A Plague of Poison

by Maureen Ash

  “That is what Preceptor d’Arderon asked me,” Ivor replied, his eyes hot with anger. “And I will tell you, Sir Bascot, the same as I told him. The potter is a peasant and has the clod-like mind of one. I did not think his lies, or the opinions of the other landless villeins he repeated them to, worthy of my attention.”

  When Bascot left the merchant’s home a few minutes later, Reinbald accompanied him to the door and apologised for his wife’s discourtesy. “Please assure Lady Nicolaa that both I and my wife will comply with her request to attend the sheriff’s court and that we will give our evidence without reservation.”

  As he walked back up Hungate towards the castle, the Templar reflected on how personalities within a family, despite similarities in appearance, could be so very different. The physical resemblance between Ivor and his brother Harald was strong, but their outlooks on life were almost diametrically opposed. Bascot did not think that Ivor, with his overwhelming sense of self-importance, had given one moment’s thought to the poverty-stricken state that awaited Maud le Breve’s old nurse, Nantie, but Harald had enough compassion to be concerned about her future homelessness and was doing his best to forestall it.

  As he neared the castle, and was walking up Spring Hill in the direction of Bailgate, Bascot saw Roget standing by the corner of the fish market, talking to one of his guards. When the former mercenary saw the Templar approaching, he hailed him and asked if there was any news of when the sheriff might return.

  “I will be glad to see him back, de Marins,” Roget said. “It is a little quieter in the town now that the potter has been arrested, but the citizens are anxious for him to be punished and are becoming unruly in their impatience.”

  The captain rubbed his hand across his thick beard, causing the copper rings threaded in its strands to tinkle with a musical sound as they pushed together. “I must admit I would like to gut that bâtard myself. Even if it is my duty to keep him safe from those who would punish him, I have more than a little sympathy with them.”

  Bascot understood the captain’s acrimony, especially after seeing the little body of Juliette le Breve and hearing Nantie’s witness of how the child had died. He felt the same way himself.

  It occurred to the Templar that Roget might be able to help him discover whether Ivor Severtsson had been guilty of assaulting Rosamunde, and he asked the captain if he knew the bailiff.

  Roget shook his head. “I have seen him about the town once or twice, but I have never spoken to him,” he replied.

  “I would like to find out if there is any truth to the potter’s charge that Severtsson raped his daughter,” Bascot said. “Whether he did or not has no bearing on Wilkin’s guilt, for the potter believed it was so whether it is true or not, but I promised the preceptor I would look into the matter.”

  Roget nodded his head in agreement. The captain was an unabashed lecher, but Bascot knew that, like himself and d’Arderon, he had little regard for any man who would sexually assault a woman.

  “I would be interested to know if any women of the town are acquainted with him and have an opinion of his . . . proclivities,” Bascot said.

  The captain gave him a straight look. “You mean you want me to ask the bawds in Butwerk if he is capable of rape, do you not?”

  “Or any other women of the town who are known to give their favours lightly,” Bascot replied. “I am sure you are acquainted with more than one or two of that sort.”

  Roget gave a wry grin. “That is true,” he admitted. “I will do as you ask, de Marins. Any man who would force a woman to his will needs to be revealed as the cochon he is.”

  Bascot thanked Roget and resumed his walk back to the castle. The Templar knew it was a sin to harbour a desire to bring discredit to another, but if Ivor Severtsson was guilty of rape, it would give him great satisfaction to prove it.

  Nineteen

  NICOLAA’S HOPE THAT HER HUSBAND WOULD RETURN soon was granted the next morning when, just before the hour of Sext, Gerard Camville, at the head of his retinue, rode into the bail. All of the horses were covered in a coating of dust, as were the cloaks the riders wore. The sheriff was a massive man, with muscles swelling at neck and thigh, and the stallion he rode was of the same large proportions. On his face was a bellicose scowl, and he glared about him as he rode up to the steps of the forebuilding and dismounted. Behind him was his son, the hood of his mail coat pushed back in the warmth of the morning air to display the flaming red hair that he had inherited from his mother.

  The rest of the entourage rode to the stables and wearily got down from their steeds and gave them into the care of the grooms. The messenger Nicolaa had sent with news of Wilkin’s incarceration was with them, having met his lord as the sheriff was on his return journey.

  All of them followed Gerard Camville into the hall, and servants were sent in haste to bring food and drink for the returning travellers.

  Barely an hour later, a page came to summon Bascot to the sheriff’s chamber, and when Bascot mounted the stairs and knocked on the door of the room, he was surprised to find that it was not Gerard who awaited him, but his son, Richard.

  The room he entered was slightly larger than Lady Nicolaa’s and strewn with belts, boots and tack for horses. Against one of the walls was a substantial bed, laid with a coverlet of wolf skin. Here there was no sign of parchment or the implements of writing; Camville was numerate, but his literacy was minimal, and he depended on his wife to attend to the many details that were involved in managing their vast demesne. Although, as her husband, he was lord over all of the possessions she had inherited from her father, he was an indolent man and was content to leave the administration of their lands to her, preferring to devote his time to the pleasures of the hunt. Included in the inheritance she had received from her father was the constableship of the castle, and despite the fact that Gerard nominally held the office, it was Nicolaa who was viewed as castellan throughout all of Lincoln. Both she and her husband were content that it should be so.

