by Paul Doherty
Her mother tried to break free but Ursula held her close, chattering softly.
‘I wonder if she speaks the truth?’ Luberon murmured.
‘I think she does.’
Kathryn watched the women disappear through the gate.
‘Ursula looks after her mother. I wager she knows a great deal about men. Of soldiers coming in the dead of night, their bellies full of ale and hearts full of lust.’ She seized Colum’s arm. ‘But not you.’
They walked on. At the gateway Kathryn made her farewells. Luberon mumbled something about going on ahead, and led off both his horse and Colum’s. The Irishman seized Kathryn’s face in his hands and kissed her passionately on the lips.
‘You will be safe?’ His breath was hot on her face, his eyes no longer crinkled in amusement. ‘I believe you, Kathryn. If the Athanatoi existed, and they wanted Sir Walter’s death, they could have struck before.’ He let go of her face and grasped her hand, pulling her close. ‘Which means that in that manor house there is someone with a heart as hard as steel and black as hell who will kill and kill again, though God knows why. Keep yourself safe.’ He raised his hand. ‘I think I should . . .’
‘I think you should go, Colum.’
Kathryn blew him a kiss and, turning on her heel, walked back up the trackway. The trees on either side now lay silent, the shadows deepening, the evening silence broken by the sounds of the coming night. She was glad when she reached the green, and was about to climb the steps when the horn sounded. A stable boy, still carrying a leather bucket slopping with water, came hurrying round the corner. He dropped the bucket and for a while stood staring.
‘What’s the matter, boy?’
‘You’d best come, Mistress. Master Thurston sent me. There’s been another death!’
Kathryn hurried up the steps and grasped the boy’s hand.
‘Death?’
‘One of the maids.’ The boy stammered, his face frantic with fear. ‘In the mere, beside the old tower, drowned they say!’
Chapter 3
‘What is this world? What asketh men to have?
Now with his love, now in his colde grave. . . .’
—Chaucer, ‘The Knight’s Tale,’
The Canterbury Tales, 1387
The corpse looked hideous. Once so comely, the young woman’s face was now coated with a veneer of green slime and filthy water that clogged her eyes, nose and mouth. She was drenched in black mud and Kathryn had to use the edge of her own cloak to clean the maid’s liverish face. Kathryn pulled away the water-soaked hair to reveal half-open eyes.
‘She’s been in the water some time.’ Thurston, crouching on the other side of the corpse, gazed tearfully at Kathryn.
Others joined them, all agog with curiosity, whispering and muttering amongst themselves. Father John pushed his way through and, kneeling by the corpse, made the sign of the cross and recited the words of absolution into the dead woman’s ear.
‘What is it?’
Lady Elizabeth stood back along the path, Eleanora beside her. Each had thrown an ermined-lined wrap around their shoulders, for the evening breeze had turned a little cold.
‘It’s Veronica.’ Father John clambered to his feet. ‘She must have slipped and fallen into the mere. She’s dead, my lady. She must have been in the water for hours.’
‘What was she doing here?’ Kathryn asked, but Thurston just shook his head.
She glanced across at the mere, a broad, dank, evil-smelling pool. The bushes and trees on either side were leafless and withered as if some miasma from the water had drawn all life from them. Kathryn stared at the nearby tower covered in moss and lichen. The encircling ivy even covered the arrow-slit windows, climbing as high as the turreted battlements.
‘What is this place?’ Kathryn asked.
Father John rose and went to give further details to Lady Elizabeth.
‘I don’t know.’ Thurston blinked and stared up at the tower fearfully. ‘They say it was built by the Normans and cursed by a witch. We always regard it as derelict land. The mere is fed by a rivulet, sometimes that’s choked off.’
‘And what would Veronica be doing here?’
Thurston shrugged. ‘She was a chamber maid. She had no reason to be here.’
‘There are no flower beds or herbers?’ Kathryn demanded. ‘No washing or drying to be done here?’
Thurston shook his head. Kathryn heard Lady Elizabeth make her farewells as Father John shooed away the other servants. Afterwards the priest knelt by the feet of the corpse to recite the psalm for the dead: ‘Out of the depths have I cried to you, Oh Lord. Lord hear my voice. Let thine ear be attentive . . .’
