Heart of Ice (39 page)

     The nausea was back, undeniable now, and, trying to make as little noise as possible, he retched and a pool of foul liquid splattered on to the rushes on the floor.

     The thought came to him quite unexpectedly that he was probably going to die.

     I shall kill her first, he decided. Struggling up, he stepped closer to the bed. Then he thought, why should I? There is little point if I am not to be paid.
Will
he pay me, though, even yet, if I kill her and the old man, or will he say that the necessity to ensure their silence was my own fault for having allowed them to uncover the secret in the first place?

     He shook his head. Sick, in agony, fever raging through him and with the urgent need to void his bowels, his brain did not seem to be working and he could no longer think it all through with his usual cold rationality.

     She is young and she has a bright future, he mused. I think – yes, I think that I shall spare her.

     Smiling at the pleasure that his own magnanimity was giving him, he turned and tiptoed back towards the doorway. In the bed, the body-shaped hump beneath the bedclothes did not move.

     As the pestilence took him, Gilles de Vaudreuil fell down the steps.

     At the bottom of which Gervase de Gifford was waiting for him.

Chapter 20

Gervase de Gifford, thrilled because his trap had worked and he had the killer in his hands, at first did not take in just how sick the man was.

     Summoning the four guards from the courtyard, he gave orders for his prisoner to be manacled and chained to the heavy iron ring set in the wall. The guards took the drooping form of the dark-clad stranger and dragged him away.

     De Gifford went straight to the small door leading off the passage between his hall and the kitchen area. It opened on to steps down to the undercroft and was covered by a heavy woollen hanging; a wicked draught came up from the dank cellar below in all but the warmest weather. De Gifford took out a key, inserted it in the lock and turned it. He opened the stout door and called out, ‘We have him. It is safe to come up now.’

     Sabin and Benoît de Retz, the latter shivering inside his cloak and blanket and complaining steadily and vociferously not quite far enough under his breath, came up the short flight of steps and emerged into the passage. Sabin was holding the old man’s hand, guiding his footsteps where necessary. De Gifford noticed in passing that she had a cobweb in her hair and a dark, smutty smudge on her cheek but, in his eyes, neither did anything to mar her beauty.

     ‘Your ruse worked?’ she said quietly. ‘He thought the straw sack was me and—’ She paused, swallowed and managed to continue, ‘—and he attacked?’

     De Gifford frowned. ‘He entered the chamber and approached the bed, yes, for I watched from the top of the stairs. But, my lady, I cannot say that he attacked the shape that he surely believed to be you, for in truth he did not.’

     Benoît gave a snort of impatience. ‘He must have guessed that it was not Sabin asleep in the bed!’ he exclaimed.

     De Gifford considered this. ‘No,’ he said eventually, ‘I do not think that is the answer.’

     ‘And why not?’ Benoît demanded.

     ‘Because of his demeanour,’ de Gifford replied. ‘Had he seen through the trick and realised that his intent had been foiled, then I should have thought he would be furious. He might have thrown back the bed covers to make sure, then possibly thrust a knife into the sack to vent his anger. I am sorry, my lady.’ He had noticed Sabin’s shudder of horror. Hastening on, he said, ‘In fact he did not even have a close look in the bed. He simply stood staring down at the shape lying in it, then, after some time, turned and quietly stepped away. I had scarce enough time to race back down the stairs before he came out of the chamber, slid down the steps and collapsed at my feet.’

     ‘He fell?’ Benoît asked.

     ‘I believe so,’ de Gifford agreed. ‘I think he must have injured himself in some way in falling for, when he felt me grab at him, instead of resisting he seemed to sink into my arms.’

     ‘I should like to see him,’ Sabin announced.

     De Gifford looked at her. ‘Is that wise?’ he asked. ‘He is a violent man and—’

     ‘He tried to kill Grandfather and me in Troyes,’ she flashed back. ‘It is almost certain that he came here tonight to achieve the task in which he previously failed. Would
you
not want to look your killer in the face, given the chance?’

     ‘My lady, I am responsible for your safety,’ de Gifford insisted. ‘I do not think that—’

     Benoît chuckled. ‘You’re wasting your breath, sheriff,’ he said. ‘Once Sabin has made up her mind on something, she’s like a terrier with a rat.’

     De Gifford and Sabin stood eye to eye. Hers were steely blue and hard with resolve. ‘Well, I suppose it is perfectly safe now that he is in chains,’ he murmured.

     Sabin smiled at him and the change in her was startling. ‘Thank you,’ she breathed. Then, sweeping up her long skirts, she strode off down the passage, across the hall and out into the courtyard. De Gifford quickly set off after her but a plaintive cry from Benoît – ‘Oi! Just you come back and help me! I’m blind, you know!’ – called him back.

     By the time he and the old man reached the courtyard, the four guards were standing a few paces off, all looking slightly shamefaced, and Sabin was on her knees beside the huddled form of the prisoner.

     Before de Gifford could say a word she turned, glared up at him and said, ‘This man is very sick! He has a dangerously high fever and he is in agony. You must remove the shackles and take him somewhere where he can be cared for properly.’

     ‘But—’ de Gifford began.

     Again, Benoît interrupted him. ‘What a short memory, sheriff,’ he observed. ‘What was I just telling you? This man might have been set on killing us as we slept but he’s sick and my granddaughter is a born healer. She will not stand aside and see someone suffer, even one such as he.’

