by Mel Starr
I told the reeve to release the beast and explained what I had done. He knew of Sir Giles’s death, so was quick to comprehend what I was about.
Hemlock can kill a man in minutes if the dose is strong enough. How much of the stuff would be required to kill a lamb? I knew not. A man may weigh ten or twelve stone or more. The lamb weighed little more than two stone. Did this mean that one-fifth of the poison required to slay a man would have the same effect upon a lamb? Who could know? I thought it likely that I was about to learn.
The lamb scampered off, then sensing no further threat began cropping the wet grass. We six watched the animal intently. It showed no sign of distress even after half an hour had passed.
To pour wine from six ewers down the gullets of an equal number of lambs, then wait to observe the results, would take ’til near dark. I considered the five remaining ewers.
If I had been paid to poison a man’s wine I would be careful to collect only enough wine from the butt to destroy one man, I think. If wine remained in a tainted ewer there would be a chance – nay, a likelihood – that the defiled wine would eventually be consumed, and another, unintended, corpse would be found in Kennington Palace. And if only a small flask of poison was available to the killer, to add the stuff to a full ewer might dilute it enough that the intended victim might suffer but a terrible stomach ache or swoon, but then recover. This might depend upon the toxin used.
I selected next the ewer which was nearly empty. A lamb was chosen, and proved as obdurate as the first when confronted with wine. As before, the reeve held the animal tight while I poured wine into the lamb’s throat.
When the work was done and the lamb released, it snorted with displeasure, trotted to its companion, and soon forgot its pique, joining the first lamb in cropping the moist grass.
One lamb is much like another. As we watched them it occurred to me that if one should collapse and die I might confuse the second lamb with the first. I told the reeve to seize the first lamb and put it outside the garden gate. He did so.
A few minutes later the second lamb looked up from grazing and began to walk in a circle. The creature stopped this after two or three turns and shook its head. A moment later the lamb took a step, stumbled, and dropped to its knees. It tried to rise, but could not. Within moments the lamb lost all sense of balance, fell to the grass, then lay silent. I knelt over the animal and saw its chest heave, then become still. The lamb was dead. Sir Giles’s wine, as I had suspected, had been poisoned. The knight’s heart had not failed him, nor were his humors out of joint.
The valet Arnaud had disappeared. The conclusion of the matter was plain, as was the poison. ’Twas surely hemlock. Arnaud had placed poisoned wine before Sir Giles. I needed to speak to Randall Patchett to learn if there was some reason the valet might have done so of his own volition. I doubted this was so. He was surely hired to do this evil, and likewise paid to disappear. The fee was likely significant, for Arnaud would be risking a noose and abandoning a lucrative post. Find Arnaud, and with the proper encouragement from Prince Edward’s serjeants he would likely divulge his employer.
“Do not permit anyone to consume the flesh of this lamb,” I said to the reeve. “The wine was poisoned, and the lamb’s flesh may now be also. See that it is burned, immediately.”
I did not know if the lamb’s flesh was now contaminated, but did not wish to risk some other man’s life to learn if this was so.
“And pour out the wine from the other ewers also,” I said to the butler. It was unlikely that the wine in those ewers was tainted, but who would want to risk discovering if it was or not?
I left Arthur in the hall and sought Prince Edward’s chamberlain. I found the fellow in the prince’s wardrobe, advising two seamstresses upon the creation of a silken doublet for the prince. ’Tis unlikely they needed instruction from him for the work, and I conjectured that his discourse would be the subject of some merriment in the servants’ hall later that day.
I told the fellow I had news for his master and required him to accompany me to Prince Edward’s presence. The fellow had heard his lord announce my warrant, and so turned without a word and led me from the wardrobe. I saw the seamstresses glance up from their labor with gratitude in their eyes.
Two valets, as was usual, stood at the door to the privy chamber. They stood aside as the chamberlain approached and rapped upon the door. The door opened immediately. The valet whose duty this was recognized me, turned, and said, “Master Hugh, m’lord.”
