by Paul Doherty
‘Then, of course, there are the disguises,’ Kathryn continued. ‘You are a member of the Guild of Jesus Mass. Every year they put a play on at Saint Holy Cross Church. It would be ever so easy to take a smock and a pair of hose and hide them beneath your alderman’s cloak, perhaps use a little paint on your face? Who would notice? People expect to see the obvious. They would never dream that the dirty, grease-stained servitor in a taproom was really a notable alderman. And, of course, you made sure you always moved amongst pilgrims, strangers to the city, who wouldn’t recognise you. Matters were helped by the chaos caused by the recent civil war. Your friends and colleagues on the city council are too busy looking after their own affairs and the city is in turmoil. A marvellous cloak for your pastime of slaying innocent men. So easy,’ Kathryn concluded. ‘You go into a taproom, join a group of pilgrims, commit your foul act and disappear up some alley-way.’
‘Enough!’ Newington interrupted.
‘Oh, come, Master Alderman.’ Kathryn edged a little closer. ‘Aren’t you going to ask me why or how? You know you are mad,’ she continued. ‘Mad as a March hare.’
Newington’s face broke into a snarl. ‘And you are a dead bitch!’ he grated. He brought the crossbow up. ‘But not with an arrow, something more subtle. More fitting to your calling.’
Kathryn licked her lips and breathed in deeply. She could feel her legs tremble and resisted the urge to cry or beg for pity.
‘You were very clever,’ she continued quietly. ‘John Newington, alderman of Canterbury, but you were born the illegitimate son of Christina Oldstrom in Westgate Ward, a seamstress of good family. She raised you, and as soon as you were old enough, you were packed off to London as an apprentice. I suspect that if we searched the records of every church in Canterbury, we would find no trace of the birth of John Newington.’ She smiled at the alderman. ‘Your mother’s name began with ‘Old’, you changed yours to begin with ‘New’, a fine touch. A sign of the times, an indication that you drew a line between what you are now and what you were born. How many years did you spend in London? Ten, twenty? Enough to hide your past. Nevertheless, you felt guilty. You revisited Westgate and saw the poverty in which your mother lived. I suspect you made the bequest to Saint Peter’s Church to ease your guilt and hire the doctors who worked in the area. You secretly visited your mother, took care of her every wish. But then she fell ill.’
Newington had his head cocked slightly to one side. He looked pleased, as if Kathryn were faithfully repeating something by rote.
‘Yes, yes, you are right, Mistress Swinbrooke. I couldn’t publicly recognise my mother, but I did what I could. Then she fell ill. Some hidden wound. I spent good money on this doctor or that. I even paid for a physician from London, but nothing worked. My mother grew thin, she insisted on visiting the shrine, that mauseoleum of dirty bones and relics. I used to don a pilgrim’s cloak and meet her at the cathedral. She had such faith, Kathryn! She climbed those steps on her hands and knees and begged for relief.’
Newington’s eyes brimmed with tears. Kathryn felt a pang of compassion at how the resentments, humiliation and disappointment had curdled, tipping this man’s mind into an evil madness. Newington shrugged like a naughty boy.
‘She just wasted away and died.’ His voice became thick with emotion. ‘Oh, at first, I blamed myself and the doctors, but she died gasping Becket’s name with her last breath. Afterwards I would go to the cathedral and watch the pilgrims pour in, spending their hard-earned pennies, and I plotted my revenge.’ His face suddenly hardened as Kathryn stepped forward. ‘No further, Mistress. You see, I had read Chaucer in London. I bought a copy of his work which, of course, I have since destroyed, but I knew the lines by heart. So I thought I would strike. For every pilgrim mentioned in those tales a person would die in Canterbury. A nice little touch, eh?’ Newington tapped his chin. ‘I loved those tales. Have you noticed how often potions and poisons appear in them? The revellers in “The Pardoner’s Tale”, the knight in “The Wife of Bath’s Tale”?’ He smiled dreamily to himself. ‘I used to meet my mother at the great doors of the cathedral. I was always disguised, and I was fascinated by the way no one ever recognised me. Of course, that idiot Faunte kept the council busy.’ Newington’s face became grave. ‘Who cares which princely arse sits on the throne in London?’ He looked quickly at the table where the three cups stood. Kathryn remained motionless, hoping Newington would talk until help arrived. The assassin looked quickly at her. ‘We really can’t wait much longer,’ he murmured, as if reading her thoughts. ‘Time flies! Time flies! But you mentioned the flour,’ he said.
