by Maureen Ash
Margot looked up when the Templar appeared at the door of the cot and tried to hide her tears as she hastened to offer him a cup of ale. Adam slowly rose from his stool and touched his brow in deference, his face full of sadness. Only the boy, Young Adam, had shown any animation. Forgetting his former awe of the knight, he ran up to Bascot and asked when his father was to be freed from gaol.
“He will not be released, I am afraid,” Bascot told him. “He is to be charged with murder and will be committed for trial at the sheriff’s court.”
The boy made no response, but tears sprung into his eyes and ran down his cheeks, and the indrawn gasp of Margot’s breath was audible. Young Adam ran to his grandfather. “He won’t be hanged, will he, Granfer?” the boy asked in a desperate voice.
Adam clasped his arm around the youngster’s shoulders. “I reckon as how he might be, lad,” he said in a weary voice. The beekeeper then looked at Bascot, licked his lips as though summoning up courage and said tremulously, “He b’aint guilty, lord.”
“The evidence would suggest otherwise,” Bascot replied sternly. “The roots of the plant that is used to make the poison were found here at the apiary, in his workshop. Why else would he have such a substance, except to make the venom?”
“Those were only for treating our old cow, lord,” Margot burst out. “I used to keep the roots here, in the cot, but when Rosamunde’s little lad started to crawl about, Wilkin said ’twas best to keep them someplace safe, lest the babby accidentally get ahold of one and put it in his mouth. That was the reason they were in his shed. There was no poison made from them, I swear it on my children’s lives.”
While her earnestness was convincing, and her statement confirmed by what the rat catcher, Dido, had told him about her storage of the plant, that did not mean that she had not been aware of the use to which her husband had put it, even if she had not realised it until after the victims were dead.
“It may be that he did so without your knowledge,” Bascot said. “You cannot deny that he harboured a great hatred for Severtsson and had reason to try and take his life.”
“Aye, lord, hatred he had, but it was misplaced and both my daughter and myself told him so,” Adam said wearily. “But even so, Sir Bascot, Wilkin would never have poisoned those other people. The knight that came and took Wilkin away said there were six dead, and one of ’em a little child.” The beekeeper shook his head. “Not only would my bees have told me if Wilkin had done such a thing, ’tis not in his nature.”
Ignoring the old man’s reference to his bees, Bascot asked, “What do you mean, his hatred was misplaced? Your son-by-marriage was adamant in his accusation that the bailiff had raped his daughter.”
“ ’Twasn’t Master Severtsson that got her with child,” Adam replied. “ ’Twas Drue Rivelar, son of the old bailiff.” Bascot remembered that Dido had also related this information, and so he didn’t interrupt as the beekeeper went on. “We told Wilkin it was so, but he didn’t believe us.”
“Why not?” Bascot asked.
It was Margot who answered him, her thin face tinged with weariness and her voice heavy with emotion. “Wilkin never knew that Drue was her lover. Rosamunde told me and my father but we kept it from my husband because he would have thrashed her if he’d known she was out in the woods keeping company with the lad. When Drue was taken for a brigand, Rosamunde was sore upset and went out into the woods to be by herself for a spell. When it got to evening and she hadn’t come back, Wilkin went lookin’ for her and found her with her clothing all torn and mazed in her senses, just like she is now. He’d seen Master Severtsson nearby just before he found her, and when her belly began to swell, he swore that the bailiff had raped her that day and was responsible for getting her with child. Da and I tried to tell him he was wrong, and that it was grief that had made her the way she was, but he wouldn’t listen.”
“Nonetheless, Wilkin believed it was true. That is the reason he tried to harm Severtsson.”
Neither Margot nor Adam made an answer to his charge, but the beekeeper said, “But, lord, why would he want to harm all those others? He had no cause to wish the deaths of anyone in the castle or at the priory. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Did Wilkin not tell you that he had lost his commission to sell his pots at both places? Another potter made an offer to supply them more cheaply and your son-by-marriage was told of this two weeks ago. He not only had a grudge against Severtsson, but good reason to be resentful of Lady Nicolaa and the prior of All Saints.”
