Evidently someone had kicked in the door because it hung aslant as if on one hinge. Of the ferryman himself there was no sign. After what happened earlier he must be cowering inside with his knife at the ready.
Heart suddenly in her mouth she leaned against the parapet out of the wind to watch.
Fitzjohn was waving an arm as if giving instructions. The men scattered and one or two splashed through the water to take something into the cottage. They came out again. Others seemed to be searching along the waterline for something. One of them dragged a few broken branches to the door but Fitzjohn waved him back. His horse was kicking up water and champing at the bit.
He dismounted and threw the reins to Edmund who was still astride his distinctive grey. She saw him lead Fitzjohn’s horse off a little way and look back at the others. They were all urging their horses back now. The ones who had come out of the cottage followed Fitzjohn inside. Then they all came out again.
Fitzjohn went to his horse and mounted. His men did the same. They all moved off to the top of the bank and turned to look back.
Suddenly she saw what had their attention. A wisp of smoke appeared from the doorway of the cottage. Nothing much happened until suddenly it was billowing out in thick black coils. Flames followed. She gasped. The cottage was on fire.
She imagined the ferryman trapped inside, bound maybe, unable to get out. She stared in horror. There was nothing she could do.
She noticed something else. His boat had gone. A glance up and down river from the vantage point of the tower showed no sign of it.
Now Edmund and the rest of Fitzjohn’s retinue, with the rat’s tail swinging on its pole, were riding back towards the palace. She saw Edmund look back once towards the cottage then urge his horse after the others.
**
By the time she had descended the many steps to ground level and hurried outside through the usual press into the Great Courtyard Fitzjohn’s men were already jostling to be let back in through the gatehouse. Fitzjohn himself was first through and dismounted in the middle of the yard. He threw his reins to one of his pages with a lordly gesture. Edmund slid down from his own horse and began to follow the others towards the stable yard. She caught up with him when they were out of sight round the corner.
‘What was that about?’
‘How do you know?’
‘I was up there.’ She gestured towards the top of one of the towers.
‘I can’t believe he did that.’
‘He set fire to the ferryman’s cottage?’
Edmund nodded wearily.
‘Was the ferryman inside?’
He shook his head. ‘He got away in his boat.’ While he led his horse into one of the stalls and attended to its needs he explained. ‘That news about Justice Tresillian must have increased Fitzjohn’s courage. Now he believes he can get away with anything.’
‘What was his idea?’
‘He must have eventually worked out that the miners escaped by water so what does he do? Uses his brains for once. He goes to question the only waterman around.’
‘And did he admit to anything?’ Wondering what would come next Hildegard could only stare at Edmund in dread willing the words out of him.
But he gave a sudden smile. ‘To his eternal credit he just kept pointing to some wounds inflicted earlier saying, “I know nothing, sire. First, a fellow asks me to keep quiet about I know not what, and beats me up to make sure I do. Then you, sire, ask me to talk, and threaten to burn my cottage if I don’t. How is a man to cope? I know nothing of any importance, sire. I’m just a lowly ferryman. What is it I’m supposed to preach forth and at the same time keep to myself? Solomon himself couldn’t reach an answer. Especially as I know nothing of any interest to anybody but me and my sweetheart.” That gave Fitzjohn something to think about. “Who asked you to keep your mouth shut?” Answer, “I’d give a king’s ransom to find out, sire.” ’
Edmund was acting it out. Now he rubbed his hands together in an obsequious manner and asked in a quavering voice, not, to be honest, at all like the ferryman’s robust tones. ‘“And what, pray, have I not to say, my lord? I wish someone would tell me. And again, sire, what is it you wish to know? Guide me, I pray.” ’
In his own voice he said, ‘Now I know what a liar looks like when he’s exercising his skill. Truth to say there was a certain nobility in the constancy of his lie.’
A wave of relief washed over Hildegard and she said, ‘The miners must have impressed him in some way even though neither side speaks the other’s tongue.’
‘Taillefer would translate.’
‘That must be it. They must have recognised each other as brothers against the tyranny of the nobles.’
‘He did sterling work for us, that ferryman. I trust his sweetheart welcomes him with open arms. And Taillefer…he gave his life.’ Edmund’s words caught in his throat but his face was set in stone. His eyes were moist.
**
Poison. An apothecary’s job was to know about it.
‘The magister is quite well, thanks to your potion, master. But I myself feel a little unwell. I wonder what you’d suggest?’
‘Symptoms, domina?’
‘A tightness in my lungs. Cold feet and hands.’
He turned to the shelf of ready-made cures in the coloured demijohns with their Latin labels ranged in an orderly fashion on the wall behind him.
After a brief consideration he took one down. While he poured a small amount of something like tincture of lung wort through a funnel into a clay pot she wondered how on earth she was going to find anything out from him. She wasn’t even sure what she wanted to know. One way to start was to find out where the poison that had been in the dagger was being kept.
Then she remembered the small silver talisman he had given her to hand over to Athanasius. She had forgotten it until now. It was where she had first put it, inside her sleeve. She managed to find it and pull it out. There was no-one else around so she placed it carefully on the counter.
The apothecary noticed at once and covered it with his palm. In a low voice he asked, ‘What does he require, domina?’
‘Reassurance that a certain cure is safely disposed of.’
‘Awaiting future use?’ He chuckled with the assurance of a man who holds the lives of others in his gift. He leaned forward. ‘I believe we are only waiting for the terms of barter to be fulfilled then your English lord may take his prize.’
‘That may be some time,’ she murmured, also leaning forward. ‘My lord Fitzjohn is facing a slight problem.’
‘So I understand. It is said he may soon find an alternative. It is hoped the problem will be solved to the satisfaction of all parties.’
‘And I trust the gift from his Holiness will keep its potency until the matter is settled?’
‘Have no fear.’
‘You have a suitable place in which to conceal it?’
The apothecary gave an involuntary glance behind him towards the small chamber where he had taken her on their first meeting. The door was closed, perhaps locked.
‘Tell the magister he can trust me with his life and with anything else, including the means to end it.’ He smiled knowingly.
‘He will be overjoyed to hear it.’
He inched the silver talisman back to her with the tip of one finger nail.
**
In order to thwart Woodstock’s plot, if indeed her hunch was correct about that, someone would have to obtain the poison themselves. Maybe a substitute could be put in its place and when the barter was made, if Fitzjohn managed to find something the pope would accept in exchange, then it might be applied with no harm befalling the victim. God save King Richard.
There was no-one she could share her plan with and no way of carrying it out - unless she could get inside the apothecary’s private store - and see to it herself.