The Butcher of Avignon (35 page)

Common sense told her that the prioress was probably trying to warn her against loose talk, an incautious word that might betray her allegiance and cause her to be summoned in front of the council of heretics. She could guard against that easily enough.

Do not trust him.

She didn’t.

She wouldn’t.

She wouldn’t trust any of them.

The prioress must mean Grizac.

**

Before she returned to the lower floor she went over to the crenellated parapet and gazed down again with her thoughts still teasing out the different strands of the problem that presented itself.

The river was as swollen as ever, still swamping the mead on both banks and hurling debris along from further upstream to gather under the arches nearest the bank where the current was slowest and sluicing as fast as ever under the chapel with its guiding light.

Her gaze sharpened.

John Fitzjohn’s small troop of cavalry had not gone out into the countryside to hunt as expected but were now down on the river bank outside the ferryman’s cottage. They were almost too far away to be seen but she narrowed her eyes to try to make out what was going on.

Evidently someone had kicked in the door because it hung aslant as if on one hinge. Of the ferryman himself there was no sign. After what happened earlier he must be cowering inside with his knife at the ready.

Heart suddenly in her mouth she leaned against the parapet out of the wind to watch.

Fitzjohn was waving an arm as if giving instructions. The men scattered and one or two splashed through the water to take something into the cottage. They came out again. Others seemed to be searching along the waterline for something. One of them dragged a few broken branches to the door but Fitzjohn waved him back. His horse was kicking up water and champing at the bit.

He dismounted and threw the reins to Edmund who was still astride his distinctive grey. She saw him lead Fitzjohn’s horse off a little way and look back at the others. They were all urging their horses back now. The ones who had come out of the cottage followed Fitzjohn inside. Then they all came out again.

Fitzjohn went to his horse and mounted. His men did the same. They all moved off to the top of the bank and turned to look back.

Suddenly she saw what had their attention. A wisp of smoke appeared from the doorway of the cottage. Nothing much happened until suddenly it was billowing out in thick black coils. Flames followed. She gasped. The cottage was on fire.

She imagined the ferryman trapped inside, bound maybe, unable to get out. She stared in horror. There was nothing she could do.

She noticed something else. His boat had gone. A glance up and down river from the vantage point of the tower showed no sign of it.

Now Edmund and the rest of Fitzjohn’s retinue, with the rat’s tail swinging on its pole, were riding back towards the palace. She saw Edmund look back once towards the cottage then urge his horse after the others.

**

By the time she had descended the many steps to ground level and hurried outside through the usual press into the Great Courtyard Fitzjohn’s men were already jostling to be let back in through the gatehouse. Fitzjohn himself was first through and dismounted in the middle of the yard. He threw his reins to one of his pages with a lordly gesture. Edmund slid down from his own horse and began to follow the others towards the stable yard. She caught up with him when they were out of sight round the corner.

‘What was that about?’

‘How do you know?’

‘I was up there.’ She gestured towards the top of one of the towers.

‘I can’t believe he did that.’

‘He set fire to the ferryman’s cottage?’

Edmund nodded wearily.

‘Was the ferryman inside?’

He shook his head. ‘He got away in his boat.’ While he led his horse into one of the stalls and attended to its needs he explained. ‘That news about Justice Tresillian must have increased Fitzjohn’s courage. Now he believes he can get away with anything.’

‘What was his idea?’

‘He must have eventually worked out that the miners escaped by water so what does he do? Uses his brains for once. He goes to question the only waterman around.’

‘And did he admit to anything?’ Wondering what would come next Hildegard could only stare at Edmund in dread willing the words out of him.

