by Paul Doherty
Kathryn glanced across at a small shelf beneath the crucifix holding a sacred relic. Murtagh had once fought for Richard of York. The Irishman had often discussed Duchess Cecily, a haughty but very beautiful woman. In her youth she had been known as ‘the Rose of Raby.’
‘That explains,’ Luberon murmured, ‘why Duchess Cecily so often visited Canterbury.’
‘Atworth became her confessor, even adviser,’ Bouchier said.
‘Was he a charlatan?’ Kathryn asked.
‘Oh no! Prior Anselm considered him a very good, holy man, noted for severe discipline against himself but compassion for others. Atworth’s life at the friary was austere: He wore a hair shirt, fasted, and prayed. However, Prior Anselm conceded that Atworth was haunted by his past. Hideous deeds were perpetrated in France,’ Bourchier murmured. ‘Have you ever heard of “the Ecorcheurs,” Kathryn?’
‘Who hasn’t?’ she replied. ‘Homo lupus homini: Man became wolf to man.’
‘I would agree with that.’ Bourchier cleared his throat. ‘Simon, Kathryn, do you wish some wine?’
Both shook their heads and smiled at each other. Any cup of wine, coupled with the heat from the fire, would have sent them to sleep. Bourchier patted his stomach.
‘I would love one, but my physician has told me’ – he grinned at Kathryn – ‘to wait until after vespers. Ah yes, “the Ecorcheurs,’” he continued. ‘They were Free Companies who fought under the banners of the great English lords. They won their name because they supposedly flayed Frenchmen alive. No wonder the English were called “Goddamns” or “Devils without tails”! Anyway, Atworth was one of these; but like Saul on the road to Damascus, he saw the error of his ways and came back to God. To cut a long story short, Atworth died on the Feast of the Annunciation.’
‘How old was he?’ Kathryn demanded.
‘Around his seventy-eighth summer, almost as old as me,’ Bourchier joked. ‘He was found dead in his chamber. The door was locked and bolted from the inside so his manservant, the lay brother Jonquil, called for help. The door was forced. Inside Atworth lay on the bed; apparently he had died in his sleep.’
‘Was he in good health?’
‘Sickly,’ Bourchier replied, ‘but of a very robust constitution.’
He bowed his head. Kathryn noticed how the Archbishop had drawn mother-of-pearl paternoster beads out of his pocket and was gently threading these through his fingers.
‘Prior Anselm and Brother Simon the infirmarian were the first to see the corpse. It bore no mark of violence except’ – Bourchier scratched his chin – ‘here.’ He tapped his wrists and, leaning down, his ankle. ‘The stigmata.’
‘What?’ Kathryn exclaimed.
‘The Five Wounds of Christ,’ Bourchier declared. ‘Holes, the size of nails, through his wrists and on the instep of each foot just beneath the ankle, and a similar wound to his left side.’
‘Impossible!’ Kathryn breathed. ‘The same marks of the crucifixion? Christ was nailed by his hands and feet to the cross and a spear thrust through his side.’
‘Were the wounds bleeding?’ Luberon asked.
‘No, just filled with blood. Prior Anselm described them as “sacred rubies,” the blood frothing round the cut, though it hadn’t flowed. There’s more. As you know, our Saviour was crowned by the heathens with a coronet of thorns thrust into his scalp. Similar marks were found around Atworth’s scalp.’
Kathryn stared in disbelief. She had heard of such miraculous manifestations but never really believed in them.
‘Was a physician called?’
‘Brother Simon is a skilled physician,’ Bourchier retorted. ‘I understand your disbelief, Kathryn, but other members of the community were called to act as witnesses. The body was stripped; the stigmata were clear to see.’
‘And Brother Simon ascertained the cause of death?’
‘Atworth’s face was serene, his skin slightly discoloured: Failure of the heart is quite common in a man of his age.’
‘And these wounds had never been seen before on Atworth?’
‘Never, though he had often complained of pains in his wrists and ankles and similar pains in his left side.’
Kathryn held her peace. She remembered her father’s advice: ‘Never ascribe to God,’ he’d declared, ‘what can be the work of man.’
‘I wish I could have seen that,’ Luberon declared.
‘Yes, that’s a good point.’ Kathryn paused. ‘Why didn’t Prior Anselm broadcast the news through the city?’
‘Because he was under strict orders not to.’ Bourchier patted the gold pectoral cross against his chest. ‘I am the leader of the Church of England. I do not take kindly to every corpse being claimed as the relic of a saint. Prior Anselm did send a message to me; I went to view the corpse myself.’
‘You saw this?’ Luberon exclaimed.
