by Paul Doherty
‘The devil,’ Kathryn interrupted sharply, ‘is not a physician.’
‘True, true,’ Luberon replied. ‘You may also have a personal interest in the matter. Your husband Alexander Wyville? There’s not much Tenebrae didn’t know. I wonder if this grimoire held information about him?’
Kathryn glanced away: Thomasina stood at the hearth, her back turned to them, though listening intently to every word. Agnes was outside, hanging sheets to dry in the warm, spring sun; Wuf had given up his carpentry and was now hunting snails.
Will the past ever go away? Kathryn thought. Alexander Wyville, why don’t you die and let me have peace?
‘Mistress Swinbrooke!’
Kathryn glanced back at Luberon.
‘It would be best if we began now. We must hasten to Tenebrae’s house. The Council would like to declare they have matters in hand.’
Kathryn reluctantly agreed. Colum finished his wine, shouting across to Thomasina that they would eat the stew on their return.
‘I work my fingers to the bone for you, Irishman,’ Thomasina wailed, ‘and what do I get?’
‘Bony fingers, I suppose, Mistress Thomasina.’ Colum stepped aside as the nurse threw a cloth at his head.
‘What passion.’ Colum laughed. ‘Master Luberon, have you ever seen so much passion in one woman?’
The little clerk blushed with embarrassment and shuffled to his feet. Kathryn came back from her chancery office, cloak over one arm; she carried a leather pannier, which contained her writing instruments. Colum took this from her and slung it over his shoulder. He was about to continue his teasing of Thomasina when Luberon plucked him by the sleeve.
‘Irishman, a word?’
As Kathryn went over to talk to Thomasina, Colum followed Luberon out down the passage to the front door.
‘What is it, man?’ Colum said testily.
Luberon looked back towards the kitchen and waited for Kathryn to join them.
‘This business,’ the clerk explained. ‘It won’t be the King who wants Tenebrae’s death investigated. According to the gossip, the dead magus was patronised by the queen, Elizabeth Woodville.’
Colum’s stomach lurched. He felt a chill as if a sudden rush of cold air had swept through the house.
‘What does that mean?’ Kathryn asked.
‘Edward the King,’ Colum replied, ‘is as magnanimous as he is big. He loses his temper on Monday and forgets it on Tuesday, but the Queen is different. She’s a very dangerous woman. No injury, no slight, no threat is ever forgotten.’ Colum sighed. ‘She’ll want her way in this business. If I fail her, she’ll never forget.’
He threw open the door and went out into the street, not even bothering to answer Thomasina’s farewells.
Kathryn and Luberon hurried behind him. They went up Hethenman Lane, turning left at the top into King Street, the broad thoroughfare, which ran towards Holy Cross Church near the western gate of the city. Kathryn would have liked to have questioned Luberon further but this proved impossible. It was now early afternoon and the market stalls were doing a roaring trade as throngs of pilgrims made their way through to worship before Becket’s tomb. Apprentices screamed at the tops of their voices, offering ribbons, cloths from Ghent, needles from London, leather goods and bottles from Bristol.
‘What do you lack?’ they cried. ‘What do you lack?’
The cookshops and taverns were also busy: the air was thick with the fresh meat being cooked or grilled in tangy, spicy sauces. Beggars whined at every corner. Two men, with black holes where their eyes had been, wandered about hand in hand: they claimed they had been cruelly treated by Turks on pilgrimage to Jerusalem and now threw themselves on the mercy of good Christian folk. A relic-seller, his trays laid out on the steps of a church, roared that he had the most holy artefacts blessed by the Pope himself and attested by the College of Cardinals: a napkin used by the Lord Jesus at the Last Supper; a stool fashioned by Saint Joseph; the remains of one of the baskets after Christ had fed the five thousand; a hair of Elijah’s beard; the sling of David and, much to Kathryn’s astonishment, an ear from the head of Goliath. She watched people stare open-mouthed at this cunning man’s tricks and realised how easy it was for the likes of Tenebrae to make a fortune out of foolish superstition, whilst an old woman like Mathilda Sempler could die for it.
