by Paul Doherty
‘You must come, sir.’ The boy scratched his chest. ‘The Lady Elizabeth wishes to speak to you.’
‘If the mistress calls,’ Gurnell winked at Kathryn, ‘then Gurnell must jump.’
He left the chamber. Kathryn finished her mulled wine and followed suit. The house had fallen silent; Kathryn made her way back up the stairs. She had almost reached the second gallery when a figure stepped out of the darkness. Kathryn staggered back with a cry.
‘It’s only me, Mistress.’
Thurston lifted the lantern he carried. In the poor light his face looked like that of a gargoyle, staring eyes, puffy cheeks, lips slobbery from too much ale and wine.
‘What do you want?’ Kathryn snapped.
‘I didn’t mean to startle you, Mistress.’ Thurston stepped back. ‘I came to speak to you.’
Kathryn followed him up onto the gallery and into a cushioned window seat. She looked quickly through the glass; the fire had died but she heard servants talking below.
‘The mistress has put a guard out there,’ Thurston remarked. ‘But why close the door of the stable when the horse has gone? Father John has ordered the body to be coffined, he will dress it himself. It’s to be taken down to Canterbury tomorrow. Sir Walter’s death watch will be conducted in the chapel of St. Thomas a Becket, I am sure the Archbishop will agree.’
‘I am sure he will,’ Kathryn agreed, thinking of old Bourchier, the wily Archbishop of Canterbury who had survived the civil war by pleasing everyone and offending nobody. ‘You wanted to see me, Master Thurston?’
‘That young girl,’ Thurston remarked, ‘Veronica, drowned in the mere. She disappeared early in the evening. Those who worked with her said she had become secretive. She finished her tasks and slipped out of the kitchen. No one knew where she was going.’
‘And?’ Kathryn asked. She suddenly felt weary. ‘There is something else?’
‘As I have said, Veronica was a comely girl, of good family. Her father had bought her a locket on her feast day. Veronica treasured that. Earlier in the day she claimed she had lost it and slipped away to look for it.’
‘Did she find it?’
‘Yes, yes, she did,’ Thurston replied. ‘And her companions heard no more of it. I thought I should tell you.’
Kathryn thanked him and continued down to her own chamber. She’d left the door open and stepped warily inside. She first checked the room: the bed curtains, the wine cup. Kathryn was about to bolt the door when she looked down at the writing table. The candle had burnt out; perhaps it had been extinguished by a servant? The piece of parchment had certainly been moved. She remembered leaving it under some weights, but these had been pushed away so the manuscript now curled. Had Thurston been in here? Mawsby? Father John? Gurnell claimed he couldn’t read, but was that the truth? Kathryn bolted the door, slipped off her cloak and boots and eagerly lay down on the bed, pulling the coverlet up over her head. She tried to compose herself by thinking of Colum, then wondered how long she could stay here. Try as she might, the image of that severed head, its half-closed eyes and ragged neck, drifted like a nightmare through her mind. Who ever had done that, she reasoned, was full of hate. To kill an enemy was one thing, to dishonour his corpse another. Who could be responsible? Was it Gurnell? Was he the assassin who prepared everything as soon as darkness fell? Where had the head and pole been kept? Out in that copse which divided the great meadow from the curtain wall of the manor? Kathryn pushed the coverlet away. Staring between the curtains, she glimpsed the darkness beyond the window; soon it would be dawn. She lay down and drifted into sleep.
Kathryn slept late that morning. She would have attended Mass in the manor chapel but, from the sounds below, she realised the daily routine of the hall was well under way. Amelia brought her fresh water and a napkin, followed by a tray bearing a blackjack of light ale, some bread, cheese, a pot of butter and an apple freshly sliced. Kathryn ate, went to the garderobe and came back to wash and attire herself for the day.
