Heart of Ice (43 page)

     ‘How did you know?’ she hissed.

     ‘I guessed that you are an apothecary; yesterday I had it confirmed.’

     Straightening up, she said, with a touch of haughtiness, ‘It may be an unusual profession for a woman, but nevertheless I am proud of what I do.’

     ‘With justification, my lady.’

     She stared at him as if searching his face for sincerity. Apparently finding it, she smiled. ‘Thank you.’

     De Gifford invited her to sit down beside her grandfather. Then he said, ‘Sabin, now that the man who wanted you dead is no more a threat to you, will you tell us exactly why he wanted to kill you? We know it was to ensure that a secret was kept; could you, do you think, enlighten us as to what that secret was?’

     She looked at de Gifford, briefly at Josse, then had a short, muttered conversation with her grandfather. ‘I do not know that I can,’ she said eventually, ‘for it is a secret about which, did you know what it concerned, both of you would, I am certain, urge the utmost discretion.’

     Josse spoke up. ‘My lady, I have surmised from what little I already know that this business into which you have stumbled involves some very well-known, important and influential people, although I am not aware of their identities. Would it reassure you if I were to tell you that I am reasonably well accustomed to such circles and that, if you could see your way to unburdening yourself, you would have my solemn oath that what you tell me will go no further?’

     She met his eyes and he read in hers a great need to reveal the story. Looking across to de Gifford, she said, ‘Would you undertake that, if I do tell you, you too will not mention a syllable of it beyond these four walls?’

     ‘I will, my lady,’ de Gifford said. ‘On that I give you my word.’

     She turned back to her grandfather; he seemed to be encouraging her to go ahead. Finally, after a brief closing of her eyes – perhaps, Josse thought, she was praying – she began.

     ‘Very well. I do in truth feel that I shall die if I don’t tell you!’ She managed a brief laugh that did little to ease her evident tension. ‘Grandfather is a renowned apothecary and I am his apprentice.’

     ‘An apprentice who does the majority of the work nowadays,’ the old man put in, reaching for and patting her hand.

     Sabin smiled. ‘I do not mind. I love what I do and I am proud to carry on the work of the de Retz clan. We live in Nantes,’ she went on, ‘where, over the years, Grandfather’s renown has earned him quite a long list of wealthy clients who know he is the very best and are prepared to pay him for his skill. We treat the poor as well,’ she assured her listeners, ‘for Grandfather always says that healing is a gift and that we should not reserve our help only for those who can pay the most.’ With a glance at the old man sitting nodding in agreement beside her, she added, ‘Sometimes we charge the rich a little more than is strictly fair, but it is purely in order that we may treat those who come with empty pockets.’

     ‘The rich can always afford it,’ Benoît remarked.

     ‘Word spreads when someone is very good at their job,’ Sabin went on, ‘as it was in Grandfather’s case. A person who is of the highest importance in Nantes suspected the onset of certain symptoms and, because of the status of this person, they needed to find an apothecary who was both highly skilled and totally discreet. Grandfather’s name was mentioned to this person and we – Grandfather and I – were summoned for a consultation.’

     ‘When was this?’ Josse asked.

     ‘Oh – a year ago. Perhaps a little less.’

     ‘I see.’ Then you, Sabin, Josse was thinking, would have been the dominant party in the de Retz partnership, for even then, surely your old grandfather’s blindness would have made diagnosis less certain.

     ‘I examined the patient,’ Sabin was saying, ‘and as I did so I told Grandfather what I found. We then moved apart to speak privately together, after which we had to announce to our patient what we believed the sickness to be. Our patient was horror-struck and barely took in the measures that we proposed to keep the disease at bay.’

     ‘You could not cure it?’ de Gifford asked.

     She turned to him. ‘There is no cure for this particular sickness. Our patient was in the very early stages and the symptoms were as yet mild. There was some stiffness and paralysis, some unsightly, knobbly patches on the skin. Because of the person’s position, discretion was vital and Grandfather and I were sworn to secrecy. We needed to make frequent visits, especially when the treatment first started, and so a private access was arranged for us from the stable yard, up a little-used stair and along a short passage directly into the quarters inhabited by our patient. When Grandfather or I were expected, the door at the top of the stair would be unbarred so that we could slip inside without attracting attention.’

     ‘Is this the secret that men were killed for?’ de Gifford demanded; he was, Josse observed, growing impatient.

     Sabin shot him an affectionate look. ‘No, Gervase. Be patient; I am approaching it.’ Then, pausing to take a breath, she continued. ‘The victim that your dead prisoner was paid to kill lived in the same place as our patient. The assassin was clever and painstaking and he discovered what people who pass by it every single day overlooked: the entrance to the passage that leads up into the very heart of the castle, and that Grandfather and I use when we treat our patient. He made his careful plans and then the night came that he had selected to make his strike.

     ‘But something else had happened two days previously, far away on the other side of the continent; something that removed at a stroke the reason for the murder that the assassin had been paid to do. The messenger reached him at the very last moment, when he was already about to enter the secret passage. The message was given and the assassin gave vent to his fury, cursing his master and damning him for changing his mind and calling off a perfectly good plan over which the assassin had spent so long in painstaking preparations.

     ‘Grandfather was on his way out of the castle following a visit to our patient and, hearing someone approach the stable entrance to the secret passage, had quickly hidden. He heard every word. Now my dear Grandfather’ – she bestowed a tender look upon the old man – ‘is normally adept at moving quietly and not alerting people’s attention to his presence – blindness has made his hearing very sensitive, you see, and he dislikes a lot of noise, even noise that he makes himself.’

