by Maureen Ash
While listening to the serjeant’s recounting, the Templar felt his interest in Mauger Rivelar grow. If the bailiff’s elder son had returned after the deaths of his brother and father, he would have been desolated by the news of their demise, much as Bascot had been when he returned after his eight years’ imprisonment in the Holy Land and found that all of his family had died during a pestilence. Mingled with the Templar’s sorrow had also been a good portion of guilt, a feeling that he had betrayed them for not being at their sides to give them comfort during their last moments. It had been then that Bascot had raged at God for keeping him away from his homeland for so many long years. Would Mauger not have felt the same? Bascot knew that if the deaths in his own family had been caused by a human agency, he would have sought retribution; was it possible that all of these deaths had been caused by Mauger’s desire to do just that, wreak vengeance on those who had been responsible for his brother’s and father’s deaths? All of those who had been affected by the poisonings had in some way been connected to the fate that had fallen on Drue Rivelar. Ivor Severtsson had been the one who had enabled his capture, the sheriff had hanged him and the former prior had given evidence against him. Poison had been placed in all of the places where each of these men, or people close to them, lived. The likelihood that Mauger Rivelar had returned was certainly worth investigating.
When Bascot and Gianni arrived at the apiary, there was a large dray piled with sacks standing just inside the gate, and Bascot recognised the driver as a Templar lay brother. At the sound of Bascot’s arrival, one of the men-at-arms that d’Arderon had sent the day before came swiftly forward from the direction of the orchard, and the other, who had been engaged in mending wattles on a portion of the fence, quickly dropped the tool he had been using and placed his hand on the hilt of his sword. When they recognised Bascot, they saluted him and returned to what they were doing. The Templar smiled. Both of the soldiers were men about his own age, their skin bronzed from the hot sun of the Holy Land, and possessed of the wariness that came from being constantly on vigil against an enemy. Their alert and unobtrusive presence would ensure that if Cooper’s murderer came to the apiary, he would not find an easy victim among the beekeeper’s family. There was no need to worry about their safety until it was made certain whether or not they were in danger.
Adam, who had been about to help the Templar lay brother unload the cart, came forward to greet his visitor. He was effusive in his thankfulness to the preceptor for the help that had been sent, and tears filled his eyes as he told Bascot that the sacks on the cart contained milled flour and a variety of root vegetables. “The bees told me not to fear we would go hungry,” he said, “but I never expected such kindness as this.”
Bascot told the beekeeper that he had some questions he wished to ask both him and his daughter, and Adam quickly showed the Templar into the cot and called for Margot to fill a mug with ale for their visitor. Wilkin’s wife had just finished feeding her young grandson a bowl of bread sopped in milk when they entered, and she passed the child to Young Adam to hold while she complied with her father’s request. Rosamunde was in her usual corner of the room, this time holding a large metal comb used for carding wool. Although a piece of sheep’s fleece lay in her lap, her hands were motionless as she stared off into space. Bascot wondered if she would ever come out of her stupor. He had seen men on the field of battle taken in just the same way, usually after a blow to the head. Sometimes the dazedness was of short duration; on others it lasted for many months. He wished he knew of a remedy. Rosamunde had knowledge inside her head that would help him, but in her present state, it was inaccessible.
Taking a seat at the table, Bascot motioned for Adam and Margot to be seated alongside him. “I have come to ask you about a man you mentioned to me, Adam, on the day that you were in Lincoln for Wilkin’s trial-Mauger Rivelar. There has been a stabbing in Lincoln town, and from information given by a person who knew the victim, it is possible he may have been involved. You said the elder son of the old bailiff left many years ago and had not returned. Are you certain that he never came back?”
The Templar could see that both the beekeeper and his daughter were startled by the question, but he did not elaborate on his reason for asking it. The less they knew about why he wanted information concerning Mauger, the less they would be alarmed. Deference for his rank would ensure they answered him without demur.
“I don’t think he come back, lord,” Adam said. “If he did I never seen him, nor heard talk of it.”
