Текст книги "The butcher of Avignon"

Автор книги: Cassandra Clark

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‘What was that about?’

‘How do you know?’

‘I was up there.’ She gestured towards the top of one of the towers.

‘I can’t believe he did that.’

‘He set fire to the ferryman’s cottage?’

Edmund nodded wearily.

‘Was the ferryman inside?’

He shook his head. ‘He got away in his boat.’ While he led his horse into one of the stalls and attended to its needs he explained. ‘That news about Justice Tresillian must have increased Fitzjohn’s courage. Now he believes he can get away with anything.’

‘What was his idea?’

‘He must have eventually worked out that the miners escaped by water so what does he do? Uses his brains for once. He goes to question the only waterman around.’

‘And did he admit to anything?’ Wondering what would come next Hildegard could only stare at Edmund in dread willing the words out of him.

But he gave a sudden smile. ‘To his eternal credit he just kept pointing to some wounds inflicted earlier saying, “I know nothing, sire. First, a fellow asks me to keep quiet about I know not what, and beats me up to make sure I do. Then you, sire, ask me to talk, and threaten to burn my cottage if I don’t. How is a man to cope? I know nothing of any importance, sire. I’m just a lowly ferryman. What is it I’m supposed to preach forth and at the same time keep to myself? Solomon himself couldn’t reach an answer. Especially as I know nothing of any interest to anybody but me and my sweetheart.” That gave Fitzjohn something to think about. “Who asked you to keep your mouth shut?” Answer, “I’d give a king’s ransom to find out, sire.” ’

Edmund was acting it out. Now he rubbed his hands together in an obsequious manner and asked in a quavering voice, not, to be honest, at all like the ferryman’s robust tones. ‘“And what, pray, have I not to say, my lord? I wish someone would tell me. And again, sire, what is it you wish to know? Guide me, I pray.” ’

In his own voice he said, ‘Now I know what a liar looks like when he’s exercising his skill. Truth to say there was a certain nobility in the constancy of his lie.’

A wave of relief washed over Hildegard and she said, ‘The miners must have impressed him in some way even though neither side speaks the other’s tongue.’

‘Taillefer would translate.’

‘That must be it. They must have recognised each other as brothers against the tyranny of the nobles.’

‘He did sterling work for us, that ferryman. I trust his sweetheart welcomes him with open arms. And Taillefer…he gave his life.’ Edmund’s words caught in his throat but his face was set in stone. His eyes were moist.

**

Poison. An apothecary’s job was to know about it.

‘The magister is quite well, thanks to your potion, master. But I myself feel a little unwell. I wonder what you’d suggest?’

‘Symptoms, domina?’

‘A tightness in my lungs. Cold feet and hands.’

He turned to the shelf of ready-made cures in the coloured demijohns with their Latin labels ranged in an orderly fashion on the wall behind him.

After a brief consideration he took one down. While he poured a small amount of something like tincture of lung wort through a funnel into a clay pot she wondered how on earth she was going to find anything out from him. She wasn’t even sure what she wanted to know. One way to start was to find out where the poison that had been in the dagger was being kept.

Then she remembered the small silver talisman he had given her to hand over to Athanasius. She had forgotten it until now. It was where she had first put it, inside her sleeve. She managed to find it and pull it out. There was no-one else around so she placed it carefully on the counter.

The apothecary noticed at once and covered it with his palm. In a low voice he asked, ‘What does he require, domina?’

‘Reassurance that a certain cure is safely disposed of.’

‘Awaiting future use?’ He chuckled with the assurance of a man who holds the lives of others in his gift. He leaned forward. ‘I believe we are only waiting for the terms of barter to be fulfilled then your English lord may take his prize.’

‘That may be some time,’ she murmured, also leaning forward. ‘My lord Fitzjohn is facing a slight problem.’

‘So I understand. It is said he may soon find an alternative. It is hoped the problem will be solved to the satisfaction of all parties.’

‘And I trust the gift from his Holiness will keep its potency until the matter is settled?’

‘Have no fear.’

‘You have a suitable place in which to conceal it?’

The apothecary gave an involuntary glance behind him towards the small chamber where he had taken her on their first meeting. The door was closed, perhaps locked.

