by Paul Doherty
‘Fine, fine,’ Luberon gasped; the clerk took a deep breath and lowered his voice. ‘You’ve got to come!’ he said. ‘A corpse has been dragged from the river!’
Kathryn closed her eyes and groaned.
‘Oh, yes,’ Luberon insisted. ‘Master Murtagh, you are the King’s Commissioner and coroner in these matters, and Mistress Swinbrooke, you are his physician.’
Chapter 7
Luberon took them back up the High Street, explaining how the corpse had been taken to the death house in the parish of All Saints, a low, ramshackle shed at the far end of an over-grown graveyard. As they reached this, Luberon stopped, his hand on the latch.
‘I thought you might wish to see it,’ he explained. ‘First, someone has to make a ruling on the corpse, that’s city regulations. Secondly, and more strangely, no one has reported anyone missing, yet this corpse is someone who was well fed, strong and vigorous. Thirdly’ – he smiled at Colum – ‘I wondered if it was related to the present tumults following the war.’
Still chattering, he led them into the darkness which smelt strongly of fish and stale water. Luberon lit a torch and lifted the lid of the makeshift coffin. Kathryn tried not to look where the head should have been. This gave her an eerie, macabre feeling; she felt slightly dizzy and steadied herself by gripping the table on which the coffin lay.
‘It’s been in the water for some time,’ Colum observed.
Kathryn stared at the puffy blue flesh soaked by the river. The corpse also bore marks of where it had been nibbled by fish; the blood round the severed neck was dry and caked.
‘Where was it found?’ Kathryn asked.
‘Bobbing beneath one of the arches of the old city wall where it spans the river. Two boys playing there saw it caught in a clump of reeds. The bailiffs were alerted and the body brought here. Strangers who die in Canterbury, if the corpse remains unclaimed, are always buried in All Saints.’
Colum grabbed the torch and pushed it even lower. Bits of pitch fell off and sizzled on the river-soaked corpse.
‘Kathryn, what do you think?’
Kathryn, now feeling slightly stronger, managed to overcome her nausea.
‘A young man,’ she replied, ‘well-built and strong.’
‘Do you think it could be connected with events in the castle?’
‘You mean Sparrow?’
‘Yes. After all, he was a stranger to Canterbury, his death would go unnoticed,’ Colum said.
‘If that was the case,’ Kathryn asked, ‘why should someone murder him by severing his head? Believe me, this is a murder!’ She waved her fingers at the neck of the corpse. ‘The wound is old. This man lost his head by an axe or sword blow, not in the river.’ She smiled thinly at Luberon. ‘Master Clerk, I think we’ve seen enough.’
Luberon lowered the lid and Kathryn gratefully walked out into the fresh air.
‘What is this business at the castle?’ Luberon came after them. ‘I have heard of Webster’s fall.’
Kathryn gazed at Colum, who nodded.
‘He is the city clerk,’ the Irishman commented, patting the small, fat man on the shoulder. ‘And if we don’t tell Master Luberon, he’ll die of curiosity.’
They left All Saints and entered a tavern on Best Lane where Kathryn, swearing Luberon to silence, briefly described the events at the castle.
‘So,’ Luberon breathed, ‘you have a prisoner who dies unexpectedly. Another who escapes just as surprisingly and a constable who is knocked on the back of the head and thrown off the tower?’ He sipped his wine. ‘As far as I can see, you have very little evidence to work on, Mistress Kathryn. Brandon is dead and gone. Webster’s death is a complete mystery. I know the tower keep at Canterbury castle and Webster’s preference for walking there all alone. And as for this headless corpse’ – Luberon pulled a face – ‘why should Sparrow escape, be recaptured so easily, bearing in mind he was a violent man, and then decapitated?’
‘If it was Sparrow.’ Kathryn ran her finger round the rim of her own cup and gazed at a group of hawkers busily dicing in the corner. ‘The corpse we’ve just looked at was well-fed, not like that of a prisoner kept in reduced circumstances in Canterbury castle. Secondly, Master Luberon, you can help here: prisoners are manacled at wrist and ankle. Yes?’
‘True, Mistress, and there is a tight chain between the wrist and leg irons.’
‘Well,’ Kathryn replied, ‘the corpse we looked at bore no trace of wrist gyves or ankle clasps. Accordingly, Master Clerk, you should record that the corpse belonged to a stranger and arrange for the remains to be given a decent burial.’