     ‘The killer heard him?’ de Gifford put in.

     ‘Yes, yes, he heard me,’ Benoît said crossly. ‘I do wish you would not speak about me as if I were not here! His ears must have been as sharp as mine, for I swear that I was silent as a mouse as I stood there in terror listening to them speak of the murder that had been about to take place.’

     ‘I expect you gave that little throat-clearing cough, Grandfather,’ Sabin said gently. ‘It is something of a habit of yours and, indeed, I believe that you scarcely are aware that you do it.’

     ‘I
do not
have a little cough!’ Benoît exclaimed, which seemed to prove his granddaughter’s point.

     ‘So the assassin not only knew he had been overheard but also by whom,’ Josse said reflectively.

     ‘Exactly,’ Sabin confirmed. ‘As soon as Grandfather came home and told me, the first thing I asked was, did they know you were there? He said no, he didn’t think so, but we could not take the risk. I went straight back to our patient and made up some tale about having to set out straight away for some ingredients required in the treatment and I said we’d have to go far afield. Our patient agreed – well, I phrased it so that there was no choice – and that night Grandfather and I set out.’

     ‘Why did you go to Troyes?’ Josse asked.

     ‘It is a town we visit quite frequently for the purchase of supplies,’ Sabin replied. ‘We have friends there – or rather, we
had
.’

     ‘Did they perish in the lodging house fire?’ Josse asked sympathetically.

     ‘They did.’ Sabin’s tone was curt, as if she were warning Josse away from matters that caused her pain.

     ‘And in Troyes you met Nicol Romley,’ de Gifford said, ‘and, afraid and far from home, you confided in him and told him of your peril.’

     ‘It was not quite like that,’ Sabin began.

     But Benoît interrupted. ‘No, it was me, silly old fool that I am.’ He was holding Sabin’s hand tightly. ‘I had too much wine, my friends, and when Sabin brought Nicol to the tavern where we were eating our supper, I wanted to impress her young companion with our importance – he couldn’t be allowed to think that we were just nobodies!’ He shook his head sadly. ‘I let my tongue run away with me and I told him why Sabin and I had left the comfort and safety of our home and were forced to act like fugitives.’

     ‘He
was
impressed, Grandfather,’ Sabin said kindly. ‘You did at least achieve what you set out to do.’

     ‘It is no consolation whatsoever, Sabin, as well you know,’ he replied. ‘Because of me and my blabbermouth, Nicol was killed, as was the poor merchant with whom he travelled back to England. Sabin and I have been forced to travel miles and miles, then cross the narrow seas and travel some more, and the dear Lord alone knows when we shall be able to go home again!’

     ‘It may be safe to go home some time soon,’ Sabin said softly. ‘The assassin is dead.’

     ‘Who is your patient?’ Josse asked. ‘I believe I have already guessed, my lady, but I wish you would tell us.’

     She turned to him. ‘She is the Duchess Constance of Brittany,’ she said simply. ‘She is in the early stages of leprosy.’

     De Gifford gave a gasp, quickly suppressed, and Josse would have had a similar reaction but for the fact that he had already worked out the disease, if not the victim; he had remembered how, when he had first met Sabin, she had been distressed at being shunned as a possible carrier of the foreign pestilence. He recalled her exact words:
I know how it affects the soul to be treated as a leper
.

     He had thought, even then, that the passion with which she spoke suggested that the pain came from personal experience. Now, guessing that she had great affection for her mistress, he knew he was right. Fear of how people would react if her shameful secret were to come out must make the Duchess Constance’s life a veritable misery.

     ‘I believe,’ he said slowly, ‘that I am now able to name the assassin’s victim.’ She was watching him steadily. ‘I believe that he is young Arthur of Brittany, Constance’s son.’

     Sabin let out a short gasp. ‘You are right, Sir Josse.’ Then she slumped, dropped her face into her hands, and through them muttered, ‘So now you know.’

     De Gifford was looking puzzled. ‘Arthur of Brittany,’ he said slowly, ‘is the posthumous child of Geoffrey, younger brother of our King Richard.’

     ‘More relevant is that he has been named by Richard as his heir,’ Josse said. His mind flying to put the puzzle together, he raced on, speaking fast. ‘All the time that Richard was a captive of Duke Leopold, only Arthur stood between the throne and the man who wants it with such hunger.’

     ‘Prince John,’ breathed de Gifford.

     ‘Aye, Prince John. They say he has been plotting with Philip of France to keep King Richard imprisoned, if not for ever then at least until the two of them have mustered the power to complete their overrunning of Richard’s continental territories and are strong and powerful enough to fight anyone who tries to wrest them back. It is in Philip’s interest to have his ally John on the Plantagenet throne – Philip has no wish to see Arthur there. The Bretons are not, never have been and never will be friends of the French.’

     ‘So while Richard was out of the way – an arrangement that John has tried to make permanent – the only man between John and the throne is Arthur of Brittany?’ de Gifford demanded.

     ‘He is not a man,’ Sabin put in reprovingly. ‘He is but six years old.’

     ‘The assassin would have killed a child?’ De Gifford’s furious incredulity showed what he thought of that.

     ‘That is what paid killers do,’ Josse said.

     ‘But why did the assassin’s master – Prince John – call him off?’

     Josse had been thinking about that. ‘I believe that I know,’ he said, ‘or, at least, that I can give a likely reason. King Richard was originally to be released on the seventeenth of January; that was the date set back in October of last year. But later it was postponed – nobody seems to know why, although many suspect that it was because Prince John and the French king put in a higher bid.’