaking to either return to the Order or leave it could not be deferred for much longer. It was only because of Gianni that he had not returned to their ranks before this.

  It had not been until the boy was captured by brigands the previous summer, and his life threatened, that Bascot had realised the depth of his affection for the lad. Had Gianni been a true son of his own loins Bascot could not have valued him more, and he would not forsake the youngster now, no matter the cost to himself.

  As he left the Minster and crossed the old Roman road of Ermine Street, dodging between carts and travellers on horseback making their way to Newport Arch, the northern exit from the town, he reflected that a future in Lincoln would not greatly displease him. He had considerable respect for Nicolaa de la Haye; she was diligent and efficient in the duties she undertook in running the large fief she had inherited from her father, and as an added bonus, he liked her as well. The town itself was a prosperous one, with the usual wrangling between royal authority and some of its citizens—especially those that belonged to a guild—that occurred in any community of a moderate size, but Bascot had come to feel at home here and had made friends among the staff of the castle and some of the town’s inhabitants. If only he could find a way to reconcile himself to gainsaying his vows, he would be content.

  As he entered the huge portal that was the eastern gate into the bail, the cathedral bells began to toll the midday hour of Sext. He raised a hand in greeting to the guard on the castle gate and went into the huge expanse of the ward. The place was a beehive of industry, for with the coming of spring, the grime that had collected over the winter months was in the process of being cleansed. Thatch on the roofs of outbuildings was being replaced, carts laden with ordure from the middens were being trundled out the western gate and servants were using metal scrapers attached to long wooden poles to level the furrows that had been scored by harsh winter weather into the hard-packed earth of the bail. Atop the walls, guards paced along the walkway that lined the inside of the parapet.

  From across the ward, Bascot saw the small, slight figure of Gianni racing towards him, the mop of dark curls on the boy’s head bouncing as he ran. The lad had been standing in company with Ernulf, the grizzled captain of the castle guard, at the door to the barracks and had seen Bascot’s return. The Templar felt a surge of pride as he watched Gianni approach. The youngster had been emaciated and dispirited from hunger when he had first encountered him; now the muscles on his slender frame were beginning to swell with health, and his countenance was clear and untroubled. Bascot knew that his decision to leave the Order and stay with the boy was the correct one.

  As it was nearly time for the midday meal to be served, the pair made their way across the bail and into the hall. Inside the high-ceilinged chamber, trestle tables had been set up and were in the process of being laid with cloths in preparation for the serving of food. Only the table that was fixed permanently on the dais at the far end of the hall had been left bare of napery, for Lady Nicolaa had been indisposed by the debilitating effects of a rheum for the last few days and had been taking all of her meals in her bedchamber.

  Just as the Templar was starting towards a seat above the huge saltcellar that designated the separation of higher rank from lower, a commotion broke out as a manservant came rushing through the door that led to the spiral staircase in the northern tower of the keep. The lackey looked frantically around him until he spotted Martin, the castle leech, preparing to take a seat at one of the tables, and then ran in his direction. “You must come at once, Martin,” he yelled. “Ralf is terribly ill. Master Blund fears for his life.”

  A shocked silence followed the servant’s shout, and Bascot made haste to follow the burly figure of Martin as he ran to the door from which the servant had emerged. Ralf, Bascot knew, was one of two assistants to John Blund, Nicolaa de la Haye’s elderly secretarius, and carried out his duties in the scriptorium, a small chamber located at the top of the tower whose staircase he now began to climb. Cursing the awkwardness of his injured ankle, Bascot followed Martin up the stone steps as fast as he was able, Gianni pattering close behind.

  The door to the scriptorium was open, and a fetid smell pervaded the air at the top of the steps. Inside the room, Bascot could see Blund kneeling beside the prone figure of his clerk and speaking urgently to Martin. Behind the two men, the chamber was in disarray, one of the three lecterns that lined the far wall was toppled over and there were ink, parchment and quills lying scattered on the floor around it, as though the desk had been suddenly overset. The open-faced cupboard with shelves that held piles of parchment seemed undisturbed, but below it, a ewer was lying on its side and the liquid it contained was seeping out into a puddle on the floor. Above the ewer, on one of the lower shelves of the cupboard, was a metal tray, on which was set a wooden drinking cup and the crumbled remnants of some type of confectionary.

  Motioning to Gianni to stay outside in the hallway, Bascot entered the chamber. Ralf, a young man of about eighteen years of age, was lying just a few feet from the entrance, and it was from his body that the rank odour emanated. Bloody vomit was spattered over the front of his gown and clumped in patches at the corners of his mouth. A stain on the floor beneath him gave evidence that he had soiled himself. His limbs were flaccid, and his head lolled to one side, eyes half closed. As Bascot approached, the young clerk gave a great convulsive shudder and, with one last expulsion of air, ceased to breathe.

  Martin leaned over the lad and placed a hand on his chest, feeling for a heartbeat. He looked up at Bascot and gave a slight shake of his head. “He is gone, I am afraid.”