In Saint Peter’s Street the bailiffs had already rounded up those who had trespassed too far on the credulity of citizens and pilgrims. A tavern master was being forced to stand in a tub full of horse piss, as the placard round his neck attested, a warning to those who mixed water with their ale. Next to him, in the head stocks, a butcher watched mournfully, moving his imprisoned head painfully as market beadles burnt sausages under his nose whilst a crier proclaimed how one Guido Armerger had used cats’ meat in his sausages. Petty pilferers, drunken apprentices and a whore, her head shaven so it was bald as a pigeon’s egg, were locked in the stocks: all around them, ragged-arsed urchins pelted them with rubbish and dirt plucked from the sewer which ran down the centre of the street. Kathryn glanced away, even putting one hand over her ears, as they passed the city executioner: he was busily branding a blasphemer, pressing his heated iron to the screaming man’s face to leave a B, a warning that would last for the rest of his life.
As they passed Blackfriars the crowd thinned. Between the overhanging houses on either side, which were festooned with their gaudily painted signs, the road was busy with pedlars and their pack ponies, peasants in their two-wheeled carts now leaving the city after a morning’s trading. Kathryn glanced at Luberon: he was beginning to feel the heat, drops of sweat pricked his fleshy face. Kathryn had to shout at Colum to slow down. The Irishman stopped and glanced back at her.
‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘To be sure, I was far away.’ He pulled Kathryn and Luberon out into the shadowy recess of a door. ‘Do you want to rest?’
‘It’s not much further,’ Luberon gasped. ‘But need you hurry so?’
Colum grinned sheepishly. ‘I’ll tell you a secret. I have been a soldier and fought in bloody battles but black magic, the laws of the gibbet, the secret rites of the cemeteries, have always frightened me.’ He glanced across the street. ‘In Ireland, such magic plagues our lives. I want to get this matter over.’
Kathryn wetted her finger and touched Colum on the tip of his nose.
‘Come, my little bog trotter, there’s more murder than magic here. But, for pity’s sake, walk slower or either you, or I, will have to carry Luberon!’
They continued up the street, keeping well away from the sewer, which had now overflowed, and the pigs rooting amongst the rotting refuse. Once they had passed the Friars of the Sack, they turned into Black Griffin Lane. A one-eyed journeyman who sold needles, ribbons and gee-gaws from his tray, with a chattering monkey sitting on his shoulder, told them the way. Kathryn, trying not to look at the dung that encrusted the shoulders of the man’s shabby jerkin, followed his simple directions.
‘Go round that corner,’ the man said throatily. ‘You can’t miss the sorcerer’s house: tall and black as night!’
Colum pulled a face as Kathryn led them on. They turned the corner and, across the street, was Tenebrae’s house. The journeyman’s description was correct: tall, at least three storeys high, it stood in its own grounds, a narrow alley-way on either side. Kathryn had not been down the lane for years, and she was surprised, as well as slightly fearful, at the house’s appearance: black polished beams and gables, even the plaster had been daubed black as night, as were the sills and shutters. The windows were long and spacious, but the thick glass had been tinted a dull grey to prevent anyone peering in. Above the broad doorway was a shield with a red-gold mandrake root gilded upon it. Two bailiffs wearing city livery stood, swords drawn, at the wicket gate, politely refusing entry to a group of richly dressed burgesses.
Colum pushed his way through. The bailiffs recognised both him and Luberon and ordered the group to stand aside.
‘Why shou
ld we?’ their leader exclaimed. A tall, fleshy-faced man with grey streaks of hair, he was dressed in a velvet, furedged, woollen robe: his fat fingers, covered with glittering rings, played with the gold guild chain round his neck.
‘Because I am Colum Murtagh, King’s Commissioner in Canterbury!’ the Irishman declared softly. ‘This is Master Simon Luberon, clerk of the city council; the lady is Mistress Kathryn Swinbrooke, physician. And who, sir, are you?’
The man drew himself up, puffing his chest out like a peacock as if to display his expensive sarcanet doublet.
‘I am Sir Raymond Hetherington of Cheapside,’ the portly merchant replied. ‘Banker and, indeed, friend of His Grace the King.’
Colum looked at the man’s hard, little eyes, thick, black eyebrows, nose as sharp as a quill and the petulant cast of his lips. He sketched a bow.
‘Sir Raymond, I have heard of you.’ Colum glanced round at the rest of the group. ‘What business do you have here?’
Hetherington’s lips pursed like an old woman’s.
‘We had business this morning with Master Tenebrae; we are shocked at his death.’
‘His murder,’ Colum corrected.
