The Butcher of Avignon (37 page)

Fingers trembling she took out her own clay pot containing nothing more than a digestive tincture and then, nerves stretched for any sound from the workshop, took down the similar pot with its ambiguous label. Even by the flickering light of her taper the replacement seemed to scream its difference. Anybody who knew anything about herbal cures would notice the substitution at once. She would never get away with it.

She glanced towards the basket and its contents. Bel Pierre? It was an absurd idea. The risk was too great.

With the feeling that she should try another approach and make better use of her time now she was here she lifted the pot from off the shelf and took both through into the workshop.

By the light of the taper she found the basin of water the apothecary kept on his work bench, dipped the sealed pot with its lethal contents into it and began to peel the label off. It was stuck on with fish glue and came away easily. Using the remains of the wet glue she stuck the label carefully over the one on the pot she had brought with her containing the harmless tincture, returned to the store room, and stood the pot neatly on the shelf with the others. Now it looked no different in the flickering light.

Her plan had been to let Bel Pierre loose among the pots after first knocking a few of them down in silence. The subsequent mess would be blamed on the rampaging squirrel and a few discrepancies in labelling would not be noticed. Now she wondered if that should be the finishing touch after all. The substitute looked convincing enough, however, and she began to gather her things together by the cone of light from the taper.

After fumbling around to make sure she had left nothing behind, she picked up the basket with the squirrel in it and felt her way towards the outer door.

Before she had gone even half way across, the whisper of leather on stone came to her.

Someone was approaching, moving inexorably and without haste. She wished she had closed the door to the workshop but it was too late to do more than slide hastily back into the store room.

The footsteps came to a halt outside the door. She heard a grunt of surprise.

Bel Pierre made a small scratching sound in the basket on her arm, no more than a single claw against the woven willow but it sounded as loud as a drum beat. She held her breath.

A paler shade in the darkness flowed into the workshop. Someone had entered.

Scarcely daring to breathe she melted further back into the store room and, peering through a crack in the door, watched a light illuminate the apothecary’s face and hands as he lit a taper and stuck it into a holder. Then he went to a shelf and with practised ease ran his fingers along it until they recognised what they wanted. They closed round one of the phials.

Unstopping it he sniffed it with a sigh of appreciation. Then she watched as he poured a little into a beaker, tipped something else into it, swirled it three times then sipped the mixture, sighing again as he did so.

Bel Pierre changed position in his basket with a little creak.

The apothecary stood looking up at the bundles of herbs hanging from the roof beam with a faraway expression on his face. Then, holding the taper in one hand, he made his way back towards the door. His light briefly lit up the passage outside.

Then the door closed behind him.

The scene cut to black.

Forcing herself to wait for what seemed an age Hildegard eventually risked going to the door and cautiously turning the ring. When it was wide enough to look out she saw with relief that the passage was empty. Realising she had better get out before the place was filled with domestic staff crowding in to matins, she fled like a shadow to safety.

**

I have it. Whatever it is, I have it.
She would take it back to England. She would get it analysed by one of the royal apothecaries.

Then she would tell the whole story to Mr Medford. As head of the King’s Signet Office he would need to know everything about this latest move against King Richard.

Only a few people were aware of Medford’s other more secret role as the king’s chief intelligencer and he was the only one she could trust with something like this.

**

Medford. When she had first met him at Westminster she had seen him as no more than a tall child in adult clothing. A pretender to power. It was only later she had discovered how dangerous he was, dangerous to King Richard’s enemies, that is. She thanked god for his vigilance and ruthless nature. He would certainly want to know where the poison had come from, who had tried to steal it before Fitzjohn could get his hands on it. And why.

He was one of those people who believe that every organisation is like a sieve with secrets that will fall into his hands by means of observation, logic, gold, or more physical methods. He was unshakable in this. He would have no sympathy for the fact that Cardinal Grizac was threatened by the wrath of Pope Clement.

He might be interested in the reason why, of course, as did Hildegard.

