Book of Shadows

by Paul Doherty

  ‘Brissot,’ she whispered, recalling the physician’s fat rubicund face. Brissot was Tenebrae’s creature who, whatever he claimed, dug up the juicy morsels of his master. Kathryn’s mind drifted back into sleep. Thomasina woke her the next morning, loudly complaining that patients were already arriving. Kathryn flew out of bed. She quickly dressed, rubbing a little rose oil into her hands and face and then, putting a wimple around her hair, hurried downstairs.

  Colum had already left for Kingsmead.

  ‘Just after dawn,’ Thomasina loudly proclaimed.

  Agnes was churning butter by the hearth whilst Thomasina was scowling into a small cask of homemade ale.

  ‘It’s gone sour!’ She glared at Kathryn as if she held her mistress personally responsible. ‘Ah well.’ Thomasina picked the small tun up. ‘It will make the flowers grow better.’ She marched towards the kitchen door beyond which Kathryn could hear Wuf playing in the garden.

  ‘There’s oatmeal cakes and milk in the buttery,’ Thomasina called over her shoulder. ‘I told your patients to go for a walk. It will do them good, though they’ll be back soon.’

  Kathryn broke her fast quickly. Apart from a slight dryness in her mouth and acid at the back of her throat, the nightmare was behind her. However, she still felt uneasy about Brissot and also wondered how she could inveigle the taciturn Morel into answering her questions.

  Kathryn had to put such problems aside as a stream of patients arrived seeking treatment. First came Edith and Eadwig, the tanner’s twins, both suffering from bruises after playing in a nearby quarry. Kathryn carefully washed their skin and applied a concoction of Saint Johnswort over the dark purple bruises. Torquil the carpenter’s wife entered, beaming from ear to ear, to announce her husband was now far from death’s door. Loud in her praises of Kathryn, she brought a small stool, in part payment, she explained, for Kathryn’s work and pains. Coniston, an officer from the castle garrison, arrived complaining of gout, his large right toe red and swollen. Kathryn lectured him on the dangers of too much claret and applied the juice of hyssop. Coniston also informed her that Mathilda Sempler had been freed from the castle gaol because, surprisingly enough, Isabella Talbot had totally withdrawn her allegations. Kathryn hid her smile as the soldier continued to praise Mistress Talbot’s generosity in providing the old woman with a fresh dwelling just outside Westgate. Beatrice, Henry the sackmaker’s daughter, and Alice, wife of Mollyns the baker, also called for potions. Alice complained of a bilious stomach but left happily enough after Kathryn had provided her with a jar of moonwort. Beatrice, clutching her stomach and not smelling too fragrant, complained of a flux of the bowels. Listening to the girl carefully, Kathryn suspected that this was the result of drinking freshly brewed ale. Kathryn gave her some mugwort and a few pithy words about taking more care about what she ate and drank. Others followed, most of them minor ailments.

  The bells of Saint Mildred’s were ringing for the mid-morning Angelus when Luberon appeared, huffing and puffing, his hands flapping.

  ‘It’s happened again!’ he declared, sweeping into the kitchen.

  Kathryn was outside washing her hands and telling Wuf not to climb the apple tree.

  ‘What’s happened?’ she called, hearing Luberon’s shout.

  The little clerk waddled out into the garden, narrowing his eyes against the bright sunlight. Kathryn peered closely at his red-rimmed eyes.

  ‘Simon, you should be careful. You slept well last night?’

  Luberon’s head went back. ‘Like a little pig.’

  ‘But you were reading?’ Kathryn insisted.

  Luberon looked down at his mud-stained boots.

  ‘I told you before,’ Kathryn said, steering him back into the kitchen. ‘Your eyes are becoming weak, Simon. You should do two things. First, only read in good light, never by candle. And, secondly, go to London, buy a pair of eyeglasses.’

  ‘I have seen them,’ Luberon growled. ‘Pieces of steel with glass in them. They slip on and off your nose.’

  ‘They’ll ease your sight,’ Kathryn replied, gesturing at him to sit down.

  ‘Well, never mind my eyes,’ Luberon wheezed as he sat on the stool Torquil’s wife had brought. It was a little lower than the rest, and Kathryn had to bite her lip to stop laughing. Luberon followed her gaze. ‘Is this new?’

