by Paul Doherty
‘Faunte’s been seen in Blean Wood,’ Rawnose said. ‘And you have heard of the murder of the priest at Rye? Three of his parishioners, moved by most malignant spirits, joined in a cruel plot against this priest. The good man was preparing to go to church and celebrate Mass when these emissaries of Satan, goaded by pricks and mad hatred, came to the sacristy door and invited him into the graveyard. They put a cord round his neck and—’
‘Rawnose!’ Kathryn shouted.
The beggar blinked. ‘Ghosts have been seen,’ he continued, changing the subject dramatically, ‘a ghastly green light outside Saint Gregory’s Priory, five foot high and a yard across.’
‘Rawnose!’ Thomasina said warningly.
‘A tailor in Chatham played dice with the Devil. They met in the graveyard—’
‘Shut up, Rawnose!’ Thomasina roared.
‘Oh, and an Irishman has been asking about you, Mistress.’
‘Don’t be silly. Why should Colum speak to you about me?’
‘Oh, no, Mistress, another one. Red-haired, with a patch over his eye,’ Rawnose announced, now thoroughly enjoying Kathryn’s attention. ‘Tall and broad he was.’
Kathryn crouched before the beggar. ‘Rawnose, what did he say?’
‘Oh, he asked about you and Master Murtagh. Where the Irishman lives, what he did.’
‘And you told him what you knew?’
‘Oh, of course, Mistress, he gave me sixpence.’
Kathryn rose and went to stand at the kitchen door. She clutched her throat, trying to control the shivers of fear. The Hounds of Ulster were in Canterbury and hunting Colum.
‘Oh!’ Rawnose shouted, delighted to have such an attentive audience. ‘Spectres have also been seen outside Canterbury. Disembodied voices round the gallows at the crossroads and a witch with red hair.’
‘Hush!’ Kathryn replied, coming back to the table. ‘Now, Rawnose, what is wrong with you?’
‘A slight fever and a cold in the head.’
Kathryn sighed and asked Thomasina for yarrow, some camomile and thyme, a little honey and a spoonful of mustard. She put these into a small pot to boil over the fire, mixing in a little water, and told Rawnose to come back for the potion. She gracefully refused the penny he thrust at her, then led him, still chattering like a squirrel, out of the house. She came back into the kitchen where Thomasina was now bending over the fire.
‘The Irishman’s in danger, isn’t he, Mistress?’
‘Yes, yes, he is, Thomasina, but let me think.’
Kathryn washed her hands in a bowl of rose-water, dried them on a napkin and went into her small chancery, or writing-chamber. She sat at her father’s desk staring at the blank wall, her thoughts all a-jumble, the panic seething within her.
‘For God’s sake, woman!’ she muttered. ‘Take a hold of yourself.’
She picked up a roll of vellum, smoothed it out and tried to calm herself. She sharpened a quill and nibbled at the feathered tip.
‘I’ll write down everything,’ she whispered to herself and closed her eyes, recalling all she and Colum had learnt. Raw-nose’s news still alarmed her, but if she wrote and kept busy she might contain the problem, at least until Colum returned from Kingsmead.
Primo—[She wrote in a large, bold hand, then sat and watched the blue-green ink dry quickly on the parchment.] On 14th April 1471, Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, was killed at Barnet. When Colum saw him, the Earl was wearing the gold pendant with the Eye of God sapphire. After the battle, however, when Neville was dead, both pendant and sapphire had disappeared.
Secundo—The pendant is of Celtic origin, probably taken from the cathedral in Dublin by the present King’s father, Richard, Duke of York, and given to Neville as a pledge of friendship.
Tertio—Neville probably gave the pendant to Brandon, his squire, who was captured north of Canterbury on 28th April, but no sign of the sapphire was found on him. Where had Brandon been between the Battle of Barnet and the day he was captured? What had happened to his companions? How had Moresby, captain of Neville’s guard, been killed? Why didn’t Brandon say anything to his gaolers at Canterbury Castle? Did he talk to Sparrow? How did Brandon die? Did the escape of the murderer, Sparrow, have anything to do with the Eye of God?
Quarto—Where is the Eye of God? Did Brandon have it on his person, or did he hide it somewhere? Are the Hounds of Ulster seeking its return as well as Colum’s death?
