A Plague of Poison Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Thirty-seven

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Praise for The Alehouse Murders

  “I loved The Alehouse Murders. Combining marvelous period detail with characters whose emotions and personalities would ring true in any era, Maureen Ash has launched a terrific new historical mystery series. I’ll be standing in line for the next Templar Knight Mystery.”

  —Jayne Ann Krentz,

  New York Times bestselling author of Running Hot

  “A deft re-creation of a time and place, with characters you’ll want to meet again.”

  —Margaret Frazer,

  national bestselling author of A Play of Lords

  “A delightful addition to the medieval mystery list. It is well researched and, even better, well written, with distinct, interesting characters and plot twists that I didn’t expect . . . I look forward to more books in the series.”

  —Sharan Newman,

  author of The Shanghai Tunnel

  “Fans of quality historical mysteries will be delighted with this debut . . . The first in what will hopefully be a long-running series of Templar Knights whodunits.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Maureen Ash masterfully creates a medieval world full of rich historic detail and peopled with fascinating characters. Her complex hero, Sir Bascot de Marins, immediately engages the reader as he tracks a ruthless killer in a mystery that will keep the reader guessing until the very end.”

  —Victoria Thompson,

  national bestselling author of Murder on Bank Street

  “A perplexing mystery with its flawed but sympathetic hero . . . An enjoyable read.”

  —Gumshoe Review

  “Good, old-fashioned mystery. I look forward to more.”

  —Meritorious Mysteries

  “Maureen Ash’s series will be very popular if the future novels are the quality of The Alehouse Murders.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “Interesting reading.”

  —San Jose Mercury News

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by Maureen Ash

  the alehouse murders

  DEATH OF A SQUIRE

  A PLAGUE OF POISON

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  A PLAGUE OF POISON

  A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / March 2009

  Copyright © 2009 by Maureen Ash.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-02423-2

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME

  Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

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  For my grandchildren, Chloe and Christopher, with fondest love

  Prologue

  Lincoln Early Spring 1201 A.D.

  WITH THE CELEBRATION Of EASTERTIDE AT THE END of March, a warm spring radiance had descended on Lincoln. As the month of April began, only brief showers of gentle rain marred its brilliance. In the countryside, young lambs frolicked beside their mothers and villeins sent prayers of thanksgiving heavenward as the pliable earth turned easily beneath their ploughs. The townspeople, too, welcomed such a providential heralding of the summer to come. Goodwives threw out old rushes from the floors of their homes and replaced them with ones that were new and sweet smelling, linens soiled during the long months of winter were washed and hung out to dry and the walls of houses were given fresh coats of lime.

  Only in the squalid suburb of Butwerk, which lay just outside the city walls, was there no sign of rejoicing, for the ditch called Werkdyke bordered the area and the accumulated rubbish in its depths had begun to steam as the temperature rose. It was a deep cavity, filled with detritus collected from streets within the town, and was comprised of offal, old bones, the contents of soil pots and glutinous blobs of decomposing vegetable matter. The stench of its noxious fumes drifted up and spread into Whore’s Alley, where the prostitutes plied their trade, and floated above the gravestones in the cemetery of St. Bavon’s, the dilapidated church that served the parish. Rats darted among the piles of refuse, vying with stray cats and dogs in their scavenging, while crows hopped and fluttered in their midst, cawing stridently.

  The earliness of the hour and the miasmic atmosphere kept all who had the misfortune to live in Butwerk inside their dwellings, and so there was no one to remark the presence of the man that tramped beside the ditch. He walked with a purposeful stride, not heeding the loathsome odours that assailed his nostrils, and now that he was alone, he allowed the rage that he had kept hidden behind a pretence of genial civility to bubble up and come to the surface. After so many long months, it was almost time for him to carry out his plan fo
r revenge. Only one final step remained, and that was to test the means by which he intended to extract it.