  ‘Never mind that, Simon. What is the matter?’

  ‘Brissot’s dead!’

  Kathryn closed her eyes and sat down.

  ‘I expected it,’ she murmured. ‘How did it happen?’

  ‘No one knows. This morning the pilgrims rose. They’d planned a second visit to the shrine. They broke their fast and noticed Brissot was missing. The landlord went up to his chamber and found him just inside the door to his room dead as a piece of mutton, the back of his head stoved in.’ Luberon leaned forward and touched Kathryn’s hand. ‘How did you know, Mistress?’

  ‘Never mind. Have you been there?’ Kathryn asked. ‘To the tavern?’

  ‘Oh, no.’

  Kathryn collected her cloak. ‘Then now’s the time.’

  And shouting instructions to Thomasina, Kathryn and Luberon went into Ottemelle Lane.

  ‘How did you know, Mistress?’ the clerk repeated, coming up beside her.

  Kathryn immediately pulled him into a doorway as a window casement opened and the contents of a night-jar came splashing down.

  ‘One thing follows another. Tenebrae is murdered and so is Fronzac: the prize is the Book of Shadows. In that damnable manuscript Tenebrae kept all his secrets, including the revelation that Brissot was, perhaps, a greater spy than he admitted to us yesterday.’

  ‘So he had to die?’ Luberon asked.

  ‘Of course. What good was it if Master Brissot could return to London, knowing what Tenebrae had told him? Moreover,’ she added, ‘guilds are like enclosed communities, where loyalty is a paramount virtue and betrayal the worst crime.’

  They continued on. When they reached the Kestrel, Kathryn decided to waste no time.

  ‘This is bad for business,’ the taverner wailed when he met them. ‘Two deaths in one week, Mistress.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ Kathryn replied, as they went up the stairs and along the gallery. ‘This is nothing to do with your cooking or your hospitality.’

  The landlord paused, his hands on the latch of the door.

  ‘Then what, Mistress?’

  ‘You have a company of pilgrims below,’ Kathryn said, leaning gently on the door post to recover her breath. ‘One of them is an assassin with a murderous desire to keep certain secrets hidden.’

  ‘Aye.’ The landlord pushed the door open. ‘And by their fruits, ye shall know them, or so the gospel says.’ He waved towards the bed where Brissot’s corpse had been decently arranged.

  Kathryn went across and looked at the physician. He lay, his fat face now slack, the blood congealing at the back of his head, staining the sheets all around him. Kathryn felt the man’s stiff hands and limbs and studied the face, liverish white in the poor light.

  ‘Such a waste.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’ Luberon came up beside her.

  ‘He was a good physician,’ Kathryn replied. ‘But, as Master Chaucer says, “The lure of gold will outweigh any love of physic”. He was killed because of what he did as well as what he knew.’ She turned to face the taverner. ‘I see little point in questioning the pilgrims. Did you, or your servants, notice anything untoward?’

  The taverner spread his hands. ‘Last night my guests were coming and going; visiting this place or that; shopping in the city or sitting in the taproom,’ his eyes fell away, ‘complaining about you and the Irishman.’

  ‘And nothing untoward happened?’ Kathryn repeated. ‘No visitor came?’

  ‘None,’ the taverner replied. ‘The physician was with them, but after supper they went their different ways.’

  ‘And you found the corpse?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I knocked on the door this morning: there was no answe
r so I pressed down the latch and pushed, it would only open a little because the corpse was lying just inside.’

  Kathryn thanked him. She walked across and studied the door carefully.

  ‘Look, Simon.’ She pointed to the small, red dots of dried blood splattered on the woodwork. ‘Master taverner, show me how the corpse lay.’

  The landlord, cursing under his breath, reluctantly obeyed. He lowered his bulk to the floor and lay across the threshold.

  ‘Like this,’ he said, looking over at Kathryn. ‘His face was turned inwards.’

  Kathryn thanked him. ‘I wonder . . .’ she whispered. She shook her head at Luberon not to ask any questions. Instead Kathryn went across and helped the taverner to his feet, slipping a coin into his calloused hand.

  ‘Thank you.’ She smiled. ‘There’s no need for you to stay, though we would like to, for a short while.’

  The taverner agreed and fled from the chamber before Mistress could make any more strange demands on him.

