A Plague of Poison

by Maureen Ash

  The steady hum of conversation in the hall was abruptly stilled as Gerard Camville came into the room, followed by his wife and son. Around his neck Camville wore a heavy chain of silver bearing a medallion engraved with the image of a man armed with a lance sitting astride a horse, the symbol of the office of sheriff. Taking his seat at the central position, with Richard and Nicolaa one on either side of him, Camville gave a curt command to Roget to bring in the prisoner. The captain signalled to one of his men, and the guard went running to the door. Within moments, Wilkin was led into the hall, escorted by two of Roget’s men. The crowd hissed and spat at him as he stumbled through the spectators and was led up to face the sheriff.

  Gerard Camville stood up, and a hush fell as he spoke in the loud voice of a commander accustomed to giving orders on a battlefield. “We are here today, according to the laws of England and with the authority of the king, to hear evidence concerning the recent crimes of murder by poison in the town of Lincoln. The details of this hearing will, as is the custom, be taken down and kept as a record.”

  The sheriff glared out over the assembly as though daring anyone to challenge his authority and then motioned for his son to call the first witness. Richard, his red hair gleaming in the light of the torches in the wall sconces behind him, rose and spoke in a voice that was just as resonant as his father’s.

  “We will hear from the first finder of each of the victims, in the order of the deaths. John Blund will now step forward and tell us how the clerk, Ralf, met his end.”

  Leaving the task of making a record of his evidence to Lambert, the secretary descended from his seat on the dais and came to stand before the sheriff. In his precise voice he told how he had found his young assistant in the throes of a violent illness and that the lad had subsequently died. As he related the details of Ralf’s final agonies, his voice faltered with emotion, and the crowd called out in anger at the heartlessness of the crime. The sheriff’s heavy fist crashed onto the table in front of him and silence quickly descended.

  The squire, Thomas, was called next, to give an accounting of the death of Simon of Haukwell. The young man gave his testimony in a succinct and detached manner that seemed to impress the spectators more than Blund’s emotional one. There were a few gasps of horror when he had finished, but no more explosions of indignation.

  For evidence of the spice merchant and his family’s deaths, only old Nantie was called. She was supported in her accounting by Reinbald and his wife, who also gave an explanation of how it was that the poisoned honey had first been placed in their home and subsequently given to their neighbour.

  Finally, in the list of first finders, Brother Andrew and the novice monk, Eustace, told of the death of the lay brother and how the poison that had caused it was found to have been placed in a small jar of honey kept for use in the infirmary. Andrew also related how he and Brother Jehan had previously identified the nature of the poison for Nicolaa de la Haye.

  Richard thanked the monk and then called all of those who, in some way other than being first finder, had knowledge of the circumstances surrounding each death. These included Martin the leech and Alaric the physician. Gosbert and Eric gave evidence that Wilkin had been in the castle kitchen in the days before the deaths of Ralf and Simon of Haukwell and had access to the shelf where the poisoned honey was found; Brother Andrew confirmed that the honey that had been tainted, and that had been fed to the lay brother who had died, had originally come from the priory kitchen where the potter had delivered some of his wares only a few days before. Ivor Severtsson was called to testify that he had received the supply of pots that had contained the adulterated one from Wilkin himself and had taken them to his uncle’s house in Hungate. Gilles de Laubrec described how, when he had gone to arrest the potter, roots of the herb from which the poison was made were found in a shed used by Wilkin. Finally, Bascot was called to speak of his investigations into the matter.

  The Templar answered the questions Richard put to him and told how it had been discovered that the potter had a grudge against Ivor Severtsson and why. There were gasps of salacious disgust from the spectators when it was learned that Wilkin had accused the bailiff of rape, and Helge’s face flamed red in embarrassment. Then Bascot related how he had learned that Wilkin had been told that his wares would no longer be purchased by the castle or the priory and that it would have caused him to feel resentment for his impending loss of income. When he was done, Gerard Camville pronounced that the evidence given was sufficient to convince him of the prisoner’s guilt and that Wilkin would be held over for trial before the justices of the assize, who were due to reach Lincoln at the end of the first week in May.

  The verdict was greeted with shouts of acclaim from all of the spectators. As Wilkin was led out of the hall by Roget’s guards, the crowd railed at him, some even landing a blow on his shoulders before the captain or one of his men could forestall them.

  As the crowd surged out of the hall behind the prisoner, Bascot turned to Adam, who had watched and listened in a stoic fashion to all that had occurred, holding rigidly to his place despite the glowering looks he had received from some of the men around him.

  “I am sorry for the trouble that has come upon you and your family, beekeeper,” he said.

  “Aye, lord, I know you are. And I think you’re the only one who is, even though you, like the rest of Lincoln, believe Wilkin is guilty.”

  Bascot sighed. “You have heard the evidence. Surely you do not still think he is innocent?”

  “ ’Tis damning, I’ll admit,” Adam said. “But I knows my daughter’s husband as well as I knows my bees. He didn’t do these terrible things, lord, and there’s nothing that will convince me otherwise.”

