by Paul Doherty
‘Well, most of him,’ she said drily, wrinkling her nose at the sour smell which seeped from the battered casket.
Colum waved them all forward. ‘One at a time, please.’
He jumped onto the cart and helped each of the garrison up. Fitz-Steven was the first and immediately vomited, making him leap from the cart, much to Luberon’s satisfaction. The rest were more pragmatic. Peter the chaplain sketched a hasty benediction, bowed his head and left. Fletcher, however, stared hard at the headless corpse.
‘Turn it over!’ he rasped, gesturing at Colum. ‘Just do as I say.’
Colum did so. Fletcher pointed to a faint pink scar which ran across the base of the spine.
‘It’s Sparrow,’ he declared. ‘I recognise that scar.’ He pointed to the man’s hands. ‘And if you look on the palm of the right hand, you will see the skin is pitted. Sparrow once told me he burnt his hand when he threw burning charcoal at a law officer in a tavern brawl.’
Colum touched the spongy white flesh. ‘They are there.’ He turned. ‘Gabele?’
The master-at-arms shook his head. ‘If Fletcher recognises him, that’s good enough for me,’ he said, rubbing his stomach. ‘I have just broken my fast. I don’t want to disgrace myself.’
Colum placed the lid back on the coffin and jumped down from the cart. He gave Luberon a slightly mocking bow.
‘Master Simon, I thank you.’
‘Do you wish me to stay?’ Luberon looked expectantly at Kathryn.
She shook her head. ‘We have kept you long enough from important affairs.’ She smiled. ‘I’ll let you know, in God’s good time, what happens here.’ She addressed the others. ‘In the meantime, gentlemen, if you can spare us some of your time?’
Whilst Luberon started shouting for his carter, Colum and Kathryn led the protesting group up into the main hall of the keep. As they gathered round the weak fire burning in the great hearth, Kathryn drew Colum aside.
‘On this occasion,’ she whispered, ‘let us question them individually.’
Colum nodded. Gabele strode across, a look of concern on his face.
‘Irishman, we can guess what is coming next. However, this is one of the King’s castles and we have business to do. Father Peter still has to say Mass. The garrison needs its orders, stores have to be checked.’
Colum pointed to the hour-candle spluttering on its iron spigot at the corner of the hearth. The flame was half-way between the tenth and eleventh red circle.
‘At eleven,’ he said. ‘But this time, Simon, we would like to meet you each individually. And yes, you are correct in your surmise: Sparrow escaped from this castle. We believe whoever murdered him resides here and has something to hide.’
Gabele raised his eyebrows in surprise.
‘But keep that quiet,’ Kathryn added.
Gabele nodded and strode away. He murmured a few words to his companions, which provoked fresh scowls and groans but then they left. Gabele offered Colum and Kathryn wine, which they refused. Once the hall was cleared, Colum arranged a chair and two stools in a far corner under a dusty, battered array of shields. Kathryn gazed around.
‘Not too clean,’ she muttered.
‘Castles never are,’ Colum replied.
‘What is life like here?’ she wondered. ‘As a child I remember staring up at the walls and towers. I used to see the banners flying in the wind and thought a castle was a marvellous place. Fairy-tale buildings, full of brave knights and ladies in silks. Dark, mysterious buildings, grim dungeons and tourney grounds which echoed to the beat of pounding hooves and the clash of steel.’
‘Lord, woman,’ Colum said, gesturing at the chair. ‘You spin dreams in your mind.’ He looked up at the smoke-blackened rafters and along the wall to the battered hearth. ‘For God’s sake, Kathryn, look at the moth-eaten drapes.’ He kicked the yellowing rushes. ‘Castles are the most boring places on God’s earth. Poor, rancid, salt-coated meat and wine which curdles the stomach.’ He laughed sharply. ‘And the garrisons are no better.’ He sat down on a stool next to her. ‘Every one of those officers,’ he continued, ‘has something to hide. Now they are all bitter.’ He noticed the surprised look on Kathryn’s face. ‘Oh, yes. All of them are soldiers: Gabele and Fletcher fought on the blood-soaked fields of Towton and Wakefield, Fitz-Steven and Father Peter were camp clerks. Men who, because of their murky past, will receive no benefice from a bishop or preferment in some lord’s household. For a while the war between York and Lancaster changed all that.’ Colum’s eyes gleamed. ‘Exciting days, Kathryn! Fast marches against the enemy. Banners and pennants waving. Destriers pawing the ground. Line after line of mounted men. The sky darkening with arrows.’ Colum smiled. ‘Even I miss it.’ He paused. ‘Oh, death marches by your side, but it always does. If you’re the loser you escape because you’re a commoner. Even better, you can change sides. If you are victorious, however, rich pluckings are yours.’ Colum waved round the sombre hall. ‘Now it’s all over. Boring garrison duty, and Canterbury is a good posting. Can you imagine what it’s like at Alnwick on the Scottish March? Or in the wild wastes of the Welsh March?’
