by Paul Doherty
‘You are not really here for your gums, Jack?’
‘They haven’t paid me my pension,’ the old man replied. ‘The monks of Christchurch. My pension is my right.’ He took out a battered piece of vellum with an ancient seal appended to it. ‘Three shillings to be given every quarter. The crafty buggers pretend I’m dead.’
Kathryn slipped a coin into the old man’s hand.
‘Take the rose-hip, Jack. Thomasina will wrap you some food. Tomorrow, I promise, Thomasina will go and see the Prior of Christchurch.’
‘Aye,’ the nurse retorted. ‘I’ll tell that shaven-head, mealy-mouthed almoner to open his coffers. Then I’ll come and see you, Jack my boy. Make sure you have wood and kindling for a fire.’
‘If you stayed,’ Jack whispered, ‘I’d be warm enough.’
‘Shame on you!’ Thomasina cried in mock horror.
Kathryn moved away as Wuf danced into the kitchen. Whilst Thomasina prepared the food, the boy took Jack out into the garden to listen, once more, to the old man’s famous exploits.
Darkness was beginning to fall so Kathryn returned to her own chamber where she washed and changed into her best gown of tawny sarcanet fringed at the cuff and neck with white linen. She sat on the bed combing her hair, wondering what she’d discover at the pilgrims’ supper. Colum tapped on the door and said he was ready.
‘I’ll be down soon,’ Kathryn cried absentmindedly.
She put on woollen hose, made sure her kirtle hung properly and applied some paint to her face. ‘Gilding the lily’ as Colum called it. She caught up her hair, put on a dark blue wimple and took out a soft pair of leather boots from her aumbry. Colum was waiting for her in the kitchen. He was dressed in a dark doublet, matching hose and leather riding boots. He had his silver chain of office round his neck as if to remind those powerful goldsmiths of his position; his great leather war belt was slung over his shoulder. When he saw Kathryn, he ran his hands round his cheeks and chin.
‘Before you ask, Mistress, I have bathed and shaved.’ He patted his hair. ‘I have even combed my golden locks.’
‘Which just goes to prove,’ Thomasina snapped, ‘you can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear!’
Colum laughed.
‘Has Jack-by-the-Hedge left?’ Kathryn asked before Thomasina could continue her verbal assault.
‘Oh, yes, trotted off happy as a squirrel.’
Kathryn sat down beside Colum.
‘Is that necessary?’ she asked, pointing to the war belt with its sword and dagger sheathed.
‘Canterbury is dangerous now,’ Colum replied. ‘Where there are pilgrims there are thieves, pickpockets and gangs of rifflers who’d cut a child’s throat for a penny.’
Kathryn was about to demur when there was a knock on the door. Agnes answered and Kathryn pulled a face as she recognised Foliot’s voice. He strode into the kitchen dressed in his usual black garb, as if he could not be bothered to make any pretence at dressing for the occasion.
‘I heard you had received an invitation,’ he said, kissing Kathryn’s hand as she rose to greet him. He bowed civilly at Colum. ‘So I thought we’d arrive together.’ He tapped the toe of his boot against the floor and stared around. ‘Your fame as a physician, Mistress Swinbrooke, has gone before you. It must be pleasant to have a home, a place you can retreat to.’
‘And you have none?’ Kathryn asked.
Foliot smiled and pointed at Colum. ‘Ask the Irishman. At court there’s no place to hide. Ah, well.’ He paused as the great bells of the cathedral began to chime. ‘Our hosts will be waiting.’
Colum, not pleased at his arrival, muttered that he would collect their horses. Kathryn made her farewells and led Foliot out into the street. Colum returned with their mounts from stables at a nearby tavern. Foliot gallantly assisted Kathryn mount and, with Colum riding alongside, they made their way down Ottemelle Lane and into Saint Margaret’s Street. Colum sat on his horse, back rigid, whilst Kathryn found Foliot’s silence embarrassing. She leaned over.
‘Do you know any of the goldsmiths?’
‘No, Mistress, but I know of them. I recognise their type: rich and powerful, fertile ground for the likes of Tenebrae. You see, bankers and goldsmiths like power. They prefer stability but, during the Civil War, they did not have that. Consequently they entered into negotiations and made shadowy alliances with every party. Now they are frightened that their secret sins will be made public.’
