Roseblood (19 page)

‘No, no.’ Sevigny leaned over and pressed a finger against Ramler’s lips. The scribe’s face was now ghostly white, eyes brimming with fear, lower lip trembling, one hand clawing at his crotch. ‘Go and relieve yourself.’ Sevigny nodded towards the door. ‘You are terrified. Don’t be stupid and try to escape, or I will kill you out of hand and take your head to the Guildhall.’

Ramler jumped to his feet and scuttled out. Sevigny went into the small buttery. He filled two goblets with wine and brought them back. Ramler returned, a night robe around his shoulders, and Sevigny ordered him to sit down.

‘Have you ever been to Venice, Master Ramler?’ he began. ‘No? Ah well, if you are arrested, tried and condemned by the Secret Ones, they give you an abrin seed to swallow. If you survive, God has vindicated you. If you die, then the Secret Ones have been justified. Of course, abrin is deadly poisonous. If the Secret Ones want to spare you, you will be ordered not to chew the seed so that it passes through you out into the privy, its shell intact. If they want you dead, you will be forced to chew it and, of course, deadly juices are released into both mouth and stomach. Death follows swiftly.’

‘I know nothing of abrin.’

‘Of course you don’t. However, Master Roseblood and his henchman Ignacio know a great deal about both abrin and other poisons. In fact, Roseblood’s garden contains a special poison plot, a bed of deadly juices such as belladonna, known to others as deadly nightshade, the Devil’s herb or banewort.’ Sevigny lifted a goblet from the floor and pressed it into Ramler’s hand. ‘Don’t worry.’ He grinned. ‘Nothing is tainted. I know a little about poisons. I was educated at Fountains Abbey, where one of the brothers was a keen herbalist. Belladonna can grow to about five feet high, with spreading branches. Its leaves always grow in pairs, one slightly longer than the other. The flower is a deep violet; its fruit are dark, shiny berries with a purple juice, very like claret. However, all parts of that herb are most deadly.’

‘What are you implying? Skulkin and I tasted the wine.’

‘Of course there are other poisons; for example, arsenic, red or white. It is imported from the east; some people claim it’s an aphrodisiac.’

‘I tasted the wine,’ Ramler moaned.

‘Of course you did, but you poisoned it afterwards. Remember what happened. You brought the wine up; Skulkin accompanied you. Candlemas and Cross-Biter are all agitated and suspicious. You fill both goblets. You and Skulkin taste the wine; your two victims are satisfied. They now concentrate on you tasting the food. You act the solicitous clerk. Just after you have tasted the wine, you draw out, probably from the cuff of your jerkin, poisoned pellets. You drop these into the goblets as you stretch your fingers across the rims of the cups.’

‘That would have been seen.’

‘No, the goblets were deep pewter bowls, the wine a dark purple. You were moving them about on the table. Your victims did not even suspect. Claret is heavy; the pellets soon dissolved. You leave Candlemas and Cross-Biter, securing the door behind you. Your victims are nervous, thirsty; they drink swiftly, filling the goblets with more wine.’

‘No poison was found in the cups.’

‘Of course not! They were drained, along with any dregs left in the jug. Roseblood expected this. Every time they drank and refilled those goblets, any trace of poison, whatever it was, was removed by the wine. Come, Master Ramler, don’t act the innocent. Surgeons pour wine to clean wounds. Some of them even say their knives and hooks should also be washed in it. Scullions use coarse wine to scrape dishes. Now the poison probably acted within the hour, cup after cup being downed. The early symptoms would be dismissed as some ill humour of the belly, until the pains began to spread. Belladonna in its deadly stage is most swift.’

‘But the physician—’

‘Master Ramler, the physician you hired probably couldn’t tell the difference between a cadaver and a living being! You hired the worst for that reason.’ Sevigny pulled a face. ‘We could have him seized and questioned, if he is sober enough. Your physician looked at both corpses and pronounced them dead, though he couldn’t provide a solid reason. He took his fee and left. And what use re-examining them? I’m sure that as sheriff’s scribe, you have already used your authority to have Candlemas and Cross-Biter buried in the thickest quicklime, where their corpses will soon corrupt. Yes?’