Kathryn leaned forward. ‘So any of these men could kill?’
‘Of course.’ Colum half-laughed. ‘We are all killers, Kathryn. Mercenaries, it’s the only thing we know. I wager Father Peter has cut a man’s throat after he has heard his confession.’
‘Even a man like Gabele?’
‘Oh, he’s got his honour. A good comrade. He’d keep his word but, Kathryn, we are talking about riches. A sapphire which would dazzle these men’s souls. An escape from all the boredom of this tawdry life.’ Colum paused as a servant walked through the hall and placed another log on the spluttering fire. ‘And that makes our task all the more difficult,’ he continued as the servant closed the door behind him. ‘Prisoners are rarely ill-treated in castles. They are seen as a welcome relief to the boredom. Remember what we were told about Brandon? Everybody went down to the dungeons, even the Righteous Man. Boredom also explains why such a creature found good lodgings here.’ Colum played with his leather wrist-guard.
‘And,’ he continued, ‘whatever is said, Brandon told one or all of these officers about the Eye of God.’
Kathryn started as the door was flung open and Gabele came in.
‘Well.’ The master-at-arms pointed to the candle. ‘Come on, Irishman, ask your questions.’ He slumped down on the stool and wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve. ‘Lord, I wish I was free of here.’ He smiled at Kathryn. ‘I’d do a week’s march rather than spend a day sifting through castle stores.’
Kathryn stared at the soldier’s hard face and recalled Colum’s words. Could this man have met Sparrow in some lonely copse near the Stour, killed him and chopped off his head?
Gabele scratched his unshaven cheek with dirty finger-nails.
‘Well, Mistress?’
‘You talked to Brandon?’
‘Aye, everyone did. And why not? He was a likeable young squire. He had many a droll story.’
‘And your daughter took his food to him?’
‘Sometimes she did. Sometimes I did, sometimes Father Peter or Fitz-Steven.’ He grinned at Colum. ‘Fletcher liked him too.’
‘And Sparrow?’ Kathryn asked.
‘Oh, he was a mean bastard. He’d talk, but he was more determined on escaping the hangman’s noose.’
‘Did the two prisoners ever talk to each other?’
‘As I have shown you,’ Gabele explained, ‘there is a loose brick between the cells. Of course they could talk.’
‘And Sparrow’s escape?’ Colum intervened. ‘He was loaded with chains and manacles when he was taken out.’
‘Oh, yes, they were put on then.’
‘And who was responsible for these?’
‘I was,’ Gabele replied with a grin. ‘Go down to the dungeons; outside each cell hangs a set of manacles, chains and gyves. However, when the prisoner puts these on, it is the turnkey who loc
ks them.’
‘What happened to them?’ Colum asked.
Gabele pulled a face. ‘Sparrow took them with him. For God’s sake, Irishman, you have seen the castle. There’s more pigeons than soldiers. I suspect Sparrow killed the turnkey, knocked him unconscious and garrotted him. Remember, it was evening. Sparrow took his clothes, the dagger and the manacles with him. A set of loose chains is as deadly as a flailing mace.’
‘Did you,’ Kathryn asked, ‘know Sparrow before his imprisonment?’
Gabele shook his head.
‘Or Brandon?’
Again the denial.
‘And Sparrow’s murder?’
The master-at-arms spread his hands. ‘For God’s sake, Mistress, why should I kill Sparrow?’
Kathryn could not answer this question. She thanked him. Gabele left and Fletcher came in. He gave virtually the same answers to the same list of questions, except when Colum asked about Brandon.
‘Did you often talk to the prisoner?’
Kathryn was sure Fletcher was about to deny this.
‘Well, did you?’ Kathryn persisted.
Fletcher rubbed his sweat-soaked palms down his dirty jerkin.