From the privy chamber I heard, “Bid him enter,” in a voice barely above a whisper. The chamberlain would have followed me into Prince Edward’s presence, but the prince waved him off. He bowed and backed through the door to the great chamber.
When Prince Edward had wed Joan, Countess of Kent and his cousin, she was known throughout the realm as the Fair Maid of Kent. That was eleven years past, but the duchess had lost little of her beauty. She sat upon a cushioned chair beside her husband. In a corner a fair-haired child played with wooden knights and horses. Here was Richard of Bordeaux, now five years old, and heir to the throne of England since the death of his older brother Edward to plague two years past.
The little lad looked up from his play as I entered. I removed my cap, bowed to Prince Edward and the duchess in turn, and hoped the sequence was according to court proceedings. I am not well versed in courtly manners.
Evidently the order was appropriate, for the duchess gave no sign of disapproval.
“Here is Master Hugh, the surgeon to Gilbert Talbot I told you of,” the prince said to his wife with as much strength as he could muster.
“I am in your debt,” the lady said, “for the relief you provided my husband two years past. I pray you will be able to do so again.” The duchess completed her words with a worried glance toward Prince Edward.
“You are not here about my health, I think,” Prince Edward said, directing his attention to me. His strength was depleted, but not his will or intellect. “What have you learned of Sir Giles’s death?”
“’Twas indeed poison which struck him down,” I said, and told him of the experiment with lambs which proved it so.
“The valet… Arnaud. ’Twas he which delivered the poison to Sir Giles?”
“So I believe. Your constables and bailiff cannot find him.”
“And why else would he flee the palace, eh?”
“Why, indeed.”
“What do you suggest? How are we to find the rogue? He holds the solution to this murder.”
“Aye, he does,” I agreed. “How long has Arnaud been in your employ, m’lord?”
The prince pulled upon his beard for a moment before replying. “Three years, thereabouts.”
“Other grooms and valets in your service will know him, then.”
“They will. What is your point?”
“Order your bailiff and constables to divide the city by parishes and send out grooms and valets to prowl the streets of each parish seeking Arnaud.”
“I have given you warrant. Do as you wish,” the prince said.
He had settled the matter. As he gestured dismissal I took in with concern the shadowed eyes and pallor of his face. I surely hoped my herbal concoction would bring some relief. I bowed to Prince Edward and his duchess, and backed to the door. I had no practice at departing from the presence of royalty, so hoped that I was retreating in the direction of the valet who guarded the privy chamber door rather than toward the wall. My aim was good. I found the opening and backed through it.
It was nearly dusk. There was too little daylight remaining to organize and carry out a search of the city. Arnaud would be safe from apprehension for a few more hours. But I could use the remainder of the day to advise the prince’s constables and serjeants of what must be done on the morrow. They, in turn, could assign grooms and valets and pages for the hunt which could begin at dawn.
Prince Edward’s chamberlain allocated me a sleeping chamber and said that Arthur would be accommodated with th
e palace grooms. He was nonplussed when I told him that I preferred Arthur to share the chamber he had appointed to me. I asked that he provide a pallet. Arthur is no fool. I have found it useful in past encounters with felons to have Arthur’s opinion, which he is not hesitant to provide. And in seeking miscreants I have often found such men prone to violence when found out. Arthur is constructed like a tun set upon two beech stumps, and a frown from him will usually dissuade men from their intended villainy.
The only lamentable consequence of my request was Arthur’s snoring. The man falls to sleep readily – as one who lays his head upon a pillow with a clear conscience – so his snores oft begin before my own slumber. Perhaps I have shared a chamber with Arthur often enough that I am becoming accustomed to his rasping and snorting, but the immunity is slow to acquire.
