by Paul Doherty
‘And the room above?’
‘A married couple on pilgrimage to Canterbury; they were returning to London. Homely enough: He was old, rather sour-looking; she was much younger, prettier.’
Behind her Colum was still murmuring a prayer. Kathryn stood back. ‘Tell me precisely what happened?’
‘The gentleman arrived; he paid for a chamber. He also lodged his horse and harness in the stables. I asked him if he wished to eat at the common board. He replied, “No.” His food was to be brought direct from the kitchens by one of the slatterns. He said he was expecting someone, but that’s all he’d say. Dark-faced, secretive, very soft voice, as if trying to hide his accent. He was sober and respectable. Mistress, as I have said, we are a busy place. He went to his chamber, and that’s the last I saw of him. The room was well prepared, the water-jug full, clean sheets. A slattern apparently brought up some food and drink.’
‘Where’s that now?’ Kathryn asked.
‘I took it down. He ate and supped well and used the jakes pot, which I’ve also emptied.’ He waved his hand. ‘Anyway, the day wore on; it wasn’t until after noon that I became suspicious. We left it for a while, and then the usual routine began: tapping on the door, going out to the yard and looking up at the window. I remembered Master Murtagh’s request and became suspicious. So I and a few of the stable lads forced the door.’
‘Tell me precisely what you saw.’
‘I told them to stay outside and came in. The candles had burnt out. The poor fellow lay on the floor in a pool of his own blood. You can see the wound yourself: sword and dagger not far from his body.’
‘Had he been asleep?’
‘No, the bed hadn’t been turned over.’
‘And his possessions?’
The taverner pointed to a far corner; Kathryn could make out saddle-bags.
‘I haven’t touched them; I don’t want to be accused.’
Kathryn stared across at the small black crucifix fixed against the wall.
‘Colum, have you finished?’
The Irishman got to his feet.
‘How could it happen?’ Kathryn asked.
‘Padraig was a good fighter, nimble as a dancer, often had to be,’ Colum replied.
‘A man who would defend his life?’
‘A man who would fight to the death,’ he answered.
Kathryn walked across the room; she took the foot-rest and used that to pull back the sheet. The face beneath made her heart skip a beat. In many ways Padraig looked like Colum, although the swollen face was now a ghastly hue, the half-closed eyes lifeless, and the black, curly hair matted with blood from the hideous wound on the right side of his head. Kathryn peered at this closely, touching it with her fingers.
‘The side of the head has been crushed,’ she observed. She wiped her fingers on the sheet. ‘Blood and brains have seeped out.’
Kathryn found it hard to distinguish the full area of the wound. She could feel fissures and cracks in the skull.
‘A club,’ she declared. ‘A mace or a Morning Star.’
She opened the man’s mouth and sniffed but could detect nothing untoward except the acrid taste of wine and the man’s last meal. The white teeth were unstained; the tongue was whitish but not swollen or bitten. She then felt the rest of the corpse: stomach, chest, and legs. Helped by Colum, she turned the body over but could detect no other wounds or marks. Assisted by the taverner, they lifted the corpse onto the sheet. Colum, murmuring a prayer, obeyed Kathryn’s instructions and began to strip the corpse, revealing a muscular, white-skinned torso. Kathryn could make out healed scars but no other wound. The stomach was slightly distended, bloated; the limbs were stiffening and heavy; the flesh was a clammy cold.
‘Rigor mortis has set in,’ she remarked.
Kathryn noticed how the shirt beneath the leather jerkin had been buttoned wrongly and the hose points tied clumsily. She pointed that out to Colum.
‘Perhaps he was tired?’ Colum said sadly.
Kathryn got to her feet, went across the room, and washed her hands with water from the jug. The taverner asked if they wanted any further help. Kathryn shook her head, so he left, closing the door behind him.
Kathryn sat down on the stool. Colum brought a chair across and sat opposite. Kathryn, lips tightly compressed, shook her head. ‘Here we have a fighting man,’ she began. ‘Padraig Mafiach, a spy, a soldier, a man born and trained to be wary as any fox on the hill. He arrived at the Falstaff and immured himself in this chamber. He is cunning and aggressive. The door is locked and bolted; the window is shuttered.’ She glanced across; through a narrow chink in the centre of the shutters, she could see the darkness beyond. ‘A man who would sell his life dearly, yes? No one came into this chamber except a slattern bearing his food. He must have been convinced about her; otherwise he wouldn’t have let her in. Let’s pause there. Colum, who’s responsible for the food?’