  ‘You were wondering, Mistress?’ Simon spoke up.

  Kathryn walked towards the door. ‘Brissot was killed,’ she explained, ‘trying to leave the room. He must have been with the killer, discussing something. There may have been a disagreement. Brissot rises, going for the door, perhaps to go down to the taproom, to declare publicly something to his fellow pilgrims or even seek help from myself or Master Murtagh.’ She looked over her shoulder. ‘Brissot’s hand was on the latch, his killer comes up behind him and gives him a terrible, death-dealing blow to the back of his head, splintering the skull, spattering the wood with small drops of blood. The assassin then steps over the corpse and leaves the room as quickly and as quietly as possible.’

  Kathryn went back to the bed and gently turned the corpse over. She studied the jagged cut at the back of the head, long and deep.

  ‘Now, what would make such a wound?’

  ‘A sword?’ Luberon offered, staring distastefully at the mangled remains of the back of Brissot’s head.

  ‘Or something like that,’ Kathryn replied. ‘There’s no sign of any implement lying here whilst the murderer would scarcely walk out to the gallery with some club or stick dripping with blood and gore.’ Kathryn examined the deep wound again. ‘But a sword or the hilt of a dagger, both of which could be re-sheathed and hidden under a cloak?’

  ‘Why don’t we question the other pilgrims?’

  ‘No.’ Kathryn shook her head. ‘What can they tell us? If any of them knew anything, the hue and cry would have already been raised. More important, they would question me, only to discover how little progress I have made. Master Colum’s out at Kingsmead, Foliot has returned to London. Oh, yes.’ She caught the anxious look in Luberon’s eyes. ‘And he’ll be back breathing threats. Look, Simon,’ Kathryn grabbed the little clerk’s podgy hand, ‘go downstairs, tell them nothing of what I have said to you, but see if you can glean anything.’ She stared despairingly round the chamber. ‘There appears to be no solution to this riddle. Keep those tired eyes of yours watchful,’ she added. ‘Look for anyone carrying a sword or dagger.’

  Kathryn made her farewells and slipped out of the chamber. She went along the gallery, down the stairs and left the tavern before anyone could stop her.

  Kathryn walked briskly, trying to ignore her panic. What could she do? Tenebrae was dead. Fronzac and Brissot had followed him to the grave. She had wondered about Morel and Foliot, yet neither of these had been seen near the tavern when the two pilgrims had died. Kathryn glimpsed a royal archer, his red, blue and gold tabard resplendent in the morning sunshine, probably some messenger from the court. She paused at a furrier’s stall and pretended to examine a pair of gloves. Was that how it would happen, Kathryn wondered? Some messenger, hot-foot from London, carrying letters and warrants, ordering the pilgrims and, more important, Colum to present themselves at Westminster? And would Colum be allowed to return? Or would he be detained for weeks, perhaps months, before the Queen’s anger had cooled? An apprentice boy grabbed the sleeve of her gown.

  ‘A furred mantle, Mistress, a pelisse of squirrel fur perhaps?’

  Kathryn shook her head and hurried on. Leaving Queningate Ward, Kathryn walked up Burghgate. The sun was hot on the wide, open thoroughfare, the noise dinned in her ears and the air was thick with a mixture of smells. Traders bawled and shouted; apprentices tried to pluck the sleeves of passersby, screaming:

  ‘What do you lack? What do you lack?’

  A crowd gathered round a dung-cart loudly protesting at the way the burly labourers were clearing the sewer, throwing the refuse onto the cart and not caring how many passersby they splattered. A dog, crushed by the cart, was being put out of its misery by a passing trader. Farther along, a group of tumblers and mountebanks had set up their own stall covered by a dirty linen sheet behind which, one of them bawled, was a woman with three legs and a child with a beard down to its navel. Kathryn smiled at the ingenuity of these strolling players. Next to them a chanteur, standing on a broken bucket, tried to tell the crowds that he had been in Byzantine when the city was taken by the Turks, who had taken his eyes and part of his genitals, which for a penny, he would reveal to any interested party. Two soldiers from the castle garrison shouted back abuse. In the middle of Burghgate a clerk from the cathedral stood on a cart. He was solemnly intoning the rite of excommunication against William Pettifer who had allowed his cattle to stray and feed in Christchurch Meadows.

