Текст книги "The butcher of Avignon"

Автор книги: Cassandra Clark

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‘I’m at a loss, magister.’

He would have to be satisfied with that but he gave a scornful shake of his head. ‘Disappointing of you.’

She ignored that. ‘Tell me, magister, to return to your first question, is it your opinion that recognition by the concilium increases or decreases the likelihood of his eminence being taken into custody?’

‘You’re not as easily convinced as our dear friend by such an unexpected move by the concilium?’ he countered.

Hildegard hesitated. What might it imply about papal involvement in the murder if she answered no? Should Grizac bring any findings to them they did not like, she knew they could easily let them disappear into the depths of the archives. Grizac along with them. She was familiar with the methods of the inquisitors. They worked to a secret agenda which was often obscure until too late, and innocent and guilty alike had condemned themselves through lack of caution.

That they might be working towards such a conclusion with Grizac was too explosive a thought to utter to a man she did not know well and did not completely trust. She would also condemn herself if she accidentally showed she was getting close to the truth.

Instead, watching him, she said, ‘I wonder if his eminence is aware that the brother of his acolyte arrived in the entourage of Sir John Fitzjohn?’

The friar’s expression did not change and his eyes held the same unflickering expression whether he was considering a youth’s death or whether to take another sip of his cure.

He dabbed his clean-shaven upper lip with a napkin. ‘Are you telling me Maurice’s identity is now known by every pot-scourer and gong-master in the palace? The connection with our friend Grizac will be bruited from one side of the purlieu to the other. The rumour-mongers will be in paradise. I’ll make sure his eminence is informed to add to his burden.’ It was a careful reply. ‘And you, domina, do you believe this familial connection has any significance?’

‘I have no idea. I believe it might be merely geographical. These Yorkshiremen are a restless breed. They turn up everywhere.’ Working on the assumption that he knew more about it than she did she added, ‘It must surely be coincidence that the brother is in Jack Fitzjohn’s entourage.’

He was nodding his head.

She could not tell whether it had been news to him or not.

He gave her a sudden flashing smile. ‘Keep up the good work, domina. A word here, a word there, eh? I am confined to my bed for yet another day. You have been most helpful.’ He leaned forward. ‘I shall ensure that the appropriate examiners are aware of your assiduous work when the question of preferment at the Priory of Swyne comes up.’ He gave her a searching glance. ‘That is the reason your prioress sent you here, is it not? In order to further your personal ambition?’

A jolt passed through her while she was grappling with the unpleasant view of spying he had just drawn, and she quickly covered her aversion to what he said. ‘Most certainly, my holy mother is ever considerate for the welfare and benefit of her sisters as you will no doubt remember. I’m fortunate that she believes I might follow her precedent in time.’

She changed the subject to the rain and the floods it had brought and later, as she left, warned herself to be more guarded in future. Despite his conciliatory manner he had almost managed to make her say more than was wise. His eyes had needled into her face as if to extract secrets from her. It was easy to see him inviting some poor fool to confess more than was safe and then bring down the severest penalty of the inquisitors.

Her ignorance of any other motive than greed must have been convincing. It happened to be the truth. He could not suspect the prioress’s purpose in sending her here. She hardly knew it herself. Presumably, if he had known the prioress well he would have a good idea of her opinions. She was ever blunt about her superiors and unfailingly forthright in her views on those who ruled, took their helping of taxes and expected uncritical loyalty in return.

Her allegiance, as Hildegard knew, was unwavering, too, on the subject of the right to the English throne. Only one man had that right. Richard had been anointed with the holy chrism as King of England at the age of ten, an event witnessed in Westminster Abbey by all the prelates, nobles and shire knights of England when they gave their oath of fealty. That was enough to offer him her unstinting loyalty.

The prioress, like Hildegard herself, owed nothing to the Butcher of Cesena and his vassals.

**

There was something in the lining of her sleeve. She pressed it with her fingertips, decided she was not mistaken, and pushed her sleeve up to have a look inside. The thick seam was about an inch deep and when she worked inside it she discovered the small silver charm given her by the apothecary earlier. She had quite forgotten it. Now she wondered how Athanasius had managed to get on without it.

Sighing she thought about taking it along to him but could not summon up the enthusiasm to enter his foul-smelling lair so soon.

What if he had the plague, or something similar? She had managed a discrete look at his neck when she had attended him and had seen no buboes there. Hopeful that he would have warned everyone if he had been really sick she put his ailment down to his advanced years and the cold weather.