‘Yes, yes, I did,’ he mumbled. ‘I captured the man. I rather liked him.’
Kathryn glimpsed the sadness in the man’s eyes and began to wonder.
‘You are a bachelor, Master Fletcher?’
The fellow positively blushed with embarrassment.
‘I greatly liked Brandon,’ he stuttered. ‘He was witty. He made me laugh.’
‘And Sparrow? Did he make you laugh?’ Colum asked sharply.
‘Sparrow was a ruthless, cunning bastard,’ Fletcher retorted. ‘That turnkey was clumsy. A man like Sparrow would seize any opportunity.’
‘And Webster’s death? His strange conduct on the green?’
‘I don’t think Sir William was murdered,’ Fletcher replied in a rush. ‘His wits were turned. He had lost two prisoners and the King was angry.’ Fletcher played with the pommel of his dagger. ‘And if you have no more questions, Master Murtagh, I’d best be about my business.’
Colum agreed, watched him go, then winked at Kathryn.
‘And that’s another aspect of garrison life,’ he said. ‘Not every man is what he appears to be.’
Fitz-Steven was next. He was as graceless as ever. Despite Colum’s glowering looks and Kathryn’s persistent questions, he said as little as possible. Mostly they received grunts for answers or a shake of his head. Kathryn caught a gleam of hate in the man’s eyes. You don’t like me, she thought to herself, you are wicked enough to kill and hard enough to conceal it.
Colum curtly dismissed him and Father Peter came down, muttering about candle grease on his gown. Kathryn asked him the same questions about Brandon’s death, only to receive the same answers.
‘He became sick,’ the priest said quietly. ‘Very sick, very quickly. I gave him the last rites.’ He shrugged. ‘The rest you know.’
‘And Webster?’ Kathryn asked. ‘Did the Constable talk to you the day before he died?’
‘No,’ Father Peter replied. ‘But he had been drinking. All that stupid mummery on the castle green. He wanted to retrace Sparrow’s steps, so I humoured him. It made no sense to me.’
‘And did you talk to both prisoners?’ Colum asked.
‘Well, everyone talked to Brandon: Fitz-Steven, Webster, Gabele.’ The priest smirked. ‘Certainly Fletcher spent hours with him.’
‘And you had never met Brandon or Sparrow before?’ Kathryn asked.
The priest blinked and licked his lips nervously.
‘You’d met Sparrow before, hadn’t you?’ she insisted.
The priest nodded. ‘Ten years ago,’ he admitted, ‘I was with the Earl of Pembroke when he battled against the King at Mortimer’s Cross. Sparrow was a young archer then, but just as nasty.’
‘So,’ Colum smiled. ‘You followed the Lancastrians?’
The chaplain laughed. ‘Every man in this castle has. We are not all like you, Irishman, enjoying the favour of princes,’ he added spitefully. ‘Even Gabele fought with Warwick for a while.’
‘Did you know Sparrow well?’ Kathryn asked.
‘No, he didn’t recognise me but I recognised him. I saw him kill a man on the eve before Mortimer’s Cross. Sparrow choked him to death in a latrine pit.’ The priest looked away. ‘I was going to enjoy watching him hang.’ He picked at a piece of candle grease on his dirty gown. ‘I know nothing more.’
He left. Colum and Kathryn collected their horses from the castle stables and left the castle, bidding farewell to no one. They rode in silence for a while. Colum grumbled about the weather, as it had begun to cloud over and a slight rain was beginning to fall. At Saint Mildred’s Church he reined in and nodded back to the castle.
‘Enough of that for one day,’ he said.
‘We missed two people,’ Kathryn replied. ‘Margotta and the Righteous Man.’
‘Well, Margotta could not have killed Sparrow,’ Colum said. ‘If she’s involved, she’s only an accomplice.’
‘And the Righteous Man?’
Colum shook his head. ‘The pardoner is probably busily selling his tawdry trinkets in the city. Remember, Kathryn, the pardoner is an outsider. If he did anything untoward in that castle, anything at all, the others would have told us. Now . . .’ Colum looked up at the sky. ‘I am off to Kingsmead to see what those idle buggers are doing!’
