by Paul Doherty
‘A priest, I wish to be shriven.’ The prisoner lifted manacled hands. ‘I am of noble blood!’ Faunte exclaimed. ‘I beg my poor body be spared the indignities of the sentence. Death is enough!’
‘Denied!’ The henchmen shouted in unison.
Colum looked at Kathryn who gazed unblinkingly back, her eyes said everything. Colum raised a hand to speak and Gloucester nodded his consent.
‘Your Grace, Faunte was most co-operative in answering certain questions.’
Gloucester stared stonily back.
‘He was well liked in this area,’ Colum continued rather stumblingly. ‘Great mercy befits a great prince.’
Gloucester pushed away the papers in front of him.
‘The sentence will be death alone!’ he declared and beckoned to the captain of his guard. ‘Let the traitor have a priest. Once that’s done, take him out and hang him!’
The tribunal broke up. Gloucester and his henchmen huddled in consultation. Colum came over to Kathryn, pale and tense. Kathryn pinched him on the arm.
‘You did a noble thing.’
The Irishman gazed bleakly at her.
‘Why do you say that? Because I had the sentence commuted?’ Colum stared around and lowered his voice. ‘I wish to God I could claim merit for that but Gloucester ordered me to plead for Faunte. The protracted agonies of a popular man might have excited sympathy.’ Colum looked away. ‘None of the rest would do it. Come, let’s get out of here!’
Colum quickly escorted Kathryn out of the chamber. Outside, the corridors and stairs were thronged with soldiers watching Faunte being taken down for the last time to his cell, a brown-garbed Franciscan monk following.
‘Why does the smell of death make people so excited?’ Colum whispered. Linking his arm through Kathryn’s, he steered her half-way down the corridor. He opened the door of a small, dusty writing-office, now deserted, as the clerks joined the throng in the streets below waiting for Faunte to be taken out.
‘What do you think?’ Colum asked.
‘Gloucester would make a bad enemy.’
Colum grinned. ‘No, about what we learnt.’
Kathryn stared at the dusty window frames, noticing the huge cobwebs in the corner and the ink-splattered tables.
‘Colum, we must exhume Brandon’s corpse, though there seems little contradiction between the Brandon Sturry described and the prisoner kept in Canterbury Castle.’
‘And what else?’
Kathryn pursed her lips, feeling slightly embarrassed; she and Colum were rarely in the same room alone. Kathryn recalled those hard-eyed men who had just sentenced Faunte to death and realised how different she and the Irishman were. They came from separate worlds. Perhaps Thomasina was right; Chaddedon belonged to hers, but Colum was a warrior dealing in death, harsh measures and brutal judgement. She heard a roar from outside: Faunte must have been shriven and was now being taken out to the makeshift scaffold hurriedly set up in the Buttermarket.
‘What else did you learn?’ Colum repeated.
‘There’s no doubt Gloucester wanted Faunte’s death, but the Eye of God must be something special. What secret can it hold?’
Colum looked sharply at her. ‘And what about Lessinger?’ he asked.
‘To me,’ Kathryn replied, ‘he’ll always be Alexander Wyville.’ She chewed the corner of her lip. ‘I couldn’t care,’ she continued, ‘what he calls himself or where he is; if he returns here, I shall confront him.’ Kathryn played with the ring on her finger. ‘“Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof,”’ she murmured and stared at the dust-motes dancing in the sunlight which poured through the mullioned glass window.
Colum got up from the table he was resting against and opened the door.
‘Then let’s leave. Sturry will be released, given a shave, a rough wash and a change of clothing, whilst we shall both go to the Castle and pluck poor Brandon from his grave.’
They went downstairs and were almost out of the Guildhall when Kathryn caught a flash of red hair as Megan hurried towards them, shouting Colum’s name at the top of her voice.
‘What’s the matter, woman?’
‘It’s Pul—’ Megan tried to pronounce the horse’s name.
‘Pulcher!’ Colum said.
‘Yes, he’s broken loose. There’s no one about. I followed him down to the gibbet near the crossroads, but . . .’ Megan fluttered her hands, her green eyes seemed even bigger in her pale white face.
‘Of course,’ Colum grumbled. ‘All the men are here in Canterbury, only the women and children remain at Kingsmead. Come on, Kathryn!’
