Book of Shadows

by Paul Doherty

  Kathryn glimpsed the obstinate look on Helga’s face and had no illusions what would happen to the potions. They would be tossed on to a midden heap. Torquil would grow worse and possibly die. Kathryn hitched her cloak round her shoulders. She knelt down and pressed Torquil’s hand and glared at Helga who was already threatening to go back to her litany.

  ‘There’s nothing you can do,’ Helga shouted. ‘I put my trust in God and the waters of Jordan!’

  Kathryn stood up. ‘Your prayers to God I understand, but what in heaven’s name are the waters of Jordan?’ She walked round the foot of the bed. ‘Helga, what have you been giving Torquil?’

  The carpenter’s wife rubbed her hands on her apron, her eyes fluttered nervously.

  ‘Helga!’ Kathryn demanded. ‘I want to see this water of Jordan!’

  Helga breathed in noisily, then sank to her knees, stretched under Torquil’s bed and brought out a small, wooden flask sealed at the top by a dirty rag and a piece of twine. The flask had a crudely painted red cross daubed on it. Helga handed this over and Kathryn groaned. The wood was splintered. She sniffed at the rag; it smelt rank and sour.

  ‘I bought it,’ Helga wailed. ‘There was a man near the Buttermarket, dark-skinned he was, he had been to Outremer.’ Helga’s hand came up dramatically and she pointed at the flask. ‘It comes from a puddle in which both John the Baptist and the good Lord himself stood near the Jordan.’

  Kathryn undid the cord. She threw down the piece of rotten rag and sniffed the flask.

  ‘Oh, Lord! It smells like a midden.’

  Kathryn went to the window, opened it and, ignoring Helga’s screeches of disappointment, tossed the flask out. Kathryn listened, with some satisfaction, as it smashed into the garden below. Torquil’s grubby-faced children came running up.

  ‘Don’t touch that!’ Kathryn shouted, quickly regretting her hot temper.

  Due to the angle of the window, she could hear, but not see the children. Kathryn pointed to one of the apprentices.

  ‘Keep them well away.’

  She turned and marched back to Helga, sitting on the edge of the bed, face in her hands.

  ‘Helga, look at me.’ Kathryn picked up the piece of dirty rag and sat beside her. ‘Listen, Helga,’ she began quietly. ‘You did not know it, but you have been poisoning your husband. If that water’s from Jordan then I am the daughter of the Great Cham! More people die,’ Kathryn continued, ‘from ignorance and filthy water than anything else. God knows where that came from! Helga, you are a tidy woman, your house is neat and clean.’ She pushed the rag under Helga’s nose. ‘Smell that! Why must you think that dirt and sanctity go hand in hand?’

  Helga sniffed the rag and pulled a face. ‘But it cost me tuppence!’

  On the bed behind her Torquil groaned in his fevered sleep.

  ‘Will he die?’ Helga asked. ‘Oh, sweet Lord, Holy Mary, Saint Joseph, Saint Gabriel, Saint Raphael!’

  Kathryn grasped Helga’s hand. ‘Promise me,’ she insisted. ‘Promise me you’ll never buy anything like that again.’

  Helga nodded and solemnly raised her right hand. ‘I swear by the straw in Christ’s manger.’

  ‘Enough of that!’ Kathryn replied briskly, getting to her feet. ‘Helga, you have your own well? So, I want you to give Torquil as much water from that as possible, served in a cup that has been carefully scoured. Mix a little honey with it. I’ll send Agnes round with the potion. You are to give him it at least four times a day and nothing else. Promise me!’

  Helga nodded. Kathryn went back to the window.

  ‘I am sorry,’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t have tossed the flask.’ Kathryn craned her neck. ‘I can’t see it from here.’ Kathryn’s heart skipped a beat as she recalled Mathilda Sempler and Isabella Talbot standing before the justice in the castle hall. ‘Of course,’ Kathryn breathed. She put a hand to her lips then remembered the filthy rag she had been handling. ‘Come on, Helga!’ she declared. ‘Torquil will live, if you do exactly what I say. Now, let’s go down to the garden and clear up the mess I’ve made. Afterwards, we’ll both scrub our hands and look after Torquil properly. In a week, God willing, he’ll be busy in his workshop.’

  A rather subdued but happy Helga took her downstairs. Kathryn went into the small garden, picked up the remains of the wooden flask and carefully buried them in the rubbish heap. She stood looking up at the window to Torquil’s chamber and noticed how the wall sloped outwards: someone standing close to the couldn’t be seen from above. Kathryn then went inside. She washed her hands in some rose-water, promised Helga she would send the medicine as quickly as possible and, lost in her own thoughts, walked back to Ottemelle Lane.

