by Maureen Ash
Bascot tried to explain the uncertainty he felt. “It is only that he seemed, on the one occasion I met him, to be an open and honest man. I find it difficult to believe he could harbour such evil in his heart and give no sign of it on his countenance.”
“Many people are adept at hiding their true nature behind a mask of innocence, de Marins, as you should well know,” Nicolaa said. Bascot knew she was reminding him of how he had been gulled once before, during his investigation into the murders of four people that had been found slain in an alehouse. “The evidence against Wilkin is overwhelming,” Nicolaa continued. ”There is his hatred for the bailiff and his close involvement with the honey when it is harvested and sold. He also has access to all of the kitchens where it was found. Do not let yourself be taken in by his ingenuous manner.”
Bascot nodded his acceptance of her caution, and when she asked him if he would go to the Templar enclave and tell Everard d’Arderon of the imminent arrest of one of the Order’s tenants, he rose from his seat. It was not a task he relished. The preceptor had already been disturbed by the news that a Templar bailiff might be guilty of rape; for him to learn that yet another person connected to the Order was now accused of a far more serious crime would greatly distress him.
As Bascot had feared, his visit to d’Arderon that afternoon proved that he had been right to be concerned. The preceptor heard the news in silence and then said, “I have failed in my duty to the Order, Bascot. If both the bailiff and the potter are guilty of these sinful acts, I must ask to be relieved of my post.”
Bascot made an attempt to convince his friend that he should not feel responsible for crimes committed by others, but his efforts proved useless.
“I fought for Christ on the field of battle for many long years,” d’Arderon said, “and, through His grace, survived. Had it not been for the illness that overtook me in the Holy Land I should still be there, and would willingly have died in His service. But I see now that I have been guilty of the sin of arrogance. If I had taken the trouble to express more interest in those who are tenants of the Order, it may be that the potter would have come to me with his charge against the bailiff and his need for retribution would have been satisfied. Because I did not, six people are now dead.”
Bascot knew how much d’Arderon missed the life he had led prior to becoming preceptor of the Lincoln enclave. Recurring bouts of a tertian fever had forced the Order to remove him from the harsh climes of Outremer and assign him to duties in a land where the weather was more hospitable. But he was an able preceptor, faithful in ensuring that the profits from property held by the Order and from the commodities they traded in were sent in their entirety to fund the cost of arms and equipment needed by brethren overseas. He also gave wholeheartedly of his own martial abilities to train the younger men that were sent to him for instruction.
Bascot felt a fresh surge of anger rise at the havoc the poisonings had wrought. Not only had the lives of six people been taken, but great sorrow had fallen on those who had been in some way associated with each of the victims-Clare, the young sempstress who had lost her betrothed when Ralf had been killed; Thomas, the squire who had lost his lord when Haukwell died; Nantie, the old servant, left alone and homeless when le Breve and his family perished; Brother Andrew, who blamed himself for the death of a patient; and now d’Arderon, who felt that negligence on his part had driven a man to commit heinous crimes.
As he left the preceptor, he sent up a fervent prayer that succour be given to all of those who were now suffering such unwarranted distress.
It was early in the evening by the time de Laubrec returned with his prisoner. Bascot had been asked by Nicolaa de la Haye to interrogate Wilkin after he was incarcerated, but before he did so, he went to speak to the marshal and asked him how the potter had reacted to his arrest.
“He seemed genuinely shocked,” the marshal said, his long, narrow face sceptical, “and tried to argue with me at first, but desisted when one of the men-at-arms gave him a clout about the head. Unfortunately, he cut his arm quite badly when he landed on a large earthenware pot as he fell. It broke into pieces and one of them gave him a nasty gash. The leech is with him now, stitching it up.”
De Laubrec went on to tell Bascot that he had searched the apiary and found a wooden box containing some strange-looking roots in the potter’s shed. “I thought it might be the plant he used to make the poison, so I brought it back with me and gave it to Lady Nicolaa. She said she’ll ask Brother Jehan if he can identify it.”
