by Paul Doherty
Kathryn crouched down and examined the wall carefully. It was the work of a master mason, a hard stone face with thick mortar between each line of bricks.
‘It would take a battering ram,’ Hockley explained, ‘to break that down.’
‘Yes.’ Kathryn wiped her hands together. ‘It would.’
‘Well we’d best go back,’ her companion declared. ‘It’s one meal a day and I haven’t had mine yet.’
Kathryn gratefully agreed: the narrowness of the tunnel, the silence, the flickering light and dancing shadows made her uneasy. They returned to the main passageway, Hockley chattering away, when Kathryn heard an echo further along. She paused, one hand on Hockley’s arm.
‘I heard something.’
‘Nonsense!’ he retorted. ‘I have the keys to the cellar. No one can come down here without my permission.’
‘But you left the door open?’
‘So I did,’ Hockley replied. ‘Mistress, are you afeared?’
‘I heard a sound,’ Kathryn insisted. ‘If it’s another servant why don’t they greet us?’
‘You’d best stay here.’
Before she could stop him, Hockley went further up the passageway, lantern raised.
‘Who’s there?’ he called.
Again Kathryn heard the sound. She couldn’t place it – it sounded like a creak, as if a rope was being tightened. She peered past Hockley. Was that a shape? Again a sound, a footfall. Hockley, too, became alarmed. Kathryn glanced to her left, where one of the storerooms was used for grain sacks piled on wooden slats.
‘Master Hockley, you’d best come . . .’
Hockley turned. A sound broke the silence, like a bird’s whirring wings. Hockley was coming towards her but abruptly started forward as if pushed in the back. He paused, swaying on his feet, a stricken look on his face. One hand went out, and the lantern crashed to the ground, extinguishing the candle. The cellarman buckled to his knees and fell on his face. Kathryn glimpsed the stout, feathered quarrel in his back. She heard that sound again, a crossbow; its cord was being pulled back! Blood was already gushing out of Hockley’s nose and mouth, and his body twitched a little. At another sound, Kathryn threw herself to the left into the storeroom even as the death-bearing crossbow bolt sliced through the air to smash against a wall. Kathryn grasped her lantern and gazed round. She was trapped.
‘Who are you?’ she called out. ‘What mischief is this?’
She was desperate for anything to distract her assailant. She lifted the lantern and could have cried with relief. She thought the cavern was unprotected but now she could see better. It had doors pulled back, nothing more than flimsy wooden slats like those to a makeshift stable. She dragged at one but the bottom bolt dragged along the ground. Kathryn hurriedly pulled this up and swung it over, then dragged the other across. She looked for a bar but quickly realised the doors were secured by wooden slats on the outside.
Kathryn looked around for anything to keep the doors from being pushed back. Feverishly, careful not to tip the lantern on the floor beside her, Kathryn heaved and pushed at a wooden pallet leaning against the wall. She pulled this free to barricade the door. She had hardly finished when she heard a footfall, and the door was tried. Kathryn pressed against the pallet. Her assailant threw his or her weight against it but the makeshift barricade held. The attacker drew away. Kathryn used the breathing space to drag across another pallet as well as a half-filled sack. The attack was renewed, the door kicked and banged. Kathryn, drenched in sweat, gazed fearfully around. The tallow candle was burning dangerously low. How long could she stay here? She went deeper into the cavern and her hand brushed the neck of a sack and the rough parchment tag used to inscribe its weight and contents.
Kathryn glanced up at the grille. Her assailant could wait or even return. How many people knew she had come here? She recalled how, when she had crossed the yard, servants were sitting round the well, a few sunning themselves on benches. Kathryn made a decision. The assailant was already hammering at the door. Kathryn piled the sacks together, sweating and cursing, and used the smaller ones to build a makeshift ladder so she could reach the air grille. She opened her pouch and used a small knife to cut the tags free. Kathryn grasped the lantern horn and climbed the makeshift pile of sacks. She opened the lantern, used the candle flame to light the tags and pushed these through the grille, fervently hoping that someone in the courtyard would see the smoke. The grille stood in a small recess; Kathryn used the ledge to build a small fire. One burning tag was placed on another: the tongue of flame grew, the smoke drifting through the narrow openings between the iron bars. Kathryn strained her ears. Every household was vigilant against fire. Would there be any cry of ‘Fire! Fire!’ or the alarm bell rung? Only faint sounds from the kitchen drifted across. The battering on the door continued. Kathryn placed more of the precious scraps onto the glimmering flame. One must have been soaked in oil or grease for it spluttered and a trail of blackened smoke drifted through the bars. Behind her the pallet was being pushed back. More scraps of parchment fed the flames. Kathryn’s heart was beating like a drum, her legs trembling in fear. Suddenly she heard a cry; the smoke had been glimpsed.
