Authors: Alys Clare
Despite her fear, Sabin smiled. ‘If someone had convinced Lord Benedict of the good sense of that, then perhaps he would still be alive. I have always suspected a labouring heart beneath all that f—’ She stopped herself.
Fat
wasn’t perhaps tactful, when speaking of a man so recently dead. ‘Er, all that bulk,’ she substituted.
Canon Mark was mounting the mare. ‘We should not prejudge,’ he admonished gently. ‘Come, let us be on our way – it is a considerable ride to Medley.’
The trouble was, Sabin reflected as she rode along between the two monks, that barely anyone who knew Lord Benedict de Vitré, either personally or by repute, would be all that sorry he was dead. Lord Benedict was universally recognized to be a close friend and confidant of King John and, of late, he had been busy supervising the collection of the endless taxes and tithes which the king demanded from his subjects. Also universally recognized was that Lord Benedict was getting wealthier and wealthier: either the king was very generous in rewarding those who did his work so well, or else Lord Benedict was creaming off a portion of all that he amassed for the king, and keeping it for himself.
Such was Lord Benedict’s reputation for ruthlessness, arrogance, bullying, and cold-hearted cruelty, however, that nobody – apart from the king, were he to suspect it – would dare to suggest such a thing.
Lord Benedict had resided in the extensive manor of Medley, which was centred upon a hump of higher ground amid low-lying land to the south-east of Tonbridge. There he had lived well, by most people’s standards, even before the work he undertook for the king had started to bring him such generous rewards. Now, however, it seemed he had been determined to make his formerly modest residence into a veritable palace. It was no secret that he had been busy building extensions, setting out gardens, constructing fine stables for his beautiful new horses, and furnishing the living quarters to the very height of expensive luxury. Perhaps, Sabin mused, suppressing a grin, King John had been told of this sudden excess of spending and, suspecting its cause, had had Lord Benedict murdered.
Of course he hasn’t
, she told herself.
Kings don’t behave like that.
Presently they reached the summit of a long, steady climb. Canon Mark, in the lead, waved a hand and called back, ‘Medley Hall!’
The manor house was heavily guarded. A ditch had been dug right round the collection of dwellings and the many outbuildings that encircled the yard, and the excavated earth had been piled up on the inner side of the ditch, forming a bank. On top of the bank was a wooden paling fence, the tips of the palings sharpened into spikes. For a moment, Sabin wondered why Lord Benedict de Vitré had elected to defend himself so very carefully. Then, recalling his reputation for efficiently and ruthlessly collecting revenue on the king’s behalf, she understood.
There were many armed men in evidence; no less than six on duty at the single entry point, where double gates stood closed. Six pairs of eyes were fixed on Sabin and the two monks as they approached.
‘We are summoned to attend Lord Benedict,’ Canon Mark called out. ‘This is Canon Stephen, and I am Canon Mark. With us is Mistress de Gifford, apothecary and healer of Tonbridge.’
One of the guards leaned over to his companion, and Sabin caught the tail end of a muttered comment: ‘… late in the day to attempt to heal him.’
A broad-shouldered man with a broken nose had stepped forward. He glared at the man who had spoken, then looked up at Canon Mark. ‘Aye, we were told you’d been summoned,’ he said. He stared at all three of them for several moments. ‘You’d better go on in,’ he finally acceded. He nodded to two of the guards, who heaved at the heavy gates, opening them just enough for Sabin and the two canons to ride through into the courtyard.
A lad ran out to take their mounts, nodding in the direction of the lord’s dwelling house, a large, rambling building showing signs of recent expansion. A flight of stone steps led up to the main entrance. Coming down the steps was a tall, slim man with dark, hooded eyes who introduced himself as Lord Benedict’s steward. He seemed to know why they were there; undoubtedly, Sabin thought, because it had been he who had summoned them. Silently he led them across the great hall, along a passage, down a short flight of steps, along a further passage and, finally, down a wide spiral stair into a large, cold cellar. Wooden racks lined two of its walls, many of them loaded with barrels of wine. There were several huge wooden vats – of ale, perhaps – and big joints of smoked meat hung from hooks in the enormous beams which supported the stone slabs of the ceiling.
‘This must be part of the original house,’ Sabin whispered to Stephen. ‘It’s quite diff—’ She shut her mouth hard on the words that had almost come out.