‘Tell the magister he can trust me with his life and with anything else, including the means to end it.’ He smiled knowingly.

‘He will be overjoyed to hear it.’

He inched the silver talisman back to her with the tip of one finger nail.

**

In order to thwart Woodstock’s plot, if indeed her hunch was correct about that, someone would have to obtain the poison themselves. Maybe a substitute could be put in its place and when the barter was made, if Fitzjohn managed to find something the pope would accept in exchange, then it might be applied with no harm befalling the victim. God save King Richard.

There was no-one she could share her plan with and no way of carrying it out – unless she could get inside the apothecary’s private store – and see to it herself.

**

In the privacy of her chamber she rooted through her bag of cures until she found something that might do. It was a harmless recipe for indigestion. Its murky colour wouldn’t matter as she expected the real poison to be in a sealed clay pot by now.

To use the lung wort he had prescribed might lead back to her so for safety she rinsed it out in her washing bowl and emptied the water into the drain.

Next she removed the label, hoping she was second-guessing the apothecary accurately, and replaced the pot in her scrip before trying to work out how she was going to swap them.

**

Athanasius was sitting up at his lectern as usual.

‘Feeling quite well now, magister?’ she greeted as cheerfully as she could.

‘I am indeed, domina, despite this endless bad weather. I must say it cheers me somewhat. It makes me feel at home.’ He was evidently in a good humour. He turned a benign smile on her. ‘I hear our countryman Fitzjohn has been taking some exercise?’

‘I heard. Will he be censured?’

The monk chuckled. ‘He is an honoured guest of his Holiness. Who would dare?’

‘What happened to the ferryman, does anyone know?’

‘Took to the river in his boat. He’ll be washed up far downstream, no doubt. More bloated than when he went in.’

She concealed a shiver. ‘What was their quarrel?’

‘Don’t you know?’ He expressed mock surprise. ‘And here am I, relying on you to keep me fully informed.’

‘I am failed in my duty, magister, mea culpa.’

He seemed pleased to be one up on her. ‘It was Cardinal Grizac who told me. They say the ferryman helped two of Fitzjohn’s retainers to escape back to England. Of course, the ferryman denies it but how else could they have got away without being hunted down by the search party that went out after they fled.’

‘Maybe they’re lying low in the town, magister? Has anybody thought of that?’

He sniffed. ‘The Jewish church was thoroughly searched as a matter of course. Villains often use it as sanctuary. It’s a sore. It should be cleansed.’

‘At least by keeping it open you know where villains are likely to hide.’

‘Shrewdly observed, domina. I suspect that is the intention of his Holiness in allowing it to remain open.’

‘That and the convenience of being able to borrow at interest without compromising the law against usury?’

He dismissed that with an irritable wave of his hand. ‘And now the good news. Cardinal Grizac has returned to the palace to amuse us.’

Hildegard offered a dutiful smile.

‘Return here before nones, domina, if you wish to be entertained.’

When she left the smoke filled cell – Athanasius was burning some foul-smelling resin to improve his health – she shook out her cloak. She felt something putrid clinging to the fabric.

**

Grizac wasn’t the only one to be drawn back to the palace. Fondi and his retinue also appeared. Carlotta was in a mood of loud rage against the weather, against Avignon, against Fondi himself. Her child, quietly cuddling her squirrel, stood forlornly out of the rain under the shelter of the stone archway leading into the inner courtyard.

Hildegard went up to her and asked if she might greet the squirrel. ‘Does he have a pet name?’

‘Bel Pierre,’ the child replied, pushing back a lace coverlet so that Hildegard could stroke the squirrel’s bronze head. He seemed lack lustre. Yearning to hibernate, Hildegard suggested, when Fondi commented. He himself looked somewhat haggard. Too much fever from Carlotta seemed to be drawing the family’s strength.

When Carlotta got what she wanted from the steward Hildegard watched them all trail after her up the steps towards the guest quarters. Their accommodation had been changed to something more in keeping with Fondi’s status.

