To the relief of everyone within the bail, the next morning dawned with a clear sky and somewhat pale, but sparkling, sunshine. The louring clouds and rumbles of distant thunder that had started the previous afternoon had been swept away to the east and replaced by the promise of a bright spring day for the festivities.
All of the castle servants were up early, hastening to complete their duties so that the celebrations could commence. A four-wheeled wain that was to be used as transport for the queen of May had been dragged into the bail the day before, and a huge tree trunk had been erected by the eastern gate for use as a maypole. Once their chores were over, the servants would assemble in the ward to watch Nicolaa preside over the election of the May queen, then the new monarch would select female attendants from among those girls who had been less fortunate. When all was in readiness, the service honouring the two apostles would be held, and then the procession would start, led by the wain that carried the queen of May and her coterie of companions.
Once out into the countryside, the servants, free of the restraint that existed within the castle walls, could roam the greenwood at their leisure, gathering boughs and spring flowers that would later be piled at the base of the maypole. There would be ample opportunities for amorous encounters among the secluded leafy bowers, and afterwards, when they returned to the bail, a sumptuous feast was to be enjoyed while the maypole was decorated. Nearly all of the servants who would take part cared not whether it was a Christian festival or a pagan one; their only intention was to enjoy themselves.
Like the servants, Nicolaa was up early, pacing her chamber as she went over the preparations they had made. Gerard and Richard had arrived back at the castle late the night before, as planned, to be on hand for the wine tasting. She had carefully explained to Eudo the instructions he was to give the butler, fervently hoping that the wine steward, a man chosen more for his abstemiousness than his intelligence, would carry them out exactly as he had been told. Was there anything they had forgotten? Some small detail that would alert Mauger that he was being lured into a trap? She took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders, murmuring a prayer for heavenly assistance as she did so.
In the hall, all of the castle staff, along with the monks from the priory, were waiting for Nicolaa to appear and give her permission for the festivities to begin. When she entered the huge room, a collective sigh of anticipation rose from the assembly then stilled into silence as she went up onto the dais and turned to face them. Her husband and son had followed her in and, like the rest of the company, were waiting for her to speak. The choosing of the May queen was a woman’s task, and although the men took part as spectators-and by not a little ogling of the female pulchritude on display-it was the lady of the castle who would direct the activities.
Nicolaa let her eyes roam over the company. All of the men that had been included on their list of suspects were present: de Laubrec standing with the other household knights; Brother Andrew in the company of the prior; Eric, the assistant cook, casting admiring glances at one of the female scullions who was standing near him; Martin the leech conversing quietly with one of the men-at-arms; and Lambert, the clerk, standing in discourse with Master Blund. Bascot de Marins was standing on the fringe of the crowd, his mute servant at his side. Nicolaa saw her own thoughts mirrored in the knight’s face. Like her, he must be wondering if they had chosen correctly in their identification of the man they believed to be Mauger. If they were wrong, their plan would all be for naught, and Rivelar’s son would be alerted to their suspicions. If that happened, he would most likely take flight and only his absence would reveal his true identity. But the die was cast; either they would succeed or fail. That decision was in God’s hands, and His alone.
She cleared her throat and pronounced that the celebration of May Day could commence, letting her voice ring out over the hall. “First, a queen will be selected. I ask that all here attend me to witness the choosing.”
Nicolaa descended from the dais, and the women, chattering excitedly, followed. In their wake the men walked in a slow, straggling group, taking their time as the whole company went out of the keep and into the bail, watching the excited females ahead of them with expressions of amusement.
As Nicolaa reached the bottom of the steps of the forebuilding and walked in the direction of a large table that had been erected in the middle of the ward, she willed herself not to glance behind her to see whether their suspect was with the company. She must, she reminded herself, appear natural and not betray their intent either by expression or movement.
