by Paul Doherty
Colum groaned: he felt dead on his feet. In the midmorning light his face seemed grey and dark circles ringed his eyes. Kathryn, too, had little enthusiasm for further questioning, for becoming involved in the sordid aspects of more macabre murders.
‘Master Luberon,’ she insisted. ‘You must excuse us. Go to Erpingham’s house in St. Alphage’s Lane. Ensure the doors are sealed until we can all visit it.’
‘And Blunt?’ Luberon persisted. ‘I have to make a report for the council.’
Kathryn grabbed his podgy hand and squeezed it affectionately.
‘Simon, Simon, most of the council are hiding in their own houses, wrapped in rugs before roaring fires. Blunt has been taken, the matter will wait for a while.’ She smiled. ‘Otherwise both the King’s Commissioner in Canterbury, not to mention his physician, will be ill with the ague.’
Luberon reluctantly agreed and dolefully accompanied them back into Castle Row and up into Westgate. He said he would see them later and stamped off towards the High Street, grumbling under his breath about public duty and the need to get things done immediately.
Kathryn watched him go. She stared longingly down Hill Lane, where the houses and shops were still shuttered and closed. Only a few children played in the streets, their cries ringing clear in the cold morning air.
‘Well?’ Colum asked. ‘Is it a warm hearth and good food?’
‘Colum, come with me for a while.’
The Irishman kicked at the dirt-stained snow.
‘Kathryn, I’ll either go home and sleep or I shall lie down here until some poor, good woman has mercy on me.’
Kathryn looked wistfully at the spire of St. Mildred’s Church.
‘I would like to visit there.’ She pointed. ‘My father lies buried in the transept before Our Lady’s Chapel.’
‘Kathryn, you can go some other time.’
‘No, no.’ She shook her head. ‘I was there two days ago. I saw Richard Blunt and his son, painting in the sanctuary, breathtaking, colourful scenes. I just want to look at them again. I want to know why a man capable of portraying such beauty could leave God’s house, walk through the streets of Canterbury and cold-bloodedly kill his wife and two young men.’
Colum chewed on his lip. He knew Kathryn’s moods: she was stubborn and single-minded. She would always do what she had set her heart upon yet he could feel his legs trembling from the cold. He grasped her hand, linking her arm through his and turned back in the direction of Ottemelle Lane.
‘Listen,’ he said. ‘Fill my stomach with Thomasina’s food. Let me sleep for a few hours and I’ll go with you to Byzantium!’
‘With an offer like that,’ Kathryn grinned, ‘how could anyone refuse?’
Chapter 5
At the Wicker Man, Father Ealdred returned to his own room. He collected his small phial of holy oil and walked along to the dead man’s chamber.
‘What are you doing, Father?’ Standon asked, lounging against the door lintel.
Ealdred stared into the shadow-filled room.
‘It’s so sombre,’ he whispered. ‘Tell me, Standon, do you believe a house or room can be haunted?’
Standon just shrugged.
‘Well, I am going to bless Sir Reginald Erpingham,’ Ealdred declared. ‘He may have died unshriven but his soul may still be in limbo hovering between heaven and earth awaiting judgement.’
‘If you ask me,’ Standon growled, ‘the bastard’s long gone to sizzle in the flames of hell!’
Ignoring him, Ealdred entered the room and pulled back the bed drapes; he stared down at the sheet covering Erpingham’s corpse and recalled the words of his bishop: ‘We do not know what the soul does after death. The stopping of the heart and of the blood coursing in the veins does not mean that the soul has yet gone to its Maker.’
Ealdred pulled back the sheet and knelt beside the bed. He guiltily remembered his own secrets. He had not told the Irishman or Mistress Swinbrooke the whole truth, yet here he was preparing to give this evil man absolution. Ealdred swallowed hard and whispered the words of the ritual: ‘At the hour of your death, in danger of eternal damnation, I, Ealdred, priest of the parish of St. Swithin’s, do by the infinite merits of Christ’s passion and death, absolve you from all your sins.’
Erpingham’s bleak, sharp-nosed face lay gaping upwards. Ealdred stood up, undid the small phial he carried and, hiding his distaste, anointed the grey flesh of the dead tax collector: the brow, eyes, mouth, the ears, chest, feet and hands. The priest tried not to look at the red blotches now turning a deep scarlet.