Kathryn’s writing was interrupted by the arrival of other patients. She returned to the kitchen, ignoring Thomasina’s chatter as she briskly dispensed horehound for a sore throat, a potion of sage for raw gums, applied poultices and salves to cuts and wounds. She then returned to her chancery and continued writing.
Quinto—The pendant and the Eye of God are undoubtedly valuable. But why is the King so insistent on their return?
Kathryn recalled the meeting with the King at the Tower and the macabre stillness of the House of Secrets.
Sexto—Does someone in Canterbury Castle know about the Eye of God? Webster seemed apprehensive, and that strange pardoner, the Righteous Man, did he have a role to play?
Septimo—My own problems? Alexander Wyville had definitely escaped from Canterbury, but is he still alive?
Octavo—Colum Murtagh. What do I really think of him?
Kathryn gripped her quill, erased the last question and went back to study the previous ones.
Thomasina brought in a jug of ale and a platter with bread and cheese on it. Kathryn thanked her, then ate and drank absent-mindedly. She let her mind float, trying to grasp the certainties whilst ignoring the questions she couldn’t answer. She reached one firm conclusion. Brandon’s death was mysterious, too much of a coincidence. A young, lusty squire, well looked after, dying suddenly of gaol fever! Her mind whirled with the possibilities. Had Brandon been murdered? Had he really died? And this strange escape of Sparrow the murderer . . . Kathryn tapped the quill against her face, enjoying the feel of the smooth, soft downy feathers. She jumped at the loud rapping on the door, quickly rolled up the piece of parchment, replaced the quill in its holder and closed the ink-horn. Raised voices came from the kitchen, interspersed with Thomasina’s sharp replies. Kathryn rose, smoothed the front of her dress and went back along the passageway. In the kitchen Gabele and Fletcher stood with hang-dog expressions on their faces.
‘What is it?’ she asked, going over to close the door to the garden.
‘Sir William Webster, Mistress,’ Fletcher replied. ‘He’s dead of a broken neck. He fell from the tower of the keep.’
‘When was this?’
‘Early this morning, Mistress, just as dawn broke,’ Gabele explained. ‘A guard saw him taking his usual morning walk on the tower. Sir William liked to watch the sun rise, said he could think more clearly.’
‘Was he alone?’
‘As always, yes. Sir William insisted on that. The sentries on the parapet-walk below always saw him there, come rain or shine.’
‘And what happened?’
‘As I have said, one minute he was there, the next the guard heard a scream and turned to glimpse Sir William’s body falling.’
‘Hell’s teeth!’ Fletcher breathed. ‘What a mess. Sir William’s face is almost unrecognisable.’
‘How could it happen?’ Kathryn asked, remembering the mighty crenellated wall at the top of the tower. ‘I mean, Sir William could hardly slip, and he was too level-headed to step between the crenellations.’
Fletcher looked down at the floor.
‘It may have been suicide, Mistress,’ Gabele spoke up.
‘Suicide? Why?’
‘Sir William was much aggrieved by Sparrow’s escape and Brandon’s death. Even more so since he discovered Brandon held a secret the King would dearly love to possess.’
Kathryn turned her back on them and stared at the small sack of onions hanging from the rafters next to a flitch of bacon. Suicide? she thought. Oh, no! This is murder! Too many deaths at Canterbury Castle, too many secrets, too many
unexplained coincidences. She turned round.
‘Master Gabele, how was Sir William yesterday?’
‘A little withdrawn, rather anxious, but he kept himself busy with the duties of the castle.’
‘And you are sure he was by himself on the tower?’
Gabele wetted his lips. ‘Yes, Mistress Swinbrooke, we are. The entrance to the top of the tower was through a trapdoor. Sir William always bolted that behind him.’
‘And you haven’t been up there yet?’
‘No, we thought it best if Master Murtagh ordered the trapdoor to be opened. I know what you are thinking, Mistress – Sir William’s death may be due to foul play rather than any accident or death wish, and the tower will reveal this.’ He held up a hand to still her questions. ‘Sir William was always cautious. The top of the tower is of pure stone, smooth and even, like a frozen pond. Webster covered it with at least two inches of fine sand.’ He coughed. ‘I’ve put a guard on the stairway to it.’
Kathryn nodded. She was about to question the men further when the door to the garden was thrown open and Wuf rushed in.
‘I have a slug!’ he said. ‘Look, Thomasina!’
