The room to which Bascot followed Nicolaa was the chamber where she administered the many details involved in managing the large fief she had inherited from her father. It was sparsely furnished, containing a large oak table laid with sheets of parchment, quills and an ink pot, and a small desk at which John Blund sat when taking dictation. On one side, against the wall, was a stand to accommodate jugs of wine and cups. Clare had trailed behind her mistress and the Templar as they climbed the tower stairs to the chamber, bringing with her the pot that contained the contaminated honey, which had been wrapped in a piece of straining cloth taken from the kitchen. As they entered the room the maid began to weep, silently, and looked near to collapse.
“Clare, you may leave us now,” Nicolaa said to her attendant. The castellan’s face was ashen, but her voice was steady as she spoke to the girl. “You have my permission to absent yourself from your duties for the rest of the day.”
The maid placed the pot of honey on the table and left the room. Once the door was shut, Nicolaa explained the reason for the maid’s distress. “I recently gave Ralf and Clare permission to become betrothed. His death was a great blow to her. The realisation that she was the unwitting instrument of his demise is, I fear, more than she can stand. I hope that time will ease her suffering, even if it does not eradicate it.”
Bascot nodded in commiseration and, as he did so, noticed that Nicolaa was almost as distraught as the maid. Accustomed to her usual demeanour of quiet efficiency, it gave him a start of dismay to realise that she was having difficulty maintaining her equanimity. In the eighteen months Bascot had been in Lincoln, they had together faced, and solved, the mysteries surrounding two previous incidents of murder, but neither of those had included an attempt on the castellan’s own life. He feared that this time, and in her debilitated state, the shock of coming so close to death had put her near to using up the reserves of her considerable inner strength. Pouring them each a cup of wine from the flagon on the table, he remained silent for a few moments, giving her time to recover from the awareness of how close she had come to death.
That hope was realised when, after taking a sip of the wine, she said, with a faint touch of her usual asperity, “I cannot-and do not-believe that Gosbert is responsible for this crime. He has been in my retinue for nearly twenty years, since the time my son, Richard, was a babe. If he had ever harboured any ill feeling towards me, I would have been aware of it long before now.”
“It may be that the honey was, perhaps, poisoned before it was sealed, in which case, as you say, Gosbert would be innocent,” Bascot opined.
“Yes,” Nicolaa agreed. “It would be a simple matter to open a jar, contaminate the contents and then replace the stopper and wax seal. And it could have been done at any time, either while it was in the kitchen or before it was delivered to the castle store.”
She pointed to the honey pot, which had been finished with a highly coloured amber glaze. “The glaze on that jar is used to denote that it is the best grade of honey, one that would only be used in a dish that is served to those of higher rank. Whether that is an indication of the poisoner’s intent to murder myself, a member of my family or one of the household knights remains to be seen. We shall have to await the results of Thorey’s testing to see if any more jars have been adulterated, and if so, of which grade.”
“The choice of that jar may have been happenstance,” Bascot suggested. “It would not be an easy matter to tamper with it while it was in the kitchen. The pot would need to be removed, adulterated and then replaced at a later time. It may simply have been that it was the easiest one to filch for the purpose.”
“Or an empty pot was filled with poisoned honey beforehand and then exchanged for a pure one,” Nicolaa observed. “But why was it done? That is the mystery. And until we find out, not only myself but everyone within the castle walls is, as you said, in danger.”
She leaned forward. “For the safety of us all, the identity of the person who committed this crime must be discovered. Are you willing to assist me in this matter?”
“Most certainly, lady,” Bascot assured her. It was a courtesy on Nicolaa’s part to ask for his help; although he was nominally a member of her retinue, she was, as ever, conscious of the fact that he was still a member of the Templar Order and not yet bound by any oath of fealty to serve either her or her husband. He appreciated her tact in observing the distinction.
“Then I would ask you, de Marins, to go to Gosbert and question him. See if he can remember anything at all that may help us. Assure him of my faith in his innocence and explain to him that I had no choice but to incarcerate him, for if I had not done so, with young Thomas’s temper so high over Haukwell’s death, it is more than likely he would have attacked Gosbert and dealt him a serious injury.”
“I will go directly, lady,” Bascot said as he rose from his seat. “It may also help,” he added, “if we knew the nature of the venom. There are not many, I should think, who would have access to a poison of such virulence, or the knowledge to make it. Would Martin be able to tell, by the symptoms, what was used?”
