by Paul Doherty
‘What’s the matter, Stephen?’ Kathryn had asked.
The man scratched his tousled head and muttered something. Kathryn studied him quickly, his strong hand and firm fingers, the neat hose and leather jerkin. She’d always liked Stephen, with his merry ways and open face. He was good-hearted and generous, a skilled craftsman. Farmers and merchants came from all over Canterbury, as well as the villages beyond, to buy Stephen’s sacks. He never cheated or used base material, and he contributed to the parish by fashioning clothes for beggars and those who came demanding relief.
‘Stephen, what is the matter? You look hale and healthy to me! Judith your wife is well? The boys?’
‘I was drinking in the Fastolf,’ Stephen’s head came up. ‘Goldere the clerk made a merry jest,’ he spat the words out, ‘that my wife was a by-leman!’
‘Oh no!’ Kathryn groaned. She recognised this old wives’ tale: how, if a woman conceived and bore twins, she must have fornicated with another man.
‘If you believe that, Stephen,’ Kathryn declared, ‘then you are a great fool and you do your wife a grave injury: a wickedness which you should confess and be shriven.’
‘I know that,’ he spluttered. ‘But one womb . . .?’
‘Listen, Stephen.’ Kathryn grasped his hand. ‘Your wife bore twins because her womb conceived twice over.’ She smiled. ‘Like a fruitful tree. So you tell Goldere that if he spreads such a jest you will box his ears; your wife conceiving twins means you are a man twice over. Tell Goldere that he shows as much knowledge about life as he does about writing, which is nothing. Ask him to come and see me. I will educate him and box his ears as well.’
Eventually mollified, Stephen left much happier and a little wiser. Kathryn saw to other patients. Colum had gone out to King’s Mead then returned for the evening meal. He was up in his chamber trying to mend some piece of saddlery, eyes intent, tongue sticking out of his mouth as he worked.
Kathryn pushed the ledger away and drew across the sheet of vellum on which she had written down all she had learnt about Ingoldby Hall.
Primo: The murder in the maze. Who, how and why?
Secundo: Veronica’s murder. Who and why?
Tertio: The slaying of Hockley. Who and why?
Kathryn paused and tried to recall why the assassin had regarded her as so dangerous. What had she done except visit the maze and walk that murder-haunted manor? The assassin must have seen her, but what had she done to alarm him or her? She had found no manuscript in the library, no clue behind these hideous murders. Kathryn returned to her writing. Quarto: Were these murders some rotten fruit left over from the massacre at Towton some twelve years earlier? What was the Italian word for a blood feud? Oh yes, a vendetta. Had Maltravers been responsible for deaths which he now had to pay for? Or were the roots of this much earlier in Sir Walter’s escape from Constantinople? She returned to her first question. The maze! If only she could discover how the murderer had entered. What had the Vaudois woman said? ‘Sub pede inter liberos.’ Underfoot amongst the children? That’s how Thomasina described Wulf, always underfoot. But there were no children at Ingoldby Hall! Kathryn threw the quill down in exasperation and put her face in her hands. And then, of course – she took her hands away – there was the business of Greyfriars. According to appearances, the thief Laus Tibi had escaped from sanctuary, and it was probably he who had taken the receptacle to that craftsman. So, was the thief involved in the disappearance of the relic? But how?
Kathryn heard a knock on the door, and Thomasina answered it. She could tell by her maid’s cooing and soft words that it could be no other than Father Cuthbert from the Poor Priests’ Hospital. Kathryn rose as the chamber door opened. Father Cuthbert, eyes screwed up against the candle light, came into the chamber. Behind him was Thomasina, fingers all a-fluttering ready to take his cloak. He handed that over to her and Thomasina held it as she would a child.
‘And would Father like some ale?’ she asked. ‘And he did look hungry?’
Father Cuthbert settled for a blackjack, and Thomasina reluctantly withdrew. Kathryn ushered the priest to the chair beside her desk.
‘You look well, Father.’
‘In other words, I haven’t changed, Kathryn – the same mop of white hair, the same bony frame and lined old face!’
‘But those dark eyes are full of life,’ Kathryn retorted, kissing him gently on each cheek. ‘Pax tibi Pater, peace be with you.’