Medford, however, would not think much of anybody’s feelings on the matter. That she was shocked at the change in Grizac’s manner as soon as he left the cell after Athanasius's taunting would not be taken into account in his logical analysis. He would see it as a failure of her perception of the situation. Being one of those deadly quiet men with no more feelings than a butcher for the animal he slaughters he was like Clement. Like Athanasius. And perhaps like Fondi.

This coldness was the reason he was the chief of Richard’s spies and the best of a powerful crew.

His saving grace was that he was totally loyal to the king.

**

Prime. A spreading, barely perceptible glimmer of pink in the sky.

While the bell was still tolling Hildegard hurried along to the Fondi’s apartment with Bel Pierre in his basket. She had promised Flora he would be beside her when she awoke. Ushered inside the heavily draped chambers by a servant she was led through to where the child slept under a canopy of white lace and placed the basket beside her just as she was waking up.

‘And here he is to greet you good morning, Flora. Have a look.’ She opened the lid.

Flora’s cries of delight were her reward but the child could not thank her enough. ‘Lady, my mother, look!’ She ran through into the adjoining chamber with the basket and scolds were heard at once in complaint about the dirty thing and to take it away. Flora returned, still full of smiles. ‘She is delighted in her heart,’ she explained.

Fondi, his tall frame in a long night robe, was dragging on a wool cloak as he came through. ‘That is most kind, domina. I trust you weren’t searching for him all night?’

‘Not at all.’

‘Where was the little devil?’

‘On the stairs where we had already been searching. He must have hidden somewhere then crept out when he thought everyone had gone.’

Fondi reached out and stroked the squirrel’s smooth head. ‘We must let him sleep. It’s his season for sleeping. There’s a time to sleep, a time to dance, all that, so very wise.’ He registered the bell. ‘And a time for going to prime which I fear we shall miss. Flora, go and eat something and take Bel Pierre with you.’

He turned to Hildegard when she had gone. He too was one of those dark, quiet men - but not deadly, surely? She recalled Hubert’s proposition that the murderer of all three victims was a professional assassin. A man with a cool nerve and the ability to simulate friendship.

Fondi had been in the pope’s private chapel on the night of Maurice’s murder but who would say he had not left for the few minutes it takes to run a knife over a youth’s throat?

At the crossing of the bridge he might have gone on ahead of Hubert and the others, unseen in the darkness and noise of the storm, one moment and a life ended.

And the Scottish nun, with the paw marks in the dust under her bed.

Urb.Md.

The cardinal from Urbino.

He was smiling at her now with something apologetic in his manner. Light filtered through the roughly closed shutters and lay in bars across the floor, across his cloak, across his face.

He was offering her something to drink. She saw him go to a stand with a carafe and goblets on it, watched him take up a small clay jug, heard him call for more wine, and pour something into one of the goblets, turn, offer it. A servant entered with another flagon.

‘Forgive Carlotta,’ he remarked as she took the goblet from him. ‘I believe she resents Hubert’s affection for you.’

‘Tell her she has no need. Our vows are firm.’ She did not intend it to sound like a reproof.

He did not take it as such. ‘Vows do not obliterate the feeling. She’s jealous, a hard life before she met me, a furiously passionate woman. She can’t help herself.’

‘I’m sorry to hear she has had a hard life.’

‘So be it.’

‘I have one question only.’ She gave him a look that should have extracted every nuance of truth from him but met only his handsome, bland, concerned stare. ‘I noticed something odd in my cell when I returned after the nun had been murdered there.’

His brows came together.

‘It was something so small as to be almost negligible but what it means is of far greater consequence.’

His frown deepened.

‘It was the paw marks of a squirrel - and its droppings,’ she added in case he should brush aside her words.

He turned away and went over to the window where the light fell more brightly through the slats of the shutter across his tortured expression. He rubbed his fingers over his temples as if in thought.

With a sudden exclamation he turned, swept past Hildegard and went into the bedchamber next door. She heard a sharp argument then Carlotta, hair hanging loose to her waist, barefoot, her silk night gown creased, a fur being placed over her shoulders by Fondi, stood glowering in the doorway.

