by Paul Doherty
‘Are they expecting us?’
‘Yes,’ Colum said. ‘But they don’t know what we want.’
The meal ended, Fletcher, Gabele, Margotta, Fitz-Steven the clerk, Peter the chaplain, as well as the Righteous Man, looking garish as ever, joined them around the great hearth.
‘The hour’s late, Irishman,’ Gabele began. He nodded at Sturry. ‘What’s he doing here?’
‘He has a King’s pardon,’ Colum replied. ‘He’s here to assist me.’
‘How?’
‘He’s probably one of the last people who saw Brandon alive before his capture.’
The group fell silent.
‘I have got His Grace the Duke of Gloucester’s permission,’ Colum continued, ‘to exhume Brandon’s corpse. I want it done now!’
‘For God’s sake!’ Peter the chaplain retorted. ‘That’s blasphemy. The castle’s cemetery is God’s own acre.’
‘And I am the King’s loyal servant,’ Colum said, ‘in pursuit of his justice as well as God’s. Brandon’s corpse is to be exhumed.’
‘But the body will be decomposing!’ Fitz-Steven the clerk cried. ‘Stinking, rotten with corruption.’
‘Have the body brought up!’ Colum ordered Gabele. ‘The coffin lid removed, then send for us.’
‘Where is it to be taken?’
‘Nowhere. Justice can be seen by torch glow as well as in the full light of day.’
Fletcher was about to protest.
‘I speak for the King,’ Colum repeated. ‘I want Brandon’s body exhumed now, and until it is done, no man is to leave the Castle!’
‘But my trade!’ the Righteous Man wailed. ‘The work of God! The city taverns are full of resting pilgrims.’
‘It can wait awhile!’ Colum snapped. ‘Until I look on Brandon’s face – or at least, what remains of it!’
Chapter 11
They all left the hall, but Kathryn and Colum remained. Sturry went up to the high table to collect any remaining scraps of food. Colum grinned as he watched him.
‘He wants to catch up on everything he has missed,’ he observed.
‘And what will happen to him then?’
Colum shrugged. ‘I’ll let him go. He’ll return to his family and wait for better days.’
‘What do you mean?’ Kathryn asked archly.
Colum leaned forward, hands on his knees. ‘Do you think it’s over, Kathryn, the civil war? Oh, York’s star’s in the ascendant, but in Brittany, Henry Tudor plans rebellion and invasion. The rallying port for all rebels and all those who escaped Barnet. No, no.’ Colum shook his head. ‘The dance is not over yet. The King’s children are only babes, and if something should happen to Edward, Gloucester and Clarence are waiting like wolves in the shadows.’
Kathryn pulled her cloak closer about her. She gazed round the hall, noting how the weak fire made the shadows jump and dance against the wall. I should be at home, she thought, back in Ottemelle Lane, mixing my potions and elixirs; healing a wound, giving comfort to a patient, chattering to Thomasina or allowing Wuf to tease her.
‘I do not like these affairs,’ she breathed. ‘If Fortune’s wheel turns again, Colum, you might have to play the part of Faunte.’
Colum stretched out his hand to the blaze, then looked squarely at her. ‘I don’t think so, Kathryn. My warring days are over.’
At the top of the hall Sturry exclaimed in pleasure and came back gnawing on a chicken leg, a cup of claret in the other hand. For a while the former Lancastrian sat and regaled them with his adventures in the wilds of Kent before Fitz-Steven the clerk came bustling back, his face wreathed in concern.
‘The coffin’s been raised,’ he declared. ‘And the lid removed . . .’
‘Well?’ Colum snapped.
‘Sir, you had best see for yourself.’
They followed him out of the castle, across the inner and outer baileys to the small cemetery. A blighted place with overgrown weeds, sombre yew trees, the darkness all the more eerie by the ring of torchlight in the distance. A night-bird chattered from a tree, long-winged bats circled and swooped against the starlit skies. Kathryn coughed and Sturry cursed, throwing away the chicken leg at the stench of corruption wafting on the cool night breeze. The group standing round the open coffin looked macabre in the glaring light of the flaming torches. Colum and Kathryn stared down into the makeshift coffin. The corpse’s head was slightly twisted, the decomposing face turned to one side.
