by Paul Doherty
‘Your body is mutilated,’ Kathryn whispered, ‘and your soul gone to God. Who will seek justice for you? Or for your maid Veronica?’
Kathryn still felt refreshed despite the tumult of the day. She would have sat down and begun her reflections, listing what she had learnt as she would the ailments of some disease or malady. However, Amelia was eager to prove that she was worth the silver coin and brought up a tray of food. Kathryn laughed at the quantity.
‘I asked for a meal, not a feast,’ she teased. She gazed into the wine jug. ‘And if I drank all that I’d be still sleeping at midday tomorrow.’
She sat down and ate what she could, Amelia coming back to fuss her. Once Kathryn was finished, the maid took the tray away but left the wine cup full to the brim. Kathryn bolted the door. Ingoldby Hall may have been a splendid mansion, full of treasures, but it was also a haunt of murder. Kathryn couldn’t forget Lady Elizabeth and her household. How calm they seemed, grieving but not desolate or despairing. Was that their fault or Sir Walter’s? Did he lead such a secluded life, keeping everything sub rosa, his private thoughts to himself? Kathryn arranged her writing materials and brought across two of the beeswax candles to provide more light. She began to write down her conclusions.
Primo – Sir Walter Maltravers, a self-made man, a warrior, a soldier who had fled Constantinople and used the treasures he had taken to amass a fortune. He was well respected by Church and Crown. A man with powerful friends yet a lonely one. A man obsessed by an incident which had occurred twenty years earlier as well as the bloody affrays during the recent civil war. A man who, perhaps, often thought about his own death and judgement. Riven by guilt; Sir Walter had carried his Friday penance out whenever he could but today, at the centre of that maze, the penance had ended with his own hideous death. Was there a connection – Kathryn’s quill raced across the parchment – between Sir Walter’s death and the disappearance of the Lacrima Christi? Am I wrong? Kathryn wrote, Do the Athanatoi exist? Who sent those warnings? Why were the strips of parchment so different in colour, texture and handwriting styles? Did this mean there were two assassins? A group? What other evidence existed for such a secret society, apart from court gossip, Sir Walter’s own fears and those sinister threats?
Secundo – The maze: how did the killer enter and leave that maze unnoticed? No one knew its secret routes except Sir Walter but the killer must have been waiting for him there, taken his head like an executioner, before mysteriously vanishing. Yet he, or she, must have been blood-soaked carrying that severed head, not to mention the weapon used. Who could it be? Everyone could guarantee where they were and what they were doing. A hired assassin? But, if that was the case, such a person would still need help from someone in the household. And how did Sir Walter discover how to thread the maze, yet no one else could? No reference existed to any map or charter. Was there some secret document?
Tertio – Why did the murder take place in the maze and in such a barbaric way? Why not poison in a cup? Or a stiletto in the dark? Kathryn lifted her head and breathed in deeply. Of course, such simple means were also dangerous. To the killer, this maze was a perfect place for murder. Sir Walter was a veteran soldier, he would be carrying no weapons nor could he cry for help. Kathryn returned to her writing.
Quarto – So, what did happen? If the killer stayed in the maze after the murder then he, or she, would have been seen by Gurnell when those planks were placed across the hedgerows. The killer could either hide or escape immediately, though carrying a severed head and a bloody sword, whilst the assassin’s boots and cloak must have been stained with blood. Kathryn brushed the quill round her lips and watched the candle flame. Her father had confessed that, whenever he looked at a candle flame for a long time, he fell into a trancelike state.
‘God rest you,’ Kathryn murmured.
She wondered what her father would have made of Colum and her plans to marry him. She put the quill down, rose and went to stand by the window. Night had fallen. On the steps below braziers had been lit: cresset torches, fixed on long poles, flared against the blackness and bathed the edge of the great meadow in light. Kathryn could still make out the dark mass of the maze. Was Sir Walter’s severed head still there? Beneath one of the hedges together with the sword or axe wrapped in some blood-soaked cloak? And those responsible? Lady Elizabeth and Eleanora had played music in their bower until the alarm was raised. They had seen Gurnell, and Gurnell had seen them, whilst the guards would have noticed if their Master-at-arms had disappeared for any lengthy period of time. And Father John in his library? Kathryn pressed her hot cheek against the mullioned glass. Did some secret passageway or tunnel exist running from the hall to the maze? The old ruined tower showed the estate had been cultivated for centuries. Ingoldby probably stood where a small castle, farm, or manor house had been built. So, what did happen? What was the cause for such a grisly killing?
