by Paul Doherty
She washed her hands carefully, put away the phials and bandages and went back into the kitchen where Luberon and Colum were sitting at a table. The Irishman looked worried as he pushed a small canvas bag back into Luberon’s hands.
‘What’s the matter?’ Kathryn asked.
‘Frenland,’ Colum replied. ‘Do you remember the fellow who came with me to buy supplies?’ He grabbed the bag from Luberon and pushed it across the table.
Kathryn opened it and wrinkled her nose at the sour smell. She pulled out the tattered, bloody remains of a man’s coat, then quickly thrust it back in again. ‘Frenland’s?’
Colum nodded. ‘Holbech sent out riders to collect the provisions I had left. The farmstead was not far from the crossroads where Frenland left me. Further along a trackway, well, they found that. According to Master Luberon, it would appear Frenland was attacked by some wild dogs and badly wounded.’ He shrugged. ‘Perhaps killed.’
‘So, who brought it to you, Simon?’ Kathryn asked.
The little clerk looked sheepishly down at his hands.
‘Frenland’s wife came to the guildhall. She was carrying that.’ He looked askance at Colum. ‘She was making all sorts of allegations against you.’
Colum groaned and cupped his chin in his hand.
‘She has a face like vinegar,’ Colum murmured. ‘And a tongue like a snake. What is she claiming, Simon?’
‘That you deserted Frenland, that you panicked or that something else happened . . .’ Luberon’s voice trailed off.
‘Such as?’ Kathryn asked sharply.
Luberon squirmed in his seat. ‘Well,’ he mumbled. ‘She said Colum may have even killed him.’
‘Nonsense!’ Kathryn declared.
Luberon looked at Colum. ‘You should go out there, Irishman, and confront her.’
Kathryn grabbed the sack from the table and pushed it into a corner near the hearth.
‘No, Colum, you won’t! We have business at the guildhall.’ She looked sharply at him. ‘Something terrible happened in Blunt’s house but not the way it was described. Mistress Frenland will just have to wait.’
Kathryn asked Thomasina to get their cloaks and things ready.
‘What’s he like, this Frenland?’ Kathryn continued.
Colum shrugged. ‘A good man, easy-going. He served with Lord Hastings in the recent war: his wife’s something of a scold but Frenland was good with horses.’
‘What did you talk about?’ Kathryn asked. ‘I mean, as you rode to collect the supplies?’
Colum pulled a face. ‘We talked about Canterbury, the stables.’ He shuffled his feet in embarrassment.
‘What else?’ Kathryn demanded.
‘Rumours about your husband.’ Colum held up his hand. ‘For God’s sake, Kathryn, there was no harm in that!’ He scratched his head. ‘“I pray Jesus, to cut short their lives, of those who will not be governed by their wives.”’ Colum grinned sheepishly. ‘The Wife of Bath’s words. Frenland seems to have proved them correct.’
Kathryn shook her head. ‘Aye, and doesn’t the Wife of Bath end with: “Those old and querulous niggards with their pence. Oh send them soon a mortal pestilence.”’ She pointed down at the bag. ‘I will deal with Mistress Frenland when we return.’
Behind Kathryn’s back Colum winked at Luberon. On reflection, the Irishman was not too upset by Mistress Frenland’s accusations. She had no proof for what she alleged and the man had deserted without a by-your-leave. Colum was more intrigued by Kathryn’s white-faced anger and air of purpose. Usually she was serene, slightly sardonic, and Colum felt flattered by her brusque refutation of the allegations against him. He and Luberon followed her out into the street. Colum immediately slipped, crashing down onto the icy cobbles.
‘By Mogglin’s cock!’ he cursed and got to his feet, rubbing his arm and knocking the dirty ice from his cloak.
Kathryn came back. ‘Colum?’
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘No harm except to my pride.’
‘I meant to tell you,’ Luberon confessed, ‘the snow may be going but the ice is dangerous.’
Kathryn found the clerk’s words prophetic. Ottemelle Lane and all the streets were covered in sheets of ice. However, this hadn’t prevented the crowds thronging out to buy supplies in the market where the stalls, booths and shops were doing a thriving business. Nevertheless, time and again, they saw people slip and fall. Thomasina, gingerly following them, had to stop and lean against a house, her sides aching with laughter: Goldere the clerk, in his tight breeches and high-heeled boots, his curly hair prinked and waved, was strutting about only to go crashing down on his bottom, his mouth rounded in an O of stupefaction. Moreover, because of his fanciful footwear, Goldere found it nigh impossible to get to his feet.
