by Paul Doherty
‘Will it remain?’ Lady Elizabeth clutched at the coverlet.
‘No, no. What you need to do is drink a great deal of pure spring water. Eat nothing till the morning and then limit yourself to dry bread. You may experience a little discomfort as your belly settles, a bile in your throat and mouth but don’t be alarmed. Dry bread and water and you’ll be well enough to attend the Requiem Mass.’
‘What poison?’
‘I don’t know.’ Kathryn shook her head. ‘How many leaves on a tree, Lady Elizabeth? I have, in my own apothecary’s chamber, belladonna, foxglove, deadly nightshade, at least two types of arsenic. I can go into the cathedral grounds and collect herbs and plants, mushrooms and berries which can stop the heart and kill within a few heartbeats.’
‘But could I still be in danger from what I drank?’
‘No,’ Kathryn reassured her. ‘My father once told me a story he’d read in the ancient chronicles of Rome. How the Emperor Claudius was poisoned but managed to purge his stomach by tickling his throat with a feather.’
‘And he survived?’
‘Well, yes he did, my lady. So the next time they poisoned the feather!’
Lady Elizabeth laughed.
‘Your belly has been cleansed. What concerns me is how that noxious substance was administered.’
Again Lady Elizabeth closed her eyes. ‘I thought about that myself, Mistress Swinbrooke. On one occasion Thurston took my cup across to refill it. On another Gurnell fetched the jug. There was movement around the table.’
‘And the nearest person?’
‘That was me!’ Eleanora’s voice cut across.
Kathryn turned round. Eleanora sat still as a statue, though her face blazed with anger.
‘I did not poison my mistress’s cup, nor did I see anything untoward!’
Kathryn nodded and turned back.
‘Lady Elizabeth, you must excuse me. I shall ask the infirmarian to prepare powders, something to soothe your stomach and ease the cramps.’
Kathryn left the chamber and one of the lay brothers took her across to the guest house. The austere refectory was still ablaze with light. Colum sat at the head of a table, the others on benches on either side. They all rose as Kathryn entered. Colum offered her his seat then stood behind her.
‘You are all cloaked and hooded,’ Kathryn observed.
‘We are to return to Ingoldby Hall,’ Mawsby explained. ‘Lady Elizabeth says she does not wish us to stay here tonight. We can, if we wish, return tomorrow morning for the Mass.’
‘I would have liked to stay,’ Father John spoke up.
Kathryn noticed the flush marks high in his cheeks; his eyes were bright, his speech rather slurred.
‘Forgive me, Mistress.’ He blinked and wetted his lips. ‘But I have drunk too much wine.’
He slumped against the table and put his face in his hands, talking to himself. Kathryn half-heard the words ‘Too much to bear.’
‘Where is the cup Lady Elizabeth drank from?’
Colum went across to the side table and brought back a simple pewter goblet.
‘No wine?’ Kathryn asked.
‘In her convulsions Lady Elizabeth knocked it from the table.’ Colum sniffed and handed it to her.
Kathryn also smelt it; there was the odour of wine and something else, a sharp acrid tang which she couldn’t place, and a slight touch of mint. Had that been used to mask the poison? She asked Colum to bring a candle over, and scrutinised the inside of the cup, but she could detect nothing. Kathryn moved her chair and stared down at the floor.
‘The good brothers cleaned the floor,’ Thurston slurred, his face heavy with drink. ‘Faugh!’ He waved his hand. ‘The stench was offensive. I did not envy them their task. They cleared the rushes, took them out for burning and scrubbed the floor. I never thought fresh rushes would smell so sweet.’
Kathryn rolled the cup between her hands.
‘Do any of you know how this noxious substance was administered?’
‘We have been through that time and time again.’ Father John took his hands away from his face. ‘Haven’t we, Gurnell?’
The master-of-arms agreed.
‘From the little I have learnt,’ Mawsby declared, ‘the poison must have been administered towards the end of the meal, but there was movement around the table, people getting up, platters being cleared, wine being poured. Look at the cups, Mistress, they are all the same. They were brought back and forwards to the table.’
‘Yes, that’s it!’ Gurnell snapped his fingers. ‘Do you remember, Thurston, rather than bring the jug to the table, you took the cups away to fill them?’