  With that implacable pronouncement, he placed the shapeless cap he had doffed on entering the hall back on his head and said, “I had best go and see to my daughter and the others. They will be sore grieved at the news.”

  Bascot felt sorry for the old man but admiration for his unswerving loyalty to a member of his family. “I will come with you,” he said, “and see you all safely on your way back to Nettleham.”

  Twenty-two

  GIANNI WAITED WITH THE BEEKEEPER’S FAMILY WITH growing apprehension. He did not fear for their safety, not with the stalwart bulk of Ernulf and his men-at-arms nearby, but was concerned for what would befall the little group when, as he was sure would happen, the potter was found guilty. Young Adam was only a boy, younger than Gianni had been when the Templar had rescued him from starvation; how would he and the others fare if they had to beg on the streets of Lincoln for food? There would be no alms freely given to the family of a man who was believed to have murdered six people. It was more likely they would all be driven out into the countryside and left to the mercy of the wild animals in the forest.

  A surge of movement at the door to the keep told the little group waiting by the barracks door that the session of the sheriff’s court was over. As Wilkin appeared, still in shackles, and was led down the steps of the forebuilding and back to the holding cell, it was obvious he had been found guilty. Not only his slumped shoulders and the deathly pallor of his face but the jubilant mood of the crowd that followed confirmed that what the beekeeper’s family feared had come to pass. Gianni heard Margot give a great sob from where she sat cradling her grandchild, and Young Adam clenched his teeth to avoid spilling the tears which gathered in his eyes. Even the baby, sensing the distress of the woman who was holding him, began to howl. Of them all, only Rosamunde sat unmoved, her blank stare unfocused, and her hands loosely folded in her lap.

  In the hall, Bascot led the beekeeper from the huge room and kept beside him as they emerged onto the top of the forebuilding steps. The staircase was still crowded with people, and Bascot pushed his way through, his hand dropping to his sword hilt as one or two noticed Adam and began to berate the old man for having married his daughter to a filthy murderer. Their voices quietened as they saw the threat in the Templar’s eye until finally
the pair reached the bottom of the steps and went across the bail to where Adam’s family was waiting.

  Ernulf and two men-at-arms stood like a protective wall in front of the little group, but even so, many malicious glances were thrown in their direction as people passed them on their way to the gate. As Bascot and Adam came near, the Templar noticed Rosamunde’s head suddenly come up and her gaze alter from its mindless stare as her eyes began to focus on the crowd that was pushing past the place where she stood. Within moments, an animation filled her face and she jumped up from her seat and wedged her body through the space between Ernulf and the other soldier standing in front of her and darted across the ward.

  Margot screamed in terror and yelled at Rosamunde to stop, but her mother’s anxious cry did not halt the girl, and she kept going, pushing people aside and heading deeper into the throng. Young Adam and Gianni raced after her, and Ernulf, in a stentorian voice, yelled at de Laubrec, standing on the far side of the queue of people, to halt the maid in her headlong flight. At the edge of the crowd, a group of castle servants that included Gosbert and Eric all turned their heads towards the disturbance as de Laubrec broke into a run to waylay the wildly running Rosamunde. Just as he reached her, however, she stopped, turning her head this way and that, as though searching for a face she had seen. By the time Young Adam and Gianni came up to her, with Bascot and the beekeeper close behind, she was standing completely still, her mouth moving as she uttered one word over and over again. “Drue. Drue.”

  Adam took his granddaughter by the arms and drew her into the shelter of his own. Suddenly she burst into tears and bent her head to his chest. “She has done this before, Sir Bascot,” Adam said breathlessly, “one day summer afore last when she was in Nettleham village and a man on a horse rode by.” He heaved a sigh and tried to explain. “She thinks she sees the lad who was her lover and runs to meet him. We have tried to tell her that he is dead, but she does not understand.” Patting the girl on the back he spoke softly to her. “Come, Rosamunde, we must go home. You will be better there.”

  Seemingly docile now, Rosamunde allowed herself to be led away, tears still streaming down her face. Even in distress, she is beautiful, Bascot thought, and as he glanced at de Laubrec, he could see the same admiration in the marshal’s eyes. It could not be wondered at that men would lust after her, or that those of corrupt character would, as her father claimed, succumb to the temptation of committing rape to possess her.

  Ernulf and Bascot saw Adam and his small family onto the dray. As they settled Rosamunde into the back, Young Adam sitting between her and the open end of the wain to prevent her running off again, Bascot asked the beekeeper if they could manage the journey home alone, or if they would feel safer if one of the castle men-at-arms kept them company for the journey.

  Adam shook his head. “I thankee, sir,” he said, “but we’ll be alright.” The old man looked about him. “ ’Tis ten years since I’ve been to Lincoln. My wife was alive then and we brought young Rosamunde to see the summer fair. It was a happy day, that one, not like this.”

  He glanced over his shoulder at his granddaughter. “She was only a bit of a lass then, but even so, she was entranced with Drue. He and his brother were in the crowd, watching a dancing bear, and she pestered me to go and keep them company—”

  Bascot interrupted him. “Did you say that Drue had a brother? I have heard no mention that Rivelar had more than one son.”

