by Paul Doherty
Colum graciously refused Kathryn’s offer of food and wine. He collected his cloak and saddle-bag, smiled good-humouredly at Kathryn, and followed Gabele and Fletcher out.
‘Oh, by the way,’ Kathryn called.
Gabele and Fletcher stopped.
‘Webster’s death,’ Kathryn continued, ‘have you discovered anything?’
Gabele blew his lips out. ‘We told Gloucester everything. But no, Mistress, Webster’s cold in his grave and it’s still a mystery whether he jumped, slipped or was pushed.’
Kathryn thanked them, closed the door and leaned against it, eyes closed. Thank God, she thought, at least Colum will be safe surrounded by Gloucester and his men.
She went back into the kitchen where a sleepy-eyed Agnes was clearing the table, bringing out the dough, bowls, jugs and platters to prepare the bread for the early-morning baking. Thomasina helped her and then, gently scolding the girl, ordered her off to bed. Kathryn studied the little maid closely. Agnes was tired but she kept fingering the small purse she had taken to wearing round her neck. Kathryn sat down on the table bench.
‘Agnes,’ she called. ‘Come here!’
The housemaid scurried across, expectant, eager to please. Kathryn smiled.
‘Sit down.’
The housemaid did, her eyes watching her mistress closely.
‘Agnes, how long have you been with us?’
The housemaid screwed her face up. ‘I think I’m thirteen. Your father took me seven years ago.’ Agnes opened her eyes. ‘From the Foundling Hospital.’
Kathryn smiled. She remembered the day well. Her father was always caring for waifs and strays. He’d gone to treat one of the sisters and had simply brought the girl home. No one had ever asked Agnes to be a housemaid, and when Kathryn tried to stop her, the shy little girl had cried for days.
‘Agnes, what’s in your purse?’
‘Oh, Mistress, the coins you give me. They are going to be my dowry.’
‘And have you chosen the lucky man?’ Kathryn chewed her lip.
‘No, but . . .’ The girl blushed.
‘Are you sure?’ Kathryn teased.
‘I like Wormhair.’
‘Who?’
‘Wormhair, the altar boy at Saint Mildred’s.’
Kathryn recalled a young boy with the face of an angel and hair so greasy it stood up in spikes. Kathryn had to laugh and she covered her mouth with her hand.
‘Agnes, are you happy here? Is there anything I can do?’
The girl just stared at her owlishly.
‘Why, Mistress? Aren’t you happy with me?’
Kathryn waved her hands as the tears began to well in Agnes’s eyes.
‘No! No! I am! Thomasina and Wuf treat you well?’
‘Wuf’s a scamp,’ Agnes said. ‘Thomasina and I find him a handful.’
Kathryn nodded. ‘You had better go to bed,’ she said.
The housemaid scurried away.
‘Oh, Agnes.’
‘Yes, Mistress?’
‘Never worry about your dowry. What is mine is yours.’
The girl gazed unblinkingly back.
Kathryn smiled. ‘And who knows, perhaps Wormhair could join us one night at supper?’
Agnes nodded and ran down the passageway. Thomasina busied herself round the kitchen, singing and humming like some large bumblebee. Now and again she chattered about the local gossip; how she intended to give Goldere a clip round the ear for his impudence and would Rawnose ever stop talking? Kathryn grinned secretly at that.
‘Is the Irishman going to stay here forever?’ Thomasina asked abruptly.
‘Why?’
‘He has his boots well and firmly under the table,’ Thomasina declared, looking fiercely at Kathryn.
‘I like him,’ Kathryn replied. ‘I really do, Thomasina.’
‘He’s not like Chaddedon.’
‘Yes, he is,’ Kathryn said crossly. ‘True, he’s also different, yet he’s honest and straight.’
‘He’s bloody moody!’
Kathryn sighed. ‘He’s worried. He seems to be hapless in this matter entrusted to him by the King and he lives in dread of an assassin.’
Thomasina’s face softened. She went to crouch beside her mistress, stroking her gently on the back of the hand.
‘Kathryn, he’s a soldier, a courtier well-favoured by the princes. If you dance to their measure you’ll always live in danger. Now come on, Torquil the carpenter’s arriving tomorrow. We have to fix his arm and you know what a baby he is.’
