by Paul Doherty
‘If not the odour of sanctity,’ the friar in the centre murmured, ‘then at least something akin to it.’
‘Is it right, what we are doing?’ one of his companions asked.
‘We have no choice,’ their leader replied, his face hidden deep in his cowl. ‘We must take the oath, all three of us, to keep all silent. We must revere our great saint.’
He placed the sacred chalice in the centre of the flagstone and laid on top the square white paten. He touched this with his fingers and whispered the sacred words. His companions, in a more faltering manner, followed suit: As they did, they quietly prayed that the Blessed Roger, now surely in a place of light, would understand what they were doing.
The meeting in the Archbishop’s palace had finished. Kathryn, Venables, and Spineri had all agreed to meet the following day for the solemn exhumation of Roger Atworth’s corpse. Kathryn was intrigued, and her reluctance had now disappeared. She was genuinely curious and kept wondering about the phenomena Bourchier had described.
‘I can see,’ she declared after Spineri and Venables had withdrawn, ‘that our eminent cardinal has already made his mind up.’
‘Oh, I am sure he has.’ Bourchier sipped at the goblet. ‘When Spineri returns to Rome, I am certain he will lead a sumpter pony heavily laden with gifts, both for himself and his friends in the Curia.’
Kathryn stared longingly at the hour candle. It now showed the eighth hour; it really was time she should leave. However, Luberon and Bourchier still remained seated. The little clerk was agitated: He kept shuffling his feet and clearing his throat, his usual habit when nervous.
Kathryn made to rise. ‘Your Eminence, the hour is drawing late.’
‘I’ll see you safely back to Ottemelle Lane,’ Bourchier gestured at her to remain seated, ‘Kathryn.’ He looked down as if fascinated by the collar on the sleeping mastiff.
‘Your Eminence, surely we are not here to await your dog?’
Bourchier lifted a hand. ‘I stand rebuked. I think it’s best, Simon, if . . .’
Luberon coughed. ‘Kathryn, you are well?’
‘For the love of God, Simon,’ she retorted sharply, ‘I am not well. I have had a busy day, a long line of patients. Now, seated in front of this fire, I feel one side of me is burnt; the other is freezing.’
Bourchier laughed apologetically.
‘Oh, come to the point, Simon.’
‘You are not married?’
Kathryn threw her head back and laughed. ‘Very perceptive, Simon.’
‘You live in Ottemelle Lane?’
Kathryn glowered at him.
‘You are a reputable physician, well liked by many. His Eminence trusts you, as does the City Council . . .’
‘Enough!’ Kathryn interrupted.
Luberon closed his eyes. Kathryn’s face had that stubborn, pugnacious look.
‘I think I’ve heard this hymn before,’ she declared. ‘Kathryn Swinbrooke, member of the Apothecaries’ Guild, physician to the City Council, adviser to His Eminence Bourchier Cardinal Archbishop, is living in a house in Ottemelle Lane’ – Kathryn’s eyes rounded in mock innocence as her voice dropped to a harsh whisper – ‘and a man lives there, Colum Murtagh, an Irish soldier, Master of the King’s Horse, keeper of the royal stables out at Kingsmead. He’s not married either. Thomasina also lives with me, and God knows how many times she has been married. Agnes, my maid, is not married, and neither is my apprentice, Wulf. We used to call him “Wuf” till he objected. He much prefers Wulf after the saintly Wulfstan, who I believe, Your Eminence, was a bishop of the Church? I am the head of a large household. I do good business as a physician and as an apothecary. However, what I do at night between the sheets’ – Kathryn’s face flushed with anger – ‘is my own business! Widow Gumple, with her stupid head-dresses, her fat face, and her malicious tongue, does not concern me!’ Again she made to rise.
‘Kathryn, Kathryn’ – Bourchier leaned across and clasped her hand – ‘in my eyes you are a daughter.’
‘In my eyes, Your Eminence, you are a snooper!’
Bourchier grinned. ‘They say you have a rough tongue, Kathryn.’