The women, jostling each other as they vied to be nearest the front, gathered in front of the table. On it had been placed an earthenware jar with a neck that was only a hand’s span wide. It was full of pebbles. All of the small stones had been left as nature made them except for one, which had been painted blue. One by one, each of the unmarried women among the household staff would come up and place her hand into the jar and retrieve a stone. The girl who had the good fortune to grasp the hidden blue one would be declared queen of May. Nicolaa stepped up to the table and instructed Eudo to stir the contents of the jar with a long wooden spoon, and when he had done so, she bade the first girl come forward.
There were forty-odd women who hoped to be the finder of the blue-painted pebble, and the order of their turns was dictated by length of service. Nearly half of their number had pushed their hands excitedly into the jar and been disappointed before one of the younger girls, the daughter of one of the castle washerwomen, held her hand aloft and gave a cry of victory. She was a full-figured girl of about fourteen, and her rosy cheeks blushed even redder as Eudo stepped forward, looked at the stone she held clutched in her hand and proclaimed her the winner.
Even though the rest of the women were disappointed, they took their loss in good part and gave the lucky girl smiles of congratulation. Nicolaa signalled that it was now time for the wardrobe mistress to present the girl’s prize, a chaplet which was, by custom, worn every year by the servant proclaimed queen of May. It was a dainty headdress, with flowers embroidered on a length of silk woven about a circlet of bronze. It was a treasure to be coveted, for the girl who was elected would be allowed to retain the delicate piece of material as her own once the celebrations were over.
As the rest of the female servants gathered about the girl and her prize, Nicolaa called for a cask of ale to be broached and joined the company in watching the queen choose her attendants. On the periphery of her vision she had seen the figure of the man they believed to be Mauger join the spectators. He had been well behind the others, and she felt a small shiver of hope mingled with fear for her own and Richard’s safety sweep through her as the prior began to intone the blessing for the day and the chanting of the psalms began. Heads were bowed in reverence as the two saints, Philip and Jacob, were remembered for their selfless piety and martyred deaths. Once the service was completed, heads came up swiftly in joyous anticipation and the celebrants left the bail, walking behind the queen and her ladies in the wain, raising their voices in accompaniment to the half dozen servants playing the merry lilt of a Maying song on slender reed pipes.
Nicolaa led the remaining castle staff Of upper servants, knights and the two monks back into the hall. Mauger was among them. He was elated at his success. When Nicolaa had led everyone outside to watch the election of the May queen, it had been an easy matter to announce to the people closest to him that he had need to visit the jakes before he went outside. Waiting in the confines of the latrine until he was assured the hall was clear of people, he had then gone quickly into the buttery and exchanged the jar of honey that Harald Severtsson had brought for the adulterated one he had retrieved late last night and carried into the hall secreted in a bag under his cloak. A quick revisit to the jakes had allowed him to dispose of the untainted jar by dropping it through one of the holes in the wooden board that covered the deep shaft leading to the midden. He had heard a satisfying plop as it hit the bottom. The deed had been done almost before the drawing of the pebbles had started.
Now he watched with anticipation as Nicolaa de la Haye ordered her butler to set up a small table in preparation for the tasting of Harald Severtsson’s wine. The merchant and his brother appeared at the door while this was being done, and Harald hastened up to the front of the hall to join the butler in his duty, inspecting the flagons into which the wine had been decanted and asking that a shallow bowl be brought along with one of the small braziers that stood, lighted, in the corners of the hall. Ivor stood at the edge of the group that was gathered and watched his brother in a disdainful manner. As Harald waited for his instructions to be carried out, he stood alongside Richard and Nicolaa, extolling the merits of the wine and assuring them that they would find it to be the best they had ever tasted.
Mauger looked at Ivor Severtsson. The man had obviously been removed by the Templars from his post as bailiff due, no doubt, to rumours that he had raped the potter’s daughter. Now he was reduced to the status of a menial, assisting his younger brother in the tedious business of selling wine. He was already miserable; soon grief would be added to his conniving soul when he saw his brother either die or be charged with the murder of the sheriff’s wife and son. Mauger hoped that Harald would be cut down where he stood by the truculent sheriff. If he was not, Mauger would gut him later, just as he had done with Fland Cooper, and just as slowly.
