by Paul Doherty
‘Of course.’ Murtagh clasped his hand. ‘You are well?’
Introductions and pleasantries were exchanged. Colum asked what was happening; Kathryn put her finger to her lips and smiled. ‘I’ll tell you later.’
‘I can see you have no need for an escort.’ Monksbane kissed her hand, nodded at Murtagh, and, followed by Venables, left the chamber.
Kathryn picked up her cloak and put it round her shoulders. Colum stood chewing the corner of his lip.
‘What’s the matter, light of my heart?’ Kathryn teased.
‘Murder.’ Murtagh shook himself free from his reverie. ‘I’ll explain as we go.’
‘I am hungry, and I am tired,’ Kathryn moaned. ‘My legs feel like lead. I could lie down and sleep on the floor.’
‘I wouldn’t do that.’
Colum took his own cloak off. He was wearing a leather cotehardie over a white linen shirt, his dark-green, weather-stained hose pushed into riding boots which he always insisted on wearing, despite Kathryn’s teasing. He put his cloak on a peg and came across and undid the clasp of Kathryn’s.
‘I understand from the landlord that Monksbane hired this chamber. We might as well eat and drink, then go about our business.’
He went to the door and shouted down the stairs. The pot-boy came hurrying up. Colum ordered a beef and vegetable pottage, some baked chicken stuffed with grapes, and a jug of Gascony wine.
‘There, Mistress.’
Murtagh made her sit. For a while they chatted about the ordinary events of the day; Colum quietly cursed one of the warhorses out at Kingsmead.
‘A lovely animal,’ he mused, ‘but as hot-tempered as Thomasina. Oh, by the way, she crossed swords with Widow Gumple in the market place. Thomasina’s threatening murder or at least to cut the woman’s tongue out . . .’
‘And this murder?’ Kathryn asked.
Colum held a hand up as the door opened and a slattern brought in a tray with two earthenware bowls and the spiced beef piled high; a linen cloth contained two loaves and a pot of butter. Colum paid and waited until the door was closed behind her.
‘They’ve forgotten the wine.’
Colum left the chamber and came back with a jug and two goblets. He filled the cups, and they blessed themselves. Colum seemed as hungry as Kathryn. For a while they ate in silence. On one occasion Colum got up and opened the door to make sure there was no eavesdropper.
‘You keep strange company, Kathryn. Venables is the Queen Mother’s henchman, a fighter and a plotter but loyal to the Yorkist cause. What business does he have with you?’
Kathryn put down the horn spoon and told him succinctly about her meeting with Bourchier and Luberon. The more she talked, the more agitated Colum grew.
‘By all the saints in Paradise!’ he whispered when she had finished. ‘Be careful, Kathryn. One day I’ll tell you a little more, but the Duchess Cecily is a very dangerous woman: proud and beautiful with a vindictive streak. She adores her eldest son, Edward, and does not brook opposition. Her husband, Richard, God rest him, was of similar ilk.’
‘Were you at Wakefield when he was killed?’ Kathryn asked.
‘No, I was with the reinforcements. We didn’t march fast enough; the lanes and trackways were clogged with snow. Richard of York ignored all advice and went out to meet the Lancastrians. His army was butchered; his boy Rutland was caught in the Wakefield market place and stabbed to death. The Duke insisted, like some paladin of old, in fighting to the finish with his back to a tree. The Lancastrians killed him. They chopped off his and Rutland’s head, decorated them with paper crowns, and slung them over Micklegate Bar at York. When Duchess Cecily heard this, she proclaimed Edward his father’s heir to both the duchy and the English Crown. She never forgot Wakefield: God help any man who fought for Lancaster at that battle falling into her hands.’
‘But that does not affect the present situation?’
‘Yes and no,’ Colum replied. ‘Since her husband’s death, Cecily’s bitterness has grown. If she thinks, for a minute, that you are going to blacken the Blessed Atworth’s memory . . . yet,’ he sighed, ‘the hunt’s begun, and there is nothing we can do. Just be careful, particularly if you meet the Duchess.’
He wanted to question her further, but Kathryn leaned across and pressed a finger against his lips.
‘Much more important is Monksbane,’ she declared; and as she described Bourchier’s offer of help, Colum’s face broke into a smile.
‘At last,’ he whispered. ‘Do you think this time, Kathryn . . .?’
