by Paul Doherty
Kathryn replied carefully, ‘What happens if all of them murdered Tenebrae?’
Colum stared up between the overhanging houses at the starlit sky.
‘But Morel went up afterwards: he spoke to his master.’
Kathryn shook her head. ‘How do we know that to be true? Tenebrae was dressed in black, hooded and masked: any one of those merchants could have imitated his voice.’
Foliot laughed. ‘You are too sharp, Mistress Swinbrooke.’
‘To answer your question, Colum,’ Kathryn added bluntly, ‘I still believe one, or all of them killed Tenebrae: how or when is a mystery. Beneath the wine, the good food and courtesies there is a tension, a watchfulness. They do not trust each other.’
‘So, how do we proceed?’ Foliot asked. ‘I could go back to that tavern and tear it apart until I find the grimoire.’
Kathryn shook her head. ‘The Book of Shadows will be hidden.’ She chewed the corner of her lip. ‘No, what we must do is find the loose thread. Jerk it sharply and the truth will unravel.’
‘Then do it soon.’ Foliot gathered the reins in his hand. He leaned over and grasped Kathryn’s hand. ‘If I go back to London with the grimoire you will be Her Grace’s friend for life but . . .’
‘But what, sir?’ Kathryn snapped. ‘Are you threatening me?’
In the light of a torch burning in its sconce on the doorpost of a nearby house, Kathryn glimpsed a sad softness in Foliot’s face.
‘I’ll never threaten you,’ he promised. ‘But the Queen will. Tell me, Mistress Swinbrooke, how would Canterbury be for you if Master Murtagh were recalled to London?’
Foliot did not wait to see the effect of his words, but spurred his horse back towards Queningate. Kathryn watched his retreating back whilst her stomach clenched and her mouth went dry.
‘Could they do that?’ she murmured.
Colum stared grimly back.
‘Answer me!’ she cried. ‘Could they do that?’
Colum wrapped the reins of his horse round his hand.
‘After the battle of Tewkesbury,’ he said, ‘the King granted me these offices for life. However, it wouldn’t be the first time such a grant has been cancelled or revoked.’
‘And would you go back?’ Kathryn was now no longer aware of the darkened street or Tenebrae’s death.
Colum smiled. ‘“To love my lady”,’ he quoted from Chaucer’s Knight, ‘“Whom I love and serve and will, while life, my heart’s blood shall preserve”.’
‘Don’t play games with me, Irishman!’
Colum’s face became grave. ‘I am not. I have given you my answer. Foliot and his mistress can go hang.’ He grasped the reins of Kathryn’s horse and urged their mounts forward. ‘What I’ll do,’ he added, ‘is set up shop in Canterbury and sell physic.’
Kathryn glared at him. She still felt cold after Foliot’s threat. She was angry that his words could be so cutting, but then she recalled the sadness in his eyes and recognised that Foliot was secretly warning her.
‘Do you think there’s a solution?’ Colum asked.
‘For every illness there’s a cure,’ she answered tardy. ‘Apart from one.’
‘Which is?’
‘A broken heart!’
Kathryn urged her horse on, not caring about the tavern signs and ale-stakes jutting over the street. They turned into Ottemelle Lane. Kathryn dismounted, tossed the reins at Colum and, whilst he took the mounts back to the stables, she walked into the kitchen.
Thomasina was dozing in a chair in the ingle-nook. She woke with a start and would have fussed around but Kathryn insisted she retire.
‘Not before that bloody Irishman, I won’t!’ Thomasina muttered. ‘I know his likes, full of wine and it’s heigh, nonny no!’
‘Thomasina!’
The nurse stared across at Kathryn’s pale face, the set to her mouth and jaw, the furrows round her eyes.
‘I’m going to bed, Mistress,’ Thomasina said quietly, ‘and I think you should too.’ She walked over and grasped Kathryn’s hands. ‘It is the Irishman?’
Kathryn nodded. ‘They might recall him to London.’
‘Nonsense!’ Thomasina replied. ‘Come, Kathryn, let the Irishman earn his keep. I’ll lock and bolt the house. Go to bed, don’t worry: as they say in Ireland, “We’ll burn that bridge when we come to it”.’