‘And Tenebrae would know their secrets?’
‘Possibly. As well as the scandals of their private or family lives. I wager you a pair of the best kid gloves, Mistress Swinbrooke, that Tenebrae was murdered because of his greed for power and riches.’
‘As Chaucer’s Pardoner would say,’ Colum called over his shoulder, ‘“The love of wealth is the root of all evil”.’
‘You know Chaucer, Irishman?’
Colum pulled his horse back. ‘I have read his Canterbury Tales.’
‘My grandfather knew him,’ Foliot replied. ‘The poet worked in the Custom House when he was an apprentice clerk.’
Kathryn hid her smile. Foliot had hit his mark and won Colum’s attention. Both men began to discuss heatedly which was the best story and whether the Tales were superior to Chaucer’s Parliament of Foules or The Book of the Duchess. As they talked Kathryn patted her horse’s neck; sometimes she found Colum’s constant quotations from Chaucer exasperating; now she was glad he was distracted.
She looked round Saint Margaret’s Street. The pilgrims were now flocking back to the taverns and guest houses, all chattering volubly. Some were local people, others from the shires even north of the Trent. A few, with their broad-brimmed hats, staves and scallop-shell badges, proclaimed them to be professional pilgrims who visited the tombs of Saint Ursula in Cologne or Saint James at Compostella.
The tradesmen had put away their stalls. Only a few pedlars and scrawny-armed beggars still looked for trade. As they passed the Bullstake and entered the Buttermarket in Burghgate, a small crowd had gathered to watch a mad beggar woman dance above a heap of glowing charcoal, which had been tipped from a brazier. The poor woman danced for a while, but then the pain became too intense and she had to run to a horse trough to cool her scorched feet. Kathryn would have stopped, but Foliot looked back at her.
‘It’s a cruel world, Mistress Swinbrooke. There is nothing we can do!’
A passing friar stopped to help the madwoman. Kathryn rode on down Burghgate and into the great cobbled yard of the Kestrel tavern. A large, prosperous tavern, the Kestrel’s lower storey was made of red brick, the three upper tiers of gleaming pink plaster and shiny black beams under broad, wooden eaves. The casement windows were of mullioned glass, some even tinted and coloured. Smartly painted stables and outhouses stood around the wall, with grooms and ostlers busy feeding the horses and settling them for the night. They dismounted, gave their reins to the waiting grooms and entered the spacious hallway of scrubbed, honey-coloured sandstone, its plaster and woodwork freshly painted. Sir Raymond Hetherington and the rest of the pilgrims were seated at a window table in the spacious taproom. They were dressed in their finery, and their flushed faces and glittering eyes, the high-pitched chatter of their conversation, showed all had drunk well and deep. Colum apologised for being late but Hetherington brushed this aside.
‘You are most welcome, most welcome!’
And without further ado, Hetherington led them all up the broad, sweeping staircase to a specially hired room on the second floor. The walls were wainscoted with gleaming, dark brown oak. A small fire burnt in the hearth. A long trestle table had been set up down the centre of the room and covered in gold-fringed, cream-coloured linen cloths. Cresset torches flared and sputtered on the walls above the wainscoting. Beeswax candles and oil lamps were set along the table. Hetherington showed them to their seats: Kathryn to his right, Colum and Foliot to his left, the rest of the guests taking their places according to precedence with Fronzac and Brissot seated be
low the burnished silver salt cellar carved in the shape of a ship. Supper was briskly served; cheese tart, mushroom pasties, cream soup of pork, chicken in rose-water, goose, roast pheasant and capons in a pepper sauce. The landlord, with an eye to a large profit, had the servitors and tapsters running backwards and forwards. For a while the conversation was mundane though Brissot, much the worse for drink and eager to impress Kathryn, gave his companions a lecture on the virtues of sage.
‘It’s grown under the influence of Jupiter,’ he trumpeted. ‘It’s good for the liver and the blood. It provokes urine, cleans stomach ulcers and cures the spitting and casting of blood.’
Kathryn glanced down the table and nodded knowingly. Foliot seized the embarrassed silence to tap his silver-edged pewter spoon on the table.
‘Sir Raymond, we thank you for your hospitality.’ He winked mischievously at Kathryn who had eaten little and drunk even less. ‘But we must question you all on Tenebrae’s death.’
