‘If it is a poison, then the only hope is to cleanse it from his belly with copious draughts of salt and water,’ explained the middle-aged brother, justifying his heroic treatment.
‘Do you think he has been poisoned?’ demanded the coroner.
Saulf looked up from clearing his patient’s mouth. ‘I cannot tell. It may be some bad food he has eaten or it may be some foul substance that he has been given. The symptoms of so many poisons are the same – collapse, pain in the throat, vomiting and purging.’
‘Will he live?’
‘That is in God’s hands. It’s too soon to say. He might be perfectly well in the morning – or he might be dead.’
Gwyn leaned against the door post behind John. ‘Has he spoken any sensible words, to say what happened to him?’
‘Nothing but groans, apart from a whisper I caught, which sounded like “burning, burning”.’
De Wolfe stood looking down at the victim, who still had trembling of the hands and feet and occasional twitches of the limbs. ‘What about that throat wound? He was cut by a sword edge two nights ago, but it was a trivial injury at the time.’
Saulf touched the swollen red line with a finger, expressing several beads of yellow pus. ‘It could be the cause of his hoarse attempts to speak and maybe his collapse from purulence in the blood. Yet he has no fever, he is cold and damp. And I fail to see why he trembles and jerks in this way.’
They stayed a few moments longer, but it was obvious that, whether Godfrey lived or died, he was not going to enlighten them that night about what might have happened to him in Martin’s Lane.
John thanked the monk and promised to return first thing next morning, leaving the silversmith to the mercies of the brothers and their God.
Chapter Thirteen
In which Crowner John meets the Chief Justiciar
The meeting with Hubert Walter was set for the tenth hour on the morning of Tuesday, but John de Wolfe was active about the town before that. In the grey light of a winter dawn, he went first to the hospital of St John to see whether Fitzosbern had survived the night or whether he had a murder on his hands. Brother Saulf was in the cell when he arrived and looked as if he had been there all night. ‘He is much better, Crowner, after throwing up most of his guts into a bucket, thanks to the salt-water purges.’
John looked past the monk and saw Godfrey, deathly pale, lying motionless on his side. ‘He looks dead to me,’ he said dubiously.
‘No, he’s asleep now – a proper sleep, not the twitching coma you saw last night.’
‘Has he spoken at all?’
The Saxon brother shook his head. ‘Only the muttered gibberish we heard when he first came here. Let him sleep then we’ll see if his senses have returned.’
He shut the door firmly, keeping John and himself outside. ‘Do you think he was truly poisoned?’ asked John.
‘It seems likely, but he might also have had some kind of apoplexy, though I’ve not seen one quite like this before.’
With that, the coroner had to be satisfied, but at least it looked as if Fitzosbern would live to sin another day. John left the priory and made his way back to his house, where last night he had arranged to meet his two assistants. Matilda was still asleep in the solar and he was happy not to disturb her.
A few moments later, a small procession left Martin’s Lane, the coroner striding ahead of Gwyn, who held a wooden tray with the remains of Godfrey’s roast fowl and the small box of herbs, all covered with a white cloth. He was followed by Thomas de Peyne, carefully carrying the chalice, still half full of wine, and the stone bottle.
The trio marched out into the high street and down to the crossing at Carfoix, ignoring the curious glances of the stall-holders and shoppers who stood back to make way for them. As John waited for a loaded ox-cart to pass, he looked behind and one of his rare grins spread across his face at the sight of his two companions: his over-sized Cornish henchman, solemnly bearing a cloth-covered tray, and the unfrocked priest, reverently clasping a silver goblet of wine, looked like two acolytes bearing the Sacred Host down the main street of Exeter.
They had not far to go, as on the other side of Fore Street lay the apothecary’s shop. As John neared it, the door flew open and three struggling figures erupted on to the roadway.
Two men-at-arms from Rougemont were dragging Edgar of Topsham from the shop, the apprentice yelling at the top of his voice for them to let him go. Behind him, Nicholas of Bristol peered from the doorway, wringing his hands in agitation. When the soldiers saw the King’s coroner, they stopped in their tracks, but did not loosen their grip on Edgar. ‘Sheriffs orders, Sir John,’ said one apologetically.
As soon as he saw the coroner, the captive appealed desperately to him. ‘Save me, Sir John, these men are abducting me! Tell them it’s a mistake, they must have the wrong man.’
The elder soldier shook his helmeted head. ‘We’re arresting you, not abducting you. And it’s no mistake. The sheriff said Edgar of Topsham – and that’s you, son.’
Edgar began to babble protests, but John could do nothing for him at this stage. ‘Go quietly, Edgar, it’s no use struggling. I’ll see what I can do to straighten all this out. And I’ll send word to your father so that he can come to see you and the sheriff.’
With this, the apothecary’s apprentice had to be content, as John jerked his head at the guards and they marched Edgar away, up the hill towards the castle.
John, followed by his two disciples, crowded Nicholas back into his shop and shut the door. The leech was still twittering with concern at the unceremonious loss of his assistant. ‘This is nonsense, what has he done to be treated like that?’
John was patient with him. ‘You know full well that he has threatened Godfrey Fitzosbern several times and he attacked him on Saturday.’
The apothecary nodded spasmodically, the corner of his mouth drooping all the more in his agitation. ‘He came back on Saturday bruised and battered – that foul man used him atrociously, he could have been killed!’
‘Well, Fitzosbern could have been killed last night, by all accounts. He was poisoned and his life hangs in the balance today.’
A little exaggeration never did any harm when you are trying to get co-operation, thought John. ‘Naturally, Edgar is the prime suspect – you can’t blame the sheriff for wanting to question him.’
Nicholas’s jaw dropped, temporarily hiding the slackness of his mouth. ‘Poisoned? What has that to do with Edgar?’
John sighed as he began explanations about the silversmith’s affliction ‘Edgar had promised to kill him and he is almost a fully qualified apothecary, with much knowledge of poisons.’
The leech looked from face to face, as if seeking sanity in a world suddenly gone mad. ‘But anyone could put poison in his victuals. Every old wife and village peasant knows of plants and toadstools that have noxious effects.’
John did not reply, but motioned Gwyn and Thomas to put their burdens on the shop counter. ‘I want you to examine these, to see if they contain any harmful substance – and if so, what it is,’ he announced.
The apothecary stared at the exhibits incredulously. ‘But most poisons are undetectable!’ he protested. ‘There is almost no way in which they can be tested. Our knowledge is hopelessly poor about such things.’
He drew himself up to his full sixty-two inches. ‘And not only me. Not an apothecary in England has any better methods.’