The beekeeper looked at his daughter, who agreed with her father but added, “Rosamunde said Drue told her his brother was coming back, but I don’t think he did.”
“When did Rosamunde tell you this?”
Adam was the one who answered him. “As I recall, ’twas about a week before Drue was taken by the sheriff.” Margot nodded in confirmation of her father’s words. “Wilkin was at work in his kiln and Rosa was here with us in the cot. She was excited, and when Margot asked her why, she said ’twould not be long before she and Drue could get married ’cause his brother would help them to do so.”
“That’s right, lord,” Margot said. “Rosamunde and Drue were planning to run away ’cause neither Wilkin nor John Rivelar would have allowed for them to be wed, but they had no money to keep them fed until Drue could find work. Rosamunde said Drue was sure his brother would give them some when he came.”
“How did Drue know his brother was returning? Had he been in contact with Mauger during the time he had been away?”
“I don’t think so, lord, not ’til then, anyway. Rosa said Mauger had sent a message sayin’ he would soon be back in Lincoln, and I think they hoped Drue’s brother would help them. I warned Rosa that Mauger might be just as penniless as they were, but she wouldn’t listen. She just kept goin’ on about how they would soon be married.”
“This message from Mauger, did she know how it came and from where?” Bascot asked shortly.
Margot was a little taken aback at the urgency in the Templar’s voice, but she answered it without hesitation. “Rosa said a pedlar had come to Cooper’s alehouse while Drue was in there havin’ a mug of ale, askin’ where he could find a man named John Rivelar. When Drue told the pedlar he was the bailiff’s son, the pedlar said he had a message for his father from his brother, and that it was to tell Rivelar that Mauger would soon be back in Lincoln.”
“Did the message say when Mauger would arrive?” Bascot asked.
“No,” Margot replied. “The only other thing Rosa told me was that Drue reckoned his brother wouldn’t be long in coming because when he asked the pedlar where he had seen Mauger, he said it had been in Grimsby, and that’s not a far piece from here. The pedlar told Drue he had met his brother when he had called with his wares at the house of a lady who lives in the town, and Mauger had paid him to deliver the message.”
So, Bascot thought, the message had come just a week before Drue Rivelar had died, and since his father’s death had taken place only a few days later, it could be possible that Mauger had returned too late to see either of them alive. The alehouse had burned down about the same time, so if Mauger had passed that way, Fland Cooper would not have been there to see him, hence the reason that the fishmonger’s assistant had said that the man he had met was one he had not seen since childhood.
Next, Bascot asked the beekeeper and Margot what they remembered of Mauger’s appearance. Both gave the same vague description as Wilkin-he was bigger than his brother and had hair that was lighter in colour. Margot thought his eyes were a pale colour, maybe green or blue.
“You told me your granddaughter had mistakenly thought she had seen Drue Rivelar once before,” the Templar said to Adam. “Who was with her on that day that happened?”
“I was, lord,” Margot replied.
“Were you near enough to the man to see his face?”
Margot shook her head. “No. We were in the village and he was riding a horse when he went by where we were sta
nding. By the time I caught ahold of Rosa and calmed her he had gone a long way down the road. And he never turned round when she called. I don’t think he heard her.”
Feeling that he had exhausted any help they could give him about details of Mauger’s description, he then tried to corroborate what Wilkin had told him when he had said the bailiff’s elder son had enjoyed his father’s harsh treatment of the Order’s tenants. “The man who was murdered in Lincoln was killed in a most savage way. I have been told that John Rivelar could be violent at times. Do you think it likely that his son would be the same?”
“Aye, I reckon so,” Adam said sadly. “He was very like his father was Mauger, a rare one for lashing out at any he thought had wronged him. ’Tis said that’s why he left-him and his father had an argument that turned into a right battle and the old man bested him, so he ran away. I reckon if Mauger had been here when his brother was taken by the sheriff he would have been just as angry as his father, and just as mettlesome in defendin’ him.”