He had no heating whatsoever in his cell. Not even a hand warmer. He was like the prioress in that respect. She never seemed to feel the cold and perhaps the two elderly monastics were more similar than she realised. Both brought up under the same harsh discipline. Thriving on austerity. Given to a life of secret affinities. What little she was learning about Athanasius’s character told her that much. Alike. Yes. And yet in some way she had not fathomed, not alike in any profound way, in spirit deeply different.

In an ill-humour, she decided to go and watch the boys at the quintaine. It would be their exercise time about now, between tierce and mid-day. And besides, she needed some fresh air after the foulness in the magister’s cell.

**

On her way to the tilt yard she had to cross the Great Courtyard past the entrance to the tower where the miners were incarcerated so she cut briskly across and went up to the guard. He gave her an odd look with something she read as triumph in it but she ignored him as he nodded her through and she began the long climb to the top floor.

The fact that she had nothing to tell them yet would be a disappointment that could not be helped.

**

‘Where’s John?’

Peter looked up gloomily from his chains. He was huddled in a corner of his cell on a pile of straw with an empty mug upended beside him. The cell was dark and filthy. He himself looked lonely and utterly dejected.

He lifted a mournful face to meet her gaze. ‘They’ve separated us. It can only mean we’re about to be dragged before the officials of the inquisition.’

‘Are you accused?’ she asked in alarm.

He shook his head. ‘They’re being as nice as pie. They simply want to know our guild secrets.’ He spat into the straw. ‘No chance.’

‘You are vowed to maintain the secrets of your guild.’

‘Vowed before our guild brothers. These inquisitors can weedle all they like with their thumb-screws and pincers, they’ll get nothing from me.’

‘And what would they do anyway with the knowledge, should, heaven forfend, you ever yield to their persuasion?’

‘What can they do with it?’

‘They have mines of their own, do they not?’

‘Coal. That’s about it.’

‘They have mountains.’

‘Silver and gold in them? Who knows? We’ve never heard anything about it and you can be sure word would have leaked out one way or another if they had.’

‘So what use are you to them?’

Peter shrugged his shoulders.

Hildegard considered the matter for a moment. ‘Peter, tell me, why do you think they brought you here?’

He shook his head. ‘Pope’s men? A bunch of Burgundy’s militia? Who can unravel their weave?’ He sat up, suddenly alert. ‘Have you found out something?’

‘I was here the morning Woodstock’s man rode in with his retinue. It was still dark, in that time just before dawn. Moments after Fitzjohn arrived a wagon came storming into the Great Courtyard. By this time everybody was trailing inside the palace. The wagon didn’t stop but disappeared round the corner towards the sumpter yard. There were barrels in it. Large ones. I saw them clearly under the flap by the light of the torches his guards carried as it swept round the corner. It meant nothing to me at the time. But, given your description of how you got here, I believe they were the barrels you and John were carried in. Remember, we stumbled across each other the very next day?’

‘That was our first day here. Go on.’

‘You see what it means?’

He gave the matter no more than a moment’s thought. ‘Obviously Woodstock gave this Fitzjohn fella the order to have us abducted?’

‘Yes, and it coincides with the impeachment of the king’s closest advisors and the plot against de la Pole.’

‘That’s what it looks like. But Woodstock’s a member of the King’s Council. He’s a prince of the blood royal. It’d be the same as treason to go against his nephew. To have dealings with King Richard’s enemy?’ He looked alarmed. ‘I hope they won’t think we had anything to do with it. We were abducted, plain as a pikestaff.’ He struggled up onto his knees the better to see into her face. ‘Tell me, why would Woodstock want to bring us here?’

‘Maybe he wants to send a gift to Pope Clement.’

‘What for?’

‘In return for the funding of an army?’

Peter uttered a restrained oath. ‘Us?’ He looked mildly flattered. ‘Clement, without any mines of his own, is given a gift – of two miners? Experts in the extraction of gold and silver from base rock? That’s rich! Doesn’t Woodstock realise we’d be less use than a pair of wax daggers?’

**

The shield fixed on the swivelling prop of the quintaine banged again and again as the English boys galloped their New Forest ponies towards it and jabbed their short wooden lances into it. There was a hard incentive to get it right and hit the target in the middle because if they missed, the shield would slam back into them before they could gallop their ponies out of the way and they would finish up by being knocked humiliatingly to the ground in front of everybody.