‘Why, the taverner is. He prides himself on his culinary skills. He’s one of the best cooks in Canterbury. He is helped by maids and pot-boys but . . .’
‘Bring him back up!’ Kathryn ordered.
Colum left. A few seconds later he returned with an exasperated-looking taverner.
‘Yes, Mistress?’
‘Did you cook the dead man’s supper?’
‘I must have done!’ he exclaimed. ‘I am the only cook here, helped now and again by my wife and others.’
‘And what did he eat?’
‘A meat pottage, some bread, some wine.’
‘Did he order it?’
‘He must have done; otherwise it wouldn’t have been brought up.’ The taverner paused. ‘Yes, yes, he did. He said that he’d have an evening meal in his chamber. He said he’d tell me when.’
‘And who brought it up?’
‘Why, one of the maids.’
‘Can you find her?’
‘Mistress, I can try, but my servants come up and down those stairs like a bucket at a busy well. It must have been . . .’ He continued, ‘One thing is certain, on that evening’ – the taverner gestured at the corpse – ‘he never left his chamber. I know that.’
‘How?’
‘Oh, we have pot-boys at the foot of the stairs. No one goes up except slatterns, maids, and paying customers. We have had the occasional whore come looking for custom, not to mention the local footpads hoping for an unlocked chamber. I tell you this, Mistress, the only people who went up those stairs last night were guests, maids, and pot-boys carrying trays and other necessities.’ He pulled a face. ‘I hire many a casual labourer.’
Kathryn, satisfied, told him to go. She waited until the door was closed. Colum went across and turned the key in the lock.
‘I am satisfied with that.’ She sighed. ‘Mafiach would be careful what he ate or drank?’
‘Oh, yes.’
Kathryn beat her head against the palm of her hand. ‘Colum, that taverner will lose his temper. I have one more favour. Go down and ask him what was left on the tray. I want to make sure of that.’
Colum, quietly protesting, left the chamber. She heard him call for the taverner and go downstairs. Kathryn gazed across at the waxen-faced corpse; going across, she pulled back the sheets which covered the dead man’s face.
‘I wonder if he sees us now?’ Colum mused, coming back into the chamber and locking the door behind him.
‘Who?’ Kathryn glanced up.
‘Why, Padraig. In my country they say the ghost of a murdered man lingers for days beside his corpse.’
‘Then this is one occasion,’ Kathryn declared crossly, going back to the stool, ‘I wish a ghost could speak. Well?’
Colum grinned, took off his war-belt, threw it on the bed, and sat opposite.
‘I don’t think we should ask the taverner any more questions; he is rather busy and getting angry. He declared how, when they broke through the door this morning, the meat and bread had all been eaten and the wine cup was empty; but he reckoned Padraig must have had one
, perhaps two goblets. A lot of wine still remained in the jug. The taverner sniffed at the goblet, said there was nothing untoward. When he took it down to the scullery, he and the servants finished off what was left of the wine with no ill effects. In fact, they said it tasted very pleasant. Why, what are you thinking, Kathryn, that Padraig was poisoned before he was murdered? I tell you this,’ he added. ‘If Padraig ate and drank something and the poison made itself felt, no matter how malignant, he would have unlocked that door and cried for help.’
Kathryn rubbed her face.
‘I am tired,’ she declared, ‘but this intrigues me. We have a fighting man in this chamber. The door was definitely locked and barred. No one could come through there. There are no secret entrances or passageways: Even if there were, Padraig would meet his assailant and fight for his life. The only other means of entering this chamber is the window, but that’s shuttered with the bar brought down. Colum’ – she grinned – ‘lie down on the bed. No, I am not going to visit you. Pretend to be Padraig.’
Colum shrugged and went and lay on the bed. Kathryn waited for a while.
‘Light of my life,’ Colum teased, ‘are you going to let me sleep here all night?’