‘Fire! Fire!’
She jumped down from the sacks even as someone outside ran across the cobbles with a pail of water which sluiced through the grille. Scullions in the kitchen began to bang pots and pans. A bell tolled, an abrupt clanging, warning of danger. Kathryn screamed.
‘Fire! Fire in the cellar! Fire! Fire!’
Kathryn glimpsed a face pressed against the bar.
‘Quickly!’ Kathryn urged.
The man outside must have misunderstood for more water poured through. Kathryn continued to scream and yell even though that sinister hammering had ceased. She sat on the floor, arms across her chest. She heard footsteps, faint at first, exclamations of surprise as her rescuers came across Hockley’s corpse. One voice she recognised.
‘Colum!’ she shouted. ‘Colum!’
She summoned up her strength and staggered across the cellar floor, pulling the sacks away from the pallet. The door was pushed open. Kathryn caught a dizzying glare of torchlight and then glimpsed Colum and Gurnell with swords drawn. Kathryn wanted to throw herself into the Irishman’s arms, but instead she just stood, hands hanging down, fighting hard to curb the terror seething within her.
Chapter 5
‘O wombe! O bely! O stynkng cod
Fulfilled of dong and of corruption! . . .’
—Chaucer, ‘The Pardoner’s Tale,’
The Canterbury Tales, 1387
‘Mistress Swinbrooke, I am truly sorry for what happened. If I found the culprit . . .’
Lady Elizabeth Maltravers gazed over her shoulder at Gurnell, but her master-of-arms shook his head.
‘Ingoldby Hall,’ Lady Elizabeth continued, ‘is built over a warren of tunnels, a veritable maze in itself. We did not find your assailant, but poor Hockley is dead and his murder must be avenged.’ She leaned forward, her beautiful face ivory-white, her blue eyes looking darker due, perhaps, to the shadows which ringed them.
‘You should have been safe, Mistress Swinbrooke, though I wish you had asked for my advice. I would have insisted that Master Gurnell, or someone of my livery, accompany you. I am also grateful for your work. I understand you have ministered,’ she smiled, ‘to the needs of some of my servants. I must repay you.’
‘My lady, your hospitality is kindness enough.’
Kathryn cradled the cup of warmed posset; the wine had begun to cool and she no longer needed the napkin. In fact, she felt rather foolish. She had managed to retain her poise until Colum had escorted her to her chamber. For a while she had just lain on the bed, shivering, composing her mind, calming her heart and cursing her own stupidity. Amelia had brought a bowl of hot broth, freshly baked bread and a small goblet of fortified wine. Kathryn was certain that it contained an infusion of camomile to soothe her wits. Despite her dishevelled clothes, Kathryn slept for a short w
hile and woke feeling better. She had risen, washed and changed, ignoring Colum’s constant tapping on the door, shouting out that she felt better and would be with him soon. The Irishman had lost all of his lazy charm: when she left the chamber, he was pacing the gallery, fingers tapping the hilt of his sword, ready to enter the tourney ground against Kathryn’s mysterious assailant.
‘I shouldn’t have left you here. You shouldn’t have gone down there!’
‘Should! Shouldn’t!’ Kathryn riposted. ‘Master Murtagh, if I only did what I shouldn’t do.’ She forced a smile. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t be marrying you!’
Colum looked perplexed.
‘I am only teasing!’
Further discussion was prevented by Amelia, who came pattering breathlessly up the stairs announcing the Lady Elizabeth would like to see them both in her chamber. They’d quickly composed themselves, and now sat in high-backed chairs before the great mantelpiece in Lady Elizabeth’s opulent chamber. Kathryn had never seen such rich elegance: eye-catching paintings in gold gilt frames, gleaming wooden panelling, Turkey carpets of deep blue on the polished wooden floor. Coffers and chests, a large ornate four-poster bedstead of dark oak draped and hidden by thick blood-red curtains with golden tassels. Baskets full of flowers gave off a pleasing fragrance which mingled with the smell of beeswax polish. There was a writing desk beneath one of the oriel windows. A beautifully carved lavarium and a large aumbry, one door hanging open, revealing the wealth of the clothes and cloaks stored within. There was even a beautiful silver mirror within a wooden frame attached to one desk which was littered with cosmetic jars and small phials of perfume.
