by Alys Clare
Or at least let us hope that he will . . .
‘My lady,’ Josse said, with more confidence that he felt, ‘we must, I believe, await the arrival of Gervase de Gifford. We shall ask him whether there is a skilled apothecary in Tonbridge or anywhere else in the vicinity, and if such a man exists and cannot help us, then we must broaden our search until the right man is found. Then we will . . .’
‘. . . ask the identity of the man for whom he prescribed this potion so that, provided the purchaser did not give the potion to someone else, we shall then be able to put a name to our dead man,’ the Abbess finished for him. ‘Yes, Sir Josse, I fully understand your reasoning.’
Of course she did. ‘Aye, my lady.’
But, as they thanked Sister Tiphaine and left her to her bunches of rosemary, Josse wondered if the Abbess had extended that reasoning as far as he had. What he was thinking was that being given the dead man’s name and circumstances was a very good start in discovering who had killed him.
And why.
Gervase de Gifford arrived shortly after Josse and Helewise had returned to her room. Helewise experienced a moment’s regret; she had hoped for a few moments alone with Josse in which to apologise for having summoned him into danger. She also had the feeling that she had been distracted when he knocked on her door and wanted to explain that it had not been through any lack of pleasure at seeing him again; quite the contrary.
It had been simple fear.
She asked Josse to describe to de Gifford what had happened, which he did. There was a brief pause while de Gifford assimilated the information, then he said, ‘My lady, it would seem that if there is even a remote possibility that the dead man carries the pestilence, then the sooner he is buried, the better.’
‘I agree,’ she said. ‘Do you wish to view the body, Sheriff de Gifford?’
De Gifford looked at Josse. ‘Is there anything that I should see?’
‘There is but the one wound, to the top of the head. Done, I would suggest, with a club or something of the type. Other than that . . .’
‘My lady, I take it that your infirmarer has examined the corpse?’ De Gifford asked.
‘She has.’
‘Then I bow to her medical skill and Sir Josse’s knowledge of killing blows. I will not view the body’ – Helewise had to admire his judgement – ‘and, if I may make a suggestion, it is that the dead man be buried by those who have already come into contact with the body.’
‘You make sound sense,’ Josse said.
‘Indeed,’ Helewise agreed. ‘We cannot say whether or not there is a risk of infection, but let us assume that there is and take what measures we may to contain its spread.’ She got to her feet. ‘I shall send word to Father Gilbert. The dead man will be buried today.’
Josse gave her a nod of acknowledgement. ‘That is wise, my lady.’ He glanced at de Gifford. ‘If Gervase and I might be excused from attending the interment, then I propose that we set off straight away and begin trying to locate the apothecary who sold the potion to the dead man.’
‘There is no reason for either of you to witness the burial,’ she said. ‘By all means, set off on your search – the sooner we can make some progress in identifying our poor victim, the better for all of us.’
She watched as the two men bowed and took their leave. Only when the door had closed behind them did she allow her shoulders to slump. She sat down heavily in her chair, buried her face in her hands and, for the first time, made herself face what would be the probable consequences if it proved to be true that the pestilence had come to Hawkenlye.
These consequences were so awful that, after a very short time, she made herself stop. Then she left her room, slipped quietly across the cloister to the Abbey church and, falling on to her knees, began to pray as hard as she could that Sister Euphemia was wrong.
Chapter 3
As Josse and de Gifford rode down to Tonbridge, the sheriff racked his brains to think of anybody in the area who could have sold the victim a sophisticated and costly remedy that included an element commonly regarded as magical. Thinking out loud, he narrowed the possible Tonbridge candidates down to one, ‘and I’m almost sure we’ll be wasting our time with him.’
In the absence of any other place to start, de Gifford led the way to the business premises of the town’s one reasonably renowned apothecary. As soon as Josse understood that the shabby-looking dwelling tucked away between two others – in slightly better repair – was actually the residence of their quarry, he silently began to agree with de Gifford.