‘Too much was used!’ Ealdred whispered. ‘Too much was used!’
‘What was that, Father?’
The priest whirled round. Vavasour had crept quietly near the bed. The little clerk now reminded Ealdred more of a hungry rat than a frightened rabbit: his eyes narrowed, his yellow buck teeth jutted out.
‘I was just saying the prayers for the dead.’
Vavasour tapped the dead man on the ankle. ‘Much good it will do him,’ the clerk retorted. ‘Gone the way of all flesh, has old Erpingham. And a very wicked boy indeed, eh, Standon?’
‘You are pleased he is dead?’ Ealdred asked.
‘Pleased? I’m delighted, though it’s a pity that surly Irishman and his sharp-eyed doxy seized those keys.’
‘Did he have so much to hide?’ Ealdred asked.
Vavasour walked round the bed, coming so close Ealdred could smell his fetid breath.
‘Now, now, Father,’ Vavasour whispered. ‘We all have our little secrets, don’t we? I wager you told them the story about Isolda: I also could tell them a few tales.’ Vavasour smirked. ‘I could tell them stories about you. Why you and the rest are here at the Wicker Man. Who knows?’ The smirk faded from Vavasour’s face, his lips curled in a sneer. ‘I might even tell them who killed old Erpingham!’
‘What do you mean?’ Ealdred asked.
Vavasour stared down at his dirty fingernails. ‘Sir Reginald told me how Isolda screamed and screamed; noisy, very noisy, she was.’
Ealdred grabbed the man by the front of his jerkin.
‘Take your hands off me, Father!’
The priest pushed him away.
‘It’s not over yet,’ Vavasour smirked.
‘What isn’t over?’ Sir Gervase Percy, disturbed by the sounds, now stood in the doorway behind them. Vavasour smiled in mock innocence.
‘Oh, nothing’s over yet, is it? And don’t you fool me, Sir Gervase, stumbling round like an old war horse, banging your sword on the ground. You hated my master.’
‘Aye, everyone did,’ Standon interrupted.
Vavasour, unabashed, walked towards the serjeant.
‘Aye, even you, Standon. Did you tell the Irishman how Erpingham used to collect taxes from your mother?’
The soldier took a step forward, bumping into the unhinged door. Vavasour quickly stepped back, one finger pointing to the ceiling.
‘Now, now, no violence. Because if I begin to chatter, no one here is safe.’ He stalked out of the room, shouldering his way between Standon and Percy. ‘And always remember,’ he shouted, ‘this is not yet finished for there’s many a slip ’twixt cup and lip!’
Kathryn lay resting, staring up at the heavily embroidered tester of her four-poster bed. She and Colum had arrived home to find Thomasina had taken everything in hand. The house was clean and bright as a new pin, the kitchen sweet with a chicken roasting on the spits, and a creamy sauce of ground almonds, cloves, peppercorns, ginger, sugar, vinegar and egg yolks stood warming in the small oven next to the hearth. Everyone was delighted to see Colum: Wuf, jumping up and down with excitement, shouted.
‘He’s back again! He’s back again! He’s back again!’
Agnes stared, round-eyed, at this tall Irishman who could brave the wilds of Kent. Even Thomasina, her face red and sweaty from the fire, muttered something about a bad penny always turning up. Colum squeezed her waist, tickling her and not letting her go until Thomasina lau
ghingly declared her relief at the Irishman’s return. Colum refused anything to drink: he declared himself exhausted and, if Kathryn had not pushed him up the stairs, would have fallen asleep on his feet in the kitchen. Kathryn herself had rested for a while. She now propped herself up on one elbow and looked across at the hour candle. It must be about four in the afternoon and her patients, whom Thomasina had turned away earlier in the day, would be returning. She sighed and swung her legs off the bed, put on a pair of soft buskins and washed her hands and face in a bowl of rose water. She dried herself carefully with a soft woollen napkin, tied her hair neatly behind her head and went down to the kitchen.
Wuf immediately ran up, holding a wooden carving.
‘I did it myself!’ he shouted. ‘Colum brought me the wood and Thomasina gave me the tools!’
Kathryn absent-mindedly agreed with everything he said, then looked at the carving and saw what the foundling had done. She took it carefully and sat at the foot of the stairs.
‘Did you do this, Wuf?’
