Hangman Blind (23 page)

There was a prolonged silence. Indeed, there was little to say without toppling over into a morass of speculation wherein to admit their personal allegiance would become inevitable. Everything the abbot told her confirmed her suspicion that support for the young king was moving north. But it didn’t give an answer to the question her prioress had posed before she left and now she was forced to probe a little further into the abbot’s secret allegiance. It was as important as life and death to avoid misunderstanding.

‘After Smithfield some said Richard had been forced to renege against his own inclinations by John of Gaunt. Others say it was his plan all the way along.’

‘There is much confusion about the true beliefs of the king,’ Hubert admitted without giving anything away.

She tried another line. ‘Some believe the influence of the King’s young wife, Anne, sways him towards the sort of freedoms Wyclif espouses.’

‘The king’s mother, Queen Joan, is said to favour Wyclif too.’ His expression was as enigmatic as before.

‘As did Gaunt to begin with,’ she invited.

‘What do they call Wyclif? The eagle flying in the midst of heaven?’

There was no irony in his tone. She was puzzled. Any personal hostility towards having the scriptures written in the language of the people, as Wyclif wanted, was not in evidence. Hubert’s order of Cistercians had one fixed view about that, but what was to stop Hubert having another? Since his arrival the scriptorium here had begun to make its name as a centre for scholars from all branches of the Church. Many monastics were said to favour wider dissemination of the text on which their beliefs were founded. Wyclif’s recent translation of the Bible from Latin into English was applauded by many and it was often discretion that made them keep their opinions to themselves.

‘So if I understand you correctly,’ she pursued, ‘the coroner already suspected that the youth I found was involved with the Company of the White Hart? And perhaps this makes it expedient to brand him an outlaw to conceal the spread of the king’s support?’

‘Thus, in the cause of politics, the young fellow goes to an unmarked grave, if not a pauper’s pit, while those who love him grieve in ignorance of his fate.’

Despite trying to assess the abbot’s allegiance, she turned pale at these words. They mirrored the situation she faced regarding her husband, Sir Hugh.

‘Sister?’ Hubert peered at her through the eery light caused by the billowing flakes of snow against the glass.

Hildegard told him quickly about her husband and how apparent confirmation of his death had brought her into the order. He sat for a moment considering her with a grave expression. Eventually he said, ‘Unfortunately there’s nothing I can do to find out what happened to your husband. But I shall send someone discreetly to York to ferret out the truth of this youth’s identity. Rest assured this is one death which will be marked with all the prayers and rituals necessary to honour his brief life. We shall start with his name.’

So far Hildegard had omitted to tell him about the badge of the white hart she had seen attached to the youth’s tunic. Nor had she mentioned its absence. Wondering whether he knew about it, she considered the possibility that the chaplain, like so many of the lower clergy, was the son of a craftsman and therefore likely to be in sympathy with the Wycliffites. He might have removed it to protect the youth from the coroner’s expected disdain. If that was the case she would not be the one to betray him.

H
ILDEGARD WAS
considering the question of poison. Not by accident was she approaching the apothecary’s in Beverley. She had accompanied Agnetha to the toft where she kept her husband’s old horse and a rather skinny pig that she would shortly have to hand over to the constables and as they parted, Agnetha had pointed out the direction she should take. ‘You’ll see his sign above the door,’ she told her, then, before turning away, added, ‘My views about living in a priory are beginning to change. Not all nuns are like you. If you need me you’ll find me at my stall in Wednesday market.’ She gripped Hildegard by the writst. ‘All blessings, sister, you saved my life.’

As well as accompanying Agnetha so that they could get the measure of each other on the way, Hildegard wanted to follow up a few ideas about what had been sneaked into Roger’s wine. It was when she was in the tranquil ward of the hospitium at Meaux that she had broached the question of poison to the infirmarer. He had listed the possibilities, adding, ‘If you were serious you wouldn’t want to trust to some homemade concoction of weeds from the wayside. Beverley’s a good place to make the appropriate purchases, I would think, unless the poisoner went all the way over to York.’

After leaving Agnetha Hildegard pushed on down the street alone. The weather was so vile that her heart had softened at the prospect of her hounds being dragged out into the rain for no good reason, so she had left them in the kennels under Burthred’s spoiling. Now the snow was turning to sludge and the rain was bitter, a knifing wind making it worse by forcing it in squalls between the packed buildings on both sides. Battered and soaked, Hildegard struggled between the houses until she came to a breathless stop under the sign of an enormous mandrake. An apothecary might have some useful suggestions to offer. Belladonna was not the only possibility. She rapped on the shutters with wet knuckles and waited for someone to open up.

There was a gleam of candlelight within the tenement but no sound of anybody approaching the door. She pulled her cloak more tightly round her and rapped again. Roger had fallen with that great oath, she remembered, arms outstretched, and then lain still. She recalled his colour, the palest hue, as in that stage of drunkenness they called swine-drunk, said to correspond to the humour of melancholy. Roger was hardly the melancholy type. But his lips had turned almost black, as if stained. After ingesting an antidote, he had quickly become himself again.