‘If you find the head,’ Colum remarked drily, draining his cup, ‘do let us know.’
‘No, wait!’ Luberon indicated for Colum to sit. ‘This Brandon, he may have been carrying a precious pendant and was captured to the north-west of the city?’
‘So we were told. Why?’
‘Well think, Master Murtagh. The Earl of Warwick knew he was going to die, he also knew that the pendant was sacred. Now . . .’ Luberon rubbed his chin. ‘If it was you, Master Murtagh, or Mistress Swinbrooke, what would you have done with such a pendant when you are only a few minutes away from death?’
Kathryn grinned, leaned over and kissed Luberon on the brow. The clerk turned puce-red with embarrassment.
‘Of course, most subtle of clerks, I’d give it to a church or shrine. And the greatest shrine in England is that of Saint Thomas of Canterbury!’
Colum tapped the table-top with his hand.
‘Brandon may have been captured . . . not coming to Canterbury but going away? But surely the monks at Christchurch would tell the King of such a gift?’
‘Not necessarily,’ Luberon retorted. ‘Our clever monks would keep the pendant and only reveal it after it had been in their possession for a number of years.’ Luberon finished his wine and jumped to his feet. ‘You have business in Canterbury?’ he asked.
‘We are looking for a pardoner.’
‘A man with dyed-yellow hair dressed in black who calls himself the Righteous Man?’
Kathryn nodded.
‘He’s at the Bullstake in the Buttermarket. Look,’ Luberon continued, peering at the hour-candle on its iron spigot, ‘you see your pardoner and I’ll meet you, within the hour, by the Black Prince’s tomb in the cathedral. Let me make enquiries. If our good monks own such a relic’ – he tapped the side of his nose – ‘they’ll tell me.’
Luberon bustled out. Colum and Kathryn followed, going down Best Lane back into the High Street. The thoroughfare was thronged with jostling pilgrims, traders, hawkers and pedlars. They went up the Mercery towards the Buttermarket. Outside the Sun Inn in Burgate a large crowd had gathered round a mountebank dressed garishly in green, red and scarlet. The man was sitting on an ordinary-looking horse; he was promising anyone who could ride the animal would win a silver piece. However, if he fell off, then he, Saladin, once keeper of the Imperial stables at Cologne, would receive sixpence. The crowd laughed and jeered as hands went up to accept the wager. Kathryn looked at the gentle cob, with its plump haunches, soft mouth and liquid brown eyes.
‘It looks quiet enough,’ she whispered.
Colum shook his head and grinned. ‘I know this fellow,’ he said. ‘Just watch, Kathryn.’
Saladin had now dismounted, the little silver bells sewn to his quilted tunic ringing merrily with every move he made. A young merchant, his face glowing with arrogance, mounted the horse and gently urged it forward. The crowd’s jeers grew. The horse plodded away like some tired hack, then, as the merchant dropped the reins and rode hands extended, the mountebank shouted, ‘Flectamus Genua. Let us bend the knee!’
Immediately the horse went down on all fours, the merchant rolled off and the crowd’s jeers faded away.
‘Levate et vade!’ the mountebank shouted. ‘Rise and come!’
Up the horse got, turned and trotted back to its master, who rewarded it with a sugared apple. The young merchant, his finery cove
red in mud and dirt, clambered to his feet, seething with rage. However, the crowd’s fickle mood had swung behind the mountebank and the young man was jeered until he churlishly agreed to pay the wager.
Colum took Kathryn’s elbow and moved her on.
‘I have seen him play that trick in many a town,’ he declared. ‘And even when people see it, they still think they can’t be duped.’
Kathryn looked over her shoulder when the crowd roared its approval as another hapless victim took the mountebank’s wager. Eventually they were through the jostling throng and crossed the Buttermarket where Kathryn glimpsed the Righteous Man. He was standing on the top step of the market cross and, in a reedy voice, kept inviting people to listen to what he had to say.