The physician glanced across at Luberon and felt a pang of regret at her outburst. He sat crumpled on the edge of the chair like a little boy, eyes staring, mouth open.
‘I meant no offence, Mistress,’ he whispered.
‘None taken’ – Kathryn forced a smile – ‘but I wish you’d come to the point. I do my best to heal bodies; I cannot be held responsible for wagging tongues.’
‘Do you love Colum Murtagh?’ Bourchier’s voice was surprisingly harsh.
Kathryn felt her throat go dry. If it had been any other man, she would have stormed out; but Bourchier was a good priest, a shepherd who genuinely cared for his flock and not just its fleece. Luberon refused to meet her gaze.
‘Tell me, Kathryn, please.’
‘Yes, Your Eminence, I do,’ she declared hotly. ‘I am not his leman; I am my own woman.’
‘Are you handfast, betrothed?’
‘I am not, but Colum wishes it was so.’
‘And why not?’
‘You know why not.’ Kathryn sat back in the chair. ‘I was married to Alexander Wyville. The story is well known: Two years ago Wyville decided to join the Lancastrian forces; he left Canterbury and never returned.’
‘Have you searched for him?’
‘Yes, I have. Sometimes I suspect he is dead. Other times I dismiss that as wishful thinking.’
‘Do you want him dead?’
‘I married him, Your Eminence, because I thought I loved him, because my late father wanted it. Wyville proved to be a ruffian – a man who smiled and pretended to be a saint – but in his cups he was a villain free with his fists. His tongue and heart were soaked in wormwood. He had great dreams of profiting from the war. I was glad to see him go, and God forgive me, I pray he won’t come back. Is that sinful?’
‘No.’ Bourchier shook his head. ‘No, it isn’t!’ He patted her hand. ‘But what if, Kathryn, Wyville is dead? According to Canon Law,’ the Archbishop continued hurriedly, ‘should her husband disappear and no trace is ever found, a woman has to wait ten years before she can remarry. Do you want to wait ten years?’
Kathryn closed her eyes. In her mind’s eye she saw Colum: hair black as night, dark-blue eyes crinkling with amusement, laughter lines around his mouth, his strong hands as he tried to mend a bridle or a halter, the smell of leather . . .
‘Kathryn?’
She opened her eyes.
‘You have done good work for the council and for me,’ Bourchier continued. ‘Oh, we pay a fee. Now I wish to reward you, not pry or snoop.’
Kathryn’s heart beat a little faster.
‘Your private life is a matter for confession and the priest who shrives you, but as you know, I have great influence.’ Bourchier explained. ‘I have already despatched letters to all the priests in the villages and towns the Lancastrian forces passed through on their way to Tewkesbury. I have asked them to make careful search if they know anything about a man called Alexander Wyville.’
‘He could have gone under another name!’ Kathryn responded. ‘He joined Faunte’s forces outside Westgate. Even then he was pretending to be what he wasn’t.’
‘I know.’ Bourchier scratched his chin. ‘Nicholas Faunte, the late but not lamented Mayor of Canterbury, raised a force for the Lancastrians and led them west. They wanted to be present at the great victory. On their way they also hoped to enrich themselves through pillage and plunder. In an attempt to escape the clutches of the law, many took different names, aliases, including the names of herbs such as Feverfew, Hellebore, Verben. Now we know,’ Bourchier paused, ‘some of these forces reached Tewkesbury, where King Edward and his brothers inflicted a devastating defeat and the House of Lancaster went into the dark.’ He picked up the hand-bell and rang it.
Kathryn heard the door at the far end of the hall open.
‘Bring hi
m in!’ Bourchier shouted. ‘Tell Master Monksbane that I will see him now!’
Kathryn stared at the curious individual who marched up the hall. Bourchier didn’t move as the grey-haired man came round and knelt before the chair of state. He kissed Bourchier’s ring and took the stool opposite, a wiry, pale-eyed man dressed in a moleskin jacket and leggings, though his boots, wallet, and ornate war-belt looked costly. He was the sort of man Kathryn might glimpse in a crowd yet be unable to describe in great detail: almost faceless, indistinguishable. When he smiled, however, Kathryn felt a warmth; Monksbane was apparently proud of his profession, whatever it was, and was clearly trusted by the Archbishop.