By the time Kathryn had left her chamber the manor was busy; servants and chamber maids hurried up and down the stairs. They were friendly enough and one even offered to take her down to the great hall for some food, but Kathryn had decided to walk this manor and discover more for herself. The main rear door was open; maids swept the steps while ostlers and stable boys brought out buckets slopping with water so they could be washed and scrubbed. Kathryn excused herself and went down the steps. It was about ten in the morning and it promised to be a beautiful day. The sky was light blue and the sun was strong, though a refreshing breeze still stirred the branches of the trees. Birds swooped over the grass and already the crickets were beginning their usual monotonous song. Doves flew from the nearby cote, flashes of brilliant white against the sky. The air was sweet with the smell of flowers and the lucid cooing of wood pigeons. Nevertheless, the tumult of the night before had marked the great meadow. Buckets, rakes and spades still lay about. Kathryn walked along the side of the maze and inspected the damage. The fire was now fully doused, though the rearmost hedge and the grass around it were a black cindery mess. Kathryn decided not to enter the maze: the guide rope still lay there, one end trailing out of the entrance, but she felt uncomfortable and uneasy. She turned to look at the hall, its windows shimmering in the morning sun. Was someone watching her? As she walked the perimeter of the maze, she noticed how the grass beside the hedge was long and lush; its close proximity to the prickly branches had saved it from the scythers’ cut. At one point she crouched down, pulled the grass aside and tried to stare through. The maze had been cunningly laid. The roots of the hedges were thick and hard, planted so close together they were almost impenetratable. At one time Kathryn started as a rabbit, attracted by the lush grass on either side of the maze, fled like a shadow at her approach. Try as she did, Kathryn could find no gap, no weakness in this wall of closely interwoven prickly branches. An evergreen, the hedge would keep its leaves even in winter. At one point Kathryn leaned against it; the hedge supported her weight. She realised that anyone who tried to use ladders, certainly at the front or sides, would be easily glimpsed. The weakest point was the rear hedge facing the line of trees which divided the meadow from the curtain wall: any approach to this might be glimpsed from the arbour of flowers where Lady Elizabeth and Eleanora had sat. Kathryn walked across and sat down in the arbour.
‘Yes,’ she murmured. ‘Anyone who approached the rear of the maze would be seen by them.’
She looked back towards the hall to confirm that anyone who tried to scale the maze with a ladder certainly risked being seen. Kathryn sighed in exasperation. She rose and walked towards the line of trees behind the maze, a thick copse of hollybush, oak, sycamore and beech, growing closely together, almost linked by the bracken and bramble which grew in such profusion. Kathryn tried to force her way through, but the thorns and branches caught at her clothes.
This must have been part of the ancient forest, Kathryn reflected, staring up at the outspread branches of the trees. If anyone did climb the curtain wall, they would have to struggle through here and across the grass. She returned to the great meadow and stared at the arbour of flowers, a pretty place, its wooden trellis work almost covered by a rambling rosebush. Kathryn walked back to the hall. Thurston stood near the door. She asked if she could see the house for herself and Thurston, distracted by other matters, mumbled his assent. She visited the chapel, an elegant, well furnished room with small square windows, whitewashed walls and black wooden benches. A simple marble altar stood at one end, covered with crisp white linen cloths. The floor was tiled, its lozenge-shaped red and white stones highly polished. Triptychs adorned the walls. Kathryn recognised one as the Theotokos – Mary Mother of God, a famous painting which, according to tradition, had been painted from life by the evangelist St. Luke. The symbols on either side of the triptych showed it was Byzantine: similar paintings adorned the sanctuary, a testimony to Sir Walter’s stay in that great city.
Kathryn crossed herself
and sat down on one of the benches. There was no rood screen so she could clearly view the sanctuary: the bronze candlesticks, the silver pyx hanging on its chain and the glowing red sanctuary lamp in its jar fixed to the wall beneath. Kathryn wondered if the Lacrima Christi had been kept here. She closed her eyes; that was another problem awaiting her. The theft of the sacred ruby was truly puzzling. The chantry chapel of St. Michael was as fortified as any strong room, its door bolted and locked. The precious ruby had been guarded by two brothers and, when taken down, placed in an iron-bound coffer with two locks. So how had it simply disappeared from the end of its chain?
‘I can see no . . .’
Kathryn caught herself speaking aloud. She wondered why Colum hadn’t arrived and decided to continue her investigation of the house. She learnt from a servant carrying linen cloths into the chapel that Father John and the others were busy. Sir Walter’s corpse, together with that of Veronica the maid, were now being dressed, sheeted and coffined. They were to be taken down to Canterbury later in the day. Sir Walter’s corpse would lie in the cathedral chantry chapel whilst Veronica’s remains were to be handed over to her family.
