The Tavern in the Morning

Death by Poisoning
Chapter One

February, Josse d’Acquin thought miserably, was a wretched month for a journey.

He was nearly home, and he was experiencing in full the phenomenon of something unpleasant becoming far more so when one need not endure it much longer. The wind was coming steadily from the north-east quarter; into Josse’s mind sprang suddenly the memory of a fellow-soldier, a man he’d known years ago, who used to refer to a north-easter as the Snowmother.

The Snowmother was making Josse about as uncomfortable as a man could be just then, he reflected grimly. His cloak was soaked through — and it was his heavyweight one, too, guaranteed to keep you dry, curse that lying merchant — and his shoulders were aching with cold. His buttocks were sore, and his thighs were badly chafed from hours of sitting in the saddle with wet hose. He was hungry and thirsty — what inns there had been on the road that were open for business had had little to offer a traveller in the depths of a harsh winter — and his feet in the sodden, mud-caked boots burned with chilblains. Burned, anyway, where they weren’t frozen numb.

His horse was in little better state. ‘Poor old Horace,’ Josse murmured, slapping the big horse’s neck, ‘the things I ask of you, eh?’ The horse shook his head, and small drops of ice flew from his mane, spinning through the air and catching the weak light. ‘A thorough rub-down, a good feed, and tonight in your own stable, I promise,’ Josse added. ‘Another five miles, six at most, and we’ll be safe home at New Winnowlands.’

New Winnowlands. The small but stoutly-built manor house, once forming the dower house of a larger estate, had been given to Josse by King Richard Plantagenet, in grateful thanks for services Josse had rendered. Given, however, had apparently been open to question, by the King at least; even when awarding Josse his prize, the words ‘at a reasonable price’ had crept into Richard’s little speech. It had been only on the intercession of his mother, the great Eleanor of Aquitaine, wife to Henry II and beloved queen of the English people, that the gift had managed to stay a gift.

Then, damnation take it, two years on and along comes a demand for rent! Rent! Josse had been alarmed, horrified — the mentioned sum of rent arrears was more than sizeable, it was downright huge — and, finally, furiously angry.

‘The King gave me my house!’ he had raged, pacing up and down before his fireplace, spinning round so violently that Will, his manservant, nipped forward and rescued a tray bearing a jug of wine and a half-full goblet before Josse could send them flying. ‘Two years and more ago, it was a gift! And now he wants me to pay for it!’ He turned furious eyes to Will. ‘In God’s name, what can he be thinking of?’

Will, who wasn’t in a temper and who therefore retained the power of logical thought, pointed out that, with King Richard still far away on crusade in Outremer, the rental demand could scarcely have come from him. ‘He’ll be far too busy with them devil Saracens to worry about a tiddly little manor house, sir,’ Will went on, with scant diplomacy, ‘you mark my words.’

Josse, amused despite himself, nodded sagely. ‘How right you are, Will,’ he said, in almost his normal voice. Frowning hard, he muttered, ‘If not the King, then who?’

It took neither Josse nor Will more than a few seconds to come up with the probable answer. Simultaneously Will said, ‘It’ll be that John Lackland, I’ll stake money on it,’ while Josse exploded, ‘That calculating, money-grabbing bastard, John! It’s him!’

* * *

A demand for money, however, was a demand for money, and needed to be dealt with. Especially when it came from the King’s younger brother, a man who saw himself — and was busy trying to make everyone else see him — as the next King of England. Whose coronation, if John had his way, couldn’t come too soon.

The trouble was, Josse mused, as he tried to decide what to do, was that Richard, God bless his single-mindedness and his courage, seemed to have forgotten about his realm of England the moment he quit it — a matter of weeks after his coronation in September 1189 — to go off on crusade. He’s playing right into John’s grasping hands, Josse thought, and it’s hardly surprising that people are half-inclined to believe John when he puts it around that King Richard will never come home.

And what if he’s right? Crusading’s no picnic, that’s for sure, and our Richard isn’t a man to stand at the back and order others into the fray. And, as well as the perils of fighting, there’s sickness. The dear Lord alone knows what ills a man may fall foul of out there. Fevers, the flux, and who knows what others?

Supposing King Richard dies?

It was a sobering thought. The King’s marriage to Berengaria of Navarre was but a few months old, and gossip was already declaring that the swift conception and birth of a son and heir was most unlikely. Well, with some justification, Josse acknowledged, since a man with fighting on his mind isn’t as likely as some to bed his wife with the regularity necessary to impregnate her. As matters currently stood, the heir to the throne of England was a four-year-old boy, Arthur of Brittany, the posthumous son of Richard and John’s brother, Geoffrey, and his wife. Constance.

And the word of the wise was saying that the barons of England weren’t going to be happy supporting Arthur.

