A Maze of Murders

by Paul Doherty

  Kathryn’s attention was caught by a silver tray just within the door, bearing three silver chased cups and an elegant wine flagon. The flagon cap was of polished silver and on top of this sat a gold chased pelican, its silver beak pecking at its chest to provide blood for its young. Kathryn ran her fingers gently over this.

  ‘Exquisite,’ she murmured.

  ‘A gift from the good burgesses of Ghent when Lord Maltravers went into exile with King Edward.’ Mawsby pointed to the highly ornate cross hanging on the wall above the wooden panelling. ‘That, too, was a gift. Lord Maltravers loved this room. He would spend a great deal of time here or in the library. Would you like some wine?’ He pointed to the tray. ‘Lord Maltravers always insisted that this jug be filled with the richest burgundy.’

  Kathryn and Colum demurred. Mawsby, with more than a hint of sarcasm, gestured at Kathryn to sit in the large thronelike chair behind the desk, and explained how the chamber was organised.

  ‘Most of the documents are household accounts, trading ventures, bills of sales, indentures, memoranda and land charters.’

  Mawsby went across to a large coffer reinforced with steel bands and undid the two locks.

  ‘These are what I term Lord Maltravers’s personal documents.’

  He scooped out the contents, brought them across and placed them on the desk. He sauntered off to sit in the window seat, humming softly beneath his breath as Kathryn and Colum, rather self-consciously, undid the red and blue ribbons and began their search. The light from the window was very good. Kathryn refused Mawsby’s offer of candles and tried to concentrate on what was before her. Maltravers was a skilful writer with correspondents as far north as York and Carlisle as well as abroad: there were letters to friends in Paris, Orleans, Rome, Dordrecht, Mons, even Cologne. Other items, dark and shiny with age, contained prayers, lists of goods bought or sold, memoranda, even a small journal Maltravers had kept when he’d visited the eternal city.

  The documents included letters from the King and his ministers. Kathryn felt as if she were eavesdropping on the chatter of the court – who was in favour and who was out. She looked over reports from spies and Judas men. One interesting document described the itinerary of the last Lancastrian claimant to the throne, Henry Tudor, now in exile abroad. Kathryn became immersed in her task. Sounds from the household drifted into the chamber, and she heard noises from the stables as sumpter ponies were prepared for Lady Elizabeth’s journey to Canterbury. Once again they refused Mawsby’s offer of wine, so the secretarius poured a cup for himself and returned to the window seat. The song he was singing was now more distinct and clear, and Kathryn recognised it as one of the great troubadour carols:

  ‘The rose which

  basks under

  wanton lips,

  Her tender laughter

  is not so sweet. . . .’

  ‘When darkness falls

  And night winds chill the air.’

  Mawsby laughed as Kathryn finished the song for him.

  ‘You like the troubadours, Mistress Swinbrooke?’

  ‘My father did. Many visited Canterbury.’

  Kathryn returned to her task. Occasionally, she rose to look at other documents on shelves or in the bookcase, but Mawsby was correct: the locked coffer contained what was personal and private to Maltravers. Kathryn sifted the more interesting documents into a small pile.

  First there was a roll of dead, inscribed Missae Pro interfectis, Apud Towton – ‘Masses for the slain at Towton’; it contained a list of names given to a chantry priest whom Maltravers paid to sing requiems. Kathryn scrutinised the names: the dead were foreigners, Spanish and Italian but mostly Provencales. Kathryn realised they must be the mercenaries whom Maltravers’s men had massacred after they’d sued for terms at Towton. Kathryn also found a map, only to realise it described the cellars and tunnels beneath the Hall. A quick study explained the arrogant ease of her assailant, for the cellars had at least five entrances in different parts of the manor.

  ‘No wonder you escaped!’ Kathryn murmured.

  ‘Look at this.’ Colum tossed across a small, yellowing scroll. It was written in doggerel Latin but gave a description of the Lacrima Christi, its size and shape as well as the legend behind it. How it had been rescued by the Empress Helena and brought to Constantinople. However, during the Fourth Crusade, the Western knights had pillaged the city, and the ruby was stolen and taken to Assisi in Northern Italy. Here it had been venerated as a sacred relic before the ruby was stolen again by a group of mercenaries who took it back to Constantinople and sold it to the imperial court.