  ‘Cursed be in his sitting!’ the clerk bellowed. Then he paused and rang his bell. ‘Cursed be in his standing!’ Again the bell rang. ‘Cursed be in his eating and in his pissing!’

  To the right of the clerk stood a white-garbed altar boy bearing a huge, purple candle whilst, on the left, a similarly dressed boy held up a book of The Gospels. The crowds ignored all this as they thronged round the stalls. Two whores came running through the market, screeching with laughter, their heads bald as pigeon eggs, their orange wigs clasped firmly in their hands. Behind them came the pursuing bailiffs, puce-faced and sweating, shouting, ‘Make way! Make way!’ The apprentices found this amusing and did everything they could to hinder the officials’ progress.

  Kathryn walked into the shade of a house, which ran along one side of Burghgate. The dust of the market-place stung her eyes; her mouth was dry and she felt a little light-headed from hunger. She glimpsed a water tippler; she was about to buy a stoup to cleanse her mouth, but saw the mucky froth on the edge of the bucket and walked on.

  At the Bullstake she turned left into the Mercery and, for a while, sat on a plinth before Saint Andrew’s church. Using the edge of her cloak, she wiped the sweat from her face and glanced quickly back at the way she had come. She was so sure she was being followed and wondered if it was one of the pilgrims. She felt better, rose and continued down Saint Margaret’s Street. As she turned the corner of Ottemelle Lane, a tall, thickset figure lurched out of the mouth of an alley-way to block her path. Kathryn stepped back. The man pulled back his cowl and hood and Kathryn stared into Morel’s white, podgy face and black pebble eyes.

  ‘You startled me!’ Kathryn exclaimed. ‘For God’s sake, man!’

  ‘I am sorry.’ Morel put his hand forward in a gesture of peace. ‘Mistress, I am sorry.’ His thick-lipped mouth went down at the corners as if he was about to cry. ‘You’ve got to come!’ he urged, his hand flailing the air.

  ‘Why?’ Kathryn asked. ‘Where have I got to go?’

  Morel smacked his lips and stared anxiously around. ‘To the Master’s house, the secrets . . .’

  Kathryn’s heart leapt. ‘You have something to show me?’

  Morel’s fat face beamed with pleasure. ‘Yes, I have. The Master would want it. You must come, now, before it is too late!’

  ‘Mistress Kathryn! Mistress Kathryn!’

  Morel turned quickly as Wuf came skipping up the street behind him. Morel’s hand bunched into a fist. Kathryn hastened forward to meet Wuf. She seized the little boy’s hands and stared into his excited fa
ce.

  ‘What’s the matter, lad?’

  Wuf looked up at Morel and the smile faded from his face.

  ‘I am just pleased to see you,’ Wuf muttered, edging closer to hide from Morel’s baleful gaze.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Kathryn asked.

  ‘I am frightened,’ Wuf whispered, peering up under his eyebrows.

  ‘Don’t be silly.’ Kathryn cupped his little face in her hands. ‘Why are you out of the house?’

  Wuf blinked. ‘Thomasina sent me for a message.’

  ‘For what?’

  Wuf’s hand flew to his mouth. ‘I have forgotten.’ The little lad stared at Kathryn. ‘Honestly she did but I have forgotten.’

  ‘Then go back. Ask her again and tell her that I am going to Tenebrae’s house.’

  Wuf threw one dark look at Morel, turned and fled back down the lane.

  ‘Mistress, we must go now,’ Morel insisted. ‘Where are your potions?’

  Kathryn watched Wuf until he reached the house, then turned back.

  ‘I don’t need my medicines.’ She tapped the side of her head playfully. ‘Everything I have is here.’

  Morel smiled and, spinning on his heel, walked back up the alley-way with Kathryn hurrying behind him. Despite his bulk, Morel moved with a speed that surprised Kathryn. By the time she reached the dead magus’s house, she was breathless and the sweat prickled her face and neck. Kathryn wondered whether she was doing the right thing; Morel was now agitated. He fumbled with the keys, muttering, and Kathryn was sure he was mumbling some apology to his dead master. Then the door swung open and Morel virtually pushed her into the darkened hallway. The rotting stench made Kathryn gag and she pinched her nostrils.