It was true that belladonna could kill, but, if taken in a limited dose, it led only to sleep. It had come into her mind first because it was obvious Melisen used it to add mystery to her eyes. The Lombards could provide it, she assumed. It was in common use in Italy and France. And no doubt they would not object to doing business with other than Melisen, a yeoman, for instance. After all, trade was trade, though what excuse a yeoman might have given for wanting belladonna was anybody’s guess.

Of course, it could also be obtained locally if you knew where to look, but it was unlikely that Melisen would try to poison her husband with a bane so easily linked to herself. She would have to be very stupid and somehow, in spite of her obsession with her looks, she did not seem stupid in the least.

There were many other local plants that could kill: death was easily dealt by anybody who set their mind to it. Most plants had a dual nature and some wise folk thought that knowledge of their malign use was too easily available. On that account the wise women and the apothecaries were alike in holding their secrets close.

At last Hildegard heard someone struggle on the other side of the door and when, helped by the wind, it flew inwards, she entered the shop on a blast of air. She shook the rain from off her cloak, pushed back her hood and looked around. The wind, running down the street like a wild animal and trying to force its way inside, had set the bunches of herbs rustling where they hung from the roof beams to dry, so that for a few moments after she had forced the door shut she stood in a sea of sound. In all this she glimpsed a child scamper out of sight into an inner chamber.

Putting the latch on the sneck she peered through the gloom for the apothecary. A ginger fellow in his mid-thirties was standing at a trestle in the darkened back of the shop, pounding some root or other in a mortar.

‘Good day,’ she called.

He glanced up, observed her Cistercian habit, affected not to notice, then indicated the contents of the mortar he was working. ‘Another case of the running tetters,’ he announced.

‘No doubt you’ve tried green mast?’ She went over to have a look.

‘Poultice or ointment?’

‘Either will do. And also the water that collects there in the hollows of the decaying tree. I find that most efficacious.’

‘Aye. As a wash or a poultice both. If this fails, which I doubt, I’ll try that.’

‘My best advice would be to tell him to lay off animal flesh and eat his greens.’

‘But will the fellow listen? Now, sister,’ he said, after this brief checking of credentials, ‘what can I do for you?’ He came round the trestle, wiping his hands on a cloth stuck in the front pocket of his leather apron.

She said, ‘I have a query regarding resurrection.’

At his quick smile she recounted the symptoms, omitting only the identity of the patient. When she finished the apothecary scratched his head with stained fingers, thought for a moment and admitted, ‘Your guess is as good as mine. But I do have one or two suggestions.’

He went over to his shelves and scanned the labelled flasks and bottles, muttering under his breath all the while. As she waited she breathed in the aroma of drying herbs hanging in bundles in every nook and cranny. The vapour that escaped from a retort simmering over a flame near by mingled the scents of lavender, sage, rosemary and thyme, and there was the perfume of spices too, cinnamon, cubebs, ginger, nutmeg. She felt a deep sense of familiarity, transported back in time to when a certain wise woman of her childhood had taught her a few simple remedies in an aromatic cell much like this one.

The apothecary returned with two containers. One, a glass phial, was a third full of a viscous liquid, tinged pink, which he swirled a couple of times before holding it up to show her what it looked like against the light. The other, a small pot with a peg stopper, held a blackish root, which he tipped out into the palm of one hand. ‘You say you used a distillate of gentian as an antidote?’

She nodded. ‘Mixed with one or two other things.’

‘And the question is what might be purged by such?’

‘As might hemlock, for instance, with the copious amounts of wine that had already been imbibed.’

He smiled faintly. ‘Some say wine is our saving grace in this vale of tears.’ He held out the root. ‘If this is ground small and put into a distillate it will do its work in secret.’ He pursed his lips and frowned. ‘Or an opiate such as poppy would be easy to administer and by itself would not be fatal. I grow the white in my garden back there.’ He gestured towards the rear of the building. ‘It’s useful in mithridate for fluxes and women’s courses as well as for promoting sleep. Of course, if the seeds of the cornfield poppy had been used instead,’ he frowned again, ‘it would be a different story. Your gentian would not have been strong enough.’

He sighed. ‘We have so many banes, growing naturally, bluebell and the like, and it’s only folk’s lack of curiosity that keeps their secrets safe. In my opinion the culprit might have been mistaken for what grows innocently around the kitchen garden – parsley, for instance, and hemlock can seem the same to the careless. Have you thought of that? Except that it’s unlikely hemlock would have been growing there. But maybe you suspect there was no mistake involved?’

‘Hemlock, hellebore or henbane, not to mention all the rest?’ She smiled and shrugged her shoulders. What the apothecary said was true. There were several poisons that could have been put in Roger’s drink, deliberately or accidentally, and gentian, plus the wine, would have purged them.

The apothecary swirled pink liquid in its glass bottle then handed it to her with a swift complicit smile. ‘I’m told the pope at Avignon has a poison so potent the merest scratch will bring death in an instant.’