  The elderly secretary stared at the leech, the expression in Blund’s faded blue eyes uncomprehending. “But he cannot be dead! I left him just a few hours ago and he was hale and hearty. How can he have become so ill in such a short space of time?”

  Martin stood up and shrugged, his attitude dismissive. “Most likely he ate some tainted food. It is sudden, I admit, but rancid meat or an egg that has been kept too long can sometimes have an abrupt and virulent effect.” He paused in thought for a moment, his brows drawing down in concern. “I have had no other reports of sickness among the household, but if Ralf ate something at table last night, a dish that contained an ingredient that was unwholesome, I had best alert . . .”

  “No, Martin, that is unlikely,” Blund interrupted. “Ralf did not usually take his evening meal with the rest of us, and did not do so yestere’en. He has lodgings in the town, and meals are included in the rooming fee. If it was rancid food that caused this tragedy, it was most likely in a dish that was served there, or in the contents of a pasty he bought on his way home.”

  Blund looked down at the clerk and reached out a hand to smooth the thick mat of auburn hair from Ralf’s pallid brow. “So quickly dead! If only I had not left him by himself this morning to attend my goddaughter’s christening. I was gone for just a few hours, but . . . it is sad to contemplate that he was all alone when this illness overtook him.” He waved a hand at the upset lectern and scattered writing implements. “He must have been in great pain to have caused such a mess.”

  Bascot looked around the empty room. “You have two clerks, do you not, Master Blund? Where is the other one? Why was he not here when Ralf was taken ill?”

  The secretary looked at the Templar with eyes that were glazed and gave his answer absently. “Lambert is below, in the hall. I saw him as I came back to the castle. He had come to tell me that his hand was sufficiently healed for him to return to his duties.”

  Martin explained to Bascot. “Lambert took a tumble down a flight of stairs a few days ago and sprained the wrist of his scribing arm. He has not been in the scriptorium sin
ce then, and would have been absent this morning.”

  The leech rose to his feet. “I am sorry for Ralf’s loss, Master Blund,” he said, his ruddy countenance set in lines of solemnity. “Does he have any relatives that must be informed?”

  “No,” Blund replied. “Ralf was an orphan, left in the care of the Priory of All Saints when he was only a small child. That is how he came to his duties here; I was looking for a young lad to train as assistant, and the prior recommended him. And now, so soon, he will be returned to the care of the church, to be buried.”

  Martin gave a commiserating shake of his head and turned to Bascot. “There is no more I can do here. With your leave I will return to the hall and ask the chaplain to attend the body. I shall also tell Lady Nicolaa of Ralf’s death, and how he came by it.”

  The Templar gave his assent, and Martin left the room, shooing downstairs the flock of servants that had gathered in the doorway until only Gianni remained, his eyes wide and frightened. Bascot helped the distraught secretary to his feet and set him on a stool. In the silent and oppressive atmosphere of the scriptorium they waited for the priest to arrive.

  Two

  THE SECOND FATALITY OCCURED IN THE EARLY hours of the next morning. Ernulf gave Bascot the news as he and Gianni were going to the castle chapel to attend Mass.

  “I was just coming to get you,” the serjeant called out from the steps of the forebuilding that led up to the keep. “There’s been another death, from the same sickness as the clerk.”

  “Another?” Bascot echoed in disbelief. “Who?”

  “Sir Simon,” Ernulf replied. “Breathed his last not two hours since, just after Matins.”

  Simon of Haukwell was the knight whose duty it had been to train the squires of the Camville retinue. A dour and taciturn man, he nonetheless had the respect of the boys who wielded lance and sword under his direction, for while he had little patience with careless mistakes, he was also unstinting in the time he spent in ensuring his charges did not make them.

  “Then Haukwell must have eaten the same tainted food that the clerk did,” Bascot concluded, “despite the fact that Blund said the clerk didn’t take his meals at the castle board.”

  Ernulf nodded. “Seems likely, but if so, we don’t know what it was.” The serjeant rubbed a hand over his face, which was grey with tiredness. “Lady Nicolaa has been up since before Prime with the disturbance, and she’s already worn out from that rheum that’s ailing her.” Concern for his mistress’s well-being, Bascot suspected, was adding to the serjeant’s fatigue. He had been devoted to her since she was a young girl and was ever-conscious of her welfare.

  “What is Martin’s opinion?” Bascot asked.

  “He’s insisting that both the clerk and Haukwell ate some victual that was rotten, but there’s one or two of the servants as saying it’s a pestilence that’s come amongst us.”

  The fear in Ernulf’s eyes was reflected in Bascot’s own. It had been a pestilence that had taken the lives of the Templar’s family while he had been in the Holy Land. It was a scourge that no mortal man could combat. Gianni moved a little closer to his master’s side.

  “Aye,” Ernulf said, “ ’tis to be hoped the leech’s claim is a true one. If it is not . . .” He did not go on to voice his dread of the alternative, saying instead, “I’ve just taken the cook and his assistant into the hall and they’re both denying they served anything tainted. Lady Nicolaa sent me to fetch you. She wants your help in trying to sort the matter out.”

  “I’ll come at once,” Bascot said, and he and Gianni followed Ernulf into the hall.