The old man’s mouth dropped open and he looked at his daughter. Margot’s face had gone white with shock. “He never said a word to me about losing their custom, Da,” she said to her father in a whisper. “Not one word.”
Adam’s shoulders slumped. “Then I reckon there’s no chance for him,” he said resignedly. “None at all.”
Both Margot and Young Adam began to cry. Bascot could see that their distress had upset Gianni, for he went to the beekeeper’s grandson and laid a hand on his shoulder in commiseration. The Templar shared his servant’s compassion. There was stark desolation in the faces before him. It dispelled any doubt he might have harboured that Margot or her father were guilty of complicity in Wilkin’s crimes. Their astonishment at learning that the potter had lost two of his most important customers was too real to be feigned.
Calling to Gianni, he left them to their misery, wishing wholeheartedly he had not been the bearer of the news that had precipitated it.
Seventeen
As Bascot and Gianni were on their way back to Lincoln, Nicolaa de la Haye was sitting alone in her chamber, a blank sheet of parchment, quill and ink pot before her, reviewing the events of the past few days. Early that morning she had received another visit from Henry Stoyle, the town bailiff. Since it was his duty to oversee the administration of local justice and mete out punishment for minor infractions, the town gaol fell within his province, even though Roget, captain of the town guard, was the man responsible for arresting wrongdoers and took his orders from the sheriff. It was because of this that Stoyle had come to the castle early, just after Terce, and made a request to speak to her. When she admitted him to her chamber, he had expressed his concern that the prisoner, Wilkin, would be unsafe if he was kept in the town gaol until his fate was decided.
“Even though he was only arrested last night,” Stoyle had said, “news of his incarceration has already spread through the town, and many of the citizens are crying out for his immediate punishment. If Wilkin is placed within the town gaol to await his trial, I fear they will not have the patience to wait for the court’s verdict and may attempt to extract it themselves. Their mood is ugly, lady, and tempers may fly too high for Roget and his men to be able to prevent them from seizing the potter and hanging him.”
She had assured Stoyle that she would keep Wilkin confined in the castle cell until her husband returned but, after the bailiff left, thought that her own men-at-arms would be just as averse to keeping the potter safe as the townspeople. She could not blame them. The crimes had been despicable, not only for the stealth in which the poisonings had been carried out but for the dreadful manner of the deaths the victims had suffered. She felt her fingers tighten compulsively on the shaft of the quill pen as she recalled how close she had come to such a fate. It was not often that she allowed her composure to slip, as her father, once he had realised there would be no male heir to his estate, had impressed on her the need never to show fear in the face of adversity. To do so was to weaken one’s resolve and give strength to an enemy, he had said, and he had been right. But when she had watched the rat’s body contort with pain from the effect of the poison, she had come as near as she had ever done to giving way to her emotions. Had her throat not been too sore to swallow, she would have eaten the simnel cake that Gosbert had so innocently made and would have suffered the terrible death that had overtaken Blund’s clerk. Even though the poisoner was now safely incarcerated, the memory made her shudder.
; Pushing the recollection of her fear aside, she pulled a piece of parchment towards her. Gerard must be told not only of the death in the priory and the subsequent arrest of Wilkin but also that the castle, and the town, had sore need of the knights of his escort to assist in keeping order among the populace. As she wrote, she reflected that although she often privately disparaged her husband’s impatient and bellicose manner, she would welcome the return of his commanding presence to Lincoln town.
