A Flight of Arrows

by A. J. MacKenzie

  Silence fell. The herald stared out across the fields towards Paris, where the smoke of yesterday’s fires still drifted in the air. The other three glanced at each other. ‘What are you thinking?’ Tiphaine asked.

  ‘I was right. Nicodemus is here. Warin, find Sir John Grey and Sir Richard Percy. Give them my compliments and ask them to turn out their men. Describe Nicodemus to them and ask them to search the camp from top to bottom. Check the baggage train in particular, any place where he might hide. Demoiselle, will you please find Sir Nicholas Courcy and ask him to meet me at the palace? Are Matt and Pip here?’

  Warin motioned towards the two archers leaning on their bows thirty yards away. Merrivale turned to them. ‘Come with me,’ he said. ‘You too, Mauro. I may have need of you.’

  Poissy, 15th of August, 1346

  Midday

  Coloyne, the yeoman of the kitchen, met them looking worried. ‘What is this about, herald? The feast begins in an hour’s time and we have much work to do.’

  The royal cooks had established themselves in the palace kitchen. Fires roared on the hearths and pots bubbled and boiled, while outside men in bloody aprons butchered beef and mutton carcasses and prepared them for cooking. From the chapel of the priory next door came the sound of chanting; the king and his court were attending mass.

  ‘I must speak to Master Clerebaud,’ the herald said.

  ‘Very well, but please do not detain him for long.’

  Glancing around the crowded kitchen, Merrivale could see no sign of Curry. Clerebaud was at work at the sauce table, chopping herbs with manic energy and stirring them into a pot over a low fire. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and straightened as Merrivale approached. His eyes were guarded. ‘How may I help you, herald?’

  ‘How much do you owe them?’ Merrivale asked.

  ‘How much do I… what are you talking about?’

  ‘Nicodemus and his friends. You play dice with them almost every night.’

  Clerebaud looked around for a moment, then back at the herald. ‘I gamble with a few friends. I don’t know what you mean about Nicodemus.’

  ‘How much do you owe?’ the herald repeated.

  ‘…Thirty marks, or thereabouts. A trifling sum. I can easily win it back.’

  Thirty marks, or twenty pounds, was more than even a skilled professional cook like Clerebaud earned in a year. ‘What sauces are you making for the banquet?’

  Clerebaud looked startled by the question. ‘Cameline for roasting the beef. Sorrel verjuice for the carp. Saffron sauce, ginger sauce, garlic sauce, and a honey mustard glaze for the swan.’

  ‘Show me what you are putting in them.’

  The sauce-maker indicated the table where his ingredients were laid out. Merrivale sifted through them, picking up bunches of herbs and examining them, sniffing a bowl of chopped garlic, dipping his finger in a crock of honey. He could see or smell nothing out of the ordinary. ‘Mauro? What do you think?’

  ‘Everything seems in order, señor.’

  The herald turned back to Clerebaud. ‘The scullion who watches the pots, Curry. Where is he?’

  Sudden terror crept into Clerebaud’s eyes. ‘I don’t know. He was here last night, but I haven’t seen him this morning.’

  The herald remembered what Nell had said. ‘Has Curry threatened you?’

  The terror increased. After a moment, Clerebaud nodded. ‘He said if they don’t get their money, they’ll skin me alive.’

  Merrivale watched the other man’s eyes. ‘Curry also made you an offer, didn’t he? He asked you to do something in order to pay off the debt. What was it?’

  The air in the kitchen was hot and full of steam and smoke, and sweat streamed down Clerebaud’s face. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Tell me where Nicodemus is.’

  ‘I don’t know. I swear by the blood of Jesus, I haven’t seen him.’

  ‘You remember what happened at Lammas,’ Merrivale said. ‘The poisoned juvert.’

  ‘That was nothing to do with me!’

  ‘No. But if something happens today, it won’t be Curry and his men coming to flay you. It will be the king’s executioners.’

  * * *

  Back in the courtyard, they could hear singing again, the words of the Gloria echoing off stone walls.

  Domine Fili unigenite, Iesu Christe,

  Domine Deus, Agnus Dei, Filius Patris,

  qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis;

  qui tollis peccata mundi, suscipe deprecationem nostram.