‘And the Lady Elizabeth . . .?’ Kathryn asked the servant.
The fellow just shrugged. ‘I am responsible for the laundry, Mistress,’ he replied tartly, ‘not the doings of the great ones.’
Kathryn walked into the great hall with its heavy beamed roof draped in banners depicting the arms of England, France, Maltravers and Redvers. More paintings, icons and crucifixes adorned the lime-washed walls of this clean, long chamber with its vaulted roof. It boasted a raised dais at one end, choir stalls for musicians and a heavy oaken lectern where wandering scholars or chanteurs might entertain the household. The hall’s long windows were filled with glass, the paving stone floor washed and scrubbed. Servants were laying out the trestle tables and benches, shooing away the dogs, excited by the smells from the nearby kitchens of freshly baked meats, spices and sauces. An orderly place despite the yelping of the hounds and the clatter of platters. The servants gazed askance at her, and Kathryn was about to leave when one plucked at her sleeve.
‘Mistress, are you a physician? I am Hockley.’ The man’s weatherbeaten face broke into a gap-toothed grin. ‘I understand you are a leech, an apothecary?’
‘Some people say I am.’ Kathryn smiled. ‘Why, are you ill?’
‘We have our ailments, Mistress.’ The man shuffled his feet. ‘Lady Elizabeth has instructed us not to leave the manor. Brother Ralph the infirmarian, perhaps he won’t return, not with this business over Sir Walter? We thought . . .’ Hockley’s voice faltered.
‘I’ll tell you what,’ Kathryn replied. ‘You have a small refectory where the night watchman stays?’
Hockley nodded.
‘And a medicine chest?’
Kathryn was ushered like a queen out of the hall down the passageway to the room where she had seen Gurnell the night before. A medicine chest of elmwood was quickly brought. Kathryn pulled back the lid to find that it was well stocked.
‘I’ll need some wine, the type used for cooking,’ Kathryn advised, ‘as well as some honey, salt and hot water in a bowl. Oh, I’ll also need napkins and a knife.’
Kathryn wondered if Lady Elizabeth would object but, then again, this would be one way of repaying the household for its kindness. Kathryn soon found herself busy. Some of the grooms had suffered burns the previous evening. She washed and cleaned these, mixing the honey, wine and salt together, binding the wounds gently with strips of linen. Thurston arrived and watched for a while but didn’t object. One maid suffered from the rheums, streaming mucus inflaming her nose and throat. Kathryn showed her how to gargle with a mixture of salted water and honeysuckle. She used house leek to dress a leg ulcer and fashioned a makeshift splint for a disjointed wrist. Most of the ailments were mild, like belly gripes, for which she simply advised what to eat and what to avoid. One of the grooms who complained of violent pains, she told to visit Father Cuthbert at the Poor Priests’ Hospital in Canterbury. Nobody objected to her work, and Kathryn wondered whether her patients were more keen to meet her than have their ailments cured. She had finished by noon and asked Hockley, who had assumed the role as her assistant, to refill the chest and clean the table. Some of the servants offered to pay but Kathryn just shook her head and said she would accept no return in money or kind.
The news of her work quickly spread so by the time Kathryn continued her journey round the house, she was greeted with smiles and nods despite the growing funereal atmosphere. Black cloths now draped most of the paintings. Even tables and chairs were adorned with a black fine lawn. Where possible, candles and lights were extinguished and windows opened, an old tradition so the souls of the departed could more easily begin their journey back to God. A funeral fast had also been imposed: one meal a day, and that would be at noon.
Kathryn, however, did not feel hungry and was determined on her quest. Some of the chambers were locked, but the library on the ground floor at the far side of the house was both open and empty. It was a long, spacious room with soaring bookshelves at right angles to the walls. Kathryn marvelled at the richness of its contents. Books backed in leather or calfskin, others with jewel-encrusted covers, were stacked on the shelves. Some were so precious they were chained and padlocked. The books were arranged according to subject: Theology, Philosophy, Lives of the Saints, Sermons, Histories, even a small section on Medicine and Astrology. Kathryn took some books down: sermons of Chrysogonus and other Fathers of the Church, The City of God by St. Augustine, the Summa Theologica of Thomas Aquinas and The Secret History of Procopius. A beautiful edition of the bible was chained to an elaborately carved book stand, its reading ledge carved in the shape of a soaring eagle. There were books in Arabic, Froissart’s Chronicles, even a copy of Edward Grim’s firsthand account of the murder of Thomas à Becket. Kathryn, distracted, ignored the sounds of the household as she went up and down this chamber of treasures.