The dung carts were also out, trying to remove the mounds of frozen refuse that blocked the way. Two bailiffs from St. Margaret’s Street had broken the ice on the sewer down the centre: the stench from the curdled refuse lying there was so strong, passersby had to cover their noses and mouths. A pig that had frozen beneath the mound of snow had also been uncovered and beggars, armed with short sticks or cutting knives, were trying to slice portions of meat from its frozen carcase. At the Buttermarket the bailiffs and beadles were filling the stocks with those malefactors who had broken the curfew or committed petty crimes during the great freeze. A pickpocket, caught for the second time, was having his ears nailed to a cross slat of a post. A forger, facing his third indictment, screamed, drowning the cries of the marketplace as the city executioner branded his cheek with a burning iron, a permanent sign of his past dishonesty. A whore, cursing and spitting, had her grimy grey buttocks whipped at the tail of a cart. Two butchers who’d sold putrid meat had to stand on the cross with the meat tied against their nose and mouth. Urchins and beggars, eager for mischief after the loneliness of the last few days, gathered round and pelted these and other malefactors with snowballs and pieces of refuse. Peasants trudged in from the countryside either wheeling hand-barrows or carrying packs lashed to their bowed backs, eager to sell their goods and raise some cash lest the snows return. A song-seller practised a new carol on the steps of a tavern whilst a black-faced traveller stood in his garish rags on the steps of St. Andrew’s Church and talked of his travels east of Eden.
Kathryn and her companions walked up the High Street, pausing outside the Chequer of Hope as a funeral cortege wound its way down to St. Helen’s Church. The death cart was full of coffins, nothing more than simple pinewood boxes squeezed in and not properly nailed. A passerby told Kathryn how the corpses belonged to an entire family who had been found frozen in their house.
At the guildhall they found merchants, lawyers and city officials thronging the steps eager to exchange news and resume the normal course of events. These stood aside and bowed respectfully as Colum passed. Even though the King’s anger against Canterbury for supporting the Lancastrians had now relented, Colum was still known, respected and even feared as the Crown’s representative in the city. Inside the guildhall a tipstaff took them along a gallery, then down steep steps to the cellars and dungeons. There was no light or heating there, no roaring fire or glowing brazier and Kathryn shivered at the dank cold. She looked over her shoulder at Thomasina. Usually the old nurse commented on everything she saw as they passed, but apart from her merriment at Goldere’s fall on the ice, Thomasina had been strangely taciturn and rather secretive.
‘You want to see Blunt?’ The hooded gaoler came out of the darkness jangling his keys. He bowed respectfully at Colum, gapped yellowed teeth bared in a grin. ‘I didn’t see you, sir, nor the fine ladies.’
‘Just show us Blunt’s cell,’ Colum snapped.
The gaoler waved them on into the darkness. They followed him down to where a lone sconce torch flickered above a cell door. The gaoler opened this and gestured them into the narrow, foul-smelling dungeon. Kathryn felt the wet rushes underneath and gagged at the fetid stench: rats scampered in the darkness, then Kathryn saw
a shape, huddled in one corner, that moved in a rattle of chains. The gaoler brought a candle and fixed it on an iron spike jutting out of the wall.
‘I’d best wait outside,’ Luberon murmured.
Thomasina leaned against the wall and watched as Kathryn went and crouched before the huddled figure.
‘Master Blunt,’ she whispered, ‘I’m Kathryn Swinbrooke; you asked to see me.’
The prisoner raised his head. Kathryn felt a surge of pity. Blunt was changed beyond recognition: his hair and beard were matted and dirty, his face looked pallid in the flickering candlelight, and spots of fever burned high in the sharp-etched cheek bones.
‘So, you did come,’ the man croaked. He gestured wearily round the cell. ‘No comforts here, Mistress Swinbrooke.’ Blunt peered into the darkness. ‘And who else?’
‘Master Murtagh, King’s Commissioner in Canterbury.’
‘I have heard of you, Irishman.’ Blunt’s narrow face broke into a smile. ‘And if Kathryn Swinbrooke’s here, that must be Thomasina, lissome as ever, eh?’