  Qui sedes ad dexteram Patris, miserere nobis.

  ‘He is lying, señor,’ Mauro said.

  ‘Of course he is. Stay here, and do not let him out of your sight.’

  ‘Yes, señor.’

  Courcy had arrived, Gráinne inevitably at his elbow. Tiphaine was with them, standing what she judged was a safe distance from Gráinne; Matt and Pip lingered silently a few yards away. ‘Sir Nicholas,’ the herald said, ‘I need your knowledge of alchemy. How many kinds of poison are there?’

  ‘Christ knows,’ said Courcy. ‘Wolf’s-bane, belladonna, arsenic, strychnine, hemlock, opium, to name just a few. Do you want me to recite the entire pharmacopoeia?’

  ‘At Lisieux, you said the poison might have been acquired from an apothecary’s shop. Is there such a shop in Poissy?’

  ‘Yes, in the square by the church of Notre-Dame.’

  ‘Take me there, if you please.’

  * * *

  The looters had been thorough; every door in the square had been forced open and every building plundered, including the church. The windows of the apothecary’s shop had been smashed, fragments of glass and lead crunching under their boots as they entered. Cabinets and chests stood open, but by and large their contents had been left untouched; the looters had been looking for gold and silver or goods they could sell, and powders and tinctures were not considered valuable enough to take away.

  Leaving Matt and Pip on guard outside, they searched the shop. ‘What are we looking for?’ Tiphaine asked.

  ‘Every box or bottle will have a label,’ Courcy said. ‘That’s so the ’pothecary doesn’t get the ingredients mixed up and accidentally sell a love potion when he was meant to provide a hair restorer.’ He paused for a moment, looking at her. ‘Sorry, I should have asked. You do know how to read?’

  ‘I was educated at the finest convent school in Normandy,’ Tiphaine snapped. ‘I know how to read.’

  ‘Sweet Jesus, you’re an idiot,’ Gráinne told her husband, cuffing him with one gauntleted hand.

  ‘Not every country believes in educating women, mo grá. I wasn’t sure how they did things in Normandy.’

  They searched the shop, looking into cabinets and lifting the tops of majolica jars to smell the contents, Courcy checking the labels and muttering under his breath in Latin. Finding nothing, they moved through to the storeroom at the rear of the building. Almost at once they discovered what they were looking for, a wooden cabinet full of jars of dark treacly syrup and cloth packets containing roots and seeds. ‘Lachryma papaveris,’ Courcy said, pointing to the syrup. ‘And here we have Aconitum napellus, Atropa belladonna, Nux vomica and Arsenicum trisulphide. These are the poisons.’

  ‘Is anything missing?’ asked Merrivale.

  ‘It is hard to tell without an inventory. But the cabinet is well stocked. If someone did steal anything, they can’t have taken much.’

  ‘Where else might someone find poisons?’

  ‘Well, we’ve looted half a dozen towns since Lisieux. Or the poisoner might still have the stock he picked up in Caen.’

  Merrivale shook his head. ‘They wouldn’t carry the poison this far in their baggage. The risk of discovery is too great. They will look for stocks near to hand.’

  ‘Where else in Poissy could they find aconitum?’ asked Gráinne.

  Tiphaine snapped her fingers. ‘The priory here is a rich house. King Philippe’s sister is the prioress there. They would have
their own physician.’

  ‘And the physician will have stocks of drugs,’ said Courcy. ‘But the king and prince are hearing mass at the priory now. Can we get in?’

  The herald touched his tabard. ‘This is our passport,’ he said.

  * * *

  The kitchen, Mauro reflected, looked a little like one of those scenes from hell’s inferno that he remembered seeing painted on church walls back in Spain. Flames crackled, smoke and steam billowed towards the high ceiling. Men crouched over the fires, turning haunches of meat on spits. Pans clattered and pots bubbled. He mopped his forehead, watching Clerebaud adding breadcrumbs to the ginger sauce and stirring to thicken it, his face full of concentration.

  Suddenly the sauce-maker frowned, rubbing a hand over his stomach and wincing in pain. He lifted the sauce pot from the fire, and hurried towards the door. ‘Where are you going?’ Mauro asked.

  ‘Garderobe. Christ, my guts are on fire.’

