A Plague of Poison tk-3

by Maureen Ash

  “The rheum you had at the time that the clerk and Haukwell died-did it cause you to lose your appetite?”

  Nicolaa thought back for a moment before replying. “Not until the sore throat came upon me the night before the clerk was poisoned. I had been taking a medicant that my mother always used when either I or one of my sisters came down with such an ailment-a mixture of borage steeped in cider-and, although it has the effect of relieving the congestion, it tends to make one hungry. It was only when my throat became too sore to swallow that I could not eat. Up until then, my appetite had been hearty, even though the ache in my head had forced me to keep to the solace of my bedchamber. The sempstress, Clare, brought me food from the hall at mealtimes.” She looked at the Templar, waiting for an explanation of his query.

  “So no one on the household staff would have been under the impression that you had no desire for food?” Bascot persisted.

  “I cannot see why they should,” Nicolaa replied, becoming slightly impatient. “Just as I cannot fathom why my appetite, or lack of it, should be important, de Marins. Surely it is obvious that if Mauger had believed my desire for food to be waning, he would not have poisoned the honey in the hope that I would ingest it. It was only the sudden advent of the soreness in my throat that saved my life, and I give thanks to God for making it so.”

  “Yes, lady, but if you will think back to the day that I told you of the answers Gosbert had given to the questions I put to him, you will recall that he stated that the reason he made the marchpane was that he had heard you had lost interest in eating and hoped to encourage its return by preparing a dish of which you were fond. We paid no heed to his statement at the time because, due to the tenderness in your throat, you were, in fact, unable to eat, and the question of when he had been told about your condition never arose.”

  Nicolaa immediately saw the error that had been made. “And we were also, at that moment, distracted by the death of Haukwell and his squire’s accusation that Eric was responsible for poisoning his lord’s drink, and so passed over the importance of his words,” she said.

  “Exactly so,” Bascot agreed.

  “Have you questioned Gosbert about this?” she asked.

  “I have,” Bascot replied. “And discovered that the same person who told him the falsehood about your waning appetite also suggested that he prepare a dish including marchpane-your partiality for which is well-known-to restore it.”

  When Nicolaa de la Haye heard the name of the person responsible, her face became grave as she nodded. “He would have easy access to the kitchens in the castle and priory and, I think, the boldness to place the poison in Reinbald’s home. He must be the one we are seeking.”

  Even though she was in accord with his opinion, the castellan was quick to point out that they could not afford to be in error. “If we are wrong, we would be putting another innocent man in gaol, just as was done with the potter. We must find a way to confirm, beyond doubt, that the person we suspect is Mauger Rivelar so that there can be no mistake this time.”

  Nicolaa sent for her son to join them, And with Bascot they sat through the long hours of the afternoon and early evening discussing a way in which they might trap Mauger into revealing his true identity and purpose. Various ideas were considered, amongst them searching his possessions for a supply of the poison, but after deciding it was unlikely he would have secreted the venom amongst his few belongings and it would alert him to their suspicions if they asked to inspect them, the ideas were all discarded.

  At last, tiredness overtook them, and they decided it would be best to seek some rest and continue their discussion the next day.

  “Sometimes sleep reveals a solution that has remained hidden from the wakened mind,” Nicolaa said, rising from her stool.

  “We must hope it does so speedily,” Richard remarked, “for in only two days’ time it will be May Day. If Mauger decides to claim another victim, he will have ample opportunity to do so amidst the confusion of the celebrations, especially if he decides to use poison again.”

  Nicolaa knew that what her son said was true. On the first day of May it was her custom to allow a huge maypole to be erected in the castle ward and a queen to be elected from among the female servants. Once that was done the fortunate maid would reign over her companions in a merry pretence of royalty as she led a procession out into the countryside to collect boughs of greenery and spring wildflowers to decorate the pole. While the church frowned upon the heathen aspect of the celebration, they gave their sanction to the festivities by honouring it as the feast of the apostles Philip and Jacob and ensured that all of Lady Nicolaa’s staff was reminded of the sanctity of the day by sending a priest to give a blessing in the castle ward before the procession began. There would be many people milling about the hall and the bail during the festivities, and not only in the daytime, but during the evening, when the queen would lead her subjects in a dance around the maypole.