Kathryn grinned and got to her feet. ‘Bring me bryony,’ she said. ‘And, Thomasina, a small potion of nightshade. And wear gloves!’
‘I know all that!’ Thomasina snapped, bustling down the corridor.
A few minutes later she returned carrying two linen cloths containing the bryony with its thick tuberous root stock, which still bore some shrunken dry berries. Kathryn, also putting on a pair of gloves, removed these and the rough leaves, then, with mortar and pestle, began to crush the juice out of the stem. She stopped and stared down at it, her nose wrinkling at the bitter-sweet smell as she remembered her father’s advice.
‘Many natural things, Kathryn,’ he had often repeated, ‘contain the deadliest poisons. I have seen more people die from eating the wrong plant than from wounds in battle. Remember, bryony and nightshade are the most dangerous!’
Kathryn continued her pressing. Her father never knew why or how, but he had warned her how such juice could still be dangerous even if you thoroughly washed your hands afterwards.
‘Somehow,’ he had declared, ‘the skin can breathe it in. I once heard an Arab at Salerno explain how and why, but I found it difficult to understand.’
Kathryn held the small wooden bowl up and carefully poured the juice into a small phial. A little of it she would add to water and use for chilblains; mixed with a tincture of wine, it would also ease coughs, especially in children. Then she picked up the nightshade and studied the dark dull-green oval leaves, the drooping purple bell-shaped flowers. These were already dead and rotting. She placed the herb on the board and began to crush the juice from the root as well as the leaves. The smell became even more unpleasant, Kathryn walked into the garden for a while, wondering when the stock she had ordered from London would arrive. She went back and continued, taking great care, for the nightshade was costly. It flourished only in chalky limestone and was one of those herbs that spicers and apothecaries paid dearly for. At last she had finished. She mixed some of the bryony with the nightshade in a small cup; she would give this to Torquil the carpenter the following morning to ease his pain. Once this was done, she and Thomasina scrubbed all the implements as well as the table-top with scalding hot water.
Leaving Thomasina in the buttery, Kathryn walked to her writing-office. She heard an owl hoot from the garden and shivered. Didn’t Thomasina say the call of a night-bird was a portent of ill omen?
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Kathryn!’ she whispered to herself. ‘You are a woman, not Thomasina’s child.’
She unlocked a small coffer and took out the piece of parchment she had been writing on. Pulling the flickering candles closer, she carefully read what she had written there. Brandon’s death was a mystery, she concluded, and Colum was right: the exhumation of his corpse was the only loose thread they could tug at. She leaned back in the chair, closed her eyes and reflected on Webster’s fall from the lofty keep of Canterbury Castle. She pictured the Constable walking on the tower, the brazier spluttering and flickering in the early-morning breeze.
Why should a man who is going to commit suicide light a fire to warm himself? she thought. Why walk about? And that bruise behind his right ear. How did that happen? How did the murderer get onto the tower top unnoticed by Webster or the guards, strike the Constable and toss his unconscious body over the parapet? How did the assassin leave the tower in such a way that the trapdoor was still locked on the other side? In her mind’s eye Kathryn visualised the sentry walking up and d
own the parapet-walk. They had seen a flash of colour as Webster fell and heard his death cry. Death cry! Kathryn opened her eyes.
How could a man who was unconscious cry out?
She felt a flutter of excitement in her stomach. She had been certain of this all day: the cry must have come from someone else. The murderer!
‘But how?’ she exclaimed aloud. ‘How could it be done? And why?’
Kathryn chewed her lip. No one had reported anything untoward about Webster’s behaviour except that business with the priest: Webster’s attempt to replicate the circumstances which led to Sparrow’s escape.
‘It’s there,’ she muttered. ‘Someone must have seen Webster do this and became worried. But what was it Webster had discovered?’
Kathryn jumped at the loud knocking on the door. Thomasina’s footsteps pattered along the corridor outside, then she hurried back.
‘Mistress, there’s a poor man outside, his arm’s all a bleeding.’
‘Bring him into the kitchen,’ Kathryn called.
She took her box of implements and went into the kitchen where Thomasina was helping the man down onto the stool. The stranger seemed in great pain, his body huddled over, favouring his right arm. Kathryn could see the blood specks on the newly scrubbed kitchen floor.
‘Who are you?’ she said.