Hetherington lost some of his hauteur. ‘Yes, yes,’ he mumbled. ‘His murder.’
He looked over his shoulder at his companions as if seeking their support. Kathryn studied them carefully as Hetherington introduced them. Thomas Greene, goldsmith, thin as a bean pole and sour-faced, with a sallow complexion. Kathryn wondered if he suffered from ill humours of the liver. The widow Dionysia, dressed soberly in dark blue, her face ravaged by age, must have been beautiful in her youth. Beside her a young man Richard Neverett, dressed in a costly cote hardie over a pale cream cambric shirt, woollen green leggings and expensive Spanish leather boots. His fiancee Louise Condosti looked like a fairy princess with her angelic face, wide blue eyes and cluster of blonde hair. Anthony Fronzac, a small, dusty-faced man with tired eyes and a slack mouth, who introduced himself as Clerk to the Guild. Finally, Charles Brissot, London physician: a pleasant-faced, rotund, little man, sparking eyes and red cheeks, a neatly cut moustache and fine, pointed beard. Kathryn hid her smile; her father had always mocked the London physicians with their splendid clothes and glorious apparel. Brissot was certainly one of these. He was garbed in a quilted, orange jerkin with a small, linen ruff at neck and collar, tight hose and elegant shoes whilst, over his shoulders, hung a rather old-fashioned houppelonde, a long cloak of various colours, edged with lamb’s-wool. For a while all chattered nervously, slightly awed by this tall, grim-faced Irishman. Kathryn had to pinch Colum gently on the arm because he was already treating them as a group of felons.
‘Why can’t we go in?’ Sir Raymond Hetherington bellowed, eyes bulbous, cheeks blown out like those of a frog.
‘Who is inside?’ Luberon tactfully asked one of the bailiffs.
‘Tenebrae’s clerk, Morel,’ the fellow replied. ‘And a popinjay from court. I didn’t quite catch his name, tall and dark.’ The fellow turned away and spat. ‘He looked dangerous to me.’
Colum ordered Sir Raymond and his party to adjourn to a nearby tavern whilst he and his companions went up the path and hammered on the metal-studded door. Kathryn stared round the garden and shivered.
‘It could be quite pleasant,’ she observed. ‘But look, Colum, nothing but weeds.’
Colum brought the iron knocker, carved in the shape of a devil’s face, down once more then followed her gaze.
‘Nothing but hemp and flax; even the grass looks tired,’ Kathryn whispered. ‘Thomasina and I could transform this. We would have herb banks . . .’
Kathryn abruptly paused as she heard the sound of footsteps, then the door swung open. Kathryn almost jumped with fright at the man who stood there: he had a white, podgy, slack face, eyes with no lashes, scrawny brows, balding head and blue, watery eyes. If it hadn’t been for the occasional blink, Kathryn would have sworn he was either dead or in some trance. He glared suspiciously at Colum.
‘Who are you?’ The man’s lips hardly moved.
‘The King’s man,’ Murtagh replied, pushing him aside. ‘And who are you?’
‘Morel, Master Tenebrae’s clerk, servant, door keeper, whatever you wish.’ Morel moved swiftly to block Colum’s way. ‘And, if you don’t leave, I’ll break your neck! The King’s man is already here!’
Colum’s hand fell to the dagger in his belt.
‘Now, now, now!’
The voice was soft. Looking round Morel, Kathryn saw a young man, pale-faced, dressed in a dark purple doublet and hose, come quietly along the corridor. He crossed his arms and leaned against the black-painted wall. Kathryn did not know whether his face was that of an angel or devil; smooth shaven, framed by dark hair, the generous mouth was twisted into a smile, the eyes had that constant look of mockery, as if they only believed a tenth of what they saw. A young face, Kathryn thought, but the eyes were old.
‘Now, now!’ the man repeated.
He moved languorously, delicately like a woman, yet this made him seem all the more dangerous. He came and stood beside Morel, thumbs pushed in his silver-buckled war belt. Kathryn glimpsed the sword and dagger hanging there as if they were part and parcel of his body.
‘So far, you have only said, “Now, now”,’ Colum remarked. ‘Come, sir, do not keep us in suspense.’
The man grinned, put his hand on his heart and bowed mockingly at Kathryn.