Kathryn eased off her own soft brown leather boots and tiptoed across the chamber. Even as she did so, the floorboards creaked. She grasped the bar across the shutters and pulled it up. Not being properly oiled, it creaked slightly. Kathryn opened the shutters, flinching at the cold night breeze; she then tip-toed across to the bed. Colum lay, eyes closed. Suddenly he opened them and lunged for her, but Kathryn was too quick and stepped back.
‘I heard your every movement.’ Colum sat on the edge of the bed. ‘You took your boots off and crept across to the window. I heard the bar go up, the shutters open, and you tip-toe back.’
‘Padraig may have been in a deep sleep?’
Colum laughed abruptly. ‘Padraig was like a cat. He could relax, but he’d slept in too many dangerous beds not to keep an ear or eye open on what might spring out of the darkness.’
Kathryn went across and pulled on her boots. Colum brought across Padraig’s sword and dagger. Kathryn examined these carefully. The handles were of coiled wire beneath a leather sheath. The blades of both weapons were sharp and shiny.
‘Go outside, Colum.’
He obeyed. Kathryn closed the door behind him. She lifted the weapons, clashing sword and dagger together.
‘As loud and clear as a mortuary bell,’ Colum declared, coming back into the chamber. He took both weapons from Kathryn’s hand and, stooping, kissed her. He held the tip of the sword in mock threat against her throat. ‘I could have my evil way with you, Mistress.’
‘And tomorrow,’ she replied, ‘I would serve you food you’d never forget, Irishman!’
Colum remembered where he was, glanced at the corpse, and crossed himself quickly.
‘I am sorry, I forgot. I do see the problem, Kathryn. Padraig apparently knew the killer was in the chamber. He had his boots on and drew his sword and dagger, yet no one heard a sound. There must have been blows, parries, lunges. Now Padraig lies with his brains dashed out, and we have no knowledge of who his assailant was, how he got in, or how he got out.’ Colum glanced towards the window. ‘There is one possibility. What if, Kathryn, Padraig was sitting on the bed or at that table? He hears a scrabbling sound at the shutter. He draws sword and dagger, goes across, lifts the bar, and opens them. His killer is outside. Either he has climbed the wall using a rope ladder or something else.’
Kathryn walked across to the shutters.
‘What are you saying, Colum? That Padraig said, “Oh, do come in.”’
‘No.’ The Irishman went across, opened the shutters, and pulled them back. ‘Padraig sticks his head out; his assailant is on a rope beside the window. He hits him with a club. Padraig staggers back. The assailant follows him in.’
Kathryn closed the shutters and leaned against them.
‘A possible solution,’ she mused. ‘But, Colum, think! If you were Padraig, this scrabbling at the shutters. What would you do? Would you open them? I mean, at the dead of night? How do you know your assailant, hanging onto some rope or ladder, doesn’t have a club or a crossbow-bolt?’
‘Very good, my little soldier!’ Colum conceded.
‘And would Padraig, even if he opened the shutters, stick his head out? I mean, how often in a chamber on the second gallery do you hear someone knocking at your shutters? Why should Padraig even open them? What if his assailant had missed? Why should his assailant be so gracious as to use a simple club when a crossbow-bolt would be more deadly? If Padraig was as cunning a man as you say, he’d let the mysterious rapper continue his noise, take his sword and dagger, race downstairs, and go out into the yard whilst, at the same time, rousing the rest of the tavern.’
Colum glowered at her. ‘It was just a theory.’
‘I know. I know.’
Kathryn stared down at the corpse.
‘One thing I do suspect is that the assailant entered this chamber without Padraig’s knowledge.’
‘He may have been already hiding here?’
‘We still haven’t resolved the problem of Padraig resisting, shouting for help. And, as regards both your theories, Colum, how did the assailant leave so quickly and quietly, locking everything behind him?’
They paused at a knock at the door; the taverner came in.
‘I have asked amongst the maids. They are not too sure. Some who worked that night are not here, the rest have vague memories of food being sent up.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Any more than that I cannot say.’
‘Tell me,’ Kathryn said, ‘was there anything disturbed? Stool or chair overthrown?’
The taverner shook his head.
‘Mistress, if I wasn’t a God-fearing man, I’d say a demon came through stone, plaster, and wood; surprised that poor man; and clubbed him to death. Nothing was disturbed. No sound was heard. Well, apart from the usual ones, doors closing, but certainly no alarm was raised, no clash of steel, no cries or shouts.’