In Tenebrae’s sombre, magic chamber, Morel, too, was sleepless. He sat on a stool staring across at the chair in which he had found his murdered master. Morel tried to make sense of what was happening to his world. Tenebrae had been a harsh master but Morel’s only one. Many years ago, when he had been regarded as a monster in a travelling troupe of mountebanks and mummers, Tenebrae had bought him out. Oh, Tenebrae had beaten, frightened and even terrified him. However, the magus had put clothes on Morel’s back and food in his belly. He had given Morel a soft bed with a feather-filled bolster, cupboards and chests as well as purses full of coins. Morel had been happy, sheltering like a bat in the shadow of Tenebrae’s greatness. Now his master was gone. Morel could not understand that: his master could not die! To be sure, he had seen the bolt in Tenebrae’s throat and the great Book of Shadows had disappeared but, surely, this was all part of some secret plan? Had not his master said,
‘Morel, I can come and go as I will, even harrow the Valley of Death yet still return!’
Morel stared at the empty chair and listened to the creaking of the house. He always thought it strange. Tenebrae had no pets, no cat, no dog, but never once in all the years they had spent in this house had Morel even glimpsed a mouse, a rat or even a spider scurrying about.
‘Where are you, Master?’ he whispered into the darkness.
As if in answer, the old screech owl, which came in to hunt along the alley hooted mournfully. Morel sighed. Was that his answer? The master would return! But would he need assistance? Would he need Morel’s help? The manservant became excited. And, when Tenebrae did return, perhaps the magus would reward him? Provide a feast? Perhaps give him coins? Or even, as he sometimes had, would he hire a whore for Morel then watch them cavort on his bed in the chamber above: some fresh, plump girl. Morel licked his lips. He was confused about how his master had died. He had been certain that each of Tenebrae’s guests from the goldsmiths’ fraternity had been shown up and then dismissed. Bogbean had said the same. Morel had helped Bogbean remember by squeezing his throat tightly in his hand until the porter, mottle-faced, popping-eyed and gasping for breath, had assured Morel that no trickery had taken place. There were no secret entrances or passageways into the house so Morel now believed that Tenebrae had arranged his own death for his own special purposes. The manservant shifted on his stool and stared up at the red, painted goat on the ceiling. And the others? The Irishman with his hands restless on his dagger hilt? And that sharp-eyed Foliot, fresh from the court? Morel grunted disdainfully. But Mistress Swinbrooke? Morel narrowed his eyes, rocking himself gently backwards and forwards. Swinbrooke was cunning: she had the power. She would help him bring Master Tenebrae back.
Chapter 5
Kathryn woke early after a poor night’s sleep. She had tossed and turned, fearful of Foliot’s threat, as well as trying to imagine what could have happened the morning Tenebrae had died. She sat up and leaned against the bolsters. She closed her eyes and recalled that sombre staircase leading up to the magus’s chamber. Morel would knock: Tenebrae would open the door and the visitor would go in. Once the meeting was over Tenebrae would show them out through the rear door. He or she would go past the shuttered window and down those stairs. Once out, both the door itself as well as Bogbean would ensure no one could reenter. Try as she might, Kathryn could see no solution to the mystery. She beat her fists against the coverlets piled around her.
‘One of those pilgrims,’ she whispered to herself, ‘is the assassin.’
She knew the dangers of brooding so she got out of bed, washed and dressed quickly, then went down to the kitchen where Thomasina was already building th
e fire in the grate. She broke her fast on some cheese, fruit and yesterday’s bread, muttering answers to Thomasina’s sharp questions.
‘Are there any patients this morning?’ Kathryn asked, trying to remember. ‘I mean, anything serious?’
Before Thomasina answered there was a loud knocking on the door. Thomasina went to answer and came back.
‘It’s one of those arrogant tipstaffs from the Guildhall,’ she announced. ‘Grand Master Luberon would like to have words with you. I can’t see why he doesn’t come here. You are just as busy . . .’
‘Shush!’ Kathryn smiled. ‘Colum has left?’
‘Flown like a bird,’ Thomasina replied. ‘He looked about as happy as you. Shall I come?’
Kathryn shook her head, collected her cloak and, kissing Thomasina absentmindedly on the cheek, walked out into Ottemelle Lane.