‘Mistress Swinbrooke,’ Bourchier moved in his chair, ‘may I introduce Monksbane. I don’t think he was baptised that at the font, but that’s what he likes to be called now. A former student at the Inns of Court in Chancery Lane. A man who fell on hard times but picked himself up and rose to be one of the principal rat-catchers of the capital . . .’
‘Farringdon Ward precisely, Your Eminence,’ Monksbane broke in; his voice was cultured and as calm as any priest’s.
‘Yes, that’s right,’ Bourchier agreed. ‘Very proud of his old profession is Monksbane.’
‘You’ve come to Canterbury to catch rats?’ Kathryn asked.
‘No, Kathryn.’ Luberon sat more relaxed, although he found it difficult to hide his deep upset at Kathryn’s open declaration about Colum Murtagh.
‘Yes, Simon?’ Kathryn leaned forward.
‘He’s not here to catch rats.’ Luberon smiled.
‘Monksbane is my man’ – Bourchier patted Monksbane as he would his mastiff – ‘my man in peace and war. He’s a bounty-hunter, Kathryn! Tired of killing rats, he came to Canterbury and offered his services to me. You would be surprised how often the Church has to go hunting. Isn’t that right, Monksbane?’
‘Yes, Your Eminence. We live in a vale of tears.’
Monksbane’s voice turned lugubrious. Kathryn found it difficult not to smile.
‘Truly the preacher says you cannot serve God and Mammon! Many a priest flees his parish and takes the offertory box and the sacred plate with him.’
‘Especially now.’ Bourchier sighed. ‘During the war many priests left their livings: monks, clerks, and friars. When they flee, they always take the Church’s possessions with them.’
‘And Monksbane hunts them down?’
‘Yes, Kathryn, he’s my lurcher. He sniffs them out, grasps them by the nape of the neck, and brings them back.’
Kathryn stared at this curious man; she now realised and was grateful for what Bourchier intended.
‘And you will hunt down my husband, Alexander Wyville?’
‘Yes, Mistress.’ He held a gloved hand up. ‘And His Eminence will pay me. Believe me.’ Monksbane’s face grew hard. ‘If Alexander Wyville is still alive, I’ll bring him back.’
‘And if he’s fled?’
‘Then, Mistress, I’ll tell you.’
‘And if he’s dead?’
‘Why, Mistress, I’ll show you his grave.’
‘How long will it take?’ Kathryn asked.
‘Not long.’ Monksbane grinned. ‘But I need to know everything about him.’
Bourchier heaved himself out of his chair, a sign that the meeting was over.
‘Kathryn, the hour is late. Monksbane will take you back to your house. The only people who know about him are the four of us and anyone else you may wish to tell.’
Kathryn took her farewell and followed Monksbane out through a postern door. The cloisters outside were cold and dark, lit here and there by a sconce torch or an oil lamp in a niche. Monksbane strapped on his war-belt. Kathryn noticed how silently he walked; with no clink of arms or clatter of boot, she felt as if she were accompanied by a shadow. He led her down stone-vaulted passageways, across a silent garden, and out through a side gate. They paused to put on their cloaks, Monksbane hurrying to help her.
‘You are well, Mistress?’
Kathryn shivered and stared up at the clear night sky. ‘The Archbishop likes his fire,’ she said.
‘His blood runs thin.’
‘Are you a physician? Do you know physic?’ Kathryn teased, now curious about this enigmatic man who would learn so much about her.
Monksbane did not reply but gallantly offered her his arm. Kathryn took it. They walked down the alleyways, high walls on either side, and onto Palace Street: This was deserted, its cobbles still glistening from the rain earlier in the day. The stalls had been put away, shops closed, windows shuttered, but lantern-horns had been slung on hooks outside doors, and candlelight glowed through cracks and crevices. A few dogs roamed. Cats sat like kings on the mounds of refuse piled high, waiting for the scavengers to come. They passed a small stocks standing at the mouth of an alleyway. The drunk, his hands and head tightly fastened under heavy slats of wood, had still not regained consciousness, despite the little boy who stood beneath him, a bowl of water in his hands. Kathryn paused and tried to help.