  “We must both be careful of what we eat and drink while the celebrations are being held, Mother,” Richard said to Nicolaa. “With open kegs of ale and tables full of victuals laid out for all to consume, it would be a simple matter for Mauger to slip poison into one of the dishes or cups without being noticed.”

  Her shoulders drooping with weariness, Nicolaa had almost reached the door of the chamber as her son spoke. She turned, her hand on the latch as she began to assure him she would heed his words, when she suddenly stopped in mid-sentence. “But that is it, Richard! The May Day celebrations. That is the time when it may be possible to cozen Mauger into revealing himself.”

  Both her son and Bascot looked at her in confusion, but this was soon dispelled when she explained the idea that had come to her.

  The next morning, before the hour of Terce, Bascot went into the town, bound for Reinbald’s house. He had sat up with Nicolaa and Richard until a late hour the night before, refining the plan that Nicolaa had devised, and it had been decided that the cooperation of both Harald and Ivor Severtsson would be needed to bring it to fruition. Before they went to bed, Roget had come to give his report and told them he had seen Reinbald and his wife, Helge, leaving town earlier that day, riding ahead of a wain crammed with a number of laden panniers. The Templar hoped that at this early hour he would catch Harald before he left to attend to his uncle’s business.

  When he knocked at the door of the merchant’s home, it was not opened by the maidservant that had formerly answered his call, but by Harald himself.

  The young merchant’s face expressed surprise at the identity of his visitor, but he quickly ushered Bascot in, explaining that he had given his aunt’s cook leave to visit her sister in Nottingham while Helge was absent and that the young maidservant, who was the woman’s niece, had gone with her.

  “I thought they might be in danger if they were in the house while the poisoner is roaming free,” he explained and added, with an impish grin, “I hope you bring news that they may soon return, Sir Bascot. Preparing my own meals is not a task I enjoy.”

  The Templar said that he had come to tell Harald of a plan that might enable them to tempt Mauger into betraying himself and had been sent by Lady Nicolaa to request his collaboration.

  The young merchant readily gave his assent to whatever ruse the castellan was proposing. “Since the man is trying to kill me and the rest of my family, I would be a fool if I did not make every effort to gain his capture.”

  Relieved at the young merchant’s sensible attitude, Bascot explained that he would also need to speak to his brother. “Ivor, too, must play a part,” the Templar told him, “and I will go to Wragby to speak to him as soon as I leave here.”

  “There will be no need for you to make the journey,” Harald said, an unreadable expression on his face. “My brother is here, in the hall. He will not be anymore at Wragby.”

  “Then I assume that Preceptor d’Arderon has dismissed him,” Bascot said shortly.

  “Yes.” Harald gave Bascot an oblique glance. “I see you w
ere already aware that he would lose his post.”

  “I was,” Bascot confirmed. “Did he tell you the reason for his dismissal?”

  Harald gave a curt nod, and the Templar asked if Ivor had denied the charge that had been levelled against him.

  “My brother is not a man to take responsibility for his actions,” Harald said with distaste. “Unless it might be to his advantage, that is.”

  Harald gave the Templar a level look and said, “I love my brother, Sir Bascot, but I do not like him. Is it not strange how the vagaries of kinship can often be ironic?”

  After assuring himself that Harald had told Ivor of the belief that it was John Rivelar’s elder son who was responsible for the poisonings, and why, Bascot asked the merchant to take him to his brother.

  Ivor Severtsson was in the hall, seated at the table, a flagon of wine in front of him and a full cup in his hand. When he saw Bascot he rose to his feet and gave the Templar a nod that held little respect. His face was flushed, and his expression mulish. He said nothing, however; he merely waited in silence as Bascot told both of the brothers to be seated and took a chair on the opposite side of the table.

