The Poisoned Chalice (19 page)

‘Where did you learn about such things?' asked Edgar curiously.

‘From my own master when I was an apprentice in Bristol. He used to send me out into the woods and pastures around the deep gorge above the river, to search for such moulds, and then he would test me on their names and their properties.'

‘Is that why you are called Nicholas of Bristol – because you were apprenticed there?'

The apothecary stopped chopping for a moment to reflect. ‘I was only called that after I came to Exeter six years ago. I was born in Bristol and my father was Henry Thatcher, for that was his trade. I was just plain Nicholas there, even when I had my own apothecary's shop near the quayside.'

For a moment, his apprentice was diverted from his troubles. ‘So why did you leave Bristol, if it was your birthplace and where you had a business?'

Nicholas seemed rather evasive. ‘Trade was not too good – half my customers were sailors or whores who came to have their clap treated. I decided to start afresh somewhere else, before I got a bad reputation as being only a pox-doctor.' He seemed reluctant to pursue his past history and changed the subject.

Their talk ranged from this week's executions at the gallows outside the city to the price of unspun wool, which they used for dressings and padding splints. Edgar was an authority on the wool trade, through his family's business, and explained that this year's poor crop had pushed up the price, especially as the demand in Normandy and Brittany was now greater.

Privately, Nicholas wondered why his apprentice was so keen to pursue the vocation of apothecary, having a ready-made and lucrative trade in the family, which Joseph of Topsham was obviously keen to hand on to his son.

Then the talk was suddenly brought back by Edgar to his own problems. ‘Has there been much gossip in the town about Christina?' he asked, rather fiercely.

Nicholas hesitated. ‘You know what people are, Edgar. They like to bandy news about, especially bad news. There have been a few customers who enquired after you, knowing that you and the lady were to be married.'

Edgar banged a pot on to a shelf with unnecessary force. ‘Were to be married! Perhaps that sums it up, for I am no longer sure that Christina is concerned about a wedding.'

‘Oh, come now, boy! It will take weeks for her mind to settle, poor girl. Give her time and I'm sure all will be well again.'

‘But I'm not sure that I want to marry her now,' blurted out Edgar. He could talk to his master more easily than to his father about things of the heart.

Nicholas stopped his chopping and looked up at his apprentice, who was now perched on a stool to reach the upper shelves. ‘That, too, is understandable, but you must give it time, boy.'

Edgar worried away at the matter, like a dog with a bone. ‘Have the gossips suggested any likely culprits for this shameful crime?' he asked, through gritted teeth.

Nicholas considered for a moment. ‘Nothing sensible. Only a wild rumour that Godfrey Fitzosbern might know something about it – but that's surely because his was the last place your lady visited before the assault.'

Edgar clattered off the stool and turned, red-faced, to his master. ‘Everyone seems to have this idea. There must be fire where there is smoke.'

The apothecary tried to placate his pupil. ‘The sheriff took in Fitzosbern's two workmen but they were released within the hour. As our sheriff usually likes to hang the nearest suspect as a matter of convenience, that must mean there is no substance to the gossip.'

‘It can also mean that the workmen are innocent and the suspicion falls all the more heavily on their master!' cried Edgar, pacing the narrow space behind the counter. ‘All fingers seem to point at that man, especially with the reputation he has for fornication and adultery.'

Nicholas clicked his tongue in warning. ‘Be careful what you say, my boy. That man is a bad one to cross. Christ knows that I have no love for him, as he continually blocks my efforts to form a Guild of Apothecaries here in the West – but, even so, I would not dare accuse him of rape without some solid evidence.'

The apprentice seemed unconvinced and fingered his dagger hilt as he paced restlessly up and down the shop, muttering under his breath. ‘I will confront him, see if I will, Nicholas! My gut tells me he is the man. I'll have it out with him yet!'

The herb-master sighed at the young man's rapid changes of mood and wondered if there was some calming soporific he could slip into Edgar's broth at the next meal.