‘He’s not usually drunk,’ the lad whined. ‘But he had too much ale and fell asleep here in the middle of the street.’
Kathryn patted him on the head and gave him a coin.
Monksbane looked intently back the way they’d come then led her on. He paused outside the Glory of the Sun, a large tavern on the corner of Palace Street.
‘Master Monksbane, I am tired,’ Kathryn declared.
‘I need to speak to you,’ he explained. ‘It’s best done here.’
Kathryn shrugged and followed him inside. The flagstoned passageway was clean and smelt sweet. Instead of taking her into the noisy tap-room on their left, Monksbane led her up the wooden staircase, pushed the door open at the top, and ushered her into a small chamber. It was empty except for a table, two stools, and a glowing brazier in the far corner. Tallow candles, thick with fat, stood in steel bowls along the table. Monksbane made Kathryn comfortable, went back downstairs, and returned with two pewter tankards of ale.
‘Mistress, I leave Canterbury tomorrow. I will not keep you long. You live with the Irishman, Murtagh? Do you love him?’
Kathryn coloured, but Monksbane’s eyes stayed level, his face composed.
‘I’m not snooping, Mistress. I just want to know.’
‘I love him.’
‘If you were free, you’d marry him?’
‘If he asked, yes.’
‘And what if your husband returns?’
Kathryn sipped from the tankard. She pressed its coldness against her warm cheek.
‘The law of the Church is quite clear. Alexander was a malicious man.’ She continued in a rush, ‘If he knew how happy I was now, he would take great pleasure in spiting me. Like a spoilt child, what he doesn’t want, he won’t let anyone else have.’
‘Was he wicked?’
‘No, he was weak. In his cups, yes, he could become wicked.’ She tapped the tankard. ‘This was the key to his soul; and when turned, all sorts of evil tumbled out.’
‘And in bed. Was he lusty?’
Kathryn would have slapped the face of any other man, but Monksbane talked like a physician searching for symptoms.
‘No, he was not. He blamed me. He could become very violent.’ Kathryn touched her grey hairs. ‘A little legacy, a gift from my husband.’
‘Was he a merchant?’
‘Of sorts. Master Monksbane, you should have been a priest.’
‘I nearly was’ – the fellow grinned – ‘but I like a pretty face.’
‘Then why not a lawyer?’
His expression didn’t change. ‘I was married once myself. I can call you Kathryn, can’t I? I had a wife and two children.’ He blinked, the only sign of any emotion. ‘Three beautiful flowers.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘All gone, Kathryn, like tears in the rain, taken by a fever. They talk about the descent into hell. I went down and came back. I was drunk, I was violent, and when I awoke, I was sickly and very poor. First a scavenger, then a rat-catcher.
’
‘And now?’ Kathryn asked.
‘Memories,’ he replied. ‘We all have to do something, Kathryn, to keep the door locked, barred, and secured.’ He drank deeply from the ale. ‘So if Alexander Wyville came back, he would spoil everything?’
‘Yes.’ Kathryn nodded her head vigorously. ‘Like a spoilt child in a garden he would uproot and tear down.’
‘Wouldn’t Murtagh kill him?’
‘No, not unless Alexander provoked him; and Wyville would be too cunning for that.’
‘Of course,’ Monksbane agreed. ‘Such men choose their opponents carefully. What did he look like?’
‘Of medium height, reddish hair, pale face, and green eyes. Lightly built with a slight paunch. He liked his ale.’
‘A church-goer?’
‘We are all church-goers.’
Monksbane smiled wolfishly. ‘Did he believe, Kathryn?’
‘I don’t think he did. Deep in his heart Alexander Wyville liked nothing.’
‘Yet you married him?’
‘We wear masks, Monksbane; you are wearing one now. Sometimes it’s difficult to separate the mask from the face. I made a mistake, a terrible mistake, and I paid for it.’