‘So?’ Thurston stared hot-eyed. ‘What are you implying?’
‘He’s implying nothing.’ Kathryn intervened. ‘Except that hands moved over cups.’
‘You’d see powder falling into a goblet,’ Father John declared.
‘How do we know it was powder?’ Kathryn retorted. ‘Some substances come in no more than little pellets, easy to drop into a brimming goblet and dissolving as quickly as sugar.’
‘But wouldn’t Lady Elizabeth notice?’
‘Wine is a good mask for poison, especially burgundy: its deep red colour would hide any change and its fullness any taste, at least for a while.’
Silence greeted her remarks.
Kathryn pushed back her chair. ‘The hour is growing late, sirs; you have a journey to make.’
They all rose, collected cloaks and war belts and trooped out of the refectory. Colum closed the door behind them.
‘Another mystery, eh?’ He came and sat on the edge of the bench.
‘Yes, a mystery. Any one of them could have poisoned Lady Elizabeth’s wine.’
‘Or her lady-in-waiting?’ Colum added.
‘But why their mistress?’ Kathryn tapped her fingers on the table. ‘True, she made an announcement about them leaving her service, but that came as a surprise. Why should they strike now at Lady Elizabeth?’
‘Perhaps a blood feud?’ Colum offered. ‘In Ireland the blood feud was root and branch; men, women and children, no one was spared.’
Kathryn leaned over and ruffled his unruly hair.
‘Root and branch, eh, Irishman?’ She tweaked his cheek. ‘The good Lord knows I am marrying a bloodthirsty man.’
Colum got up, leaned down and kissed her passionately on the lips, his hand caressing her side.
‘And one who loves you,’ he murmured as she pulled away. ‘Next time you go to Ingoldby I shall be with you.’
He went to kiss her again but Kathryn coyly withdrew.
‘No, I am not playing the reluctant princess, Irishman.’ She chuckled. ‘But I don’t want to give the good brothers a fright. They have had enough tumult for one evening. So, sit down.’ Kathryn leaned her elbows on the table. ‘Why Lady Elizabeth? Did they strike at her as they struck at me – because of something she might know? The assassin brought the poison into this refectory. He or she was intent on murder long before Lady Elizabeth spoke.’
‘Unless,’ Colum observed, ‘Eleanora knew what she intended to say. She appears devoted to her mistress and would not be happy if she was separated from the Lady Elizabeth. Should we question her?’
‘Perhaps later.’ Kathryn rose and pushed back the chair. ‘I promised Lady Elizabeth some powders. She thinks they are to settle her stomach but they’ll make her sleep. Let nature take care of itself.’
They left the refectory and returned to the infirmary. The brother who served as leech and apothecary was busily sifting powders into small jars in the light of a squat tallow candle. A cheery-eyed, merry-faced man, he was only too willing to discuss the different properties of certain powders, and fetched what Kathryn wanted. She sat on the high stool, the pots of angelica, burdock and white poppy on the table before her. Kathryn asked for the Leech Book.
‘I keep it well locked away.’
The monk smiled and went across to a cupboard, pulling back the bolts at top and bottom. He
inserted a key then whispered a curse.
‘Silly, silly man!’ He withdrew the key and opened the cupboard. ‘I thought I’d locked it but I hadn’t.’
He searched for the Leech Book and brought it out with a cry of triumph. Kathryn just stared.
‘Kathryn?’ Colum asked. ‘Are you well?’
Colum seldom saw his beloved speechless, but now she sat as if shocked, mouth slightly open, face slack, eyes intent on the Leech Book.
‘I wonder?’ she whispered.
Now the infirmarian was alarmed.
‘Mistress?’ He touched the side of her face with the back of his hand. ‘Mistress Swinbrooke?’
‘Isn’t it strange how God’s good grace makes itself felt? How we are to look at the little things of life?’
‘Kathryn,’ Colum warned.
‘I am well,’ she said briskly shaking herself from her reverie. ‘Brother, I would like this mixture, stirred into a glass of pure spring water. It must be stirred vigorously so it dissolves. Ensure Lady Elizabeth drinks it. You must also tell her only to eat and drink what is tasted by yourself.’
The brother was surprised but agreed. Kathryn thanked him and, absentmindedly clutching her cloak, walked out into the cobbled yard beyond.