And let my wits be sharp, Kathryn reflected. She finished cleaning the dead woman’s face and rose to examine the mud-splattered edge of the mere.
‘Who found her?’ she asked over her shoulder.
‘I did.’ Thurston had remained kneeling. ‘I was looking for some kindling for the kitchen.’ He pointed to the half-open door of the tower. ‘We keep it in there. I came round. At first I thought a bundle of cloth had been dropped in the mere, until I saw the hair.’
‘So, she was floating on the top?’
‘Yes, slightly on her side, with her back to me.’
Kathryn studied the ground; any chance of studying footprints was lost now that the alarm had been raised.
‘What’s wrong?’ Father John broke off his praying.
‘Mistress Swinbrooke, this could have been an accident. Sometimes the mere seeps over, soaks the ground and renders it slippery, perhaps Veronica stumbled . . .?’
Kathryn returned to the corpse and examined it. She could detect no mark of violence. She began to knead the girl’s head very carefully with her fingers and discovered a large bump just beneath the left ear. Kathryn turned the corpse so it lay fully on its belly. She ignored the water which gushed out of the mouth and nose and, taking her own comb and a small pair of scissors from her wallet, combed the thick, black hair aside. She cut some of the hair so she could see the swollen contusion more clearly, still soft to the touch and filled with blood.
‘What is that?’
‘As I suspected,’ Kathryn replied. ‘Master Thurston, do you have a rag?’
Thurston handed over the one thrust through his belt. Kathryn cleaned her comb and scissors and put them back.
‘What did you suspect?’ Father John asked.
‘That Veronica met someone here – who, or why, I don’t know, but that person killed her. He or she took a piece of kindling from the tower storeroom and, when Veronica wasn’t looking, inflicted a powerful blow to the back of her head.’
‘But wouldn’t that kill her?’ Thurston protested.
‘No, no, it didn’t.’
Kathryn examined the girl’s hands: they were soft and small, the nails neatly pared.
‘There was no struggle. I can tell you what happened.’
Kathryn got to her feet and, avoiding the edge of the mere, made her way into the musty storeroom of the tower. Thurston followed and, mumbling his apologies, quickly lit the fat tallow candles on a rusty plate on a ledge near the door. The storeroom flared into light. At the far side were steps built into the room leading to the first floor; between that and the door, bundles of kindling had been neatly tied and stored, one on top of the other, dry bracken used to fire the ovens as well as logs for the great hearths of the mansion.
‘What are you looking for?’ Thurston demanded.
‘Some trace of our killer, but there’s none. I suggest the killer met Veronica here. They had their meeting. Veronica believed she was talking to a friend.’
Kathryn walked back outside. Father John was still kneeling by the corpse.
‘Very well, Thurston.’ Kathryn smiled, waving him forward. ‘You pretend to be Veronica.’
The anxious-faced steward obeyed.
‘Now.’ Kathryn came up behind him. ‘The killer took a pole or stick from the tower and struck Veronica here.’ She touched the Manciple’s
thin-haired head just behind the left ear. ‘Veronica staggered forward, half conscious. The killer finished the task by giving Veronica a push with the pole. The poor maid stumbled into the mere. Perhaps she struggled awhile but the blow had been cruel: her mouth and nose filled with water and she drowned. The assassin watched her death throes, then hurled the makeshift weapon into the mere and fled.’
‘But why?’ Thurston turned round. ‘I’ll have to report all this to Lady Elizabeth.’
‘How old was Veronica?’
‘About seventeen summers.’
‘She had no enemies?’
Thurston grimaced. ‘She was a chamber maid, a merry girl. She lived for the next dance or juicy piece of gossip. She has family in Canterbury but moved here to take service with Sir Walter.’
‘And she had no paramour?’
‘No, a good girl, clean living and pious. Whenever possible she attended Mass in the chapel. She saved her pennies and entrusted them to me.’ Thurston’s eyes grew more tearful. ‘I’ll have to go into Canterbury to tell her family. You’ve finished with the corpse?’
‘I can do no more,’ Kathryn said quietly.
‘In which case I’ll fetch a cart.’
‘Is there anything?’
Thurston turned back.