‘Hate,’ Kathryn murmured.
Whoever had taken Sir Walter’s head had a soul full of hate. She was about to return to her writing when there was a knock on the door.
‘Who is it?’
‘Mistress Swinbrooke, it’s only me, Father John.’
Kathryn pulled back the bolts, opened the door and Father John slipped into her chamber.
‘You are not fearful of your reputation, Mistress Swinbrooke?’
‘I am more concerned about my soul, Father.’
The priest laughed. Kathryn ushered him across to the small stool against the wall near the writing desk and offered him the wine cup.
‘Did you expect me, Mistress Swinbrooke?’
‘Yes and no; you puzzle me, Father. Your master is dead. Your face looks drawn and your eyes red-rimmed, yet your grief seems controlled.’
‘I watched when you were questioning us,’ Father John remarked. ‘Were you surprised at our restraint?’ He shrugged. ‘Don’t be, you have the measure of Sir Walter. A good man who kept his heart and feelings hidden behind the thickest armour. Sometimes I think he wished to die.’
‘What was he so anxious about?’ Kathryn sat down on the stair. ‘Sir Walter was very worried?’
‘Sir Walter was always worried.’ Father John took the wine cup, sipped from it and put it back on the table. ‘I have broken my own rule.’ He smiled. ‘Never drink wine after nightfall. Yes, Sir Walter was a worried man. Only years after he fled Constantinople, when its Emperor’s last stand became part of the chivalry of the west, did he fully realise what he had done.’
‘But you don’t believe in the Athanatoi, do you?’
Father John shook his head. ‘According to legend and fable, Mistress, the greatest Christian city of the East fell because of betrayal and cowardice. That’s nonsense; Constantinople was a doomed city from the start of the siege. Its empire had shrunk to an area within bowshot of its own gates. The West sent no help whilst the Turks were as many as grains of sand on a sea shore. No, Mistress Swinbrooke, I don’t believe in the Athanatoi. Tittle-tattle, the only place they truly existed was in Sir Walter’s imagination.’
‘But those written warnings were real enough. Why did they begin so recently – they were recent?’
‘Ah yes.’ Father John rubbed his face. ‘Sir Walter hardly discussed them: I always suspected those scraps of parchment had nothing to do with Constantinople! Someone heard about the legend and, out of cruel envy or some other sinister reason, decided to exploit it.’
‘Who? Why?’
‘God knows, Mistress, I don’t.’
‘Did they worry Sir Walter?’
‘They nourished his guilt, his anxieties, his worries.’
‘But why now, why did they come now?’
‘Mistress.’ Father John lifted his face. ‘I truly don’t know. I even suspected Sir Walter sent them himself – some dark twist in his mind.’
‘Did he have other worries?’
‘You know he did.’ The priest smiled. ‘You have read Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, Mistress? Do you remember the poet’s descri
ption of a knight? ‘Parfait et gentil’? Sir Walter tried to be that, even when he fought with the King at Towton.’
‘Ah yes, Towton.’ Kathryn replied.
She’d often heard of that battle fought on a freezing Palm Sunday along the wild moors of Yorkshire some eleven years ago. The young Edward IV, seeking vengeance for the defeat and death of his father and brother at the earlier battle of Wakefield, had stormed north with his Yorkist warlords. He had met the Lancastrian at Towton. A bloody, violent battle had lasted all day and ended with the deaths of thousands upon thousands. The news had swept Canterbury, and Kathryn’s father had been shocked at the hideous cruelties perpetrated after the battle. Colum himself had been there and rarely talked about it. He still suffered nightmares from that bloody conflict in the freezing fields and woods followed by hideous massacres around the river Swale.
