The army and populace are ecstatic. Cooks and servants prepare a huge feast at the castle in Saint Albans. The nobles are to eat in the Great Hall, while the bulk of the army is to eat at makeshift tables spread in the bailey. However, the bailey is hardly less magnificent.
At the feast, the happiness of victory incites many to excess. Knights who remain both temperate and chaste stay at the feast, filling themselves with good food, companionship, convivial pleasure, and the other emotions that come along with surviving a bloody battle.
Late at night, something awful happens. The guests in the Great Hall reel, then spasm, and begin vomiting food, then blood, and soon die from internal bleeding. The effect strikes suddenly. Panic erupts. Many screams resound in the halls of the castle. The lords are blue and purple, heaving up foaming red blood upon the tables, themselves, and each other. They stagger, gasping, and then crash upon the tables and floor, thrashing spasmodically. The carnage is horrible; man after man falls to the floor, dying a horrible death.
The survivors wade through the blood and vomit to find him if they wish. No matter, for he’s dead. They are all dead. All of them. Panic, hysteria, and frantic, meaningless activity seize everyone in the castle, the town, and the nearby countryside.
Servants begin the grim job of removing the corpses. It is clear that someone has treacherously poisoned the meal, probably the ale or wine (or both). Everyone who survives is devastated. Hundreds killed! Terrible enough, but look at the roster of dead!
The ruling class of Logres is virtually wiped out. King Uther and just about all of his barons (except those in the hospital) have died. Count Roderick is dead. The land has no rulers.
The mourning is keen and grievous for the many noble dead.