Lady Elizabeth and Eleanora sat opposite. Both were dressed in costly black mourning robes with white bands at the collar and sleeves, dark blue petticoats peeping out above stockinged feet. Lady Elizabeth’s sandals were of deep purple, decorated with small ivory buttons; Eleanora had pushed her feet into wooden clogs which looked rather incongruous in such elegant surroundings. Each wore a dark veil laced with a silver lining. Lady Elizabeth sat on a thronelike chair while Eleanora, on a quilted stool beside her, cradled a book of herbs. Gurnell and Thurston stood behind their mistress: both men looked anxious-eyed, agitated at this hideous attack upon an honoured guest. Kathryn was certain that each had caught the edge of Colum’s tongue. The Irishman would not have chosen his words carefully but emphasised how an attack upon Kathryn was an attack upon the Crown and that was treason, hence Lady Elizabeth’s heartfelt apology.
‘How could it have happened?’ Colum demanded.
‘How could any of their dreadful deeds have occurred?’ Eleanora spoke up, her tone clipped, eyes challenging. She seemed to have taken a distinctive dislike to Colum. She placed the book of herbs on the floor. ‘Mistress Swinbrooke, we, too, are afeared. I gather you do not believe in the Athanatoi?’
Kathryn glanced at Gurnell, who looked embarrassed.
‘I do, whatever they call themselves.’ Eleanora continued fiercely. ‘They wish vengeance against the Maltravers name.’
‘How could it have happened?’ Colum repeated, deliberately ignoring Eleanora’s outburst.
‘Easy enough,’ Gurnell replied shamefacedly. ‘Beneath Ingoldby Hall,’ he walked forward, fingers splayed, ‘run tunnels and passageways, the cellars and dungeons of the ancient castle which once occupied this spot. Some are used, most are blocked off.’
‘And entrances?’ Kathryn asked.
‘Hockley used the one we all know,’ Gurnell conceded. ‘But there are others. One from the old tower out near the mire, and there’s a third which can be entered from a storeroom near the stables.’
‘And you saw no one?’ Kathryn demanded of him.
‘Mistress, it was as difficult to catch any of the rats which scuttle there. By the time we reached the passageway it was empty, apart from poor Hockley’s corpse. We saw no one.’
Colum agreed.
‘But why?’ Kathryn mused loudly. ‘Why attack me unless I’ve discovered something important?’
‘In which case, why was my husband murdered?’ Lady Elizabeth demanded. ‘And poor Veronica?’
Kathryn could only shake her head. She realised this discussion could easily slip into bitter argument. She stared down at her hands, her fingers were cut, probably from when she had climbed those rough sacks and attempted to light that fire. Small, white welts marked her knuckles where she had been slightly burnt.
‘You were most fortunate, Mistress,’ Lady Elizabeth remarked. ‘And I thank God for your escape.’
‘And the crossbow?’ Colum demanded.
‘We have a small armoury,’ Gurnell replied, ‘as well as those weapons used by the huntsmen and verderers.’
‘Lady Elizabeth . . .’
Kathryn had decided to seize the opportunity, but paused at a knock on the door. Mawsby and Father John came into the chamber. They were cloaked and booted. Mawsby wore black as a sign of public mourning. Father John had donned a white chasuble, a purple stole round his neck, a psalter in his hands.
‘My lady, we should be leaving.’ Mawsby bowed.
Lady Elizabeth leaned back and closed her eyes.
‘I have made my farewells,’ she whispered. ‘Father John, see my husband’s corpse into Canterbury. The good monks have laid out the funeral hearse and candles. You have money for the offerings?’
‘Mistress, that is all taken care of,’ Mawsby intervened. ‘A second casket has also been arranged for the maid Veronica. Once we have handed Sir Walter’s corpse to the monks at the cathedral, we shall meet the girl’s family.’
