Maureen Ash - A Plague of Poison

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 were 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.