They were doing well when Hildegard arrived to watch. Hitting the target with a sound as regular as a beating heart. How adept they were could mean the difference later between life and death. If they were knocked off their horses on the battle-field they would have a gruelling time of it. The skill to remain in the saddle and deal hard knocks was vital.

Their young faces were flushed with the excitement of competition. The French boys were no less skilled than their rivals. Between them the will to win was friendly if ferocious. Maybe later, if they were lucky, they would avoid the battlefield altogether and merely compete in jousts against each other and become the darlings of some fair maid whose colours they would carry in their helmets from one gilded royal tournament to another. With this possibly rosy future ahead of them, she could understand how their exertions might fill them with such open, youthful joy.

On the sidelines stood one, however, who was refusing to compete. It was the boy she had seen weeping in the chapel, whom she now knew was called Elfric. He was watching intently, by no means indifferent to what was going on. Hildegard could not understand why he remained on the sidelines. He had a short sword in the sheath on his belt and rubbed the palm of one hand over and over against the hilt as if itching to fight.

The boys eventually began to tire of the quintaine and she turned to go but it was then Elfric stepped forward. He marched up to the tallest of the French boys and with a fine gesture of defiance threw down his glove.

At a distance she could not hear what was said but the challenge was accepted, bringing cheers from the onlookers. She saw the two boys draw swords.

Suddenly Edmund was beside her. ‘Watch this, domina.’ She noted the change in the way he addressed her as if someone had corrected him. ‘Elfric is our best swordsman. Small though he is he’s very quick. This should be good.’

‘Are they properly protected?’ she asked. ‘Neither boy seems to be wearing mail.’

‘They have hauberks on under their tunics,’ he replied nonchalantly. Clearly protection was the least of his interests.

‘I must insist, Edmund. I know it’s not for me to instruct you but you seem to have no master present. I’m sure that if you had he would insist that those two wear the proper apparel.’

‘Oh leave them, domina. They must test themselves. Elfric feels he has just cause against the French boy.’

Hildegard frowned. She could not stand by and watch. They were really no more than children and they were obviously putting themselves in danger. Just then the tall, big-boned figure of Sir John Fitzjohn himself entered the yard. He took in at once what was happening and let out a bellow of rage. In a few long strides he crossed the yard and grabbed the two swordsmen by the scruff of their necks. His language showed that he was unaware of a nun’s presence.

Hildegard smiled with relief nevertheless. In her opinion he had appeared in the nick of time. The boys knew it too. Sheepish looks were exchanged. One or two bystanders began to sidle away, disowning their fellow miscreants.

The words ‘brawl’ and ‘like peasants’ was heard. She decided the rest of Fitzjohn’s language was best forgotten,

As the two were dragged off for punishment she noticed that Edmund was closely following them with his glance, never once taking his eyes off them. His fists were bunched at his sides. When she looked at his face his expression was as hard as stone.

**

Hildegard laid a pile of the local currency she had obtained from the money changer on the table between them.

‘So,’ she invited, filling his beaker of wine and pushing it towards him, ‘I’d like to ask you a few questions.’

‘You would, would you.’

‘Indeed I would. It’s about the murder of the young man in the treasury.’

‘What’s that got to do with me?’

‘I was told there were two guards on duty at the treasury. Now I hear there was three.’

The guard folded his arms across his chest.

‘Is that so?’ she prompted.

‘What if it is?’

‘Will you tell me about it?’

‘You’re a strange one to be asking questions. What’s it to do with you?’

‘I’m English.’

He seemed satisfied with that and nodded. Then his eyes narrowed. ‘Who’s putting you up to this?’

‘Nobody.’

‘Is it the magister?’

‘Who? Brother Athanasius?’

‘That’s ‘im.’

‘I understand the dead boy was English. I have an interest for that reason.’

‘Fair enough.’

‘Well then?’

‘Well what?’

Curbing her irritation she asked, ‘So who was it found him?’

‘I did.’

‘The other guards said they found him.’

‘Only when they were given the alarm. By me.’

‘Where did you find him?’

‘Lying dead as you saw him when you came down with the magister and the cardinal.’

‘Was that you with the light?’

‘It was.’

‘Had anything been moved from the time when you found him and we came down?’

‘Not as far as I know.’

‘Was he dead when you found him in there?’