The apothecary’s house was towards the end of a narrow, muddy and rubbish-strewn street that led away from the river and the wealthier parts of the town and off south-eastwards in the direction of the boggy, marshy, ague-ridden areas where nobody lived unless poverty and desperation drove them there. The stench was appalling; human waste mixed with melted frost ran in a gully in the middle of the road and rats scrabbled among the rotting heaps of rubbish that had collected at regular intervals. The dwellings were of poor construction and their timbers had warped; here and there walls looked on the point of collapse and several of the roofs had gaping holes. Hoping that he was not about to breathe his last and suffocate beneath a mixture of wattle, daub, rotten vegetables and shit, Josse drew rein behind de Gifford’s horse and watched as de Gifford dismounted and – with an expression of disgust and stepping carefully in his highly polished boots – approached a low door over which had been hung, in touching optimism, a bunch of very ancient lavender to advertise the herbalist’s presence.
While they waited to see if there would be any answer to de Gifford’s knock, the sheriff looked up at Josse and said, ‘He does most of his business at a market stall. I would imagine he’ll not expect callers at his door and he may well not—’
At that moment there came the sound of bolts being drawn back. There were several of these, and Josse suppressed a smile at the thought of anyone bothering to fit so many when the flimsy fabric of the door would surely yield to one determined kick from a booted foot. A gap appeared between the door and the lintel and, with the air of a tortoise poking out its head, an old, creased and unshaven face peered out.
‘Whadyewant?’
De Gifford eased the door open a little more. ‘I am Gervase de Gifford, sheriff of Tonbridge, and this is Sir Josse d’Acquin.’
The old man appeared singularly unimpressed by the titles. ‘Aye?’ The word came out as a sort of bark. Deep-set eyes under prickly eyebrows stared out warily at the visitors.
With a snort of exasperation, de Gifford said, ‘You’re not in any trouble, man; we’ve come to ask for your help.’
‘My help?’ The old man made it sound as if it were the most unlikely request he had ever had, which was strange, considering his profession.
De Gifford was reaching inside his tunic for the bag of herbs. ‘Did you prepare this remedy?’ he asked, holding it out to the old man.
The apothecary took the little bag gingerly, as if expecting it might burn his fingers. ‘What’s in it?’ he demanded, scowling ferociously up at de Gifford.
The sheriff glanced at Josse, who began to enumerate the ingredients. ‘Er – rue, rosemary, myrrh—’
‘I don’t do myrrh!’ the old man objected. ‘Can’t afford myrrh, it’s far too expensive. They charge you a king’s ransom, y’know.’
‘. . . vervain—’
‘Don’t do vervain neither!’ protested the old man. ‘That’s magical, that is, and the church don’t hold with magic.’ He nodded self-righteously, then opened the neck of the bag and peered suspiciously inside. ‘Here’s a bit of mandrake root!’ he cried. ‘Now that’s a tricky one, is mandrake, you mustn’t touch it with iron, y’know, you has to delve for it with an ivory staff and it flees from an unclean man. It—’
Cutting short the discourse on mandrake, de Gifford said, ‘You did not prepare this potion, then?’
The apothecary thrust it back at de Gifford, shaking his head so violentl
y that he dislodged the tight-fitting black cap that covered his head, ears and most of his neck. ‘No! No! No, I never!’
Josse grinned. One no would have sufficed, he thought, and, given the way in which the old man’s clear gesture of renunciation had spoken, even that was superfluous.
‘Can you think,’ de Gifford said, with what Josse thought was remarkable patience, ‘of anyone hereabouts who might have prepared it?’
The old man thought. He screwed up his face, scratched his head under the black cap, sniffed, frowned. Then he said, ‘No.’
De Gifford thanked him and, remounting, turned his horse. Josse did the same; it was not an easy manoeuvre, given the meagre width of the street. They set off back into the town, Josse leading the way.
