when it comes to preparing the roasted coney of which I am so fond.”
Gosbert rose to his feet and gravely nodded his head. “I shall prepare it for you tonight, lady,” he said, “and in the manner to which you are accustomed.” The cook gave his mistress a solemn bow and then, his head held high, strode across the bail to the kitchen.
While Gosbert was being released from the holding cell, Bascot was on his way to visit the apiary at Nettleham. The preceptor had sent a message to Ivor Severtsson, instructing him to await the Templar at Nettleham village. Hamo, a serjeant from the preceptory, went with Bascot at d’Arderon’s suggestion, so there would be no doubt in the bailiff’s mind that any enquiries put to himself and the residents of the apiary were being made with the Order’s permission. The Templar would have liked to bring Gianni with him. The boy had sharp eyes and ears, and his help had been invaluable to Bascot on the previous occasions when a murderer had been abroad in Lincoln town. But his involvement in his master’s investigations had, the last time, nearly cost the boy his life, and Bascot was reluctant to put him in such jeopardy again. Gianni had been downcast when he had been told he would be left behind, but it was better he suffer disappointment than take a risk with his well-being.
Bascot gave a glance at the stern countenance of the knight riding beside him. Hamo was a dour and taciturn individual, but his devotion to the Order was total and without reservation. He would, Bascot knew, be as anxious as the preceptor to prevent any stigma from attaching itself to the Templar brotherhood through the actions of one of its tenants.
The weather was holding to its promise and the day was again a warm one, with white fleecy clouds scudding overhead across a pale blue sky. After leaving Lincoln by the northern gate of Newport Arch, they turned off Ermine Street a short distance from the town, onto a track that led eastwards towards Nettleham and Wragby. As they rode, the sights and sounds of the countryside engulfed them; all of the trees were in bud, and intermittent patches of bluebells filled the air with their earthy scent. Small birds flitted to and fro, twigs or bits of leaf clamped in their tiny beaks as they went about the task of building their nests, and the hammering of woodpeckers made an intermittent, and clamorous, accompaniment to their passage. An occasional traveller passed them on the track, mainly carters taking produce to one of the markets in Lincoln, but for most of the way, the road was empty.
Nettleham village was situated about four miles’ distance from the main road, with the larger property of Wragby a further seven miles on. The village was a tiny one, consisting only of a small church, a blacksmith’s forge and a few cots built of wattle and daub. On one side was a grassy area of common ground where meetings could be held or animals grazed, and beyond that was a stretch of rolling flatland dotted with sheep. A few villagers were in the street, a woman with a basketful of eggs over one arm and another two women standing gossiping by a well near one of the houses that had a sheaf of greenery fixed beside the door, denoting it was an alehouse. Severtsson was waiting for them outside the blacksmith’s forge, his horse tethered to a nearby post and a pot of ale in his hand.
He was a tall man, with handsome, craggy features, broad shoulders and a shock of close-cropped blond hair above a pair of blue eyes almost as pale as Bascot’s single one. Not only his name but his appearance indicated that it was likely he had Viking blood among his antecedents.
Setting his ale pot on a block of wood at the entrance to the forge, he greeted them in a deferential manner and waited to be told the reason he had been summoned.
Bascot suggested that they mount their horses and ride a little way out of the village lest the smith, who was engaged in repairing the blade of a plough, or any of the other villagers overhear their conversation.
When they had left the hamlet behind them, Bascot slowed his horse to a walk and said to the bailiff, “Did Preceptor d’Arderon include the purpose of our visit in his message?”
“No, lord,” Severtsson replied, “he only gave an instruction that I was to be here to meet you this morning.”
Realising that the bailiff had not yet heard of the poisoned honey that had originally been in his uncle’s house, he explained the matter carefully. “We are here to make enquires concerning the matter of five deaths that have occurred within the castle and town. All were victims of poison, and the substance that killed them was placed in jars of honey that came from Nettleham. I have been sent by Lady Nicolaa, with Preceptor d’Arderon’s permission, to determine whether it is possible that the honey was adulterated while it was in the beekeeper’s care at the apiary, or during its transport to the places where the poisoned pots were discovered.”