‘Quite what?’ Stephen whispered back.
‘Quite dark and frightening!’ she hissed. ‘And so cold!’
She thought he gave her a brief, quizzical look. She hoped very much that she was wrong.
Her heartbeat gradually slowed down. Oh, but she must be more careful …
Lord Benedict had been laid out on a trestle table and covered with a length of deep-red velvet. He lay on his back, his hands crossed over his breast. The great hump of his stomach rose up, round and hard as that of a pregnant woman. Torches flamed in sconces on the wall behind him, and eight lighted candles, set in tall iron holders, had been set in pairs at the four corners of the trestle.
Whoever had undertaken the task of closing his eyes had not done it very well; there was a slit between the upper and lower lids, and the candlelight seemed to catch a glitter from the dark, dead eyes.
Canon Mark addressed the steward. ‘Did anything unusual happen on the night Lord Benedict died?’ he asked. ‘Did he vomit, for example? Was there a flux of the bowels?’
Sabin fought to suppress a gasp of horror.
He suspects poison …
The steward’s mouth twisted, as if he found the question distasteful. ‘He did neither, as far as I know,’ he said coldly, smoothing back his long hair with a graceful hand. ‘He ate and drank as enthusiastically as he normally did, with every sign of enjoying all that he consumed.’
Sabin let out the breath she’d been holding.
‘Thank you.’ Canon Mark turned to his brother in Christ and said, in a matter-of-fact tone that Sabin found immensely reassuring, ‘If you would begin, please, Stephen?’
The steward retreated to a dark corner of the cellar as, with swift, deft hands, Stephen folded back the velvet cloth and unfastened the dead man’s tunic. He untied the hose, rolling them down the legs and off the feet, and then removed the undershirt. Lord Benedict de Vitré lay ready for their inspection.
There really was not much to see. He was vastly overweight – even more so than it had appeared when he was clothed – and there was a definite blueish tinge to the flesh of his face and jowls. Beneath the huge belly, the genitals appeared small and shrunken. Thick, purplish veins ran down the insides of both legs, tangling into knots in the calves and at the ankles. After a while, and with considerable effort, the two canons turned the dead man on to his front. The two vast buttocks shuddered as the body settled in its new position, and the sudden pressure on the corpse’s belly made it emit a loud and prolonged fart. The flesh of the back – white and unpleasantly greasy – was dotted with several pimples, one of which the man must have been scratching at before death, for it was crowned with a large bead of dried blood.
For some time, Sabin and her two companions stood looking down at the corpse. Then, as if some signal had been given, the canons took hold of the body once more and returned it on to its back. Then they replaced the garments, finally drawing up the dark-red velvet and pulling it right up over the face.
Sabin, well used to dead bodies, was nevertheless very grateful to be spared the further sight of the narrow, glittering eyes.
Canon Mark turned to where the steward stood in his corner. ‘We have finished,’ he said quietly.
The steward moved forward, swiftly and silently. It was as if, Sabin thought, he was gliding across the flagged stone floor. ‘What is your conclusion?’ the steward demanded.
Canon Mark looked enquiringly at Sabin. ‘Mistress Gifford? Would you care to speak first?’
Sabin’s heart was thumping again. She drew a breath to steady herself, then said, ‘This man was too heavy, and I conclude from his colour that his heart troubled him. I suspect that, during times of excitement, stress or sudden activity, he would become breathless, and his heart would have fluttered in his chest. Its beat would be irregular, and I imagine he probably felt some pain.’ She hesitated, deliberately calmed herself, then concluded firmly, ‘It is my opinion that a particularly severe spasm could well have caused his death.’
‘Thank you,’ Mark said. ‘Stephen?’ Turning to the steward, he said, ‘I ought to have told you before, Canon Stephen is our infirmarian. I apologize.’ He gave a little bob of a bow. The steward nodded impatiently.
‘It is my conclusion also that Lord Benedict died from a spasm of the heart,’ Stephen said. There was a pause, and then he went on: ‘Perhaps I should not mention this, although, under the circumstances, I cannot see the harm.’ Turning to the steward, he said, ‘Lord Benedict came to consult me recently concerning a personal matter, and I suggested he should try to reduce his considerable weight by eating less and exercising more. I believe I made it clear to him that his general health, and in particular that of his heart, would improve if he followed my advice.’