By early afternoon, there was a temporary lull in the panics of the day and John took the opportunity to visit the Bush. He had been home briefly at midday and eaten a quick meal with Matilda, as part of his campaign for domestic peace. This time Mary had provided pork knuckles with boiled cabbage and carrots, which suited John well, especially as the meat was still freshly killed and not salted as it would be later in the winter. He liked plain food, though Matilda claimed to disdain such ‘serf fodder' as she called it, professing to favour fancy cooking, especially from French kitchens. Though born and brought up in Devon, she constantly claimed to pine for her Normandy origins, conveniently ignoring that it was three generations since her forebears had crossed the Channel. The only contact she had ever had with Normandy had been a two-month visit to distant relatives, made some years before.

During the meal, John gave her sparse titbits of information about Adele's death, to keep her mind off her recent feud with him. Matilda relished the scandal concerning the pregnancy and the denials of Hugh that he was the father and avidly anticipated the gossip that would be bandied about among the wives of Exeter.

‘Have you any thoughts on who might be the procurer of the miscarriage?' he asked, hoping to get some practical help from among her prurient chatter. ‘Does the gossip among the ladies of the city ever suggest a name for such a person?'

His wife bridled at this. ‘That's something that I would never lower myself to discuss,' she snapped huffily. ‘No doubt there are drabs and old wives, especially down in the slums of Bretayne, who might perform such crimes, but I assure you no lady of quality would know of such things.'

John felt warned off the subject and, fearing that he might set her off on one of her moods, he dropped it. As soon as he could, he left the house, saying that he had to get back to Rougemont to dictate to Thomas de Peyne, but as soon as he reached the high street, he turned left and hurried down to Idle Lane.

Gwyn was in the tavern, filling his capacious stomach with a halfpenny meal and ale. As soon as she could leave her tasks with her cook in the back yard and the girl who put out the pallets and blankets in the dormitory upstairs, Nesta came across and plumped herself down next to them on a bench, to talk to them in Welsh.

‘A good thing for trade, this visit of the Justiciar,' she exclaimed, pushing a wisp of auburn hair back under her coif. ‘Every penny palliasse and pile of straw upstairs is booked for the next four nights, with people coming to see the great Archbishop!'

‘Coming to petition him and beg some favour, more likely,' growled the ever-cynical Gwyn.

The comely innkeeper was anxious to be brought up to date on the day's tragedy, especially as she had played a major role in identifying the victim. John told her the story as far as it was known, and repeated the question he had asked his wife about possible abortionists in the city.

Nesta's pretty face frowned slightly as she concentrated her thoughts. ‘I can't say I know of anyone who attacks the womb, so to speak.' She grinned impishly at the coroner. ‘I've not yet needed such services, in spite of your endless efforts to get me with child!'

John nipped her thigh with his fingers in retribution. ‘Enough of that loose talk, madam. But is there no one who tries to help women who are with child? God knows, there are many poor families with too many little mouths to feed.'

Nesta nodded readily enough. ‘Oh, where it comes to old wives' remedies, there are plenty who peddle herbs and magic potions to restore the monthly flow. Useless, most of them, but a few hags have a reputation for success.'

‘Such as whom?'

The Welsh woman considered for a moment. ‘I should seek out old Bearded Lucy. She is well known for her pills and remedies – the poor come to her when they can't afford a leech.'

‘Where can we find her?'

‘She lives in a hovel in Frog Lane, on Exe Island. You can't miss her – she has almost as much hair on her face as this great lump of a Cornishman here.'

Gwyn grinned happily, he was almost as fond of Nesta as his master was, and greatly enjoyed her poking fun at him.

John rubbed his dark jowls reflectively. ‘Bearded Lucy? Wasn't she in danger of being drowned as a witch some years ago?'

Nesta looked blank – it had been before her time in Exeter – but his officer nodded. ‘I remember that. It was soon after we came back from the Irish campaign of 'eighty-five. Some man in the market dropped dead and she brought him back to life some minutes later by beating on his chest and yelling magical spells.'

The coroner gave one of his rare laughs. ‘Yes, I recall it now. The man was a member of one of the guilds and he raised a petition among them to have her pardoned, after the Bishop's court convicted her of being in league with the devil.'