The guard gripped the edge of the table. ‘Now look here what are you suggesting? I told you – ’

‘I only ask for form’s sake. That wound didn’t look like one you professional fellows would inflict. It was more like the work of some back alley cut-throat. In fact, I doubt whether you would have inflicted any wound except what might naturally happen as you took him into custody.’

‘That’s right. I’m glad you see the situation with common sense.’

‘I do my best,’ she replied and before he could butt in again she asked, ‘So now, captain, can you remember what time you found the body?’

‘It was between matins and lauds. Nearer lauds.’

‘Is that as close as you can estimate?’

‘Lauds then. At the start of lauds.’

‘And where was his Holiness. Was he present?’

‘Not him. Of course not.’

‘Where was he?’

‘Where do you expect? In his chapel saying his prayers.’

‘Alone?’

‘With his priest and one or two others.’

‘How long was he there?’

‘He’s in for matins then stays there until after lauds.’

‘That’s a long time.’

‘It is.’

‘So the chamber was clear for anybody to enter for several hours?’

‘They’d have to get past us guards and the servants of the bedchamber first.’

She thought, which they did. Instead she said, ‘How on earth could anyone manage that?’ She widened her eyes to encourage him.

‘Look, I came on duty just before matins. I reckon the young devil was already down there, having lifted the trap door ready to do his filching.’

‘That trap door as you call it. It’s one great slab of stone. Could one man lift it by himself?’ He had done so earlier but he was a big brute of a man. Maurice by contrast was slight.

‘I guess he could if he was determined to do it.’

‘But he had to get into the pope’s privy chamber first – ?’

‘With his holiness out of the way all he had to do was get past the guards on duty.’

‘How on earth could he do that?’

‘We know how. He swopped places with the page of the bedchamber.’

‘How?’

‘Disguised himself.’

‘Is that a guess?’

‘We know it.’

‘How come?’

‘He came blabbing, didn’t he? Terrified out of his wits when he found what had happened.’

‘And who is he?’

‘A lad called Gaston.’

‘Paid to do it?’

‘I expect so.’

‘Didn’t you ask?’

‘Not my business. Look, I do my job – ’

‘Not in this case you didn’t, assuming your job is to guard the pope’s gold.’

‘I don’t like the way you say that.’

‘I mean nothing by it. It’s a fact somebody made a mistake by letting both a thief and a murderer inside the treasury.’

‘Well, it wasn’t me.’

‘I believe you.’

‘Why are you asking me all this?’

‘I told you why.’

‘You’d be better off asking Gaston. If you could.’

‘What do you mean if I could?’

‘He’s been sent back home to his village in disgrace. Back to cow herding which is all he’s good for.’

‘Where is his village?’

‘In the hills somewhere. Two houses and a pig sty.’

Hildegard filed this information away until later. ‘I don’t really understand how the murdered acolyte, the thief, if you will, could get inside without anyone stopping him. Surely somebody would notice it wasn’t Gaston?’

‘It isn’t like that. He goes up by himself to turn back the bed clothes after his Holiness has got out of bed to go to matins. Nobody would pay him heed. Why should they? They all look alike. A cap and cloak is all it would take.’

‘Did you see him?’

The guard was silent.

‘What did you see?’ she persisted with a pointed glance at the pile of coins on the table.

Reluctantly he admitted that he’d caught sight of somebody going up while he was sitting on the landing where the stairs separated, one up to the library and the other to the pope’s private chamber and the treasury. It was where they prepared to go on duty. He had assumed it was the usual page.

‘When me and Raymond, that’s the fella I was on duty with – when we changed places with the next roster,’ he looked uncomfortable, ‘well, to be absolutely honest, we came down early to have a bit of a game – ’

‘Of dice?’

He nodded. ‘We often did, once his holiness was out of the way. We all did it.’

‘Thereby leaving the treasury unguarded?’

‘We were sitting there!’

‘How long?’

‘Not for long.’

‘Long enough to have a game or two?’

‘That’s so.’

‘What happened next?’

‘We came down as I said.’

‘When? After the service for matins had started?’

‘That’s about it. Then eventually they took over and I went back with them. Raymond went off duty, back to his woman. I’d left my cap up there. And straightaway I saw the trap door in the floor was open. He must have got inside when his holiness went in the night office and after we guards came down. There’s no other explanation. After that it’d be simple. He opened the trap door, climbed down inside and – ’

‘And was knifed.’

‘That’s about it.’

