The next morning Osbert was in a foul temper. Not only had some rat-faced thief some nights ago taken off with their quenching tub – handed down from Jared’s father’s father – but now, their mortar and pestle had gone missing.
Jared muttered sympathies but his mind was elsewhere.
He’d try willow twigs from the opposite bank this time for a new batch of charcoal.
Wagge the pedlar was surprised to take another order for best sulphur but suggested he would be more than satisfied by a sack on its way to the leper hospital.
The hsiao? Jared gave it much careful thought. The wet, stinking material he’d been so careful to select didn’t particularly look much like what the Cathayans had gathered, even if it yielded very similar crystals. The dry heat of that land had made it seem more dense, friable almost. And they’d always preferred scrapings of those white icicles from stone mausoleums and sepulchres. Was England’s cool and misty climate not infusing sufficient fervency into the hsiao?
He’d no way of knowing. Better to go for the stone scrapings.
There hadn’t been a good haul at the priory. The other place that suggested itself was the parish church and its ancient crypts, but Jared knew he’d not get away with ransacking that.
The manor pigeon-cote? This lord of the manor was not partial to pigeon pie and it had been empty these years. Stone-built with a domed roof it had all the makings of a prime source.
The door was not locked: empty, it had no attraction for thieves or other. Jared entered and looked up. The entire ceiling was gloriously white with encrusted hsiao, a princely haul!
An old ladder stood against the wall and with Perkyn holding it Jared clambered up.
The roof was out of reach but he transferred his feet to the multitude of pigeonholes in the wall and was soon up among the rank efflorescence that sprouted like flowers from all parts. Gleefully he plied his scraper and in no time had a bag weighty with good, reeking hsiao.
‘That’s enough for now,’ he called down to Perkyn and descended.
They opened the door and to his horror saw the bulk of Harpe standing outside, impassive, holding back an eager mastiff on a leash.
‘Er, Saint Michael’s blessing upon you, this fine evening,’ Jared managed.
‘Master Blacksmith. And can I ask what you’re doing here?’
‘Oh. Um, looking.’
‘For what?’
‘F-for treasure.’
‘Treasure? Give me that bag.’
Harpe glared inside, sniffing and frowning, then handed it back expressionless, distancing himself.
‘Ah, and I hopes you feel better in the morning.’