  He searched among the carrion eaters for a suitable victim. Eventually, he spied a large dog with a matted black coat and ears that were mangled and torn. The animal was cowering near the edge of the ditch, trying to wriggle closer to a lump of maggot-infested meat that was being ferociously guarded by a feral tomcat.

  Ignoring the feline, the man approached the dog. He spoke to it in soft tones, proffering a large chunk of salted pork. The cur was timorous at first but, unable to resist the food that was so tantalisingly near its nose, finally gave a tentative wag of its bedraggled tail and crept closer, its whole body quivering with expectation. When the animal came to a halt near the man’s feet, its benefactor smeared the meat with a substance he took from the scrip at his belt and laid it on the ground. The dog quickly gulped the tidbit down and then raised its head hopefully, looking for more.

  “One portion is all that will be necessary to sate your hunger, my ugly friend,” the man said gravely. “You should have been less hasty and savoured the sweetness of its taste.”

  When it seemed that no further largesse would be forthcoming, the dog moved away from the man and resumed its envious contemplation of the tomcat. Within a few minutes the dog began to whine and hunkered down on its belly. Its distress became more evident as the animal’s body began to tremble, and soon it was retching copiously and appeared to be in great pain. The man kept watch over the animal until, eventually, the exhausted dog fell onto its side and lay panting on the ground. It made one last feeble attempt to stand upright before a final shudder wracked its frame and it died.

  The man felt no regret for the dog’s death, only a sense of triumph. The poison was more effective than he had hoped. He raised his head and looked at the delicate white clouds scudding across the blueness of the April sky then dropped his gaze to the castle battlements and the spire of the Minster, their outlines standing stark on the horizon above the houses of the town spread out below. Soon all of those who had destroyed innocent lives would pay for the sins they had committed. With a mirthless smile of bitter anticipation, he raised his booted foot and pushed the dog’s lifeless body over the edge of the ditch and into the foul depths of the Werkdyke.

  One

  Lincoln Spring 1201 A.D.

  THE CASTLE AT LINCOLN SITS HIGH ATOP A HILL that overlooks the town, and it is built on the site of the old Roman fort called Lindum, hard by the broad highway of Ermine Street. Sharing the height with the castle is the Minster, and to the east, on the shoulder of the hill, is the Lincoln preceptory of the religious military order of the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon, commonly called the Knights Templar.

  The enclave is moderate in size and encircled by a stout stone wall. Within its confines are a round chapel, refectory, dormitory, kitchen, storehouse, forge and stable, with a central open space used as a training ground. On the hillside below the compound is a stretch of grassland where the Order’s horses are exercised.

  On the morning of the day the poisoner claimed his first human victim, the preceptor of the commandery, Everard d’Arderon, an older knight of some sixty years, was seated at a small table in the room that he used for his private quarters. Across from him, standing by the one window the room possessed, was Bascot de Marins, a Templar knight.

  “So, Bascot, you have made your decision, have you?” d’Arderon asked.

  “Yes, Preceptor. I have not much choice in the matter. The king’s proposal is one that any man would find difficult to refuse. I must leave the Order.”

  D’Arderon got up from his chair and paced to the far end of the room. He paused and turned to face Bascot. The younger knight looked tired, his attitude one of dejection. The preceptor remembered when de Marins had first come to Lincoln, some eighteen months before. The London master of the Templars, Thomas Berard, had sent him north, requesting the hereditary castellan of Lincoln castle, Nicolaa de la Haye, to give him a temporary place in her retinue so that he might have a space of time to heal from the rigors of eight long years spent as a captive of the infidels in the Holy Land. His bodily injuries—an eye put out by the Saracens and an ankle badly damaged during his escape from a Muslim pirate ship—were not all that afflicted him. The news, on his return to England, that his entire immediate family—father, mother, brother and sister-by-marriage—had perished in a pestilence during his absence had caused his faith to waver and he had announced his wish to resign from the Order. Berard, knowing that Bascot had conducted himself with valour prior to his capture, was loath to lose him and so had hoped that in the familiar routine of an English castle Bascot would recover his strength and his devotion to God. The master’s remedy had worked, but not in the manner that he had hoped.