‘Yes. Straunge found that on the floor of the herbarium. It was also at the bottom of the jug of wine you gave to Peg the whore.’
‘Ah, Mustard Peg. A foul-mouthed bitch! I thought she and that summoner would suit each other. I hired her, told her to meet me at the postern gate, gave her the jug of wine and let her through before hurrying home to my son-in-law’s banquet.’
‘Your daughter,’ Kathryn hastily intervened. ‘You have no feelings for her?’
‘You know the saying, Mistress Kathryn: “God gives us our family, thank God we can choose our friends!” She’s arrogant and haughty. I opposed her marriage to Darryl, though I later relented. The profession provided a fresh source for investment, and in due time, a ready supply of poisons.’ Newington grinned. ‘How doctors love to talk about this potion or that. And then there’s Chaddedon’s library.’ Newington wagged a finger at Kathryn. ‘There isn’t much I don’t know about poisons.’ His face became grave. ‘But my grandchildren, I love them. Isn’t it ironic’ – he tapped the crossbow against his hand – ‘that you found out through them? You went back to that house this morning and asked who told them the story about Arcite and Palamon, the two heroes from Chaucer’s “Knight’s Tale”’. Newington shook his head. ‘You shouldn’t have done that, using mere babes to trap their grandfather!’
‘At first I thought it might be Darryl,’ Kathryn replied. ‘But the children told me it was you, their grandfather, who loved to tell them stories from Chaucer.’
‘You used sweetmeats,’ Newington retorted. ‘You bribed my grandchildren!’
‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Kathryn snapped. ‘Sooner or later every murderer is trapped. Your grandchildren told me. I remembered how your son-in-law had said he knew nothing about Chaucer, and you claimed the same.’
Kathryn took a fleeting look at the floor-boards behind the alderman and noticed the gaps and cracks there. ‘It wasn’t just Arcite and Palamon, there were other strands, pieces of information: your membership in the Jesus Mass Guild; you live alone, with no one to watch you. You know Canterbury, possess a key to the postern gate and have access to a ready supply of poisons. But,’ Kathryn concluded, ‘yes, those innocents trapped you.’
‘But they told me,’ Newington answered angrily, as if he was more annoyed that his grandchildren had talked to a mere stranger than anything else. ‘They told me about your questions, so it was heigh-ho to the cathedral with another proclamation whilst I bribed a soldier to take the message to Ottemelle Lane.’ Newington mopped the sweat off his brow with the hem of his robe, though Kathryn noticed he kept the crossbow primed and ready.
‘That stupid Irishman’s out of the city. Luberon clucks like a chicken. I just knew you would come. You like Murtagh, don’t you?’
‘What is that to you? And if I hadn’t come?’
Newington pulled a face. ‘There would be other times, other places, but now you are here! Sweetmeats for my grandchildren!’ he snarled. ‘Well, I have poisons for you.’ Newington pointed to the three cups on the table. ‘One contains belladonna, one foxglove, but the other is free of poisons. It’s like the game they play in Cheapside in London. Which cup is the lucky one?’ Newington raised the crossbow. ‘Mistress Swinbrooke, I suggest you try all three.’
‘People will suspect,’ Kathryn began, trying to control her breathing and calm the panic which threatened to overw
helm her.
‘Who will give a damn?’ Newington interrupted. He cocked his head sideways. ‘Perhaps I’ll say you killed yourself? Or were you just another of Sir Thopas’s victims?’
‘Thopas?’ Kathryn exclaimed.
‘Yes, yes, you know – the name Chaucer gives himself in the Canterbury Tales. I call myself that, the poet of this murderous drama.’ Newington shrugged. ‘Or perhaps I’ll say you were the killer, leave some scrawled message beside you, go quiet for a year and then begin again. Now, now,’ Newington urged her with his free hand. ‘What’s the saying? “Medice sane teipsum, Doctor heal thyself”? Ah, well, in this case it’s rather different.’ The crossbow was pushed forward. ‘Mistress Swinbrooke, please drink. After all, as Chaucer’s Wife of Bath says, “I have got of you the mastery”.’
