by Paul Doherty
‘I’ll come as well,’ Thomasina offered, getting to her feet.
‘No, Thomasina, stay here!’ Kathryn looked around the room. ‘By the way, where’s Wuf? He’s gone very quiet.’
‘He’s upstairs,’ Thomasina said. ‘Back at his carving he is.’ The old woman’s face softened. ‘But, Mistress, you must look at it. He does have a gift. Are you sure I shouldn’t go with you?’
‘No,’ Kathryn repeated. ‘Now, stop listening to other people’s conversations and get my saddlebags down. I need a roll of parchment and a leather pouch with my quills. The tavern will provide me with ink.’ She thought of Peter Blunt, terrified out of his wits, and of his father, Richard, locked in some lonely, cold dungeon. ‘Oh, and a small jar of balm, a very small pot. Now, Thomasina, if Master Murtagh returns, tell him where we have gone. First to the Wicker Man, then to Blunt’s house and on to the guildhall.’
Thomasina reluctantly agreed. She brought a pair of leather boots for Kathryn and a second set of woollen stockings. Kathryn took these and finished dressing in her small chancery office. By the time she returned, Luberon was ready to leave.
‘It’s not far,’ he declared. ‘Mistress, you might as well walk – it will be safer.’
Kathryn agreed. She told Thomasina to keep an eye on Wuf and followed Luberon out into the freezing cold. Ottemelle Lane and all the thoroughfares were fairly deserted. The blizzard had stopped but the snow still fell in soft, gentle flakes to lie thick on the sloping roofs or hang out in frozen lumps over the eaves. Luberon and Kathryn had to pick their way carefully because the snow had hidden the sewers as well as the usual rubbish strewn in the streets. They made their way gingerly down the lane, keeping a wary eye on the snow crashing from the roofs onto the streets below. Now and again, the occasional window would be thrown open as maids poured out the contents of night jars to turn the snow in front of the houses into a sloppy, stinking mess. Kathryn gripped Luberon’s arm; the clerk preened himself, patting her hand gently.
‘Thank you, Kathryn,’ he murmured.
‘What for?’ she asked, puzzled.
Luberon’s little red face peered out from the cowl of his hood. ‘For the gloves,’ he replied. ‘And for coming with me.’
‘I’ll knit you a pair myself,’ Kathryn said. ‘Simon, it’s time you found a good woman.’
‘Like Thomasina?’ Luberon teased back.
‘Thomasina may be too much of a handful,’ Kathryn laughed.
They paused at the corner of Ottemelle Lane. Some kindly burgess had stacked a pile of logs and lit a fire in the middle of the thoroughfare for the beggars and poor of the city to get some warmth. These, garbed in rags from head to toe, were now gathered round the bonfire murmuring and jostling one another. Kathryn’s stomach turned at the foul smell of burning fat as beggars tried to cook the pieces of meat they had managed to filch or beg. Near the bonfire, lying on its side, was a thin-ribbed dog, its mangy carcase frozen hard. Two urchins were dancing round it, poking it with a stick. Kathryn fished into her purse, tugging at Luberon’s arm so he would stop. She held up a coin.
‘Leave it alone!’ she said to the thin-faced waifs. ‘Here, come with me!’
They grasped the coin and followed Kathryn and Luberon as they turned into Hethenman Lane.
‘See,’ Kathryn declared, pointing to the line of people outside the baker’s shop. ‘Ask Master Bernard. Say Mistress Swinbrooke.’ She made the children repeat the name. ‘Say Mistress Swinbrooke wants you to have some hot ginger.’
The two children scampered off.
‘We’ll have to do something,’ Luberon mumbled. ‘Those bloody monks at the monastery could be of more help. Canterbury is full of beggars and some of them will not live to see spring.’
Two debtors released from the town gaol, manacled together at wrist and ankle, shuffled towards them, hands extended, begging for alms for themselves and other inmates. Kathryn and Luberon gave each of them a coin.
‘It’s always the same,’ Kathryn murmured. ‘The heavy snow hides the disease in the city but those who can’t cope become more than obvious.’