  Thomasina was already preparing what she triumphantly called a great feast: thick pea soup, oysters stewed in ale, venison steaks cooked in red wine, roast pork with carroway and strawberries in a rich butter sauce. She, Agnes and Wuf were buzzing like bees round the kitchen, full of the sweet, savoury smells of cooking. Kathryn absent-mindedly greeted them. She placed the licence she had obtained at the Guildhall in her writing-office and, once again, carefully washed her hands. She took a small, stoppered jar, made up the medicine for Torquil and, for peace and quiet, allowed Agnes and Wuf to take it to Helga. Once they had gone, hopping through the front door, shouting and singing, Kathryn sat in her writing-office staring at the wall. She made a mental note to ask Simon Luberon to have the pedlars and quacks who preyed on the likes of Helga banned from the city. She leaned back against the high chair.

  ‘What happened to Torquil,’ she murmured to herself, ‘applies to everything. There was no mystery in his illness. Once Helga talked of Jordan’s water, the mystery was solved.’

  Kathryn drummed her fingers on the desk. She found it difficult to concentrate. She felt tired and uncomfortable, the sweat trickling down between her shoulder blades. She seized a piece of parchment, pen and quill and drew a plan of Tenebrae’s house. The staircase, the chamber guarded by two doors, which could only be opened from the inside. The stairs and back door which could not be opened from the outside and was watched by a garrulous Bogbean. Kathryn studied her rough diagram.

  ‘It’s impossible,’ she observed. ‘Each of Sir Raymond’s companions met the magus and left. Tenebrae was still alive after they’d gone. We know that from Morel. Ergo,’ she scratched her cheek, ‘what was the solution? Was Tenebrae killed before any of the pilgrims arrived? Did someone take his place? But who? Foliot?’ Kathryn chewed her lip. Did he disguise himself in the magus’s costume? Kathryn shook her head. Impossible. Kathryn concluded: some time or other, Foliot would have to leave and either Morel or Bogbean would have seen him. Kathryn tapped the quill against the desk, quietly cursing as the ink splattered her fingers. She seized the scrap of parchment and wrote Morel’s name on it. Was the dead Tenebrae’s servant more cunning than he appeared? He claimed to have spoken to his master after the pilgrims had left. But was he telling the truth? It would be so simple to tap on his master’s door and, when it was open, fire the crossbow and leave. But why should Morel do that? He had nothing to gain, or had he? Kathryn vowed to have fresh words with Morel. She then turned to Fronzac’s death.

  ‘How,’ she whispered, ‘had someone been able to enter that garden, strike him on the back of the head and toss his body amongst the hogs?’

  She heard the door open.

  ‘Helga said thank you!’

  Kathryn turned to where Agnes stood in the doorway. She smiled at her and Wuf who was jigging up and down beside her.

  ‘Are there any other messages?’ the lad cried. ‘We are good at delivering messages, aren’t we, Agnes?’

  Kathryn was about to shake her head, but then she remembered Fronzac’s death and the back gate to the tavern.

  ‘Yes, there is,’ she exclaimed. ‘Agnes, I want you to go to the landlord of the Kestrel. Ask him one question. Who opened the gate in the wall of the back of his tavern?’

  ‘Is that all?’ Agnes asked.

  �
�Yes.’ Kathryn smiled.

  ‘Can I go?’ Wuf cried.

  ‘Yes, and tell Thomasina to give you some marchpane. Go straight there,’ Kathryn called as both Agnes and Wuf ran down the passageway into the kitchen. ‘I want you back within the hour!’

  For a while Kathryn sat listening to Agnes and Wuf pestering Thomasina in the kitchen. They came hurrying back, shouting their farewells, the doors slamming behind them. Kathryn seized another piece of parchment and from memory sketched the outlines of the Talbot house and the stalls around. However, she found her eyes growing heavy so she cleared the desk and went upstairs to her own bed chamber where she stripped and carefully washed herself, using the sponge and a piece of precious soap from Castille. Thomasina had already filled the water in the lavarium bowl and left a fresh pitcher in the corner. Afterwards Kathryn felt better. She slipped on a linen shift and sat on the bed listening to the sounds from the kitchen below as Thomasina thundered around. Despite her tiredness Kathryn would have liked to have helped but she knew Thomasina: the best cook in Canterbury her father had called her, but highly dangerous if disturbed in the mysteries of the kitchen. Kathryn lay down on the bed and stared up at the rafters. Colum would soon be home whilst Rawnose, who could smell a good meal from ten leagues away, would be back with whatever gossip he could garner. Kathryn recalled the waspish face of the judge.