Moments after a groom produced a pallet, the bell sounded for supper. Prince Edward did not appear, although Lady Joan did. Perhaps he dined alone in his privy chamber upon something other than boiled rooster and did not wish for Dr. Blackwater to know.
Knights of the prince’s household and their ladies at the high table supped upon roasted partridge, cormarye, and aloes of lamb, while we lesser folk contented ourselves with a porre of peas and wheaten bread with parsley butter.
The musicians whose entertainment was curtailed earlier in the day appeared, tables and benches were cleared away, and knights and ladies danced. The death of one of their own but a few hours before seemed no longer to darken their mood. Perhaps Sir Giles’s demise brought joy rather than sorrow to most of the company.
Among the dancers was a vivacious, dark-haired damsel and her youthful swain. I wondered who she was, and if she was the lass who had followed me and Randall Patchett about the garden. There was no other maid dancing who might fit the description Arthur had provided. Seeing him leaning against a wall in conversation with other grooms, I made my way to him.
“Aye,” he said, when I asked of the dancing lass. “She be the one.”
Randall Patchett stood glumly by the wall a few paces distant. Perhaps the maid’s interest had been directed toward him rather than me. This seemed a reasonable assumption. He is young, tall, and possesses a handsome visage, whereas I have now a few silver whiskers flecking my beard and possess a large nose over which I view the world.
“Amabil Cheyne,” the squire answered when I asked of the maid.
“Cheyne? Sir Giles’s daughter?”
“Aye, the same.”
“With whom does she dance?”
“Sir Geoffrey Paget.”
“She was observed this day following us in the garden, trying not to be seen. What interest has she in you and to whom you might speak?”
“Don’t know,” the squire shrugged. “She never paid me attention in the past.”
“Did you once wish for her attention?”
“Once. Look at her. Most men would be pleased to win her attention. Until they received it.”
“Why not then?”
“The knight who weds her will soon wish to be called to the king’s service in France,” Randall said with a wry grin. “She will be on her husband’s back more than at his side.”
“Her disposition does not match her face?”
“It does not.”
“She does not seem much distressed at her father’s death,” I said.
“I think she would not feel sorrow for any man’s death, unless he had been useful to her and would no longer be.”
“Her father was no longer useful to her?”
“Oh, he’d provide a good dowry. She’ll inherit his lands now, of course. Only child Sir Giles and Lady Maud had.”
Such a legacy would be greater than any dowry the knight would have provided his daughter. Would a maid see her father murdered? Randall’s description of Amabil was not flattering. What of Sir Geoffrey Paget? I asked the squire his opinion of the man.
“I’ve had little to do with him,” Randall replied. “Gossip says that his father has gambled away much of the family wealth, so Sir Geoffrey was on the hunt for riches as well as a bride.”
Here was no rare thing. Daughters who will inherit – and wealthy widows – are popular beyond their fleshly charms. The bloom may fade from a rose, but its fragrance lingers.
“Amabil was, or is, content with this?” I said.
“She is wise enough to know her worth. Sir Geoffrey may be the rooster, but she will rule the roost.”
“You believe the fellow will permit this?”
“Aye. From what little I know of him I cannot see Sir Geoffrey standing up to Amabil.”
Night darkened the hall windows. Valets lit candles and the musicians continued their entertainment, although the dancers were fewer.
Much had transpired this day. When I arose in the morning at the Priory of St. Bartholomew my vision for the future was that I would acquaint Prince Edward and his physician with the herbs that might ease the prince’s ailment – herbs the physician should have already known – and after having done this Arthur and I would return to Bampton and our wives and families. Now I was assigned to ferret out a murderer, and could not escape the task, onerous as it might be, considering who had delegated the work to me.
Discovering a felon would be best accomplished well rested. I motioned to Arthur to follow, then took a lighted cresset from a shelf where they were kept ready for those who sought to illuminate their way to their beds, passed through a corridor which led to our chamber, and sought rest.