John's mistress was not surprised. ‘When you see her you might well believe that – and that she might ride the night sky on a broomstick. She is such a hag that the mothers on Exe Island use her to frighten their children when they misbehave.'

De Wolfe stretched out his arms and yawned. ‘We shall see for ourselves before long. Gwyn, hurry and shovel to rest of that mutton into your gut. We need a walk down to the river.'

Exe Island was formed from the marsh that lay around the western end of the city wall. Exeter came downhill to its river there, but the Exe was no tidy stream running between banks: it was a shifting meander of swamp and mud shoals. The city was at the upper limit of the high tides and this, together with the greatly variable flood that ran down from distant Exmoor, caused the land outside the West Gate to change constantly. For years, efforts had been made to stabilise the area by cutting leats through the marsh to drain it and to persuade the main channel of the river to keep to its bed. An island had been laboriously formed, and a settlement, with fulling mills for the wool trade, had been set up on the extra land.

A precarious footbridge crossed the river to join the road to the west, but only people on foot could use it, all cattle, horses and wagons having to splash across the ford. During the past four years efforts had been made to build a substantial stone bridge. However, the builder Walter Gervase, had run out of money, as the length of the bridge needed proved so expensive. It was against the deserted stonework of this bridge that the coroner and his officer found Frog Lane, the name quite appropriate in this marshy bog. They came out of the West Gate and trudged along a track, still whitened by the light snowfall, until they squelched down a muddy bank to the entrance of an ill-defined lane. This was lined by mean shacks, even worse than those in Bretayne. Wood smoke poured up into the leaden sky from a fire in each hovel. Several dwellings were burned-out shells, testifying to the dangers of open fires in huts built largely of hazel withies woven together and plastered with mud on the outside.

The usual collection of barefoot urchins followed their progress, apparently oblivious to the December cold. Women wrapped in ragged shawls ambled between huts, and men with oat-sacks over their shoulders as makeshift cloaks carried huge bundles of raw wool from the quayside, which lay further down-river, to the fulling mill at the end of the lane.

‘Where does Bearded Lucy dwell?' demanded John of the nearest and dirtiest urchin dancing about him.

The boy made a leering grimace and he and his companions all started jigging about with their fingers spread at their foreheads in imitation of hobgoblins. ‘Bearded Lucy, Bearded Lucy is a witch!' they all chanted in unison.

Gwyn took a swipe at the leader, but he hopped nimbly out of the way. ‘Where is she, boy?' he roared.

One of the lads, less antisocial than the rest, pointed between the two nearest hovels to a hut set back from the lane, sitting alone on a wide expanse of reeds.

The two law officers set off along the side of a stagnant leat that led to it and were soon in wet mud, their feet lifting at every step with a sucking noise.

‘By St Peter and St Paul, this must be the worst bloody place for miles around,' muttered de Wolfe, as he felt the water seeping through the seams of his leather shoes.

‘Surely a fancy lady like Adele de Courcy would never come down here,' objected Gwyn.

John shrugged. ‘Women in dire trouble, like having a full womb and an imminent marriage to someone else, would dare a lot, Gwyn.'

They reached the hut, which was even more dilapidated than the others. It leaned over precariously to one side so that it seemed about to fall into the leat, probably because the marsh had sunk under its flimsy foundations. Smoke filtered out from under the tattered reed thatch, which was patched with clods of turf. There was no door, but a fence hurdle was propped on end to block the entrance. Gwyn heaved it aside and yelled into the smoky interior, ‘Anyone there?'

Feet shuffled through the dirty straw on the earth floor and a bowed figure came to the entrance. Though John had seen many strange and misshapen people in his time, this one was unique. Grotesquely ugly to begin with, the hag's face was almost covered with wispy grey hair; only the upper cheeks, nose and forehead were bald. One eye had a red, inflamed lid that pouted outwards, and a slack mouth revealed toothless pink gums. That the person was female was hinted at by the nature of the rags she wore and the dirty close-fitting bonnet tied under her chin.

‘Who is it? Why do men come to my dwelling?' she demanded, in a rasping, querulous voice, ending in a fit of coughing, which brought up a bloodstained gobbet that she spat on to the floor.