‘With my own eyes. I tell you: marks of thorns on the forehead, the wounds on the wrists and insteps, the jabbing cut just under the rib cage. Atworth’s clothes were on the floor: a hair shirt, linen drawers, his brown robe and girdle, and nothing else. I questioned Prior Anselm closely. He claimed Atworth had been ill, kept to his chamber two days before he died, but nothing untoward happened. There was more. When Anselm greeted me at the door, he asked me to comment on whatever I found remarkable in Atworth’s chamber. He was careful not to suggest anything.’
‘And?’
‘I was only in the chamber a few seconds, more concerned with inspecting the cadaver, when I became aware of the strongest perfume. It seemed to pervade the entire chamber. Now, Mistress Swinbrooke, you have been in rooms where people have died. You can almost smell death. Atworth’s chamber was different: Its one window still remained shuttered.’
‘What was the smell?’ Kathryn demanded.
‘Like sweet roses and lilies crushed and distilled. I knelt and said a requiem for Atworth. I noticed how his flesh had a slightly cold, waxy feel. Prior Anselm asked me what we should do. I gave orders for Atworth’s corpse to be buried immediately. Anselm objected. Duchess Cecily had to pay her respects, so I agreed. A scurrier was sent to Islip. Duchess Cecily, accompanied by her son Clarence and a small group of retainers, slipped into Canterbury. The Duchess, too, was full of wonderment at what she saw. The following morning, the twenty-sixth of March, Atworth was buried beneath the flagstones before the Lady Chapel in the friary church.’
As a physician Kathryn was full of interest in such a remarkable case. She only wished she could have inspected the wonderful phenomenon. In her time she had met men and women who claimed to be saints, even angels, but there had been nothing wrong with them which a good dose of valerian wouldn’t cure.
‘And this fragrance, you couldn’t trace the source?’
‘The chamber was simple: wooden floor, stone walls, a broken coffer, a table, a battered chair, nothing more than you could load into a small cart. Atworth died a very poor man. Now, as I have said, the burial took place on the twenty-sixth of March. The friary returned to its normal routine, but Jonquil, the lay brother, was very upset. In the evenings, just before sunset, he went and prayed before Atworth’s tomb. On the thirty-first of March, the Feast of St. Ceadda, Jonquil was praying there when he claims to have smelt the same wondrous fragrance I had smelt in Atworth’s death chamber. The Lady Chapel glowed in light: He saw a figure, dressed all in white, a cowl pulled over its head . . .’
‘Oh no,’ Kathryn interrupted, ‘he saw an apparition of Atworth?’
‘Jonquil stood petrified. He heard a voice ordering him to tell Father Prior what he had seen. Jonquil obeyed. Terrified, he fled the church. Prior Anselm, Brother Simon, and others hastily returned to the Lady Chapel. They saw nothing, but once again, they smelt that fragrance.’
Kathryn lifted up her hand. ‘Of course,’ she whispered, ‘I’ve heard of this. My maid and nurse, Thomasina, always brings me the chatter of the city; she talked of wondrous doings at the Friary of the Sack.’
‘The news has spread
throughout Canterbury. Atworth’s tomb has been visited, and miracles have occurred.’
‘Miracles?’ Kathryn enquired.
‘You don’t deny God’s work?’ Bourchier smiled.
‘No, I don’t, Your Eminence, though I am more concerned with men’s credulity. What sort of miracles?’
Bourchier hid his grin behind a hand. ‘A young bridegroom worried about his impotence lay over the flagstones.’
‘Oh no!’
‘Listen!’ Bourchier continued. ‘He said he had rubbed his genitals against the stone. When he returned home, his potency had returned.’
Luberon sat straight in the chair, a look of disapproval on his face.
‘Simon, Simon’ – the Archbishop leaned across and tapped him on the wrist – ‘these things happen. There have been others. A young woman with a skin disease visited the friary. She suffered from scrofula; that disappeared. An old soldier who suffered an ailment of the bowels also claimed to be cured, as did a mother whose infant had been bitten on the wrist by a rat.’
‘Any more?’ Kathryn asked.
‘Why? Do you disbelieve, Kathryn?’
‘I don’t, Your Eminence. I am just intrigued.’
‘The Duchess Cecily?’ Luberon chimed in.
‘Ah yes, Simon, the Duchess Cecily.’ Bourchier peered at the hour candle on its great, black iron stand. ‘The flame has almost reached the seventh circle,’ he remarked. ‘Our visitors will have arrived.’
‘What visitors?’