  But the office of sheriff was viewed by Gerard in a different light. The post was a lucrative one, and he took his duties seriously and guarded his rights jealously. Any person who was misguided enough to break the laws that he upheld and foolish enough to get caught would reap his punishment quickly and without any show of mercy. The fate of Wilkin now resided in his hands.

  Richard was sitting at a table that was laid with a chessboard and chessmen, a magnificent set that had been given to his father by the Henry II, sire of both King Richard and King John. Gerard was an avid player and valued the set highly; he had been a familiare, or close companion, to King Henry, and still mourned his loss even after the passage of so many years. The chess pieces were of carved oak; half of them were stained and polished until they were almost black, and the other half had been left in the natural colour of the wood and covered with only a protective coating of oil. Each of the pieces had been set into a base of precious metal, the squat men-at-arms in pewter, the bishops, knights and castles in silver and the monarchs in gold. The board on which the pieces were set was a thick slab of oak, the surface inlaid with alternating squares of light and dark wood and the edges carved with a motif of scrolled leaves. The arrangement of the pieces indicated that a game was in progress, with a couple of men lying to one side after having been captured and the others in various positions on the board. It seemed as though the white side was losing; the black men-at-arms were fast encroaching on the king, and one of the two white knights had been taken.

  The sheriff’s son looked up from his study of the pieces and greeted Bascot civilly before offering him a cup of wine. “Do you play chess, de Marins?” he asked.

  “I used to play with my father many years ago,” Bascot replied, accepting the proffered cup, “but not since then.”

  “Ah yes,” Richard said. “It is frowned upon by the church for its warlike aspects, I know, and because many are foolish enough to lose large sums wagering upon the outcome. I assume the Order does not
allow it to be played within their ranks?”

  Bascot shook his head. “It is not banned, lord, but it is not often that any of the brothers have time to enjoy a game.”

  Richard picked up a white rook and fingered it thoughtfully. “My father and I began this match before we left for London.” He gave a regretful smile. “I have never beaten him yet, and it looks as though I will lose again this time.”

  The Templar knew that Camville had rarely been bested at the game. Rumour had it that on one occasion he had lost a match to his wife, which had cost him the price of a gilded statue to St. Monica, the patron saint of mothers, for the castle chapel. Bascot did not know if the rumour held any truth, but there was a statue of the saint in the chapel.

  Richard replaced the chess piece on the board and moved to take a seat in front of the small fire that had been lit in the huge grate on one side of the chamber, motioning Bascot to a stool nearby. The sheriff’s son then went straight to the heart of the matter he wished to discuss.

  “My father is aware of all of the details concerning the recent deaths in Lincoln, de Marins, including the arrest of the potter, through the messages my mother sent. When the second missive reached us we were almost home, and after learning its contents, he decided that the matter must be dealt with swiftly in order that the townspeople will feel that justice has been served.”

  Richard took a sip of his wine before he continued. “As soon as it can be arranged, a session of the sheriff’s court will be held to try the potter. Since I will be involved in conducting the trial, and you have been closely engaged with the matter, my mother suggested I speak to you and review the evidence against him.”

  Bascot complied, taking an occasional sip of wine as he related all that had passed since the morning the clerk had died in the scriptorium. Richard listened intently, only interrupting the Templar on occasion to clarify the identities of the people who had been murdered. When Bascot had finished, Richard poured them both another cup of wine, contemplating what he had been told.

  “The proof against the potter is certainly damning,” he said finally. “Not only was the means of making the poison found among his possessions, but he also makes the pots in which it was placed. It is a wonder he would be so foolish.”

  He looked at Bascot with eyes that were very like Nicolaa’s, perceptive and patient. “My mother told me that she felt you are not entirely convinced of his guilt. Is it because of your measure of the man?”

  “It was, lord, but this latest evidence of the reason for his resentment against those in the castle and priory seems to prove I am in error,” Bascot replied. “I had thought him honest enough, and not likely to risk putting not only his own life, but the lives of his family, in jeopardy. They will be in sore straits without his skill to sustain them.”

  “But it is not uncommon for a man, if he becomes angry enough, to carry out acts that are ill-advised,” Richard objected. “Perhaps that is what happened with the potter.”

  “It must have been. There is no doubt of his hatred for the bailiff.”

  Richard mused for a moment. “Ivor Severtsson. I have heard his name before. It was he who gave the information that led to the arrest of a band of brigands, one of which was Drue Rivelar, the son of the previous bailiff of the Wragby property.”

  “I have heard about the capture of the wolf’s heads, but not that it was Severtsson who assisted in their taking,” Bascot replied.

  Richard got up and walked the length of the chamber, his wine cup in his hand, in the restless fashion his father often adopted. “Severtsson came privately to my father and told him of the crimes that were being committed by Drue, and that he and a few of his cohorts were the ones responsible for attacking and robbing travellers who use the road that passes by Wragby. He also gave information of when the next attack would take place, saying he had overheard Drue arranging it with one of the others in the band.”