  Mauro grinned. ‘Have you been eating your own cooking, señor?’

  ‘Very funny. Where are you going?’

  ‘I’m coming with you. My orders are not to let you out of my sight.’

  The garderobe was in the stair turret next to the stables, a narrow dog-leg passage leading off the stair. ‘For God’s sake give me some privacy,’ Clerebaud pleaded. ‘I feel like hell. The last thing I need is you standing there watching me.’

  ‘I’ve seen worse,’ Mauro said, but the garderobe was tiny, with room only for one. He was forced to stand in the passage, waiting and listening to the sounds of distress. His mind was still dwelling on the subject of poison. ‘Seriously, señor. Was it something you ate?’

  ‘We had tripe sausages for dinner last night. I thought they smelled off.’

  ‘Is anyone else feeling ill?’

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps I just had a bad piece. Oh God, I could shit through the eye of a needle.’

  More groans followed, and eventually Clerebaud re-emerged, wiping his hands and looking a little pale. ‘Are you all right, señor?’ Mauro asked.

  ‘I have to be,’ Clerebaud said, mopping the sweat from his face again. ‘I have work to do.’

  Poissy, 15th of August, 1346

  Early afternoon

  At the priory, the communion rite had begun.

  Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis.

  Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, dona nobis pacem.

  The royal serjeants guarding the priory gates looked dubious when Merrivale demanded entrance. ‘The king gave strict orders not to be disturbed during mass, sir.’

  ‘This is the king’s business,’ Merrivale said. ‘I take full responsibility.’

  The gates swung open. The chapel lay directly ahead, the cloister to the right, the prioress’s lodging to the left. ‘The infirmary will be beyond the cloister,’ Tiphaine said, pointing. They ran through the colonnade, pushing open doors into chapter house and scriptorium, and found a corridor leading to the kitchen and domestic buildings. ‘Here!’ Tiphaine called, and they followed her into a whitewashed room with an arched stone ceiling and beds arranged at neat intervals. A wooden table stood at one end of the room, a heavy iron-bound chest and an ambry behind it. The door of the ambry was open.

  Courcy rummaged through it quickly. ‘Poppy syrup, belladonna, arsenic, all here.’ He turned, his eyes narrowed a little. ‘No aconitum,’ he said. ‘No wolf’s-bane.’

  ‘Would they necessarily keep stocks of it?’

  ‘It is a common treatment for fever and rheum. No well-stocked pharmacy is without it.’

  ‘So Nicodemus has the wolf’s-bane,’ Merrivale said. ‘And the feast begins at nones, as soon as mass is over.’ He looked up at the sun. ‘We have very little time.’

  * * *

  ‘That saffron sauce smells good,’ Mauro said. ‘Saffron always reminds me of home.’

  ‘Spanish saffron is the best,’ Clerebaud agreed. ‘Far better than what they grow in France. This is to go with the poached eggs. Saffron sauce with eggs is one of the king’s favourite dishes.’

  Mauro smiled. ‘Better that than tripe sausages.’

  ‘Don’t remind me.’ As if on cue, Clerebaud gave a sudden moan, doubling up and clutching at his stomach. ‘Christ, here we go again,’ he said, and he lifted the pot from the fire once more and ran out of the kitchen, heading for the garderobe. Mauro followed him. By the time he reached the top of the stair, Clerebaud was already inside the little chamber, groaning with pain.

  ‘Señor,’ Mauro called. ‘Are you all right?’

  There was no answer, but the groaning ceased. The silence lasted for half a minute, and Mauro began to grow uneasy. ‘Señor!’ he called.

  Still no answer. With a shock, Mauro realised what had happened. ‘Bastardo,’ he said under his breath, and hurried into the garderobe. The wooden seat had been lifted, and the shaft leading down to the ditch below was empty. There was no sign of Clerebaud.

  * * *

  Merrivale hurried into the palace courtyard followed by Tiphaine, Courcy and Gráinne, just as Mauro came running downstairs. ‘He is gone. He climbed down the garderobe shaft just a few moments ago. Señor, I am sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. Quickly, to the kitchens.’

  John Sully was in the courtyard, dog trotting at his heels, and Merrivale stopped for a moment in surprise. ‘Sir John! I thought you would be at mass.’