‘The Duchess Cecily is very pleased at all these reports. She has sent her henchman, Walter Venables, to meet us here, along with Cardinal Peter Spineri.’
‘The White Cardinal!’ Kathryn exclaimed. ‘The papal legate?’
‘The same,’ Bourchier confirmed. ‘He has travelled up from London to be the King’s guest at Islip. Duchess Cecily is demanding that the life, death, and miracles of Atworth be investigated. Cardinal Spineri has promised to place Atworth’s case before the Holy Father in Rome for beatification.’
Kathryn’s stomach clenched. She half-suspected what was going to happen next.
‘You know the process,’ Bourchier murmured. ‘Spineri will be the Advocatus Angeli, the Advocate of the Angel: his task will be to prove that Atworth is truly a saint and now enjoys the vision of God.’ He leaned across and grasped Kathryn’s wrist. ‘Mistress Swinbrooke, you are an excellent physician, a wise woman, nobody’s fool. I have heard of your reputation.’
‘Other excellent physicians work in Canterbury.’
‘They can be bought,’ Bourchier smiled, ‘either by being frightened or bribed. Kathryn, I want you to be the Advocatus Diaboli, the Devil’s Advocate. It will be your task to prove that Atworth’s life, death, and so-called miracles do not warrant beatification and canonisation.’
Kathryn studied the watery, shrewd eyes of this old Archbishop. ‘A true fox’ was how Colum had described him.
‘Surely,’ she whispered, ‘Canterbury can afford another saint?’
Bourchier’s eyes wrinkled in amusement.
As cunning as a serpent, Kathryn reflected. Bourchier would concede to Duchess Cecily’s demand and do everything he could do to assist, but that glance told her everything. Bourchier was Archbishop of Canterbury, and his cathedral housed the sacred remains of Thomas a Becket.
‘What are you thinking, Kathryn?’
‘Why, Your Eminence, I am sure you know. Canterbury can only afford one saint. If the Church of the Friars of the Sack holds the remains of a holy man, pilgrims might become diverted, take their offerings elsewhere.’
Bourchier’s eyes widened in mock innocence.
‘Oh, Kathryn, how could you?’
‘Quite easily, Your Eminence.’
‘But will you accept the task?’
‘Duchess Cecily is a powerful woman.’
‘Aye, Kathryn, but Colum Murtagh also has the King’s ear.’ Bourchier raised his hand and sketched a blessing towards her. ‘I am eighty-two years old, Kathryn.’ His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘I have seen kings and princes come and go, but the power of the Church remains. I will protect you.’
Not waiting for an answer, Bourchier leaned over the arm of his chair, picked up a small hand-bell from the floor, and rang it vigorously. The door at the far end opened. ‘Your Eminence?’ a servant called.
Bourchier leaned his head against the back of the chair. ‘Have my visitors arrived?’
‘Both are waiting in the antechamber.’
‘Then let them wait no longer.’
Huffing and puffing, Bourchier eased himself up. Kathryn and Luberon hastened to help; and flanked by both, Bourchier walked down the room across the multi-coloured Saracen carpets, and paused half-way. Servants carrying sconce torches came in, followed by a cross-bearer and a chamberlain. Whilst the servants took up positions on either side of the hall, the chamberlain walked forward.
‘Your Eminence, Cardinal Peter Spineri, Bishop of the Church of St. Sebastian in Rome, and Walter Venables, equerry to Her Grace, the Duchess of York.’
‘Then let them come forward.’ Bourchier’s voice was soft but carrying.
The cross-bearer and chamberlain stood aside. Kathryn was immediately taken by how short and plump Spineri was: He had a tonsured head, and his small, round face was as brown as a nut. He had merry eyes, a snub nose, and a generous mouth. She could tell why he was nicknamed ‘Cardinal Albus, the White Cardinal.’ Spineri was dressed in the pure white robe of a Carmelite, buskins of the same colour on his feet, a silver girdle round his plump waist, and a black cowl thrown back over his shoulders; he rested on an ebony-topped walking-stick. Face wreathed in smiles, he came forward and exchanged the ‘osculum pacis,’ the kiss of peace, with Bourchier.
Venables was a young, dark-faced man, clean-shaven, his black hair cropped close above his ears. He was dressed in a long gown of blood-red scarlet with full sleeves, the cuffs and collar fringed with fur; on his legs, green hose were pushed into soft, brown leather boots with silver buckles. A soldier, Kathryn thought, but also a man used to the silken subtlety of the court. He wore a silver chain round his neck; the silver medallion on the end was emblazoned with the Yorkist arms. A thick, broad leather warbelt hung over his shoulders, and he handed this to the chamber-lain as he came forward to kneel and kiss Bourchier’s ring.