Bascot paused at the beekeeper’s statement. Here, perhaps, could be a hint that Mauger was possessed of a personality that was cruel enough to enjoy inflicting the pain that had been visited on Fland Cooper and on the poisoning victims as well. “Why was John Rivelar so convinced of Drue’s innocence?” Bascot asked. “I have been told there was a witness who swore Drue was part of the captured outlaw band.”
Adam looked uncomfortable, and when he finally spoke, it was reluctantly. “The old bailiff said his son just happened to be nearby the place where the outlaws were that day. He said Drue came forward to help the travellers and was accused by mistake.”
“Do you believe that is so?” he asked, and seeing Adam’s discomfiture grow, he added, “Whatever you tell me, I will keep in confidence. The crime is an old one and there is no benefit in pursuing the question of whether justice was ill served.”
Reassured, Adam nodded. “There’s some of us here in Nettleham that reckons John Rivelar could of been right about the boy. Drue wasn’t like his father and brother. He could be sly at times, but he wasn’t wilful like them, nor did he ever get so angry he would of hurt anyone. Rosamunde swore to us that he would never of done such a thing; that if he’d been robbin’ travellers of their silver, she and Drue would have had the money they needed to run away long before he was caught. Made sense to me, and I reckoned that if the boy did come forward to help like Rivelar said, and got mixed up in the fray, ’twould explain why t’others thought he was one of the brigands, even if he weren’t.”
Bascot wondered if Mauger, supposing he had returned, had heard this explanation. If so, it would have confirmed his father’s belief in Drue’s innocence. “You are aware that it was Ivor Severtsson who told the sheriff about the attack that was planned on the merchant’s party, and that he also said Drue was one of the wolf’s heads?” Bascot said to Adam.
“Aye, lord, we are,” the beekeeper replied. “And that’s what’s so flummoxin’ about it all. With Master Severtsson being a bailiff an’ all, it don’t seem likely he would lie, so if he said Drue was a brigand, it must be true. Somehow it don’t all tally up quite right.”
Not unless, Bascot thought, Drue ran out of patience for his brother’s return and decided to throw in his lot with the outlaws he met at Cooper’s alehouse. It may have been the first time he had done such a thing but done it he had, for the prior was a witness to his act. Severtsson, probably in Drue’s company much of the time, must have learned of his intention and informed the sheriff, thereby ridding himself of the man he believed to be a rival for Rosamunde’s affections. It was a cowardly act on Severtsson’s part, but since Roget had told him about the bailiff’s treatment of the bawd, it did not surprise him. It was more than likely that the man had, as Wilkin claimed, raped Rosamunde, perhaps out of anger for a rebuff of his attentions or simply because, as had been shown by his treatment of the harlot, his pleasure was enhanced by forcing a woman to his will. If Mauger had learned of Severtsson’s betrayal of his brother, and of his jealousy, it would have been logical for him to assume that the bailiff had lied about Drue’s involvement with the outlaw band. And would have made Severtsson his prime target for revenge.
Twenty-seven
When Bascot and Gianni returned to the castle, the Templar took the boy to the barracks and left him in Ernulf’s care. Then he crossed the ward and went up the tower stairs, going past the chamber that he and Gianni shared and up onto the roof and through the arch that led out to the walkway encircling the parapet. It was a place he often sought when he needed to be alone to measure his thoughts, and he hoped that the solitude would enable him to consider all that he had learned about Mauger with clearness and detachment.
He leaned into one of the crenellations in the battlement and was assailed by the dizziness that the loss of his right eye caused whenever he was in a high place. Breathing deeply, he waited for the sensation to pass and then looked out over the town of Lincoln spread out below, washed in the brightness of the spring sun. Houses spilled down the side of the hill on which the castle and Minster stood, scattered like rows of small pebbles caught inside the protective walls that marked the edge of the city. The figures of the townspeople moving about the streets seemed tiny when viewed from such a high elevation, and the occasional bright colour of a cloak or hat bobbed like flotsam on the tidal swell of their passage. He concentrated on the panorama for a few moments until he felt the final remnants of his dizziness leave him and, with it, the cluttered state of his mind.
