Alys Clare - Heart of Ice

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.

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 violently 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.’