‘I always thought it was a waste of time,’ de Gifford said. ‘But then—’
Something occurred to Josse. Pulling Horace sharply to a halt – he heard de Gifford give a muttered curse as his own horse threw up its head – he turned and said, ‘Gervase, where does that old boy obtain his supplies?’
‘He goes out and picks his plants by moonlight with the dew on them, Mars in the mid-heaven and a south-west wind blowing, I expect, like any other herbalist. Why?’
‘He said’ – Josse could barely contain his excitement – ‘that myrrh was too expensive. Well, how would he know what it cost unless he’d tried to buy some? He wouldn’t gather it locally himself, would he? It comes from . . .’ Josse tried to think, but to no avail. ‘Well, it’s foreign, anyway. It must be imported and I was just thinking that the old apothecary back there might well know of a supplier somewhere near here who brings myrrh and other exotic plant drugs into England . . .’
De Gifford was off his horse and running back towards the apothecary’s house. Josse watched as once again he knocked on the door. It was answered more quickly this time and there was a brief conversation between de Gifford and the old man. Then de Gifford called out his thanks, sprinted back along the alley and, vaulting on to his horse – whatever he had just found out seemed to have put a spring in his step – said, ‘He prepares most of his simples and his remedies himself from locally grown plants, but the few things he uses and can’t gather or grow he buys from a lad who does the rounds three times a year.’
‘A lad?’
‘Yes. The boy’s apprenticed to an apothecary in Newenden.’
‘And this apothecary imports foreign ingredients?’
‘Yes. It sounds as if he’s both a practitioner and a merchant.’
‘And therefore could very well have prepared a remedy containing myrrh,’ Josse concluded. ‘Newenden,’ he said slowly. Then, looking at de Gifford, he said eagerly, ‘We could be there in a few hours. New Winnowlands is close by and we could put up there overnight and ride back to Hawkenlye in the morning. What do you say?’
De Gifford grinned. ‘I say yes! Ride on, Josse, I’m right behind you.’
At Hawkenlye Abbey, two travellers arrived in the Vale dragging a dilapidated hand cart on which lay a middle-aged man, a boy of about ten years old and twin babies of perhaps eight or ten months. The men – one of them was little more than a boy – said they had come up from north of Hastings. Both of them were exhausted and the lad was near to tears. The older man collapsed on the ground, head in his hands, temporarily speechless; the lad was too distressed to relax.
Brother Firmin took the boy’s arm and gently invited him to go into the pilgrim’s shelter and warm himself, but he shook off the old monk’s solicitous hand and cried, ‘Me mam’s dead! Me dad too, and me gran and me auntie’s ma! He’ – he indicated with a thumb the older man who had arrived with him – ‘he’s me mam’s brother, and them on the cart, they’re me brother, me dad’s brother and his two little ’uns.’ Turning beseeching eyes on to Brother Firmin, he said, ‘Can you save them, Brother? We’ve come all this way to find you and we’re desperate.’
Brother Firmin looked horrified – he had been a healer for long enough to know what four deaths and four sick people all at once probably meant – but swiftly he disguised his fear and set about trying to help the stricken family. Summoning Brother Saul and Brother Adrian, he sent the former to seek out the infirmarer and the latter to organise a working party and prepare accommodation there in the Vale for the lad and his uncle.
While he waited for Sister Euphemia, Brother Firmin approached the cart. He saw immediately that the middle-aged man was in a bad way; he was shivering and trying to clutch the thin blanket closer to him, yet he was soaked in his own sweat and his face felt hot to the touch. His shirt was open at the neck and Brother Firmin could see that the great blotches of dark pink extended down from the face over the chest. Brother Firmin got a phial of holy water out of the pouch at his belt – he always carried some of the precious water about him – and said gently, ‘Will you take a sip of our precious water, friend? It is powerful strong and it will aid you.’
The man’s eyes flickered open for an instant – Brother Firmin noticed that the flesh inside the lids was severely inflamed – but then, with a groan, shut his eyes again and tried to turn away.