They walked into Burghgate, Megan trotting beside them, chattering about how the horse was so skittish. They went up some steps. Kathryn looked quickly in the direction of the Buttermarket, over the heads of the crowds massed there. She glimpsed the black-garbed executioner, the great two-armed gibbet soaring above him. Faunte leaned against the scaffold rail, talking to the crowd, but she couldn’t hear what he was saying. Colum hurried her on. They collected their horses from a nearby stable and, with Megan perched up behind him, Colum bade Kathryn a hasty farewell.
‘I’ll deal with this matter,’ he said. ‘Collect Sturry from the Guildhall cell, then we shall go to the castle.’ He gathered the reins in his hands. ‘Oh, Kathryn, you be careful; open the door to no one!’
Kathryn agreed, ignoring the malicious grin on Megan’s face as she grasped Colum round his waist. Kathryn watched them ride away and, turning her horse’s head, ambled down a narrow alley-way which would lead into Whitehorse Lane. Behind her the clamour of the crowd was stilled just for a few seconds. She was sure she heard the clatter of the scaffold ladder being pushed away, followed by a wild roar of approval. She wondered why people became so excited at the sight of violent death and recalled her father’s words: ‘Always remember, Kathryn, we are half angel and half beast. Unfortunately, the latter half often prevails.’ Kathryn sighed. She hoped Colum would be safe and tried to dismiss her pang of disapproval at the way Megan had sat so perkily behind the Irishman, her red hair trailing in the breeze. They would go to the crossroads near the old gibbet . . . Kathryn stopped, clutching at her stomach as it lurched in fear.
‘Oh, Lord,’ she breathed. ‘Oh, my God! What did Rawnose say about disembodied voices at the crossroads? A witch with flaming hair? And now Colum is being taken there!’
She turned her horse’s head round, digging her heels in to urge it faster, and headed back towards the High Street. The crowds would still be there, so she lost precious time threading her way through alleyways which debouched into Hethenman Lane, turning left at All Saints. She went up Kingsbury, to Saint Peter’s Street, towards Westgate and the bridge across the Stour. Kathryn was not the best of horsewomen and the crowds impeded her progress. Time and again abuse was hurled at her, even handfuls of mud, but at last she went under the great yawning mouth of Westgate into Dunstan Street, following the road north along the country lanes to Kingsmead. Kathryn passed the manor basking quietly under the late-afternoon sun. She quickly dismissed any thought of going there for help and desperately wished Wuf and Thomasina were with her. Of Colum and Megan she couldn’t catch a glimpse; the Irishman, being a master horseman, would have travelled much faster. However, a peasant digging ditches just beyond the manor said he had seen the soldier and a red-haired woman riding towards the crossroads. He loudly assured Kathryn that she was on the right track.
‘Everyone’s going there,’ he called. ‘Well,’ the fellow said in answer to Kathryn’s puzzled look, ‘an hour before the soldier and his redhead, another man passed by, strange he looked, with a black patch over his eye.’
Kathryn hurried on. Just before the bend in the trackway Kathryn dismounted, hobbled her horse and quietly edged round, keeping close to the wild bushes in the overgrown hedgerow. From the corner of the lane, she could see the top of the old three-branched scaffold. Kathryn moved closer. Colum was only a few paces from where Fitzroy stood holding a loaded arbalest. Mega
n lay sprawled on the grass beside Fitzroy, moaning as she held her face. Fitzroy, holding the heavy Brabantine crossbow, apparently was taunting Colum, and shouting at him to keep his distance every time the Irishman edged forward. Kathryn stared in panic.
‘He’s going to kill him,’ she whispered. ‘If I run, both of us might die. What can I do? What can I do?’ Kathryn closed her eyes and muttered a prayer, then jumped to her feet and shouted, ‘Fitzroy, stop!’
The ruse worked. Fitzroy, startled, looked up the track as Colum threw himself at his enemy, knocking the crossbow flying. They both grappled to the ground. Fitzroy kicked Colum away, stood up, retreated and picked up the great two-handed sword resting against the scaffold. Colum drew his and, as Kathryn ran towards them, both men began their deadly dance, swords up, level with their chest, legs slightly apart.
Fitzroy steadied his breathing. ‘So, Colum, ma fiach, just like boys again, eh? Do you remember wooden swords, two ragged-arsed boys pretending to be knights in a world of chivalry?’
Colum didn’t flinch. ‘God forgive me, Padraig!’ he whispered. ‘But I am going to kill you!’
‘You are forgiven!’