  As Harald poured his visitor a cup of wine, the Templar explained the stratagem that had been devised to trap Mauger, and both of them listened, without comment, until he finished. When he had done, Ivor was the first to speak.

  “There is much danger in this enterprise. We will both be laying ourselves open to a sudden attack and may not have time to defend ourselves,” he said.

  Harald turned to him and said, “Is it not worth the risk, Brother? I do not want to live under the shadow of this man’s threat any longer than I have to, and even less do I wish our aunt and uncle to be subjected to the threat he poses. Are not a few moments of peril preferable to days, or perhaps weeks, of waiting for him to make another attempt on our lives? If you have not the courage for it, say so, and we will try to trap him without your assistance.”

  Ivor flushed red at the rebuke in his brother’s words, and Harald said to Bascot, “You may tell Lady Nicolaa that I am ready to do as she asks, and willingly.”

  “And you?” Bascot challenged Ivor.

  The older Severtsson brother made no answer, only giving the Templar a grudging nod of assent.

  Bascot rose to take his leave, and as Harald accompanied him to the door, the young merchant said, “Tell Lady Nicolaa she need have no fear that Ivor will participate in the scheme.”

  “How can you be sure?” Bascot asked doubtfully.

  An ironic smile appeared on Harald’s face as he said, “I have only to threaten Ivor that I will tell our aunt the true reason he was relieved of his post by Preceptor d’Arderon. My brother will not be able to lie his way out of that, for while it might be easy to convince Tante Helge that a potter would tell a falsehood, she will never believe it of a Templar knight.”

  Thirty-four

  Ivor and Harald Severtsson came to the castle that afternoon as had been arranged, timing their visit to coincide with the end of the last meal of the day. Members of the castle retinue were still in their places at the tables, and Nicolaa sat on the dais in company with the prior of All Saints and Brother Andrew. The two monks had been invited to attend the meal in order to discuss the part the church would play in the festivities the following morning. The prior would bless the procession of castle servants before it left to go out into the countryside, and Andrew and two other monks would sing psalms as the cavalcade left the ward, reminding all of those present that the festival was of Christian significance, honouring two saints, and not in praise of the pagan entity that had been associated with the festival in heathen times. Gerard and Richard Camville were absent.

  Noticing Harald and Ivor’s arrival, Nicolaa gave a nod of sanction to her steward for their admission, and they made their way up the central aisle between the tables and came to a halt below the dais. Harald bowed and removed the cap he was wearing, his brother standing behind him. The attire of both was somber; tunics and hose of dark grey, the only item of ornamentation a badge bearing an image of St. Amandus, patron saint of vintners and merchants, affixed to Harald’s sleeve.

  After introducing his brother and telling the castellan that Ivor had left his post as bailiff and was assisting him in Reinbald’s business while his uncle was away, Harald came to the purpose of his visit.

  “Lady Nicolaa,” he said, “I am come to offer my apologies for not being able to deliver the order of Granarde wine that you placed with me a few days ago. I have just received word from the merchant in London who was to supply it that he will not be able to do so. It will be some weeks before I can obtain more.”

  “That is sad news, Master Severtsson,” Nicolaa said.

  “My son had a particular fancy to try it. He will be disappointed.”

  “So I thought, lady,” Harald said smoothly, “and, to make up for the loss, my brother and I have brought with us tonight a small tun of another wine that is very similar but, I believe, even finer of taste. I would like to offer it to you free of payment, in the hopes that you will enjoy it and be encouraged to order more.”

  He bowed low as he said this last, looking exactly like a merchant touting for business. Bascot, watching his performance from his seat among the household knights, admired Harald’s steady nerve. No one listening to his conversation with Nicolaa de la Haye would have realised that he was acting a part, just like a mummer in a play. As for Ivor, he stood silently by, and although there was a hint of defiant nervousness in his manner, it could be construed by onlookers as embarrassment for having to take a secondary role to his younger brother.

