by Maureen Ash
“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 since 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 impli
cation 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 like 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.”
“It was only after he drank the wine that he complained of pains in his stomach and began to purge,” the squire maintained stubbornly.
“Even if the wine had soured, Thomas,” Bascot said patiently, “it is unlikely it would have done more than make Sir Simon queasy. It certainly would not have caused his death.”
“Besides, Thomas,” de Laubrec interjected, “I drank the same wine as Haukwell, and as you can see, it did not make me ill.”
The squire’s response was quick. “But, Sir Gilles, you had wine that had not been sweetened. I brought Sir Simon the honeyed wine in a separate flagon from the others.” Again he pointed at Eric. “That scullion could have poured the wine into a filthy jug or mixed it with honey that had turned putrid.” As he spoke, Thomas was growing more and more heated, frustrated by the obvious scepticism of Bascot and de Laubrec, but he drew a deep breath and continued doggedly. “Sir Simon was in good health and spirits until he drank the wine,” he insisted, “so it must have been the cause of his sickness.”
Despite the doubting looks that had appeared on the faces of those who were listening, Martin gave his support to the squire’s assertion. “Although it is true that neither wine nor honey is likely to deteriorate into a state of such foulness, Thomas makes a valid point in saying that the containers in which they were served, or had been kept, could have been tainted.” The leech glared at the cook and his assistant. “Slovenly habits are often the cause of sickness. A dead mouse in the wine tun or insects in the honey-all manner of pernicious substances can invade the area where food is prepared if it is not properly overseen. The squire’s charge could well have merit.”
Eric was quick to defend himself, although his voice shook slightly as he spoke. “The flagon was clean,” he insisted. “And so is the rest of the kitchen. Master Gosbert would not allow it to be otherwise. And some of the honey with which I sweetened the wine had already been consumed. It could not have been tainted.”
“What Eric says is true,” Gosbert confirmed, drawing himself up to his full short height and returning Martin’s glare. “I do not allow laxity in the kitchen. I am most particular that all of the work surfaces and the vessels we use are scoured regularly. And, as for the honey,” he turned his eyes to Nicolaa and said confidently, “lady, it was your own good self that had already eaten some. It was in the marchpane I laid atop the simnel cake I sent to your chamber. It was from a new jar that I opened especially to make the topping and must have been wholesome, otherwise it would have made you ill as well.”
Nicolaa’s brows drew down into a frown. “Simnel cake? I have had none such.”
The cook took a step towards his mistress, his speech earnest now. “But I sent one of the serving maids up to your chamber yesterday morning, early, with a platter on which it was laid. The maid did not bring the cake back; if you did not eat it, somebody else must have.”
At Nicolaa’s look of confusion, her attendant, Clare, spoke quietly to her mistress. “You were sleeping, lady, when the maid came with the cake,” she told her. “I knew your throat had become very sore, and you were having difficulty swallowing. I did not think you would be able to eat any of the cake, so I told the maid to take it away.”
“But Gosbert says she did not return it to the kitchen. Do you know what she did with it?”
“Yes, I do,” Clare replied, her voice tremulous. “I thought the clerks in the scriptorium might enjoy it, so I told her to take it there.”
Nicolaa looked at her secretary. “Was this cake there when you returned and found Ralf ill, Master Blund?”
“No, lady,” Blund replied, “it was not, but there was an empty platter in the chamber. If that is the same one on which the cake was served, then it had been consumed while I was absent.”
“And, since your clerk was in the scriptorium alone yesterday morning, it would be logical to assume that he was the one that ate it?” Nicolaa persisted.
Blund nodded his head sadly. “Yes, lady. He would have done. He had an especial liking for sweet confections.”
Martin leaned forward and said triumphantly, “And it would appear that only Sir Simon and the clerk were served food or drink which contained honey that came from this pot. If it has become tainted in some way, then I am correct. Food from the kitchen was the cause of these deaths.”
The horrified silence that followed his words was broken by Thomas, who leapt forward and would have attacked both Gosbert and Eric with his fists if de Laubrec had not grabbed the lad and restrained him. “I knew I was right about the wine,” the squire shouted as he struggled against the knight’s viselike grip. “ Those filthy cooks poisoned Sir Simon!”
A babble of voices broke out in agreement. Bascot stood up and gave a stern command for order. As the room fell silent, he said, “It would seem that it is possible-and I repeat, only possible-that we have discovered a substance that may have been the cause of these deaths. The honey must be tested before we can be certain.”
With a glance at Nicolaa for a nod of permission, he came down from the dais and onto the floor of the hall and called to Ernulf. The serjeant came forward at once. “We will need the help of Thorey, the castle rat catcher, for this task,” Bascot said to him. “Have one of your men fetch him and tell him to bring one of the live rats he uses to train his dogs to the bail, and wait outside the entrance to the kitchen.”
He motioned to Gosbert. “You will then take the cook to the kitchen and have him show you the pot of honey that he used, and bring it and some bread on which to smear it, to the catcher. We will have Thorey feed it to the rat and see if it dies. That should prove whether or not the honey is at the root of this mysterious illness.”
As Ernulf left the hall to carry out the instructions he had been given, Nicolaa came down from the dais and accompanied Bascot in leading the group from the hall.
It was another fair day outside. A shower of rain had fallen earlier, but it had been brief and the ground was only slightly damp underfoot. Thorey had answered the summons quickly and was waiting for them outside the building that housed the castle kitchen. He was a small man, with sunken cheeks and a sharp nose, and was wrapped in a cape made from rat skins. On his head was a peaked cap of the same material. In one hand he held a metal cage containing a large black rat, and at his feet were two small dogs of a terrier breed; both were white in colour and had contrasting dark patches of fur about their ears and eyes. They watched intently as their master set the cage containing the rat on the ground, with their ears pricked and bodies alert as they waited for Thorey to loose the rodent and give the command to kill.
When Ernulf arrived with the honey pot, a container that held about two pounds of the sweetener, and the bread, Bascot gave the catcher his orders. “Smear some of the contents of that pot onto the bread and feed it to the rat.” At Thorey’s questioning look, he explained, “There is a possibility that the honey is noxious. Do not let your dogs near it.”
Thorey’s dark eyes narrowed at the warning, but he made no comment and gave a command to the two terriers to go a few paces away from him. The dogs swiftly obeyed, but their concentration remained focused on their master as he took a piece of the bread and, using a spoon given to him by Ernulf, scooped some of the honey onto it. He pushed it through the iron bars of the cage. All waited and watched with morbid fascination as the rodent first sniffed at the morsel then turned it over and over in its tiny paws before beginning to nibble at the bread.
