by Paul Doherty
Gumple, witless with terror, nodded her head.
‘Well?’
‘I knew Alexander Wyville,’ Gumple began hesitantly. ‘He was a member of this parish. I used to . . . well . . . talk to him. I . . .’ she stammered, ‘I was surprised when he became the betrothed of Mistress Swinbrooke because I knew something of his little ways, his love of wine, his violent temper. Anyway’ – she put her head-dress straight – ‘the marriage took place.’ Gumple paused and stared out of the door.
Aye, Thomasina thought, and I’ll wager you laughed secretly at the pig in the poke the Swinbrookes had taken into their house. ‘Go on!’ she ordered loudly.
‘Well, Alexander told me he was leaving to join the Lancastrian army. He said he loved Kathryn but he found her cold, ice-like and distant, whilst he was in awe of her father. One night he came to my house in a terrible state; his doublet was stained with wine and he stank like a pig. He claimed he had been poisoned by physician Swinbrooke and only saved himself through vomiting. Nevertheless, he complained of pains in his belly. I stuck a goose quill down his throat and made him sick even further, then I made him drink jug after jug of water. After that he slept for a while. When he awoke, he was still terrified that Swinbrooke would search him out and kill him. I asked him why and he confessed to the terrible beatings he had given Kathryn. Wyville said he wanted to leave his marriage, he was tired of Canterbury and he would seek his fortune with the Lancastrians. His purse was full of silver. I gave him some of my late husband’s clothes. Wyville told me to leave his own cloak on the river bank in the hope the Swinbrookes might think he had drowned. That is the last I ever saw of him.’
‘You are sure?’
Widow Gumple struggled to her feet. ‘I swear!’ she said. ‘I swear!’
‘And the letters you sent to Mistress Kathryn?’
‘I have never liked physician Swinbrooke, and his daughter is so full of airs and graces . . .’ Gumple shrugged at Thomasina’s fierce gaze. ‘I thought she had betrothed Alexander to spite me. Oh, I know Wyville did her wrong but, I thought, why should she be so serene and calm?’
‘She wasn’t serene and calm,’ Thomasina snarled. ‘Wyvillle’s beatings shocked her whilst her own father eventually confessed to the terrible deed he tried to commit. My mistress was totally innocent of any wrongdoing. You had no right to hound her the way you did.’ Thomasina stepped back and pointed her finger at Widow Gumple. ‘I will keep your secret, but if you ever try anything like that again, I swear I will kill you!’
Chapter 12
When Thomasina arrived back in Ottemelle Lane she found Kathryn in her chamber, staring down at the Chaucer manuscript.
‘Mistress?’
Kathryn turned and Thomasina was shocked by her mistress’s drawn face.
‘Kathryn,’ she whispered. ‘In God’s name, what is wrong?’
Kathryn just shook her head. ‘I have been to Westgate,’ she replied softly. ‘I went to a terrible house, then to Saint Peter’s Church. After that I visited Darryl’s house, but only spoke to the children.’
‘And what happened?’
Kathryn refused to answer but kept her gaze on the manuscript, so Thomasina went to the buttery where Agnes was salting some meat.
‘Mistress Kathryn is acting strangely,’ Agnes murmured. ‘She has only recently returned, white as a ghost. I told her about the message.’
Thomasina’s heart skipped a beat. ‘What message?’
‘Oh, from the Irishman. He wants her to go out to Kingsmead, but she is in no fit state.’
‘Nothing some wine mixed with herbs won’t cure,’ Thomasina answered, busily getting down two cups and a jug of wine. With the cups filled she went back to Kathryn, who still sat reading Chaucer’s work. ‘Drink, Mistress.’
Kathryn took the cup and sipped it gently. ‘Not too much on an empty stomach.’
‘Is it Wyville?’ Thomasina asked. ‘Are you still worried about what happened to him?’
Kathryn shook her head.
‘No, my feelings about him are numb. God forgive me, I couldn’t care if he lives or dies!’
‘You realise he could still be alive?’
‘Alexander Wyville’s no longer my husband. If he returns, I will seek an annullment in the Church courts.’
