Alys Clare - Heart of Ice

Knife or garrotte? Or should he simply smother her with her pillow, as he had done the merchant in his bed in Hastings? But the merchant had been feeble with illness; she, as far as he knew, was strong, fit and healthy.

He drew the garrotte out of its place in the pouch on his belt. Running his hands along the fine rope, he felt for the toggle of wood that he used to wind the rope tight. Yes, there it was, just as it should be.

He crept closer to the bed.

The heat scored through him again as if someone had doused him in boiling water. He let out a small moan as pain swelled in his joints. Was this, a part of him wondered, what it felt like to be torn limb from limb? The black shapes spread across his eyes again and suddenly he was weak, so terribly weak; his legs gave out and he sank to his knees.

The nausea was back, undeniable now, and, trying to make as little noise as possible, he retched and a pool of foul liquid splattered on to the rushes on the floor.

The thought came to him quite unexpectedly that he was probably going to die.

I shall kill her first, he decided. Struggling up, he stepped closer to the bed. Then he thought, why should I? There is little point if I am not to be paid. Will he pay me, though, even yet, if I kill her and the old man, or will he say that the necessity to ensure their silence was my own fault for having allowed them to uncover the secret in the first place?

He shook his head. Sick, in agony, fever raging through him and with the urgent need to void his bowels, his brain did not seem to be working and he could no longer think it all through with his usual cold rationality.

She is young and she has a bright future, he mused. I think — yes, I think that I shall spare her.

Smiling at the pleasure that his own magnanimity was giving him, he turned and tiptoed back towards the doorway. In the bed, the body-shaped hump beneath the bedclothes did not move.

As the pestilence took him, Gilles de Vaudreuil fell down the steps.

At the bottom of which Gervase de Gifford was waiting for him.

Gervase de Gifford, thrilled because his trap had worked and he had the killer in his hands, at first did not take in just how sick the man was.

Summoning the four guards from the courtyard, he gave orders for his prisoner to be manacled and chained to the heavy iron ring set in the wall. The guards took the drooping form of the dark-clad stranger and dragged him away.

De Gifford went straight to the small door leading off the passage between his hall and the kitchen area. It opened on to steps down to the undercroft and was covered by a heavy woollen hanging; a wicked draught came up from the dank cellar below in all but the warmest weather. De Gifford took out a key, inserted it in the lock and turned it. He opened the stout door and called out, ‘We have him. It is safe to come up now.’

Sabin and Benoit de Retz, the latter shivering inside his cloak and blanket and complaining steadily and vociferously not quite far enough under his breath, came up the short flight of steps and emerged into the passage. Sabin was holding the old man’s hand, guiding his footsteps where necessary. De Gifford noticed in passing that she had a cobweb in her hair and a dark, smutty smudge on her cheek but, in his eyes, neither did anything to mar her beauty.

‘Your ruse worked?’ she said quietly. ‘He thought the straw sack was me and-’ She paused, swallowed and managed to continue, ‘-and he attacked?’

De Gifford frowned. ‘He entered the chamber and approached the bed, yes, for I watched from the top of the stairs. But, my lady, I cannot say that he attacked the shape that he surely believed to be you, for in truth he did not.’

Benoit gave a snort of impatience. ‘He must have guessed that it was not Sabin asleep in the bed!’ he exclaimed.

De Gifford considered this. ‘No,’ he said eventually, ‘I do not think that is the answer.’

‘And why not?’ Benoit demanded.

‘Because of his demeanour,’ de Gifford replied. ‘Had he seen through the trick and realised that his intent had been foiled, then I should have thought he would be furious. He might have thrown back the bed covers to make sure, then possibly thrust a knife into the sack to vent his anger. I am sorry, my lady.’ He had noticed Sabin’s shudder of horror. Hastening on, he said, ‘In fact he did not even have a close look in the bed. He simply stood staring down at the shape lying in it, then, after some time, turned and quietly stepped away. I had scarce enough time to race back down the stairs before he came out of the chamber, slid down the steps and collapsed at my feet.’

‘He fell?’ Benoit asked.

‘I believe so,’ de Gifford agreed. ‘I think he must have injured himself in some way in falling for, when he felt me grab at him, instead of resisting he seemed to sink into my arms.’

‘I should like to see him,’ Sabin announced.

De Gifford looked at her. ‘Is that wise?’ he asked. ‘He is a violent man and-’

‘He tried to kill Grandfather and me in Troyes,’ she flashed back. ‘It is almost certain that he came here tonight to achieve the task in which he previously failed. Would you not want to look your killer in the face, given the chance?’

‘My lady, I am responsible for your safety,’ de Gifford insisted. ‘I do not think that-’

Benoit chuckled. ‘You’re wasting your breath, sheriff,’ he said. ‘Once Sabin has made up her mind on something, she’s like a terrier with a rat.’

De Gifford and Sabin stood eye to eye. Hers were steely blue and hard with resolve. ‘Well, I suppose it is perfectly safe now that he is in chains,’ he murmured.

Sabin smiled at him and the change in her was startling. ‘Thank you,’ she breathed. Then, sweeping up her long skirts, she strode off down the passage, across the hall and out into the courtyard. De Gifford quickly set off after her but a plaintive cry from Benoit — ‘Oi! Just you come back and help me! I’m blind, you know!’ — called him back.

By the time he and the old man reached the courtyard, the four guards were standing a few paces off, all looking slightly shamefaced, and Sabin was on her knees beside the huddled form of the prisoner.

Before de Gifford could say a word she turned, glared up at him and said, ‘This man is very sick! He has a dangerously high fever and he is in agony. You must remove the shackles and take him somewhere where he can be cared for properly.’

‘But-’ de Gifford began.

Again, Benoit interrupted him. ‘What a short memory, sheriff,’ he observed. ‘What was I just telling you? This man might have been set on killing us as we slept but he’s sick and my granddaughter is a born healer. She will not stand aside and see someone suffer, even one such as he.’

Cursing her for her stubbornness, de Gifford thought hard. If the prisoner was truly that sick, then to throw him in gaol would likely finish him off. And, the fair-minded Gervase told himself, there is as yet no real evidence that he has committed any crime. Somebody tried to kill Sabin and Benoit in the Troyes lodging house — unless the fire was in fact no more than an accident, which is quite possible given the normal urban overcrowding and people’s inherent carelessness with fires and torches and the like — and somebody killed both the Hastings merchant and Nicol Romley. This man came here tonight and I believe that his intention was to curtail the spread of this dangerous secret by silencing Sabin and her grandfather. Yet, when he had the chance to attack the body in the bed, he did not.

In short, he concluded, as yet I cannot prove that my prisoner has done anything worse than to break into my house. If that is the sum of his crimes, then I have no business signing his death warrant by refusing him healing care.