Fitzroy attacked, sword jabbing forward, then coming back in a wide sweeping arc aimed at Colum’s neck. Murtagh feinted. The silence of the forest was broken by the rasp and hiss of steel. Kathryn could only stand and watch. She wished she had a dagger; rules of chivalry or not, this was a fight to the death. Fitzroy meant to kill Colum and he was ruthless enough to leave no witnesses. At first she could see Murtagh was clumsy, out of sorts, but as the deadly dance continued, his skill and confidence grew. Never once did he leave his chosen place, constantly inviting Fitzroy on. Sometimes the sword blades would simply flicker at each other like the tongues of snakes, followed by sweeping arcs, sudden parries and cuts. Both men became drenched in sweat. Megan sat up, holding her swollen face where Fitzroy had punched her.
‘I am hurt!’ she wailed. ‘I am hurt!’
‘Shut your mouth, you stupid bitch!’ Kathryn hissed. ‘Or it will be nothing to what I’ll give you!’
Megan lapsed into silence, head forward on her knees as the two swordsmen clashed and drew apart, their arms growing heavy, sweat coursing in great fat drops down their faces. Both men paused and gasped for air. The swords came up again. Colum turned sideways, arms up, the sword blade level with his eyes. Fitzroy moved. Kathryn only glimpsed what happened next. Colum’s sword snaked forward, beat Fitzroy’s down and then, in a great shimmering swish, took Fitzroy clean through the neck. The head bounced like a ball on the grass, a great arc of blood bubbling from the severed head. Kathryn turned away, crouching in the grass to control the terror seething inside her. She felt fingers clutch her hair and looked up to see Colum resting on the great hilt of his sword, gasping for breath.
‘If I have said it once,’ he panted, ‘I’ll say it again. You’re a bonny lass, Mistress Swinbrooke, and if anyone gainsays it, he is a liar!’
Kathryn looked past him at the fallen headless torso, the blood forming a blackened, congealing pool around it.
‘God rest him!’ Colum breathed. ‘He was a good man until hate took his heart.’ He flung his sword down and crouched beside Kathryn. ‘That’s the demon in all our souls. We begin killing to defend ourselves, but in the end some of us begin to like it, an insatiable appetite for death.’ He wiped his face on the sleeve of his jerkin. ‘Or, as Chaucer says, “Oh treacherous homicide! Oh wickedness!”’
Kathryn leaned forward and dabbed his cheeks with a kerchief.
‘If you quote from Chaucer once more, I’ll take your head myself, Irishman!’
She struggled to her feet, drawing deep breaths. Colum, still panting, got up to join her.
‘Leave Fitzroy,’ he grunted. ‘I’ll send others to bury him.’
‘Oh, Master Murtagh.’ Megan came crawling on her hands and knees towards him. She looked up, her face a picture of grieving terror. ‘I had to do it!’ she wailed. ‘He summoned me here to the crossroads! He said if he didn’t take your head he’d take mine!’
‘And if I told Holbech,’ Colum muttered, ‘he’d take yours, red hair or not!’ He turned away. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, woman, get to your feet. If you don’t say anything, neither will I!’ He grinned. ‘Perhaps I’ll tell Holbech he abducted you.’ Colum’s grin widened. ‘Yes, I like that, the chivalrous knight aiding a damsel in distress. As Chaucer says . . .’
Kathryn looked warningly at him.
‘Never mind,’ Colum said. ‘Let’s get our horses.’
‘Where’s Pulcher?’ Kathryn asked.
She roughly helped Megan to her feet and dabbed at the bruise on the woman’s cheek.
‘Bathe that in witch hazel,’ she declared matter-of-factly. ‘And hold some raw meat against it. In a few days you’ll look as pretty and treacherous as ever.’
Colum walked to the edge of the forest, put his fingers in his mouth, gave a long whistle, and Pulcher and Colum’s horse appeared, as calm and docile as if they had been on a pleasant day’s jaunt. The Irishman carefully examined his favourite horse.
‘I didn’t do anything,’ Megan wailed.
‘If you had, I’d have cut your hair off! Come on, let’s go.’
Colum put Megan on his own horse, mounted the dead Fitzroy’s, collected Kathryn’s for her, and they rode back to Kingsmead, Pulcher trotting behind them.
At the manor Colum pressed Kathryn to stay but she felt unwell, eager to return home. Colum said he would ensure all was well at Kingsmead, arrange Sturry’s release and join her at Ottemelle Lane.
Kathryn continued into Canterbury, quiet and subdued after the hasty execution earlier in the day. Faunte’s battered corpse now swung from the battlements above Westgate.
‘It will then be dismembered,’ a garrulous sentry informed her. ‘The parts sent to adorn the gateways of other towns.’