He ran across to where the nurse was standing quietly by the hearth, one eye on the bubbling pot, the other on Kathryn’s two visitors. Thomasina stroked the boy’s head gently as she fought back the tears. The lad’s abrupt entrance was a clear reflection of the past. Could things happen twice? Thomasina wondered. A lifetime ago, in the first of her three marriages, her own child, Thomas, rushed in holding a snail to show her. Two weeks later he was dead with the sweating sickness. Thomasina chewed her lip and crouched by the boy, totally ignoring her mistress and the two visitors. I must be getting old, she thought, my mind slips. She silently cursed the tears pricking at her eyes.
‘Come on, Wuf!’ she said.
And grasping the little boy’s hand, Thomasina bustled into the garden to see if they could find more slugs.
The two men, startled by her abrupt departure as well as by Kathryn’s terse questions, shuffled their feet.
‘Mistress,’ Gabele spoke up, ‘I have told you what we know. Webster’s body has already been coffined. We thought it best to seek out Master Murtagh.’
‘He’s at Kingsmead.’ Kathryn went across and took a cloak from the peg on the wall. ‘I’ll take you there,’ she continued. ‘Murtagh would insist on that.’
Kathryn went into the garden and quickly told Thomasina where she was going. The nurse, sitting on a small wooden bench watching Wuf, just nodded and averted her face lest Kathryn see the tears brimming in her eyes.
‘Thomasina, are you all right?’
‘Yes, it’s nothing, Mistress.’ Thomasina forced a smile and pointed at Wuf. ‘Just a sunbeam from the past.’
Kathryn, accompanied by Gabele and Fletcher, entered Kingsmead. They rode along the muddy track winding between the great paddocks and meadows up to the cluster of manor buildings behind a clump of trees. Even as they approached. Kathryn could hear the hammering and sawing of the carpenters and builders, whilst the fields they passed already bore signs of Colum’s arrival. New fences had been erected, hedgerows pruned, ditches dug and gates rehung. As they came through the line of trees, Kathryn stopped and looked at the old manor-house, still uninhabitable, though its rebuilding was under way. Masons and stone-cutters were busy on the walls. The roofs had been stripped; carpenters were replacing beams and joists whilst a tiler and his apprentice were busy removing stacks of red tiles from a cart and laying them carefully on wooden slats. The place was as busy as a beehive in summer. Soldiers, those whom Holbech had hired, were practising archery on a meadow in front of the house. Farther down, around their tents and bothies, the soldiers’ womenfolk tended the cooking fires, whilst grubby-faced children ran shrieking about, chasing noisy dogs and adding to the tumult. Kathryn and her party dismounted. A groom, recognising Kathryn, ran up to hold the reins. Serjeant Holbech appeared, his woman, the Irish red-haired Megan, clinging like a leech to his arm. The burly soldier strode up and bowed.
‘Mistress, is there anything wrong?’ His guttural voice betrayed a Yorkshire burr. He dismissed Fletcher with a flicker of his eyes but studied Gabele carefully. ‘You are?’ He pointed a thickset finger.
‘Simon Gabele, master-at-arms at Canterbury Castle.’
Holbech grinned and extended a hand. ‘Holbech’s the name. I fought with you at Towton.’
‘A bloody fight, Master Holbech.’
‘Aye, and some good men died. Mistress Swinbrooke’ – Holbech turned back to Kathryn – ‘Master Murtagh’s in the stables.’
Kathryn had been studying the wild-haired woman, who just as coolly stared back. Kathryn was fascinated by Megan. She had never seen such rich, beautiful hair, so thick its tresses fell down to the girl’s waist; it framed a face of remarkable contrast – alabaster skin and green, somewhat slanted eyes. Kathryn secretly admired Megan’s fierce pride and wild ways, even though she remembered Colum’s grumbles.
‘Megan’s a bloody nuisance!’ he had once declared. ‘She loves one man to distraction, then, if someone else catches her eye, drops him like a hot cinder and runs in pursuit.’
‘I wonder if she’s caught Colum?’ Kathryn primly thought as Holbech led them round to the stables.
‘Do you like my ring, Mistress?’ Megan leaned across, one hand extended, showing the mother-of-pearl ring in its silver clasp on a white, slender finger.
‘Beautiful,’ Kathryn murmured. ‘It becomes you, Megan.’
‘I earned it,’ the girl declared, flouncing her red hair and squeezing Holbech’s arm. ‘Didn’t I?’