  Richard’s mouth turned down in distaste. “My father had no liking for Severtsson and told me that he felt the man’s cooperation was given not, as he said, out of concern for the welfare of the travellers but from envy of his master’s son. Perhaps my father’s estimate was correct, but the jealousy was inspired by resentment of Drue Rivelar’s liaison with the potter’s daughter rather than his privileged position.

  “That was a difficult time,” Richard continued. “I remember well the day Rivelar’s boy and the others of the band were taken. A merchant, a draper who was bringing some bolts of cloth he had bought in Grimsby back to Lincoln, was killed, and his servant was badly wounded when he sprang to his master’s defence. My father’s men arrived in time to save the lives of the half dozen others that made up the party, but all bore injuries from the fray. After the brigands were brought back to the castle, John Rivelar came here almost immediately to protest his son’s innocence, but there could be no doubt of Drue’s guilt, and in accordance with the law, my father hanged him and the others without trial. Rivelar came every day for a week afterwards, accusing my father of overstepping the bounds of his office and threatening to bring a charge against him before the justices. My father had a little sympathy at first, for Drue was the man’s son, but eventually he lost patience and had him thrown out of the keep. It was a relief when Rivelar died a short time later.”

  Richard stopped in his pacing and added, “It would seem that Ivor Severtsson is once again a source of grief to those who have the misfortune to come in contact with him, but, be that as it may, that does not excuse the potter for attempting to kill him.”

  “No, it does not,” Bascot replied.

  “My father intends to convene the sheriff’s court as soon as he has had notice of it posted throughout the town and summons have been sent to those who will give witness. That will not take longer than one day, and so the trial will most surely be held on the day following.”

  As Bascot stood up and was preparing to leave, Richard added, “Even though the potter will be tried swiftly, de Marins, his punishment, if he is found guilty, will not be meted out until the evidence has been reviewed by the justices at the next assize. We were told in London that the justices will arrive in Lincoln at the end of the first week in May. If they are constant to the schedule we were given, it will not be overlong before the potter meets the fate he deserves.”

  THAT AFTERNOON ROGET FOUND THAT HIS ROUNDS about the town had taken him near Claxledgate, the gate that led out of the city into the poor suburb of Butwerk. Since Butwerk was the district where most of Lincoln’s prostitutes plied their trade, he decided to go to Whore’s Alley and ask the bawds who lived there if Ivor Severtsson had ever had occasion to pay for their services.

  Most of the stewe-keepers knew Roget and were wary of him. Although it was the town bailiff who had jurisdiction over the management of their brothels, the captain of Camville’s guard was a man who was well-known for his ruthless treatment of any who disturbed the sheriff’s peace. His sudden appearance in Whore’s Alley made them all uneasy.

  While Roget’s presence may have caused trepidation among the stewe-keepers, the bawds were pleased to see him. Although he had never had the need to pay for the services of a harlot, they all knew him as a man who enjoyed the company of women, and one or two of the bawds had willingly shared his bed purely for the pleasure of his company. All of them would gladly have helped him if they could, but unfortunately none remembered having a customer such as Roget described. Severtsson’s appearance, with his height and startlingly fair hair and pale eyes, was distinctive, and while many of the male inhabitants of Lincoln could number an antecedent of Nordic origin in their family, none had so completely inherited not only the colouring Ivor Severtsson possessed, but also the height and strength. Each of the harlots shook her head reluctantly in response to the captain’s question.

  It was not until Roget went into the last whorehouse in the area that he finally found a bawd who was able to help him. She was one that Roget had never seen before, a full-figured young woman with a
tousle of raven black hair, and she nodded with conviction when he described the bailiff.

  “I didn’t see him here in Lincoln, Captain,” the girl, whose name was Amelia, said. She had, she explained, been employed at a bawdy house in Louth until a few months before, and it was there that she had seen a man fitting Severtsson’s description. Roget listened to her with interest; Louth was a town which lay just a little over twenty-five miles eastward from Lincoln, but Wragby, where Severtsson was employed as bailiff, was closer to Louth, and could be reached by a relatively short ride on horseback.

  “Are you sure it was the same man, ma belle?” Roget asked the harlot.

  Amelia tossed her head and replied, “It must be him. He was a big man, just like you said, and very fair, and I remember the stewe-keeper calling him Ivor.”

  Roget gave the girl a smile and stroked his beard knowingly. “I expect such a well-favoured man would be a pleasant customer to entertain,” he said. “And you are pretty enough, ma petite, to stoke any man’s desire.”

  Amelia’s response surprised Roget. “I don’t know as how I’d want to stoke his,” she said tartly. “I remember the time he came and how we all looked at him with admiration, hopin’ to be the one he chose. It was my good fortune that he didn’t pick me. The girl who went with him was just a tiny little thing, no bigger than a mouse, and he used her so harshly that she couldn’t get out of bed for the next two days.”