Only a muted sob was the reply.
‘Don’t cry,’ Blunt said softly. He then began to cough, his whole body twisting in convulsions.
Kathryn watched carefully and saw the blood change to spittle on Blunt’s lips.
‘Colum,’ she snapped. ‘For pity’s sake, ask for some wine!’
‘I have brought some,’ Thomasina said.
She passed a small wineskin to Kathryn who pushed it into Blunt’s hands.
‘Drink,’ she urged.
Blunt, white-faced with tearful eyes, undid the stopper, then held it up so the wine splashed into his mouth. He began to cough again but managed to control it, then he leant back against the wall.
‘You visited Emma and the boy?’
Kathryn nodded. ‘Why did you want to see me, Richard? I hardly know you, though I am sad, whilst my father would have been distraught to see you brought so low.’
‘I brought it on myself,’ Blunt replied, greedily taking a sip from the wineskin. ‘I grew old, Mistress Kathryn. I was good at my art. The silver coins and gold pieces began to fill my purse; then I met Alisoun.’ Blunt eased his arms as best he could but his wrists and ankles were secured by metal gyves attached by chains to a clasp on the wall.
‘And you killed her and those two young men?’ Kathryn asked.
Blunt pushed his face closer. Kathryn didn’t flinch at the sour smell from his body or the rankness of his breath.
‘I have heard of you, Kathryn. Some say you are the city’s best physician. I knew you’d be called to view the corpses. I beg you, for pity’s sake, let matters stand as they are. If you really want to know the truth, look in the sanctuary of St. Mildred’s Church – just go there.’ He grabbed her by the wrist and paused for another paroxysm of coughing to pass. When he lifted his head Kathryn glimpsed the bloody spittle on either side of his mouth. ‘Please,’ he whispered. ‘You know the classical tag: “Quieta non movere.”’
‘“Let sleeping dogs lie”,’ Kathryn replied.
Behind her she could hear Thomasina weeping gently. Blunt raised his head and looked over Kathryn’s shoulder.
‘Don’t cry for me, Thomasina. I have seen the days and felt the sun on my face. I have known the love of a good woman and I have painted miles and miles of walls. Go to the churches of Rochester, Gravesend and Dover. I’ll leave my mark when others are long forgotten.’
‘Is there anything we can do?’ Kathryn asked.
Blunt shook his head. ‘Tell Emma and Peter I love them. They are not to come to the trial. I was born alone, I’ll die the same way.’ Again he grasped Kathryn’s wrist. ‘But I know you, Mistress Swinbrooke – for the love of God just hold your peace!’
Kathryn rose to her feet. ‘Did you know Sir Reginald Erpingham?’ she asked.
Now Blunt smiled. ‘Aye, a black-hearted, cruel, soulless bastard. I die a happy man knowing Erpingham’s met his just deserts. Do you know he wanted me to come to the Wicker Man? Sent me a message that I had accounts to settle.’ Blunt cleared his throat and spat onto the black, soggy floor. ‘Well, God has settled my account with him, hasn’t he? Erpingham was a blackmailer. He was stupid and deserved to die. If I had gone to that tavern, I probably would have killed him as well.’
‘Are you saying that those who did go,’ Kathryn asked, ‘are guilty of his death?’
‘One of them is,’ Blunt asserted. ‘But that’s for God to know and you to find out. Years ago Erpingham hunted me, not because I was a poacher, but because I refused to pay his bribes like the rest.’
‘But you know nothing of his death?’
Blunt shook his head. ‘God save him, I do not.’
‘I have brought you something,’ Thomasina called out. She moved out of the shadows and pushed a small linen-covered package into his manacled hands. ‘Some bread, cheese and dried meat.’
‘Thank you.’ Blunt smiled at Kathryn. ‘Now leave, please!’
Colum hammered on the door and the gaoler let them out into the ill-lit passageway.
‘What was that all about?’ Colum whispered.
Kathryn just shook her head. ‘Not now, Colum. We must study those paintings in St Mildred’s: I want Blunt to tell me himself.’
‘Did you learn anything?’ Luberon asked as they left the guildhall.
Kathryn turned on the steps and faced them both. She tapped Colum on the chest.