‘Tell her,’ Fondi ordered.

‘Oh caro, don’t bully me so.’

‘Tell her, will you.’

‘This is about that damned squirrel again.’ She gave Hildegard a reproachful look. ‘I admit it. I went into your bedchamber and I had Bel Pierre with me. He’s a warm little thing and it’s so cold here, and anyway, I must have put him down on the floor.’

‘Was the body there?’ Hildegard croaked. Her fingers tightened round the goblet containing her untouched drink.

‘It was. Already laid out by the woman who does such things. It was a shock, I can tell you. I would have thought they’d take it away quickly enough but no. I suppose it’s normal with you people, death, dead bodies.’ She shivered.

‘Why did you go?’

She gave a shamefaced look at Fondi. ‘I wanted to see if you were there.’

‘Dead, you mean?’

‘I hadn’t heard about the murder at that point. I just wanted to see if you had really gone away with Hubert.’ She was mumbling now and went quickly over to Fondi, putting her arms underneath his shirt and burying her face in his shoulder. ‘It means nothing, caro. I just wanted to know.’

He patted her head much as he had patted Bel Pierre.

**

Hubert. Striding up the steps towards the Fondi apartment. Hildegard leaving the same. He noticed the expression on her face. He stopped. ‘I apologise for Carlotta.’

‘Everyone apologises for Carlotta. Tell me, does she deal in poison?’

She stared him out until he was forced to reply, ‘You know I can’t answer that.’

‘I have no time for you, de Courcy!’

He stepped back as if she had slapped his face.

**

It was true then. The velvet cloaks, the embroidered silks, the linen so fine it was transparent. And the furs. The jewels. The horses. The villa and all its rich appurtenances. Paid for by dealing in the instruments of death. It must be true. What other explanation for Hubert’s dismay?

**

She turned a corner but there was no guard on duty at the foot of the steps. Quickly she wound her way up to the roof of the tower and stepped through the door, breathing in the clear, fresh gusts of a westerly wind that seemed to promise and end to corruption.

With no rain the sky was pale blue, rinsed clean, heralding spring and new life. Resting her head against the cold stone of the battlements she eyed the distant country, seeing the horizon as a promise of home and safety.

Back at the Abbey of Meaux, however, there would be no escape. Hubert de Courcy ruled. How could she ever have dealings with him again? He knew about
Urb.Md.
Mandrake of Urbino. He must surely know about the purpose of it here in Avignon, the devilish reason it had been brought here by the poison-maker and sold on to Clement.

Something so potent no-one could survive it.

Nothing so tellingly demonstrated Hubert’s allegiance to the Clementists.

He was a fallen star. A Lucifer. A traitor.

Her enemy and her love.

A sound behind her made her spin round and she saw Cardinal Grizac standing in the low doorway. He was panting slightly. He must have followed her.

He bent his head and stepped out onto the roof. A gust of wind blew his cloak out like the wings of a hawk. His cross gleamed with a sinister authority. He was not the bullied and apologising figure she had witnessed earlier. He was as he had been when he uttered that furious invitation at the top of the stairs.
Tell your mentor I know who the guilty man is.

Hildegard felt behind her for the reassuring solidity of the wall as Grizac strode heavily towards her.

‘Did you tell him what I asked you to?’

She shook her head. ‘He is no more my mentor than -’ she struggled to find the most unlikely person she could think of and blurted, ‘than Thomas Woodstock!’

Grizac gave a start. ‘Woodstock? How did you know he was involved?’

She decided to risk everything with a shot in the dark. ‘Isn’t it obvious? He had the miners kidnapped to give to Clement in return for a poison that could not be detected. But you set Maurice to steal it before his vassal could get his hands on it. I don’t understand why.’

Grizac did not contradict her nor enlighten her. She found herself slipping into a quagmire where all the questions and suppositions she had made over the last few days were flying together in one inchoate mass and in a moment she would be overwhelmed by some incontrovertible fact that would be an epiphany, revealing the truth.