  “Aye, he did, lord,” Adam affirmed. “There were two boys, Drue and an older lad named Mauger. Mauger ran away when he was about sixteen, just after the end of that same summer fair. Rosamunde said that Drue told her his brother had promised he would come back, but if he did, I’ve never seen him.”

  The Templar had been puzzled that the brother had never been mentioned before, either by Dido when he told of the time he had been a rat catcher at Wragby, or by Richard Camville in telling of the trial, but when Adam had said that he had been gone from the area for many years, he gave it no more thought.

  As Bascot and Ernulf stood by protectively, the old man manoeuvred the heavy dray through the eastern gate of the bail and out onto Ermine Street. The Templar watched them disappear in the direction of Newport Arch with a heavy heart. He waited there until the last of the spectators had filed through the gate and then looked down at Gianni, who had come to stand just beside him, seeing a reflection of his own emotions mirrored in the boy’s face.

  “Come, Gianni,” he said. “It is nearly time for the midday meal. Perhaps you will feel better once—”

  His words were interrupted by the appearance of one of the guards Roget had left on duty in the town. He was coming through Bailgate at a run, his face beaded with perspiration.

  “What is it, man?” Ernulf asked as the guard came up to them and stopped to draw breath. “You look as though all the hounds of hell are on your tail.”

  “There’s been another murder,” the guard said in a strangled tone. “I just found a man’s body, near a midden just off Danesgate. His throat’s been cut from ear to ear. I’ve come to tell Captain Roget.”

  “Do you know who the victim is?” Bascot asked.

  The guard, a rough and burly individual with a nose that was so flat it must have been broken more than once, nodded his head.

  “I don’t know his name, but I know who he is,” the guard replied. “He worked for one of the fishmongers in the market near Bailgate.” He looked at the Templar and grimaced. “He’s a right bloody mess, Sir Bascot. Not only was his throat cut, his belly ’ud been ripped open from neck to navel. Whoever killed him must be a vicious whoreson.”

  Twenty-three

  IT WASN’T UNTIL LATE THAT EVENING, WHEN ROGET came into the barracks with a flagon of wine under his arm, that Bascot and Ernulf heard more about the murder of the fishmonger’s assistant. The Templar and the serjeant were sipping cups of ale in the cubicle Ernulf used for his sleeping place and Gianni was dozing on a stack of blankets in the corner when the captain arrived. The air was heavy with heat from the small fire that Ernulf had lit in a brazier to take the chill out of the air, and it had made the lad drowsy. When Roget pulled aside the leather curtain that screened the serjeant’s quarters from the rest of the barracks, Gianni stirred, rubbed his eyes and sat up.

  “Faugh! My nose and mouth are full of the stench of death,” Roget exclaimed as he hooked a stool from a corner with his foot and sat down heavily. He poured himself a full measure of wine from the flagon and drank it down thirstily, then he wiped his mouth and beard on the sleeve of his tunic before he spoke again. “First we have that bâtard of a potter poisoning people all over the town, and now that he is finally penned up in a cell, there is a crazed butcher on the loose with a knife.”

  “The guard told me that the stabbing was a brutal one,” Bascot said.

  “Brutal is not the word for it,” Roget replied. “The body had been gutted like one of the fish the man sold in the market.” He raised eyes that were bleak. “There was not much blood around the wound on his neck, but the ground was awash with it. From the heavy bruises on his mouth and jaw I would think he was disembowelled first and then held down for a space before his throat was slit. He must have been in great agony before he breathed his last. He was only about twenty years of age. It is a terrible way for anyone to die, but especially for one too young to have yet tasted all the joys of life.”

  Both Bascot and Ernulf were taken aback by the captain’s description of the injuries. They were all inured to the wounds that were inflicted in battle, but what Roget was describing went beyond the deathblows that were a necessary part of war; the extent of them spoke of a sadistic desire to give pain. All three were silent for a moment, and then Ernulf asked, “Any idea who did it?”

  Roget shook his head. “His body had begun to stiffen by the time I got to where it was lying, so he must have been killed sometime last night after curfew. The guard who found him told me he had seen the dead man before, working for one of the mongers in
the fish market, so I went over there and spoke to the man who had employed him. The monger told me the victim’s name was Fland Cooper and that Cooper lodged with a cousin who lives in Clachislide. The monger also said he hadn’t seen Cooper since he left work just after Vespers on the day he was killed.”

  Roget took a mouthful of wine before he continued. “When I asked the monger if he knew of any enemies the lad might have had, he told me that Cooper had been dallying with one of the customers, a goodwife who lives in Spring Hill, and that maybe her husband had found out and taken his revenge for being made a cuckold.”

  Ernulf nodded his head sagely. “He could be right. No man likes to have horns put on his head.”

  Roget sighed. “So I thought, too, mon ami, until the fishmonger told me who the husband was.” At the look of confusion on the faces of his companions, he explained. “The goodwife is young, married to a prominent draper in the town who is old enough to be her grandfather. I have seen him walking with his wife when they go to attend Mass. He is small and shrivelled with age. Cooper was young and sturdy. The cuckolded husband would never have had the strength to overpower him.”