She stared round. Apart from the bakery, all the other shops were shut; the stalls and booths stood empty, and the houses were closed and shuttered against the freezing cold. Not even children played. Kathryn had to stop now and again to stamp her feet to keep warm. At last, they turned down Worthingate Lane, which ran under the towering mass of Canterbury Castle, and, just past Winchepe Gate, entered the spacious, cobbled yard of the Wicker Man tavern. Kathryn heaved a sigh of relief: the yard around the tavern had been cleared of snow and strewn with a mixture of salt and soil to prevent people slipping. When a young lad came up to enquire their business, Luberon tartly announced who he was as Kathryn stared round. The Wicker Man was a wealthy, prosperous place well situated between the fields and the city. Its outside walls were dressed with grey ragstone, the cobbles were smooth and neatly laid, and the stables and outhouses looked well kept with their woodwork clean and freshly painted. Kathryn caught the fragrant smell of cooking coming from the kitchens. She looked up and noticed how, on the top storey, the windows were mere arrow slits but, on the ground and first floors, the windows were broad and filled with lead and painted glass. The lad led them into the empty, whitewashed kitchen, eerie in its silence. No ovens burned except the small bakery next to the hearth, the source of the delicious smell of cooking. The tables and ledges were so clean even Thomasina would approve of their scrubbed surfaces, whilst the tankards, pots, basins and ewers gleamed on the shelves round the room.
‘I told them not to touch anything,’ Luberon declared pompously as they left the kitchen and went down a sandstone passage into the great taproom. A number of people stood there: the blacksmith, ostlers, grooms in grubby, straw-colored raiment and the cooks and scullions in their stained aprons. Luberon ignored these and went across to the group sitting around a polished oval table in the window embrasure. They stopped chattering as Luberon approached and stared blankly at the clerk, then just as coldly at Kathryn.
‘So, you have returned at last?’ one man asked.
‘Yes, yes, I have. This is Mistress Swinbrooke, physician in the city.’
‘Where’s the coroner?’ the same man asked.
‘He’ll be along soon,’ Kathryn replied. ‘And who, sir, are you?’
‘Tobias Smithler, landlord.’
Kathryn stared at this thin pikestaff of a man with his mop of sandy-red hair. Smithler was hard-eyed, his nose as bent as a falcon’s, with a mouth that seemed to run like a slit from ear to ear. He was soberly dressed in dark blue fustian and made no attempt to hide his hostility to both Luberon and Kathryn. Luberon ignored the landlord’s bad manners as he introduced the rest of the company: Smithler’s wife, Blanche, modestly dressed in a bottle-green dress, tied high at the neck. She was petite, her features well formed, her lips generous and eyes full of merriment. Kathryn thought how ill-matched the pair were and quietly wondered if the landlord spent a great deal of his time making sure the guests did not think the tavern’s hospitality extended to embracing his wife. Kathryn immediately felt guilty at her uncharitableness; Blanche was simply trying to make up for her husband’s bad manners. She was eager to please and clearly nervous, constantly plucking at the cord tied round her slim waist.
Kathryn smiled reassuringly at her but her boorish husband was not easily ignored.
‘What?’ he exclaimed, pointing at Kathryn, then paused at a sound from the kitchen. ‘What?’ he repeated, ‘is she doing here?’
‘I have explained that,’ Luberon replied patiently, drawing himself up to his full height and puffing out his pigeon chest.
‘Yes, and I have been waiting,’ Smithler snapped. ‘I have a tavern to run, Master clerk. I am sorry Erpingham’s dead but I have meals to cook.’ He glared round at the rest of the group. ‘Rooms to be cleaned and I’d like that bloody corpse removed!’
Kathryn quietly groaned at the look of obstinate malice on
the tavern-keeper’s face.
‘Master Smithler,’ she began. ‘I . . .’ She saw the expression on the fellow’s face abruptly fade as he stared over her shoulder.
‘You’ll do what you are bloody well told!’ a voice exclaimed behind her.
Kathryn whirled round. ‘Colum!’
The Irishman stood there, hair unkempt, face unshaven, swathed in his thick brown military cloak. Nevertheless, she could understand why Smithler had become cautious: Colum, despite his shabby appearance, exuded both menace and authority. Kathryn felt like running towards him and throwing her arms round his neck, but the look in Colum’s eyes and the slight shake of his head warned her against any show of emotion. Instead, he walked forward and quietly squeezed her by the arm.
‘Master Luberon.’ He smiled down at the clerk, only too grateful for Colum’s intervention. ‘I have been away on business.’ He glanced sideways at Kathryn and grinned. ‘A small matter. It delayed me longer than I thought.’ He undid the cords of his cloak and threw it at Smithler. ‘And, before you ask, my name is Colum Murtagh, the King’s own Commissioner in Canterbury. Now, sir, hang that up! I need a goblet of wine, some victuals, and then I want to know what this is all about!’