‘Oh, my God!’ Colum breathed. He snatched a torch, looked into the coffin, at the inside of the lid, then at the corpse’s fingers, black with encrusted blood.
Kathryn followed his gaze. ‘Oh, Lord, save us!’ she whispered. ‘He was buried alive!’
‘Impossible!’ Peter the chaplain tremulously wailed. ‘I gave him the last rites of Holy Mother Church! He was dead! He was dead!’
‘Look at the way he’s twisted,’ Colum snarled. ‘Look at his finger-nails and the coffin lid. He revived whilst under the earth; he tried to claw himself out but died for lack of air.’
Kathryn grabbed a torch, pinched her nostrils and looked at the corpse.
‘Such cases are common,’ she observed. ‘Sometimes it’s hard to certify death. Some people ask for a stake or a knife to be driven through their heart, or their wrists cut, lest they revive.’
‘But is it Brandon?’ Colum asked.
‘It’s Brandon all right!’ Sturry declared abruptly, his face white and pasty as he clutched his stomach, probably regretting the chicken he had gulped. He covered his mouth and nose with his hand and bent down to examine the corpse. Then he got up, brushing the dirt from his knees.
‘I swear by all that is holy,’ he declared, ‘this man is Brandon!’
‘How can you say that?’ Colum said sharply. ‘The body is beginning to decompose.’
‘But not enough to hide his features,’ Sturry retorted. ‘Master Murtagh, go, if you wish, to the Guildhall, talk to my companions. They, too, met Brandon; they, too, will declare the truth. If you brought the sacrament,’ he added defiantly, ‘I’d take any oath the Church required and declare the same.’ He waved a hand at Colum, gulped and walked back, almost stumbling into a headstone.
Colum tugged at Kathryn’s sleeve and they walked away from the rest.
‘God help us!’ Kathryn murmured. ‘Brandon is dead, so’s Moresby, and the rest of the party has disappeared.’ She seized Colum’s wrist. ‘They could have killed Moresby and now be across the seas with the Eye of God!’
The Irishman kicked at the grass. ‘Hell’s teeth!’ he cursed. ‘I did wonder if the real Brandon was still alive, hiding somewhere.’ He sighed. ‘Now we find that Brandon was captured only to be buried alive. A pretty mess, Kathryn. Perhaps Webster did commit suicide.’ Colum grinned wolfishly. ‘When Gloucester hears of this . . .’ He let the threat hang in the air and walked back to the rest, clapping his hands noisily to still the clamour which had broken out.
‘Enough!’ he ordered. ‘We have seen enough. Master Fletcher, have this coffin re-interred. The rest of you, we need to discuss certain matters in the hall.’
It was a very cowed group which sat down at the high table on the dais. All of them, even Gabele and the Righteous Man, were subdued and pale-faced. Colum allowed wine to be served before addressing them.
‘Let us first reflect on what we know. Last Easter Sunday morning,’ he continued, ‘Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, was killed at Barnet. He entrusted a precious gold pendant with a sapphire called the Eye of God to his body squire Brandon, possibly with the knowledge of Moresby, the captain of his guard. Warwick was killed and we now know that Brandon, Moresby, and at least four others fled into hiding. They probably intended to take the pendant to Christchurch Priory in Canterbury, but something happened. Moresby was mysteriously killed; the rest have disappeared; and Fletcher here captured Brandon, whose corpse we have just viewed. Mistress Swinbrooke, what else do we know?’
Kathryn was staring at the white-faced priest
. ‘According to what people here told us,’ she began slowly, ‘Brandon was put in a cell next to that of a murderer called Sparrow. He may have talked to this man, who later escaped. We do not know, as Sparrow’s death and murder remain a mystery.’
The Irishman shrugged.
‘Brandon,’ Kathryn continued, ‘said little to anyone. He fell ill and, according to all the evidence, died. Our good chaplain here treated him and finally anointed him.’
‘But it’s true,’ the priest wailed, springing to his feet. ‘God be my witness, Mistress, it’s true! He had a fever and died!’
‘How did you know he was dead?’ Kathryn asked.
‘There was no life-beat in his neck or wrist,’ the priest exclaimed. ‘No sign of breath.’
‘Did you use a mirror?’ Kathryn asked. ‘Or a piece of glass held up against his mouth and nose?’
