by Paul Doherty
Luberon stared at her curiously.
‘I knows you,’ Thawsby said. ‘You be physician Swinbrooke’s daughter. A good man. Once . . .’
‘Yes, yes,’ Kathryn intervened, ‘but are you sure that Tenebrae asked for a bed for his nuptials?’
‘As sure as my wife’s got spots on her bottom.’
‘And he never came back?’ Kathryn asked.
‘No. Now he doesn’t need a bed, does he?’
Kathryn thanked him and Luberon ushered him out.
‘Well,’ he breathed, coming back and closing the door behind him. ‘What do you make of that, Mistress Kathryn?’
‘What would a man like Tenebrae want with a wedding bed?’ Kathryn murmured.
‘Thawsby forgot to tell you something,’ Luberon replied. ‘He said his intended wife was not from Canterbury.’
Kathryn immediately recalled the beautiful Louise Condosti.
‘I know what you are thinking.’ Luberon was almost dancing from foot to foot. ‘The lovely, young maid amongst the goldsmiths: the one who’s so pure, you’d think butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.’
Kathryn nodded. ‘If Tenebrae married, someone like Louise would be his bride. Young, beautiful and rich.’
‘But would she have killed him?’ Luberon asked.
Kathryn shrugged. ‘I doubt if Hetherington would have been pleased at the match, not to mention her betrothed Neverett. I also wonder how that madcap Morel would welcome his master’s new bride?’
‘Shall we question them?’ Luberon asked.
‘No. Let me think on it.’ Kathryn rose to her feet. ‘But, Simon, I need a favour: Mistress Sempler?’
Luberon groaned.
‘You have seen the Justices,’ he replied. ‘Well, within the week, Mathilda Sempler will appear before them. She has confessed to having a grievance against Talbot. She has admitted cursing him, writing an incantation down.’ He shrugged. ‘As you know, Talbot fell down the stairs and broke his neck.’
‘And have you confronted her?’
‘Yes, I have!’
‘And?’
‘Nothing except that simple smile. She will not deny anything.’
‘Where is she lodged?’ Kathryn asked.
Luberon pointed to the floor. ‘In the dungeons below. I’ll take you down there.’
Luberon swept out of his office with Kathryn behind him. He took her to the rear of the Guildhall where a bailiff stood guard by a great, iron-studded door. Luberon ordered him to open it and, taking a torch from the wall, led Kathryn down the slimy steps into the fetid gloom. A turnkey, sitting at the bottom of the steps, rose to meet them. A fat, bulbous-faced man who apparently took his job most seriously. He waved his keys, nodded his head pretentiously at Luberon’s whispers, then took them along the corridor, warning them to watch the puddles of water. He opened a cell door and ushered them in. Mathilda was sitting on a collection of old rags thrown over some mouldy straw. She looked no different from when Kathryn had seen her last: bright-eyed, her face seamy and dirty, her long, grey hair straggling down to her shoulders. At first, Kathryn thought she had lost her wits. But then Mathilda suddenly cackled and leaned forward, her face garish in the torchlight.
‘You are the Swinbrooke girl. I knew your father. I’ve told you about cures.’
‘Yes, you did,’ Kathryn replied. ‘And that’s why I’m here. Mathilda, the King’s Justices have arrived in Canterbury. You are going to be arraigned on charges of murder and witchcraft.’
The old woman cackled again.
‘Murder is what murder is,’ she said enigmatically. ‘Talbot got his just deserts.’ She shrugged. ‘They can’t prove I killed him.’
‘You cursed him.’
‘If cursing’s a crime,’ Sempler retorted, ‘then every gaol in the kingdom would be full to overflowing.’
‘Aren’t you frightened?’
‘Oh, I am only an old woman. They’ll set me free.’ She leaned forward and touched Kathryn’s face. ‘You’ve got kind eyes, girl. You have come to ask what you can do to help, haven’t you?’ She glanced over Kathryn’s shoulder at Luberon standing behind her. ‘And you are the city clerk. Could you ask these hellhounds for some decent bread and a goblet of fresh wine?’ She lowered her head and looked under her brows at Luberon. ‘If you do,’ she whispered, ‘I’ll never curse you.’
‘Don’t be mischievious,’ Kathryn retorted. ‘Mathilda, I will send you in a fresh dress and some food wrapped up in linen cloths.’