  ‘He won’t be sentencing old Mathilda,’ Kathryn murmured to herself.

  She was certain she had found a flaw in Isabella Talbot’s argument, but to prove it, she needed Colum’s help. And as for Tenebrae, the Book of Shadows and Fronzac’s murder? Kathryn’s eyes grew heavy. There was something she had heard today, but she was so tired that she had forgotten: still wondering about this, Kathryn drifted into a deep sleep.

  Chapter 9

  Colum’s return from Kingsmead woke Kathryn. She dressed and went down to the kitchen to help Thomasina, busily shooing the ravenous Irishman away from the cooking pots.

  ‘Keep your hands to yourself!’ Thomasina snapped.

  Colum winked at Kathryn. ‘It’s so delicious,’ he teased. ‘I’m spoilt for choice. The food or you, Thomasina, eh?’

  Kathryn kissed him on each cheek.

  ‘You need a shave, Irishman.’ She sniffed. ‘Horse and leather.’

  ‘Aye!’ Colum sat down on a stool. ‘More horses have arrived from the King’s stables. Some were put down in the river meadows, others will have to stay in the stables.’ He looked sharply at Kathryn. ‘The manor’s nearly finished. Strong roofs, the flooring sound and the walls are plastered. After May Day they will be whitewashed.’ He looked around the kitchen. ‘And then, I suppose, I’ll have to move out?’

  ‘Aye and there’ll be more food for us,’ Thomasina interrupted.

  ‘You don’t have to go,’ Kathryn said.

  Colum stared at her coolly, and Kathryn turned back to Thomasina.

  ‘Has Agnes returned?’

  As if in answer to her question, there was a rattling at the door and both the maid and Wuf came hurrying down the passageway.

  ‘We delivered the message,’ Wuf cried. ‘And the man said this . . .’

  ‘Hush!’ Agnes seized Wuf’s arm. ‘The landlord was nice. He gave us some sweetmeats.’

  ‘And my question?’ Kathryn asked.

  Agnes closed her eyes and scratched her head. ‘Well, he said the gate was locked at night, but now you ask, neither he nor any one in the tavern can remember opening it this morning.’ Agnes stared expectantly at her mistress. ‘That’s all he said.’

  Kathryn thanked them and they ran off to the buttery to wash their hands and faces before helping Thomasina. Kathryn filled a tankard with ale for Colum.

  ‘What was all that about?’ the Irishman asked.

  ‘Just one little piece in the puzzle,’ Kathryn replied. ‘Remember, Fronzac went down to the hog pen. I wondered who had opened the gates at the back of the tavern. Now I have my answer, probably Fronzac himself. He went there to meet someone, well away from the prying eyes of the other pilgrims.’

  Colum sipped from the tankard.

  ‘Now who could it be, eh?’ Kathryn asked. ‘Strong enough to strike an able-bodied man and toss his body into a hog pen?’

  ‘And the whereabouts of his fellow pilgrims?’ Colum asked.

  ‘At the tavern or in the city. However, one of them went to the back of that tavern and knocked on the gate: Fronzac opened it and let his murderer in.’

  ‘If it was one of the pilgrims,’ Colum intervened. ‘Master Foliot is a mystery in himself.’

  ‘Aye.’ Kathryn played with a crumb lying on the table. ‘And there’s Tenebrae’s servant, Morel. We only have his word that his master was alive when all the pilgrims left. True,’ she continued, ‘I can’t see any motive for Morel murdering his master, but he was alone with Tenebrae after all the pilgrims left.’

  Colum put the tankard down. ‘So, we should question him again. Morel might have had one motive.’ He paused. ‘Tenebrae left no will. Now, Master Luberon could advise us on this. If there are no relatives, Morel could, as the only surviving relict, lay a claim in the court of chancery that he has a legitimate claim to Tenebrae’s property and monies.’

  ‘Could he do that?’ Kathryn asked.

  Colum grinned. ‘It’s wonderful what a good lawyer can achieve.’ He drained his tankard, muttered about changing for supper and went up to his chamber.

