‘I only guessed.’
‘So you’re not sure what poisoned me?’
‘I can’t be certain, not yet.’
I thought about the crushed pepper grains that Berenger had given me to taste, and asked Osric if they could have been the cause.
He shook his head.
‘Only if there was some other substance mixed in.’
‘Count Hroudland thinks someone put it in my food on purpose.’
Osric gave me a long, hard look.
‘That’s possible.’
‘He believes it was done because I am known to be his close friend. Someone wanted to warn him, or hurt him.’
A veiled look came over Osric’s eyes.
‘The count has enemies but there could be other reasons.’
I tried to make a joke.
‘Are you saying that from now on I should employ a food taster?’
He didn’t smile.
‘If the poison was what I think it was, it could have got into your food deliberately or by accident.’
‘Well, one thing is sure: if old Gerard mixed something with those peppercorns, it was by accident. I’m told he was also very sick.’
‘Unless he deliberately took a smaller dose to distract attention,’ Osric replied.
*
But when I saw Gerard in his cubicle, I knew he could have had no part in my poisoning. He looked dreadful. The flesh had fallen away from his bones, and his face was a sickly orange-yellow. He lay in a cot, propped up on a bank of pillows. There were great dark rings around his eyes and they were sunken in their sockets and also had a yellowish tinge. He greeted me feebly.
‘Patch, whatever it was that your slave gave me saved my life.’
I tried to sound cheerful, though I feared that the old man was not yet out of danger.
‘I am as much in debt to Osric,’ I said. ‘I’m sure his treatment can restore your body fully.’
Gerard gave a ghost of a smile.
‘I’m leaving it to the priests to save my soul. But whatever the outcome, I would want to show some gratitude.’ He fumbled under his pillow and, with an effort, pulled out a square package wrapped in cloth. He pushed it across the blanket towards me. ‘Maybe you will accept this, though it’s never been much use to me . . . until now that is.’
I unwrapped the package and found that it contained a medium-sized book, which had been ill-used. The leather cover had once been handsome. There were still the tracings of fine toolwork, and a flake or two of gold leaf. There were several gouge marks as though someone had kicked the book like a football across rough ground.
Gerard sank back on his pillow.
‘I’ve owned that book for years. Can’t say I’ve done anything about it.’
‘How did it come into your possession?’ I asked.
‘It was found in the baggage train of the Saracens after we drove them into the sea. That was a long time ago. When I was just a youth.’
I turned the book over. The back cover was torn away. The last pages were gone. The exposed parchment was water-stained as if it had been left lying in a puddle. I hesitated to open it for fear that it would fall to pieces in my hand.
Gerard lay limp, drawing breath before he could speak again.
‘May I examine it?’ I asked. Books were rare and precious, even in such bad condition. It was most unusual to find one in private hands.
‘Of course.’
I opened the book at random and saw the line upon line of writing, beautifully executed and regular. To my chagrin, it meant nothing to me.
‘It is written in the Saracen script,’ Gerard said.
I suppressed my disappointment.
Gerard allowed himself a bleak laugh.
‘My father offered it to one of the monasteries as a gift. But the priests turned it down. Said it was the work of idolaters and would pollute their library of holy books.’
I began leafing carefully through the pages. The water had soaked right through the book, and then dried, leaving the material fragile. But the writing itself was clear.
‘I’d be fascinated to know what is written here. If only I knew someone who could translate it,’ I said.
‘Have you thought about your slave Osric?’
I looked up in surprise.
‘It hasn’t occurred to you that he has Saracen blood?’ The old man seemed faintly amused that I hadn’t thought of this for myself.
‘I haven’t seen many Saracens,’ I admitted.
‘I have, and I would say that your slave’s homeland was either in Hispania or Africa.’
I thought over his suggestion. Osric was swarthy, but his complexion was no darker than several other people I had known when growing up.
‘Even if he is a Saracen, I doubt he can read or write,’ I said.
Gerard eased himself gently against his pillows.