     Cursing her for her stubbornness, de Gifford thought hard. If the prisoner was truly that sick, then to throw him in gaol would likely finish him off. And, the fair-minded Gervase told himself, there is as yet no real evidence that he has committed any crime.
Somebody
tried to kill Sabin and Benoît in the Troyes lodging house – unless the fire was in fact no more than an accident, which is quite possible given the normal urban overcrowding and people’s inherent carelessness with fires and torches and the like – and
somebody
killed both the Hastings merchant and Nicol Romley. This man came here tonight and I believe that his intention was to curtail the spread of this dangerous secret by silencing Sabin and her grandfather. Yet, when he had the chance to attack the body in the bed, he did not.

     In short, he concluded, as yet I cannot prove that my prisoner has done anything worse than to break into my house. If that is the sum of his crimes, then I have no business signing his death warrant by refusing him healing care.

     ‘Very well,’ he said curtly. ‘Prepare a cart,’ he ordered, turning to the guards, ‘wrap the prisoner warmly and put him on it. We’ll take him up to Hawkenlye.’

     ‘Should we chain him?’ one of the guards asked.

     De Gifford glanced at Sabin. Then, answering the guard, he said, ‘Manacle one wrist and fasten the end of the chain to the cart.’

     Sabin rewarded him with another dazzling smile.

When the small procession was ready to set out, Sabin presented herself at de Gifford’s side. ‘I shall fetch my mare,’ she said, ‘and accompany you.’

     But this time – for he had guessed she would want to go up to Hawkenlye with him – he was ready with an answer.

     Taking hold of her gloved hands, he looked down into her eyes and said, ‘Please, lady, no. For one thing, your grandfather is chilled and miserable and surely needs your attentions. For another, we shall wait only to deliver our prisoner into the hands of those who will tend him. I will leave two of my men on guard and then I shall come straight back.’ Improvising but guessing he had it right, he added, ‘They do not allow anyone into the infirmary unless there is no choice so you would not be able to stay with him. And I shall leave instructions that I am to be informed the moment he is capable of talking to me. Believe me, I am almost as anxious as you to hear what account he will give of himself.’

     Her eyes steady on his, she said, ‘May I come with you then, when you question him?’ Sorrow crossing her face, she whispered, ‘I do need to know about Nicol, you see. I have to – that is, until I know what became of him, his memory keeps me from proceeding with my life.’

     ‘I understand,’ he said gently, although he was not entirely sure that he did. ‘You have my word, lady. When – or perhaps if – I am able to ask the man to explain himself, I shall do my utmost to make sure you are with me.’

     She bowed. ‘Thank you.’ Then she disengaged her hand, stepped back and walked back into the house.

It was long after midnight; the dead hours of the night that hold sway before dawn.

     The Abbess had all but slipped away.

     Earlier – some time late the previous evening – Father Gilbert had stood over her pleading with God to forgive her her sins and explaining that she would of course have confessed them and humbly asked for his indulgence, only she could not speak.

     Now Josse sat alone on a bench outside the Vale infirmary. He had begged and begged to be allowed to see her – ‘You let Father Gilbert in!’ he had shouted at the infirmarer – but Sister Euphemia was adamant and would not break her rule, even for him. Especially for him, she had thought, for when the Abbess goes, we shall have need of his strength while we learn how to manage without her.

     The moon had come up and the night was bright. All was quiet.

     It seemed to Josse, half out of his mind with mental fatigue, physical exhaustion and grief, that he was aware of her soul hovering somewhere near. Turning his head as if trying to catch some faint essence of her through eyes or ears, it seemed to him that he felt her light touch on his shoulder.

     He spun round so fast that he felt dizzy.

     Sister Tiphaine stood over him. She said, ‘Sir Josse, there is something that I must tell you.’

     ‘She’s dead?’ He could hardly get the words out.

     ‘No, but death is very close.’ Tiphaine sat down beside him. ‘You are aware of this new draught that we have been giving to the patients?’

     ‘Aye, and you’ve been using the Eye of Jerusalem to prepare it. I already know, Sister, and you’re welcome to the jewel. It’s done
her
no good,’ he added bitterly.

     ‘No,’ Tiphaine agreed, ‘although you may be pleased to know that after drinking it, several others have been brought back from the brink.’

     Josse supposed he should be glad for those others but, try as he might, he could not manage the charity. As if she knew this and shared his thought, Tiphaine reached out and took his hand. ‘I know,’ she murmured.

     After a time she said, ‘It was not in fact our use of the Eye that I wished to discuss with you.’

     ‘No? What else, then?’ He could not imagine – and didn’t much care – but it was only polite to ask.

     Tiphaine took a breath, then said, ‘Sister Caliste and I have had some help this time in our use of the stone. We have been into the forest and fetched Joanna.’

     Joanna.

     Amid the swirling emotions of that endless night, here was yet one more.

     ‘And precisely why are you telling me this, Sister?’ His voice emerged sounding far angrier than he intended. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered.

     She squeezed his hand. ‘I am telling you because she has become a very powerful healer. I wondered what you might think if I suggested we – you and I – went to find her and asked her if she would come to see what she could do for our lady Abbess.’

     At first Josse could find no words with which to reply. Then he said, ‘Is she willing?’

     ‘I have not yet put the question to her,’ Tiphaine replied. Then, with a small smile: ‘I thought the request might have more chance if it were you that made it.’