‘Is there anything?’ Kathryn repeated. ‘You didn’t tell me. Why someone should kill this pretty maid?’
‘If I knew, Mistress, I’d tell you. But I’ll make careful search.’
‘Do you think the murders are linked?’ Father John had made his final benediction and rose to his feet, knees cracking. He rubbed these carefully. ‘I’m getting old and the cold never seems to leave me. Mistress Swinbrooke, do you think the two deaths are connected?’
‘I don’t know.’
Kathryn gazed around. The day was now dying, the shadows shooting longer. Soon it would be dark; she shivered slightly as she recalled Colum’s warning.
‘Mistress Swinbrooke! Mistress Swinbrooke!’
Kinsman Mawsby now stood at the edge of the path gesturing at her. He stared at the corpse and quickly made the sign of the cross but came no closer.
‘Mistress Swinbrooke, Lady Elizabeth has sent me. I am to show you to your chamber.’
Kathryn thanked Father John, who said he would stay by the corpse until Thurston returned. Kathryn followed Mawsby along the path through the side gardens and into the mansion through a postern door, which led into the cavernous kitchens, scullery and buttery. The air was full of steam and sweet smells. Meat was roasting on the spit which a young boy turned, his face brick red. Now and again he would jump to his feet and baste the meat with a ladle of sauce. Kathryn studied the servants: the bakers, cooks and scullions. They were all busy and red-faced, moving pots and pans, chopping meat and vegetables, putting the newly baked bread into baskets, all apparently involved in the countless tasks of such a large household. Kathryn, however, caught their quick glances, the furtive looks, the sense of fear.
‘Mistress Swinbrooke!’ Mawsby had now reached the far side of the kitchen.
Kathryn went across as if to join him but paused and, picking up a large pan and heavy ladle, clashed the two together. The effect was immediate; the hubbub of noise died and even the spit boy left his post.
‘You have heard the news?’ Kathryn ignored Mawsby’s exclamation of annoyance. ‘First Sir Walter was barbarously murdered, now the maid Veronica.’
Her words were greeted by moans and cries of disapproval.
‘She was murdered,’ Kathryn continued. ‘God rest her soul and that of Sir Walter’s. God will give them peace but he will also demand justice for such hideous deeds. I ask you now, on your allegiance to the King and your duty to the law, did any of you see, hear or notice anything untoward this day? Either out in the great meadow or here in the house where Veronica worked? If you did, you must speak to me.’ Kathryn put the pan and ladle down. ‘Thank you for listening. I am sorry for the distraction I caused.’
‘Was that necessary?’ Mawsby hissed as soon as they were out of the kitchen.
‘As the King’s Commissioner!’ Kathryn snapped.
Mawsby sighed, wiped his hands on his jerkin and caught at Kathryn’s arm.
‘Mistress, I did not mean to give offence.’
Kathryn studied this young man’s face, his sharp green eyes under a mop of red fiery hair, the long face and almost milk-white skin.
‘Have I met you before, Master Mawsby? Do you know me, Master Luberon or the King’s Commissioner Master Murtagh?’
Mawsby pulled his mouth. ‘I don’t think so.’
You are lying, Kathryn thought, I must ask Colum if he’s ever met you.
‘I’ll show you to your chamber,’ Mawsby offered.
They went down a passageway into the main hallway, where servants were lighting candles and lamps. Mawsby took her up the great wooden staircase; the railing and newel, carved in the finest oak, gleamed in the candle light. The wooden boards had been covered with strips of the best Turkey carpet, which deadened sound and made Kathryn feel as if she were walking in a dream. The same wooden wainscoting as in the solar had also been built against the whitewashed walls of the stairwell. Above these hung paintings, their gilt frames covered in black crepe as the house mourned Sir Walter’s death.
The first gallery was magnificent; shiny wooden panels reflected the light from large candle wheels hung on chains from the ceiling. The floorboards were covered by thick rugs. Capped braziers stood between the doorways to chambers; these would be fired and scented when the weather turned cold. Mawsby explained that this was where Sir Walter and Lady Elizabeth had their chambers and chancery.
‘I must go there.’
Mawsby paused, one foot on the step leading to the second gallery.