He paused to sip from his cup. Kathryn sensed the change of atmosphere in the room. If these powerful people had hoped that Tenebrae’s death was a momentary wonder, then they were to be sorely disappointed.
‘You each saw Tenebrae between the hours of nine and noon?’ Foliot continued. ‘And, unless I have it wrong, Sir Raymond, you went first?’
The fat goldsmith burped in agreement.
‘Then Neverett, the lovely Mistress Condosti, then me and Fronzac!’ Brissot bellowed louder than he intended, ‘And finally Master Greene and Widow Dauncey.’
A chorus of agreement greeted his words.
‘Are you sure that it was Tenebrae you saw?’
‘Of course!’ Greene snapped, his face as sour as vinegar. ‘What do you think we are, Mistress, bumpkins?’
His words provoked a ripple of mirth.
‘And who decided on that order?’ Kathryn asked.
‘Well, we all did,’ Neverett intervened. ‘When we arrived in Canterbury Master Fronzac, our clerk, asked about our arrangements, then went to see Tenebrae. Each of us was given about the same amount of time, about twenty minutes with short intervals in between. And the cost was the same, a silver piece at least.’
‘And how did Master Tenebrae conduct these meetings?’ Kathryn asked.
‘Well you have seen the room,’ Louise Condosti simpered. ‘Sometimes it could be quite frightening. Master Morel would take us up the stairs and knock three times.’ She smiled. ‘Always the same: Tenebrae would ask who it was and Morel would reply, “A seeker of the truth”.’
‘Then what?’ Colum asked, intrigued by how these rich, sophisticated people could be so gullible.
‘It depends on your circumstances,’ Widow Dauncey snapped. ‘I sat on the stool before Master Tenebrae. There were a few questions, courtesies, but then I’d ask my questions.’
‘Which were?’ Kathryn insisted.
The widow breathed in so deeply her nostrils flared in annoyance.
‘Is this really necessary?’ she asked quietly. Glimpsing Foliot’s grimace of annoyance, she sighed. ‘If you insist. They were questions anyone would ask such a man: the future . . .’ Dauncey paused and Kathryn knew she was being very careful. Any questions about the stability of the Crown or the health of the King could be construed as treason. Dauncey hid her confusion by sipping from her goblet. ‘Which markets would prosper,’ she added hastily. What dangers I might face?’
‘And how did Tenebrae answer these?’
‘By use of the tarot cards: the ace of coins for happiness; the five of swords means a loss; the three of coins, trade; the five of clubs, a lawsuit.’ Dauncey shrugged.
‘And what does the future hold for you?’ Colum asked.
‘Prosperity!’
‘And the same is true of all of you?’ Foliot demanded.
‘There’s always danger,’ Hetherington snapped.
‘And the grimoire?’ Kathryn watched the pilgrims tense. ‘How did Tenebrae use the grimoire of Honorius?’
‘He would read from it,’ Greene spoke up. ‘Chant an incantation before the cards were turned.’
Kathryn glanced quickly at Colum. They are lying, her look said, we will never get the truth from them.
‘What was the grimoire like?’ Colum asked.
‘About the size of a church missal, studded with strange gems bound in what looked like calfskin,’ Greene replied.
‘And so you all went to see Master Tenebrae at your appointed time?’ Kathryn asked.
‘Yes,’ Neverett replied. ‘As Widow Dauncey said. We sat before the table. Tenebrae was always clothed in black, his mask and hood over his face. He spoke softly but deeply: no real chatter, no wine was offered or taken. Tenebrae let me out by the rear door, into the small gallery and down the stairs to the doorway leading into the alley where that creature, Bogbean, was waiting.’ Neverett laughed nervously. ‘Tenebrae always insisted on that: those coming to seek his wisdom would never meet those leaving.’
‘And did you believe all his wisdom?’ Kathryn asked. She glanced round the company. ‘Powerful goldsmiths! Didn’t it ever occur to you that Tenebrae was a spy with fingers in pies up and down the kingdom? That he acquired knowledge and used it under the guise of magic?’
‘If it was wrong,’ Hetherington asked, ‘why wasn’t Tenebrae arrested? I believe, Master Foliot, even Her Grace the Queen, may God bless her, had dealings with the magus.’
‘Her Grace’s dealings in this matter,’ Foliot retorted, ‘are not for common chatter or vulgar report.’