These would be the roots of Helleborus niger that Dido had told him Margot kept for treating an illness in their cow. It seemed that Wilkin had used them for another, more nefarious, purpose. Bascot left de Laubrec and went into the holding cell. Since his visit to d’Arderon his anger at the poisoner had hardened into a cold fury. If the potter, as it seemed, was the culprit, the Templar vowed he would make him pay, and pay dearly, for his crimes. As he came through the door, Martin had just finished sewing up the wound in the potter’s arm and was binding it with strips of linen. The leech’s florid face was rigid with distaste, and as he packed up the small bag that contained his instruments, he said to Bascot, “Unless the baseness in this man’s soul rots the wound, it will heal. He will be fit and ready for the hangman’s noose.”
Bascot made no reply, and Martin left, slamming the door to the cell as he went out. Wilkin was slumped on the floor, his sallow skin ashen. His injured arm was held close in front of him, the narrow bands of white cloth which bound it luminous against the darkness of his jerkin. There was a livid bruise on his forehead that must have been caused by the blow from the man-at-arms. He gave no sign of being aware of Bascot’s presence, and the Templar had to call his name before he lifted his head.
“You know why you are here, potter. What have you to say to the charge?”
Wilkin shook his head weakly and licked his lips before he answered. “The knight who brought me here said that I am accused of putting poison in the honey that comes from our apiary. He said I am a murderer.” He looked up at Bascot with dark, pain-filled eyes. “I did not do it, lord. Why would I wish to kill anyone?”
“Perhaps in revenge for the rape of your daughter?” Bascot’s tone was icy.
The potter’s jaw sagged. “Rosamunde? What has she to do with this?”
“I have been told that you believe the bailiff, Ivor Severtsson, to be guilty of violating her and getting her with child. Are you going to tell me that is not so?”
A shadow of anger crossed Wilkin’s face. “No, I do not deny that I accused him. And it is true, he did rape her. She has never been right in her mind since then, and he is the cause of her misery. But I still do not understand why you believe I would poison anyone because of it.”
“One of the pots of poisoned honey was found in the home of a spice merchant, Robert le Breve, after he and his family died from eating a dish that contained the honey. That poisoned pot was one that was originally given to Reinbald, a merchant of Hungate, by his nephew, Ivor Severtsson, and it came from the Nettleham apiary.” Bascot noticed that the potter’s eyes flickered with unease when he mentioned the merchant’s name, and he pressed the potter harder. “Was it your intent to kill Severtsson when he dined at the home of his uncle in retaliation for the attack you believe he made on your daughter?”
Wilkin looked at Bascot in bemusement for a few moments before he answered. “Lord, I did not do this thing of which I am accused. I hate the bailiff and would do him harm if I could, but I would never murder him or anyone else. I swear it by the precious blood of Our Lord Jesus Christ.”
“But you do know who Reinbald is, don’t you?”
The potter nodded, his mouth sullen. Bascot remembered that Wilkin sold pots in the town of Lincoln. It could have been that the merchant’s wife was one of his customers. “And you have been to his home, haven’t you, in the course of peddling your wares?”
Again the potter nodded, his eyes on the ground. “When was the last ti
me you were there?”
Wilkin’s response was quick and defensive. “I have not been there for nigh on two years, lord, I swear.”
“And why is that, potter? The merchant is prosperous; his custom would be a welcome one. How did it come about that Reinbald’s wife no longer buys the pots you sell?”
The answer came in a low mumble that Bascot had to strain his ears to hear. “She heard that I had accused her nephew of rape and told me not to come there anymore.”
Bascot strode over to the potter and grasped the lank hair on his head, jerking him backwards. Wilkin cried out in pain, but the Templar did not release his grip.
“And so you not only have a grudge against the nephew, but the aunt also, do you not? Did she tell her neighbours of the lies you were spreading about the bailiff? Did others turn you away and refuse to buy your wares? Did she cause the loss of the silver pennies those sales would have brought?”