He calls that simple, she registered with disbelief.

‘Look, I can’t account for it. He must’ve gone up with somebody. An accomplice. I don’t know! That’s enough!’

She looked at the coins and began to reach for them. ‘When did you go up?’

He shifted. Mumbled a bit. Hildegard leaned forward, ‘When did you say?’

‘During lauds,’ he admitted.

‘Not the start as you’ve just said?’

He mumbled again. ‘Just before the end, in fact.’

‘You call that not long?’

‘It’s the middle of the night. The night shift. None of us like it.’

‘What does Clement do between matins and lauds?’

‘He stays up there as I’ve already told you, listening to the singing.’

‘I thought the murdered acolyte was a chorister?’

‘They don’t have the full choir at that time. Maybe his Holiness talks among his friends? How would I know what they do? You imagine I’m allowed in there?’

‘All right. I was only asking. So, given that Gaston changed places with Maurice, how do you think the murderer got inside? You seem to have forgotten him. Who did he swop places with?’

‘You tell me.’

**

She failed to get any more out of him and was left with the question whether the murderer had been lying in wait when Maurice arrived and if so, who had tipped him off that an attempt was going to be made on the treasury, for why else would he be there?

**

‘Gaston, I understand you’re about to be sent back to your village?’ She had found him just in time.

He grunted an assent.

‘And I hear you changed places with Maurice on the night he was murdered? Did he pay you to do that?’

The page, pale, sullen, badly treated, knew better than to show insolence to add to his calamitous lack of judgement. He nodded. When Hildegard asked him how much he mentioned a pitifully small sum then tightened his lips in distaste at his own folly, as she assumed.

‘What did Maurice say to you? Did he give any reason for wanting to get inside?’

‘He didn’t need to. Why else would somebody break into a treasury but to steal as much gold as they could get their hands on?’ His tone was scornful.

‘Did he promise you more gold if he was successful?’

The boy gave a miserable nod. She could imagine what he was thinking: all this trouble and for what? The promised riches had not materialised. They were nothing but a chimera.

Some people live to be fooled and fooled again. And here was one, led into folly by the lure of a little stolen gold.

‘So what did he say exactly when he put this idea to you?’

‘I knew it was ‘cos of the gold. I’m not stupid. But he tried to tell me it was a dare. He said: “I want to see if I can outwit the gryphon.” A dare, I ask you! He said, “You’ll profit by it, you’ll get your reward.”’

‘And that convinced you?’

‘Of course it did.’

‘What did he mean by the gryphon?’

The boy shook his head.

‘A gryphon is a mythical beast set to guard treasure.’

‘It did a bad job then, didn’t it?’

**

Now things had been explained she saw how easy it had been to set up. Simple, as the guard claimed. He was right in so far as Maurice was concerned. All it took was a cap, a cloak and nerves of steel. Once inside all he had to do was fill his bags and lie in wait until the guards moved off. He would have been able to hear their mailed boots on the stone flags above his head and judge when they were out of the way. Then it was a short step to freedom. The mystery was how the murderer, whoever he was, had got inside without being seen by anyone. It was stretching credulity to imagine he had also bribed somebody to let him in. He must have entered at the same time as Maurice despite the guard claiming that he saw only one figure going up.

He might have even have been the one to give the would-be thief the idea in the first place, putting himself forward as a trusty accomplice, or maybe he was someone Maurice himself had confided in, boasting the way boys will, of what he intended to do, maybe inviting his friend along to witness his escapade.

Maybe the page of the bedchamber himself had tipped someone off, perhaps for another small reward. Or maybe the murderer had taunted Maurice that he hadn’t the nerve to face the gryphon and Maurice had brazened it out, taking the other along as a witness, later to help himself to enough trinkets to keep him in comfort for the rest of his life.

There were a hundred possible versions of what might have happened but they had one thing in common, the murderer must surely have known about the plan beforehand.

In despair at the lack of evidence she decided that the easiest solution was to lay the blame at the feet of the two guards on duty between matins and lauds. Have done with it, she told herself. Even then the question remained: why kill him?

**

No nearer an answer, she mingled with the rumour-mongers before going up to fulfil her duty towards Athanasius. There was nothing new to be heard. Everybody seemed to be losing interest already. The feeling seemed to be that it was only the death of a retainer, a sneak thief, better off dead. He was no-one of importance and was probably the victim of a personal tiff over some trivial rivalry.