‘From the little I have learnt about Monksbane, Colum, yes I do: Alexander Wyville, alive or dead, will be found!’
‘And, God forgive me, Kathryn; but if he is dead, would you, could you marry me?’
He stretched out his hand, but Kathryn withdrew hers coquettishly.
‘No, I could not,’ she murmured. ‘No, I should not!’
The smile faded from Colum’s face.
‘But I shall and I will,’ she teased him.
If she hadn’t moved quickly enough, Colum would have lurched across the table and seized her. As it was, jugs and platters went flying, bouncing on the wooden floor, provoking faint shouts of protest from below. Colum went to the door, opened it, and bawled that all was well and he would pay for any breakages. He slammed it shut and pulled across the bolt. He went across and knelt before Kathryn. He grasped both her hands, squeezing gently, eyes searching.
‘You are sure, Kathryn?’
‘Well, of course I am.’ She fluttered her eyelids. ‘I love you, Colum Murtagh. I think I always have, and I know I always shall.’
He pulled her gently down to kneel on the floor beside him. ‘I haven’t a ring,’ he confessed soberly. ‘Not yet.’
‘And, Master Murtagh, I am not a free woman, not yet.’
He let go of her hands and clasped her face, kissing her hungrily on the mouth, cheeks, and eyes. Pulling her close, he kissed her again, dislodging her wimple. Kathryn broke free and tapped his face playfully.
‘Oh, sir, how dare you!’ She kissed him back just as hungrily. ‘I would wager a shilling to a shilling,’ Kathryn whispered, ‘that we have now roused the interest of some of the customers. I’ve been here over an hour,’ she grinned, ‘and entertained three men!’
Kathryn got to her feet, smoothing down the creases in her dress and re-arranging her wimple. Colum wanted her to share a loving cup, but she shook her head.
‘We’ll talk later,’ she murmured. ‘Colum, this business of yours; we’ll talk as we go.’
A short while later, cloaked and cowled, they left the tavern, the pot-boy’s cries of pleasure at Colum’s generosity ringing in their ears. The streets and alleyways were now deserted except for the occasional wandering dog and the furtive slithering of rats across mounds of refuse. Colum grasped Kathryn’s hand.
‘They are becoming bolder by the day, even out at Kingsmead. They’ll wreak terrible havoc amongst our supplies of horse-feed.’
‘What’s the cure?’ Kathryn asked, stepping gingerly over a puddle.
‘Fire, Kathryn,’ Colum answered. ‘Tomorrow, God willing, I am going to search their nests out and burn whatever I find. Now’ – Colum paused and stared up at the spire of St. Swithin’s Church, a long, black finger against the starlit sky – ‘you’ve heard me talk of Padraig Mafiach?’
‘Yes, a countryman of yours.’
Colum stared down the alleyway to ensure no one was following.
‘A merry man, Padraig. He could play the lute and dance as nimbly as a squirrel on a branch. A good swordsman, an excellent spy.’
Satisfied that they weren’t being followed, Colum grasped Kathryn’s hand, and they moved on. They avoided the main thoroughfares and used the lanes leading down to Westgate.
‘A born mimic, Padraig; he had a gift for tongues. When the House of York had to flee abroad, Padraig became skilled in German, French, Italian, and Flemish. God have mercy on him, but he could change his appearanc
e like any actor in a masque.’
Colum paused, but the shadow which lurched out of an alleyway was only a drunken beggar, bleary-eyed, hands out begging for alms. Colum threw a coin, and they walked on.
‘Padraig was sent on an embassy to Paris. He changed his name to Robin Goodfellow. He acted the part of an English traitor’ – he laughed abruptly – ‘or rather an Irishman who wished to betray English interests. At first the French were suspicious, but Padraig could persuade a bird out of its nest. The Frenchman, the Vicomte de Sanglier, took him into his household.’
‘Why?’ Kathryn asked. ‘Why all this?’
‘Well, it links in with what you’ve told me about Venables. Our noble king, God bless his golden locks, truly believes a spy, high in the English Court, is giving information, not about trade or the movement of ships, but about what the King and his Council deliberate in secret – in particular, Edward’s desire to get his hands on the remaining Lancastrians who have fled abroad. This information is allowing King Louis to interfere in whatever he wishes. Louis holds his hands up, cries he is innocent, that Edward our King is his noble cousin whom he loves dearly, that he would never dream of harbouring English traitors, and so on and so on.