‘I’ve heard that story too. Do you believe it?’ Hildegard peered at the phial and its contents but did not remove the stopper. When he gave no answer she said, ‘You’re being most helpful, master. But I wonder if you can tell me whether you ever do business with servants from Castle Hutton?’

She watched him. His colour changed. For a moment alarm seemed to flash across his face. Glancing towards the door he turned and with a confidential gesture invited her to follow him into another room. She had to bend her head under the lintel. Inside, logs blazed in the fire-pit and the draught from an open vent sucked the smoke outside. A large pot was simmering on the hob, sending its sweet scent into the air. Through a small window covered by slats she could see a walled garden in the dull colours of winter. It was neat and orderly, canes, shaken by the wind, tied up in rows, the earth turned.

‘I see you have setterwort out there.’

‘Aye, black hellebore, as they call it. It won’t bloom till Christmas and not then if this weather keeps up.’

She observed the rain-lashed leaves, the only green thing growing, then turned back into the warm room and raised her brows to show she had not forgotten her question.

He lowered his voice. ‘I heard there’d been a bit of trouble up there.’ He ducked his head. ‘News travels. But I keep a list. You have to keep track of what works and what doesn’t.’ He bit his lip and the look of fright came over his face again.

‘I’m after information only. You’re in no trouble. No one but me knows you’re the supplier.’

‘I’m not saying I am.’ He went to a shelf where some pages were weighted underneath a piece of rose quartz. Thumbing through them he suddenly stopped, extracted a page from all the rest and held it out to her. As soon as she took hold of it he went out of the chamber with some speed, calling from the front room, ‘I haven’t seen you do that.’

She read the rough letters he had inscribed in black ink and wondered who had taught him his letters and his trade. His list had a scrawl like a rough attempt at the de Hutton crest on the first page. She took it to stand in lieu of a name. Nothing if not discreet, this apothecary. Then she scanned what was written underneath:

and, finally, an electuary, but of what, not stated. She replaced the page among those still under the block of quartz and went back into the shop. So someone from Hutton had come all the way to Beverley to obtain a potion. Any of these, she realised, given in the appropriate dose, could have caused Roger’s symptoms. In the appropriate amount they could kill. When she went back into the other room the apothecary was back at his mortar and pestle and looked up anxiously.

‘Master—’ she began.

‘Dickon,’ he replied briefly, his glance never leaving her face.

‘So, Master Dickon, do you remember who was sent on this errand and on whose behalf?’

‘If they’ve taken an overdose it’s not my fault,’ he began. ‘I was a bit wary about supplying the henbane but you have to trust folk to be responsible when they get their hands on stuff like this.’ He spread his arms. ‘And if anybody’s taken more than they should—’

‘Everything’s under control. News of the patient’s death was a little premature.’

‘Oh aye? But they say the cortège is at Meaux already?’

‘But not with Roger in it. This is between ourselves, of course.’

‘Of course.’

She tried a shot in the dark. ‘I imagine a servant is often sent on behalf of the Lady Melisen?’

The apothecary gave a lopsided smile. ‘She’s been sending to me regular for cures, ever since she come up to Yorkshire. Always the same fellow she sends.’ He rubbed his fingers together and sniffed in absentminded pleasure at some perfume there, but his mind was busy as he thought back to the visitor from Hutton. ‘It was always this thin stick, as I recall, melancholic type, togged up like an aristo with one of them capuchons twisted up on his head like a cockscomb and one sleeve – I ask you, one, just the one, right down to here.’ He indicated his knees. ‘Fashion down in London, I suppose, the silly sod. I could have prescribed something for him, all right. Balanced his humours properly for a change. But he was here on account of wanting something for promoting sleep and for women’s problems, as you’ve seen from the list.’

He was clearly describing poor Godric. Hildegard smiled. ‘I understand ointment of henbane is also useful against the French pox?’

He looked startled that a nun should know this, then gave a bark of merriment. ‘Mebbe that was in his mind?’ He added slyly, ‘And tansy you’ll know as well?’

‘By reputation only.’ Her eyes gleamed. It was used for promoting women’s fluxes with the result that it could cause an abortion.

As if some barrier of suspicion had been breached he turned to a stoup of wine warming by the fire, gestured and, when her eyes brightened, he returned with two clay beakers. ‘Nicely mulled,’ he said, ‘just the job on a day like this.’

They drank in companionable silence for a moment or two. Hildegard felt her body begin to tingle with warmth down to her toes. She could hear a woman singing and a child’s occasional chatter behind an inner door, and she thought how pleasant it must be to be an apothecary in a warm house on a November day with your family cosily by in the next room. Cupping her hands round the beaker, she said, ‘I’d welcome the recipe for this, if it’s not your own secret, Dickon. But now, I wonder about this other prescription. There seems much to do with sleep?’

‘A choleric lord. Who knows? Quieten him down? I don’t question, not in a case like this when the servant was so clear about what he wanted.’

‘He was?’

The apothecary described how the yeoman had rapped out his orders then lounged around, fingering everything while he waited for it to be produced. ‘Damned nosy devil, he was, peering into everything, wanting to know what was what, as if I give away my secrets. I’m not doling my learning out to the likes of him.’