The taverner left. Kathryn went across to the saddle-bags. She placed them on the bed and emptied their contents.
‘He was carrying a message, Colum?’
‘Probably.’
The possessions were paltry: a small purse full of coins that bore witness to the taverner’s honesty, a change of clothing, a small dagger, a crucifix of hollowed metal, warrants and licences showing Mafiach had come through Dover, a belt and a set of ave beads. Kathryn searched for any hidden pouch or lining but could find nothing. Colum had picked up the rosary.
‘Nothing much,’ he murmured, ‘for a life of fighting and struggle, not to mention loyalty to the House of York.’
‘Did he have wealth?’ Kathryn asked.
‘The King had granted him a small house and garden in London,’ Colum absent-mindedly replied. ‘Padraig would have money with the goldsmiths, perhaps here or at York.’ He glanced sadly at Kathryn. ‘A wandering minstrel boy, our Padraig. He once said he wanted to meet a good woman and settle down. He had dreams of returning to the Blessed Isle.’
Colum stared down at the ave beads and began to search under the bolsters on the bed.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘A psalter,’ Colum snapped. ‘Padraig once met a beautiful woman. He described her: hair of fire and eyes as green as the sea. He pressed his suit upon her. She claimed to have dedicated her life to God. She gave him these ave beads. They are made out of coral, but she also gave him a psalter. Kathryn, Padraig would no more give up that book than he would have life itself. It was his psalter: It contained some psalms and prayers in Gaelic. Come on!’ he urged.
Kathryn joined him in the hunt – pulling back bed sheets, lifting the mattress, searching beneath the table, Colum swearing quietly under his breath.
‘If he carried a message’ – Colum paused – ‘Padraig would have copied it into that psalter, and the assassin took it. But Padraig was a knowing man: He
had seen the days, as we say in Ireland.’
He went back to the bed and picked up the brass crucifix.
‘What?’ Kathryn demanded.
‘Padraig always made a copy: That was the way of the man.’
Colum examined the crucifix carefully. Both the stem and the crossbar were made of hollowed bronze. Colum exclaimed as he prised the top off and shook loose the thin, white scroll from the stem.
‘His ghost is still here,’ he whispered.
Colum added something in Gaelic, making a gesture with his hands as if Padraig were standing beside him.
‘Kathryn, we can do no more. I’ll send a messenger to Cuthbert at the Old Priests’ Hospital. He’ll attend to the corpse and see to Padraig’s burial.’ He held up the scroll. ‘Padraig’s death was not totally in vain.’
Chapter 4
‘Wel bet is roten appul out of hoord
Than that it rotie at the remanaunt.’
– Chaucer, ‘The Cook’s Tale,’
The Canterbury Tales
The Council Chamber in the royal palace at Islip, despite the late hour, was a blaze of light and vivid colours: Hundreds of beeswax candles in their black, iron stands had been lit. A fire burned in the great hooded hearth. Braziers had been wheeled in; herbs sprinkled on the top evoked the fresh smell of summer. Yet this was no festive occasion. The shutters had been drawn against the mullioned glass windows; knight bannerets wearing the livery of the Royal Household thronged the corridors and galleries leading to the chamber. Inside, Edward of England, seated at the top of a long, polished, oval table, had even dispensed with clerks. Only ‘Friends of His Chamber,’ as he called them, had been permitted to attend this Council meeting. On his left sat Bourchier, eyes half-closed; Edward thought the old Archbishop was asleep, though he knew better. Bourchier was a wily old spider. He would keep his own counsel and weave his webs. On Edward’s right sat his widowed, still beautiful mother, ‘the Rose of Raby,’ Cecily of York, Mother of the King. He idly wondered what mood his tempestuous mother had assumed. She gave nothing away. She wore a dark-crimson velvet dress trimmed with white fur, its bodice and sleeves tight and clinging; Cecily had loosened the brocaded strap beneath the high waist-line and dispensed with the short train at the back. On her hands gleamed beautiful sapphire rings; round her throat a jewelled necklace, containing the same stones, shimmered brightly. Edward had always thought his mother a most beautiful woman, and age had not withered her. She had the same porcelain, delicate face, that mouth which could display a variety of moods, and above all, those dark-blue eyes which could be full of laughter or glare in hateful menace.