  ”Tell me again of the king’s promise,” the preceptor said. He already knew well the terms of the pledge King John had made to the Templar knight, but he was trying to find time to think of some way to dissuade de Marins from his course.

  “He will restore to me my father’s fief—as you know it has been in the possession of the Crown since he and my older brother died—on the condition that I resign from the Order and take up service in the Haye retinue.” Bascot paused and then added, “He has also said I will be allowed to select an heir of my own choosing if I do not marry and have sons of my own.”

  “And that last part is why you are doing this, is it not? For your waif?”

  Bascot’s one remaining eye, the pale blue of a cold winter sky, grew hard and seemed to turn to ice. “He is no longer a waif. He is my servant and I am responsible for his welfare. Without my protection he will return to what he once was, a homeless beggar.”

  D’Arderon heaved a sigh and went back to his seat at the table. The boy they had been speaking of was Gianni, a mute urchin that Bascot had picked up two years before as he had journeyed back to England after his escape from the Saracens. Bascot had, over time, become as fond of the boy as if he had been his own true son, and he was now concerned that, if he rejoined the ranks of the Order, not only would the boy be rendered destitute but also that the affection between them would be lost forever.

  “Forgive me, Bascot, for my harsh words,” d’Arderon said in a placatory tone. “I do not mean to denigrate the boy, but forswearing the vows you took when you joined the Order is no light matter. I do not wish you to embark on a course you will later regret.”

  Bascot’s manner softened. He had a great liking for d’Arderon and knew his sentiments were genuine. “I know, Preceptor, and I appreciate your concern.”

  D’Arderon reached out and took a small leather bag from a pile of similar pouches stacked in a corner of the room. They contained al-Kandiq, boiled sweets made from canes that grew in the Holy Land and were imported to England by the Templars. The anglicised version of their name was candi. The preceptor knew that Bascot was fond of them, as he was himself, and he opened the sack and tossed one to his companion.

  “When do you intend to let Thomas Berard know of your decision?” d’Arderon asked.

  “It is not something that can be dealt with in a letter. I prefer to tell him personally.” Bascot’s face had a withdrawn look as he said this, and he paused a moment before going on. “As you know, Lady Nicolaa’s husband, Gerard Camville, and their son Richard are in London for the spring session of the exchequer, which Camville is attending in his capacity as sheriff. Since they took most of the household knights with them, Lady Nicolaa has asked me to delay my journey until her husband and son return, which should be before the end of the month. Once they are back, I will go to London and seek an audience with Berard.”

  D’Arderon rose from his seat, came to where de Marins stood and clasped him by the shoulder. “I will be sorry for your leaving our brotherhood, Bascot,” he said, “but will pray in all earnestness for God to help you in your new life.”

  BASCOT’S HEART WAS HEAVY AS HE LEFT THE PRECEPTORY and walked through Eastgate to cr
oss the grounds of the Minster on his way back to the castle. He had not been completely honest with d’Arderon. The truth was that he really did not want to resign from the Templar Order. King John had offered him the return of his father’s fief as a reward for his assistance to Nicolaa de la Haye in solving two separate cases of murder the previous year, one the death of four people in an alehouse and the other the killing of a squire in the retinue of the castellan’s brother-by-marriage. Lady Nicolaa was a good friend, and loyal subject, of the king, and when John had discovered how much value she placed on Bascot’s service, he had made the gesture as a mark of royal favour. Had it not been for Bascot’s concern for Gianni’s well-being, he would have refused the monarch’s offer without hesitation, for the vows of poverty, chastity and obedience he had sworn when he joined the Templars had not been taken lightly. But if he had to choose between endangering his immortal soul and placing Gianni’s future in jeopardy, he preferred to sacrifice his own fate rather than the boy’s. He had come to love the lad dearly; there was no other option than to put the boy’s interests before his own.