His eyes swivelled to Gerard Camville, who was standing a little apart from the rest. This was the man who had ordered the hanging of Drue. Soon sorrow would descend on his brutal heart and he, too, would be alone in his misery, his world shattered by the deaths of his loved ones.
Harald had commenced the preparation of the wine, making a great fuss of pouring a little into the bowl and adding the spices before heating the contents with a small poker that had been resting in the embers of the brazier. After allowing the spices to simmer for a few moments, he used a loosely woven cloth to strain the mixture into a beaker and then poured a little into the bottom of two silver goblets Eudo had placed in readiness on the table. A heady aroma filled the air, comprised mainly of the sharp tang of cinnamon but with hints of other spices, such as tarragon and rosemary, mixed in.
“Now, the wine itself must be poured and heated,” the merchant said, plunging the red-hot poker, which had been reheating while the spices were simmering, into a decanted flagon of the wine he had brought. Then he filled both of the goblets to about an inch from the brim. “It is most important that the wine be well heated, for the warmth enhances the taste of the honey.”
So saying, he tipped up the honey pot and poured a good measure into each of the wine cups, stirring the contents of both as he did so with a silver spoon hanging from a chain about his neck. The honey poured out in a thick golden flow, glistening lusciously in the light of the flaring torches that illuminated the hall. There was a murmur of approval from the spectators.
“Now, lord and lady,” Severtsson said as he handed a goblet each to Nicolaa and her son, “tell me truly if you have ever tasted a more flavoursome wine.”
As they both drank from the wine cups, Mauger felt a surge of elation. He edged his way closer to the front of the group near the table, the better to see the effects of the poison. It should not be long before the symptoms began to show themselves.
As he gained a place near the table, he gloated with satisfaction as Nicolaa said to her son, “It is most certainly toothsome, Richard, but I fear, even with the addition of the honey, it is a little too strong. My throat is tingling.”
“That is as it should be, Mother,” Richard replied with a smile. “A good vintage arouses the senses, and who amongst us does not enjoy that?”
The ambiguity of this remark with its salacious overtones was greeted by chuckles from the crowd gathered around the table, but Nicolaa made light of her son’s lewdity and persisted in her uncertainty about the merit of the wine.
“I am not sure, merchant, that this vintage fulfills your boast. What region did you say it comes from?”
“Perigord, lady, south of the Limousin,” Harald replied. “It is sold by a vintner there who has, I am told, lately received orders for a large quantity from none other than our king’s mother, Queen Eleanor.”
“Ah,” Nicolaa replied, pretending to be suitably impressed. There was a modicum of contention in her voice, however, as she added, “But since that esteemed lady comes from those lands herself she is doubtless prejudiced in favour of the wine that is produced there.” She turned to her son. “We need another opinion, Richard, to help me decide whether this wine is suitable to serve to the guests who grace our board. Do I not recollect that we have heard someone speak of the wines of Perigord before today?”
Richard pretended to consider her question before nodding his head and saying, “Yes, Mother, we have,” and with that he raked the crowd with his eyes until he saw Mauger and called out his assumed name. “I remember that you once said the produce of the vineyards in the Limousin area is superior to any other. Come, have a cup of Severtsson’s wine and tell us if it is truly worthy of the claim he is making.”
Mauger’s bowels turned to ice as Richard Camville bade him come forward and sample the wine. Damn the man for remembering a slight remark that had been made months ago. Quickly, he measured his chances of escape, but they were few. Bascot de Marins, the Templar knight, stood a little behind him, to his left, and on his right hand was the bulk of the castle serjeant, Ernulf. Neither would let him pass if he did not obey the bidding of the sheriff’s son. Only behind the two Severtsson brothers was there a small clearness of space that would enable him to gain access to the door of the hall, but the merchant blocked his path. He took a slow step forward; the effects of the poison should soon take hold of both Nicolaa and Richard. If he could delay drinking from the cup of wine just long enough for one of them to become ill, he may be able to escape detection.