Severtsson’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “I have heard of the deaths in the castle,” he said, “but not of any in the town. May I ask who it is that has died?” The bailiff was well-spoken, but his words were touched with a slight Scandinavian accent, which confirmed the impression that he was of Nordic stock.
“A neighbour of your uncle Reinbald’s,” Bascot replied. “A spice merchant named Robert le Breve, and his wife and young daughter.”
The information startled the bailiff. “I am sorry to hear that,” he said. “Le Breve was a good friend of my uncle’s. I know he will be distressed at his passing, and especially by the manner of it. You say the little girl was poisoned, too?”
Bascot nodded. “The only one left alive in the household was an elderly servant. A woman named Nantie.”
“And it is certain that the honey in which the poison was placed was purchased from the apiary at Nettleham?” Severtsson asked.
“It was, but it was not le Breve who bought it. It was given to Maud le Breve by your aunt, and came from a stock which she said was supplied to them by you.”
It took a moment for Severtsson to register the implications of what Bascot had told him, and when he did, the blood drained from his face. “Are you saying that if my aunt had not given the honey to her neighbour, it would have been she and my uncle who died?”
“Yes. It would seem that the poisoner’s intended victims were members of your family, not le Breve’s.”
Bascot gave the bailiff a few moments to recover from the shock of what he had been told and then asked, “When did you take the honey pots from Nettleham to your uncle’s house?”
“Last autumn, just after it had been harvested,” Severtsson replied, his voice unsteady. “My uncle asked me to buy some for him and I did so, when I went to Nettleham to collect the beeswax that is the beekeeper’s fee for tenancy.”
“After you collected it, did you leave it out of your sight for any length of time before you took it to your uncle’s house?” Bascot asked.
“No,” Severtsson replied. “I was going into Lincoln that day and had a cart with me. I loaded both the honey and the wax on the wain and took the pots of honey directly to Uncle Reinbald’s house. It is my custom, whenever I am in Lincoln, to call on them and stay for a meal. That is what I did that day. After we had eaten, I took the beeswax to the preceptory on my way back to Wragby. The honey never left my possession at any time, nor did I leave it unattended while it was on the wain.” He ran his tongue over his lips in an agitated manner and said to Hamo, “Is it really possible that the honey could have been poisoned before I collected it?”
“It may have been,” the serjeant replied, “and the matter must be looked into. That is why Sir Bascot wishes to go to the apiary and question the inhabitants. Tell him what you know of the beekeeper and his family.”
Hamo’s tone was brusque, and Severtsson recovered his composure a little under the force of it. “There is the beekeeper himself, whose name is Adam. He is a widower, but he has a daughter, Margot, and her husband living with him. Margot’s husband’s name is Wilkin; he is a potter and makes jars for the apiary honey and other types of vessels which he hawks around Lincoln. They have two children, a daughter, Rosamunde, who is about twenty years old and has a babe of her own, and a young son named after his grandfather and called Young Adam.”
“And this daughter, do she and her husband live on the property as well?” Bascot asked.
Severtsson’s gaze faltered a little as he answered. “She has no husband,” he said.
Bascot noted the hesitation that the bailiff had made when speaking of the girl, and had the feeling that Severtsson was being evasive. He did not pursue the impression, however; it might be nothing more serious than that the bailiff felt uncomfortable speaking of a female who had borne a child out of wedlock, especially to two monks whose vows forbade them to marry or seek out the company of women.
“Are you aware of any enmity that one, or more, of these people, including the beekeeper, might feel towards your uncle?” Bascot asked. If the honey had been tampered with before it was taken to Lincoln, the beekeeper or a member of his family would have had ample opportunity to do so.