As Bascot guided his horse through Newport Arch and back into Lincoln, he ruminated on what he had been told about Wilkin’s charge of rape against the bailiff. Even if the man responsible for Rosamunde’s pregnancy was the now dead brigand, Drue Rivelar, it did not mean that Ivor Severtsson had not violated the girl. He had promised Preceptor d’Arderon he would try and find out if the charge was valid. Although he was reluctant to see Wilkin again, he would have to do so in order to discover why the potter was so positive of his claim.
Once in the castle bail, Bascot took his mount to the stables and left it in charge of a groom. Ernulf was crossing the ward as he and Gianni emerged from the stables, and the serjeant hailed them.
“You’re just in time to have a decent meal,” he said as he walked up to them. “Now that bastard of a potter is safe behind bars, Gosbert is making some tasty dishes’ full of spicy sauces to serve at midday.”
“That is welcome news,” Bascot said, glancing at Gianni. The boy had a healthy appetite and enjoyed his food. The Templar hoped that the prospect of eating more than the simple fare that had been served in the hall for the last few days might help to lessen the dejected mood that had descended on the lad when he had witnessed the misery on the faces of Wilkin’s family. Gianni, however, did not brighten.
“I am just on my way to question the potter again,” Bascot told the serjeant. “I want to find out more about his accusation of rape against Severtsson. I have no doubt he believes it, else he would not have tried to take his revenge, but I would like to be able to assure the preceptor as to whether or not it is true.”
“Rather you than me,” Ernulf snorted. “If I was left alone with that cowson for more than a few moments, the sheriff would be relieved of his task of bringing him to trial. When I think that it could have been milady that was lying dead instead of the clerk…”
The serjeant’s rage made him choke on his words, and Bascot was sure that if Ernulf were given the opportunity he would, as he had said, despatch Wilkin to hell without a second’s thought.
Bascot spoke to Gianni. “I may be some time. Go with Ernulf and get yourself something to eat. I will come to the hall once I am finished with the potter.”
The boy nodded, and as Bascot watched him walk away, he wished he could do something to alleviate his despondency. Now not only those directly connected to the victims but Wilkin’s own innocent family would be affected by his vile actions. The old beekeeper and his daughter, as well as Young Adam, Rosamunde and her little child, would all suffer in their turn for the crimes he had committed. He felt the taste of gall rise into his throat and strode swiftly to the door of the holding cell. The man-at-arms on guard saw the black look on his countenance and swiftly unlocked the door, privately hoping the Templar would use his sword on the man inside.
When Bascot entered, Wilkin was sitting crouched in the corner, one of his ankles secured by a manacle to the wall. The bandage on his injured arm was bloodstained, and there were some new bruises on his face. It would appear that the soldiers who had attached his chains had been none too gentle while carrying out their task.
The potter looked up at his visitor, fear in his eyes. He struggled to a sitting position, cradling his bandaged arm with the other hand. As Bascot approached him, he cowered.
The Templar knew the potter’s hatred for the bailiff was real, and there must be a reason. Had Rosamunde, as Dido had said was possible, given her favours willingly to both Severtsson and the dead brigand? If she had, could it be that Wilkin, driven by shame for his daughter’s wanton ways, had blindly fixated on the bailiff as the cause of her downfall? He decided to test the theory on the man in front of him.
“I have been to Nettleham and spoken to your wife and her father,” Bascot said to him roughly. “They both tell me that your daughter was the paramour of a brigand and it is he who was the father of her child, not Severtsson. Your tale of the bailiff raping her is false. Why did you invent such a charge? Is it because Rosamunde also lay with Severtsson and you were enraged by her lechery?”
“I did not invent it, lord,” Wilkin replied shakily. The icy intensity of the gaze in the eye of the knight looming over him chilled his bones, and he had difficulty in keeping his voice steady. “My daughter is not a jade, even though there are those who would name her one. I did not lie when I said the bailiff took her against her will.”
“Did you see him do so?” Bascot demanded.
Wilkin shook his head. “No. But I saw him just a few minutes before I found her, coming from the place where she was laying.”