But he gave a sudden smile. ‘To his eternal credit he just kept pointing to some wounds inflicted earlier saying, “I know nothing, sire. First, a fellow asks me to keep quiet about I know not what, and beats me up to make sure I do. Then you, sire, ask me to talk, and threaten to burn my cottage if I don’t. How is a man to cope? I know nothing of any importance, sire. I’m just a lowly ferryman. What is it I’m supposed to preach forth and at the same time keep to myself? Solomon himself couldn’t reach an answer. Especially as I know nothing of any interest to anybody but me and my sweetheart.” That gave Fitzjohn something to think about. “Who asked you to keep your mouth shut?” Answer, “I’d give a king’s ransom to find out, sire.” ’

Edmund was acting it out. Now he rubbed his hands together in an obsequious manner and asked in a quavering voice, not, to be honest, at all like the ferryman’s robust tones. ‘“And what, pray, have I not to say, my lord? I wish someone would tell me. And again, sire, what is it you wish to know? Guide me, I pray.” ’

In his own voice he said, ‘Now I know what a liar looks like when he’s exercising his skill. Truth to say there was a certain nobility in the constancy of his lie.’

A wave of relief washed over Hildegard and she said, ‘The miners must have impressed him in some way even though neither side speaks the other’s tongue.’

‘Taillefer would translate.’

‘That must be it. They must have recognised each other as brothers against the tyranny of the nobles.’

‘He did sterling work for us, that ferryman. I trust his sweetheart welcomes him with open arms. And Taillefer…he gave his life.’ Edmund’s words caught in his throat but his face was set in stone. His eyes were moist.

**

Poison. An apothecary’s job was to know about it.

‘The magister is quite well, thanks to your potion, master. But I myself feel a little unwell. I wonder what you’d suggest?’

‘Symptoms, domina?’

‘A tightness in my lungs. Cold feet and hands.’

He turned to the shelf of ready-made cures in the coloured demijohns with their Latin labels ranged in an orderly fashion on the wall behind him.

After a brief consideration he took one down. While he poured a small amount of something like tincture of lung wort through a funnel into a clay pot she wondered how on earth she was going to find anything out from him. She wasn’t even sure what she wanted to know. One way to start was to find out where the poison that had been in the dagger was being kept.

Then she remembered the small silver talisman he had given her to hand over to Athanasius. She had forgotten it until now. It was where she had first put it, inside her sleeve. She managed to find it and pull it out. There was no-one else around so she placed it carefully on the counter.

The apothecary noticed at once and covered it with his palm. In a low voice he asked, ‘What does he require, domina?’

‘Reassurance that a certain cure is safely disposed of.’

‘Awaiting future use?’ He chuckled with the assurance of a man who holds the lives of others in his gift. He leaned forward. ‘I believe we are only waiting for the terms of barter to be fulfilled then your English lord may take his prize.’

‘That may be some time,’ she murmured, also leaning forward. ‘My lord Fitzjohn is facing a slight problem.’

‘So I understand. It is said he may soon find an alternative. It is hoped the problem will be solved to the satisfaction of all parties.’

‘And I trust the gift from his Holiness will keep its potency until the matter is settled?’

‘Have no fear.’

‘You have a suitable place in which to conceal it?’

The apothecary gave an involuntary glance behind him towards the small chamber where he had taken her on their first meeting. The door was closed, perhaps locked.

‘Tell the magister he can trust me with his life and with anything else, including the means to end it.’ He smiled knowingly.

‘He will be overjoyed to hear it.’

He inched the silver talisman back to her with the tip of one finger nail.

**

In order to thwart Woodstock’s plot, if indeed her hunch was correct about that, someone would have to obtain the poison themselves. Maybe a substitute could be put in its place and when the barter was made, if Fitzjohn managed to find something the pope would accept in exchange, then it might be applied with no harm befalling the victim.
God save King Richard.

There was no-one she could share her plan with and no way of carrying it out - unless she could get inside the apothecary’s private store - and see to it herself.

**

In the privacy of her chamber she rooted through her bag of cures until she found something that might do. It was a harmless recipe for indigestion. Its murky colour wouldn’t matter as she expected the real poison to be in a sealed clay pot by now.

To use the lung wort he had prescribed might lead back to her so for safety she rinsed it out in her washing bowl and emptied the water into the drain.

Next she removed the label, hoping she was second-guessing the apothecary accurately, and replaced the pot in her scrip before trying to work out how she was going to swap them.

**

Athanasius was sitting up at his lectern as usual.

