A Plague of Poison by Maureen Ash

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.

    “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

    T HE 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