‘Friends, brothers in Christ.’ The Righteous Man’s bright eyes surveyed the crowd. ‘I have travelled by sea and land, enduring many hardships in the work of Christ, to bring you this!’ He held up a scroll of parchment with a blob of purple wax on the end. ‘Sealed by the Holy Father himself in Rome. This bull, this papal letter, will absolve you from all sin or, if you are freshly shriven, release you from thousands of years in Purgatory! What is more—’ The pardoner held up bulging saddle-bags. ‘I have here relics guaranteed by the Archbishop of Bordeaux, the Bishop of Claremont, and Cardinal Humbert of Saint Priscilla-Without-the-Walls, holy objects: wood from Saint Peter’s bark, a mallet once used by the saintly Joseph, a piece of the Virgin’s veil and part of the rod Aaron used when he confronted the magicians of Pharaoh!’
Kathryn and Colum, standing at the back of the crowd, could hardly believe either the pardoner’s farrago of nonsense or the stupid incredulity of his audience. Many people were already digging into their purses, stretching out their hands in a bid to buy.
‘By the light!’ Kathryn said. ‘He’s a rogue and a charlatan.’
‘This pardoner,’ Colum chanted, ‘“Had hair as yellow as wax and it hung lank as does a strand of flax. His wallet,”’ Colum continued, quoting Chaucer, ‘“Was stuffed full of pardons brought from Rome.” Strange,’ he mused.
‘What is?’
‘Such similarities between this charlatan and Chaucer’s Pardoner.’
At last the Righteous Man’s tawdry display was finished. The crowd dispersed and he picked up his bags and walked directly towards Kathryn and Colum. Kathryn knew he had seen them during his sermon. Close up, the pardoner looked even more ghastly than he had in the castle, his hair still daubed with a crude yellow dye, his face so pasty Kathryn suspected he rubbed powder into it.
‘A moment of your time, Master Pardoner, and not about your relics.’
The Righteous Man smiled. ‘I wondered when you’d come. I have heard the news. Webster’s dead and his soul’s gone and no, Master Murtagh, I know nothing about it or why it should happen.’
‘Shrewdly said,’ Colum replied. ‘How long do you intend to stay in Canterbury, Master Pardoner?’
‘How long is a piece of string?’ the fellow retorted and, picking up his bags, made to move off.
‘Master Pardoner, where you go and where you stay is your concern,’ Colum declared. ‘But if you leave Canterbury without my permission, I’ll declare you a wolf’s-head.’
The pardoner simply sketched a benediction in the air and walked away, shrugging off Colum’s warning.
‘We’d best go,’ Kathryn urged. ‘Luberon will be waiting for us.’
Colum stared at the pardoner’s retreating back. ‘Two things are strange,’ he muttered. ‘First, why is our pardoner so much like Chaucer’s? And secondly, God be my witness, why did he come to Canterbury Castle?’
‘Are you sure he is not one of the Hounds of Ulster?’ Kathryn replied. ‘If the assassin strikes, Colum, he’ll either do so in secrecy or by pretending to be someone he’s not.’
‘No, no. Let’s deal with Luberon.’
They walked past the Sun inn, through Christchurch Gate and into the south door of the great cathedral. The nave was thronged with pilgrims quietly chatting as they waited to be admitted into the shrine. Colum and Kathryn pushed their way through and down one of the transepts, to the Black Prince’s tomb where Luberon was standing.
‘I’ve been waiting here for some time,’ he said testily.
Kathryn made their apologies.
‘Not that I object,’ Luberon confessed. ‘Master Murtagh, have you ever seen such beauty?’
‘Every time I come here, Master Clerk, I stand in wonder.’
Colum glanced up at the great windows with their wonderful paintings; the colours were so bright they turned the sunlight into brilliant rainbows which caught the heart and dazzled the eye. Colum then gazed at the marble tomb of the Black Prince; the effigy of the knight, hands joined, the stonework decorated with the prince’s motto ‘Ich Dien’ and the brilliant colours of his livery.
‘You asked our question?’ Colum said abruptly.
‘Yes, I did,’ Luberon replied. ‘No squire or any from the late Earl of Warwick’s party ever came to Canterbury. No mention was made of any gold pendant or a brilliant sapphire known as the Eye of God.’ Luberon shrugged. ‘I am sorry, I could not learn more.’
Colum stamped his feet impatiently. ‘So what was Brandon doing so close to Canterbury when he was captured? If he had been coming to the cathedral, he would have been carrying the pendant.’