‘What now, Kathryn?’
‘Why Irishman, bed!’
‘Together?’
‘On our wedding night for ever!’ Kathryn laughed.
Chapter 8
‘The gretteste clerkes been noght wisest men. . .’
—Chaucer, ‘The Reeve’s Tale,’
The Canterbury Tales, 1387
Much to Colum’s annoyance, Kathryn insisted on walking the magnificent, shadow-filled cloisters. She went round and round, refusing to be drawn into conversation. Occasionally she’d pause to stare at some grave-eyed statue or peer up at a hideous gargoyle sculptured with a monkey face and devil’s horns.
‘Did you know, Colum,’ she asked, increasing his exasperation, ‘that sometimes these gargoyles have the faces of those monks the stonemason didn’t like?’
‘Kathryn, what are we doing here?’
‘Why, thinking, Colum, and before I act, I want to be sure.’
Kathryn sat on the stone plinth and stared out across the cloister garth, a stretch of green grass which shimmered in the moonlight endowing the rose bushes in the centre with a spiritual aura.
‘Roses bloom full at midday, don’t they?’
‘Aye, and all God’s creatures are in bed by midnight,’ Colum retorted.
He glanced round the cloisters, a sea of moving shadows as the light from the cresset torches danced in the night breeze. Here and there a cowled figure slipped from a side door. A cathedral bell boomed and, from the choir stalls of the cathedral, drifted the words of the last hymn of the day: ‘Salve Regina, Mater Misericordia – Hail Holy Queen, Mother of Mercy.’
‘You are right.’ Kathryn sprang to her feet dusting off her gown. ‘There’s work to be done, Irishman, and sufficient for the day is the evil thereof.’
Kathryn and Colum left the cloisters, going out of the cathedral grounds and back down the emptying streets of Canterbury to Ottemelle Lane. Once she’d returned to her house Kathryn became very busy, bustling in and out of the apothecary chamber, lighting candles, pouring Colum and herself stoups of hot milk laced with nutmeg. Thomasina, who had fallen asleep in the high-backed chair before the hearth, woke heavy-eyed.
‘Do you know what Kathryn is doing, Irishman?’
Colum just shrugged and sipped at the stoup of milk.
‘She’s never been the same since you arrived,’ Thomasina declared. ‘She’s to be married but doesn’t give it a second thought. I’ve got to tell her, Oswald the pewterer came here – ’
‘Who?’ Kathryn came back into the kitchen.
‘Oswald! He thinks his wife is pregnant.’
‘Oh no!’ Kathryn breathed.
‘Oh yes.’ Thomasina grinned. ‘And he’s suffering from mother-pains again.’
‘Mother-pains?’ Colum queried.
‘A rare condition.’ Kathryn laughed. ‘No one knows the cause but some men, when their wives are expecting, suffer birth pangs.’
‘Nonsense!’ Colum whispered.
‘My father met a number of cases,’ Kathryn continued, ‘and so have I. Oswald is now our peritus, our expert on the matter. He’s given birth to no less than three children in his time. You did explain, Thomasina?’
‘For the hundreth time,’ Thomasina replied. ‘I gave him some water mixed with sugar and honey. I told him it was a special cure. I stirred in some camomile and peppermint. He drank it and pronounced himself better. I gave him my lecture, like any master at his podium at Cambridge, how it is the woman who gives birth. God bless her!’ She glared at Colum. ‘The man’s work is already done. Now, Mistress, what are you . . .?’
Kathryn, however, had already left the kitchen. Thomasina, mystified, followed her. Kathryn became like this when she was working on a problem or a disease or ailment which baffled her. Much to her surprise Thomasina found Kathryn consulting a book on the life of St. Francis of Assisi as well as fiddling with the key and lock to her apothecary chamber.
Kathryn finally retired and rose early the next morning, coming down to the kitchen to break her fast on bread and watered ale. A messenger arrived from the cathedral to say that Lady Elizabeth had slept well, felt much better and sent Mistress Swinbrooke her sincere thanks as well as a small purse of silver. Kathryn seemed distracted, unconcerned about this; she was about to leave for Greyfriars when a second knock on the door sent Thomasina fluttering down the passageway.
‘If it’s a patient,’ Kathryn called, ‘I cannot help. Tell him, or her, she’ll have to wait.’