Hildegard speculated about his presence here. The Schism had attracted the Italian cardinals to Pope Urban while the French had in the main come over to Clement. Yet here was Fondi, a cardinal from Urbino, supporting the enemy. If he was one of Urban’s agents he was a conspicuous one.

She went into one of the lesser chapels and sat down in a corner at the back to think about the virtues of being first to obtain something and how much it enraged Fitzjohn to be bested.

The important question was whether the apothecary worked regular hours and where he kept his keys.

**

The theft of the poison, if she managed to lay her hands on it, might not go undetected for long. There would be no possibility of copying the label, if it had one, and it would be too dangerous to put the poison, whether liquid, powder or resin, into something else while she filled the pot with a more harmless substance.

She would have to hope that the pot she was going to substitute could be planted in among the others long enough for the barter with Fitzjohn to go ahead. She couldn’t imagine what he was going to offer the pope as a substitute for the miners.

The problem she faced right now was the apothecary’s cursed sense of order. He would notice at once if anything had been rearranged.

His store of ready-made cures were kept on several rows of shelves. All the pots faced outwards in serried ranks alphabetically arranged and subdivided into groups for specific symptoms. They were identical except for the lettering on their labels.

She considered making the switch then creating a disturbance of some kind. With everything in disarray maybe no-one would notice something had been tampered with. It was a poor plan but she could come up with nothing better.

**

Grizac was standing in a shaft of sunlight that slanted in through the window slit. He had something cupped between his palms. Athanasius was urging him to do away with it.

After greeting them both Hildegard went over to have a look. ‘What is it, your eminence?’

Cautiously he opened his cupped palms a crack and held them towards her. She saw something fluttering inside. ‘A butterfly,’ he murmured as if a loud voice would disturb it. ‘Caught out in the wrong season. I fear the poor creature will perish.’

‘A butterfly is often compared to the soul.’ She echoed his quiet tone.

He gave her a grateful glance.

Athanasius broke in. ‘If it will die then it might as well die sooner rather than later.’

‘You might say the same for us all,’ Grizac riposted.

‘I do. Frequently,’ snapped Athanasius. He seemed irritated by Grizac’s concern. ‘Put it out of its misery, do. It’ll be better off dead.’

Sadly Grizac went to the window slit. Slowly opening his hands he encouraged the creature to fly out. It fluttered for a moment or two, beating its wings against the stone embrasure until it found a direction. In a trice, it disappeared. ‘At least it has a chance now,’ he murmured. He turned back into the chamber. ‘We are all equal, magister, down to the very least of God’s creatures.’

‘Tell that to the head of any monastery or, indeed, to his Holiness himself, and do you imagine the crowned kings of Europe regard themselves as equal to their peasants?’

‘How they regard themselves has little to do with how they are seen in His eyes,’ murmured Grizac, sticking to his point.

‘Come now, I told the domina you had returned to entertain us. This is doleful stuff. What can you tell us that we don’t already know?’

‘Fire and water do not mix.’

‘An allusion to our guest Fitzjohn and his activities down by the ferry?’

Grizac nodded his head. ‘It was an act of malice. It could achieve nothing. I’m told his birds had already flown.’

‘Non malicia sed militia,’ quoted Athanasius sagaciously.

Hildegard picked up on the allusion. ‘Our founder would agree. Bernard of Clairvaux was not averse to military action. In the cause -’ she added hurriedly, ‘of furthering the interests of our Order – and the will of God.’

‘Quite right, domina. Without malice or the military hope is all we’d have.’ Athanasius had only smiles for her as earlier that day.

Despite that she felt something dangerous in the air and wondered if she was about to blunder into a trap. Do not trust him. She glanced from Grizac to Athanasius and back.

‘Hope is truly all we have,’ Grizac replied before she could speak. ‘My hope is that one day the man who murdered my dear Maurice will pay the full penalty.’

‘Are the pope’s men no nearer solving the mystery?’ she asked.

He shook his head. ‘He was only an acolyte. No-one of importance to them. That he was stopped in his robbery is their only concern.’

Athanasius, sharp as a whiplash, asked, ‘You knew him better than anybody, why did he do it?’

Now she saw what sort of entertainment Athanasius had in mind. Grizac went white. Fear seemed to dry the words in his throat.

