“None that I know of,” Severtsson replied. “They are good tenants. The beekeeper submits his fee every year without fail, and the property is kept in good order. And, as far as I am aware, they all get along peaceably with the villagers in Nettleham.”
As they had been speaking, they had approached a thick stand of elms that stood at one side of the road. The bailiff motioned to a trail that branched off the main track just opposite the trees. It was heavily marked with ruts from the wheels of a wain. “The apiary is about a half mile down that lane,” Severtsson said.
Nine
The Nettleham apiary appeared to be, as Severtsson had implied, orderly and well run. The main building was a large cot with a thatched roof, alongside which were a few small sheds and a byre. Set a little distance away was a potter’s kiln, stone walled and topped with a domed roof of clay. Just inside the gate in the wattle fence that enclosed the main area was a large herb garden, and the bouquet of rosemary, thyme and marjoram was pungent in the air even though the plants were not yet in bloom. A series of niches set in the stone wall down one side of the garden contained beehives, with a few of the insects buzzing lazily about their entrances. To the south was an orchard filled with apple, pear and plum trees, and several large skeps of plaited straw formed two orderly rows beneath their branches. To the north, beyond the enclosure, was a stretch of woodland, mainly comprised of trees of alder and ash.
As the Templars and Severtsson approached the gate, they could see a man loading earthenware vessels onto a two-wheeled wain, taking his supply from a shed that stood close to the kiln. A towheaded boy of about Gianni’s age who was tending a litter of pigs in a sty looked up at their approach and came running to the gate, a large black and white dog following on his heels and barking loudly.
“We are come to see the beekeeper, Adam,” Hamo said. “Open the gate and let us through.”
The boy did as he was told, his mouth dropping open a little as he gazed up at the two Templars on their horses, both clothed in thick leather gambesons with a cross pattee sewn on the shoulders. As they rode their horses up to a hitching rail and dismounted, two women came to the door of the cot. One was tall, thin and of middle age, dressed in a homespun kirtle and holding a distaff in her hand; the other, whom the older one held firmly grasped by the arm, was much younger and fair of face and figure.
“The older woman is the beekeeper’s daughter, Margot,” Severtsson said, gesturing towards them. “The other is her daughter, Rosamunde.” His voice dropped in tone slightly as he spoke the girl’s name.
The man who had been loading the wain came across to them and bobbed his head respectfully. He was about forty years old, with a sallow complexion, lank brown hair and deep-set brown eyes. His hands and nails were engrained with clay. With no more than a baleful glance at Severtsson, he addressed himself to Bascot and Hamo. “I am Wilkin, the beekeeper’s son-by-marriage,” he said. “I heard you ask for Adam, lords. He is in the orchard. I will send the boy for him.”
As the lad ran off, Wilkin asked if it would please them to be seated and take a stoup of ale while they waited. Bascot told him it would, and he and the others followed the potter into the cot.
The interior of the building was large enough to encompass living and sleeping quarters for the beekeeper and his family. An open grate in the center provided heat for warmth and cooking, and a rough-hewn table with benches alongside was set against one wall. In a corner sleeping pallets were piled in readiness for use and there was a sturdy open-faced cupboard lined with shelves along which a variety of jars was ranged. Strings of onions, garlic and herbs hung from the rafters and there were baskets of root vegetables on the floor below. It was all very neatly kept and clean.
The older woman that Bascot had seen at the doorway, Margot, came forward bearing a tray on which were set three wooden cups of ale, and Wilkin pulled one of the benches away from the table so that the visitors could be seated. Bascot looked around for the girl who had been with Margot at the door and saw her sitting on a stool in the corner, stirring the contents of a bowl placed on her lap with a wooden spoon. Seen close to, Bascot realised that she was more than fair; she was beautiful. Long braids of russet hair framed a heart-shaped face that bore a complexion as delicate as the petals of a flower. Her brow was wide and smooth, and her eyes were the blue green colour of seawater. If this was Rosamunde, the daughter of Wilkin and Margot that the bailiff had seemed embarrassed to speak of, her name surely suited her, for she was indeed a “Rose of the World.” She paid the visitors no mind, and just kept stirring the contents of the bowl and gazing into the distance as though she were in a dream. Sitting among the rushes at her feet was a small child of perhaps fifteen months, amusing itself by sucking on the cloth at the hem of her skirt.
“Please excuse my daughter’s discourtesy in not rising, lords,” Margot said nervously, glancing at the girl as she did so. “She has not been in her right senses for a while now.”
Wilkin gave his wife an angry look, which seemed to include Severtsson. Bascot felt the undercurrents that were flowing about the room, and he was sure Hamo did, too, for the serjeant stiffened on the bench beside him.
At that moment, the boy who had opened the gate for the Templars appeared at the door, followed by a man the lad declared was “granfer” and who was, presumably, Adam, the beekeeper. His short, stocky frame was topped by tightly curled wiry hair the colour of the honey he gleaned from his bees. His beard was darker in hue and spread wide and thick across his chest. He was clothed all in brown and wore gloves, which he hastily removed as he entered the room and bowed his head to his two visitors.
“I am sorry to have made you wait, lords,” he said. “The bees will be swarmin’ soon, and I had needs to tell them I was leavin’ their presence so they will stay near the hives ’til I return.”
Bascot remembered that Preceptor d’Arderon had mentioned the beekeeper was a little odd, so he paid Adam’s strange statement no mind and told him, and his daughter and her husband, why he and Hamo had come.
Adam’s response to the revelation that poison had been put in the honey from his apiary was anger. “ ’Tweren’t no poison in the honey when ’twas put into the pots,” he declared stoutly. “My bees wouldn’t stand fer it, and neither would I. ’Twas pure and clear when it was stopped up and sealed, lords.”
Again Bascot ignored the beekeeper’s peculiar reference to his bees and said, “The honey that was poisoned was of the finest grade which is, I believe, put in pots that are glazed in a bright amber shade. Were any of those type of pots left unattended before they were either sold or collected by Severtsson?”
“After all the pots be poured and stoppered, we keeps ’em in a shed until it be time for the fair,” Adam replied. “The ones for the bailiff was along with them. They was only there for a day or two before he came and collected them and then the rest was taken to town.”
“Was the shed kept locked while the honey pots were in there?”
Adam looked at him in amazement. “No, lord. There b’aint no need. Even if someone was of a mind to steal some, the bees wouldn’t let any but us ’uns near their honey. ’Twould be right dangerous for any who tried to pilfer it.”
Seeing Bascot’s impatience with Adam’s curious manner of speaking about his bees, Wilkin hastened to justify the beekeeper’s claim. “We have two dogs here, lord, and both of them keep a good guard. If anyone tried to come onto the property, they would soon alert us. They made no disturbance while the honey was in the shed.”
Bascot nodded his thanks to the potter for the clarity of his reply and said to the beekeeper, “Did you take the honey to the autumn fair yourself last year?”
“No, I never does,” Adam replied. “I hasn’t been in Lincoln for nigh on ten years. Wilkin allus takes it, and Margot goes along to keep the tally.”
Bascot turned his attention to the potter. “After you left here to go to the fair, was the honey left unattended by either you or your wife for any length of time?”
“No, lord,” Wilkin replied. “We did deliver some to the Priory of All Saints, but Margot stayed with the wain all the time that I unloaded the honey and took it inside.
Then we went straight to the fairgrounds and my wife set up our stall.”
“And when did you take the order to the castle, before or after the fair?”
“Before, lord. I took them while Margot was setting up the stall. One of us was with the pots all the time until