‘I’ll make sure you are made more comfortable,’ Luberon added.
‘Is there anything else?’ Kathryn asked.
‘Yes.’ Mathilda leaned forward. ‘Tell that bitch, Mistress Talbot, that there are many kinds of witches.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Just tell her!’
Kathryn made her farewells, left the gaol and walked back through the Guildhall to the front steps.
‘She’ll hang for definite!’ Luberon declared.
‘I know,’ Kathryn replied. ‘But I am going to see Mistress Talbot. Maybe she’ll have pity on an old woman and withdraw the charge!’
Luberon shook his head but Kathryn was already hastening down the steps. She knew where the Talbots lived and carefully rehearsed her words as she made her way through the busy streets and alley-ways. She ignored the cries of the apprentices and their habit of running out from behind the stalls to pluck at her sleeve or catch her by the front of her dress. The sun was now strong and the thoroughfare packed with traders and droves of pilgrims making their way up to the Cathedral. Only once did she have to pause as a dusty-robed friar, chanting his prayers, led a small funeral cortege down to one of the cemeteries. Now and again the boy leading him would stop and ring his bell and the friar would raise his voice to declaim:
Remember man that thou art dust
And into dust thou shalt return.
The mourners staggered behind, most of them the worse for wear after drinking the funeral ales. At last Kathryn reached Talbot’s house: a large, three-storeyed mansion with lattice windows and gleaming, red plaster. It stood by itself; the front and side of the house were lined with stalls heaped high with leather goods and supervised by two journeymen and a cluster of apprentices.
‘Even in the midst of death trade goes on,’ Kathryn murmured.
She approached the huge front door, surmounted by a large wreath in the shape of a cross placed there as a sign of mourning. She knocked loudly; a maid answered and ushered Kathryn into the passageway where the signs of mourning were more apparent. Black cloths hung along the walls and over the polished furniture. In the small parlour where Kathryn was shown, all the pictures and tapestries had been taken down. The room had been converted to a funeral chamber, its bare stone floor cleared of rushes. Purple and black cloths were draped against the wall and, on a small table next to the hearth, two purple candles burnt before an open triptych depicting a suffering Christ.
‘You wanted to see me?’
Kathryn started as Isabella Talbot, followed by brother-in-law Robert, came in. Brief introductions were made and Kathryn immediately felt uneasy. Robert looked slack-jawed and wet-eyed but Isabella, dressed in a black head-dress, veil and fashionable gown of red fringed with black, looked formidable; her beautiful face sharp and arrogant, lips pursed in disdain, as if she regarded the world, and everything in it, as well beneath her notice.
‘What do you want?’ Isabella asked sharply.
Kathryn’s heart sank: she would get little pity from Isabella Talbot.
‘My name is Kathryn Swinbrooke. I am a physician.’
‘We know that,’ Robert interrupted languidly.
‘I’ve come to beg,’ Kathryn said, her face becoming hot. ‘I’ve been to the Guildhall. I’ve seen Mathilda Sempler. She’s a madcap old woman and, yet, you will go before the Justices and accuse her of witchcraft and murder.’
‘That is the truth!’ Isabella snapped. ‘She didn’t pay her rent so my husband tur
ned her out of her cottage. She cursed him in the presence of witnesses at the parish church. She then had the impudence to write a curse and slip it under our door. My husband . . .’ Isabella stopped to blink furiously as if fighting back the tears but Kathryn recognised her falseness. ‘My husband,’ Isabella continued, ‘was a wealthy merchant, well liked and loved. Mistress Sempler’s attacks troubled his last days and led to his death. The power of witches is well known, Mistress Swinbrooke. Holy Mother Church,’ she concluded sanctimoniously, ‘teaches how the devil wanders the earth like a ravenous lion seeking whom he may devour. Don’t you believe that?’
‘Yes and Holy Mother Church teaches charity and justice to all. You said Mistress Sempler accosted your husband at church?’
‘Yes!’
‘So, this old woman did attend the Mass and take the sacraments?’ Kathryn said.
‘We have the Church’s teaching,’ Isabella replied archly, ‘that even Satan can appear as an angel of light.’
‘How did your husband die?’
‘He fell from the top of the stairs.’
‘May I see?’
