It was then an idea came to her. She almost laughed aloud. But no, it was surely impossible. Nevertheless, she returned to her chamber thinking, Bel Pierre, you may have saved the King of England.

**

Vespers came and went. The lamps were lit. Then compline, night prayers, and the swell of constant crowds subsided, leaving the passages and public chambers empty, giving way to a gradual shutting down of the household until only the slippered night servants sat around in quiet groups waiting to be summoned by insomniacs waiting for the midnight office to begin.

The stair well leading down to the lower floor was as black as pitch. She had to feel her way along the passage with one hand scraping along the wall while holding onto the squirrel’s basket with the other. Her scrip was buckled to her belt and weighed heavily against her as she moved.

The floor levelled out. Now it was only a few paces down a short corridor to the apothecary’s workshop. Guided by the strong scent of his elixirs she paused when she reached the door then, ears pricked, she cautiously turned the ring. The door slid open and she stepped through.

A heavy, aromatic silence greeted her. Pausing for a moment to get her bearings she was eventually able to make out hundreds of bunches of dried herbs hanging from the beams above her head. Like bats, she thought with a shiver. Nothing stirred.

Over by the bench where the cures were dispensed were a few jars and wooden utensils, a pestle and mortar, a set of scales, and a rack of knives. Not wasting time here she stepped carefully over to the far door. If it was locked she would have trouble prising it open with her knife but to her joy it opened at her touch and she stepped inside.

It would be too much to hope that the poison that had already by its mere existence caused three deaths would be openly displayed and yet, with the apothecary’s oblique character in mind she could see him doing such a thing, amused by his own secret knowledge, flaunting it in the face of his unsuspecting customers.

With the open shelves as her first search, then, before she tried the aumbry where he had kept the silver talisman, she stepped close up, lit the taper she had brought, and began to read the labels.

Two rows of clay pots with wax stoppers were arranged precisely on the shelves along with glass demijohns and a shelf of small glass phials with wax lids. Everything was labelled with the names of ingredients she recognised. Sometimes the lettering was difficult to make out but all of it made eventual sense.

Nothing suspicious here.

The end of the third shelf was reached without anything unexpected being found either. Then she started on the fourth shelf at eye level. It was quite soon, in among the wolf bane and the hemlocks, that she saw something she did not recognise. Urb.Md.

Abbreviated as most were, the label bore similar lettering to the others. There was nothing to mark it out as different except for the meaning of the letters. She knew the latter half could stand for mandragora, only lethal in concentrated amounts. But Urb? Latin for town. Or did it indicate the town of Urbino? Certainly it was something she had never come across before.

Mandragora from Urbino? A shiver went through her as another piece of the puzzle seemed about to fall into place.

Everyone knew where Fondi hailed from. His break with the Duke of Urbino, a staunch supporter of Pope Urban, had been very public and caused a scandal that echoed round the monastic world.

The reason the paw marks of a squirrel had been found in her bed chamber the other day was still unexplained.

Fondi.

Was he the answer?

Fingers trembling she took out her own clay pot containing nothing more than a digestive tincture and then, nerves stretched for any sound from the workshop, took down the similar pot with its ambiguous label. Even by the flickering light of her taper the replacement seemed to scream its difference. Anybody who knew anything about herbal cures would notice the substitution at once. She would never get away with it.

She glanced towards the basket and its contents. Bel Pierre? It was an absurd idea. The risk was too great.

With the feeling that she should try another approach and make better use of her time now she was here she lifted the pot from off the shelf and took both through into the workshop.

By the light of the taper she found the basin of water the apothecary kept on his work bench, dipped the sealed pot with its lethal contents into it and began to peel the label off. It was stuck on with fish glue and came away easily. Using the remains of the wet glue she stuck the label carefully over the one on the pot she had brought with her containing the harmless tincture, returned to the store room, and stood the pot neatly on the shelf with the others. Now it looked no different in the flickering light.

Her plan had been to let Bel Pierre loose among the pots after first knocking a few of them down in silence. The subsequent mess would be blamed on the rampaging squirrel and a few discrepancies in labelling would not be noticed. Now she wondered if that should be the finishing touch after all. The substitute looked convincing enough, however, and she began to gather her things together by the cone of light from the taper.

After fumbling around to make sure she had left nothing behind, she picked up the basket with the squirrel in it and felt her way towards the outer door.

Before she had gone even half way across, the whisper of leather on stone came to her.

Someone was approaching, moving inexorably and without haste. She wished she had closed the door to the workshop but it was too late to do more than slide hastily back into the store room.

The footsteps came to a halt outside the door. She heard a grunt of surprise.

Bel Pierre made a small scratching sound in the basket on her arm, no more than a single claw against the woven willow but it sounded as loud as a drum beat. She held her breath.

A paler shade in the darkness flowed into the workshop. Someone had entered.

Scarcely daring to breathe she melted further back into the store room and, peering through a crack in the door, watched a light illuminate the apothecary’s face and hands as he lit a taper and stuck it into a holder. Then he went to a shelf and with practised ease ran his fingers along it until they recognised what they wanted. They closed round one of the phials.

Unstopping it he sniffed it with a sigh of appreciation. Then she watched as he poured a little into a beaker, tipped something else into it, swirled it three times then sipped the mixture, sighing again as he did so.

Bel Pierre changed position in his basket with a little creak.

The apothecary stood looking up at the bundles of herbs hanging from the roof beam with a faraway expression on his face. Then, holding the taper in one hand, he made his way back towards the door. His light briefly lit up the passage outside.

Then the door closed behind him.

The scene cut to black.

Forcing herself to wait for what seemed an age Hildegard eventually risked going to the door and cautiously turning the ring. When it was wide enough to look out she saw with relief that the passage was empty. Realising she had better get out before the place was filled with domestic staff crowding in to matins, she fled like a shadow to safety.

**

I have it. Whatever it is, I have it. She would take it back to England. She would get it analysed by one of the royal apothecaries.

Then she would tell the whole story to Mr Medford. As head of the King’s Signet Office he would need to know everything about this latest move against King Richard.

Only a few people were aware of Medford’s other more secret role as the king’s chief intelligencer and he was the only one she could trust with something like this.