  ‘At my age, mass is irrelevant,’ the older man said. ‘The fact that I am still alive is proof enough of God’s favour.’ He looked at Merrivale. ‘What is wrong?’

  ‘Someone is trying to poison the king,’ Merrivale said, and he ran into the kitchen. The others followed. The pots of sauce stood lined up on the table, ready to be decanted for service. Merrivale bent over them, inhaling their rich aromas. Above the saffron sauce he stopped abruptly and stepped back. ‘What do you think?’ he asked Courcy.

  The Irish knight leaned over the pot, sniffed and nodded. ‘I think we’ve found the wolf’s-bane,’ he said.

  Coloyne was beside them, his face sharp with anxiety. ‘What is it?’

  ‘This pot has been poisoned with aconitum,’ Merrivale said. ‘For whom was this intended? The king’s table?’

  ‘For everyone in the hall. We are feeding three hundred people, all the nobles and senior knights. A dish of poached eggs and saffron sauce was to be placed on every table.’

  Courcy’s jaw dropped. ‘Jesus Christ. They intended to kill every single captain. They would decapitate the entire army, and leave it leaderless in the face of the enemy.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Merrivale, staring at the pot. ‘That was their intention.’

  ‘But what about the feast?’ asked Coloyne, his face white with shock. ‘The king is due to take his seat in the hall in a few minutes.’

  ‘The other sauces may not have been poisoned,’ Merrivale said. ‘But we need to find a volunteer to taste the food, and quickly.’

  ‘There is no need to risk a man’s life,’ said Sully. He turned to his dog, snapping his fingers. ‘Sit, boy. Sit.’

  ‘No, Sir John,’ Merrivale said quietly. ‘I know how much he means to you.’

  ‘Aye, he’s a good and loyal companion. But he is still a dog, and his life is not worth that of a man.’ Sully picked up pieces of bread from the table and dipped them one by one in the other sauces. The animal looked up at him, brown eyes trusting, and opened its mouth to receive the first piece of bread, swallowing it quickly. The rest followed. Silence fell in the kitchen, everyone turning to watch.

  ‘The poison acts quickly,’ Courcy said. ‘We will soon know.’

  Time passed slowly, the curl of smoke from the fires the only movement in the kitchen around them. The dog looked up at Sully, gave the gentlest of belches and sat back. Raising one leg and lowering its head, it began to lick its own bollocks. Gráinne watched with disapproval. ‘I reckon you’d do that, if you could,’ she said to her husband.

  Sully closed his eyes with relief. Merri
vale gripped his shoulder tightly and nodded to the yeoman of the kitchen. ‘Master Coloyne, you may serve your feast. The rest of you, come with me. We must find Clerebaud.’

  * * *

  The ditch below the garderobe shaft was muddy where someone had landed, and footprints had flattened the grass. Beyond the palace enclosure was another courtyard, surrounded by stone barns, leading to open fields where a few cows grazed in the middle distance, tended by a girl with a stick. To the right lay the picketed horses and rows of parked wagons of the baggage train.

  Master Clerebaud the sauce-maker stood in the courtyard, leaning against a wooden water butt. His arms dangled loosely at his sides and his head lolled forward on his chest. Two arrows pinned him to the butt, holding him upright. Blood had welled up around the shafts, staining the front of his smock and dripping bright ruby droplets from its hem onto the ground.

  He had been dead for no more than a few minutes. Merrivale ran past the barns and looked out across the fields. A man was running towards the pasture where the cows grazed. He carried a longbow in one hand and had a quiver slung across his back. Beyond the pasture lay a dense belt of woodland, part of the royal hunting preserve at Saint-Germain-en-Laye. If the archer gained the shelter of those trees, it would be impossible to find him.

  Movement caught his eye, and he turned to see spearmen from the Red Company emerging from among the parked wagons. He cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted at them. ‘Quickly! Stop that man!’

  * * *

  Nell Driver heard the herald’s shout, and looked up to see Riccon Curry rushing towards her. She had never much liked him, especially after he started to bully her friend Master Clerebaud, and when she heard the herald shout the order to stop him, she did not even think. She drew the knife she carried at her belt and ran towards him.