As always, Arthur was snoring soon after his head dented his pillow. On such occasions I find it a valuable use of time to consider any matters perplexing me while awaiting Morpheus to overcome Arthur’s rumbling.
On the morrow I planned to send pages, grooms, valets, and Kennington’s constables throughout the city seeking Arnaud. Would this be fruitless? Where would the man most likely seek refuge? Was he from London? Had he family members in the city? Would he go to them for aid? These questions should be answered before seekers went out helter-skelter seeking a fugitive where he might not be.
Chapter 6
Next morning I asked the assembled valets who had worked alongside Arnaud for information of his family and his home. Several knew the man well enough to know these things.
“Tonge was ’is name. Arnaud Tonge,” one said. “Hailed from Faringdon Within.”
Faringdon Within is within London’s walls, near to the Aldersgate, as opposed to Faringdon Without, which lies to the west, beyond Newgate. At the time I did not know this geography, but I learned soon enough.
Armed with the knowledge of his name and home I sent the searchers, all of whom could recognize Arnaud Tonge if they saw him, to prowl the streets between St. Paul’s Cathedral, Aldersgate, and Newgate. I sent them out in threes, so that if they found the valet and he was reluctant to accompany them back to Kennington Palace they would have enough strength to compel him to do so.
There was no reason for me or Arthur to join the search. I had likely laid eyes upon Arnaud as he poured Sir Giles’s fatal wine, but had no recollection of the man and would not know him if I came face to face with him. He would surely have discarded Prince Edward’s livery, so would appear garbed as any other man thronging London’s streets. I told the seekers that I would await them by St. Magnus’ Church, at the north end of London Bridge, when the noon Angelus Bell rang. If Arnaud was not found in the morning, we would return to the palace for our dinner, then resume the hunt in the afternoon.
Gentlemen and their ladies began to enter the hall as the searchers departed. There was to be hawking this day, I heard one say, in Kennington Park.
The valets who remained at the palace set out bread and meat and wine for the hunting party. It was consumed rapidly, the knights and their ladies being eager to go to their sport. Prince Edward did not join them. If William Blackwater had prepared and provided the herbs I suggested for the prince the physic had not yet improved his complexio.
Arthur and I departed the palace short
ly after those I had sent to hunt for Arnaud in the streets to the north of St. Paul’s. We elbowed our way through the hordes of men, horses, and carts all trying to cross London Bridge at the same time. May angels befriend any man who might stumble and fall upon the bridge. We were spewed out at the north end of London Bridge, and ’twas a relief to leave the stream of commerce and seek refuge beside the wall of St. Magnus’ Church.
A few folk left the crowded street to enter the church, but most passed hurriedly by about their business, having no interest in two men standing apart, leaning against the church wall.
More than an hour after we took station at St. Magnus’ Church I heard a commotion at the north end of the bridge, where a lane leads west along the river bank to Cold Harbour and the Steelyard. A group of ferrymen were pointing to the river, and as Arthur and I watched, one of these hoisted oars upon his shoulder and disappeared as he descended to the river. I assumed his boat was beached there.
It was. A few minutes later the man reappeared, the crowd parting to let him pass. Behind the fellow another man appeared, and behind him a third. These two carried between them a limp body.
“Fished some fellow from the river,” Arthur said.
This was surely so, and I had an idea as to who the drowned man might be, for he wore black, the color of Prince Edward’s livery, and I thought I caught a glimpse of the prince’s badge, also black, with three white ostrich feathers embroidered upon it, sewn upon the tunic.
“Come,” I said, and together we hurried across Bridge Street – easier to do now than an hour earlier, since the worst of the morning crush had passed – and pushed close to the corpse, now laid out upon the cobbles.
The men who drew the corpse from the river asked of each other and those who had gathered at the place if any knew who lay dead at their feet. No man did, which seemed to surprise them, as those who work upon the water are likely to know most of the others engaged in the business.