Kathryn measured the distance between herself and Newington. It was too far, though she kept her eyes on the floor-boards behind the killer.
‘Swinbrooke, drink. Who knows? First time you might be lucky!’
Kathryn moved across to the table and picked up the middle cup, which felt cold and heavy in her hand. She raised it to her lips, smelt the strong claret, then pulled it away.
‘I can’t!’ she said. ‘And if you shoot . . .’
Newington smiled faintly. ‘Then you’re another casualty of war. Perhaps the Irishman will be blamed, or one of his rough soldiers. I’ll leave this God-forsaken place as I entered it, by some back route. There’s more holes in the fences and walls of Kingsmead than in a fishing-net.’
Kathryn watched the crossbow intently. Newington, no soldier, was holding it wrongly. He would have to move his hands to release the bolt. She took a step forward.
‘I won’t drink!’
Newington shifted his grasp, and as he did so, Kathryn hurled the heavy cup towards him, throwing herself sideways against the wall. The crossbow bolt whirled aimlessly past her. Newington fell back, trying to avoid the cup and scrabbling for another crossbow bolt. His heavy riding-boots smashed against the rotten mildewed planks. Kathryn was about to follow when one of the floorboards suddenly snapped, breaking away in a puff of dust. Newington desperately tried to maintain his poise but, as he searched for a foothold, the rest of the weakened floor groaned and snapped, and Newington crashed through, falling to the granite-hard floor below.
Kathryn threw open the door and hurried down the stone steps. In the room below, Newington sprawled in a tumbled heap, one leg twisted awkwardly. At first Kathryn thought he was dead, but then Newington groaned. Kathryn crouched and felt the pulse strong in the man’s neck. She stared around, recoiling in disgust at the headless torso of the dog Newington had slaughtered, then tossed into the far corner. Kathryn began to tremble, her legs shook so violently she had to crouch, gasping for breath.
‘Calm yourself!’ she whispered. ‘For God’s sake, Kathryn, calm yourself!’
She leaned over, moving the unconscious alderman, but there was no sign of his crossbow. Kathryn took his long stabbing dagger out of his sheath and gripped it tightly.
‘Mistress, what is it?’
Kathryn turned. The urchin, the young guard at the gate, stood wide-eyed in the doorway.
Kathryn gestured at him. ‘Come here!’
The lad stepped into the room. He glimpsed the mutilated corpse of the dog and turned to retch. He then edged closer, looking fearfully at the prostrate Newington.
‘Who be it?’ he murmured.
‘An evil, sad man,’ Kathryn replied.
‘Is he dead?’
‘No, but he may well wish he was!’
‘I didn’t see him come.’ The boy crossed his stick-like arms, hugging his chest. ‘I didn’t see him. He must have come by the back route, though I did hear the dog yelp.’
Kathryn forced a smile. ‘Come closer!’
The large eyes in the thin whey face stared fearfully back.
‘Why?’ he asked.
‘Because I’m frightened too,’ Kathryn confessed. ‘I want to hold you!’
The boy trotted round Newington’s body and Kathryn clutched him in her arms, pressing his bony body against her. The boy looked down at the knife.
‘Is that his?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can I have it?’
Kathryn smiled and felt a pang of compassion at the boy’s thinness. ‘What you need, lad,’ she replied, ‘is a good meal. Tell me about yourself.’
Newington moaned and stirred. Kathryn edged away, taking the boy with her. She wanted to run but she felt too cold, too weak, and she did not want to let Newington slip away.
‘Tell me about yourself, boy,’ Kathryn repeated.
The lad began to chatter and Kathryn forced herself to listen as he prattled his sad story: vague memories of a mother, then a life of scavenging like a puppy amongst the rubbish of different camps.
‘What’s your name?’ Kathryn interrupted.
‘Wuf!’ The lad replied.
Kathryn smiled and felt her own warmth and strength return. She stood up and looked down at him. ‘Why Wuf?’
‘A soldier gave me that name, though he is dead now. I wouldn’t smile, Mistress, so he used to blow into my face. When I laughed he said it was due to a woof of air, so I have been called that ever since. I’m also brave,’ he continued and pointed down at Newington. ‘I heard the crash and I thought you were in danger. Do you have anything to eat?’ he added.