Chapter 2
Whilst Smithler served Colum fresh manchet loaves, cheese and salted strips of bacon, Luberon introduced the rest of the company. Miles Stanton was the royal serjeant in charge of Erpingham’s escort; he was dressed in a leather jerkin and leggings, his hair cropped so close Kathryn at first thought he was bald. A professional soldier, Standon looked dour with the grim face of a hardened killer. He knew full well that the blame for Erpingham’s murder would be laid at his door and he would be held accountable. He indicated with one hand to the far end of the tavern where the rest of his small escort sat. Kathryn peered over her shoulder at them, trying to ignore Colum’s secret smile and hidden wink.
‘A fine group,’ Colum murmured.
Kathryn caught the sarcasm in his voice. The soldiers were grizzled veterans who looked as if they would burn a widow’s hovel just for the fun of it. Next to Standon sat Eudo Vavasour, a little mouse of a man, grey-garbed, grey-haired, grey-faced with frightened eyes and a nose that would never stop twitching. Kathryn had to bite her own lips to stop herself smiling at his nervousness. The next person had no humour about him: Sir Gervase Percy sat as far away from the rest as he could. Whilst Luberon grandly introduced him, Kathryn tried to ignore Colum’s gaze. She would have loved to have screamed at the Irishman, ‘Where have you been?’ and ‘Why have you caused us so much heartache?’ But she quietly vowed she would deal with such matters later. Instead she studied this self-styled grand old man. A distant member of the powerful Percy family, Sir Gervase had a nut-brown face. He was dressed in dark brown fustian; his jerkin was of pure wool; he wore a fine linen shirt, and the rings on his fingers were studded with jewels the size of small pebbles. An imperious knight, he kept upright by leaning on the hilt of his sword. Behind the knight sat a black-garbed priest, Father Ealdred. He was quiet-spoken with a pallid, ascetic face and Kathryn wondered what he was doing in Canterbury so far from his parish. A loving couple were the last guests. Alan de Murville was tall, dark and well-favoured, a lord who owned lush meadows and fertile fields around Rochester. Margaret, his wife, was blond, slender as a willow, with the soft, gentle eyes and manners of a baby fawn.
Once the introductions were made, Luberon coughed and tapped on the table.
‘A crime has been committed!’ he trumpeted. ‘A grievous felony against our King, Edward IV, God bless him! One of his officials, Sir Reginald Erpingham, has been found dead and his money, the Crown’s own taxes, stolen. The culprit must be in this room.’ Luberon paused for effect. ‘I now ask you all, each on his or her allegiance, do you know anything about this dreadful crime?’
Except for a slight whimper from Vavasour, there was no reply.
‘In which case,’ Colum got to his feet, scratching his unshaven cheek, ‘I must ask all of you to stay here till I and Mistress Swinbrooke have pursued these matters to a satisfactory conclusion.’
The Irishman stared round the spacious taproom. No one dared object, though the landlord looked daggers at Kathryn and a general hubbub broke out amongst the servants who stood near the beer barrels and wine vats.
‘We have our tasks to do!’ one of them wailed. ‘We cannot stay here all day!’
The protest grew into a chorus. Tobias Smithler, encouraged by these, took a step forward.
‘Master Murtagh,’ he insisted. ‘I have a tavern, a hostelry to run. Surely my servants can go about their duties?’
‘Of course.’ Murtagh beamed across at the servants. ‘You may do as you wish.’ He turned to Luberon. ‘Master Simon, you will, however, instruct the servants not to leave.’ He pointed at the royal serjeant. ‘Master Standon, your men will guard all doors and any other entrances.’ Colum pulled a face and winked at Kathryn. ‘Mistress Swinbrooke, we should view the corpse.’
Led by a surly-looking Smithler, Kathryn and Colum Murtagh made their way to the stairs. As Luberon waddled off in front of them, Kathryn immediately grabbed Colum by his sleeve, pulling him back.
‘Where in God’s name have you been, Irishman? We have all been worried sick!’
Colum scratched his black, curly hair and grinned lazily down at her.
‘Did you miss me, Kathryn?’ he whispered. ‘Did you really miss me so much?’