‘Of course not,’ the priest declared, sitting down again. ‘Christ be my witness, Mistress, I thought he was dead!’
‘He died in the afternoon,’ Fletcher added. ‘He was put in a box and buried the same evening. God, how the poor bastard must have suffered!’
‘Which brings us finally,’ Colum interrupted, ‘to Webster’s mysterious fall from the tower.’ Colum looked round, studying each of their faces. ‘On your allegiance to the King,’ he added quietly, ‘can anyone here throw a light on these mysteries?’
They all shook their heads, chorusing their denials, so Colum drew the meeting to an end. He rose, stretching until his joints cracked.
‘No one,’ he declared, ‘no one from this castle is to leave without my permission, except you, Master Sturry.’ Colum opened his wallet and drew out a small red-ribboned scroll. He pushed this and a silver piece into the man’s hand. ‘You may go where you wish. For the rest, anyone who leaves Canterbury, and this includes you, Master Pardoner, will be proclaimed as a murderer, a thief and a traitor!’
Colum and Kathryn left the hall. They collected their horses and rode quietly back into the city and the warmth and security of the house in Ottemelle Lane. Kathryn and Colum hardly spoke; even when they had doffed their cloaks and were sitting round the kitchen table, both remained lost in their own thoughts and the implications of what they had learnt that evening.
‘A stirring day,’ Kathryn observed as Thomasina served them ale, slices of smoked ham, bread and cheese on a platter.
‘I discovered that Alexander Wyville is now calling himself Robert Lessinger. Mayor Faunte was hanged. You killed a childhood friend who was hunting your life. We learnt that Brandon escaped from Barnet with the Eye of God but the sapphire has disappeared. Moresby was killed. Brandon was captured, only to be buried alive.’ Kathryn pushed the platter away and leaned her elbows on the table. ‘Moreover, we haven’t a clue about how Webster was killed, where Brandon’s former companions are, or, more importantly, of the whereabouts of the Eye of God.’
Colum gulped from his wine-cup. ‘It’s enough to drive a man to drink.’ He smiled sourly. ‘Do you have any thoughts on the matter?’
‘I told a lie at the castle,’ Kathryn replied. ‘There was no mistake. Brandon was deliberately buried alive. I suspect he was given hemlock. Do you know anything about its properties?’
Colum shook his head.
‘It’s a common wild plant,’ Kathryn explained. ‘Its Latin tag is Conium maculatum, and it is very poisonous. The Greeks gave it to Socrates to drink, and according to a story my father told me, the god Prometheus brought fire to mortals on a hemlock stalk. Hemlock is dangerous, not only because it is poisonous but also because it is very similar in appearance to parsley and fennel. Failure to distinguish it can prove fatal. Moreover, there are many varieties of the herb; hemlock and water hemlock are particularly dangerous. They can be found growing along hedgerows, in ditches or open woodland. Hemlock has an unpleasant bitter taste as well as a disagreeable stench, though this could be disguised in wine.’
‘So Brandon was given hemlock?’
‘All the symptoms indicate that,’ Kathryn said. ‘High temperature, lassitude, increased heartbeat; the victim will then lapse into a very deep sleep or coma which results in death.’
Kathryn played with her wine-cup. Colum looked under his eyebrows at her, trying to control his own fear. She’s dangerous, he thought; I kill with dagger or sword, but she can use a harmless-looking plant for murder.
‘I remember a Greek proverb,’ Colum muttered, ‘“I was a healthy man before I met physicians.” I am wary of you, Mistress Swinbrooke.’
Kathryn shrugged. ‘Most people are of physicians. The knowledge of herbs is most dangerous, particularly of a plant like hemlock. I once treated a child who’d eaten some. The symptoms were very similar to what happened to Brandon: to all intents and purposes the child seemed dead.’
‘So you are saying someone in the castle garrison gave Brandon this? He falls into this deep swoon. The priest gives him the last rites, he is hurriedly buried and then revives in the grave?’
‘Yes, I am,’ Kathryn answered. ‘The poor man would be trapped, weak and nauseous, fighting for air. He may have been conscious for about an hour before swooning again.’
Colum rapped on the table-top. ‘But who and why?’