  Inside, Nicolaa de la Haye, a small, plump woman who had about her an air of calm authority, was seated at the table on the dais. Behind her chair stood one of the castle sempstresses, Clare, a young, fresh-faced girl who had been attending her mistress while Nicolaa had been indisposed. The flesh around the maid’s eyes was puffy, and it looked as though she had been weeping.

  At the table with Nicolaa were John Blund and Martin. The leech was obviously angry, his usual high colour flushed an even deeper red, and he was drumming his fingers impatiently on the table as he looked at the two men standing below him on the floor of the hall. One was the cook, Gosbert; the other his assistant, Eric. Between the two of them they either prepared or supervised the preparation of all the food that was served to the castle household.

  “De Marins,” Nicolaa said when Bascot came up to her, “has Ernulf told you that Haukwell has died, and from a similar sickness to that which took the life of Master Blund’s clerk?” The castellan’s voice was hoarse from her ailment. Her diminutive frame was slumped with weariness, and her slightly protuberant blue eyes were red-rimmed and watery. As she spoke she dabbed at her nose with a square of soft linen that had been tucked in her sleeve.

  “He has, lady,” Bascot assured her, “and also that you are trying to discover the cause of the affliction.”

  “Then please take a seat up here.” She motioned to the empty chair beside her. “I have need of a clear head to assist me in this task. I am afraid my faculties are somewhat dulled at the moment.”

  Leaving Gianni standing with Ernulf, Bascot mounted the dais and took the seat she had indicated, looking out over the people gathered in the hall as he did so. At the back were a few of the household staff including Eudo, the steward, alongside some of the men-at-arms that had just come off duty. At one side, near the huge unlit fireplace, the squires who had been in Haukwell’s care—five in number—had gathered to watch the proceedings. The knight who held the post of marshal, Gilles de Laubrec, was standing beside them, his arms crossed over his burly chest and a scowl on his normally amiable face.

  Bascot studied the two men who were being interrogated. The cook, Gosbert, was the older of the pair; a man of short stature and rotund proportions topped by a completely bald head. His attitude was one of indignant truculence, while his assistant, Eric, who was much younger, taller and more muscular in build, stood at his side and was casting nervous glances at the leech. Both of them wore voluminous aprons of rough linen that were heavily stained with smears of blood and grease.

  Once the Templar had taken his seat, Nicolaa said to him, “Gosbert has declared that nothing in his kitchen is tainted, but Martin in insistent there must be at least one victual that is rotten. And John Blund says that the clerk did not eat any of his meals here at the castle, so even if Martin is correct, it seems impossible that both Ralf and Haukwell were made ill by a common food. We appear to be at an impasse.” She did not speak of the fear that the deaths may have been caused by a pestilence, but the implication hung in the air all the same.

  Bascot considered the problem for a moment and then addressed the cook. “Gosbert, it is not uncommon for one of the knights, when he has been detained by his duties, to be unable to attend the board at mealtimes. I have often been delayed myself. On such occasions, I would send my servant to the kitchen for some food to stem my hunger. Are you quite sure that did not happen last night with Sir Simon; that you served nothing to him that was quite separate from the meal that was sent to the hall earlier?”

  The cook looked at Eric, and the assistant shook his head in negation. “No, Sir Bascot,” Gosbert declared. “We did not.”

  There was a sudden movement amongst the group of squires as Thomas, the eldest, and the one who had most often attended Haukwell, started to speak. De Laubrec gripped his arm roughly and gave him a curt command to be silent.

  “I will not, Sir Gilles,” Thomas said defiantly, and before the knight could make further protest, he called out to the Templar. “The cook lies, Sir Bascot, he did serve Sir Simon something that was not given to anyone else.”

  The heads of everyone present turned in the squire’s direction, and Bascot motioned to de Laubrec to release the lad and bade Thomas to come forward. He did so, standing erect and tense in front of the dais. He was a lad of about seventeen years of age, with auburn hair and a spattering of freckles on his face that stood out li
ke drops of blood against the whiteness of his skin.

  “What other food was given to Haukwell?” Bascot asked quietly.

  “It was not food, it was a drink,” Thomas replied. “Sir Simon always had a jug of honeyed wine before retiring every night. After we had all eaten, he sent me to the kitchen to fetch it. He had one cup when I first brought it and then two more after we had spread our pallets in the corner of the hall where he slept alongside the rest of us. It was soon after he had lain down for his night’s rest that I was woken by the sound of his purging, and shortly afterwards he was dead.”

  Thomas’s voice faltered slightly as he said the last words, but he kept his composure and turned to face the cook and his assistant. “I have been thinking about it ever since. If, as the leech says, it was something Sir Simon ate or drank that killed him, it could only have been the wine. And he was the one,” the squire pointed an accusing finger at Eric, “who gave me the flagon.”

  A murmur rose amongst the spectators, and Eric stepped back a pace in stunned surprise. “But . . . but, it could not have been the wine,” he protested. “The cask was one that had been broached two days before. It has been served to Sir Simon, and others, throughout all the meals that have been prepared.”