Thomasina pulled across a stool and sat next to her mistress. ‘There will be no more letters, Kathryn.’
‘What do you mean?’
Thomasina smiled. ‘Trust me. The letters will cease.’
Thomasina was about to question Kathryn on Colum’s message from Kingsmead when there was a thunderous knocking on the door, followed by Agnes’s hurried footsteps and a man’s voice demanding entrance.
‘It’s that bloody Irishman,’ Thomasina muttered.
But when she and Kathryn went into the kitchen, a sweaty red-faced Luberon stood there, holding a piece of parchment.
‘Master Clerk, what is it now?’
‘What is it now? What is it now?’ Luberon squeaked. ‘Another damn message pinned to the cathedral door. Read it!’
Kathryn took the yellowing piece of paper.
A yeoman green to Canterbury did go, alas
And I to Satan his soul did pass.
‘What does he mean?’ Luberon snapped. ‘Who’s the yeoman green?’
Kathryn studied the greasy piece of parchment and the scrawled blue ink. ‘God knows,’ she muttered, ‘what’s happening in that madman’s mind!’
‘Doesn’t anyone see him?’ Thomasina asked. ‘Surely someone would notice a person pinning a piece of parchment to the cathedral door?’
‘There are at least four entrances to the cathedral,’ Luberon said. ‘And, once inside, even more doors. A stream of pilgrims, hundreds a day, go through them there, and how long would it take? All the assassin has to do is brush by, pin up his notice and disappear into the crowd.’
‘I’m only trying to help,’ Thomasina retorted.
Luberon glared at her. ‘God knows what we are supposed to do,’ he snarled. ‘Warn every knight in Canterbury? Turn back any lord from the city gates? That would cause a stir.’ He blew his lips out. ‘Mistress Swinbrooke, I’ve told you what I know.’ He peered at Kathryn. ‘Did you find anything at Saint Peter’s?’
Kathryn looked at him strangely. ‘No. No,’ she lied. ‘Not really.’
‘Then, Mistress, I bid you adieu.’ And, puffing and bustling, Luberon left the house, promising he would return the following day.
Kathryn went back to her writing-chamber whilst Thomasina loudly berated Agnes for standing about open-mouthed, listening to matters which did not concern her. Kathryn sat for a while. When Thomasina returned she firmly asked to be left alone. She did not want to reveal to anyone that she knew the identity of the killer. So far she had little proof, so how could she trap him? Kathryn stared at the grimy piece of parchment and studied the message. What did it mean: ‘the yeoman green’? Perhaps Colum would know. Kathryn suddenly sat up straight. Of course, that’s why the message had been issued. Colum was a yeoman, a member of the royal house-hold, and the green referred to his Irish origins. The yeoman was also described by Chaucer as ‘clad in hood and cloak of green.’
What if the killer had struck already? The Irishman had sent a message telling her to come to Kingsmead. Had something happened? Kathryn rose to her feet.
‘Thomasina, Thomasina, my cloak, quickly!’ Kathryn hurried into the kitchen. ‘Agnes, has any gift been left here? Sweetmeats? A bottle of wine?’
‘No, Mistress.’
Thomasina came bustling back with her cloak. Kathryn ignored her furious spate of questions. Colum, she thought, had said he would be leaving Kingsmead to collect fodder for the stables, so the assassin would not know that he was lodging with her. But what would happen if Colum returned to Kingsmead and found a poisoned bottle of wine, a tray of sweetmeats or some bread and cheese left there as a gift? She breathed in deeply to stop her racing heart. God knows the assassin was cunning enough to lea
ve some note saying it was from her or, indeed, any wellwisher in Canterbury.
‘Mistress,’ Thomasina pleaded, ‘what is wrong?’
Kathryn stared at her. She fleetingly wondered why Thomasina was so certain those terrible messages would stop, but that would have to wait. ‘Thomasina,’ she insisted. ‘I must go to Kingsmead! No!’ Kathryn held her hand up. ‘You must stay here. Allow no one in. Accept no gifts or presents. Promise me!’
Thomasina promised, but her mistress was already hurrying through the door.