  Kathryn placed this with the rest of the documents. She was about to move on when a small, calfskin tome caught her eye, a book of meditations. She opened it to find that it contained nothing more than a list of quotations from the bible:

  ‘Thou shalt love the Lord thy God . . .’

  ‘Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof.’

  ‘A man reaps what he sows.’

  The writing was all in the same hand. Kathryn had seen similar books drawn up so the reader could reflect and meditate upon two or three simple texts from Scripture, but the quotations reminded her of those warnings Maltravers had received.

  ‘This is strange,’ she murmured.

  ‘What is?’ Mawsby asked. He rose and came up behind her.

  ‘Is there another book like this?’

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps in the library.’ Mawsby’s voice was slightly thicker. ‘But they are common enough.’

  ‘Those warnings,’ Kathryn explained, ‘sent to Lord Maltravers by the Athanatoi, the quotations from Scripture, were cut from a book like this; that’s how it was done. Another strip of parchment bearing the warning was glued on top.’

  ‘Lord Maltravers or Father John would have soon found out if any book had been damaged or cut like that,’ Mawsby retorted.

  ‘True, true,’ Kathryn murmured. ‘Nevertheless, I’ll bear that in mind.’ She glanced up: Mawsby’s face was flushed with wine. ‘Did Sir Walter ever discuss these warnings, why they should appear so recently?’

  ‘No.’ Mawsby pulled a face. ‘Sir Walter thought it was the work of the Athanatoi, I considered it to be some wicked trick by an envious rival.’

  Kathryn returned to the manuscripts, then glanced quickly over her shoulder. Mawsby was back in the window seat. The secretarius seemed distracted, cradling his cup and staring out of the window like a lovelorn squire. Footsteps echoed outside in the passageway. The door opened and Eleanora swept into the room. Kathryn and Colum rose to meet her. The lady-in-waiting was now attired for travelling, soft black leather boots on her feet, a cloak of midnight-blue about her shoulders. Kathryn noticed she now wore a silver chain round her neck with a golden rose on the end; this contrasted sharply with her sombre funeral weeds.

  ‘Master Mawsby, you are finished?’ Eleanora spoke haughtily. ‘Our mistress is about to leave.’

  ‘And I am to go with her,’ Mawsby responded wearily, getting to his feet.

  He picked up his cloak and sword belt and waved Kathryn and Colum to the door. Kathryn glanced at the pile of parchments she had singled out.

  ‘Mistress, trust me, they will be there when you return.’

  Eleanora led them out into the gallery and down the stairs back to the hallway. Lady Elizabeth, seated elegantly on a chair just inside the doorway, was ready to leave; she caught Kathryn’s eye and lifted her hand in greeting.

  ‘I think they would like us to leave,’ Kathryn whispered. ‘But we’ll let them go first.’

  Through the open door came the neigh of horses, the cries of ostlers and the creak of carts. Horns blew, people ran up and down stairs. Eventually, under Mawsby’s direction, Lady Elizabeth and her entourage swept through the main door, Kathryn and Colum following. Despite the occasion the cavalcade was a colourful one, gaily caparisoned palfreys for Lady Elizabeth and Eleanora, soldiers in armour, heralds with banners. Mawsby and Thurston took up position alongside th
eir mistress. Gurnell organised the cavalcade and, to the sound of braying horns and the calls of those being left behind, Lady Elizabeth and her entourage left in a haze of dust.

  Chapter 6

  ‘Trouthe is the hyeste thyng that man may kepe’

  —Chaucer, ‘The Franklin’s Tale,’

  The Canterbury Tales, 1387

  A short while later Kathryn and Colum also rode through the main gates of the manor house, turning onto the rutted lane which would take them past the hedgerows and copses to the crossroads and the main road into Canterbury. Kathryn decided to visit the Vaudois woman, and they eventually found the narrow lane which ran like a needle under a canopy of trees down to a large wood-and-plaster hunting hodge. The house was much decayed, the outside flaking, tiles missing from the roof. Kathryn recalled the tale of how each tile on a roof was supposed to be the resting place of a soul waiting to escape from Purgatory.