‘Go there?’ He knitted his brows. ‘You would go through Sir Walter’s private papers?’
‘If I deem it necessary, Master Mawsby. I am also skilled enough to detect if those papers have been interfered with before I begin my search.’
‘But there’s nothing . . .’
‘That will be for me to decide. I think you should appraise Lady Elizabeth of my intentions.’
Kathryn was about to ask him when the funeral would take place but then recalled that headless corpse; Lady Elizabeth and Father John would insist that the body not be coffined until that grisly relic to the murder was found. She followed Mawsby up the staircase. The second gallery was more shadow-filled with capped candles burning at either end. Mawsby opened a door and explained how the chamber overlooked the front of the house, and would she need anything? A maid would be sent up. Kathryn absentmindedly thanked him and asked if he would light the candles and oil lamps. The bed was a four-poster protected by heavy blue curtains. She pulled these back to find that the sheets and bolsters were crisp and clean. She walked to the window and knelt on the small seat in the alcove and stared out through the mullioned glass. Darkness was falling, but Kathryn could still make out the maze, and she recalled Gurnell’s explanation of how the hedgerows clustered close together, blocking any signs of the paths. In fact, the maze crouched like some sinister animal in the darkness. She opened the small window door to let in the evening breeze. Mawsby had now finished lighting the candles.
‘Is this comfortable for you, Mistress?’
Kathryn stared at the coloured drapes on the walls, the triptych depicting Christ and his mother, the large, black, wooden crucifix. There was a coffer, a large chest at the end of the bed, a writing table and a high-backed, cushioned chair.
‘It’s very comfortable. My thanks to the Lady Elizabeth.’
Mawsby bowed and left.
Kathryn bolted the door behind him. She went and lay down on the bed and dozed until a servant brought up fresh napkins, a water bowl and jug for the lavarium.
‘Would the mistress,’ the maid asked, ‘like to eat in the great hall?’
Kathryn refused so the maid offered to bring up some wine, bread, meats and a dish of vege
tables.
‘The onions and lentils are covered in a fine sauce,’ the cheery-faced girl added. ‘Sir Walter’s cooks.’ Her smile disappeared as she recalled what had happened. ‘Er, well . . .’
‘I am sure the cooks know their sauces.’ Kathryn smiled. ‘And how to broil bream and roast a haunch of venison. I’ll let you choose for me. Your name?’
Kathryn undid her purse and held out a silver piece. The girl gasped. Kathryn thrust the coin into the palm of her hand.
‘My name is Amelia.’
‘A pretty name for a pretty face,’ Kathryn replied. ‘Amelia, look after me well.’
The girl, breathless with excitement, assured her she would. A short while later she ushered up Colum’s messenger from Ottemelle Lane, an ostler from a nearby tavern. He gently placed the saddle bags on the top of the chest and, closing his eyes, gabbled out the message Colum had given him.
‘Mistress, everything is fine. Thomas . . .’
‘Thomasina?’
‘Ah yes, Thomasina.’ The young man did not even open his eyes. ‘Thomasina sends her love, all is quiet. For once she agrees with the Irishman, you should have come home. She will ask Father Cuthbert at the Poor Priests’ Hospital to help with your patients.’
He added a few other items of local gossip: how Ragwort had bought himself a new set of hose and Goldere, the spotty-faced clerk, had become so drunk he had fallen into a horse trough. At last he finished. Kathryn said there was no reply, gave the lad a coin and closed the door behind him. She opened the saddle bags and took out the change of clothing and undergarments, smiling at how Thomasina had put in small herbal sachets of perfume to keep them fresh and sweet-smelling. She placed the contents in the chest and the small writing satchel on the table. She pulled out the capped inkpot, the sharpened quills, pumice stones, strips of parchment, the small weight to keep the parchment level and the ruler she used when writing. As she did so, Kathryn half-listened to the sounds of the house; a bell tolled the sign for the evening meal. Sir Walter’s death had taken the household by surprise: it would take at least a day before the formal ritual of mourning was inaugurated with its fast and death watches. The requiem would probably take place in the cathedral. Sir Walter, being a powerful landowner, must have left instructions for his burial under the cold flagstones as close to the great shrine of Sir Thomas a Becket as possible.