Alys Clare: The Tavern in the Morning

Tilly, who seemed to find that slightly reassuring, had raised her head and was now looking at Josse out of pink-rimmed eyes. Her distress, he noticed, hadn’t done anything for her looks.

‘Tilly?’ he said gently.

She took a deep, gulping breath, then said: ‘It were the last bit of pie, see. There was this man — handsome, he were, lovely black hair all glossy like an ’orse, he gave me such a nice smile and he said, what did I recommend? What was really tasty? And, what with it being the last bit, and him being so nice, I, well, I-’ She started weeping again.

‘You were serving a nice, friendly man,’ Josse said, trying to pick up the narrative, ‘and you were going to serve him the last slice of pie. Is that right?’

Tilly nodded. ‘Aye. I was just putting the trencher together — bit of pie, gravy, stack of vegetables, slice of bread, when Tobe yells-’

‘Tobe?’

‘Tobias,’ Goody Anne said. ‘The boy.’

‘Ah. Go on, Tilly.’

‘Tobe, he yells out, another chicken pie! and I thinks to myself, that’ll mean starting a new one. Then, like I says because ’e were so nice, I thinks, why not give ’im the first slice from the nice fresh pie, and the last bit of the old pie to whoever else wanted pie? ‘Specially when I had a look and saw it was some silly fool of a man, half-drunk at that, who’d been going to get the new bit.’ She glanced at Josse. ‘See?’

It was a rambling explanation, but Josse thought he did see. ‘You had two orders for the pie,’ he said slowly, ‘one from your nice handsome man, and one from the man who we now know was Peter Ely. Yes?’ Tilly nodded, wiping a long trail of greenish snot on to the back of her wrist. Josse stepped back a pace. ‘There was only one serving left in the pie you’d been dishing out and, naturally, you’d have served it to the handsome man rather than cut into a fresh pie. Yes?’

‘Aye,’ Tilly agreed. ‘She — the mistress — is very strict about that. We always have to finish one dish before we start on the next.’

‘Quite,’ Josse said. ‘But then, just as you were about to take the handsome man’s meal out to him, Tobias calls through another order for the pie, which means you can give the last of the old pie-’

‘I don’t know as I care for all this talk of old pie,’ Anne interrupted plaintively. ‘It wasn’t old, it were made fresh that morning, same as all the day’s food!’

‘Yes, Anne,’ Josse said, trying not to let his irritation show. ‘I’m only saying old pie to distinguish it from the uncut one. All right?’

Anne sniffed. ‘Suppose so.’

‘Now, Tilly.’ He turned back to the girl. ‘You decide to give the last slice of the cut pie to Peter Ely, and you prepare a pretty trencher of the pie you’ve just cut into for your handsome man. Yes?’

‘Aye!’ Tilly risked a thin smile.

‘There!’ Josse exclaimed. ‘That wasn’t so bad, now, was it?’

But the girl had slumped into despondency again, ‘I gave ’im the pie what killed ’im,’ she moaned.

‘Yes, child, but it wasn’t your fault!’ Josse said, exasperated. ‘You didn’t poison the remaining slice in the cut pie, did you?’

‘Course not!’

‘Well, then. And-’ He had been on the point of saying, and if you hadn’t swapped the portions, your handsome man would have died instead of Peter Ely. But it wasn’t a comment which stood any chance of cheering Tilly up, so he didn’t.

* * *

Later, lying on a narrow cot under covers so thin that he was glad of his thick cloak — Goody Anne had explained that he could normally have had more blankets, only the ones Peter Ely had sicked up on still weren’t dry — Josse reviewed the day’s progress.

It didn’t take long.

Someone had wanted to kill someone. They’d tracked him to the inn at Tonbridge, spied for long enough to hear him order his supper, then somehow they’d sneaked into a busy kitchen and slipped a fatal dose of wolfs bane into the portion of pie destined for the victim.

Wolfs bane, Josse thought, momentarily distracted. Also known as monk’s hood, because of the hood-shaped blue flowers, it had leaves like parsley and a root like a little brown turnip. Used by healers to rub on the skin for pain relief, but to be handled with care as all parts of the plant were poisonous. One of the oldest of mankind’s poisons, well-known to — probably well-used by — the Greeks and the Romans.

Easy to get hold of, here in south-east England? Josse didn’t know. But, easy or not, someone had managed it.

The poisoned pie was virtually on its way to the victim — he picked up his thread — when young Tilly swaps the trenchers so as to reward her friend the handsome man with the newly-cut pie. Poor lass, he thought, distracted again, I don’t think such a small philanthropic gesture would have got her very far with her glossy-haired fellow, not given the child’s meagre appearance, dull wits and habit of wiping her nose on her hand.

Where was I? He was becoming sleepy. Ah, yes, the swapped pies.

No wonder he’d had difficulty imaging the innocuous Peter Ely as a murder victim. He hadn’t been. The poisoned pie hadn’t been destined for him, but for Tilly’s handsome man.

And now the handsome man had gone on his way. He’d left more than three days ago, probably innocent of the fact that someone had just tried to kill him. With nobody knowing who he was, where he’d come from or where he was going, it looked as if Josse’s next step in unravelling the murder had already been laid down for him.

Helewise, Abbess of Hawkenlye Abbey, was recovering from a severe bout of fever.

She said she was recovering. Her infirmarer, Sister Euphemia, said she was still very sick. The debate had reached an uneasy stalemate; Helewise had won the battle of whether or not she must remain in the infirmary, but Euphemia had triumphed over the question of putting a truckle bed and a small brazier in Helewise’s room.

Now the Abbess could stay at her duties for as long as she could manage, then, when she had to give in and have a sleep, all she needed to do was walk acoss the room and lie down.

Helewise was uneasy. It was not right for a nun to have the unheard of luxury of a fire in her room! Why, none of the other sisters enjoyed such comforts! Even in the infirmary, only the very sick had heat! What of my vows? Helewise demanded angrily of herself. What of poverty, when here I lie, snuggled under covers of soft wool, hot coals pulsing orange warmth not three paces from my bed!

Back to work, she ordered herself. I have been sleeping since the midday meal, and it’s high time I did something constructive.

She swung her feet to the floor and sat up. Instantly her head began to spin and she thought she was going to be sick. Black spots floated before her eyes, quickly growing and massing together till they were one big black hole.

Sinking back on to the bed, she reflected that perhaps Euphemia was right after all …

* * *

She dozed for some time, drifting in and out of a restless, guilt-ridden sleep. So much to see to! So much she ought to be attending to! Her anxiety permeated her dreams; she saw Brother Saul, the most capable of the lay brothers and her secret favourite, kneeling by her bed, whispering, ‘I know you’re sick, Abbess, but others are more sick, and need you to mend their hoods because the rain is getting in,’ whereupon he took a plump wood pigeon from his sleeve and stroked its throat until it began to sing like a blackbird. Then Brother Saul turned into fussy old Brother Firmin, who stood over her with a huge Bible in his gnarled hands, holding it above her face and bumping it none too gently against her forehead …