Late that night, after Bascot and Gianni had retired to the chamber at the top of the old keep, the Templar once again tossed on his pallet, finding sleep elusive. His thoughts kept going back over the conversation he had with Nicolaa de la Haye after he finished questioning Wilkin.
“He made no attempt to deny his loathing of Ivor Severtsson,” Bascot had told the castellan, “but he swears he is innocent, and despite the evidence, his voice had the ring of truth. The grudge against the bailiff is an old one, and I could not find any reason for him to wish hurt to anyone in our own household or the priory.”
Nicolaa gave him a wry smile and said, “I think it is possible, de Marins, that your instinct has led you astray.” She then went on to tell him that, while he had been engaged in interrogating Wilkin, she had spoken to Eudo, her steward, and asked if he knew of any reason for the potter to hold a grudge against those who lived in the castle.
“Eudo said that two weeks ago he told Wilkin that a potter from the village of Burton had come to the castle and made an offer to supply vessels of the same type as Wilkin’s at a more advantageous price. Wilkin was greatly dismayed by the news and said that he could not sell his wares any more cheaply than he already did, for he would not make a profit. Eudo sympathised with him but said he had no choice other than to buy our vessels from the Burton potter and would not be ordering any more from Wilkin. Eudo also told me that he had heard from the refectorer at the priory that this other potter had made the same offer to him, and with the same result. Wilkin is about to lose his commission from both places.”
She had looked at the Templar with sad eyes. “Wilkin’s hatred of Severtsson may stem from an occurrence that he believes happened two years ago, but malice is like a wound that does not heal; it festers and gets worse with time. Any additional blow makes the pain unbearable. You have just told me that the potter lost customers in the town when the bailiff’s aunt became aware of his accusation against her nephew. Now the custom of our household and that of the priory has been denied to him, and I would think that a substantial portion of the small income he makes comes from these two patronages. He is now faced not only with bearing the continual burden of his daughter’s shame but also with the prospect of deprivation for himself and his family. Such an appalling set of circumstances could easily have made him wish to strike out at those he believes to have caused them, however dire the consequences might prove to be.”
Bascot made no answer, and she then tapped a small wooden box that lay on the table in front of her. “This contains the roots that de Laubrec found in the potter’s shed. I sent one of the servants with it to the priory as soon as it was given to me. Jehan confirmed that it is Helleborus niger.”
She lifted the lid and revealed the black roots inside. They were evil looking; long, thin and straggly at the ends. “It would seem to me there cannot be any doubt of his guilt.”
Bascot had to admit that her conclusion was a logical one. “As you say, lady, this additional evidence seems irrefutable.”
Nicolaa saw the lingering uncertainty in Bascot’s eye. She had a great regard for the Templar knight but knew that he was prone to niceties of conscience that sometimes were counterproductive to his well-being. His empathy for those who found themselves in distress was to be lauded, as was the case with his young servant, but she feared that, because of it, he had allowed himself to be deceived by the potter’s false protestations. “We are all prey to letting our sensibilities cloud our judgement, de Marins,” she said, not unkindly. “Only God has the ability to be infallible.”
Bascot reluctantly nodded his acceptance of her statement, and the castellan then said it might be prudent to give some consideration as to whether the beekeeper or his daughter may have had any complicity in the crimes or, at least, knowledge of them. “Even though the potter has been apprehended, if any of his family were in accordance with his actions, they may try to continue the vendetta he has begun. You have met his wife and her father-do you think it possible they were involved?”
Bascot thought back to his trip to Nettleham with Hamo. Old Adam’s manner had been strange, but he had seemed honest in his adamant denial that poison had been placed in the honey while it was in his care. Margot, however, had seemed anxious. Was it because she knew what her husband had done and feared the two Templars had come to take him into custody? Or was she merely afraid that Wilkin would once again blurt out his accusation that Severtsson had raped their daughter?
“Neither of them could have been involved in placing the pots of honey where they were found,” he said. “They would have been noticed by Gosbert or Eric if one of them had entered the castle kitchen, and while the old man may have entered the priory under guise of a patient seeking medical help, his daughter would most certainly not have been admitted to a place where females are not allowed.” He paused. “As to knowledge of Wilkin’s intent-I think the old man could not have been involved. His attitude to his bees is that of a mother towards her children. He would have considered poisoning his honey to be a breach of trust between himself and the insects.”
“And the potter’s wife, Margot?” Nicolaa asked.
“I do not like to think that any woman would willingly give her assistance to bringing about such terrible deaths, especially to a young girl like Juliette le Breve, but Margot seemed very apprehensive on the day that I went there. That could be explained by the presence of Severtsson and the worry that reprisal was about to be taken for the charge her husband had made against him, but it could also be attributed to fear that Wilkin was about to be arrested for poisoning the honey.”
Finally, Bascot had to admit there was a chance that Margot may have been privy to her husband’s actions. “It is possible she may have known what Wilkin was doing, but whether or not she was in accordance with him is difficult to tell. Perhaps if I were to go back to the apiary and question both her and her father again, I might be able to form a more certain opinion.”
Nicolaa nodded her agreement. “If you think she abetted her husband, de Marins, bring her back with you and she will be charged along with Wilkin. A wife’s duty to her husband does not include aiding him in the commission of murder.”
Bascot went to Nettleham the next morning, with Gianni riding pillion behind him. The old man, Margot and her young son were sitting disconsolately around the table when they arrived, the wooden bowls containing their morning meal of boiled oats still in front of them, the contents barely touched. Rosamunde sat, as she had done before, in the corner, mindlessly stirring the contents in a bowl upon her lap. Her child, this time, was sleeping on a small pallet in a corner of the cot, making small sucking movements with its mouth as it dreamed.
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.