  ‘In which case,’ she murmured, ‘there will be very few ghosts here!’

  She wondered how the inhabitants fared when the weather changed and the rain clouds swept in across the downs.

  The scene which greeted them was pleasant enough. The front door was open and the Vaudois woman, dressed in her red shift, was seated on a log just outside the door. She was cradling a corn dolly wrapped in swaddling bands. She sat, rocking backwards and forwards, crooning over it. Kathryn and Colum’s arrival did not disturb her. Ursula, her face brick red, came hurrying out, hands and arms white with flour. She stopped and stared at Kathryn, then peered round her at Colum hobbling the horses.

  ‘We didn’t expect visitors.’ She gestured at two logs, smooth and tarred, which served as seats round a makeshift table. ‘I’ll bring you some ale. I make good ale.’

  Kathryn agreed and Colum sat down. The Vaudois woman lifted her head and smiled, her strange eyes crinkling as she peered at them.

  ‘Baby’s asleep,’ she crooned. ‘He’s been fast asleep for some time. But you talk, you tell me, has the messenger returned? That man galloping hard along the lane bearing news from London?’

  ‘Hush, Mother!’

  Ursula brought out leather blackjacks of ale and handed them to Kathryn and Colum. She stood in the doorway just behind her mother, one hand resting protectively on her shoulder. Kathryn sipped at the bittersweet ale. Colum murmured his approval and, lifting the blackjack, toasted Ursula.

  ‘Your kindness is appreciated.’

  ‘You are Irish,’ Ursula retorted. ‘We had Irishmen here at the time of the troubles; fierce men they were, but they never hurt me or Mother. They just took our chickens and drank our ale.’

  Kathryn, cradling her blackjack in one hand, stretched out and gently caressed the Vaudois woman’s lined cheek.

  ‘Lady, I have come to ask you questions.’

  ‘Ask no questions, get no lies,’ the Vaudois replied. ‘Though you have a soft touch, Mistress. I had a soft touch. Skin, he said, as soft as shot silk.’ She had forgotten about the doll and now touched the tendrils of her straggly hair. ‘Black as ravens’ wings, skin white as snow.’ The Vaudois moved her head. ‘Do you think we’ll have snow, Mistress? Or is it still too warm? But he’s gone now.’ The Vaudois blinked. ‘Now my body has grown old with nasty sin.’

  ‘We’ve come about the maze,’ Kathryn told Ursula. ‘No one but Sir Walter knew the path through?’

  ‘Aye,’ Ursula agreed. ‘And in times past only the old lord knew. He kept it a secret, he did.’

  ‘No secret from me,’ the Vaudois woman harshly interrupted. ‘Told me all his secrets, he did, whispering them into my ear.’ Tears filled her eyes. ‘Love-filled nights, perfume-drenched sheets. Do ghosts come back, Mistress?’

  ‘Perhaps he will,’ Kathryn replied ignoring Ursula’s sharp intake of breath. ‘Perhaps he’ll come and walk the maze again?’

  ‘Oh, that would be nice,’ the Vaudois simpered. ‘We used to take wine and bread in there.’

  ‘How did he find his way around?’ Kathryn asked. ‘Didn’t you ever get lost?’

  ‘Oh, he knew the way, did the master, his own little conceit, he called it. I once asked him the secret, do you know what he said? He replied in fanciful Latin: ‘Sub pede inter liberos.’’

  ‘Underfoot amongst the children,’ Kathryn translated.

  ‘That’s what he said. Now hush now.’ The Vaudois remembered the doll she carried. ‘He’ll wake soon and I’ll have to take him for a walk.’

  ‘Can’t you go?’ Ursula asked. ‘I am sorry but visitors only excite her.’

  Kathryn and Colum finished the ale, thanked Ursula, remounted their horses and left.

  ‘What do you think of that?’ Colum asked as they rode back onto the trackway.

  ‘Sub pede inter liberos,’ Kathryn repeated. ‘Underfoot amongst the children. Now, that’s a riddle to puzzle an Irishman’s wits.’ Kathryn turned to make sure the saddlebags strapped behind her were secure. ‘I’d like to go to Greyfriars first.’

