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.
**
Medford. When she had first met him at Westminster she had seen him as no more than a tall child in adult clothing. A pretender to power. It was only later she had discovered how dangerous he was, dangerous to King Richard’s enemies, that is. She thanked god for his vigilance and ruthless nature. He would certainly want to know where the poison had come from, who had tried to steal it before Fitzjohn could get his hands on it. And why.
He was one of those people who believe that every organisation is like a sieve with secrets that will fall into his hands by means of observation, logic, gold, or more physical methods. He was unshakable in this. He would have no sympathy for the fact that Cardinal Grizac was threatened by the wrath of Pope Clement.
He might be interested in the reason why, of course, as did Hildegard.
Medford, however, would not think much of anybody’s feelings on the matter. That she was shocked at the change in Grizac’s manner as soon as he left the cell after Athanasius's taunting would not be taken into account in his logical analysis. He would see it as a failure of her perception of the situation. Being one of those deadly quiet men with no more feelings than a butcher for the animal he slaughters he was like Clement. Like Athanasius. And perhaps like Fondi.
This coldness was the reason he was the chief of Richard’s spies and the best of a powerful crew.
His saving grace was that he was totally loyal to the king.
**
Prime. A spreading, barely perceptible glimmer of pink in the sky.
While the bell was still tolling Hildegard hurried along to the Fondi’s apartment with Bel Pierre in his basket. She had promised Flora he would be beside her when she awoke. Ushered inside the heavily draped chambers by a servant she was led through to where the child slept under a canopy of white lace and placed the basket beside her just as she was waking up.
‘And here he is to greet you good morning, Flora. Have a look.’ She opened the lid.
Flora’s cries of delight were her reward but the child could not thank her enough. ‘Lady, my mother, look!’ She ran through into the adjoining chamber with the basket and scolds were heard at once in complaint about the dirty thing and to take it away. Flora returned, still full of smiles. ‘She is delighted in her heart,’ she explained.
Fondi, his tall frame in a long night robe, was dragging on a wool cloak as he came through. ‘That is most kind, domina. I trust you weren’t searching for him all night?’