‘We all missed you.’
Colum, despite his tiredness and grubby appearance, had the devil’s own mischief in him. He shrugged, leaned down and whispered in her ear.
‘Well, Mistress Swinbrooke, until you tell me that you really missed me, I shan’t tell you where I have been. And only the good Lord knows’ – he hitched his cloak around him – ‘how many sweet distractions lurk along the road to Canterbury!’
Kathryn’s reply was to kick him sharply on the ankle and follow Smithler and Luberon through the taproom door and into the stone-flagged passageway towards the stairs.
‘Master Smithler,’ Kathryn called, her cheeks still burning after her encounter with Colum. ‘On which floor was Sir Reginald?’
‘There are two more floors,’ the landlord replied. ‘Sir Reginald was on the first, the top floor is used for the servants and scullions.’ Smithler leaned against the balustrade and stared down at Colum, totally ignoring Kathryn. ‘This hostelry is rather like any great town house, built in the form of a square.’ He tapped the newel post. ‘But served by one staircase. On each floor are corridors with four chambers on each. Sir Reginald always stayed in the end chamber on the gallery to the right.’ Smithler shrugged. ‘We call it the Haunted Room.’
‘Why is that?’ Luberon asked.
Smithler looked up at the blackened beams. ‘This is an old tavern. There was a hostelry here long before Becket was murdered in his cathedral: three, four hundred years old, though it was rebuilt in the time of King John after the great fire which swept through Worthingate.’
‘And the ghost story?’ Colum insisted, always intrigued by such matters. ‘Why is the room haunted?’
‘They say a murder occurred,’ Smithler replied. ‘Many years ago.’ He smiled thinly. ‘A priest eloped with some noble-born lady. She repented because she was destined for a nunnery. In a fit of rage he is supposed to have killed her and fled.’ Smithler raised his eyebrows. ‘I don’t know the real truth of it. Some guests claim to see apparitions and hear the sound of weeping but I never have.’
‘Sir Reginald did!’ a harsh voice behind them snapped.
Kathryn turned around. Sir Gervase stood there leaning on his sword. He tapped this against the stone floor. ‘Sir Reginald said he saw a ghost the night before he died.’
‘Oh, don’t be stupid!’ Smithler replied. ‘Sir Reginald had probably drunk too much, which is true of a few other people in this tavern!’
The old man refused to be cowed and shook his head defiantly. ‘Watch your tongue! Two nights ag
o Sir Reginald woke up screaming. I know. He pounded on my door and woke me up. Bathed in sweat he was, face as white as his nightshirt. I had to take him into my own chamber to calm him down, he was so terrified.’
‘What did he claim to have seen?’ Luberon asked.
‘He said he saw a ghost: a woman dressed in a white shroud, pale-faced and red-eyed.’ Sir Gervase shook his head. ‘Sir Reginald was fair afright. He had been sick; his mouth was all stained and when I took him back to his room, the place smelt sour.’
‘Sir Reginald was sick all right,’ Smithler interrupted. ‘The scullion who had to empty his night jar complained of the filth.’
‘And yesterday?’ Kathryn asked.
Sir Gervase was now thoroughly enjoying being the centre of attention.
‘Erpingham looked a bit pale at breakfast. But,’ he shrugged, ‘we were all locked in because of the snow. By noon he was eating heartily enough and not rushing to the latrines. He made no more reference to the ghost. Sir Reginald,’ Sir Gervase concluded, ‘did not have the sweetest temperament. I was very wary of him so I let the matter rest.’
‘Enough of this,’ Colum intervened. ‘Sir Reginald’s sickness, be it of the mind or the body, can wait. Master taverner, let’s view the corpse.’
Smithler led them up the steep stairway to two huge timbered pillars at the top. The galleries running to the left and right of these were unremarkable: the walls were clean and whitewashed, the woodwork smartly painted black. Kathryn looked down the galleries. Four chambers stood on each, their doors huge, heavy-set and reinforced with iron studs. Smithler led them down the gallery on the right. The end room, Sir Reginald’s, was in utter disarray. The floor outside was gouged and the door, smashed off its leather hinges, stood crookedly against the lintel. Smithler, with the help of Colum, pushed it gently to one side and led them in. Kathryn shivered and the hair on the nape of her neck curled. The place smelt sour and it had been a long time since Kathryn had felt such a sense of dread with the hand of death so close.