Bascot released the man and walked across the cell and then turned and faced the potter, who was now cringing in fear. “It would seem, potter, that you have reason to wish both Severtsson and his family harm. I think you are guilty of these crimes.”
Wilkin fell onto his knees. “I swear to you, lord, I am not. I was angry, yes, when I told the others about the bailiff raping Rosamunde, and should have kept a still tongue in my head, but it is the truth.” The potter lifted his head and looked at Bascot directly. “The bailiff has never denied the charge. He has never even spoken to me of it, for all that he must have known what I said. Would an innocent man not defend himself against such an accusation? He must be guilty, else he would have taken me to task, perhaps even dismissed me from the apiary.” His words held a ring of triumph.
Bascot walked back to him and bent his head down low so that his own face was only inches from Wilkin’s. “It is not Severtsson’s guilt or innocence that is in question here, potter, it is yours.”
Wilkin fell silent, and Bascot straightened up and walked back across the room. Having once been a prisoner himself, after his capture by the Saracens, he knew only too well what it was to suffer the degradation that came from being at the mercy of others. Although he had little liking for inflicting the same humiliation on another human being, it might be the only way to get the man in front of him to admit the truth.
“You deliver your wares to the castle kitchen and the Priory of All Saints, and poisoned pots of honey were found in both places,” he said to Wilkin accusingly. “How has anyone at either place offended you? Did Gosbert make some complaint about the quality of the pots you supply? Or did he, perhaps, make a jest about your daughter and her bastard child? Did one of the monks at the priory rebuke you for siring a girl who is so wayward, or shun you because of her sin?”
Wilkin struggled up from the ground on which he lay and pushed himself into a sitting position, holding his injured arm carefully to his chest. His eyes were filled with anguish, but an expression of calmness had come over his countenance and he was suddenly infused with a humble dignity. “Lord, I admit that I hate Severtsson and would gladly see him come to harm, but I am not guilty of these crimes, nor do I have any reason to hurt those who live in the castle or the priory. But I have no way to prove my innocence. I can only throw myself on the mercy of God, and trust that He will come to my rescue.”
Sixteen
Late that night, after Bascot and Gianni had retired to the chamber at the top of the old keep, the Templar once again tossed on his pallet, finding sleep elusive. His thoughts kept going back over the conversation he had with Nicolaa de la Haye after he finished questioning Wilkin.
“He made no attempt to deny his loathing of Ivor Severtsson,” Bascot had told the castellan, “but he swears he is innocent, and despite the evidence, his voice had the ring of truth. The grudge against the bailiff is an old one, and I could not find any reason for him to wish hurt to anyone in our own household or the priory.”
Nicolaa gave him a wry smile and said, “I think it is possible, de Marins, that your instinct has led you astray.” She then went on to tell him that, while he had been engaged in interrogating Wilkin, she had spoken to Eudo, her steward, and asked if he knew of any reason for the potter to hold a grudge against those who lived in the castle.
“Eudo said that two weeks ago he told Wilkin that a potter from the village of Burton had come to the castle and made an offer to supply vessels of the same type as Wilkin’s at a more advantageous price. Wilkin was greatly dismayed by the news and said that he could not sell his wares any more cheaply than he already did, for he would not make a profit. Eudo sympathised with him but said he had no choice other than to buy our vessels from the Burton potter and would not be ordering any more from Wilkin. Eudo also told me that he had heard from the refectorer at the priory that this other potter had made the same offer to him, and with the same result. Wilkin is about to lose his commission from both places.”
She had looked at the Templar with sad eyes. “Wilkin’s hatred of Severtsson may stem from an occurrence that he believes happened two years ago, but malice is like a wound that does not heal; it festers and gets worse with time. Any additional blow makes the pain unbearable. You have just told me that the potter lost customers in the town when the bailiff’s aunt became aware of his accusation against her nephew. Now the custom of our household and that of the priory has been denied to him, and I would think that a substantial portion of the small income he makes comes from these two patronages. He is now faced not only with bearing the continual burden of his daughter’s shame but also with the prospect of deprivation for himself and his family. Such an appalling set of circumstances could easily have made him wish to strike out at those he believes to have caused them, however dire the consequences might prove to be.”
