A Plague of Poison (28 page)

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Authors: Maureen Ash

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BOOK: A Plague of Poison
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“Then you can help me prepare the list of those within the castle household who fit Mauger’s description, Richard,” Nicolaa said lightly, trying to alleviate the fear she saw in her son’s face. “I do not think your father would have much liking for the task.”
It was this list they were studying as they were waiting for Reinbald, Richard eschewing his favoured honeyed wine and sharing a flagon of tart cider with his mother as they considered each of the names that had been put down. There were many, for old age, death or injury often gave need for replacement.
After they had spent an hour at the task, Nicolaa laid her pen down with a sigh of frustration. “This would be far more profitable if we had some sort of description, Richard. While we can eliminate some as being too old, or too young, the rest are such a motley crew of differing physiognomies that it becomes almost impossible to eliminate any of them.”
“I agree, Mother,” Richard replied. “A description of fair skin and brown hair does not give much guidance.”
“I have been trying to remember John Rivelar’s appearance and that of his son Drue, although it cannot be taken as certain that Mauger will resemble either of them closely. It is possible he may take after his mother, but I was told that she has been dead for many years, and so any details of her aspect are lost to anyone’s memory.”
“I recall that Drue was small and dark, but his father was not. They would not have been taken as father and son at a cursory glance,” Richard said.
“Just so,” Nicolaa agreed. “Let us hope the potter will be able to give de Marins details that are more helpful.”
At that moment, a servant knocked at the door and told his mistress that Reinbald had arrived. When the merchant entered, his younger nephew, Harald, was with him, carrying a flagon of Granarde wine in the crook of his arm. Nicolaa looked at Richard and her son grimaced before reluctantly giving a nod. Although neither of them had much regard for Ivor Severtsson, especially after Bascot had told them what Roget had learned about him, it seemed it would be necessary to include his brother in the conversation they intended to have with his uncle.
Reinbald doffed the tasselled cap of brocaded silk he wore and bowed low to the castellan and her son. “I was pleased to learn that you are interested in the wines that I offer, lady, and have brought one for you to taste in the hopes that it will tempt your palate.”
“I am afraid, Master Reinbald, that I asked you here for quite a different purpose than the one which I stated in my message,” Nicolaa told him. “While both my son and I would be more than pleased to sample your wares, we have a much more serious matter than the purchase of wines to discuss.”
Both of the men were startled by her words, but when she bade them sit down and hear what she had to say, they complied, albeit with wary expressions on their faces. As Nicolaa explained the discovery that Wilkin was not guilty of attempting to murder the members of their household and who they believed had done so instead, Reinbald’s face became grave.
“If what you suspect is true, lady, then my wife, myself and Harald are all still at risk from this man.”
“I am afraid so, merchant,” Nicolaa replied. “And that is why it was necessary to use the precaution of a ruse in my summons to you. There was a need to alert you to the danger and find a way to circumvent it, but if we are to apprehend this man, it is vital that our suspicions are kept secret.”
Nicolaa gave the merchant a conciliatory smile as she added, “I feared the danger of the situation might prove a little too much for your wife to withstand, and so decided to talk to you privily.”
“But how can we defend ourselves, lady?” Reinbald said with some agitation. “This man has gained access to our home before, without any of us having knowledge that he had done so. He may do so again.”
“We are well aware of that, merchant,” Nicolaa said dryly, “and that is why you are here, to discuss how we may provide you with protection without it seeming to be done.”
Harald had remained silent throughout the exchange between Nicolaa and his uncle, but now, with a steadiness in his pale blue eyes, he said, “Would it not be easier if my aunt and uncle were to leave Lincoln for a time, Lady Nicolaa? My uncle often goes to London and even farther afield to purchase wine for his stores. If he made it known that he was leaving town for such a purpose, and taking my aunt with him, none would suspect that it was not the truth.”
“But I never take your aunt Helge with me on such trips,” Reinbald protested.
“She is always begging you to do so,
Onkel
, and every time you refuse. Now you must pretend to indulge her. It will keep you both out of harm’s way, even if it is only for a short time.”
“And what of you, Harald?” Reinbald objected. “Will you remain in Lincoln and expose yourself to the danger alone? I am not sure I can allow such a thing.” The merchant’s consternation was palpable.
Harald gave his uncle a reassuring smile. “
Onkel
, it is far easier to protect one person than three, especially if one of those three is a woman. I do not need to spend much time in our house; I will be in the wine store during the day and, if necessary, can spend the nights with Bedoc.” Harald glanced at Nicolaa and Richard. “Bedoc is our clerk and lives above the storehouse. He has two dogs who keep watch over the premises at night. I will be perfectly safe there.”
“But you are Ivor’s brother,” Reinbald reminded him. “This man may decide that you would be a fair exchange for his own brother, whose death he believes Ivor caused. He may not use poison next time but attack you with a knife as he did when he killed the fishmonger’s assistant. It is a quick matter to stab a man in the street and disappear in the crowd around him.”
Again Harald dismissed his uncle’s protestations. “I promise I will stay alert,
Onkel
, while you are gone. And that will be much easier to do if I know that you and
Tante
Helge are safe.”
Richard regarded the younger Severtsson brother. He had not the height nor the strength of his brother, but his manner was unaffected and the courage inherent in his words had been stated with a quiet resolution that held no hint of bravado. The sheriff’s son thought that although Harald and Ivor were brothers, they were not much alike, and that the younger was far more preferable than the elder.
W