Would they be any happier supporting John? Surely not! No man in his right mind would back the untrustworthy John, not all the time there remained even the slimmest chance of Richard returning home hale and hearty.

Josse slowly shook his head, his thoughts returning to that ominous demand for money. John, it was clearly apparent, was building up funds. For what? For some well-thought-out and clever plan, knowing John; whatever else you thought of him, you had to admit he was clever. Or possibly cunning was a better word …

In a flash of inspiration, Josse knew what he must do. He must put his case before Queen Eleanor. She had interceded on his behalf with her favourite son, so surely she would do the same with John.

It was worth a try.

It was, in fact, Josse’s only hope.

* * *

Eleanor was lodging with the nuns of Amesbury Abbey. And Amesbury was in Wiltshire, half of the width of southern England away from Josse, whose manor was in Kent.

Still, it could have been worse. The Queen had spent Christmas in Normandy, and, had she still been there, it would have meant a dangerous sea crossing in addition to days and days on roads made all but impassable by the winter weather. It was pure good fortune that she was this side of the Channel, brought over in a rush to plead with John to abandon his scheme to ally himself with King Philip of France. Ally himself against Richard.

Nothing could have lent more speed to the Queen’s feet than a threat to her beloved Richard, whose interests, both in England and on the Continent, she was doing her best to look after in his absence. With the present danger averted — for the time being — she had retired to Amesbury to catch her breath.

Which was where Josse found her.

To his amazement, she remembered him. ‘Josse d’Acquin,’ she said, extending a hand gloved in fine white kid fringed with some soft, dense, pale fur, ‘my son’s solver of puzzles.’

‘My lady,’ Josse replied, bending low over her hand.

‘How are matters in Kent?’ she enquired.

‘Quiet, my lady, in this severe weather.’

‘Indeed.’ She nodded. ‘And how fares my friend the Abbess of Hawkenlye?’

‘Abbess Helewise is well, as far as I know.’

‘Ah.’ There was a pause. Then Eleanor said, ‘Given the aforementioned weather, Sir Josse, would we be right in concluding that you have not ventured all the way from Kent purely to kiss our hand?’

Josse looked up and met her amused eyes. ‘My lady, it would be worth the journey,’ he began gallantly, only to be interrupted by her burst of laughter.

‘In May, perhaps, but in February? What nonsense, sir knight!’ she said. Smiling — really, Josse thought, she was still the most beautiful woman, despite her seventy-odd years — she said kindly, ‘Now, let us waste no more time. Tell me how I may help you.’

Humbly — for it was surely a great thing, not only to be remembered fondly by the great Eleanor of Aquitaine, but also to be so unconditionally offered her help — Josse outlined his problem.

‘I hesitate to put what must seem so trivial a matter before you, Lady,’ he finished, ‘and I only do so because…’ He trailed off. Because your son promised that Winnowlands was to be a gift, was the honest reason. But it would sound so very blunt!

The Queen, however, was ahead of him. ‘Because, as you and I both very well recall, Sir Josse, Richard gave your manor to you. Not without prompting, as I remember,’ she added in a murmur. ‘But a gift is a gift,’ she announced grandly, ‘and ever more should remain so.’ With a wave of her hand she summoned a lady-in-waiting from the small group huddled around the fireplace of the Abbey’s reception hall. ‘Writing materials, please,’ she said, and the woman hurried to fetch them.

Then, as Josse watched, Eleanor calmly wrote out three or four brief lines, decorating the thick parchment with an elegant, flowing hand. Not wanting to peer too closely, Josse made himself keep back. When she had finished, snapping her fingers at her lady-in-waiting, who proffered the royal seal, Eleanor raised her head, smiled swiftly as if she knew exactly what he was thinking, and, rolling up the parchment, handed it to him.

‘Should my youngest son ever present himself in person to claim what he accuses you of owing,’ she said tonelessly, ‘then you may show him this. Anyone else you may dismiss out of hand.’

Thinking that such a dismissal might, depending on to whom it was addressed, be more easily said than done, Josse bowed again, thanked her, and, sensing himself dealt with, began to back out of the room.

The Queen stopped him. ‘Sir Josse!’

‘My Lady?’

‘My compliments to the Abbess Helewise, when you see her.

She seemed, Josse thought later, in no doubt that it was when, not if.

* * *

Riding into his own courtyard, his many bodily discomforts were all but obliterated by the pleasure of being home again. And, moreover, with his mission accomplished. He patted the parchment, carefully stowed inside his tunic. Now let them come demanding rent! he thought cheerfully. I’ll show them!

On reflection, it was rather a pleasant prospect. He actually hoped some agent of John would turn up. It would be worth the furore to see the man’s face when Queen Eleanor’s personal seal was waved under his nose.