Ramler, his pale face all fearful, just stared back.

‘So strange.’ Sevigny sipped at his wine and put the goblet down. He had to be careful; exhaustion from the night before was making itself felt. ‘Strange,’ he repeated, ‘that you have never asked why you should be blamed. Why should Master Ramler, scribe to the sheriff of this city, murder two men at the behest of the taverner Simon Roseblood?’ Ramler made to rise from his stool. He was gibbering silently to himself, head shaking, face all distracted. Sevigny gently pushed him back. ‘Roseblood got to know your secrets. He blackmailed you.’

‘What do you mean?’ the scribe spluttered.

‘You are a strange man, Ramler. I have heard of your type. The proof of what I say lies hidden in your bedchamber.’ Sevigny paused. ‘In appearance you are a man, but deep within your soul you wish to be a woman, to be used as one, yes?’

Ramler could only gaze back in stricken terror.

‘You like to dress as a woman, to have congress as a woman. Roseblood discovered your ruling passion, an easy enough task. He controls the whisperers and the eavesdroppers, the prostitutes and the pimps, the men who like other men.’ Sevigny waved a hand. ‘And so and so on. He offered you a chamber at the Roseblood where you could act out your dreams with some young man hired for the occasion. You entered his tavern and left it as a woman through a postern door. My searchers, Cosmas and Damian, watched you and marvelled at what they discovered. No one would ever suspect. Of course if the city council discover your secret… well, you have probably attended such trials: you would burn as a sodomite at Smithfield.’

Ramler put his face in his hands and began to sob. Sevigny felt a strange compassion for this little man trapped in the cage of his body, forced to live a life he hated.

‘Ever since I was a boy,’ the scribe took his hands away from his face, lifted the wine goblet and drained it, ‘I have been ghosted by what I secretly wish to be.’ He sighed and put the goblet down. ‘You are correct. I lived a haunted life until Roseblood discovered my secret. He offered to protect me, and at the same time let me be what I am. He even recruited the young men; none of them knew who I was. You once saw the remains of paint on my face.’ He sniffed. ‘When I entered the Roseblood, I became another being. I was happy. I could be what I wanted.’ He stared at the floor.

‘And what does it really matter?’ He glanced up. ‘All the filthy politics of the great ones, with their puffed-up ambitions, their retinues of treachery, murder and perjury.’ He half smiled. ‘Of course Roseblood had a price. I betrayed the sheriff, though in truth that wasn’t hard. Malpas is a cruel taskmaster. He would have me burned as swiftly as he blinked. I told Roseblood about the plot to seize the silver. I kept him informed about Candlemas and Cross-Biter, and I took care of them. It wasn’t difficult.’ He lifted a hand. ‘I had a small purse here under my wrist; Ignacio provided the poison. They were so distracted they never even saw me. It was so very, very simple.’ He blinked. ‘They must have known they were dying. They were violent men, so they drew their daggers as if death could be driven off…’

Ramler’s voice trailed away; he was now more composed, as if preparing himself for the inevitable. Sevigny rose, drew his sword and rested its blade on the scribe’s unresisting shoulder.

‘Sheriff Malpas would have you torn apart.’

‘A swift cut would be a mercy.’ Ramler held his gaze. ‘Afterwards, go to my chamber. Please remove and destroy what you find there. I don’t want my memory mocked. Mine will be just another death during a murderous time.’

Sevigny grasped his sword hilt with two hands, staring at this pathetic clerk even as memories of the previous night’s slaughter crowded his mind. And before it? Walking with Katherine in the gathering dusk, holding her hand, teasing her, feeling his heart sing. He lifted the sword.

‘Just a prayer…’ Ramler swallowed hard.

‘Hush now,’ Sevigny replied. ‘I will not kill you.’

The scribe glanced up in astonishment.

‘Pack what you must, destroy what you have to,’ Sevigny urged. ‘Go to the Roseblood, tell Master Simon exactly what has happened. He will help. Take ship to some port far from London, for as the angels are my witness, if I meet you here again, I will have to kill you.’

‘And Sir Philip?’