And before Isabella could make a reply, Kathryn had brushed by her and was out in the passageway striding up the stairs. Her sudden action left the Talbots disconcerted. Robert muttered a protest as he hurried behind, but Kathryn climbed the steep stairs and stood at the top, her hand resting on the newel post. Isabella and Robert came up, watching her curiously.
‘Yes,’ Kathryn declared before they could speak, ‘these stairs are long and steep. A fall down them would seriously wound or kill a man.’ She looked at Isabella. ‘But couldn’t he have slipped?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ Isabella retorted. ‘He’d been down these stairs a thousand times!’
‘Yes, that’s my point,’ Kathryn said. ‘Why on that occasion did he fall so violently?’ She was pleased to see the surprise on Isabella’s face. ‘You have just admitted it,’ Kathryn continued. ‘He used these stairs constantly. And when I appear before the Justices to speak on Mathilda Sempler’s behalf, I will make that very point.’
‘Ah!’ Isabella smiled spitefully. ‘But that’s our case. Why should he slip on that occasion, unless he’d been cursed?’
‘What was he wearing?’ Kathryn asked.
‘A normal pair of boots.’
‘Where are they?’
Isabella’s eyelids fluttered wearily.
‘We gave them away as an act of charity.’
‘Why was your husband rushing downstairs?’
‘We were in our chamber, talking,’ Isabella replied. ‘I looked through the window: some urchins were trying to steal things from the stalls. Go and ask the apprentices, they will verify that. I hurried out, my husband followed. I heard a scream.’ She shrugged. ‘The rest you know. Why, Mistress Swinbrooke, what is the problem?’
‘I just want to understand,’ Kathryn said. ‘Here is a man dressed in good, sound boots hastening down his stairs yet he slips. Surely he could have broken his fall? Grabbed the balustrade?’
‘Precisely.’ Robert leaned forward, scratching his chin. ‘But he didn’t, Mistress, because he had been cursed. Next time you go to the Guildhall, look at our sworn statement. What we have told you is now a matter of public knowledge.’ He glanced over his shoulder at his sister-in-law. ‘And so, if you have no further questions, we must ask you to leave.’
Kathryn did so, walking down the stairs, conscious of the Talbots’ hard-eyed stare. She let herself out and walked back into the street. For a while she stood staring up at the window then down at the stalls. She jumped as a hand seized her shoulder; turning round, Kathryn stared straight into Colum’s grinning face.
‘Irishman, don’t do that! You are as soft as a cat. What are you doing here?’
‘I went to the Guildhall,’ Colum replied, linking his arm through hers and moving her gently farther down the street. ‘Luberon wasn’t there, but a clerk told me that you had been to see him and that you’d left for the Talbots. So here I came. What news?’
‘I have my licence to trade.’
Colum gave a shout of pleasure, which drew all eyes to them, especially as he then squeezed Kathryn in a vice-like hug, kissing her passionately on each cheek. Kathryn kicked him gently on the shins.
‘Let me go, Irishman!’
Colum released her. ‘You are pleased?’
‘Yes I am,’ she said tartly. ‘And I have been thinking about Master Foliot’s threat. You have a glib tongue on you, Irishman. You’d make a splendid trader.’
Colum grinned shyly and, before he could tease her any further, Kathryn described what Luberon had said, then her visit to the Talbots. Colum paused and whistled under his breath.
‘The Talbots don’t bother me. They are powerful and have a case.’ He glanced sadly at Kathryn. ‘The best you can do is make a plea for compassion. But Tenebrae was planning to marry, eh? I wonder who the poor unfortunate was?’
Kathryn repeated her suspicions about Louise Condosti.
‘But we have no proof of that,’ Colum declared. ‘The intended bride could be anyone in the kingdom.’
‘But he ordered the bed recently,’ Kathryn insisted. ‘Think, Colum. Louise is the kind Tenebrae would prey on: young, lovely, rich and vulnerable.’
‘Through blackmail?’ Colum asked. ‘What could he know about someone so young?’
‘That’s the mystery,’ Kathryn replied. ‘But I intend to resolve it.’ She glanced down Hethenman Lane. ‘Now, let’s walk quickly. I can see Rawnose: to listen to his news twice in one day is more than even the good Lord would expect.’
Kathryn’s mood was not lightened when she reached her house. Wuf came dancing out of the door, jumping up and down with excitement.