  ‘And so you shall,’ Colum replied.

  They rode in silence. The spires of the cathedral and the black and red tiled roofs of the city rose into view. The road became busy as pedlars and chapmen, tinkers and farmers, a day’s trade finished, now left for home or other towns, a noisy, cheerful throng. Carts piled high with goods or full of children trundled by. Families, who had spent the day in the city, sat under the shade of trees. Pilgrims, grasping sturdy staffs, walked determinedly on to Dover. A group of men-at-arms, resplendent in their royal livery of blue, red and gold, clattered by clearing the road. One of them recognised Colum and called a greeting, but was gone in a cloud of dust before the Irishman could reply.

  They entered Ridingate. The day’s trade was drawing to an end, stalls were being dismantled: the scavengers were already out with their heavy carts clearing the open sewers of ordure and dung, removing the flyblown rubbish heaps. Kathryn was pleased. Time and again she had petitioned the Council, reminding them that the cleaning of the streets was essential, especially in summer. When they asked her why, she couldn’t give a reason except what her father had told her, as well as what she had read in manuscripts, how verminous flies lived on such refuse and spread infection. The dogman was also busy with his heavy cage and wooden cart to collect unwanted curs and mongrels. A group of scholars from the cathedral school scampered by, hitting each other with their battered leather satchels. The boys paused to watch a grinning match between two peasants: each contestant wore a horse collar, and the loser would have to don hop shackles for a while. The stocks and pillories were full of those who had broken the market regulations, the rotten produce, seized by the bailiffs, tied round their hapless necks.

  Colum rode ahead, forcing his way through the throng. Pilgrims and visitors, farmer peasants, desperate to get home, purse-proud merchants in their costly cote-hardies. Kathryn was reminded of a shoal of fish, the different colours, people fighting for room in the narrow streets with their overhanging signs. The lower stories of these buildings jutted out so low, riders had to be careful they didn’t strike their heads. Eventually they had to dismount and lead their horses. On one occasion Colum produced the royal seal to force a passage through a group of merchants who had surrounded some hapless chapman trading in the city without a licence. A funeral procession forced them into the doors of a house, the priest going before it chanting prayers like a child would a rhyme, the boy, staggering behind him, swinging a thurible which gave off grey puffs of incense.

  Eventually they reached the quarter Kathryn was familiar with, up Beer Cart Lane, past the Poor Priests’ Hospital and across the bridge before turning north into Greyfriars. They entered by a postern gate, and Kathryn had to shout at the rather deaf lay brother before they were allowed passage through. Another brother hurried up to apologise, took their reins as they dismounted, and promised he would look after the horses.

  ‘I would be grateful if you would tell Father Prior that we are here.’

  They made their way to the priory buildin
gs. In the cloisters the almoner was tending to a group of beggars, distributing the free clothing the priory held: shoes, sandals, breeches and jerkins, whatever the good brothers had collected in their begging forays throughout the city. They entered the church by the corpse door. Kathryn found the incense-filled nave refreshing after the hurly-burly of the city. The sun poured through the stained glass windows so they seemed to glow and burn in a variety of colours: fiery red, dark green, light blue and mother-of-pearl. Candles flickered on altars and before statues which stared stone-eyed down at this feast of light beneath them.

  Kathryn and Colum crossed the church, genuflected towards the pyx and made their way to the chantry chapel of St. Michael. The church was now deserted. A few visitors still stood in the doorway, but the lay brothers had rung the bell, and further up the nave the choir was practising a low, melodious chant. The words of the Magnificat carried softly through the incensed air like whispers from another world: ‘My soul does glorify the Lord. My spirit rejoices and God is my Saviour.’ The choir was preparing for the great feast of the Assumption. Kathryn guiltily realised that she had missed Mass, so caught up had she been in the affairs of Ingoldby Hall. She pressed against the door of the chantry chapel; it was still locked and bolted so she peered through the wooden grille. The chapel was as she had seen it before with its red turkey carpets and altar cloths. The silver chain still hung forlornly from the beam; its hook, shaped in the form of an S, winked in a sliver of light. Kathryn gazed at this intently.