Nicolaa shook her head. “Martin is an able enough bonesetter, but he has little knowledge of simples.” She gave the matter a few moments’ consideration and then said, “I could ask one of the apothecaries in the town for help, but I think it would be better to send for Brother Jehan, the infirmarian at the Priory of All Saints, and ask his opinion. He is a skilled herbalist. If it is at all possible to identify the poison, he will be able to do so.”
She reached out and, with care, tipped the honey pot up on its side, revealing a mark etched into the base of the pot. It was a cross pattee, the insignia of the Templar Order. “This honey comes from a small apiary at Nettleham and, as you see, is on property held by the Order. Most of the honey that is used in the kitchen is provided by apiaries on Haye land, but this one has a very distinct and flavourful taste, and Gosbert orders a score of pots to be delivered to the castle every year at the time of the autumn honey fair. If my cook is not able to give you any information that is useful, it may be worthwhile to visit the beekeeper at Nettleham. He has been providing us with his honey for many years, and while it does not seem likely he would have any reason for wishing harm to those who live within the castle, it may be that the honey was left unattended while it was in his care, or en route to the castle kitchen.”
Nicolaa stood up. “It would seem we are once again involved in the machinations of a murderer, de Marins. Let us pray we are as successful in catching him as we have been beforetimes.”
When Bascot came down into the bail a small crowd of servants was gathered in front of the cookhouse, watching Thorey as he tested the honey on his rats. There were about twenty pots lined up beside him and he had three cages set on the ground in front of him, a rodent in each one. Only a few of the pots bore a glaze of the same bright colour as the one that had been contaminated; most were tinged with a greenish hue, and a few had no glaze at all. Thorey’s little terrier dogs were still watching the proceedings from a short distance away, their gaze never wavering from their master’s actions.
Bascot walked up to Ernulf, who was standing with a couple of the men-at-arms near Thorey and watching as the catcher fed a piece of honey-soaked bread to each of the rodents in turn. Gianni ran to his master when he saw him emerge from the keep. The boy’s eyes were still a little fearful, but the excitement caused by the discovery of the poison and the catcher’s testing of the honey had gone a small way to alleviate his concern.
“Had to send to town for more rats,” Ernulf told Bascot. “There’s too many pots of honey and not enough rats to test them all. Thorey’s vermin are already so sated with bait that they’re refusing to take any more.”
As he spoke, they heard the guard on the eastern gate give a shout and turned to see another rat catcher stride through the huge portal. He was a much bigger man than Thorey, resplendent in a cape and peaked hat made completely of rat skins, and was carrying a long ratting pole set with sharp metal barbs. Alongside him trotted another, much younger man, dressed more conventionally in plain tunic and hose, carrying two cages, each containing half a dozen rats. The rodents were huddled close together and squeaking with fear.
“Serjeant Ernulf,” the catcher said as he came up to where they stood. “I have come as you directed.”
“This is Germagan,” the serjeant informed Bascot. “He’s the premier rat catcher in Lincoln town.”
The catcher bowed in the Templar’s direction, sweeping his cape aside as he did so. “My lord,” he said, “I am pleased to be of service.”
Gianni’s eyes grew big with wonder as he looked at the cape and hat the catcher wore. The skins at the edges of both still had the heads of the rodents attached, and beneath the multitude of whiskered noses, small, sharp teeth gleamed ferociously as the catcher moved to take a place beside Thorey. His assistant set the cages down alongside the others, and Germagan listened intently as Thorey explained the purpose of the honey baiting. Soon, more pots had been opened and pieces of bread smeared with a spoonful of the contents before being fed to each of the caged vermin in turn. Once that was done, both catchers sat down on the ground to await the results.
“This will take some time, Ernulf,” Bascot said, “and most of the day will be gone before all those pots have been tested. I am going to question Gosbert. Lady Nicolaa is not convinced that he is guilty, and if she is correct, he may have information that will help us discover who else had an opportunity to poison the honey.”
“I didn’t reckon it was the cook, either,” the serjeant replied, his face grim. “But you can tell Gosbert from me that if it’s proved he did try to poison milady I’ll make him rue the day he was born. By the time I get through with him he’ll be begging for an easy death from a hang-man’s noose.”
Bascot made no reply; he merely left the serjeant to overseeing the testing of the honey and made his way to the holding cells.