HILE NICOLAA And HER SON WERE CLOSETED with Reinbald and Harald, Bascot was questioning Wilkin about his memories of John Rivelar’s elder son. The potter had returned to the state of apathy that the Templar had found him in on the previous occasion he had been in the cell, and the spark of hope that had gleamed in Wilkin’s eyes on that occasion was gone. Bascot suspected he had been subjected to another round of abuse by the guards and had to shake him sharply before he regained awareness. Although he wished he could relieve the potter’s anguish, and that of his family, by telling all of them that Wilkin’s innocence was no longer in doubt, he knew he could not do so. If the potter tried to defend himself against the guards’ brutality by revealing his knowledge, or if Adam or Margot mentioned it to one of their neighbours, the news of the search for Mauger would leak out. That could not be allowed to happen.
“Tell me what you recall of Mauger during the time before he went away,” Bascot demanded of Wilkin, keeping his tone rough on purpose. “Did he have any blemish on his skin, or perhaps a lisp in his speech? Were there any scars on his face or arms that you noticed?”
Wilkin rallied sufficiently to say that the only thing he remembered was that he thought Mauger’s eyes may have been blue, but nothing else.
“I want you to think on the matter, potter, and send one of the guards to fetch me if you remember anything that might be pertinent, no matter how insignificant it seems.”
Wilkin gave the Templar a weak nod, and Bascot left the cell, disappointed by the interview.
Thirty
T
HAT SAME AFTERNOON, MAUGER RIVELAR WENT down into the streets of the town. He knew Roget had been questioning the citizens about their knowledge of Fland Cooper’s friends and wanted to listen to any gossip about the killing. Although Cooper had sworn that he had not mentioned his knowledge of Mauger’s presence in Lincoln to anyone, he wanted to make sure that the ale keeper’s son had been telling the truth. He had, after all, been begging for his life when he said it.
Mauger smiled inwardly at remembrance of his last meeting with Cooper. As he had feared at the time, Fland had recognised him on the day that Mauger had been in the lane behind Reinbald’s house, just after he had placed the poison in the merchant’s kitchen, but it had taken Cooper a couple of days to remember where he had seen him, and then a couple more before he realised that Mauger was using a false name and why. It had been then that the little whoreson had come to him with a demand that he be paid to keep silent and had foolishly expected Mauger would part with the money quietly and without a struggle. Cooper had been stupid and greedy as a child, and had not changed with the passage of years. It had not been until he was lying on the ground with his stomach ripped open that he had finally realised the pass to which his avarice had brought him. Cooper had deserved every second of the agony he had endured, and Mauger had enjoyed inflicting it. Lovingly, he patted the knife that he wore in a sheath underneath his tunic. He could hardly contain his longing for the day when he would do the same to all of those who had conspired in his brother’s death, but he knew he must be patient. Before he killed them, they must experience the same depth of anguish they had inflicted on him. Only then would justice be served.
Grief for Drue swelled anew in Mauger’s breast as he recalled the night he had left all those years ago. His brother had been just a boy then, only twelve years old, and Mauger could still remember the excited look on Drue’s face as he had watched his older brother pack a sack with food as he prepared to leave their home. When Drue had asked him where he intended to go, Mauger had answered carelessly that he did not know, but anywhere was preferable to being under the subjection of their father any longer. In all the years he had been gone, he had not once envisaged that he would never see either Drue or his father again.
If only he had returned a scant few weeks earlier he might have been able to save his little brother from the sheriff’s noose, but he had been too entranced with the charms of a compliant widow in Grimsby to come as quickly as he had intended. He had not heard of his brother’s and father’s fate until he was finally on his way back to Lincoln in the company of a party of travellers going in the same direction. Shortly after he joined the group, one of them, a cordwainer returning to Lincoln after collecting a shipment of Spanish leather at Grimsby, and not aware of Mauger’s identity, had told his companions about a band of brigands that had recently been hanged by the sheriff in his hometown, and how the father of one of them, a bailiff by the name of John Rivelar, had died shortly afterwards from the shock of his son’s death. Mauger had been horror-struck. He had kept a grim silence as the cordwainer embellished his tale with details of his brother’s hanging, wishing he could tear the man’s tongue out so that he could speak no more. When the travellers reached Louth he made an excuse to part from the others and took a private room in an alehouse. Only when he was finally alone did he allow his grief to engulf him.
At first he had tried to deny the truth of what he had heard, but he soon realised there could be no mistake. His father had been the last living member of his family, and there had never been any other people bearing the name of Rivelar in the Lincoln area. Besides, the cordwainer had said that the father of the boy who had been hanged was a Templar bailiff. He must have been speaking of Mauger’s father; it could be no other man. But how had it come about that Drue had turned to brigandage? John Rivelar had been a difficult man to live with, but he had never stinted on the comforts of a pint of ale or suitable clothing for either himself or his sons. What had made Drue join a band of outlaws?
It was then that he had decided to go to Lincoln and find out the truth of the matter, and realising that it would be easier to get the townspeople to speak more freely if they were not aware of his connection to John Rivelar and his son, he had taken a false name and identity. He had assumed, and rightly, that he would not be expected to be in the town, or recognised, after so many years away. It had not taken long for him to learn how his father had vehemently denied Drue’s guilt and had been thrown out of the sheriff’s keep for his protestations. Mauger knew that although his father had been a hard man, he had also been an honest one. If his father had insisted Drue was innocent, it must have been the truth. All of them—Severtsson, Gerard Camville and the prior of All Saints—had conspired to bring his brother and father to unjust and untimely deaths. They must all be made to pay for their actions.

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