The man’s head was bowed, his hood pulled forward. Kathryn went to take his arm and the man moved quickly, straightening up. He pulled a small arbalest from beneath his cloak, the crossbow bolt ready in its groove. Kathryn exclaimed and stood back. Thomasina, preparing water over the fire, heard her cry of surprise and turned. She recognised the danger in one quick glance and advanced threateningly; the stranger pulled back his head, revealing a mass of blood-red hair framing his face and falling down to his shoulders. The patch over his right eye gave his thin white face an even more vicious look. Kathryn caught a glimpse of those bloodless lips and guessed who this man was.
‘You are Fitzroy?’
The man cocked his head on one side. ‘Now there’s an intelligent woman,’ he exclaimed. ‘Bright as a button, sharp as a needle.’ He turned, moving the crossbow slightly, aiming it fully at Thomasina’s stomach. ‘And you must be the nurse? Now don’t be a silly girl. Don’t do anything rash or old Padraig will have to kill you!’
‘Sit down, Thomasina,’ Kathryn ordered. ‘I don’t think Master Fitzroy means us any harm.’
The fellow’s good eye studied Kathryn coldly. ‘You are toothsome enough,’ he declared. ‘Trust old Colum to find a pleasant port.’
‘Shut your filthy mouth!’ Thomasina snarled. ‘Mistress Swinbrooke is your better!’
Padraig shifted the crossbow in his hand and glared at Thomasina.
‘Listen, you old bitch, I have killed everything that moves, men, women, even the occasional old crone.’
‘I suppose that was easy,’ Thomasina retorted. ‘Especially if their backs were turned!’
Fitzroy laughed. ‘You’ll come to no harm from me,’ he assured them. He took a pace back and gestured with one hand. ‘Please, Mistress Swinbrooke, don’t do anything rash or stupid.’
‘You have come to kill Colum?’
‘Aye, dark-eyed Colum. Judged by our council to be a traitor.’
‘He’s no traitor,’ Kathryn said, just wishing she could stop her legs from trembling, and why must she appear so breathless? ‘He’s no traitor,’ she repeated firmly. ‘He was a mere boy when York took him. What would you do? Accept a pardon or be hanged?’
‘My brother had no choice. He died kicking at the end of an English rope.’ Fitzroy touched the patch over his eye. ‘And when they took me, they squeezed this eye out of its socket.’
For a few seconds Kathryn caught a look of sadness in the man’s hard face.
‘That’s the way of the world, Kathryn. I can call you Kathryn?’ He didn’t wait for her reply. ‘Once we were golden boys, Colum and I, fast as the deer. Swift as the plummeting hawk. Blood-brothers.’
‘And now you have come to kill him?’
‘Yes, it should come as no surprise. Surely he’s been expecting me?’
‘And the Eye of God?’ Kathryn asked suddenly.
Fitzroy’s grin widened. ‘Aye, we’d like it back. If Colum can promise to deliver it, we’d consider a pardon.’
Kathryn stared at the muscle twitching high in Fitzroy’s cheek.
‘You are lying,’ she said softly. ‘You’ll kill him whatever he does. Don’t lie to me!’
Fitzroy nodded.
‘Look!’ Kathryn pointed to the blood dripping from the man’s arm. ‘You are wounded!’
‘Oh, no.’ Fitzroy moved the crossbow. He put his hand up his sleeve and took out a small blood-soaked sponge. ‘I dipped this in the gutter outside the Shambles.’ He threw it on the floor, the blood spattering in scarlet drops. ‘Do you know, it always works.’
‘Colum’s not here,’ Kathryn said defiantly.
‘Oh, I know that, but we have to do everything according to the ritual. Bring me a cup of wine, put it on the table, add a little vinegar, next to it place a small piece of bread covered in salt.’
‘Why?’
‘Do it, woman, and remember I have my eyes on Thomasina!’
Kathryn obeyed. She put the wine in a cup, added a drop of vinegar and placed the salted bread beside it.
‘Would you like some wine?’ she asked hopefully.
Fitzroy walked over and touched her gently on the cheek.
‘You are a brave lass, Kathryn, but I’m not stupid. A cup of wine with something to make me sleep?’
Kathryn wiped her sweat-soaked hands on her dress as she held the Irishman’s gaze.
‘Why?’ she asked.
‘He should never have taken the English King’s pardon.’