The serjeant-at-arms could only gulp in embarrassment and began calling Murtagh’s name even before they entered the cobbled yard. Colum emerged from the stable leading a horse, a beautiful strawberry roan. Apparently the animal was in great distress, for it raised its right foreleg and could only hobble forward.
‘Kathryn.’
Colum tossed the reins at Holbech, his smile fading as he noticed Gabele and Fletcher.
‘What’s wrong?’
Gabele informed him in terse, succinct phrases. Colum nodded and asked the same questions Kathryn had raised. He was about to continue when he noticed how Megan, leaning on Holbech’s arm, was listening intently.
‘Holbech,’ he said softly, ‘keep an eye on the workmen. I think one of the carpenters is bloody drunk.’
He waited until both were out of earshot.
‘So, Sir Webster’s dead.’ Colum played with the horse’s reins, then turned and stroked the horse, gently whispering endearments. ‘I suppose I had better come. But’ – he smoothed the horse’s flanks – ‘Pulcher here is in terrible pain.’
Kathryn looked at the horse’s gentle, liquid eyes.
‘What’s wrong?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know. He was shoed yesterday and something has gone wrong.’
‘Let me have a look.’
Colum, whispering in Gaelic to the horse, gently raised its sore leg. Kathryn crouched down and saw the swelling just above the hoof. She looked more closely at the shoe.
‘One nail has been driven in too close,’ Colum explained. ‘It’s scarring the flesh, but why should it cause such pain?’
‘I don’t think it is,’ Kathryn replied. ‘The hoof was probably inflamed before shoeing, the nail’s made it worse.’
‘I’ll have the shoes removed.’ Colum angrily gnawed at his lip; such leg injuries could cripple a horse. ‘What then?’ he demanded.
‘Make a poultice prepared from the juice of fresh moss, wrap it round the hoof and change it twice a day.’
‘You are sure it’ll heal?’ Colum asked.
Kathryn grinned and got to her feet. ‘If it doesn’t, I’ll let you quote Chaucer to me all the day long.’
Colum stared at the offending horseshoe. ‘The blacksmith should have seen that,’ he murmured. He walked to the entrance of the yard, his face white with fury. ‘Holbech!’ he roare
d. ‘Holbech, where the hell are you?’
His master-of-arms came running round, Megan in tow, her red hair flying behind her like a veil.
‘Get that bloody blacksmith!’ Colum shouted. ‘Give him a boot up the arse! He’s not to drink any wine for a month. He’s made poor Pulcher lame. He’s to have all these shoes off and apply moss poultices twice a day. If the horse is not well within the week, I’ll hang the bastard!’
Colum went over and washed himself at the well. He saddled a horse and, joined by Kathryn and her two companions, galloped out of Kingsmead. Gabele and Fletcher rode behind, slightly fearful of Colum’s hot temper. For a while, Kathryn allowed Colum his head as he swore in English, then in Gaelic, about what he would do to the blacksmith.
They cut across country past the smoke and stench of the tanneries in North Lane and crossed Saint Dunstan’s Street. As they passed Westgate, they saw the spires of Holy Cross Church jutting into the sky before turning left through London Gate and into Canterbury. Colum was still morose, only half-listening to Kathryn’s speculations about Webster’s death. At last, just before they turned into Castle Row, Kathryn reined in. She glanced around at the crowds jostling about the stalls and booths of the small market, leaned across and gripped Colum’s hand.
‘Irishman, I have other news.’
Colum was still only half-listening.
‘Irishman,’ Kathryn insisted, ‘the Hounds of Ulster are in Canterbury; Fitzroy’s been asking about you.’
Colum’s hand fell to the hilt of his sword, which hung from his saddle-horn.
‘How do you know?’
Kathryn repeated what Rawnose had told her.
‘Padraig Fitzroy,’ Colum replied. ‘So, at last the bastard’s come.’
‘Do you fear him?’
‘Yes and no. In a green field, face-to-face with sword and buckler, I could take Fitzroy’s head.’
Colum looked round. He studied the hooded beggars, the cowled monks, the merchants in their beaver hats, the rich and the powerful jostling with the pickpockets and rogues of the city. So many people, Colum thought – everywhere, at the doors of taverns or corners of streets – pilgrims, all strangers to the city, dressed in strange garb and makeshift garments, milled about.