Kathryn collected her gentle cob from the tavern, saddled it and went up towards Westgate. She stopped at the camp to see if she could see Colum amongst the soldiers milling about there, but all she did was attract unwanted attention, so she urged her horse on. She passed through Northgate, kept away from the city walls, following the white dusty track over the brow of a hill, not reining in until she saw the old manor and broken fences of Kingsmead. She followed the winding track down. An urchin, probably one of the soldiers’ boys, sat sleeping outside the broken gate. Kathryn dismounted and shook him awake.
‘Lad, is anyone here?’
‘No, Mistress.’ The boy’s dark round eyes in his pallid face searched anxiously about. ‘Why should there be? Master Murtagh and the others have left for Maidstone and the women are back at the camp.’
‘And no one has come here?’
‘Honestly, Mistress, who would want to come here? The place is deserted.’
‘No strangers called with wine or food?’
The boy crossed his arms defensively. ‘Of course not, I said so!’
Kathryn gently stroked his head. ‘Then stay there, lad. When the Irishman comes, tell him Mistress Swinbrooke – you have my name? – Mistress Swinbrooke is here.’
She went through the gate and up the small path which led to the side of the manor-house. Looking round, Kathryn knew Colum could never have stayed here. The gardens were over-grown, the gulleys choked with weeds, the small fortified manor-house decaying and derelict. There were no shutters at the windows, some doors hung askew, whilst great holes gaped in the red-tiled roof, leaving the timbers beneath open to the sky. Kathryn went round to the back of the manor and found even worse: the great yard was choked with weeds, the stables, smithies and outhouses no more than ruins.
‘Is there anyone here?’ she called.
Not a sound. Kathryn dismounted. Colum would be here soon, perhaps he had sent the messenger on. She hobbled her horse and pushed open the small door leading into the kitchen. Inside, there was decay: the plaster on the walls was wet and rotting and Kathryn had to lift her skirts to avoid the stagnant pools of water. She went along the corridor, dark, dank and musty. The chambers on the ground floor were in total disrepair, though the stairs leading to the rooms above were made of stone and still looked safe and secure. A bird nestling in the timbers of the roof noisily flew out. Kathryn jumped and cursed her own lack of courage.
‘It will take months,’ she muttered to herself, ‘to put this right.’
In the trees surrounding the house she heard the soft cooing of wood doves. She stood straining her ears for any sound and shivered at the awful loneliness of the place.
Kathryn suddenly froze as she heard a sound from the floor above. Was there someone there? Perhaps the messenger Colum had sent? Then she heard a groan, as if someone was in pain. She climbed half-way up the stairs.
‘What is it?’ she called. ‘Who’s there?’
Again the groan, followed by a hoarse gasp.
‘Kathryn, please!’
‘Colum?’ she whispered.
Had Colum returned? Had something happened? She ran up the remaining steps. The door at the top was slightly ajar and she pushed it open and stepped into the gloomy chamber. The place now smelt musty and fetid; the light was poor because the only window faced east, away from the late-afternoon sun. She peered through the gloom and glimpsed the shapeless mound on the small trestle-bed in the corner.
‘Colum?’ she called and, taking her courage in her hands, she walked across the floor. Suddenly, one of the boards beneath her gave way, cracking and splintering. Kathryn cursed and stared up at the ceiling. Through the many holes she could see the rafters and touches of blue sky. Kathryn gingerly made her way to the bed and pulled back the blankets. At first she couldn’t see; she touched the mattress beneath and felt a sticky wet ooze. As her eyes became accustomed to the gloom, she realised that the shape was no more than a bundle of rags, but at the top, where the bolster should have been, lay the decapitated head of a dog, its jaws still curled in a death-smile, its thick red tongue jutting between yellowing teeth. Kathryn screamed in horror. The door behind her slammed shut. She whirled round as a tinder flickered and the thick tallow candles on the table in the far corner flared into life.
‘Who’s there?’ she rasped.
A shadow moved into the pool of light thrown by the candles, and Kathryn knew. ‘You murdering bastard!’ she hissed. She looked at the floor-boards and saw how rotten and mildewed they were. She took one step forward.
‘That’s far enough, bitch!’ The voice was muffled and thick.