Horace, who had broken into an almost eager trot over the last half mile, was urging on across the courtyard in the direction of the stables. Yelling out for Will, Josse slid off the horse’s back, stumbling slightly on stiff, numb legs, and led Horace under cover.

Just inside the main door to the stables was a tinker’s handcart, covered with heavy sacking. That, Josse thought, explained why Will hadn’t come rushing out: no doubt he and Ella were in the kitchen, lapping up all the latest gossip. He unsaddled Horace, took off the bridle and, giving the horse a friendly slap on his broad rump, put him into a stall strewn with fresh, sweet-smelling straw, a filled water-trough on one wall.

‘Wait there, old friend,’ Josse said, ‘and I’ll send Will out to you.’

Entering the kitchen, he heard an unfamiliar voice.

‘… sick everywhere, up the walls, all over the floor, and they do say there’s a fresh mark by the window, a scorch mark, like, as if the Devil himself flew off and left a sign of his passing!’

‘Ooooh!’ breathed Ella, eyes wide, clutching her apron tightly.

‘I don’t know about devils,’ Will began, ‘but-’

In the doorway, Josse cleared his throat. Will and Ella spun round, and the stranger looked up and gave him a friendly grin.

‘It’s the master!’ Will cried, leaping up and looking as guilty as if he’d been caught rifling through Josse’s personal belongings. ‘I’m right sorry, sir, but I didn’t hear you call out.’ He reached down for his sacking hood, drying beside the fire. ‘I’ll go and see to your horse, sir, he’ll be in sore need of it on a foul day like today.’

‘It’s all right, Will, I-’ Josse said. But Will, giving him a sheepish look, had gone.

‘Sir Josse d’Acquin?’ the stranger asked, getting up and making a brief bow.

‘Aye.’

‘I am Thomas, Sir Josse. Tinker of these parts, mender of household items, supplier of fancy goods, acquirer of rare luxuries, and bringer of tidings both good and bad.’ He bowed again, more deeply; had he been wearing a hat, Josse reflected, he’d have swept it off.

‘Welcome to my house, Thomas the Tinker,’ Josse said. ‘You have, I trust, been offered comforts?’

‘That I have.’ Thomas glanced at Ella, who, eyes cast down, seemed to be pretending she wasn’t there; eighteen months in Josse’s easy-going household had wrought little change in the diffident, nervous woman she had been when Will first brought her there to live with him. She never looked you in the face, Josse had noticed; was it natural shyness, or was she too conscious of the slight cast in her left eye? ‘She’s a fine cook, your serving woman.’

‘As I well know,’ Josse agreed. ‘Ella? May I have some of that?’ He indicated the jug of mulled wine beside the fire. With a brief exclamation, she rushed to serve him, and, on Josse’s nod, filled up the tinker’s mug.

‘You were saying something about a visitation from the devil?’ Josse said, as the warm, sweet wine began to thaw him out. ‘Will you repeat your tale for a fresh audience?’

‘Gladly!’ Thomas pulled his little stool closer to Josse, ‘I was in Tonbridge day before yesterday, see, it being market day, but trade were bad. Too cold to get folks interested — it were out of the door, buy your chicken, your bunch of herbs or your tub of goose-fat, then straight home again. Nobody wanted to linger, not with that there wind howling like a hundred dead souls. Oh, no!’

‘And?’ Josse prompted.

‘Well, like many another fellow, I made my way to the inn. A taste of Goody Anne’s ale, that’s what you need, Thomas my lad, I told myself. So off I went, and, to cut a long story short, sir, that’s where I stayed. Afternoon turned to evening, evening to night, and there I sat in my corner, talking the hours away in good company, my mug ever-full, my platter cleared of every last crumb and every last drop.’

The disadvantage of having a professional storyteller pass on the news, Josse thought resignedly, was that they never used one word where ten would do.

‘In due course we all went our several ways to bed, sir,’ the tinker went on, ‘and Mistress Anne were good enough to let me sleep under my barrow, in one of her outhouses, so I were cozy enough. All were quiet till morning, sir, when one of the serving folk went up to see to the guest chamber.’ He paused dramatically, eyes fixed on Josse’s. ‘And you’ll never imagine what she found, sir, not if you guessed from now till next Christmas!’

‘Sick all over the floor and up the walls and a scorch mark by the window?’ Josse suggested.

The tinker looked fleetingly put out, then, recovering, grinned. ‘Ah, but sir, you have the advantage of having heard the end of the tale before the beginning, so as to speak,’ he said. ‘But, aye! That’s exactly what the poor little lassie did find! Scream? I never heard the like! Woke me up, she did, and I’m no light sleeper, let me tell you, sir. I goes rushing inside, along of everyone else who heard her cry, and we all goes stumbling and tumbling along that passage.’ Another pause. ‘And there he is, lying there! In a pool of his own vomit, expression on his face like he’d been terrified half out of his wits, and dead as a doornail!’

