A Plague of Poison

by Maureen Ash

  As he gained a place near the table, he gloated with satisfaction as Nicolaa said to her son, “It is most certainly toothsome, Richard, but I fear, even with the addition of the honey, it is a little too strong. My throat is tingling.”

  “That is as it should be, Mother,” Richard replied with a smile. “A good vintage arouses the senses, and who amongst us does not enjoy that?”

  The ambiguity of this remark with its salacious overtones was greeted by chuckles from the crowd gathered around the table, but Nicolaa made light of her son’s lewdity and persisted in her uncertainty about the merit of the wine.

  “I am not sure, merchant, that this vintage fulfills your boast. What region did you say it comes from?”

  “Perigord, lady, south of the Limousin,” Harald replied. “It is sold by a vintner there who has, I am told, lately received orders for a large quantity from none other than our king’s mother, Queen Eleanor.”

  “Ah,” Nicolaa replied, pretending to be suitably impressed. There was a modicum of contention in her voice, however, as she added, “But since that esteemed lady comes from those lands herself she is doubtless prejudiced in favour of the wine that is produced there.” She turned to her son. “We need another opinion, Richard, to help me decide whether this wine is suitable to serve to the guests who grace our board. Do I not recollect that we have heard someone speak of the wines of Perigord before today?”

  Richard pretended to consider her question before nodding his head and saying, “Yes, Mother, we have,” and with that he raked the crowd with his eyes until he saw Mauger and called out his assumed name. “I remember that you once said the produce of the vineyards in the Limousin area is superior to any other. Come, have a cup of Severtsson’s wine and tell us if it is truly worthy of the claim he is making.”

  Mauger’s bowels turned to ice as Richard Camville bade him come forward and sample the wine. Damn the man for remembering a slight remark that had been made months ago. Quickly, he measured his chances of escape, but they were few. Bascot de Marins, the Templar knight, stood a little behind him, to his left, and on his right hand was the bulk of the castle serjeant, Ernulf. Neither would let him pass if he did not obey the bidding of the sheriff’s son. Only behind the two Severtsson brothers was there a small clearness of space that would enable him to gain access to the door of the hall, but the merchant blocked his path. He took a slow step forward; the effects of the poison should soon take hold of both Nicolaa and Richard. If he could delay drinking from the cup of wine just long enough for one of them to become ill, he may be able to escape detection.

  “I fear that, like Sir Gerard, I have not much taste for honey in my wine,” Mauger said as he approached the table. “Perhaps I could take a cup of it without the sweetener so that I may give a better judgement of its merit.”

  Nicolaa de la Haye shook her head. “If I am to purchase some of this, it will be prepared as Master Harald has directed, and that is how it must be tasted.”

  She motioned to the wine cup which the merchant had filled and into which he was adding a generous dollop of honey. “Besides, the cup is already prepared.” She looked up at Mauger. “You would not deny a lady her whim, would you?”

  Mauger’s fingers were trembling as he took the cup in his hand. It was not hard for him to let it slip, as though by accident, so that the contents spilled across the white cloth that had been laid on the table, leaving a deep purple stain.

  “I am sorry, lady,” Mauger apologised. “That was clumsy of me.”

  “Do not reproach yourself,” Nicolaa replied considerately. “It will not take Master Harald more than a moment to prepare another one.”

  Mauger watched with dismay as the merchant picked up the fallen cup, set it upright and refilled it with wine from the flagon and added the spices. As he reached for the honey, Nicolaa forestalled him. “Perhaps, merchant, you should use honey from the other pot, the one you brought last night, instead of the sweetener that has been added to my cup and that of my son.”

  She looked up at Mauger. “We used honey from the castle kitchen for ours, since the cost of the honey that the merchant brought was nearly as high as the wine. I had hoped to save the expense of purchasing it by using our own native honey instead, but it may be that, by doing so, I have detracted from the taste.” She gave her butler a curt order, and from beneath the table, where its presence had been hidden by the long cloth, he lifted another pot of honey.

  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 enthusiasm 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 b
efore 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.