The library was well lighted, with rounded windows filled with plain glass under which stood carrels and writing desks for scholars. The far end of the library was bathed in the light from a glass-filled oriel window just above a huge oaken table with a matching high-backed leather chair. The table was clear of books and manuscripts; it bore only a writing tray with quills, inkpots and pumice stones. The floor before it was not of polished oak but elaborately tiled in white squares within a green border. Strange red geometric drawings adorned it, surrounding a blue cross in the centre. Kathryn sat down at the desk, undoubtedly Sir Walter’s, and stared round the library with its shelves, coffers and casket. She’d probably find nothing in here. Personal papers and manuscripts would be kept in Sir Walter’s chantry. She recalled Mawsby’s close-guarded eyes: undoubtedly Sir Walter’s kinsman would have been through his dead lord’s papers and, if there was anything untoward, kept this to himself. Kathryn believed she had the measure of Mawsby, a sly, secretive man; so where else could she go? Kathryn rose, came round the desk, crouched down and studied the geometric design on the tiled floor; she recalled Father John’s words about a secret passageway. A sound further down made her glance up sharply: the library door stood half-open. Had someone been lurking there, silently watching? Kathryn sighed, rose to her feet and went into the kitchen. The cook and bakers were now busy cleaning the oven, washing down tables. She was greeted cheerfully enough. Kathryn asked for the cellarman and the spit boy pointed to her former assistant Hockley sitting on a stool cradling a tankard of ale. He welcomed Kathryn effusively, offering to share his tankard, but, as Kathryn had earlier treated him for an abscess on the mouth, she politely declined.
‘I understand a secret passageway runs under the hall?’ she asked.
‘Oh, there is.’ Hockley gestured with his hands. ‘And more than one. It’s like a rabbit warren.’ He pointed to the floor. ‘According to local lore, a castle once stood here.’ He leaned closer, and Kathryn tried not to flinch at his stale breath. ‘A ro
bber baron lived here, one of those involved in Becket’s murder and a lot more, smuggling, receiving stolen goods . . .’
‘Will you take me down there?’ Kathryn asked.
‘I’d be delighted to.’
Hockley led her out through a door into a cobbled courtyard with a well in the centre and outhouses and store chambers facing onto it. He led her across, through a postern door, and turned immediately right, jangling a bunch of keys, then opened a door and took Kathryn aside. He lit two lanterns, handed one to her, unlocked another door, and led her down steep steps into what he called his ‘warren of tunnels.’ Kathryn reached the bottom. The passageway before her, dark, narrow and musty, stretched into the darkness. The stones on either side were of a different type from that of the hall, roughly hewn and sharp edged. The cellarman told Kathryn to be careful. The ground beneath was mud-beaten, and Kathryn realised she was in the crypt of the old castle. Caverns and chambers stood off the passageway, some with air grilles high in the walls looking out onto the central courtyard. The cellarman explained these were storerooms for tuns of wine, logs, tools and huge barrels of ale. He led Kathryn deeper into the darkness, their footsteps sounding hollow, voices echoing eerily. Kathryn felt cold and rather wary. The tunnel floor was uneven, the ceiling was low and the light from the lanterns made their shadows dance round them as if they were being visited by ghosts from the past. They turned a corner; there were no more storerooms but two further tunnels, one leading off to the right, the other to the left.
‘Come along here, Mistress.’
Hockley led her to the left. The passageway was even narrower, its ceiling brushing Kathryn’s head, and eventually they reached the end, where the tunnel was sealed off by a red brick wall. The cellar man patted it.
‘Sir Walter repaired that, just after he bought the house.’
‘Why?’ Kathryn asked.
‘Ah, the rest of the tunnel beyond is dangerous, filled with rubble. No one is too sure where it goes.’