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Did he have? Is there anything upstairs?’
Kathryn remembered the cups. ‘You are not to go up there, it’s an evil place!’
The boy began to describe his last meal, a slab of poached venison, when Kathryn heard the clatter of hoofbeats on the cobbles and, going to the doorway, saw a party of the most wicked-looking bunch of gallows-birds, led by Colum and Holbech, riding into the yard. In the middle of the group, on a small, docile cob, bounced a red-faced, sweating Thomasina who, when she glimpsed her mistress, threw herself down from the saddle and rushed across the yard.
‘Mistress Kathryn, what is it? The Irishman sent no message!’ Thomasina glared down at the prostrate Newington. ‘So, that bastard’s involved!’ She glanced at the alderman’s black cowl and cloak. Thomasina stared at her mistress. ‘Newington was the killer?’
‘Is he alive?’ Colum asked, coming up behind Thomasina. ‘Did he hurt you?’ He pushed by, shoving the boy aside, and gripped Kathryn by the shoulder.
Kathryn grasped the little boy’s hand. ‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘Yes, Newington is the killer. Yes, he did try to murder me, and yes, he’s alive, though unconscious.’
Colum stood over the alderman and gave him a vicious kick in the ribs. Newington groaned and opened his eyes.
‘Holbech!’ Colum roared. ‘Rouse this bastard!’
The mercenary swaggered in, picked up some dirty dry straw, produced a tinder and, before Kathryn could object, threw the burning strands down onto Newington’s legs. The alderman moaned and squirmed in pain.
‘Stop it!’ Kathryn ordered.
Colum snapped his fingers, and Holbech, assisted by other soldiers, put the fire out and dragged Newington to his feet. The alderman looked terrible: one side of his face was bruised and his split lips were caked with blood. He looked vacuously at Kathryn and Colum, then sneered.
‘Take him out!’ Colum commanded. ‘Tie him to a horse, hide his face and take him to the castle!’
They watched the soldiers hustle Newington away.
‘He will stand trial for his life,’ Colum announced, ‘but not here; before King’s Bench in London. Then he can face the hangman at the Elms!’ He looked back at Kathryn. ‘How did you know?’
Kathryn smiled. ‘Chaucer told me.’
Colum’s eyes narrowed.
‘I’ll tell you later,’ Kathryn added, aware that Thomasina was beginning to flap round her like some clucking mother hen.
‘Oh,’ Kathryn said, ‘upstairs on the table are wine-cups. I think they are full of poison!’
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She moved out of the ruined house, still holding the boy by his hand.
‘Where are you taking him?’ Thomasina asked.
Kathryn stared down at the small urchin.
‘He’s coming home with me, Thomasina. He’s called Wuf. He’s very thin, very small and very hungry.’ Kathryn grinned at him. ‘He’s also very brave!’
Thomasina caught the drift of her mistress’s mood and clutched the little boy’s hand as if he were her long-lost son. Kathryn walked towards the horses as Thomasina and Wuf began to chatter.
‘Mistress Swinbrooke!’
Kathryn turned. Colum stood in the doorway. She noticed how tired and unshaven he looked: a typical soldier in his leather jacket, broad sword-belt and thick woollen hose pushed into his high riding-boots. Every time he moved the spurs clinked.
‘What is it, Irishman?’
‘This is finished?’
‘Yes, so it seems.’
‘I can still lodge at your house?’
‘Of course!’
‘Even though I’ll bring my ghosts?’
‘We all have ghosts, Colum,’ Kathryn replied. ‘You have the Hounds of Ulster, and God knows the whereabouts of Alexander Wyville!’
Colum, his thumbs looped over his sword-belt, swaggered closer. ‘Why did you come here?’
Kathryn shrugged. ‘I thought you were in danger.’
The Irishman’s eyes softened. ‘You came because of me? No woman has ever done that, Mistress Swinbrooke.’
Kathryn turned her back on him and walked a little farther away.
‘No woman has ever done that for me!’ Colum shouted.
‘Well, Irishman,’ Kathryn called back over her shoulder, ‘then perhaps it’s time one of us did!’ She turned and grinned. ‘After all, as the Wife of Bath says, “A woman’s care is God’s own gift”.’