‘Padraig’s task was to find out who the traitor was. He may have been successful. He passed a verbal message to one of our merchants in Paris that the information was too dangerous to write or send by any other way until his return. One night, two weeks ago, Padraig kissed Sanglier’s household good-bye and slipped out of Paris. The Vicomte pursued him. They tried to block the roads to Calais, but Padraig went by secret routes and reached safety. A few days ago he sailed for Dover. Now Padraig is a cunning man. He would go backwards and forwards like a fox evading his pursuers. Of course, a message arrived at Islip that he had landed. I was supposed to meet him tomorrow and escort him safely to the King. Yesterday evening Padraig lodged at the Falstaff under the name of Robin Goodfellow. He kept to himself and had a meal in his room. He paid well and remained quiet. The taverner, Clitheroe, stabled Padraig’s horse and looked after his harness, but late this afternoon he became suspicious; he’d had neither sight nor sound of this mysterious guest. He and his servants went through the usual routine, knocking on the door, going out to the courtyard; but the window shutters were closed. Eventually the taverner became suspicious, and the door was broken down. Padraig lay in an empty room, cloaked and booted, with a terrible wound to his head from which both blood and brains oozed out.’
‘Have you been there?’ Kathryn asked.
‘Very quickly. I ordered the door to be re-hung and locked. I placed my own seal on it; then I came looking for you.’
‘How did the taverner know how to tell you?’
‘I had told him two days ago that a man, Padraig Mafiach, would be arriving, and when he did, to contact me and only me. God knows for what reason, Padraig chose to use his alias, Goodfellow. The taverner is sharp-witted. Concerned about a murder in his hostelry, he recalled the victim’s Irish accent. He became suspicious and sent for me.’
‘Is the taverner innocent?’
‘Old Clitheroe?’ Colum withdrew Kathryn’s hand, put an arm round her shoulders, and pulled her close. ‘I’d trust Clitheroe with my life. He knows me well from the business I do at his tavern. I often meet the King’s scurriers there.’
‘Will you be blamed?’
Colum shook his head. ‘No. Padraig made one mistake: He used his alias and paid for it with his life.’
‘So the murderer must be someone on the King’s Council?’
‘Yes,’ Colum agreed. ‘That’s the hymn going to be sung, but there again,’ he added crossly, ‘we are not sure. Did a member of the Council unwittingly let slip some information, or was the Vicomte de Sanglier more astute or cunning than we thought? He could have sent agents in hot pursuit or even had someone waiting for poor Padraig in Dover. From what I can gather, Padraig sought security with a group of pilgrims coming to Canterbury. He left them at Westgate, made the short journey to the Falstaff Inn, and kept to himself. He should have been safe.’
They turned the corner into Pound Lane, a wide thoroughfare where braziers glowed half-way down the street and cresset torches lashed to poles showed the approach to Westgate, a sharp contrast to the silent streets they had passed through. Merchants, packmen, and traders gathered there, seeking permission to leave, even at that late hour, so they could lodge either in the fields or in barns outside the city. Colum showed his pass, and the city watch let them through a postern gate. They walked up St. Dunstan’s Street to the welcoming warmth and light of the Falstaff, a spacious building with a red-tiled roof, its black-timbered and white-plastered front lit up by torches. They went through the main entrance. The tap-room had by now emptied. Clitheroe, the taverner, with his slatterns and pot-boys, was busy cleaning up the mess. He greeted Colum and shook Kathryn’s hand. ‘We’ve met before, Mistress Swinbrooke.’ He pointed to a healed scar on his wrist. ‘Last May Day I was a bit stupid with a fleshing knife. But come, I’ll be glad to have this business over.’
He wiped podgy hands on his blood-stained apron and led them up the side stairs. He took out a bunch of keys and unlocked a door in the centre of the gallery. Kathryn stood on the threshold as the taverner went in; boards creaked as he lit the candles.
‘Strange, isn’t it?’ Kathryn whispered. ‘Such places not only experience death but hold its smell.’
