Free A Plague of Poison by Maureen Ash Page A

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