‘Well,’ Hetherington snapped, his face now flushed, ‘then our dealings, sir, are our own business! Yes, we visited Tenebrae but there’s no crime in that. We may have been the last to see him, but is that proof of murder? You have seen his servant Morel. He is as capable of murder as anyone. And how do we know, Master Foliot, what was said when you visited him earlier in the day? You did visit him, didn’t you?’
For the first time ever, the Queen’s emissary lost some of his poise. Foliot opened his mouth to reply but then thought better of it.
‘Come, come!’ Brissot piped up. ‘Master Tenebrae was a powerful man and he had his enemies.’ He smiled patronisingly. ‘And I am sure the truth will soon come out.’ He stretched and yawned. ‘But the evening is drawing on. Perhaps if we took our wine out into the gardens beyond?’
Everyone quickly agreed. The atmosphere in the room was becoming oppressive, tempers were fraying. They picked up their goblets and went down the stairs, through the deserted taproom where heavy-eyed scullions were now preparing for sleep on straw-filled mattresses. Outside, behind the tavern, was a small, cobbled yard bounded by a fence with a small, wicket gate. The night air was cool and refreshing after the hot, stuffy banqueting room. Kathryn looked up and marvelled at the stars filling the dark sky with light. They went through the gate, past the herb gardens where Kathryn smelt the fragrance of balm, parsley, rosemary, yarrow, then further down past the hen coops and dovecotes. She stopped abruptly, wrinkling her nose at the pungent smell. Brissot, walking beside her and regaling her with a list of miraculous cures, paused in his monologue. Foliot, too, exclaimed and pinched his nostrils whilst Colum just laughed.
‘Haven’t you ever smelt hogs before?’ the Irishman asked.
‘The tavern has its own farm,’ Fronzac explained and pointed to a small paddock cordoned off by a high fence.
Kathryn heard the grunting, shuffling and pushing of the hogs within. Colum, full of mischief, seized her by the elbow.
‘Come on, Kathryn,’ he whispered. ‘In Ireland these creatures proved great sport.’
And with Fronzac and Foliot following, the rest staying behind, Colum guided her to the fence and onto a stump of a tree placed there. Kathryn, full of curiosity, climbed up and looked over. She glimpsed a sea of angry eyes and bristling snouts, tufted ears, fat bellies and tails high in anger. She hurriedly got down.
‘Sport, Irishman?’
In the darkness, Colum’s smile widened.
‘
My father had a small farm,’ he said. ‘Now and again for mischief we let such creatures out. They are not pigs; hogs are fierce and will bite. You have to run like the wind to escape them.’
Kathryn walked back to join the rest. Louise Condosti, a napkin covering her mouth and nose, was leaning coyly against her betrothed.
‘I can’t stand such animals.’
‘Fronzac is fascinated by them,’ Greene taunted acidly.
‘My father owned a tavern like this,’ the clerk said. ‘Near Mapledurham on the old road west. I could sit for hours and watch them eating.’
‘Is that to be our only pastime?’ Hetherington trumpeted, confronting Colum and Foliot. ‘How long, sir, must we stay in Canterbury?’
Colum glanced at the Queen’s emissary.
‘Today is Tuesday,’ Foliot replied slowly. ‘If Tenebrae’s death remains a mystery by the end of the week, then you may go.’ He held up a hand to still their protests. ‘But, once you are back in London, the King’s Justices will deal with the matter.’
After that, Colum, Foliot and Kathryn made their farewells. Kathryn had the distinct impression that the pilgrims were pleased to see the back of them. They mounted their horses and rode back into a moonlit Burghgate. The houses were now shuttered, the thoroughfare deserted except for the occasional wandering cat or beggar whining for alms from the darkness.
They rode silently down into Saint Margaret’s Street where Foliot reined in and turned his horse.
‘Well,’ he asked, ‘What do you make of all that?’
‘They are lying,’ Kathryn said. ‘They believed in the magus. Oh, not because he was a magician but because he was a collector of information, a snapper-up of facts, tittle-tattle and gossip.’
Foliot nodded. ‘I agree. That’s how such men work. You go to them and, on the first occasion, receive sweet blandishments. However, once they have your name and status, they make enquiries, collect information. Tenebrae was no different.’
‘Do you think the murderer is one of them?’ Colum asked.