Thomasina returned to the kitchen, a dark-haired man following. Kathryn didn’t recognise him: his hair was cropped short and he wore a rather frayed linen shirt with a small cote-hardie over it, and dark blue hose pushed into battered black boots. He carried a small leather bag in his hand and stood at the entrance to the kitchen gazing sad-eyed at Kathryn. His red face was unshaven and he kept nervously scratching his stubbled chin.
‘Mistress Swinbrooke, I am Thomas Bishopsgate.’
‘What can I do for you, Master Bishopsgate?’
The man cleared his throat and shook the leather bag.
‘I must have words with you, Mistress.’
‘Sir, I am sorry. I do not know you. I have business elsewhere.’
‘Ingoldby Hall?’ the man replied. ‘The great manor house of Sir Walter?’
Kathryn beckoned him forward to sit on the bench.
‘You wish something to eat or drink, Master Bishopsgate?’
The man agreed to some ale and bread smeared with honey.
‘I live in Radegund Street near St. John’s Hospital,’ he explained. ‘My daughter, Veronica . . .’
‘Oh yes.’ Kathryn sat down in the chair at the top of the table. ‘Master Bishopsgate, I am so sorry. . . .’
‘We buried her yesterday evening. Afterwards I thought I should come and see you. They say that you will find who murdered my Veronica?’
‘In God’s good time.’
‘I hope so.’ Bishopgate’s hand shot out and he grasped Kathryn’s, squeezing it tightly. ‘She was a comely maid. I own a small ale house. I put silver away for her dowry. I did not want her to work with me, have customers pawing at her bosom, so I sent her to the great house. She was happy there.’
‘If God is good,’ Kathryn replied, ‘I will find your daughter’s killer and that person will hang from the gallows. They will answer to the King and to God for such a hideous deed.’
‘Good, but I have not come for vengeance.’ Bishopsgate chewed softly at the bread, savouring the honey. ‘I am hungry,’ he whispered. ‘I couldn’t eat last night. Well, Mistress, as you may know, they brought my daughter’s corpse back and a sack of her possessions. I went through them.’
He opened the small leather bag and pulled out what K
athryn thought was a dark green napkin stained at one corner. Bishopsgate unrolled it, laying it flat on the table. Kathryn’s heart skipped a beat. It was a mask, a small sack really, with holes cut for the eyes, nose and mouth. When she picked it up and examined the edge she found the dark stain was crusted blood.
‘I’ve looked at it myself, Mistress.’ Bishopsgate pushed the mask towards her. ‘I asked myself, why should my daughter have a foul-some thing like that? Perhaps some mummer’s game? Then I studied the stain: the blood is dry but quite fresh. My girl Veronica never liked blood. If that was hers she would have washed it.’
‘Can I keep this?’
‘Of course.’ Bishopsgate pushed some more bread into his mouth, chewing noisily, slurping at the ale.
‘How did you find this?’ Kathryn asked.
‘Oh, she had clothes neatly folded, a kirtle, hose; it lay there, between them.’
He paused as Colum came into the kitchen. Kathryn made the introductions. Colum examined the mask.
‘Like a hangman’s,’ he murmured. ‘But theirs is red, not green.’
Kathryn studied it. The fabric was of serge, two parts stiched together. Had it been specially made? Or was it a small bag cut to form a mask?
‘Tell me, Master Bishopsgate.’ She folded the mask up and pushed it to one side. ‘Did Veronica ever talk to you about Ingoldby Hall?’
‘Ah, Mistress, only chatter and gossip.’
‘Yes, but what chatter?’ Kathryn leaned across the table. ‘You know how it is, Master Bishopsgate, in these great households. If I ask questions the answers are polite but not satisfactory. No one dare speak, they do not want to be dismissed.’
‘But why was my daughter killed?’
‘I don’t know, Master Bishopsgate.’
‘She wasn’t involved in that bloody affray, was she?’
‘No, of course not,’ Kathryn reassured him, though secretly, she could not say. ‘Did she talk about Ingoldby?’ she repeated.
‘Oh yes. She said that Sir Walter was a good man but secretive. Lady Elizabeth was the great, well, the great lady. Veronica really had little to do with either of them. She did chatter about the rest. How Master Gurnell used to visit the Vau . . .’