‘Lublon’s here! Lublon’s here!’
‘You mean Luberon?’ Kathryn asked.
‘Yes, the small, fat man,’ Wuf answered cheekily.
‘I may be small but I am not fat!’ Luberon, his cheeks glowing red, came huffing and puffing through the door. ‘Thank God I have found you, Mistress, and you Master Murtagh. We are needed at the Kestrel.’
‘Why?’
‘Fronzac has been killed. Rose this morning fresh as a butterfly he did. Broke his fast and went to look at those fierce hogs.’ Luberon plucked at Kathryn’s sleeve, almost pushing her down Ottemelle Lane. ‘He must have slipped.’
Kathryn remembered the small, dusty-faced clerk.
‘Oh God! Poor man!’
‘Killed,’ Luberon continued. ‘The hogs killed him. Heaven save us, Mistress, I know the Lord must call us all, but sometimes he does it in very strange ways.’
‘Was it an accident?’ Colum asked.
Luberon shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Foliot’s there. He believes there’s mischief afoot.’
Luberon didn’t bother to ask about Colum’s muttered reply, but hastened on, chattering volubly about the danger of hogs. They found the Kestrel strangely quiet: the stable yard was deserted. The taproom was empty except for Hetherington and his party who clustered, white-faced, round a table. Foliot sat enthroned at the top, like an angel come to judgement.
‘Mistress Swinbrooke, you are most welcome.’
He ushered them to seats and shouted at a pale-faced tapster to bring some watered wine.
‘What happened?’ Kathryn asked.
Hetherington took his hands away from his face and stared down the table at her.
‘He got up, like the rest of us,’ he replied. ‘Came downstairs and broke his fast.’
‘I was with him,’ Neverett declared. ‘He said he wanted to take the morning air. I knew where he was going, he always did every morning.’
‘And then what?’
Kathryn watched Louise Condosti carefully. She was sitting still as a statue, her lincoln green dress and gold-edged head-dress emphasising her pallid beauty.
‘No one heard anything!’ Hetherington snapped. ‘Until a servant came rushing in. He’d found the hogs grunting and ru
shing about, more excited than usual. When he climbed the fence, he couldn’t believe his eyes: Fronzac was lying there being gored by the hogs. The tavern master and some of the grooms plucked his corpse out.’ Hetherington put his face back into his hands. ‘Lord save us!’ he groaned. ‘His body was an open sore!’
Kathryn stood up. ‘One of the servants found him?’
‘Yes, why do you ask that?’ Brissot snapped.
‘Strange,’ Kathryn replied. ‘Why didn’t Fronzac cry out? Scream? Shout for help?’ She glanced at Foliot. ‘And the corpse?’
‘In the outhouse. I’ll show you.’
Luberon whispered he would prefer not to, but Kathryn and Colum followed Foliot out, across the small yard they’d entered the previous evening. A pale-faced groom squatted with his back to an outhouse door. He jumped to his feet as they approached and pulled the door open. Foliot paused and glanced at Kathryn.
‘I hope you have a strong stomach,’ he murmured. ‘Mistress, even on battlefields, I have never seen a corpse like this!’
Chapter 6
Kathryn went into the small hut, lit by oil-lamps placed around that dreadful, bloodstained piece of sheeting on the table. Kathryn ignored the foul odour. She glimpsed Fronzac’s limbs sprawled out beneath the sheeting: her stomach heaved at the bloody stump where some hog’s sharp teeth had bitten deeply into the dead clerk’s foot.
‘Uncover him!’ she whispered. ‘And watch those oil-lamps!’
Colum did so and immediately turned away from the torn, gory face of the dead clerk.
‘Jesus Misere!’ Kathryn breathed.
She drew nearer, remembering what her father had taught her. ‘Clear your mind, Kathryn. Don’t reflect! The flesh is flesh, it’s the spirit that matters.’ Kathryn fought hard to follow his advice: lumps of flesh were missing from Fronzac’s cheek and the soft part of his neck; his fingers looked as if he had been tortured on a rack whilst one eyeball had been shifted by a sharpened hoof. Colum came back.
‘God have mercy!’ he whispered. ‘The man was a fool, what was he doing so close?’
‘Help me turn the body over!’ Kathryn ordered. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, man, come on!’