  Nicolaa considered the merchant’s words for a moment and then nodded her head. “I would be a foolish woman to refuse such a generous offer,” she said. “While my husband does not have a taste for sweetened wine, both my son and I are very fond of it. We will sample it at our leisure and let you know our judgement.”

  Harald took a step forward. “Lady,” he said, “the wine is a strong one and is at its best when mixed with honey and spices that come from the region where the grapes are grown. We have also brought these with us. The preparation must be made with a delicate hand, and if it is your pleasure, I would show your butler how to do it for your first sampling. I had hoped to have the honour of doing that for you tonight, for I have need to leave Lincoln town on urgent business as soon as the May Day festivities are over.” He gestured to Ivor. “My brother, unfortunately, has not yet sufficient skill to take my place.”

  Nicolaa frowned, making a pretence of considering the suggestion. “Tonight is not a good time, Master Harald,” she said. “My son is not here and, as I said, it was for his delectation that I ordered the Granarde. Besides,” she gestured to the cup that sat beside her trencher, “I have already taken my fill of wine for this evening. I do not have a fancy for more, no matter how excellent the taste.”

  “Then may I proffer my services for tomorrow, instead?” Harald said. “I would gladly rearrange the schedule for my departure to accommodate you.”

  Nicolaa laughed. “I see you hope that a good order will follow this wine sampling.”

  “Since I know the excellence of the wine, lady, I think my hope is fully justified,” Harald said with assurance.

  Nicolaa rose from her seat. “Very well. Make it mid-morning, after the procession is under way. If the wine proves to be as palatable as you say, I may even extend you an invitation to share in the feast that will be held in the evening and, of course, to share in the wine. You have my permission for both of you to attend us here tomorrow for the purpose of this tasting.”

  As she began to descend from the dais, Harald thanked her and then added, with a show of obsequiousness, “Lady, may I ask one more boon?”

  “You may ask, merchant, but it remains to be seen if I will grant it,” Nicolaa said impatiently.

  “The tun of wine I brought tonight, and the spices and honey with which to serve it-I have left them outside in the war
d. May they remain here overnight, in your safe-keeping, until the morrow? It will save us the task of taking them away and bringing them back again.”

  Nicolaa waved her hand dismissively. “Of course. Give them into the charge of my butler. He will see to their storage.”

  Harald bowed once again as she left the room, then he and Ivor went to the back of the hall and spoke to Eudo. The steward had heard his mistress’s command and quickly summoned the castle butler to direct the placing of the wine, honey and spices in the buttery. Bascot gave a secret smile of satisfaction. Just as in the staging of a mystery play, the scene was now set. Would Mauger take the bait they had dangled before him?

  Thirty-five

  Later that evening, Mauger gave thought AS to whether or not he should take advantage of the opportunity that had presented itself that afternoon. He recalled the moment that Ivor Severtsson had walked into the hall and how he had been almost blinded with hate for the man. He had listened to the ensuing conversation between Nicolaa de la Haye and Severtsson’s merchant brother with distraction, the intensity of his rage overcoming his ability to focus on anything other than the bailiff.

  Only when he realised that the wine Harold Severtsson was requesting the castellan to taste was to be flavoured with honey had his attention at last been diverted to the arrangements that were being made. As a small tun of the merchant’s wine was brought in and placed in the buttery, a capacious room just off the hall that was used for the storage of wine and ale, his speculation about how it could further his aim had begun. When Harald had followed the servant who was carrying the barrel with a jar of honey and a bag of spices in his arms, it had grown even further, especially when the butler had directed the merchant to place the condiments on top of the tun and leave them in the buttery.

  The honey pot was of the same shape and design as the ones that were stored in Reinbald’s kitchen, and identical to the pots that Mauger had exchanged for those laden with poison. All were made by Wilkin and bore the Templar mark. Harald Severtsson must have decanted some of the foreign honey into a pot from his aunt’s store; it was a reasonable action, especially if the honey that had accompanied the wine had been in a larger container and he wanted to bring only enough to prepare the wine. Harald had said he was supplying the wine for the sampling free of cost, and a canny merchant did not willingly give away more of his wares than he needed to.