‘Feeling quite well now, magister?’ she greeted as cheerfully as she could.

‘I am indeed, domina, despite this endless bad weather. I must say it cheers me somewhat. It makes me feel at home.’ He was evidently in a good humour. He turned a benign smile on her. ‘I hear our countryman Fitzjohn has been taking some exercise?’

‘I heard. Will he be censured?’

The monk chuckled. ‘He is an honoured guest of his Holiness. Who would dare?’

‘What happened to the ferryman, does anyone know?’

‘Took to the river in his boat. He’ll be washed up far downstream, no doubt. More bloated than when he went in.’

She concealed a shiver. ‘What was their quarrel?’

‘Don’t you know?’ He expressed mock surprise. ‘And here am I, relying on you to keep me fully informed.’

‘I am failed in my duty, magister, mea culpa.’

He seemed pleased to be one up on her. ‘It was Cardinal Grizac who told me. They say the ferryman helped two of Fitzjohn’s retainers to escape back to England. Of course, the ferryman denies it but how else could they have got away without being hunted down by the search party that went out after they fled.’

‘Maybe they’re lying low in the town, magister? Has anybody thought of that?’

He sniffed. ‘The Jewish church was thoroughly searched as a matter of course. Villains often use it as sanctuary. It’s a sore. It should be cleansed.’

‘At least by keeping it open you know where villains are likely to hide.’

‘Shrewdly observed, domina. I suspect that is the intention of his Holiness in allowing it to remain open.’

‘That and the convenience of being able to borrow at interest without compromising the law against usury?’

He dismissed that with an irritable wave of his hand. ‘And now the good news. Cardinal Grizac has returned to the palace to amuse us.’

Hildegard offered a dutiful smile.

‘Return here before nones, domina, if you wish to be entertained.’

When she left the smoke filled cell - Athanasius was burning some foul-smelling resin to improve his health - she shook out her cloak. She felt something putrid clinging to the fabric.

**

Grizac wasn’t the only one to be drawn back to the palace. Fondi and his retinue also appeared. Carlotta was in a mood of loud rage against the weather, against Avignon, against Fondi himself. Her child, quietly cuddling her squirrel, stood forlornly out of the rain under the shelter of the stone archway leading into the inner courtyard.

Hildegard went up to her and asked if she might greet the squirrel. ‘Does he have a pet name?’

‘Bel Pierre,’ the child replied, pushing back a lace coverlet so that Hildegard could stroke the squirrel’s bronze head. He seemed lack lustre. Yearning to hibernate, Hildegard suggested, when Fondi commented. He himself looked somewhat haggard. Too much fever from Carlotta seemed to be drawing the family’s strength.

When Carlotta got what she wanted from the steward Hildegard watched them all trail after her up the steps towards the guest quarters. Their accommodation had been changed to something more in keeping with Fondi’s status.

Hildegard speculated about his presence here. The Schism had attracted the Italian cardinals to Pope Urban while the French had in the main come over to Clement. Yet here was Fondi, a cardinal from Urbino, supporting the enemy. If he was one of Urban’s agents he was a conspicuous one.

She went into one of the lesser chapels and sat down in a corner at the back to think about the virtues of being first to obtain something and how much it enraged Fitzjohn to be bested.

The important question was whether the apothecary worked regular hours and where he kept his keys.

**

The theft of the poison, if she managed to lay her hands on it, might not go undetected for long. There would be no possibility of copying the label, if it had one, and it would be too dangerous to put the poison, whether liquid, powder or resin, into something else while she filled the pot with a more harmless substance.

She would have to hope that the pot she was going to substitute could be planted in among the others long enough for the barter with Fitzjohn to go ahead. She couldn’t imagine what he was going to offer the pope as a substitute for the miners.

The problem she faced right now was the apothecary’s cursed sense of order. He would notice at once if anything had been rearranged.

His store of ready-made cures were kept on several rows of shelves. All the pots faced outwards in serried ranks alphabetically arranged and subdivided into groups for specific symptoms. They were identical except for the lettering on their labels.