‘Master Bertrand Demontaigu, you do not remember me?’
Demontaigu stepped back, staring in disbelief. ‘Joachim Hermeri!’ he whispered. ‘Joachim Hermeri, by all the saints.’ He went forward, clasped the old man and brought him to the stool next to mine so he could enjoy the warmth of the brazier. Joachim stared shrewdly at me with watery eyes. He waited until Demontaigu took his seat, then cackled with laughter, shoulders shaking.
‘I heard the lay brother, he came into the refectory. He said there was a visitor from the court, a young mistress escorted by a military clerk called Demontaigu.’ He rubbed bony knuckles on Demontaigu’s knee. ‘Oh, I’ve heard how our order is finished, but I remember you, Demontaigu.’
‘And I thought I was safe.’ Demontaigu smiled.
‘Oh, I know all the news,’ Joachim whispered, ‘all the names, but I’m safe here. Who’d think of coming to Bethlehem Hospital, a house for the witless and the moonstruck? Who would believe my ranting and ravings? You see, mistress, once I was a Templar, wasn’t I, Demontaigu?’ He didn’t wait for a reply, but hurried on. ‘I was at the fall of Acre. I was a serjeant, a standard-bearer. When Acre fell, I and others escaped across the desert. I tell you this, mistress, I saw things that brought me here. The good monks at Charterhouse who first cared for me thought it best. They didn’t believe me. I told them about young Fulk; he came from Poitou, also a standard-bearer. He was bitten by a basilisk. He hardly felt any pain from the bite, and his outward appearance was normal, but the poison stole through his blood secretly! A creeping fire invaded his marrow and kindled flame in his innermost parts. The poison sucked up the moisture next to his vital organs and dried his mouth of saliva. No sweat flowed to relieve his body. He couldn’t even cry. He burnt all over and searched desperately for water.’ Hermeri leaned on his stick. I glanced across at Demontaigu, who just shook his head. ‘Then there was Beltran, bitten by a basilisk in the leg, he was. The basilisk left a fang there. Beltran had to tear it away but the flesh near the bite broke up and shrivelled until it laid the whole bone bare. The gash grew wider and wider, and before long Beltran’s calves dissolved and his knees were stripped of skin. Neck, thighs and groin dripped with corruptive matter, trickling down into a puddle of filth. That is all I can remember.’ He peered up the ceiling, lower lip jittering. ‘Those basilisks lord it over the desert, their wings carry them high. No creature is safe from them, mistress, not even elephants; I understand the king has one of those at the Tower. Ah well, such is my story.’ And without further ado he got up, bowed at both of us and shuffled out.
Demontaigu rose and followed. He opened the door, looked swiftly outside and closed it again.
‘Is that true?’
‘He was lucid enough to remember I was a Templar.’ Demontaigu sat down. ‘I recall Hermeri; his eyes, lips and gestures. When Acre fell, many Templars died. Others were taken prisoner by the infidels; a few did escape across the desert. Perhaps Joachim was telling the truth. He must have seen things, experienced fears we don’t know of, but who believes him? I have met Templars found lost, wandering in the desert. They are never the same again; they have bouts of lunacy as if struck by the moon. They jibber and jabber, then become as rational and clear-thinking as the next man. What I suspect is that Joachim has been visited by some of our brethren. They would come to a place like this for shelter and protection. They may have talked to him about me and others and so freshened his memories of his Templar days. Ah well, he is harmless enough.’
I gazed at the crucifix. Joachim’s story about the basilisk reminded me sharply of the word Chapeleys had written. Had he been referring to a basilisk, or something else? A tap on the door and the grey-faced master of the hospital entered. He was garbed in the dark robes of an Augustinian friar. He sketched a blessing, studied me carefully, then turned to Demontaigu.
‘I understand you have come to see Master Highill?’
‘He is here?’ I asked, forcing the master to address me.
‘He was,’ he replied, ‘at least until yesterday.’
I rose to my feet. ‘Brother, we are here on king’s business. We carry warrants and letters if you wish to see them. Master Highill, where is he?’
‘He is in his chamber.’ The master looked me up and down. I curbed my temper.
Demontaigu half drew his sword and let it fall back. The slither of steel startled the friar. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
‘I apologise. I have been up most of the night.’ He opened his eyes, turned to the crucifix and blessed himself. ‘Yester evening, Master Highill was visited by a Franciscan nun, or so she claimed to be, from the House of Minories. He had been ill and was in his bedchamber. The Franciscan was closeted with him, then left. Later, when one of the brothers was doing his rounds before the candles were doused, he knocked at Master Highill’s door, and receiving no answer he went in. At first he thought Master Highill was fast asleep, but feeling for the blood beat in his neck, realised he had died.’
‘At what hour did this nun come?’
‘Oh. . just before Compline. She said she wished to see Master Highill. She claimed to be his distant relative and had heard he was ailing, which was true. We took her down to his chamber and left her there. I mean. .’ the master spread his hands, ‘what harm could a nun do?’
‘Do you think Master Highill was murdered?’ Demontaigu asked.
‘I don’t know,’ the Master replied. ‘There was no mark of violence. The cup he kept on the table beside the bed was dried and cleaned. Master Highill liked his wine. You’d best see yourself. Oh,’ he turned at the door, ‘there is something else. Master Highill was old and frail, so when he died, little suspicion was provoked. However, when we began to list his possessions, we found virtually everything gone. We know he had a psalter, some ledgers, the bits and pieces an old man collects over the years, all missing. .’
He led us out of the small chamber and down clean, lime-washed passages. The master was an excellent physician. No rushes cluttered the polished floorboards; everything was clean; herb pots and sweet-smelling pomander hung against the walls or from rafters. We turned a corner, and I paused. I caught the same smell as I had from Guido’s breath, that flowery, sweet odour.
‘Master, what is that smell?’
He came back. ‘Lavender. .’
‘Yes, yes, I recognise that, but beneath it, another?’
‘Crushed violet,’ the master replied. ‘We had some left from last summer. We find it very powerful against malignant odours and foul stenches.’
‘Of course!’ I smiled at him. ‘Violet!’ I thanked him and we walked on.
The hospital was built round a cloister garden. Highill’s chamber was just off this, really nothing more than a narrow closet. Like the rest of the place, the floorboards were clean and polished, the walls whitewashed and hung with dried herbs. A narrow cot-bed stood in the corner. There was some paltry furniture and a coffer, its lid back, the clasp broken. On the bed, covered by a sheet, lay Highill’s corpse: an old man, obviously frail, his cheeks sunken, white hair brushed back, the lower part of his face covered in untidy stubble. He wore the dark-green gown of all inmates; his head rested slightly back, his nose sharp and pointed, lips half open. To all intents and purposes an old man who had died in his sleep. However, when the master showed us more coffers, small caskets and chests piled in a corner, he explained how various items that he knew had been there were now missing. He suspected that the previous night’s mysterious visitor had taken them.