A Flight of Arrows A.J. MacKenzie (black authors fiction TXT) 📖

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,