As a likely suspect for the murder of Fland Cooper, and taking into consideration what the fishmonger’s assistant had told Mistress Marchand, it was reasonable to assume that his killer had been someone from the dead man’s childhood. With the exception of the last few months, Cooper had lived all of his life in the vicinity of his parents’ alehouse on the Wragby road, so it was more than likely he was referring to someone he had met in that area many years ago. Wilkin had said that most of the customers in those days had been travellers; the only ones he remembered as having been regular patrons were John Rivelar and his sons, who lived in the area and whose horses he had seen tied to the hitching post outside the alehouse door on more than one occasion. Both the former bailiff and his younger son were dead; that left the elder, Mauger.
If Bascot accepted Gianni’s premise that the person responsible for the poisoning deaths in the town was not Wilkin-and the Templar was now inclined to do so-but was instead the man who had murdered Cooper, then a motive linking the former crimes to the latter must be found. Since the people who lived in all of the places where the poison had been found were connected in some way to the capture and subsequent hanging of Drue Rivelar, Bascot could think of no greater motivation than that of a man who was taking revenge on all of those who had been instrumental in bringing about his brother’s death. If Cooper had recognised Mauger, and connected his presence in the vicinity of Reinbald’s house with the poisonings, then his possession of that knowledge could be the reason that the fishmonger’s assistant had been killed.
But, Bascot pondered, if it had been Mauger, why had he not taken a more direct method to wreak retribution? It was said he was a big man and so would presumably be strong; he was aggressive and possessed of a violent temper. He had used a blade on Cooper, an instrument of death that seemed a likely tool for such a man as had been described by the potter and his family. Why had he used such an unreliable means as poison on the others?
The Templar thought back over the poisoning deaths in the castle and town. If he was right in his assumptions about the bailiff’s elder son, Mauger would have had no surety that the people responsible for his brother’s capture and death would ingest the venom. The sheriff had not even been in Lincoln when the adulterated honey pot had been placed in the castle kitchen. While it was true that all of the people that had been killed had been connected with those involved in Drue’s capture and subsequent hanging, it seemed a haphazard scheme for Mauger to employ.
Basc
ot ruminated once again on the little he knew of Mauger’s personality. Wilkin told how Mauger had laughed when John Rivelar had laid his blackthorn staff across the potter’s back and had seemed to derive enjoyment from the pain his father had caused. The manner of Cooper’s death would seem to indicate the potter’s opinion was accurate; a quick thrust to the heart would have easily killed the fishmonger’s assistant, but instead, he had been disembowelled and made to linger in excruciating agony until his throat was finally cut. Both of these facts seemed to indicate that the murderer was a man who derived pleasure not only from the infliction of pain but from watching it. As he thought about the manner of the deaths, a pattern began to emerge-one that he had seen before.
When he had been a prisoner of the infidels in Outremer, the Saracen lord who had captured him had been at war with a neighbouring emir and they had often engaged in battle. One day the Saracen’s soldiers had returned with a captive, a proud-faced infidel who had stood boldly in front of his enemy and shown no fear. The next morning, all of the lord’s household, including his slaves, were assembled in the courtyard and made to watch as the captive was subjected to a most appalling torture; he was secured between two posts and the skin had been slowly flayed from most of his body and then, still conscious and screaming with the pain of his ordeal, he was spread-eagled on the ground and left to die in the heat of the broiling sun. It was five hours before he did so. Sickened by the cruelty, Bascot had asked one of the other slaves, a Jew who had a smattering of the French tongue but a good understanding of Arabic, if he knew why the captive had been put to death in such a sadistic manner, and the Jew had explained, “That man was the only son of the emir with whom this Saracen lord is at war. When the emir learns of the great pain that his son went through before he died, the Saracen will not only derive much pleasure from the greatness of his enemy’s grief, it will also unman the emir and make him weak with sorrow. He will, therefore, be much easier to defeat.”
