Maureen Ash: A Plague of Poison

“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 implication 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.”