The potter swallowed hard before continuing. “Her clothes were all flung up, lord, and… and… her woman’s parts uncovered. She had bruises on her arms and her mouth was swollen. I asked her what had happened, but she didn’t speak, didn’t even look at me, and she’s been that way ever since.”
Wilkin looked up at Bascot, almost defiantly. “What else could have happened to her, lord, but that she’d been raped? Margot and Adam tried to tell me that it was grief for the brigand that made her lose her senses, and they said I was imagining the rest, but they didn’t see her like that, lord, and I did.”
Bascot turned from the prisoner and walked a few paces away. Once again, the potter’s words had a ring of truth in them. But he had lied before and could easily be doing so again.
Bascot turned back and strode over to where Wilkin crouched on the floor of the cell. “I am going to look into this matter further, potter, and if I find that you are lying, I will see to it that you suffer the torments of hell before you hang.”
Eighteen
After Bascot left the holding cell, he decided to go down into the town and call at the house of the merchant Reinbald. Nicolaa de la Haye had said there was a need to warn all of the people involved in the murders that they would be called as witnesses at Wilkin’s trial. Using that as a pretext to visit them would give him an opportunity to find out, from Reinbald’s family, more about Ivor Severtsson’s character. He went to where Gianni was sitting with Ernulf in the hall and told the boy he would be gone for a short time.
Gianni gave him a solemn nod, and Bascot, his concern for the boy deepening, left the hall and made his way down into the town.
The mood among the townspeople was more subdued than it had been the day before. The flesh markets were busy as goodwives bought meat, poultry or fish, and pedlars were once again hawking their wares among the throng. Some of the men, however, were still clustered in groups of two or three outside many of the alehouses and were speaking in angry tones together. The few snatches of conversation that Bascot overheard were of Wilkin and the need to bring him to a swift justice.
As he reached the end of Hungate Street, where Reinbald lived, he saw a horse tied to a hitching post near the merchant’s house. It seemed familiar to him, and after a moment or two he realised it was the one that Ivor Severtsson had been riding when he and Hamo had met the bailiff in Nettleham village.
He was admitted to the house by a young woman servant and was shown into the large room that served as the merchant’s hall. It was well appointed, with an ample fireplace, two oaken settles with padded tops and a large table around which were placed chairs with ladder backs. Reinbald was sitting in one of these, his younger nephew, Harald, beside him, while his wife was standing in front of the fireplace, speaking in soothing tones to Ivor. The bailiff’s face was sullen, and when he turned along with the others to see who was entering the room, Bascot saw that his mouth was set in lines of peevish irritation.
Reinbald
rose immediately as the maid announced their visitor, and he offered Bascot a cup of wine from the flagon that was standing on the table. Bascot refused the merchant politely, saying his visit would not be a lengthy one, and that he had merely come to enquire if they had heard of the potter’s arrest. When Reinbald confirmed that they had, Bascot told them about the need for their attendance when Wilkin was brought to trial and that detailed evidence of the potter’s grievance against Ivor would be required.
His words brought an immediate outburst of speech from Helge, in which was mixed a word here and there of her native tongue. She was a large woman, heavy of frame and with thick hands that she waved angrily as she spoke. When the Templar had met her on the morning of her neighbours’ deaths, she had been distraught, her fair hair in disarray and tears streaming down her cheeks. Now she seemed recovered from her grief, and her manner was indignant. Her fat fingers moved in a cadence of angry punctuation as she spoke.
“That man,” she said, “he is not only a murderer but a logner, a liar. Only this morning Ivor was taken to task by Preceptor d’Arderon about the terrible falsehood that djevel spread and now you tell us that it must be repeated again before all those who attend the sheriff’s court. It is not to be borne, I tell you. It cannot be done.”
Reinbald reproved his wife. “It must be, Helge. The court will enquire if we know of any reason for the potter’s hatred of Ivor, and if we do not speak of it, we will be forsworn.”