The only thing she did discover was that the clerks were busy checking everything in the treasury against an inventory to find out what had actually been stolen. Their activities were unconcealed, in fact blatant, as if to frighten the thief into a public confession. Meanwhile everyone was watching his neighbour in the hope of detecting a sudden show of affluence, although it was unlikely that anyone would be so foolish as to betray themselves in that way.

When she went up to see Athanasius, Cardinal Grizac was already there, sitting on the bench gasping for breath and wiping his brow with his sleeve. ‘Those stairs,’ he greeted her.

She asked him if he would be gracious enough, once he had recovered his breath, to show her the stairs to the pope’s chamber again. It was at the centre of a labyrinth of stairs and passages. She would never find her own way.

Grizac was panting again as they climbed the steps to the vestibule where the guards waited when it was time to change duties with their comrades. Then two stone staircases led to the private chapel and library and the other into the pope’s privy chambers and the treasury. The guard would have seen anyone climbing up because the place where they sat and presumably played dice was on the landing where the stairs divided.

Without complaint Grizac led her up to have another look.

‘The idea,’ he explained, ‘is that in time of danger a wooden ladder on the lower floor can be drawn up inside the tower to prevent anyone getting in to attack the pope. Or to steal from the treasury,’ he added as an afterthought. ‘The builder who designed the tower took no chances. The palace is truly a fortress and although it might be besieged for months on end, it can never be taken. If it did succumb, the treasury itself could not be breached.’

‘Except by one daring youth with a very simple plan.’

‘Quite so.’

**

She tried to get back in to the tower to see the English prisoners and to find out what the inquisitors had wanted to ask John, but the guard refused.

‘They’re sleeping now.’

‘It’s mid-day.’

‘They’re having a piss then. Nobody enters, get it?’

**

Fearing for them she returned to Athanasius’s cell. He was looking slightly better after a dish of capons had been brought up by a kitchen servant but the evil smell of his herbal cure hung round the place as strong as ever. She held a kerchief soaked in lavender water which she now and then patted over her face.

The pope’s guard she had spoken to earlier was a little wealthier than when he had first met her, as was the sullen page, Gaston, who had been given a couple of groats for his help. Now she handed Athanasius a docket with the expenses on it. He did not look at it but merely pushed it under a book on his reading stand. Despite her efforts, she was no nearer the truth.

‘I confess I’ve reached an impasse,’ she apologised.

‘And the page you spoke to, the page of the bedchamber – this Gaston – he didn’t say who had dared Maurice to this foolhardy act?’ His eyes were like needle points again.

‘The question did not seem to have entered his head.’

‘It seems the whole matter has come down to a boyish prank. We shall leave it at that and find other things to amuse us. Disappointing that it turns out to have so little importance after all.’

‘Except for one thing,’ she reminded, ‘when the gryphon was disturbed it took a terrible revenge. Maurice’s death surely lifts the puzzle above the level of a prank?’

**

The jewelled dagger was still missing. Lost, presumed stolen. And it was not just one knife, she reminded herself, but two, because the murder weapon had not been found either. No doubt it hand been wiped clean and was hanging safely on somebody’s belt by now.

**

She waited until the guard outside the prison tower went off duty and a different one settled in then she went over. In her hands she carried a bowl of broth and a lump of wastel the kitcheners had been generous enough to provide.

The guard insisted on poking the point of his knife into the broth and swirling it about. He did the same thing with the bread, cutting it roughly into four pieces and looking disappointed when both exercises proved futile. He nodded her inside with a grunt.

When she reached the top of the stairs she opened the cell door and was about to call out to Peter when the name died on her lips. ‘Where is he?’

John, alone, was slumped in the straw and barely managed to raise his head.

She was across the floor in a moment. Crouching down beside him she asked, ‘What have they done to you?’

In reply he raised both hands.

Every nail had been ripped out. His face contorted in an attempt at bravado. ‘They got my nails but they got nowt else.’ He slumped back on the straw. ‘Not from me. Never. Do what they will.’

‘Let me attend to your fingers before they become infected.’

Placing the bread and broth on the floor she opened her scrip. She needed water first to clean up the bloody mess that had once been his finger tips. The flagon beside him was still nearly full so she tipped some onto a clean piece of linen. ‘This will hurt but I beg you, John, do not attempt to restrain your language. It will help to utter any imprecation you can think of. I don’t know why, but it does.’