‘You are the King’s Commissioner, Irishman. You, Simon, are the city clerk. Perhaps it’s best, at least for the time being, if I keep my thoughts to myself. But I tell you this, Blunt is a dying man.’ She stared across at the white-faced Thomasina. ‘We know that, don’t we?’
Thomasina nodded.
‘He’s coughing blood, thick and rich,’ Kathryn continued. ‘His lungs are rotting.’
‘Will he die?’ Luberon asked, then smiled apologetically. ‘I mean, he will not stand trial for weeks: the city Justices will just refer him to the next assize.’
Kathryn pointed down at the High Street where a group of children were pulling along a yule log.
‘I am only a physician,’ she answered. ‘But if Blunt is still alive on Christmas Day I would be very, very surprised. Now, let’s take the side streets. I wish to visit St. Mildred’s Church.’
After that Kathryn refused to be drawn. They made their way through the afternoon throng, hurrying past the hucksters, pedlars and tinkers who stood on every corner. In St. Mildred’s Church, Kathryn, without a by-your-leave, genuflected before the altar, lit the two great beeswax candles that stood on the sanctuary table and walked into the apse, the circular wall behind the altar. Whilst Colum and Luberon stood behind her holding the candles and Thomasina sat watching sadly from the sanctuary chair, Kathryn carefully studied the pictures Blunt had painted over the last twelve months. One was a bestiary that included a phoenix, a pelican, an owl being mobbed by magpies, even a mermaid. The next was of Christ, naked but for a loincloth, displaying his five wounds. Beside this was a scene depicting the signs of the Zodiac. The largest painting was of three kings sumptuously robed, one with a hawk on his wrist, and their encounter with three grisly skeletons. Kathryn admired the brilliant colours and ingenuity of the artist. The paintings spoke to her just as eloquently as any sermon about the spiritual realities, the transient nature of life and the immediacy of death. However, the last painting, the one Blunt had been working on the very day he had gone home for his mortal confrontation with Alisoun, caught her attention. A scene from the Old Testament, Abraham offering his son Isaac to God. The boy was strapped to the altar and Abraham stood staring up at the angel who was trying to restrain him, gripping his hand with the dagger clenched there.
‘Bring the candles closer,’ she urged.
Colum and Luberon obeyed. Kathryn studied the scene again. She recalled the face in that ghastly cell at the guildhall and stared at the figure of Abraham. She then examined the patriarch’s hand and noticed how the dagger was pointed inwar
ds to his own chest rather than down at his son. Kathryn touched it carefully and smiled bleakly at Colum.
‘I have seen enough,’ she whispered. ‘I know the truth.’
Chapter 8
As Kathryn and Colum walked back through the gathering dusk, Vavasour, the tax collector’s clerk, stood staring out of his chamber window. Kathryn would have hardly recognised the nervous little clerk: no more twitching or irritable gestures, Vavasour stood stock still, his face impassive, eyes unblinking, as he glared into the darkness. Now and again he would rub his eyes or smile secretively as if savouring some private joke.
‘Everything comes to those who wait,’ Vavasour whispered to himself. He dug his thumbs into the broad leather belt round his meagre waist. Erpingham was gone, not before time, Vavasour concluded. No more would he sit, the poor man at Erpingham’s beck and call, like some favourite mongrel being tossed the odd cut of meat or stale biscuit. Vavasour chewed his lip. ‘If the meat’s gone,’ he murmured, ‘the gravy still remains.’
To be sure, Vavasour reflected, that sharp-eyed bitch Swinbrooke had discovered the secret house in St. Alphage’s Lane, but Erpingham had other hidden caches across the shire. In time, Vavasour intended to help himself to all of these. Oh, he’d miss Erpingham! The wicked bastard used to regale Vavasour with his sexual exploits: how some high-stepping widow had pleasured him in bed rather than pay her full dues. Erpingham, with money salted away with the bankers, had a veritable fortune to pay for his illicit pursuits. Vavasour recalled the night Erpingham had the nightmare. The tax collector had always boasted about his evil ancestor and his connection with that particular chamber at the Wicker Man: now Erpingham had paid for the folly of staying in a tavern surrounded by his enemies. He had been murdered so mysteriously, yet – and Vavasour rubbed his hands in glee – he could prove how it was done.
‘Many a slip ’twixt cup and lip,’ Vavasour whispered and soon he would prove his point.