Lady Elizabeth was about to say something but then shook her head. She picked up her mother-of-pearl ave beads from her lap and began to thread them through her fingers.
‘You’d best go.’
Both the chaplain and Mawsby bowed and left. Kathryn was tempted to observe the protocols and excuse herself, but would such an opportunity ever present itself again?
‘Lady Elizabeth, I must talk to you confidentially.’
‘Mistress Swinbrooke, I have hardly slept. My husband’s corpse is coffined and on its way to the Cathedral.’
‘And his soul demands vengeance,’ Kathryn added. ‘God’s justice, not to mention the King’s, must be done.’
Eleanora offered her mistress a goblet of wine. Lady Elizabeth declined, gesturing for Gurnell and Thurston to leave, but once the door closed behind them, Lady Elizabeth whispered to Eleanora, who then rose and served more wine. Kathryn sipped hers but decided she had drunk enough and placed the cup on the small checkerboard table beside her. She nudged Colum gently, a signal to remain silent and guard his tongue. Lady Elizabeth raised the goblet to her lips and stared across at Kathryn.
‘I suspect what you are going to ask me, Mistress, so let me help. I am young enough to be my husband’s daughter. My family, as you know, are powerful merchants in the city of London. My father has a finger in every pie, be it wood from the Baltic, herrings from the North Sea, flax from the Low Countries or wine from Spain and Portugal. He has friends at the courts of Castile and Aragon, which is how I met my lady-in-waiting, Mistress Eleanora. We grew up together.’ She smiled. ‘Two young women in the iron world of men. I wished to have a good match. Sir Walter was personable and the King approved. So, why should I object? Is it not the lot of us women to do what our menfolk demand?’
Kathryn bit back her reply just in time. Lady Elizabeth sipped from her goblet like a cat would a bowl of cream, the ave beads hanging from her wrist like a bracelet.
‘We married just over three years ago, a May-December marriage. I did not love Sir Walter but I thought that in time, I would do so.’
‘And did you?’
‘I came to respect him. He was an honourable man, though one lost in his own world. If he was here he would be courtly and chivalrous. He would talk to you about medicine or the city of Canterbury. He would show Master Murtagh his horses. But his true soul?’ Lady Elizabeth wetted her lips. ‘Sometimes it was like b
eing married to a man who had his face hooded, his eyes hidden. Oh, he indulged me.’ She forced a smile. ‘Our marriage was like many a marriage, a life based on friendship.’
‘Did he talk to you about the past?’ Kathryn asked.
‘Very little.’
‘And the Athanatoi?’
‘On a number of occasions he told me what had happened, but the details were vague, like a man recalling a dream.’
‘And the battle of Towton?’ Kathryn ignored Colum’s sharp gasp of surprise.
‘Towton was a bloody scar on his soul,’ Lady Elizabeth replied fiercely. ‘Go down to the cathedral, Mistress, or travel to that of York. You’ll find a host of fat priests who received my husband’s gold to say Masses for those slain. Yes, that was a nightmare, one he never forgot. But that was Sir Walter.’ Lady Elizabeth put the cup down, her gaze shifting to Colum. ‘I have met Edward of England and his warlords: George of Clarence, Richard of Gloucester, Hastings, Howard and the Rivers gang!’ The words were spat out. ‘You must have met them too, Mistress Kathryn. They waded to the throne in pools of blood and don’t give it a second thought. Sir Walter was different: a good soldier but of a gentle disposition.’
‘Did anyone threaten your husband?’
‘I have answered that, Mistress. Not to my knowledge.’
‘And your husband’s illness?’
‘He had stomach trouble last winter. Brother Ralph from Greyfriars was a great help. Before you ask,’ Elizabeth continued archly, ‘that may be one of the reasons why Sir Walter loaned the priory the Lacrima Christi.’
‘And what will happen now its been stolen?’
‘Sir Walter was angry but not too upset.’ Lady Elizabeth closed her eyes, then opened them. ‘He muttered something about God’s justice being done. I gather from Father John that the relic was taken from a church in Constantinople. To be honest, Mistress, I don’t think my husband really cared.’ She wound the ave beads and pressed them into her hand as if weighing them. ‘But I do! I shall petition the Crown to issue proclamations to all sheriffs, portreeves and market bailiffs: those who trade in precious stones will be warned about handling stolen treasure.’