‘Come,’ Athanasius persisted, ‘you must have had some inkling that he was making plans?’

‘No, I swear I did not.’ Grizac, first white, was now red. ‘How could I be expected to read his mind?’

‘You must have kept him short of the rewards that make a servant loyal,’ Athanasius stated. ‘He therefore decided to help himself.’

Grizac allowed himself to be bullied into staging a defence. ‘He was as honest as the day. I would trust him under every circumstance.’

‘Then you’re a gullible fool.’ Athanasius curled his lip at how easily he had lured Grizac into his trap. ‘But we know, don’t we, that you’re no fool, Grizac.’

‘I knew nothing, I tell you! I thought he was happy. I swear I knew nothing until I saw him lying there in the treasury with his – with his -’ he cleared his throat.

‘A word?’ Athanasius persisted. ‘You must have uttered a word that he could construe as an invitation to ransack the pope’s treasury for you?’

‘Not a word. I swear. What use have I for gold and rubies?’

‘But there was more than that at stake, surely?’ The monk’s voice was dangerously insinuating.

‘Believe me, I know nothing about it. Nothing! How could I?’ He spread his arms, struggling to regain his confidence.

Hildegard suddenly wished Edmund would come in. His perception of what a man looks like when he’s lying would have been useful. Grizac sounded honest and yet his response was flustered. His change of colour suggested some deep emotional conflict. What’s more, he knew Athanasius knew more than he was telling. He was being played with, cat with mouse.

Hildegard watched him closely. Now he was turning away with face averted to move to the window. He peered out through the slit as if searching for the butterfly he had released.

Athanasius wore an expression of smug satisfaction. ‘I fear his Holiness will not take a lenient view of the matter. It will not be ended yet. To enter the treasury, the seat of power, is worse than heresy.’

‘Worse?’ Grizac rallied. ‘I fear you overstate the case. And besides, the lad is dead.’

‘Quite so.’ Athanasius folded his hands on his chest and smiled with contentment. ‘A just reward, my friend. A just reward.’

**

‘Your eminence?’ Hildegard hurried to catch up with Grizac after they left at the bell for nones and he had reached a corner of the passage before he swung round to face her.

‘Don’t try to catch me saying something when he could not,’ he grated.

They stared each other, poised at the top of the steps. Hildegard was stunned by the transformation in Grizac’s manner. His antagonism made her falter for an instant.

He pushed his face forward into hers. ‘Tell your mentor I know who the guilty man is and I know who his master is! Tell him that if you wish!’ He turned in a crackle of stiff brocade and made off down the stairs.

They were the same Stairs of Honour where she had first encountered Hubert and his two supporters and now she went to the arch in the brickwork and watched Grizac descend all the way to the bottom, robes billowing, without slackening speed.

**

He knew who had killed Maurice? As much at a loss as before Hildegard went up to her chamber to rest. She had some planning of her own to do. But Grizac knew who the killer was and would not name him? Did he also know why Maurice had gone to the treasury? He must do. He had strenuously denied knowing anything about it. But he must be lying. Do not trust him.

She wondered if it was a bluff. Athanasius blamed him for sending Maurice into the treasury. That must wrankle. Yet, as he had pointed out, he had no need of riches. Nor did he have a reason to interfere in the pope’s barter with Woodstock. He was a Clementist. What Clement wanted he must want.

If pushed, would he have named the man behind it all? He could not know it. If so, someone would be in custody by now.

Thoughtfully she checked the contents of her scrip. Earlier she had seen Carlotta and Fondi with their little daughter sitting on his shoulders going into an apartment further along. She had been appalled. Her suspicions ran amok. So close to her own chamber. Too close for comfort. How had Carlotta managed that? What did it mean?

Feeling trapped she decided she would have to be on her guard every minute of every night and every day if she didn’t want to finish up like the Scottish nun.

**

Later, sometime before vespers, she heard a noise outside and went to the window to look down into the garden. She saw Carlotta and Flora with a few servants entering through the wooden door in the wall. Carlotta went to drape herself languorously on the low wall that encircled the spring while Flora played with a ball.