The little boy’s pale face shone with pleasure, a mask of delight from the tip of his pointed chin to his untidy, blond hair.
‘Oh, of course. When I was in the camp, the soldiers used to teach me.’
Kathryn stared down admiringly at the hunting scene the little boy had carved: a man on his horse, half turned in the saddle, blowing a horn; in front of him a greyhound raced towards a bush hiding a cheeky-faced fox. Kathryn glanced up.
‘How old are you, Wuf?’
‘I have been here about six months,’ Wuf replied, ignoring the question. ‘Does that make me your son?’
Kathryn hugged him close, kissing him on his dirt-stained cheek. ‘You are whatever you want to be, Wuf: my son, my brother, my friend.’
‘Can I be your husband?’ Wuf’s hand flew to his lips. ‘Oh, I am sorry,’ he gasped. ‘You have two, haven’t you?’
Kathryn threw her head back and laughed.
‘I have one husband, Wuf. I have explained this to you before and what I haven’t, you’ve probably heard by hiding behind the kitchen door: Alexander Wyville went to the wars and he’s not come back.’
‘Oh yes, he’s a bad bastard!’
‘Wuf!’
‘Well, that’s what Thomasina told the Irishman. If Wyville comes back, will the Irishman kill him?’
‘I’ll kill you!’ a voice declared from the top of the stairs. Colum stood there, his face heavy with sleep.
‘No, you won’t!’ Wuf cried, dancing up and down. ‘Thomasina will get you! Thomasina will get you!’
‘Look what Wuf has done,’ Kathryn exclaimed, trying to divert the conversation.
Colum came down the stairs and stared. ‘It’s a Misericord!’ he said with surprise. ‘You know, a carving on a seat of a church stall.’ He squeezed between Kathryn and the wall and sat on the stairs. ‘How old are you, Wuf?’ He asked the same question Kathryn had.
‘Oh, I was just going to say,’ Wuf replied. ‘One of the soldiers, he thought I’d just passed my eleventh summer. He was a carpenter. He taught me how to do this. He said you had to have a . . .’
‘Good eye?’ Kathryn queried.
‘That’s it. Anyway,’ Wuf continued breathlessly, ‘it’s a present for you, Kathryn. Do you like it?’
Before she could even thank him, Wuf had danced away, shouting did Agnes want a present as well? Kathryn got to her feet, straightening the creases from the back of her dress.
‘You smelt the food, Irishman?’
‘If I don’t eat soon,’ he murmured, ‘I’ll eat Thomasina!’
‘Quite a mouthful,’ Kathryn replied. ‘But first, I must see to my patients.’
Colum headed for the kitchen to see what he could beg, and Kathryn walked down into the large room at the front of the house which, God willing, she would soon turn into a shop. She stared round appreciatively. Colum had worked well: the counter was of new-grain wood: the shelves and small cupboards on the wall were straight and neatly polished. She had applied for her licence from the Spicers’ Guild and, when the roads were passable, the extra supplies she had ordered from London would arrive. Kathryn felt her stomach tingle with excitement; she’d sell not only home-grown herbs and plants but those from abroad: balm, hyssop, Iceland moss, cinnamon, myrrh and aloes.
‘I hope it succeeds,’ she whispered, staring up at the candle wheel hanging from its pulley beneath the rafters. The shop would provide fresh sources of income. Perhaps she might increase her profits: she would buy her own field, certainly for the home-grown herbs and so remove the middleman. Kathryn leant against the counter, stroking the polished wood. But what would happen then? She had her patients, she was a city physician, so who would run the shop? Thomasina? Agnes? Colum? Kathryn smiled at the thought of the Irishman with an apron tied round his waist. He’d poison everyone within a month, she thought. Or should I continue as a physician?
‘Daydreaming, Kathryn?’ Thomasina stood in the doorway, her hands and wrists covered in flour.
‘I was just thinking about the shop.’
Thomasina walked towards her. ‘It will be a success,’ her old nurse said. ‘You are not really thinking of that, are you? It’s the Irishman.’
Kathryn grinned. ‘Well, yes and no. I went to that tavern.’ Kathryn leaned against the counter. ‘A terrible murder, Thomasina, in a nightmarish room. God knows if we will discover the murderer. And there’s money involved, royal taxes.’
Thomasina made a rude sound with her mouth.