Colum leaned over and kissed Kathryn on the cheek. She absent-mindedly touched her cheek where Colum had kissed her and watched him ride off towards Westgate. She dismounted and led her horse down Ottemelle Lane. Colum was right, she reflected, young Margotta could not kill a man like Sparrow. But Kathryn was not too sure about the Righteous Man. Couldn’t he have slipped something into Brandon’s food? A knife into Sparrow? Moreover, dressed in black, the pardoner could flit like a ghost round that dark castle.
Kathryn stabled her horse and walked back to the house. She found the kitchen deserted. Thomasina was at the market, so Kathryn went into her chancery office where she tried to make sense of her jumbled thoughts. She opened the ink-horn, picked up the quill and wrote down the names of all those who lived in the castle. She crossed a line through Margotta’s name but concluded that the rest had the means and the strength to kill Brandon as well as throw Webster off the top of the keep.
‘What if,’ she whispered, ‘what if the murders were quite independent of each other?’
She tapped her fingers on the parchment: Fletcher had been as smitten by Brandon as any lovesick swain over a girl. Peter the chaplain may have had a grudge against Sparrow. And Webster’s death? Kathryn sighed and threw her quill down in exasperation.
‘I wish Colum had come back with me,’ she grumbled.
Kathryn heard a sound from the garden and went to the back door. Agnes was kneeling by one of the far flower-beds; she was dressed in her brown cowled gown because of the rain.
‘Agnes, how long has Thomasina been gone?’
‘I am not Agnes.’
The figure turned and Wuf’s cheeky face peered from the hood. He ran down the garden towards Kathryn.
‘Thomasina’s gone shopping. Agnes is with her. I am hunting for more slugs, so I took Agnes’s gown.’
Kathryn kissed him on the head. ‘Then you’d better take it off,’ she said gently. ‘Before Thomasina returns.’
Kathryn walked back to the chancery and stared down at the list of names. She shivered as she drew a circle round all of them.
‘What if it was a conspiracy?’ she murmured. ‘What if they are all involved in the murders of Brandon, Sparrow and Webster?’
Chapter 9
Kathryn and the household had just finished their evening meal. She was about to prepare some medicines for her patients when she was interrupted by a loud knock on the door. Wuf was already in bed, Thomasina was busy in the buttery whilst Colum, strangely silent, sat in front of the fire armed with a large needle
and thread, carefully replacing the stitching in one of his bridles. Thomasina had offered to do this but Colum had growled that he was capable enough. He was now stabbing furiously at the piece of leather, reflecting about what he should do with the two corpse-collectors, who had confessed all. Thomasina answered the rap on the door and brought the two visitors, Gabele and Fletcher, into the kitchen. Both of them were armed, booted and spurred, their faces bright with excitement.
‘What’s happened?’ Colum threw the bridle down. ‘More trouble at the castle?’
‘No, Irishman.’ Gabele stood with one foot slightly forward, gently beating the riding crop against his leg. ‘I bring orders from his Grace the Duke of Gloucester.’
Kathryn came out of the writing-office. ‘He’s here,’ she exclaimed, ‘in Canterbury!’
‘Yes, he stopped at the castle to snatch a mouthful of food and a cup of wine. He’s with his henchmen – Lovell, Ratcliffe, Catesby and the rest. They have come direct from the King with orders to levy men both from the castle and Kingsmead. Tomorrow morning we go hunting Faunte. Gloucester is determined to capture, try and hang him within the day.’
Colum whistled under his breath.
‘Why now?’ Kathryn asked.
‘His Grace didn’t say much,’ Fletcher spoke up. ‘But the King’s spies have reported that tomorrow Faunte may well leave the security of the forest to reach one of the Kentish ports and a ship abroad.’
Colum grabbed his boots, which had been drying in the inglenook, and started to pull them on.
‘Oh, yes,’ he declared. ‘Our noble king never forgets a traitor. Just before he advanced against Warwick at Barnet, he cursed Faunte for rousing Canterbury against him and closing the road to Dover.’
Kathryn stared out of the window. ‘But it’s dark!’ she cried. ‘It’s bad enough to travel the streets of Canterbury in the dead of night, never mind trying to hunt someone across the Weald of Kent.’
Colum got to his feet, the spurs on his boots jingling. He took his leather war-belt from a hook on the wall.
‘No, no, we’ll probably go to Kingsmead where Gloucester will devise his plans. He’ll want the hunt to be in progress by daylight. If Faunte breaks cover he’ll do so early, when the roads are deserted and the countryside’s asleep.’