  Agnes and Wuf returned. The kitchen became so noisy Kathryn went back to her writing-office. For a while she reflected on what Colum had said, but steeled herself against any quick, easy conclusions. Morel was an easy victim. He had no powerful patrons and it would be as unfair to lay allegations against him as it had been for Isabella Talbot to accuse poor Mathilda Sempler. Kathryn sighed and returned to the kitchen.

  Colum washed, shaved and changed, came down and everyone became involved in the frenetic business of laying the table and ensuring all went well. Rawnose returned, chattering like a squirrel till Thomasina roared at him to shut up. At last dinner was served. Colum toasted Kathryn’s success and they spent most of the meal discussing the opening of the shop and the prospects of a prosperous trade. At the end of the meal, Thomasina took Agnes and Wuf out to the garden. Rawnose, who by his own admission had eaten and drunk fit to burst, sat bleary-eyed and smiling beatifically at Kathryn. She stared at the beggar’s poor, disfigured face and wondered what crime had been so terrible to be punished by such mutilation.

  ‘Are you happy, Rawnose?’ Colum asked, refilling the beggar’s wine cup.

  ‘As a pig in muck,’ Rawnose declared. ‘And I’ve got news for you, Mistress.’ He pushed his trencher and cup away and, imitating Colum, leaned his arms on the table. ‘Servants chatter. And those from Talbot’s household have strange stories to tell.’

  ‘Such as what?’ Kathryn asked.

  ‘Well, Mistress Isabella is a virago and rules the household with an iron rod.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘She nagged her husband.’

  ‘Oh come, Rawnose!’ Kathryn exclaimed.

  ‘He was impotent,’ Rawnose hastily added. ‘Her dead husband, God rest him. One of the maids used to hear them quarrelling and Isabella moaned to good brother-in-law Robert that she found little satisfaction.’

  ‘And Talbot’s accident?’ Kathryn asked.

  Rawnose glanced away. ‘Nothing much, but they don’t believe the curse. They claim their mistress is happier as a widow than she was as a wife.’

  ‘In which case,’ Kathryn said and got to her feet, ‘Irishman, you haven’t drunk too much, have you?’

  Colum groaned. ‘Oh, no!’

  ‘You are the King’s Commissioner.’ Kathryn leaned down, grinning at him. ‘And an injustice has been done.’

  ‘What?’ Colum exclaimed, pushing his stool back. ‘An old man has fallen downstairs and his young wife is happy to be a widow. Kathryn, it’s not the first time I’ve heard such a story.’

  Kathryn
glanced quickly at Rawnose then back at Colum.

  ‘I have an even better story to tell you,’ she declared. ‘The evening’s fair and the walk will do you good.’

  So, leaving Rawnose to feast himself even further, Kathryn shouted at Thomasina that they wouldn’t be long and gently pushed the still protesting Colum out into Ottemelle Lane.

  ‘This is none of my business!’ Colum protested.

  ‘Oh, Irishman.’ Kathryn pointed at the blue sky now scored by the red-gold light of the setting sun. ‘I thought you Celts were romantic. The evening is soft, the weather sweet, you have eaten and drunk well and you are escorting me through the streets of Canterbury.’ She linked her arm through his and squeezed it gently. ‘Aren’t you happy, Irishman?’

  Colum glowered down at her in mock anger.

  ‘I should be toasting my toes in front of the fire and listening to Rawnose’s stories.’

  ‘That can be arranged,’ Kathryn retorted. ‘And I could ask another to escort me on an evening walk!’

  Colum grinned and tapped her gently on the cheek. ‘And I’d take his head, so tell me your story, woman!’

  ‘I think Isabella Talbot murdered her husband.’

  Colum stopped and gaped open-mouthed. ‘Kathryn, we are going to walk into a powerful merchant’s house and accuse his widow of murder? Can you prove it?’

  ‘No.’ Kathryn stared defiantly back. ‘But I want to challenge her. I want her to realise that others may know the truth and that could be a beginning!’

  Kathryn was still talking when they reached Talbot’s house. Colum, though not happy, grudgingly conceded there was a case to answer. At first Kathryn thought Isabella would refuse to see her; Colum, however, wedged his foot in the door and loudly exclaimed that she would either see them now or be summoned to the Guildhall early on the morrow to answer certain matters. The servant ushered them into a small parlour where they waited until Isabella Talbot, followed by the ubiquitous Robert, swept into the room. Her face was a mask of fury.

  ‘How dare you!’ she began. ‘How dare you come here, after taking the side of that filthy, old woman who murdered my husband with her evil magic and malevolent curses! I shall protest!’