‘But standing here in the shop,’ Kathryn continued, ‘listening to Wuf babble and play, I wondered whether I like these subtle, dark confrontations with some assassin.’
‘And you haven’t been to poor Blunt’s house?’ Thomasina asked.
‘No, perhaps after we have eaten. Thomasina, you could help.’
‘With Blunt?’
‘Well, you know the story: Blunt returned home, slew his wife and the two young men in dalliance. One tried to escape through a window but Blunt struck him with an arrow; the man fell out into the street, almost at the feet of Widow Gumple.’
‘Oh, sweet Lord!’ Thomasina groaned. ‘Must she be involved?’
‘Thomasina, I just want you to ask her: what precisely happened? Can you do that for me?’
Thomasina agreed. ‘And the Irishman, Mistress? Is he going to stay here for the winter?’
Kathryn tapped Thomasina gently on the nose. ‘Aye, Thomasina, and if God is good and I have my way, next winter too. Now, come. If I am not mistaken, our patients have arrived.’
Followed by a grumbling Thomasina, Kathryn hurried out of the shop. She went to her writing office, collected her herbarium and basket of jars and returned to the kitchen.
Thankfully, the list of ailments was minor. Two or three children with sore throats for which Kathryn prescribed a tincture of marjoram. Mollyns the miller also came, complaining he had a sore stomach.
‘Too much ale,’ Thomasina grumbled.
‘Shut up!’ the miller bawled back.
Kathryn calmed him down: she gave Mollyns an infusion of wild thyme and told him to take it after supper, in the morning and again at noon for the next week. The miller stomped off, looking blackly over his shoulder at Thomasina. The rest of the patients were mainly suffering from cuts and bruises. Hagar the washerwoman who had slipped on the ice and grazed her wrist and arm. She went away chattering thankfully for some witch hazel. Finally came Rawnose the beggar, who spent most of his time out in the open listening to and spreading gossip. He now had sore chilblains on his toes and fingers. Kathryn gave him the dried, crushed leaf buds of the black poplar.
‘I can understand chilblains on your fingers,’ she murdered. ‘But you have good boots, Rawnose, and warm hose. And here’s another pair.’ She handed over an old pair of Colum’s. ‘So, how did you get chilblains on your toes?’
‘I don’t know,’ Rawnose wailed, his poor, disfigured face still blue with the cold. ‘I goes into the tavern, I gets the
best place near the hearth, often the inglenook. Off comes my mittens, my boots and hose and I toast them in front of the fire.’
Kathryn pressed the herbal remedy into his hand, shouting for Agnes to bring a cup of warm posset. She remembered her father’s warning about chilblains and, whilst Rawnose gratefully drank the hot spiced wine, Kathryn tried to recall it.
‘Is there anything wrong with this?’ Rawnose asked, gesturing suspiciously at the little jar Kathryn had given him.
‘Oh no,’ Kathryn murmured. ‘But the chilblains will come back.’
The beggar man, swathed in his rags, was almost out of the door, when Kathryn suddenly remembered.
‘No, wait!’ she cried. ‘Rawnose, you say you go into the tavern and immediately warm your hands and toes before the fire?’
The beggar man scratched his face where his nose used to be.
‘Oh yes, Mistress, I am always let through.’
Kathryn slipped a coin into his hand. ‘In future, don’t. If your hands are very cold and you hold them in front of the flames, the skin is chafed and some humour in the blood curdles.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t know why.’
‘But I am freezing!’ he wailed.
‘Well,’ Kathryn continued, ‘first, try and restore the warmth naturally. Make sure your fingers and toes are fairly dry and warm, just for a few minutes, and you’ll find the chilblains won’t return.’
Rawnose looked in speechless admiration at this seat of wisdom.
‘Are you sure, Mistress?’ He shifted his gaze and Kathryn caught him looking longingly at the table.
‘Are you hungry, Rawnose?’
The beggar man licked his lips wolfishly.
‘Then stay for supper.’
Rawnose needed no second invitation. His rags came flying off and he sped like a greyhound to a stool in front of the fire.
‘You’ll wash your bloody hands!’ Thomasina bellowed.
Rawnose trooped off to the scullery where Wuf and Agnes helped him bathe his poor, chapped fingers. Colum came downstairs.
‘Come on, woman!’ he growled at Thomasina. ‘Eat or be eaten!’