Kathryn nodded and rode on. Suddenly she began to shake and tremble, feeling rather faint after the bloody fight she had witnessed, Colum’s dispassionate ruthlessness, and now seeing the tattered remains of poor Faunte. The noise of the crowd around her sounded strange. She felt nauseous and slightly light-headed. She passed the Righteous Man; his lips were moving, gibbering nonsense, but his eyes seemed large, intent on watching her. Kathryn urged her horse on with a prayer; ‘Oh, Lord, don’t let me faint!’ She was trembling with cold, yet her hands were so clammy the reins began to slip. She turned corners, riding as if in a dream, then her horse abruptly stopped.
‘Go on!’ she urged. ‘Go on!’
‘Mistress, what is the matter?’
Thomasina was staring up at her.
‘I must go home,’ Kathryn said weakly.
She looked round. She was home, the horse had stopped before the house in Ottemelle Lane. She had apparently leaned down and knocked on the door and Thomasina, Agnes and Wuf were standing anxiously in the doorway. Kathryn mustered her dignity. She slipped from the horse, tossing the reins at Wuf.
‘Please,’ she said, ‘take it to the stable. There’s a good lad!’
Thomasina clutched at her arm, fearful at Kathryn’s white, drawn face and staring, dark-rimmed eyes.
‘I’ll be fine,’ Kathryn muttered but she allowed Thomasina to help her gently up the stairs into her chamber. Kathryn lay on the bed. She took a small bolster, one she had used as a child, and pressed it against her stomach, trying to concentrate on her breathing to ease the fluttering inside her.
‘Colum killed a man,’ she explained, staring up at the bed canopy above her. ‘He killed the man who was here yesterday, took his head off, Thomasina, like you’d cut a flower, and he didn’t seem to care.’
Thomasina sat on the bed and gently stroked the back of Kathryn’s icy hand.
‘They have to be like that,’ Thomasina whispered. ‘That’s the world of soldiers. If they stop to think, to reflect, they’d do what you are doing now, grip yourself in terror. My second husband was like that,’ she continued. ‘He wa
s a soldier, thighs like tree trunks he had, and was forever bouncing me in bed. But at night he had dreadful dreams. Ah, here’s Agnes with some wine and bread.’
She made Kathryn sit up, nibble at the freshly baked manchet loaf and helped her gulp the herb-infused wine, whilst whispering to Agnes to make up the fire as well as light and wheel in one of the charcoal braziers which stood in the gallery outside. Kathryn began to relax, her body felt warm, lulled by Thomasina’s deliberately aimless chatter. She handed the cup back and slipped into a deep sleep.
Thomasina woke her two hours later. Kathryn’s eyes flew open, her mouth tasted sweet after the wine and she felt stronger. She dismissed the nightmares which had haunted her and bathed her hands and face in a bowl of rose-water, then combed her hair, put on a new veil and went down to the kitchen, where Colum and a now smartly groomed, well-fed Sturry sat before the hearth. Colum had shaved and washed, showing little sign of his deadly fight earlier that day except for his eyes, tired and heavy from lack of sleep. Sturry, however, was as cheery as a cricket in spring and wouldn’t let anyone get a word in edgeways as Thomasina served hot broth and cups of watered wine. Kathryn asked if he’d met anyone called Wyville or Lessinger but Sturry shook his head and continued with his chatter.
After the meal Kathryn, Colum and Sturry left for the castle. Darkness was falling, the market-stalls had been put away, and citizens were either hurrying home or answering the bells of the churches calling them to evening prayer. Kathryn rode behind Colum and a still chattering Sturry until they entered Winchepe, where Colum pulled his horse back to ride alongside her.
‘Thomasina said you were unwell, Kathryn?’
‘Oh, not really,’ Kathryn tartly replied. ‘I’m used to seeing one man hang and another lose his head all in one day.’ She glared across at Colum. ‘Doesn’t it bother you?’
‘Yes, it does.’ Colum tapped the side of his head. ‘But I don’t think about it, Kathryn . . .’ His voice faltered. He wanted to thank her but now was not the time.
They entered the castle. Grooms took their horses whilst a steward led them up into the main hall. For a while they kicked their heels just inside the doorway as the household finished their meal. Kathryn sat silently, now revelling in the relief at Colum’s escape. She also tried to recall something she had seen whilst visiting Faunte’s cell at the Guildhall. She shook her head, her brain was too tired for anything elusive. She gestured at the high table.