‘Et pax tecum filia, and peace be with you my daughter.’ Father Cuthbert put his elbows on the arms of the chair. ‘You are ready for the great wedding day?’
‘I still have nightmares about Alexander Wyville.’
‘Tush, Kathryn. Be he in Heaven, Hell or Purgatory,’ Father Cuthbert smiled, ‘or in London, he’s dead to you. Live your life, woman. Colum’s a good man. The banns have been read. I am looking forward to dancing with Thomasina.’
‘I heard that.’
The maid bustled into the chamber, carrying two tankards: one she placed in front of Kathryn, the other she almost pushed into Father Cuthbert’s hand. She went back and stood in the shadow of the doorway.
‘Do you remember, Father, many years ago how we danced? Nimble and merry, two souls under the stars!’
Kathryn couldn’t make out Thomasina’s face but she caught the deep sadness in her voice.
‘And we’ll dance again, Thomasina, on the greens of Canterbury as well as in the halls of Heaven.’
Father Cuthbert didn’t turn round but raised the tankard to his face. Thomasina coughed and closed the door softly behind her.
‘Oh, that man you sent to me.’ Father Cuthbert didn’t lift his head: he, too, was lost in the past.
‘What about him, Father?’
‘I came to tell you that the lump in his throat was a small fish bone. I dislodged it.’
‘Did you come to tell me that, Father, or flirt with Thomasina?’
Father Cuthbert glanced up, a smile on his lips though his eyes were sad.
‘We are, Kathryn, prisoners of our past, that’s what St. Augustine called us: souls haunted by dreams, images, memories, not only of life on earth but of what God intended us to be.’
‘You are sad? You’ve come to share this.’ Kathryn tried to keep her voice light.
‘No, no, I heard about the business at Ingoldby Hall. You know how servants chatter. You sent one of them to me.’
‘Oh yes,’ Kathryn recalled.
Father Cuthbert put the blackjack of ale on the ground beside him and leaned forward, grasping Kathryn’s hands between his.
‘I worry about you, Kathryn, especially when you examine these brutal, mysterious deaths. They say there was an attack upon you. No, no, listen.’ He let go of her hands and picked up the blackjack of ale. ‘I am an old priest, Kathryn. I have heard the confessions of hundreds, perhaps even thousands. I have absolved sins you can’t imagine, heard of hideous cruelty, but I always recognise one very important fact. The men and women who come to be shriven acknowledge they are sinners: they seek absolution. They are determined on reparation. However, in my life, I have also met people who don’t give a fig about God or the devil, about right or wrong. They seem to have no conscience. They will do what they want, carry out some heinous deed to achieve their ends. That’s what’s happening at Ingoldby. Sir Walter has been barbarously murdered and you have interfered, so you must be stopped.’
‘Do you know anything about Sir Walter?’ Kathryn asked.
‘No, I don’t, so don’t change the subject.’ Father Cuthbert smiled. ‘I heard about his murder in the maze and I knew something of that. Ah!’ He lifted a hand. ‘Now I have your attention. You are going to ignore my advice anyway, aren’t you?’
‘You know about the maze?’
‘Not about that maze,’ Father Cuthbert replied. ‘Do you remember Peterkin the poacher?’
‘How can I forget him?’ Kathryn laughed. ‘The eternal source of fresh meat! Do you remember when he was caught with two rabbits
in a bag, he claimed they must have crawled in there to die?’
Father Cuthbert joined in her laughter.
‘Well, Peterkin’s a very sick man now. He coughs bloody sputum but I’ve made him comfortable at the hospital. We have good conversations, Kathryn; oh, the stories he can tell about the countryside. I’d heard about the maze. Now Peterkin could steal through any hedge or fence, so I asked him if he wanted to enter a maze, but not through the entrance, how would he do it?’
‘And?’ Kathryn asked.
‘Peterkin laughed. He said if you climbed over the hedge you’d be seen whilst you certainly can’t climb through it! Peterkin explained how the weakest part of the hedge was the base.’
‘But that’s not true,’ Kathryn declared. ‘The roots are deep set, close to each other.’
‘Not necessarily, Kathryn. Peterkin claimed he could penetrate any hedge. First, there’s often a gap between the ground and the bottom of the hedge. Secondly, the roots seem to be planted close together, but that can often be an illusion.’
Kathryn recalled what she had seen at Ingoldby Hall and shook her head.
