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‘it may be a potion. A remedy.’ Eyes on Josse’s – and for the first time she began to look like herself – she added, ‘I’ve smelt this stuff, whatever it is, before; I’m sure I have.’ She frowned. ‘It’s used for . . .’ Giving up, she shrugged, smiling at him. ‘I don’t know. Come on!’
         He turned to watch her as she scooped up the little bag and strode out of the room. ‘Where are we going?’
         The Abbess did not answer but then she didn’t really need to because Josse had guessed. Pacing along behind her – she was almost running – he followed her along the path that led round in front of the Abbey church and along inside the wall to the herb garden where, cosy in her small and fragrant little hut, the herbalist was sitting peacefully tying bunches of dried rosemary.
         The herbalist got to her feet and bowed to the Abbess, giving Josse a quick smile and what could have been a wink. Barely pausing to acknowledge the greeting, the Abbess thrust the small bag at Sister Tiphaine and said, ‘Can you tell us what this is?’
         Sister Tiphaine took the bag in careful hands and went to stand outside the hut, so that the full daylight fell on to it. She did as the Abbess had done and sniffed at it several times. Then she pinched one corner of the bag between finger and thumb and sniffed again.
         ‘Smells of lemon balm and vervain,’ she observed. ‘That’s interesting . . .’ Glancing up at the Abbess, she said, ‘May I open it?’
         ‘Yes.’
         The herbalist spread a clean piece of linen on her work bench and then took up a small knife and sliced through the string that held the neck of the bag closed; the string, Josse had noticed, was suffering from its time under water and appeared to have shrunk, making the knot quite impossible to untie. Then Sister Tiphaine gently shook the bag’s contents on to the piece of linen, picking them over and inspecting each item.
         After quite a long time – Josse could sense the Abbess restraining her impatience – Sister Tiphaine spoke. ‘This is a remedy,’ she announced.
         ‘That much we have already surmised. What is it for?’ demanded the Abbess.
         ‘There is a mixture of herbs here,’ Sister Tiphaine replied. ‘They are used to treat a variety of symptoms.’
         ‘Well?’
         If Sister Tiphaine had also noted the Abbess’s unusual asperity, she gave no sign. Calmly she began to list the ingredients in the bag and to describe the sickness that they treated.
         ‘Lemon balm, that calms and helps soothe a headache. There’s yarrow, that’s for flux of the bowels.’
         ‘Yes, yes, we know full well he suffered from that.’
         With a quick glance at the Abbess, the herbalist continued. ‘There’s wormwood; now that’s good for treating gripes in the belly and they do say it brings down a fever, although me, I find the bitter taste puts folks off swallowing it down. Rue, now, that’ll help calm a headache, as will this’ – she held up a tiny stem of some withered plant – ‘which is wild marjoram. And here’s a piece of mandrake; expensive, that is, and it’s hardly surprising given how folks fear it and don’t dare handle it.’
         ‘So this remedy is for the flux, fever and headache?’ The Abbess, Josse thought, was trying to hurry the herbalist along.
         But Sister Tiphaine would not be hurried. ‘Hmm,’ she murmured, still picking over the bag’s contents. ‘Here’s water mint and peppermint – both for the bowels – and quince; now that’s normally saved for when the bowel leaks blood. And here’s henbane; that’s a strong remedy and few use it.’
         ‘What does it do?’ Josse asked.
         ‘It eases pain, although take too much and you’ll never feel pain again.’
         As she spoke the herbalist was deftly dividing the little sack’s contents into two piles, one containing those