‘Poor man,’ Josse said inadequately.

‘Poor man?’ Clearly Thomas had expected more of a reaction. ‘I’m telling you, sir, that man died in agony! Just imagine, you’re all alone, you’re ill, sicker than you’ve ever been in your life, and you feel the despair of approaching death. Hear the steps of the grim reaper come plod-plodding up the passage, see his claw-hand open the door, watch in horror as that tall, thin, black-hooded figure creeps stealthily towards you, knowing all the while that-’

Ella gave a little scream, quickly muffling it with her apron. Josse, glancing at her white face, said, ‘Quite. We see the picture. What happened next?’

‘What happened next,’ Thomas said, peeved at being interrupted in the middle of the good bit, ‘was that Goody Anne came muscling into the chamber, sees all that sick all over the floor and orders everyone out. Then someone — don’t ask me who, sir, as I don’t know — must have gone for the Law.’

You could hear the capital letter of ‘Law’, Josse thought. Here, obviously, was a man who preferred to keep his distance, from both the institution and its officers. ‘And so you made yourself scarce?’ he suggested, grinning.

Thomas looked affronted. ‘Sir! The very idea! I — well, that’s to say, I didn’t put myself forward, like, there being no point since I had nothing to offer that could possibly help.’

‘Of course not,’ Josse murmured.

The tinker shot him a very sharp look, then said, ‘Course, I couldn’t help picking up the odd titbit of information, here and there, and what I gather is that they’re saying the dead man got fed a bad bit of supper. Slice of pie, portion of stew, whatever. And that whatever had got into it did for him.’

‘What?’ Josse was amazed. ‘They’re saying something served in Goody Anne’s inn poisoned him?’

‘Aye,’ Thomas said, obviously pleased to have provoked a reaction at last. ‘Threatening her with the full force of the law, they are, for feeding a man vittles that killed him.’

There were at least two things wrong with that, Josse thought. For one, his experience of Goody Anne’s fare was that it was good, honest nourishment, cooked fresh each day, and that she richly deserved her reputation as a generous and skilled innkeeper. The second objection — and this was the clincher — was that, if a bad dish had indeed been served, then it was most unlikely that there would be only the one casualty.

‘Poor Anne,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘What a misfortune! The worst thing to happen to a woman in her profession.’

From her corner, and to Josse’s total surprise, Ella suddenly spoke. ‘Can’t you do nothing for her, sir?’ she asked, face flushing at her own temerity, hands clasping at each other in anxiety. ‘I’m a cook, too, sir, though I wouldn’t dare to compare myself with this Goody Anne. But, sir, if someone said that food I had prepared had done for some poor soul, then I don’t know what I’d do.’ Her eyebrows descended over the mismatched eyes in a ferocious frown as she tried to imagine the unimaginable. ‘Reckon I’d want to be dead, an’ all.’

It was the first time Josse could recall Ella ever having ventured a remark of her own accord. Certainly, it was the first time he’d heard her say more than a few words: ‘Mornin’, sir’ and ‘Aye, a cold day it is’ were normally her limit. ‘Ella?’ he said gently. ‘You feel strongly for poor Anne?’

But her courage had run out. She had returned to her hunched position in her corner, and would not meet his eye. She grunted and managed, ‘Aye.’

The tinker was standing up, draining the last of his wine with a slurp. ‘I’ll be on my way,’ he said. ‘There’s an hour or two of daylight left, I’ll make my next stop afore dark if I leave now.’ He nodded to Ella, bowed to Josse, and headed out through the kitchen door.

Josse followed him out to the stables. Will could be heard, whistling between his teeth to Horace as, with steady, soothing strokes, he rubbed the horse down.

‘Cheerio, Will,’ Thomas called, bending to pick up the handles of his cart. ‘Be seeing you.’

Will’s head appeared over the half door of the stall. ‘Cheerio, then, Thomas.’ He caught sight of Josse. ‘Oh! Nearly done here, sir, then I’ll see about helping you with your kit.’

Josse watched the tinker set off across the yard, one wheel of the handcart accompanying the regular beat of his steps with a small squeak. ‘I didn’t come to hurry you along, Will,’ he said, turning back to the manservant.

‘No, sir?’ Will looked at him expectantly.

‘No.’ Josse sighed. It wasn’t a very happy prospect, especially when he’d been so looking forward to a few days’ peace and quiet in the warmth and comfort of home. But, there you were, a friend was a friend, and one in need couldn’t be ignored. Especially when, as seemed to be happening, they were being punished for something they hadn’t done.

‘I came to say, Will,’ Josse went on, ‘that I’d be grateful if you’d feed old Horace up a bit tonight.’

‘Sir?’

‘I’ll be needing him again tomorrow, I’m afraid. It looks like I’ll be going to Tonbridge.’