‘My name is Theobald Foliot, squire and personal equerry of Her Grace, Queen Elizabeth Woodville.’ He gestured elegantly at Colum. ‘You must be Murtagh the Irishman?’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘The King trusts you, which is rare for an Irishman.’
Before Colum could reply, Foliot took one step forward; he seized Kathryn’s hand and, raising it to his cold lips, kissed it expertly.
‘And Mistress Kathryn Swinbrooke, renowned physician of the city. Madame, you are most welcome.’ He smiled dazzlingly at her. ‘The Queen sends you her good wishes. I believe you have met her.’
Kathryn could only blush and stammer with embarrassment, then quickly seized Colum’s wrist as he fumed at Foliot’s insult. The Queen’s emissary caught her movement.
‘No, don’t do that.’ He extended his hand and gave Colum that same smile. ‘I was only teasing you, Irishman. No insult was intended.’
‘None taken,’ Murtagh replied as he grasped the man’s hand.
‘Well.’ Foliot stood back. ‘Morel, let us take our guests into the kitchen. Master Luberon,’ he said and shook the little clerk’s hand, ‘let us investigate this dreadful business.’
Morel, who had stood statue-like throughout, shrugged and led them down the dark passageway into a cleanly scrubbed kitchen. Kathryn stared around. After the exterior of the house and the grim hall and passageway, the kitchen was a complete surprise. The floor and tables were scrubbed; gleaming skillets and fleshing knives hung neatly from hooks on the walls. The fire was doused and the oven was cold but the air still smelt fragrantly of spiced meats and freshly baked bread. Foliot made them sit round the great oval oak table whilst, at his command, Morel served them Rhenish wine slightly chilled and a tray of marzipan. He was about to leave but Foliot clicked his fingers and pointed to a stool.
‘No, no, Morel, you stay with us. Well?’ Foliot leaned his elbows on the table. ‘I am the Queen’s emissary. I arrived in Canterbury yesterday evening and took lodgings at the White Hart Tavern. Early this morning, just after Matins, I came here to see Master Tenebrae. We had a few words down here in the kitchen as Morel can testify. I then left because of Master Tenebrae’s appointments. I believe you met them outside?’
‘Sir Raymond Hetherington and his party?’ Colum asked.
‘The same,’ Foliot murmured. ‘Apparently every one of them, between the hours of eight and noon today, came for a meeting with our dead friend. Each came at their appointed time.’ He smiled down at Morel. ‘Then what happened?’
Morel hunched his great shoulders. ‘Master had a
sked for some wine and quince tarts at half-past twelve. I took them up. I knocked on his door but I could hear no answer.’
‘And so?’ Colum asked.
‘I came back downstairs. I thought he might have gone out by the back route. However, a short time later, I went there myself and spoke to Bogbean.’
‘Bogbean?’ Kathryn interrupted.
‘Oh, yes, he’s a toper Tenebrae employed to guard the rear entrance of the house. He said the master hadn’t left. I became concerned so I went upstairs with a log from the cellar and forced the door.’ Morel blinked but, apart from that, his face did not change expression. ‘The candles were lit. My master was sitting behind a table. I thought he was asleep. I called out but he didn’t move. I went closer . . .’
For the first time Morel showed some emotion, staring down at the table-top, his lips moving soundlessly. Kathryn wondered if he had lost his wits and suffered from some deep sickness of the mind.
‘My master was sitting back in his chair,’ Morel continued. ‘The hood and mask still on his face, the crossbow bolt embedded deep in his throat, only a few splatters of blood.’ Morel, as if dream walking, rose to his feet. ‘Come, you can see for yourself.’
Colum looked at Foliot who shrugged. They followed the servant along the passageway and up the wooden stairs. The balustrade and newel post were painted black. A writhing devil halfway up greeted them: carved in wood, the demon, in the form of a frog with a man’s face, leered at Kathryn and made her shiver. At the top of the stairs, to the right, was a gallery with two chambers but Morel went ahead into a small recess, pushed open a door and led them into Tenebrae’s chamber. Kathryn felt she was entering the darkness of hell. She stared round speechlessly. The room was long and polished. Wooden panelling covered the walls, and the floor-boards had been covered with a black, glossy paint. The candle-holders screwed into the wood were also black as were the candles. She looked up at the painted ceiling and gasped at the awesome, blood-daubed goat surrounded by legions of demons in many forms: some had the heads of monkeys and the bodies of women, others the faces of goats and the limbs of children.