Brother Firmin looked at the others on the cart. The young boy was stirring and, when the old monk offered water to him, he accepted it and drank it down as fast as Brother Firmin could tip it into his parched mouth. ‘There,’ the old man said with a kindly smile, ‘that will put you right. You’ll see!’
Then he uncovered the two babies. To his distress he noticed that one was already stiff; the infant’s bowels seemed to have ejected more than such a tiny body could possibly have held and its faeces were watery and streaked with blood and mucus. Brother Firmin looked at the other baby, which was crying weakly and pitifully; with a practised hand he let a couple of drops of holy water fall on the infant’s lips, at which it instantly put out its tongue and licked them off. Brother Firmin smiled and repeated the process once, twice, three times, each time encouraging the infant to accept a little more. Then he said softly, ‘That’s enough for now, my little one.’
Taking care to leave the living child wrapped up, he extracted its dead twin. Then, covering the tiny face with a fold of the baby’s thin shawl, he began to pray.
Brother Firmin knew what the church had to say about unbaptised infants not being permitted into the presence of God. It was perfectly possible that the dead child in his arms had been baptised already but it did not do to take any chances; putting his heart into his prayer, Brother Firmin stood on the cold ground and said the words that brought both the dead baby and its twin into the blessed family of God. He put a couple of drops of holy water on to his thumb and drew the sign of the cross on both tiny foreheads.
There, he thought. Now they’ll be all right.
Then he found a quiet corner in which to place the dead baby and went back to see what he could do for the living.
Josse and de Gifford reached Newenden as the light was beginning to fade. The cold weather was keeping most people indoors but de Gifford spotted a man hastening off along the main street with a puppy under his arm and called out to him, asking if he knew where the apothecary might be found.
‘You’re wanting Adam Pinchsniff?’ the man replied, shifting the wriggling puppy to the other arm and, when it snapped playfully at his fingers, giving it a smart tap on the nose.
‘If that is the name of the apothecary, then yes, I am,’ de Gifford said.
The man eyed both de Gifford and Josse. ‘Hope you’ve brought full purses with you,’ he said with a grin. ‘Follow this road down till you see the river appear in the valley before you, then turn sharp left past the church and it’s the third house on the left. The one with the fresh plaster,’ he added, his grin widening. ‘He’s no pauper, old Adam.’
De Gifford thanked him and set off in the direction the man had indicated, Josse close behind. The house with the fresh plaster stood out clearly from its shabbier neighbours and the men would have known it even without the traditional apothecary’s sign hanging above the door. T
he front wall of the house extended into a lower wall and Josse, curious, went to have a look. The wall enclosed what was apparently the apothecary’s garden, a neat quarter-acre of carefully tended ground which, although winter-bare, showed clear signs that every inch was put to good use. Low box hedges divided the beds, in most of which the soil had been recently dug over. Trees and shrubs formed a dense barrier at the bottom of the garden and Josse was quite sure that every last one of them grew or produced some lucrative plant drug that could be used alone or blended into some popular remedy.
De Gifford had dismounted and was knocking on the door which, Josse observed, was considerably more substantial than that of the Tonbridge herbalist and made of oak studded with iron. Well, if the man were wealthy, then it made good sense to lock himself up carefully at night . . .
Josse slid off Horace’s back, wincing a little; he and de Gifford had ridden hard and Josse’s lower back was complaining. He was just wondering how much this Adam Pinchsniff might charge him for some soothing liniment when abruptly the oak door was flung open, revealing a man perhaps in his sixties wearing a luxurious black velvet robe lined with fur. His long hair was white, as was his beard, and smoothly combed; on his head he wore a cap of similar design to his Tonbridge fellow-practitioner, except that Adam Pinchsniff’s was made of deep maroon silk and, as far as Josse could see, spotlessly clean.
‘Yes?’ he demanded, eyeing de Gifford up and down.
For the second time that day the sheriff introduced Josse and himself. Then – for Adam Pinchsniff was clearly a man of a very different quality from the Tonbridge herbalist – he proceeded swiftly and without prevarication to the reason for the visit.