Further introductions were made. Venables and Spineri, born courtiers, each in turn took hold of Kathryn’s hand and kissed it lightly. Spineri was effusive, his English tinged with a strong accent and the occasional Italian word. Venables was soft-spoken, watchful, tense as a cat. He seemed more interested in Kathryn than the other two, as if in a hurry to take her measure, discover who she really was. Kathryn coloured with embarrassment at his long, searching look.
‘Have we met before, Master Venables?’
The henchman’s severe face broke into an affected smile. ‘No, Mistress, but I wish we had.’
Further gallantries were halted by Bourchier ordering the servants to place more chairs around the fire. A tray of cups and a dish of comfits were brought in. Kathryn was glad to see a jewel-encrusted goblet. It had been deliberately chilled, and the white German wine was cool and fragrant. They took their seats, this time further away from the fire, Spineri next to Kathryn, Venables beside Luberon.
‘The hour is growing late,’ Bourchier began, ‘so I will not tarry long. Mistress Swinbrooke has accepted the commission I have given to her.’
‘May I say,’ Spineri broke in with a smile, ‘I have never met such an attractive Advocatus Diaboli.’ His voice dropped to a melodramatic whisper. ‘I look forward to meeting you in the lists, not sword against sword, but wit against wit, eh, Mistress?’
‘How long will this take?’ Venables broke in. He seemed to resent Spineri’s closeness to Kathryn and the gallantry he showed her.
‘How long is a piece of twine?’ Spineri asked. ‘Mistress Swinbrooke, I will not bore you with Canon Law. However, the Advocatus Diaboli is the initiat
or. You can demand whatever you want.’
‘Are there documents on Atworth?’ Kathryn demanded.
‘A few, probably held by the friars.’
‘And people from his former life?’
‘A number of old soldiers in and around Canterbury.’
‘I will not visit them,’ Kathryn declared. ‘They may, if they wish, come to me.’
Venables was watching her intently. Spineri seemed more concerned with drinking his wine. Kathryn had the measure of the plump, merry cardinal. He was a King’s man through and through: If Cecily of York wanted her cat canonised, Cardinal Spineri would scarcely object.
‘And these miracles? They must be local people?’
Bourchier nodded.
‘I wish to examine them carefully.’
‘Are you denying the miracles?’ Venables asked hotly.
‘Sir, I’ll deny nothing. I will simply put forward evidence so His Eminence can decide for himself. But above all,’ she continued, ‘I must question Prior Anselm and others. Finally, Atworth’s body must be exhumed.’
Venables smiled across at her, nodding in agreement.
‘Is that really necessary?’ Spineri protested.
‘If the body hasn’t decayed, Your Eminence . . .?’
Spineri pulled a face.
‘In the end,’ Kathryn concluded, ‘the Church needs evidence of sanctity. I believe Brother Atworth’s corpse may yield the truth.’
Kathryn sipped from her wine and repressed a shiver. She would keep her own counsel amongst these cunning, secretive men. Yet she had an unknown fear: This matter hid many secrets, and she wondered how powerful Bourchier’s protection truly would be.
Chapter 2
‘Though ye prolle ay, ye shul it nevere fynde.’
– Chaucer, ‘The Canon’s Yeoman’s Tale,’
The Canterbury Tales
The Conventual Church of the Friars of the Order of the Sack was a place of dappled-white and shifting shadows. Its soaring, vaulted roof caught and echoed all sound; round, squat pillars along the nave guarded gloomy transepts where former members of the order lay buried under carved sarcophagi awaiting the final resurrection. Sculpted statues stared blindly down from niches in the walls. Gargoyled faces grinned maliciously from the tops of pillars. Night had fallen. Most of the candles had been doused. The incense-fragrant air was chilly. A fine mist had seeped under the doorway; its wisps coiled along the nave like thin, meagre ghosts searching for a place to hide. It was a gloomy church with its shadow-filled corners; but the three friars, who knelt in their small pool of light before the Lady Chapel, were oblivious to the shifting shapes and shades around them. They blew on their fingers and rubbed their arms in a futile attempt to keep warm. The only light was the candles lit before the statue of the Black Madonna, an ancient wooden image of the Virgin Mary holding the Divine Child, his arms outstretched to an ignoring world. The friars stared down at the flagstones. The words freshly etched there seemed to leap up: ‘HIC IACET FRATER ROGER ATWORTH OBIT . . .’ The inscription ran on: How Brother Roger had lived the life of a holy friar and died in the odour of sanctity in the year of Our Lord 1473.