Widow Gumple went sailing by, a false smile on her face. Kathryn nodded at this self-righteous, powerful member of Saint Mildred’s parish council. She wished the woman would not make such a fool of herself by parading the streets in her voluminous skirts, which made her sway like a sumpter pony whilst her ornate head-dress billowed out like a ship in full sail.
‘You are getting like Thomasina,’ Kathryn whispered.
Rawnose the beggar was standing on the corner of Hethenman Lane. He beckoned her over and showed her his scabied head.
‘It’s working,’ he gabbled, his poor, disfigured face breaking into a smile. ‘It’s magic. You work magic, Mistress Swinbrooke.’
Kathryn went to walk on, but Rawnose caught her by the hand.
‘And you’ve heard about Master Tenebrae’s death?’ This self-proclaimed herald of Canterbury pursed his lips and shook his head as if he was one of the King’s Justices. ‘The demons are all about us. Have you heard about the curate at Maidstone who tried to kill the archdeacon with a waxen image? He pierced it with pins and threw it into a fire. He’s supposed to keep by him in a bottle, a demon which spies on young girls of the parish. But that’s nothing,’ Rawnose chattered on, ‘compared to an alderman in Dover. He bought three wax images and a supply of poison from a sorcerer. The images were baptised with the names of the sheriff and two leading civic officers, wrapped in strips of parchment and concealed with the poison in loaves of bread which were smuggled into the Guildhall. And have you heard . . . ?’
‘Enough,’ Kathryn interrupted. ‘Rawnose, my medicine may have cured your head but, God save us, your tongue is getting longer. Now, go and see Thomasina. Tell her I sent you. You can break your fast there and warm yourself by the fire.’
The words were hardly out of her mouth when Rawnose was off like a hare. Kathryn continued up Hethenman Lane. The day was proving to be a fine one, the sun growing stronger in a cloud-free sky. Bells of different churches tolled for Mass. Carts crashed along the cobbles laden with produce for the markets. Two one-armed beggars pushed their common barrow laden with polished small stones, which they hoped to sell. Behind them a dusty friar prayed his beads. A group of pilgrims tried to ask the way from a tired, white-faced whore hurrying back towards her brothel in Westgate. On either side of the street, traders and merchants were laying out their stalls, smelly night-pots were being emptied into the streets whilst straggly children screamed with delight as the contents of one jar splattered a pompous-looking merchant. Kathryn espied Goldere the clerk clawing at his protuberant codpiece and staring miserably around. She took a shortcut through an alley-way; Goldere, with his lists of intermittent ailments, which he was ever ready to describe in great detail to Kathryn, was more than she could take. As she entered the High Street Kathryn found the traders quiet, the main thoroughfare cleared of pilgrims, even the wandering dogs and pigs had been shooed away.
‘It’s the King’s Justices in Eyre,’ a woman whispered to her. ‘They have arrived in Canterbury.’
Kathryn waited for a while as this great judicial procession made its way from the Guildhall to the castle. First came two heralds carrying large banners bearing the royal arms of England. They rode brown-berried palfreys, looking magnificent in their tabards of blue, red and gold. After them walked two tipstaffs carrying white wands, followed by a trumpeter and four pages beating solemnly on tambours almost as big as them. Then came the Justices dressed in their scarlet, ermine-edged cloaks and black skull caps; they were surrounded by their clerks, scriveners and finally the cart that struck dread in the eyes of all the spectators. It was high-sided, pulled by two huge dray horses, their manes hogged, their trappings all black. On the cart stood the executioner dressed from head to toe in black and red, his face disguised by a mask. Beside him were piled the implements of torture and punishment: a makeshift gallows, the block, axe and sword, pincers, irons and manacles. The Justices would spend at least two weeks in Canterbury thoroughly investigating all the cases brought before them. Men and women would be hanged, flogged, branded, mutilated or fined according to the whim of those gentle-faced old men swathed in their scarlet robes. Kathryn suddenly remembered the accused witch Mathilda Sempler and vowed to have words with Luberon. Once the Justices were passed and the High Street re-opened, she hastened to the Guildhall and was surprised to find Luberon waiting for her on the steps. Kathryn brushed the hair from her face.
‘I’m sorry,’ she gasped. ‘But . . .’