‘Perhaps a slim Peterkin could weasel through – but a man with a sword?’
‘Ah no, Kathryn. Peterkin insisted you must search for two weaknesses: a gap between the roots and one between the bottom of the hedge and the ground. Remember, such gaps are often hidden by the long grass and weeds which sprout under hedgerows. What you do then is take a saw and cut through each root, forcing it apart, widening the gap.’
Kathryn closed her eyes. ‘But these hedgerows are evergreens. The sap flows all year and the trunk of the hedge would be difficult to sever.’
‘No more than an oak tree for a woodman,’ Father Cuthbert explained. ‘I would examine that maze again, Kathryn. Peterkin added that sometimes a hedge can begin to die so the trunk of the hedge is easier to cut.’
Kathryn couldn’t recall seeing anything like that at Ingoldby. She was about to ask Father Cuthbert if he wanted his blackjack refilled when there was a pounding at the door, followed by Thomasina’s exclamations. The noise even roused Colum upstairs, and he came clattering down. Kathryn excused herself and left the chamber as she recognised Mawsby’s voice.
‘I’m here, Master Mawsby. What is the matter?’
The secretarius pushed by Thomasina, his face flushed, eyes gleaming.
‘Master Mawsby, you’ve been drinking!’
‘Aye, mistress, but I’m sober enough now. You must come to the guest house at the cathedral: Lady Elizabeth has been poisoned!’
‘Poisoned?’ Colum came up behind Kathryn. ‘What makes you so certain? Is she dead?’
Mawsby shook his head. ‘A leech amongst the monks says she must have vomited the noxious substance. She is weak but well and has asked for Mistress Swinbrooke.’
‘We’d best go,’ Kathryn whispered.
‘Is it safe?’ Father Cuthbert stood in the doorway of the apothecary’s chamber.
‘If you say your prayers, Father, I’ll be safe.’ Kathryn kissed him gently on each cheek.
She hastened upstairs and quickly put on hose and a stout pair of walking boots. She grabbed her cloak and the walking cudgel kept in the corner. Mawsby and Colum were waiting for her outside in the street. The night air had a slight chill now it was fully dark; the lanterns on either side of the doorway threw bright arcs of light.
‘Shall I come?’ Thomasina called.
‘Look after Father Cuthbert.’
Thomasina needed no second bidding, shutting the door quickly behind them.
‘I came by foot,’ Mawsby explained, hastening ahead.
‘Is Lady Elizabeth in any danger?’ Kathryn hurried up beside him.
‘I don’t think so, Mistress, but . . .’
‘Who was at the dinner?’
Mawsby listed the principal members of the household.
‘And what were you talking about?’ Kathryn asked.
‘It’s strange you ask, Mistress.’ Mawsby paused to ease the stitch in his side. ‘The Lady Elizabeth questioned us on our whereabouts the afternoon her husband was killed.’ He held Kathryn’s gaze. ‘She agrees with you, the assassin must be a member of her household. She caused some upset, especially when she announced that we were all to leave her service as she does not feel safe.’
‘Will she stay at Ingoldby?’
‘I doubt it,’ Mawsby replied, hurrying on. ‘The hall holds ill memories for her.’
Colum caught them up, still trying to strap his war belt securely about him. They crossed Bridge Street, past the Guild Hall and the Chequer of Hope tavern into Palace Street, through Christ-church Gate into the cathedral grounds. Kathryn ignored the street scenes, the patrolling bailiffs, the revellers outside taverns, those dark shadows hovering at the mouths of alleyways and runnels. She wanted to ask Mawsby more questions but the secretarius was clearly discomfited. She paused to catch her own breath and stared up at the dark mass of the cathedral: crenellations and spires, buttresses, roofs, windows gleaming in the bright night. Here and there Kathryn glimpsed the glow of a candle. The awesome sanctity of the place always impressed her, that fragrant smell of incense which persisted whatever the weather or the hour. Time and again her father had brought her here, especially in the winter months when the pilgrim season had ended, and they’d both marvelled at the lustrous beauty of Becket’s shrine.
Kathryn, Colum, and Mawsby went up the paths past the Bell Tower and into the monastery precincts, a place of shadows and fiercely burning cresset torches. Now and again a monk would slip by, silent as a shadow. They crossed the cloisters, down paved passageways. Suddenly a beautiful voice, some soloist rehearsing for the feast of the Assumption, sang out a hymn to the Virgin Mary.