‘I was there in the royal camp.’ Father John curled his fingers together. ‘Sir Walter had taken part in the pursuit. He surrounded and captured a group of French mercenaries from Provence who had fought for the house of Lancaster. They had taken refuge in a copse. By then Sir Walter was tired of the bloodshed. He offered the mercenary captain and about sixty of his followers their lives, if they laid down their arms. The Provencals agreed.’ Father John paused. ‘I very rarely speak of this. There must have been at least sixty mercenaries. They surrendered their swords and banners. Sir Walter was called away to another part of the battle field, a royal summons. When he returned his troop had taken the law into their own hands. . . .’
‘The Provencals?’
‘Yes, mistress, the Provencals were massacred. It was like a slaughter yard, their blood streamed across the frozen ground. Their heads had been taken; some had been fixed on poles, others tied by the hair to the branches of trees. Sir Walter was furious but the captain of the troop argued that the Provencals had tried to seize their weapons and fight their way out: his men, hardbitten veterans, all took oaths swearing this was the truth. Sir Walter suspected different but could do nothing. He complained to the King but our noble lord was not in a giving mood. Edward dismissed them as mercenaries fighting against the realm’s legitimate sovereign, caught in open revolt against the Crown. The King refused to be moved, so for the last eleven years, Sir Walter blamed himself.’
‘Could Maltravers’s death be connected to that massacre?’
The priest tightened his lips. ‘Perhaps. Ask your betrothed, he was at the battle. The massacres after Towton are known to many but very few tell the truth.’
‘Was Mawsby at Towton?’
‘In his time Mawsby was a good soldier. An aim-crier, he commanded a troop of archers under Beaufort.’
‘So, he was a Lancastrian?’
‘Dyed in the wool,’ Father John confessed. ‘But so was Gurnell. He was captured at Towton but took the oath and changed sides.’
‘What else?’ Kathryn covered the priest’s hand with hers.
‘Sir Walter was also worried about his health. Last winter he suffered gripes in his belly and blood in his stools. I asked him to see a physician. He visited the infirmary at Greyfriars. Brother Ralph provided some comfort and assistance, as did Father Prior.’
‘So, there was a relationship between the good brothers and Sir Walter?’
‘Oh yes, didn’t you know?’ Father John laughed sharply. ‘Father Prior, Brother Ralph, not to mention one or two other brothers in their Order, all supported one side or the other.’
‘As priests?’ Kathryn exclaimed.
‘Oh no!’ Father John scratched his balding pate. ‘In 1461 two great battles took place in the north: Wakefield, where Edward the Fourth lost his father and brother, and Towton. What happened in those bloody struggles forced many to reflect on their lives. I know a number of churchmen, secular and religious in Canterbury, who took a vocation for the priestly life because of what happened at those battles.’
‘The Lacrima Christi?’ Kathryn asked.
‘Ah, Sir Walter believed he held that in trust. He was only too pleased to loan it to the Franciscans who had helped him. . . .’
‘But its loss? I understand you and Sir Walter visited Greyfriars yesterday, that Sir Walter became upset?’
‘Memories.’ Father John smiled thinly. ‘Sir Walter was touched to see the ruby being publicly venerated again after nineteen years. However,’ he added, ‘Sir Walter also believed its theft was due to the work of the Athanatoi. He was very upset, but it being Friday, he refused to meet the Prior’s messenger.’
‘And who do you think stole the ruby?’
Father John pulled a face. ‘A clever felon; that chantry chapel was secure. I pressed against the door and it held fast. Brother Simon the sacristan made great play of showing us how the sole key was firmly in his possession.’
Kathryn stared down at the piece of parchment on the table; the Lacrima Christi would have to wait. She was not surprised by Father John’s admission about the friars’ past. Colum meeting Gurnell at the gate was an apt example of how close the brotherhood of soldiers was. She’d heard many stories about men like Gurnell who had fought for either party, changing sides or, as in the case of Prior Barnabas, leaving the world of war for the order and tranquility of some religious house.
‘Did Prior Barnabas often come here?’
‘No. He has been Prior for about eighteen months to two years. Brother Ralph, his infirmarian, was a more frequent visitor.’
‘And Gurnell?’ Kathryn decided to exploit the opportunity of the priest’s visit.
‘A good soldier, loyal to Sir Walter. He will probably stay and serve the Lady Elizabeth.’
‘And Mawsby?’