Deciding to go down, attack being a better sort of defence than cringing here in her chamber, she soon found the stairs that led to the garden.

Carlotta greeted her suspiciously and at once demanded to know if she expected to find Hubert here.

‘I hadn’t given him a thought,’ Hildegard replied. That was true anyway, her mind was full of other things at present. Uppermost at present was how she was going to find out whether Fondi and Carlotta had visited her chamber.

She offered Flora some sugared almonds she happened to have with her. Bel Pierre, half asleep in a basket, managed to eat his fill, and the time passed until the bell tolled and it was time to go up for the evening office.

Everyone began to move off in Carlotta’s wake, one of the maids carrying the squirrel in his basket while Flora skipped ahead.

Suddenly the maid let out a cry. Bel Pierre had woken up, jumped out of the basket and vanished up the stairs. Everyone ran after him except for Carlotta who yawned and carried on towards her apartment.

‘Leave the filthy animal,’ she called down when she saw everyone scurrying around in vain. ‘He’ll soon appear when he wants feeding.’

Flora was in tears.

‘He must have hidden himself behind one of the tapestries,’ Hildegard suggested. ‘We’ll soon find the little fellow.’

The servants searched with care but he was nowhere to be found. A man with a broom was summoned and banged it into corners they could not reach but with no more success.

‘Go up, Flora, and we’ll continue the search,’ Hildegard told the weeping child. ‘We’ll soon find him. He can’t have gone far. Leave the basket with me and I’ll bring the naughty little fellow to you as soon as we find him.’

‘It’s my bedtime,’ sobbed Flora. ‘I want him. I want Bel Pierre. I can’t sleep without him.’

‘You might have to, just this once. I promise by the time you wake up in the morning he’ll be safe and sound beside you.’

The howling child was taken upstairs by her maid and after a fruitless search the servants followed one by one. Hildegard stood in puzzlement. The squirrel must have gone up into the guest apartments. She was just about to go up there herself when she noticed a small shadow on the stair where they had already looked ten times over. But there he was, as large as life. With the enticement of one of the remaining sugared almonds she managed to get him into the basket and drop the lid.

It was then an idea came to her. She almost laughed aloud. But no, it was surely impossible. Nevertheless, she returned to her chamber thinking, Bel Pierre, you may have saved the King of England.

**

Vespers came and went. The lamps were lit. Then compline, night prayers, and the swell of constant crowds subsided, leaving the passages and public chambers empty, giving way to a gradual shutting down of the household until only the slippered night servants sat around in quiet groups waiting to be summoned by insomniacs waiting for the midnight office to begin.

The stair well leading down to the lower floor was as black as pitch. She had to feel her way along the passage with one hand scraping along the wall while holding onto the squirrel’s basket with the other. Her scrip was buckled to her belt and weighed heavily against her as she moved.

The floor levelled out. Now it was only a few paces down a short corridor to the apothecary’s workshop. Guided by the strong scent of his elixirs she paused when she reached the door then, ears pricked, she cautiously turned the ring. The door slid open and she stepped through.

A heavy, aromatic silence greeted her. Pausing for a moment to get her bearings she was eventually able to make out hundreds of bunches of dried herbs hanging from the beams above her head. Like bats, she thought with a shiver. Nothing stirred.

Over by the bench where the cures were dispensed were a few jars and wooden utensils, a pestle and mortar, a set of scales, and a rack of knives. Not wasting time here she stepped carefully over to the far door. If it was locked she would have trouble prising it open with her knife but to her joy it opened at her touch and she stepped inside.

It would be too much to hope that the poison that had already by its mere existence caused three deaths would be openly displayed and yet, with the apothecary’s oblique character in mind she could see him doing such a thing, amused by his own secret knowledge, flaunting it in the face of his unsuspecting customers.

With the open shelves as her first search, then, before she tried the aumbry where he had kept the silver talisman, she stepped close up, lit the taper she had brought, and began to read the labels.

Two rows of clay pots with wax stoppers were arranged precisely on the shelves along with glass demijohns and a shelf of small glass phials with wax lids. Everything was labelled with the names of ingredients she recognised. Sometimes the lettering was difficult to make out but all of it made eventual sense.

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.