The steward nodded again. Sabin was watching him closely, but his face gave nothing away, and she could not tell if Lord Benedict’s visit to Canon Stephen’s infirmary was news to him or not.
‘Thank you, Stephen,’ Mark said. ‘I am not a medical man,’ he added, addressing the steward, ‘and I bow to the wisdom and experience of my two colleagues. I believe that the late Lord Benedict’s widow and his kin, your good self and the household may accept what Mistress Gifford and Canon Stephen have said. Lord Benedict was at a feast when he died, I understand?’
‘He was. The feast of All Saints’ Eve,’ the steward replied.
Canon Mark spread his hands and raised his eyebrows, as if to say,
Well, then!
‘It was a hearty meal, I dare say? You have already told us that he ate and drank well.’
The steward gave a grunt of assent.
There seemed nothing more to say. Hoping that it would prompt her companions to follow, Sabin began to edge away towards the steps leading up out of the cellar. At first it seemed that all was well, for they followed her and soon all of them were mounting the stair. They went on down the passage, up the further flight of steps, and were approaching the heavy door when Canon Mark turned to the steward and said, ‘Perhaps we should speak to the widow before we go? Lady Richenza, isn’t it? She has just suffered the loss of her husband, after all, and I believe she is but a young woman, probably not previously acquainted with grief.’
Sabin’s heart seemed to stop for a few seconds. When it resumed, its beat was so rapid that she thought for a moment she would pass out.
But, thank the good, merciful Lord above, the steward shook his head. ‘Lady Richenza has given orders that she is not to be disturbed. I will undertake to pass on to her what you have told me.’
Then, with a very definite air of finality, he ushered them out of the door and closed it firmly behind them.
Sabin leaned forward and poked at the fire. She felt shivery, and clutched her warm shawl more closely around her. She had been so relieved, on the ride back from Medley Hall to Tonbridge, that she could have sung.
It’s all right!
she had wanted to shout.
It was his heart that killed him, his heart made feeble by his own sinful gluttony!
It was only later that the guilt had begun.
What should she do? Someone else, she was well aware, would be sharing her dreadful suspicions. But, under the circumstances, that someone was the last person she should seek out. If her suspicions were wrong, there was absolutely no need to muddy the waters by drawing attention to them. If they were right, then …
If they were right.
Sabin pressed her fisted hands to her breast, sick with fear. Oh, dear God in heaven, if her suspicions were right, then what had she done?
She went on sitting there by her fireside, her muscles tight with the terrible tension of fear and indecision.
Eventually, the whirl of her thoughts edged towards a conclusion. The two brothers had found no evidence of what she so dreaded. Nor, come to that, had she. But the canons had not known what they should be looking out for. Sabin knew, but she had no idea how it would have manifested itself.
What she needed was a trustworthy friend whose knowledge of herbal remedies, their intended effects and their possible
unintended
effects was as good as – no, better than – her own.
She stood up. She knew what she must do. It was not yet noon; there was plenty of time.
Thrown into action, she set about the many tasks she must do. Issue orders to her kitchen servants to prepare a meal for Gervase and Alazaïs. Tell Gervase’s manservant to fetch Alazaïs home from her needlework lesson, when the time came. Leave a message to tell Gervase she’d been summoned out to … to what? Where? Frantically, she tried to think. Then she stopped. Oh, what did it matter? It really wasn’t important; anything would serve. She would just say she had been called to a sick patient, and leave it at that. Gervase didn’t like her to go out without being escorted by one of the servants, and would like it even less if he had any idea how far and where she was bound, but that was just too bad.
Soon, warmly dressed, well-mounted and carrying her apothecary’s leather bag, she was on her way. Putting everything else from her mind, she concentrated on muttering, over and over again:
Please, please, let me find her
.
J
osse d’Acquin, taking advantage of an unexpectedly fine and warm morning, had decided to ride out to Hawkenlye Abbey to see his old friend Brother Saul, who had been ill with a ferocious cough for a fortnight and now, by all accounts, was on the mend. Josse and Saul had known each other for a very long time. It did not do, Josse reflected as he urged Alfred into a sprightly canter, to pass the chance of wishing an ageing old friend well. You never knew if the chance would come again.