Bascot made no answer, and she then tapped a small wooden box that lay on the table in front of her. “This contains the roots that de Laubrec found in the potter’s shed. I sent one of the servants with it to the priory as soon as it was given to me. Jehan confirmed that it is Helleborus niger.”
She lifted the lid and revealed the black roots inside. They were evil looking; long, thin and straggly at the ends. “It would seem to me there cannot be any doubt of his guilt.”
Bascot had to admit that her conclusion was a logical one. “As you say, lady, this additional evidence seems irrefutable.”
Nicolaa saw the lingering uncertainty in Bascot’s eye. She had a great regard for the Templar knight but knew that he was prone to niceties of conscience that sometimes were counterproductive to his well-being. His empathy for those who found themselves in distress was to be lauded, as was the case with his young servant, but she feared that, because of it, he had allowed himself to be deceived by the potter’s false protestations. “We are all prey to letting our sensibilities cloud our judgement, de Marins,” she said, not unkindly. “Only God has the ability to be infallible.”
Bascot reluctantly nodded his acceptance of her statement, and the castellan then said it might be prudent to give some consideration as to whether the beekeeper or his daughter may have had any complicity in the crimes or, at least, knowledge of them. “Even though the potter has been apprehended, if any of his family were in accordance with his actions, they may try to continue the vendetta he has begun. You have met his wife and her father-do you think it possible they were involved?”
Bascot thought back to his trip to Nettleham with Hamo. Old Adam’s manner had been strange, but he had seemed honest in his adamant denial that poison had been placed in the honey while it was in his care. Margot, however, had seemed anxious. Was it because she knew what her husband had done and feared the two Templars had come to take him into custody? Or was she merely afraid that Wilkin would once again blurt out his accusation that Severtsson had raped their daughter?
“Neither of them could have been involved in placing the pots of honey where they were found,” he said. “They would have been noticed by Gosbert or Eric if one of them had entered the castle kitche
n, and while the old man may have entered the priory under guise of a patient seeking medical help, his daughter would most certainly not have been admitted to a place where females are not allowed.” He paused. “As to knowledge of Wilkin’s intent-I think the old man could not have been involved. His attitude to his bees is that of a mother towards her children. He would have considered poisoning his honey to be a breach of trust between himself and the insects.”
“And the potter’s wife, Margot?” Nicolaa asked.
“I do not like to think that any woman would willingly give her assistance to bringing about such terrible deaths, especially to a young girl like Juliette le Breve, but Margot seemed very apprehensive on the day that I went there. That could be explained by the presence of Severtsson and the worry that reprisal was about to be taken for the charge her husband had made against him, but it could also be attributed to fear that Wilkin was about to be arrested for poisoning the honey.”
Finally, Bascot had to admit there was a chance that Margot may have been privy to her husband’s actions. “It is possible she may have known what Wilkin was doing, but whether or not she was in accordance with him is difficult to tell. Perhaps if I were to go back to the apiary and question both her and her father again, I might be able to form a more certain opinion.”
Nicolaa nodded her agreement. “If you think she abetted her husband, de Marins, bring her back with you and she will be charged along with Wilkin. A wife’s duty to her husband does not include aiding him in the commission of murder.”
Bascot went to Nettleham the next morning, with Gianni riding pillion behind him. The old man, Margot and her young son were sitting disconsolately around the table when they arrived, the wooden bowls containing their morning meal of boiled oats still in front of them, the contents barely touched. Rosamunde sat, as she had done before, in the corner, mindlessly stirring the contents in a bowl upon her lap. Her child, this time, was sleeping on a small pallet in a corner of the cot, making small sucking movements with its mouth as it dreamed.