‘More shadow than substance,’ Father John retorted. ‘I hardly know the man, secretive and withdrawn. A soldier and a clerk, a rare combination, Mistress. He and Gurnell served Sir Walter well.’ Father John half-smiled. ‘Thurston the steward is also an old Lancastrian. He’s a local man who knows Ingoldby well. Sir Walter found his assistance invaluable.’
‘Did Thurston fight at Towton?’
‘No, but he lost two sons there.’
‘And the Lady Elizabeth?’
‘Ah.’ Father John smiled. ‘She is what she appears: spoilt, beautiful, self-possessed and, yes, I’d say selfish. She saw her marriage to Sir Walter as a good match.’
‘Did Sir Walter love her?’
‘As much as he could anybody. He hoped for a son but she never conceived. Their relationship was amicable. Sir Walter never discussed her. Sometimes I think he was worried about her but he never told me the reason why.’
‘And Eleanora her maid?’
‘Ah, a strange one. Her mother’s English but, I believe, her father is from northern Spain, Burgos? The Redvers family sold English wool there. The world of trade is as close as that of soldiers. Eleanora was raised with the Lady Elizabeth. She’s her companion as well as her principal lady-in-waiting. Eleanora helps Thurston with the management of the household.’
‘And you?’ Kathryn leaned back in the chair. ‘Why have you come to tell me this, Father John?’
‘I don’t really know. Except,’ he narrowed his eyes, ‘I guessed you’d come looking for me, Mistress Swinbrooke. I could tell that from your face. Then that poor maid Veronica was murdered. Ingoldby had its own tranquility but even here evil has burst through.’
‘Even here?’
‘This was a refuge, Mistress, or so I thought, for Sir Walter but,’ the priest tapped the side of his head, ‘Sir Walter was never at peace. He used to tell me stories about the ancient Greeks, how they believed the Furies pursued those who had offended the gods. Sir Walter believed he was pursued by the Furies and it looks as if they have caught up with him. . . .’ He sighed, rose and patted Kathryn gently on the shoulder.
He was almost at the door when Kathryn called out.
‘Father John!’
He turned, his hand on the latch.
‘Why did you stay with Sir Walter?’
He smiled. ‘Y
ou should have been a priest, Kathryn. You have two questions haven’t you? Let me see.’ He walked back, head to one side, his eyes not so gentle. ‘You have asked me one question: why I stayed with Sir Walter. Because he saved my life in Constantinople. If it hadn’t been for him, I would have been captured or killed. They would have shown a priest no mercy. And your second question, Mistress, is what was I doing in Constantinople? I would like to say I was on pilgrimage but that’s not true. I was once a soldier. I, too, fought with the great lords.’ He blinked. ‘I killed a man, so I fled across the Narrow Seas.’
‘You were a priest at the time?’
Father John nodded. ‘In my youth, Kathryn, I attended the Halls of Cambridge. I studied the Trivium, the Quadrivium, Logic, Philosophy and Theology. I became a Master in the schools but the lure of war has always attracted me. The man I killed had powerful kin. I felt bitter. I fled, arrived in Constantinople and served in a church there, not as a priest, more as an assistant or helper. The Patriarch wouldn’t allow a priest of the Latin rites to exercise his functions. Anyway, I served at that church and, every day I used to gaze at the Lacrima Christi.’ He smiled. ‘And plotted to steal it.’
‘What?’ Kathryn exclaimed.
‘Oh, it wasn’t for the wealth. I could see the city was going to fall: all its icons, paintings, statues and sacred relics would be destroyed. I thought if I could take the Lacrima Christi, escape and travel to Rome, I could use it to further my own ends. Perhaps seek pardon and absolution from both King and Church.’
‘But Sir Walter stole it?’
‘No, he took it to a safer place. He vowed he would never sell it for profit. The other treasures were different. Anyway, Sir Walter saved my life. We travelled to Rome and I arrived back in England.’ He grinned. ‘With letters from so many cardinals you’d think I was a saint! A royal pardon was issued.’ He spread his hands. ‘Now, you have my story.’ He made to go, but then began to speak again. ‘I once read that we are all linked by invisible threads. Is the story true, Mistress, that you were married to Alexander Wyville, a Lancastrian?’