“I fear that, like Sir Gerard, I have not much taste for honey in my wine,” Mauger said as he approached the table. “Perhaps I could take a cup of it without the sweetener so that I may give a better judgement of its merit.”
Nicolaa de la Haye shook her head. “If I am to purchase some of this, it will be prepared as Master Harald has directed, and that is how it must be tasted.”
She motioned to the wine cup which the merchant had filled and into which he was adding a generous dollop of honey. “Besides, the cup is already prepared.” She looked up at Mauger. “You would not deny a lady her whim, would you?”
Mauger’s fingers were trembling as he took the cup in his hand. It was not hard for him to let it slip, as though by accident, so that the contents spilled across the white cloth that had been laid on the table, leaving a deep purple stain.
“I am sorry, lady,” Mauger apologised. “That was clumsy of me.”
“Do not reproach yourself,” Nicolaa replied considerately. “It will not take Master Harald more than a moment to prepare another one.”
Mauger watched with dismay as the merchant picked up the fallen cup, set it upright and refilled it with wine from the flagon and added the spices. As he reached for the honey, Nicolaa forestalled him. “Perhaps, merchant, you should use honey from the other pot, the one you brought last night, instead of the sweetener that has been added to my cup and that of my son.”
She looked up at Mauger. “We used honey from the castle kitchen for ours, since the cost of the honey that the merchant brought was nearly as high as the wine. I had hoped to save the expense of purchasing it by using our own native honey instead, but it may be that, by doing so, I have detracted from the taste.” She gave her butler a curt order, and from beneath the table, where its presence had been hidden by the long cloth, he lifted another pot of honey.
Mauger felt his senses reel as he realised that the wine both the castellan and her son had drunk had not been sweetened with the honey he had adulterated. The tainted pot that he had left in the buttery was there, in front of him, being freshly opened and the honey about to be added to a cup of wine that he must either drink or give an acceptable reason for refusing. A memory of the dog he had killed flashed into his mind, accompanied by vivid pictures of the symptoms it had suffered before its death; how it had writhed in spasms of agony and spewed the contents of its stomach and bowels. The thought of undergoing such a fate made the beating of his heart accelerate, and the sound drummed in his ears as Nicolaa directed that the merchant be generous with the sweetener lest the wine’s taste be spoiled by parsimony.
As the cup was held out to him by Harald Severtsson, Mauger took a step backwards, his hand reaching for the knife that was secreted in his tunic. Nicolaa looked at him, her protuberant blue eyes filled with condemnation. “You seem reluctant to drink the wine that you recommended to my son, Martin-is that perhaps because you know that poison has been added? And, if so, how do you know that? Could it be because your name is not Martin, but Mauger Rivelar, and you seek to murder us in the same way you have killed six others?”
In desperation, Mauger sought to escape and, drawing his blade, he stabbed out at Harald Severtsson, catching the merchant in the flesh of his upper arm. As Harald staggered back Mauger pushed past him, upsetting the table and the flagons of wine as he did so but gaining his way to the clear space beyond. Without pause, he began to run towards the door of the hall feeling a momentary rush of exhilaration and the hopeful expectancy of escape. But another obstacle suddenly appeared in his path-one that would not be so easy to circumvent as the merchant. Gerard Camville, moving his bulk with the speed that made him such a formidable opponent in battle, was in front of him, sword drawn and the point imbedded in the cloth of the leech’s tunic. Mauger could feel the bite of the steel as it lanced his flesh.
“I would as soon gut you now, pig, as later,” Camville growled. “The choice is yours.”