Kathryn watched as the figure stepped closer, hooded and masked, the cowl brought far across the head.
‘Good day, Mistress Swinbrooke.’
Kathryn edged nearer. Suddenly the shadow moved his cloak. Kathryn heard a small click and a crossbow bolt whirled above her head and smacked into the wall behind her.
‘I told you to come no nearer! I have something special for you!’
Kathryn stared at the black leather mask, but all she could see was the glint of malice behind the eye-slits.
‘Why the dog?’ she asked.
‘A nice little touch. When I came back here the cur came snarling out, so I stabbed it and hacked the head off.’
‘Where is Colum?’
‘Oh, it’s Colum, is it? The bastard Irishman? In Hell, for all I care!’ The figure sniggered. ‘He soon will be, and you can be there to welcome him!’
Kathryn wiped her sweat-soaked hands against her robe. She looked at the table beyond and glimpsed the three pewter cups.
‘What is it you want?’ she said, forcing her voice to remain firm.
‘Your death.’
‘Why?’
‘Why not?’
Kathryn forced a smile. ‘Well, of course you do. You love the game, don’t you? Blind-man’s bluff in the streets and alley-ways of Canterbury. Of course you have got to kill me. So why not stop this mummery and take your mask off? Every one will soon know, as I do, that you are Alderman John Newington!’
Again the snigger. ‘But you have told no one, Kathryn, and even if you have, what proof do you hold? I watched you arrive back in Ottemelle Lane. You didn’t have much time to write a message or confide in that fat lump of lard who follows you everywhere! Anyway,’ the figure chuckled, ‘you’ll soon be dead by your own hand, and it will be easy enough to depict you as the killer.’
Kathryn shrugged. ‘But I know the truth, assassin. So, why not take off that mask? Your face must sweat and itch beneath it. Come on,’ she urged. ‘I’ve played the game. We both know I speak the truth.’
One hand came up and the figure pulled back the cowl and peeled back the leather mask and Newington’s face, a ghastly colour in candle-light, shone bleakly at her.
‘You are a very clever girl, Kathryn,’ he hissed, ‘far cleverer than I thought.’ Newington brought up the crossbow, and from a pouch on his belt placed a second bolt in the groove. He stepped back. ‘Do you know,’ he continued quietly, ‘when that tired old hag the Archbishop and his pompous little clerk Luberon decided to intervene in my games, they looked at the roll of electors for a physician who could help them. That stupid Irishman also.’ Newington smiled. ‘Of course, I was only too willing to help. The sweating sickness had swept away quite a few physicians. Not enough in my view, but then I came across your name along with your father’s.’ He shrugged. ‘It was just a case of nudging t
he rest into the trap.’ Newington wagged a gloved finger at Kathryn. ‘But you were very clever.’ Newington spoke like some aggrieved schoolmaster admonishing a pupil. ‘Now, come on, Kathryn, there’s time enough. Tell me what you do know. I am sure it won’t take very long.’
‘If I told you what we both know,’ Kathryn quipped, ‘it won’t take us any longer! You’re mad, evil and a murderer, Master Newington. You took advantage of the chaos in the city to carry out your revenge against a shrine by murdering pilgrims, innocent men whose only crime was to visit the tomb of Saint Thomas à Becket and belong to a profession which fitted your plans.’ Kathryn paused and drew her breath. ‘You were well-suited for it, weren’t you? You know the city like the back of your hand. A burgess, a man of some importance. You had two other advantages. Your son-in-law is a physician and he had two children whom you always visited. It was so easy, every now and again to collect the key to the herbarium and help yourself to whatever poisons you needed. Who would find out? And if anyone might notice something amiss, that belladonna or foxglove has gone missing, then why not mix in a little flour to conceal the discrepancy? Such powders are ground white. Flour would not hinder their effectiveness and would make it look as if the jars had not been tampered with.’ Kathryn forced a smile. ‘I was intrigued by that. Why Straunge would find traces of flour on the herbarium floor.’
Newington nodded, gazing expectantly at Kathryn, as if encouraging her on. ‘Very good,’ he murmured, ‘very good indeed. But, as Chaucer’s Man of Law says, “Your friends are away in your great need.”’