‘Wait.’ Kathryn got up and went to her writing-office and brought back a battered, greasy scroll. ‘Let’s follow Brandon’s path from Barnet.’ Kathryn cleared the table and unrolled her father’s crude map of Kent, pointing to Canterbury and the roads north. ‘Now we know,’ she said, ‘after Warwick’s defeat at Barnet, Brandon fled in the direction of Canterbury. For a while he and his companions lurked in Blean Wood, where they met Faunte and his party. Later they broke out into open country and went to Sellingham, a deserted village.’ Kathryn shrugged. ‘After that, nothing! Moresby is killed, supposedly by outlaws; Brandon is captured; and the rest disappear.’
‘So what do you propose?’ Colum asked.
‘Well, not to return to Canterbury Castle but visit and search this deserted village. Perhaps Brandon hid the Eye of God there?’ Kathryn rolled the map up. ‘God knows, it’s better than doing nothing.’
‘If he goes’ – Thomasina stood at the entrance to the buttery, pointing at Colum – ‘then I go!’
‘What about Wuf?’
‘Agnes is here, she can look after him. But you, Mistress Kathryn, are not wandering the countryside with some wild Irish soldier.’
‘Yes, I think you’d better come,’ Colum said softly. ‘Both your mistress and I will need protection.’
Thomasina glared at him and stomped off. Colum rubbed his face in his hands.
‘We should leave at first light. Your patients?’
‘Nothing which can’t wait. Colum, we need to resolve this matter.’ Kathryn rubbed her own eyes. ‘One way or the other it should be finished. Either we dig out the truth or tell His Grace the Duke of Gloucester that it’s all a great mystery and neither the King nor anyone else will have the Eye of God.’
‘Are you tired, Kathryn?’
‘Well, yes.’ She stared dully at him.
‘No, I don’t mean that,’ he continued hastily. ‘But before I came to Canterbury, your life was . . . well, in the main, serene. You had your practice, your ambitions.’
Kathryn got to her feet. ‘Yes, Colum, everything was quiet.’ She smiled as she picked up her cloak. ‘But, there again, the same thing could be said of a graveyard.’ Kathryn’s smile widened and she was out in the kitchen before Colum could think of a suitable reply.
Once she was in her own chamber, Kathryn wondered about Colum’s question as she sat on the bed and loosened the laced ribbons on her bodice.
What if there were no Colum? she thought. There’d be no Eye of God, no Hounds of Ulster, no murders. But what would I have? Alexander Wyville would still haunt me and I would be floating aimlessly like some leaf on a stream. She chewed her lip as she reflected further: violence was part of her life. Alexander Wyville had begun the dance and now she had to see it through. S
he closed her eyes and thought of her husband – his face on their wedding day and then those same features flushed with drink and anger. ‘I don’t want you!’ Kathryn whispered. ‘God forgive me, I don’t care if you live or die! And if you return, I shall use every influence, yes, even Colum himself, to petition the Church courts for an annulment.’
Kathryn finished undressing, washed herself with a sponge and a small piece of Castilian soap, carefully dried her body and put on her night-gown. Thomasina came in, slipped a warming pan between the sheets and handed her a cup of hot milk spiced with nutmeg. Kathryn allowed Thomasina to fuss over her, solemnly promising that Thomasina would accompany them the following morning. After that she finished the milk, doused the candles and slipped between the sheets, pulling the blankets over her head as she used to do when she was a girl. She stretched, warm and sleepy, allowing her mind to drift – if only she could remember what she had seen in Faunte’s cell. Kathryn suddenly thought of the Righteous Man and recalled the lines from Chaucer’s ‘Pardoner’s Tale’:
Is it such danger then this death to meet?
I’ll seek him in the road and in the street.
‘When will I meet him again?’ Kathryn murmured. ‘Or is death always with me?’ She closed her eyes and drifted into a dreamless sleep.
They left early the next morning. Thomasina packed panniers with bread, cheese, and dried meat, and a flask of wine. She left detailed instructions to a heavy-eyed Agnes, and swore the most terrible oaths to Wuf about what would happen to him if he didn’t behave. Kathryn told Agnes that any serious case should be sent to Physician Chaddedon whilst the others must wait until her return.
‘Oh, and tell Wuf,’ Kathryn added, ‘to visit the old sisters in Jewry Lane; they should be well but it would be prudent to check.’