‘To you most favoured Lady.
Gloria, Gloria . . .’
Kathryn would have loved to listen but Mawsby, apparently oblivious to his surroundings, urged her on. They crossed a grassy patch of ground towards a half-open door of a two-storied building, the light pouring out. The brother inside introduced himself as the guest master and took Kathryn up the wooden staircase to a chamber on the first floor. Lady Elizabeth was in the simple cot bed, the bolsters piled behind her. She was dressed in a white nightgown edged with blue piping, hair falling down to her shoulders. She was pale, her skin white as the driven snow, and her eyes seemed larger.
‘I’m glad you came, Mistress. I apologise.’ Bereft of any haughtiness, Lady Elizabeth stretched out a hand towards Kathryn.
Eleanora, on a stool near the bed, got up and moved to a bench beside the wall. Kathryn sat down on the vacated stool and took Lady Elizabeth’s hand. Colum stood, embarrassed, in the doorway, Mawsby behind him.
‘Please wait for me downstairs, Colum,’ Kathryn murmured. ‘In fact, I’d like you to collect Father John and the rest. I need to speak to them in the refectory.’
Colum was only too pleased to close the door against Lady Elizabeth’s glare. Kathryn rested her fingers on the young woman’s wrist.
‘A little quick but nothing alarming.’ She then stood up and pressed her fingers against the soft neck. ‘I am trying to measure the beat of your blood.’ Kathryn smiled down at Lady Elizabeth. ‘It’s good and strong. Are you in any pain?’
Lady Elizabeth tapped her stomach. ‘A soreness,’ she explained.
‘That would be from the retching.’
Kathryn pulled back the coverlet. Lady Elizabeth did not resist as Kathryn placed her ear against her stomach, listening intently.
‘Your humours are certainly agitated.’ Kathryn sat down on the stool. ‘But you have no pains elsewhere? No burning at the back of the throat, sores or blemishes on the skin?’
‘None.’
‘Stretch our your hands,’ Kathryn ordered.
Lady Elizabeth obeyed.
‘Squeeze your fingers into a fist. Good! You have no lack of strength in your legs or feet?’
‘None,’ Lady Elizabeth replied.
‘Do yo
u feel hungry?’
Lady Elizabeth’s fingers went to her mouth. ‘I will not drink wine for some time.’ She half-laughed in embarrassment.
‘Tell me what happened,’ Kathryn demanded.
‘I had finished my vigil before Sir Walter’s coffin. I returned to my own chamber. The brothers said that supper was ready and I went down to the refectory. I do not want to repeat what I said to my household.’ She glanced quickly across at Eleanora sitting on the bench, head down. ‘I ate reasonably well: slivers of duck and venison, a manchet loaf smeared with butter.’
‘And that tasted well?’
‘Thurston served me from the main platter. I felt no discomfort. I do have a delicate stomach, Mistress Swinbrooke. Afterwards we had some pastries and comfits. I remember drinking the wine a little faster than I should have done.’
‘What wine?’ Kathryn asked.
‘From a jug, kept on the dresser.’
‘As you drank, Lady Elizabeth, did you notice any distaste? Think carefully.’
Lady Elizabeth closed her eyes. ‘I remember drinking the wine and thinking that it was rather sharp, acrid, but that may have been my own humours. Then I felt nauseous. At first just a a little, but then this pain shot through.’ She opened her eyes.
‘Mistress Swinbrooke, it was like a knife being turned. I couldn’t sit still. I wanted to get up. I could feel my gorge rising. I wanted to vomit but found it difficult. I remember collapsing to the floor amidst screams and yells. The pain ceased but then returned. I was violently sick.’ She pulled a face. ‘I must apologise to the good brothers.’
‘And no one else suffered any discomfort?’
‘No, Mistress, they did not! Mawsby may have told you the news. I am becoming afeared of my own household. Was I poisoned?’
‘With a sudden upset like that,’ Kathryn replied, ‘and symptoms suffered by no one else, I suspect so. The acrid-tasting wine was probably tainted. What saved you was the retching and vomiting. Your belly violently purged itself, hence the soreness now.’