The little clerk’s eyes lit with pleasure. He grasped Kathryn’s hands and blushed as she kissed him on his cheek. He fairly skipped as he led her along the smelly Guildhall passageway to his own chamber. Every available space and shelf in the whitewashed room was taken up with piles of manuscripts. Luberon grandly gestured Kathryn to the room’s one and only chair whilst he perched himself on a high stool. Kathryn was immediately reminded of some genial goblin as he smiled down at her, his cheeks bright with excitement.
‘First,’ Luberon declared, handing across a small, cream-coloured scroll bound by a piece of red cord. ‘This is your licence to trade as both apothecary and a spicer.’
Kathryn took the scroll, closed her eyes and heaved a great sigh of relief.
‘Simon, I could kiss you!’
The little clerk went puce with embarrassment.
‘Oh no, not here.’ He blinked. His face became grave, as he bent down and fished amongst the manuscripts on his desk. He held up a small, waxen figure. ‘You needn’t touch it,’ he warned.
Kathryn stared at the black wax, the round domed head, the nail driven through it and the T scrawled across the body.
‘It’s Tenebrae!’ she exclaimed. ‘His waxen effigy pierced with a nail!’
Luberon threw it to the floor and wiped his fingers on his jerkin.
‘One of the market beadles found it yesterday morning, pinned to the cross near the Buttermarket. He only brought it to me after Tenebrae’s death became common knowledge.’
‘Why should someone do that?’ Kathryn asked. ‘Take the trouble of creating an effigy, piercing it, then hanging it up in a public place?’
Luberon shuffled on his stool.
‘I remembered my father talking about the case of Bolingbroke, the famous London sorcerer who was executed in Saint Paul’s churchyard in London. Bolingbroke apparently waged a relentless war on fellow sorcerers. Anyway,’ Luberon continued, ‘to kill a sorcerer, one must first fashion such an effigy, including the manner in which he is to die, and pin it up in a public place.’
‘What it does prove,’ Kathryn observed, ‘is that whoever killed Tenebrae was desperate and determined enough to do that.’
‘It also means that Tenebrae’s death was a premeditated act. It was intended that he should die yesterday. But listen.’ Luberon got down from his stool. ‘I have someone you should meet.’
He scurried out of the chamber. Kathryn kicked the black effigy away with the toe of her boot. She undid the scroll and smiled as she studied the ornate, copperplate writing and the seals at the end, which gave her the right to trade as an apothecary. Kathryn murmured a prayer of thanks. She had struggled for this for over
a year, fighting the opposition of the traders, her kinsman Joscelyn, himself a spicer, as well as those who simply envied her good fortune. She stared at the dust, which covered a pile of parchment whilst she made a quick calculation: if she continued to work as a physician both for herself and for the council, the profits from her trade might make life very comfortable. She then recalled Foliot’s threat about Colum.
‘If Colum went,’ she whispered, ‘what would be the use?’
‘Mistress Swinbrooke?’
Kathryn started as Luberon ushered into the room a squat, sandy-haired man, his long, dirty cloak coated with sawdust. The man shuffled his feet and smiled in embarrassment at Kathryn.
‘This is Thawsby,’ Luberon explained, ‘one of Canterbury’s finest craftsmen and furniture makers. He heard about the death of Tenebrae and came, early this morning, to tell me a strange story. Well, go on now, tell Mistress Swinbrooke!’
‘What about the Irishman?’ Thawsby muttered. ‘I thought there’d be an Irishman present. You know, the King’s Commissioner?’
Kathryn smiled. ‘I’ll tell him what you say, Master Thawsby.’
The man closed his eyes. ‘A week, no ten days ago, or was it nine days ago?’
‘Get on with it!’ Luberon hissed.
‘Oh yes, eight days ago Master Tenebrae comes into my shop. I knows him and, Mistress, I be afeared of him. So I let him talk to my apprentice, but then he beckons me over in that imperious way he had. “Master Thawsby” he says.’ The carpenter opened his eyes and looked at Luberon. ‘Yes, that’s what he called me, Master Thawsby. “I want you to make me a bed for my nuptials: the largest and broadest you have”. He gave me two gold pieces, described what he wanted and then left. Yesterday I becomes concerned, I have his gold but he’s got no bed.’
‘I told you,’ Luberon muttered, ‘you can keep the bloody gold!’
Kathryn suddenly thought of Colum and grinned.
‘And you should keep your plans for the wedding bed, Master Thawsby. You never know who your next customer might be.’