‘He’ll be confronted with another mystery: why should his faithful scribe abruptly disappear? I tell you this, Master Ramler, it would have only been a matter of time before our noble sheriff began to suspect. You are ruled by your passions. My two searchers discovered it, so be warned.’

Sevigny lifted his sword in mock salute, sheathed it and left the house, going immediately to a tavern, the Silver Griffin, to break his fast and resist the wave of exhaustion lapping his soul. He sat in a window embrasure staring out over the late spring garden. Sparrows hopped around the conical beehives, the air broken by the cooing and fluttering from the nearby dovecote. He wondered if he should leave London, ride through the spring countryside to Ludlow or wherever York had set up his standard. The attempt to indict Roseblood had failed, but at least Sevigny had removed a spy from York’s camp. He also had considerable information about the troops and armaments the Queen and Beaufort had assembled at the Tower and elsewhere.

He paused in his reflection to thank the servant who brought the morning ale and fresh bread, before returning to his brooding, eating and drinking absent-mindedly. The loneliness of the tavern garden brought back memories of his meeting with Ravenspur and LeCorbeil. He was certain he had seen the same mercenaries during the attack on the Roseblood. That would be logical. LeCorbeil supported York, and by doing so deepened the crisis around the English Crown.

As for Ravenspur’s prophecies, York would be pleased, even though they were baffling. And the reference to the greyhounds? Sevigny recalled the various escutcheons of the English commanders. Surely the greyhound was the insignia of the Talbots of Shrewsbury, and hadn’t both father and son been killed in the last futile battle of the English at Castillon some two years earlier? However, that was a matter for York. One further task remained – Giles Argentine – and after that? Sevigny plucked at the crumbs on the platter. Two women now dominated his life: the beautiful, malevolent duchess who wanted him dead, and the daughter of the man who was supposed to be his enemy. Sevigny knew he could never forget Katherine’s beautiful face; even the sword storm of the previous evening had not stifled the glorious glow of her eyes. He pulled himself up. He would not leave London yet; he could not forsake that lovely face. ‘Even if I had the wings of an eagle,’ he whispered, ‘and flew to the edge of the dawn, you would be there…’

London, May 1455

‘S
o, we have met before I leave.’ Simon Roseblood gazed around the gleaming oaken table in the Camelot Chamber. All had gathered: Katherine and Raphael, Ignacio and Wormwood, Father Benedict and the most recent arrival, Reginald Bray. ‘Master Clerk,’ Simon pointed at Beaufort’s messenger, ‘you missed the excitement, our visitors from France!’

‘Were you their main quarry?’ Bray retorted.

‘I have spent some time,’ Simon declared, ‘searching for an answer. The galleys made landings along the south coast. They later entered the estuary, attacking communities along the north bank of the Thames. But yes, we seem to have been the principal target for the corsairs. Now everybody chatters as if they are experts on war. They talk about strange lights being seen, fire arrows glimpsed, as if someone, perhaps LeCorbeil, was determined to mark our tavern and the riverside beyond.’ He pulled a face. ‘Such rumours are correct. The corsairs must have sent scouts, spies, and we know LeCorbeil are in London. If they had destroyed us,’ he chose his words carefully, ‘Beaufort would have lost a powerful ally.’ He paused, deep in thought, before continuing. ‘And LeCorbeil, whatever the mystery behind them, would have wreaked a hideous vengeance for what they believe Beaufort did against them in France.’

Simon gestured for the rest to break their fast. He wished to gather his thoughts. He rose and walked to the mullioned glass window, gazing out into the darkness. The French had escaped before the admiral of the coast north of the Thames could muster his fighting cogs. The dead of both sides had been buried in All Hallows. Simon glanced over his shoulder; his companions were now eating and drinking, except for Father Benedict. Simon noticed how pale and drawn the priest looked. Benedict had taken a mace during the attack and shattered a few heads, scrupulous about following canon law, which stipulated that a cleric could not use sword or dagger. Was the parish priest recovering from the attack, or was something else bothering him and his curate, who always looked so agitated? Father Roger was withdrawing more and more into himself, often in his cups.