‘And why so long?’
Fitzroy stepped back. ‘Hasn’t he told you, Kathryn? I am the fourth they have sent. The other three never returned. Now, Kathryn—’ Fitzroy gestured at Thomasina to stand. ‘Turn round and stare at the fire.’
Kathryn pointed at the wine and bread.
‘Oh, don’t worry about that,’ Fitzroy smiled. ‘Colum will know. Now please, turn around.’
Kathryn and Thomasina had no choice. They heard the shuffle of Fitzroy’s footsteps and the sounds of the door closing behind him as he disappeared into the darkened street. Kathryn slumped down on the stool.
‘Well, that’s the last time we do that, Thomasina.’
Her nurse came over and put her arm round her shoulders. She could feel Kathryn tremble.
‘No, it won’t, Mistress.’ She gently stroked Kathryn’s tumbling black hair. ‘If someone was really hurt, you’d help.’ She went to the buttery and brought back a big-bowled cup of claret. ‘Come on,’ she coaxed. ‘Drink it slowly. It’s that bloody Irishman! Why had he to bring his sack of troubles here?’
Kathryn sipped from the wine.
‘If he was killed, Thomasina, if he died . . .’ Kathryn grasped Thomasina’s hand and looked over her shoulder. ‘I think something in me might die.’
‘Fiddlesticks!’ Thomasina blurted out.
She flounced round the kitchen, cleaning up the blood from the floor, keeping ever so busy so that Kathryn would not see the tears brimming in her eyes.
‘Bloody Irishman! Bloody, bloody men!’
At last Thomasina was exhausted by her stream of curses. She and Kathryn doused the fire and candles and retired to bed, the wine easing Kathryn into a dream-ridden sleep.
She was woken early the next morning by Wuf, running up the stairs pretending to be a knight, rattling the wooden sword Colum had made along the rails of the stairs. Kathryn washed, dressed and broke her fast in the kitchen. Agnes, cheerful as ever, built up the fire, oblivious to the silent, sombre faces of Kathryn and Thomasina. It was good the patients arrived early, Torquil the carpenter amongst them. Kathryn dealt swiftly and coolly with their complaints, keeping her mind on the business in hand, trying not to glance at
the cup of wine and piece of salted bread. Thomasina offered to throw them away.
‘No,’ Kathryn declared. ‘It’s a message for Colum, he will decide.’
She continued to deal with her patients’ complaints. Little Edith came last, still gripping her stomach. Kathryn, feeling sorry for her, dispensed a rather costly herbal potion made from the herb of grace or rue whose blue-green leaves provided a juice which seemed to ease menstruation pains. After the girl had left, Kathryn washed her hands and walked down to a deserted Saint Mildred’s Church to light a candle and kneel before the Lady Altar as her father had taught her. She said a prayer for his soul and for her own peace of mind. She was still confused by the events at the castle and frightened of what the future held for Colum. She found it difficult to concentrate and wondered if she should go and see Father Cuthbert at the Poor Priests’ Hospital. She lit another candle and left. On the corner of Ottemelle Lane Rawnose stood, a small crowd gathering around him. This self-proclaimed herald of the ward was dispensing his usual stream of gossip. Only this time Kathryn stopped and listened.
‘Oh, yes.’ Rawnose’s voice strengthened. ‘Nicholas Faunte the rebel has been captured trying to cross the Weald of Kent. He and five others are at the Guildhall where they will be tried and hanged. His Grace the Duke of Gloucester is most pleased. He has issued a proclamation saying once Faunte is dead, the King will restore the privileges of the city.’
Rawnose’s statement was greeted by gasps and sighs. Kathryn fairly sped up Ottemelle Lane, throwing the door of the house open so violently she almost knocked over Agnes, who was laying fresh rushes. Colum was in the kitchen, his face drawn and tired and covered from head to toe with flecks of caked mud. He hardly lifted his head as she entered but stared at the cup and piece of bread placed in the middle of the table. Thomasina and a strangely silent Wuf stood by the hearth, both of them watching the Irishman, their eyes round as owls’ eyes as they awaited his reaction.
‘You’ve heard the news, Mistress Swinbrooke!’
Colum’s eyes did not move. He just scratched his straggling black hair, then undid his sword-belt, which he threw on the floor beside him.