‘The Prior did say one thing,’ Luberon continued. ‘When I explained to him about Brandon’s capture, he said that three years ago Warwick and his party came here on a pilgrimage. The monks entertained the Earl and his squires in their refectory. Brandon was there. He remembered him as a subtle, cunning man who claimed he was born and raised in Maidstone.’
‘Strange.’ Colum stared at Kathryn. ‘Here we have a high-ranking squire, a man who knew the locality well, of cunning mind and subtle wit, yet he allowed himself to be so easily captured. There is only one thing to do,’ Colum concluded defiantly. ‘Brandon’s body must be exhumed. Perhaps his corpse can tell us something.’
They left Luberon in the cathedral and walked back through the enclosure.
‘Will you do that?’ Kathryn asked. ‘Exhume Brandon’s body? What will it prove? Who will recognise it?’
Colum watched the pilgrims stream out of the great door of the cathedral.
‘I just wish,’ Colum replied, ‘there was someone who knew him well, who might recognise him. Perhaps someone who fought with him at Barnet.’ Colum smiled sourly. ‘And there’s the difficulty. Who’s going to be foolish enough to proclaim that they were on the losing side in the recent rebellion against the King?’
‘But you think,’ Kathryn said, ‘that Brandon may not have died?’
‘Possibly. Perhaps it was Sparrow who died. Whatever’ – Colum toyed with the hilt of his dagger – ‘Brandon’s body must be exhumed.’
They left the enclosure and collected their horses from the Sun tavern. Colum left for Kingsmead and Kathryn watched him ride off. I wish I could talk openly to him, she thought. More importantly, I wish he’d talk to me, just say what he thought.
She watched the Irishman ride up Sun Street. She could tell from his posture that he was not relaxed: his head was turning, his eyes searching the crowd for a possible assassin.
‘Oh, God!’ Kathryn prayed. ‘Please, not that way.’
She took a deep breath and smiled as a young urchin ran up to help her into the saddle. She gave the lad a coin and rode absent-mindedly through the crowd, down the Mercery into Hethenman Lane. She stopped to ensure that the two old sisters, Maude and Eleanor, were well. She had to knock insistently before a sickly, pallid-faced Eleanor opened the door.
‘What’s the matter?’ Kathryn exclaimed, sweeping into the house. She put her arm round the old lady, who led her into the solar where her sister was crouched on a chair, holding her stomach. The room smelt stale and fetid.
‘We’ve been sick,’ Eleanor whispered, clutching her stomach. ‘That and the flux.’ She started to cry. ‘I feel dirty.’
The old woman nodded.
‘Are you sure?’
Again the nods. Kathryn held the back of her hand against Maude’s face; her skin felt slightly hot, her lips were dry, slightly cracked at the corners, her eyes dull. Kathryn hid her exasperation. It doesn’t make sense, she thought. Pellagra is a simple disease. Remove the cause and the symptoms disappear. So why have they returned?’
Kathryn did her best to comfort the old ladies. ‘I’ll come back,’ she promised. ‘I’ll bring some honey, boiled with salt and fat in a little wax.’
Kathryn hurried out of the house and towards Ottemelle Lane. Thomasina was waiting indoors to greet her with the usual litany of crimes Wuf had committed, but Kathryn brushed this aside.
‘Eleanor and Maude have a slight fever,’ she announced. ‘But God knows the cause!’
Agnes brought her some watered wine and two oaten cakes. Kathryn washed her hands and hurriedly ate these, then went into her writing-office, where she opened Ardeme’s Herbarium. She took a quill, a scrap of parchment and hastily wrote down the symptoms she had seen.
‘But what would cause that?’ Kathryn stared at the wall. Both old ladies had followed her rules and regulations about keeping the chambers clean as well as washing their hands and faces regularly. But there was something familiar about this illness . . . Kathryn closed her eyes and gripped the table-top, trying to recall a patient her father had treated. She remembered the symptoms, the very same experienced by Maude and Eleanor, but how had her father treated them? She went back to the Herbarium. An entry caught her eye, Digitalis purpurea. ‘Foxglove!’ Kathryn whispered to herself. She went back into the kitchen and out into the garden, walking amongst the banks of raised herbs until she found what she was looking for. The foxglove growing there had long flowered, their dull pink and magenta colours were beginning to fade, but they still vigorously thrived, waiting to flower once more. Kathryn crouched and touched the hairy leaves and wondered how two old ladies would have anything to do with such a dangerous plant.