Colum grasped Kathryn by the wrist and led her in. The candles and oil lamps had been lit. They found themselves in a comfortable chamber with a small, four-poster bed, coloured cloths on the walls, and a painting of the Virgin and Child; woollen rugs covered some of the shiny black floorboards. It contained a table, chair, stool, and a lavarium with a jug and bowl, and a peg for napkins. Nevertheless, the homely atmosphere was shattered by the corpse, hidden under a sheet, sprawling on the floor. One lifeless hand hung exposed; a pool of blood had seeped out and dried. Kathryn’s stomach churned at the squeak and scurry of rats in the far corner. She composed herself by looking round the room. She noticed how the sword and dagger, probably the dead man’s, lay neatly near the bed.
‘He’d drawn these?’ she asked.
‘I put them there,’ the taverner replied. ‘He had definitely drawn them to defend himself, yet no one heard a sound: not the slap of feet or clash of steel.’
‘You are sure?’ Kathryn insisted.
The taverner shrugged, picked up the sword and dagger, and clashed them together. The sound echoed like a bell through the chamber.
‘It would carry through the room,’ Clitheroe explained, ‘and down the stairs. We’ve had sword-fights, Mistress. I have a sharp ear for them.’
He placed the weapons carefully on the bed. Kathryn stared up at the timbered ceiling, its white plaster interspersed by black, heavy beams. She noticed a hook with a lantern swinging on it.
‘Was that lit?’
‘No, it wasn’t.’
‘And the candles?’ Kathryn asked. She noticed how the candelabra were full of new tallow wicks.
‘Oh, they’d burnt low. I’ve replaced them.’
Kathryn tapped the floorboards with her foot.
‘There are no secret entrances?’
‘Mistress’ – the taverner’s sweaty face broke into a smile – ‘I have been in the Falstaff since the day I was born. My father owned it and his father before him. I know its every nook and cranny. There’s a secret entrance into the tap-room below that was used by smugglers in the old times to bring in the odd barrel of Gascony.’
Kathryn paused as Colum found a foot-rest, brought it across, knelt by the corpse, and crossed himself, mouthing a prayer in Gaelic under his breath.
‘“Failte romhat, a Rina naingeal.”’
‘What’s that?’ Kathryn asked.
‘A prayer my mother taught me.’
Kathryn turned away and walked carefully around. She stopped at the window. This was not some luxurious room in a palace – the window
was a plastered square with a wooden timber frame, sealed by loose-fitting shutters, which allowed in a draught of cold air. The bar was fixed to the shutter on the right. She lifted this up – it was rather stiff – pulled it back, and opened both shutters. The night air gushed in, bringing with it the farmyard smell from the stables below. Kathryn peered down and saw a cobbled yard lit by a pool of light from a lantern slung on a beam. She could make out a water conduit to the entrance of the stables. Somewhere a groom was singing a love song.
‘“My lord, I wish I were,
In the house of my own true love!”’
Kathryn recognised the sweet sentiment and smiled to herself. ‘Amen,’ she murmured.
She looked at the wooden windowsill, which showed no sign of scuffing. At her request the taverner brought across one of the oil lamps. Kathryn carefully studied both the inside and outside of the shutter. The wood had been strengthened and protected by black paint; a number of pilgrim badges depicting the Falstaff had been nailed to it.
‘Has this wood been freshly treated?’ Kathryn asked.
‘Oh yes,’ the taverner replied, ‘once the Feast of the Purification has come and gone and the worst of winter is over.’
Kathryn felt the wood. She could not see, or detect, any mark. She closed the shutters and pulled the bar down.
‘And this is how it was when you entered the room?’
‘Mistress, I’d take an oath: The shutters were closed and barred.’
Kathryn walked across and examined the door. Of heavy oak, the outside was reinforced with iron studs; the inside was equally strong-looking. It hung on three thick leather hinges. Kathryn could see where it had recently been repaired. The door also had bolts and clasps on top and bottom; its lock was old-fashioned but sturdy enough.
‘And this?’ she asked.
‘I know my own tavern.’ Clitheroe scratched his balding head. ‘Mistress, that door was locked and bolted, the key was turned, the bolts pulled across. This is a busy place, and we do good trade, especially now spring is here. Maids, scullions, slatterns, and potboys go up and down. Next door is a family, and on the other side were three merchants from Hainault who got themselves befuddled and had to be helped up. Oh yes, Mistress, I know a drunk when I see one. They were all drunk.’