The Merchant of Death

by Paul Doherty

  The little clerk stared at the hour candle burning quietly on the table. The flame had already reached the seventeenth red circle: five o’clock in the evening, that was the time the message had given. At five o’clock Vavasour was to cross the Great Meadow opposite the tavern. He was to faithfully follow the footsteps through the snow, down the hill to the dell on the edge of the meadow. There, Vavasour would receive his share of the hundreds of pounds stolen from the tax collector’s saddlebags.

  The clerk sat on the edge of his bed and pulled his boots up his spindly legs.

  ‘Why such a desolate spot?’ he grumbled.

  However, he had put on his sword belt with a sword and dagger pushed through its rings, and he also picked up the small arbalest and stuck five of the quarrels into his belt. Vavasour was no fool: he would go armed and there would be a lantern burning. Vavasour swung his cloak about him, concealing the arbalest beneath it and left his chamber.

  ‘Are you going out?’ a servant asked as he came downstairs.

  ‘Just for a short walk.’ Vavasour grinned enigmatically.

  ‘It’s cold and wintry,’ Tobias Smithler said from where he stood at the wine tuns filling a jug.

  Vavasour stared round the taproom. Only the old knight Sir Gervase Percy was there, sitting at the corner of the hearth toasting his toes before the fire; he looked up, narrow-eyed, at Vavasour.

  ‘Don’t go far,’ he warned. ‘You heard the Irishman. We are all to stay here until this business is finished.’

  Vavasour forced a smile.

  ‘What about Sir Reginald’s body?’ the landlord asked.

  ‘Well, it’s now in the death house at the castle,’ Vavasour replied, his hand on the latch. ‘His soul’s gone to God and his body is going to rot. What more can I do?’

  He stepped through the door, slamming it behind him and crossed the frozen cobbled yard. At the end of the trackway he paused. A mist was seeping in, thick and white, shrouding the road and trees on either side. Vavasour went across, then jumped as a figure loomed out of the darkness.

  ‘What the . . .?’ Vavasour’s hand tightened on the crossbow.

  ‘It’s only me, sir.’

  Vavasour relaxed as he recognised Raston, an old servant from the tavern. The man looked guilty and kept his hand beneath his serge cloak.

  Poaching, Vavasour thought – so that’s where Master and Mistress Smithler obtain their fresh meat. Vavasour crossed the trackway; as Sir Reginald would say, he’d remember that. Such information was worth the price of a free meal – or, then again, a love tryst with Mistress Smithler? Vavasour felt the excitement stir in his loins. She was toothsome enough, or so his master said: a rather languid beauty with her blond hair falling about her face. Vavasour wondered whether she’d share her favours if he offered enough. Reginald always claimed she would.

  ‘If you offer enough,’ the tax collector would trumpet when in his cups, ‘any wench will happily oblige.’

  Vavasour opened the gate and entered the meadow. Well, soon he would have enough gold and silver to satisfy all his desires. Now he concentrated on trudging through the knee-deep snow. He faithfully followed the footsteps of the person who had gone before him. Vavasour paused. Was there something wrong? Why meet out in the dell of the Great Meadow? Vavasour’s mouth tightened. Well, he’d keep his side of the bargain. He would climb to the brow of the hill and, if he saw no lantern winking below him, then he would trudge back to the tavern. He’d have a good meal and go straight into Canterbury, seek out the Irishman and turn King’s evidence. The clerk paused. Should he do that? Somewhere in the darkness an angry vixen yipped hungrily at the full moon and an owl, hunting fruitlessly along the hedgerows, hooted mournfully.

  I am like that, Vavasour thought: a hunter, but either way, I will not leave empty-handed. He trudged on; his boots were good, the finest leather, but the snow was deep. Now and again Vavasour shivered at the icy white wetness against his thighs. He would have liked to turn back. He heard a sound behind him and paused, turning round so quickly he nearly stumbled and fell. Was someone following him?

  ‘Is anyone there?’

  But all he could glimpse was a sea of whiteness and the faint lights of the tavern. At last Vavasour reached the top of the hill. He brushed the snow from his cloak and looked down into the dell. Under the moonlight the field shimmered like silver. His eyes searched the darkness, trying to peer through the shifting mist; then he saw it, the lantern glowing eerily, beckoning him on. Vavasour made his decision. Chuckling softly to himself, he went down the hill, following the furrows in the snow, heading directly for the lantern light. Its glow grew stronger, drawing him on. Vavasour now comforted himself: he could see the sense of meeting out in the open, well away from prying eyes and inquisitive looks. He just wished it was all over. How much had Sir Reginald collected? Hundreds of pounds! A veritable fortune! Vavasour could change his name, perhaps buy a manor on the Welsh march! Or amongst the soft green fields of Devon and become a lord of the soil! Vavasour paused when he reached the foot of the hill. He stared across at the lantern light.

  ‘I am coming!’ he called. ‘Is everything all right? I didn’t know how you could meet me here.’ Vavasour narrowed his eyes, he couldn’t position the height or exact position of the lantern. He sighed and trudged on. ‘I want more than half!’ he called. ‘Perhaps two thirds?’ Suddenly he paused, his heart skipping a beat. Beneath him the ground began to crack. ‘Oh, Lord!’ Vavasour ran on but the ice underfoot gave way and he plunged waist-deep into the frozen water.

  ‘Help me!’

  The lantern seemed to be moving.

  ‘Oh, Christ, help me!’

  Weighted down by his sword belt and arbalest, Vavasour sank beneath the icy water, his body engulfed in one tongue of pain. He flailed about, but his cloak was too heavy. His head felt as if it had been dragged back. The cold was excruciating. He made one last lunge but the water dragged him down. Vavasour’s eyes closed as he slipped quickly into unconsciousness.

  Above him the young hunting owl, disturbed by the strange sounds from below, hooted once more before flying into the dark sanctuary of the trees.

  Kathryn rose early the next morning. For a while she played with Wuf out in the garden. The lad had fashioned himself a game, little wooden posts set on the icy carp pond which he would try and knock down with the polished wooden disc he had carved. Kathryn was pleased to see the thaw continue: the sky was blue and the sun surprisingly strong. She stared round the garden.

  ‘The herb gardens will be well watered,’ she remarked, tousling Wuf’s hair. ‘In spring there will be a good harvest. Plenty of work here, Wuf, plucking and drying.’

  ‘I’ll be good at that,’ the little boy said.

  ‘Of course you will,’ Thomasina called from the kitchen doorway. ‘But, come in, both of you, it’s time to break your fast.’

  Kathryn pulled a face at Wuf. ‘We’d best obey.’

  They went in and sat round the table, Agnes joining them, for a bowl of oatmeal spiced with nutmeg and covered in hot milk. After this Thomasina served a platter of small manchet loaves, a little jug of butter and some jam made of juicy blackberries from the store of preserves Thomasina had prepared earlier in the year. Agnes, however, sat pale-faced and silent, refusing to be drawn by Wuf’s teasing.

  ‘What is the matter, girl?’ Thomasina asked.

  The young maid lifted her face, her light blue eyes brimming with tears. ‘It’s Wormhair,’ she declared, referring to the love of her life.

  Wormhair served as a clothmaker’s apprentice during the week and, every Sunday, was the clumsiest altar boy at St Mildred’s Church.

  Kathryn’s heart skipped a beat at what might be wrong: Agnes was a surrogate daughter or younger sister. A foundling brought home by Kathryn’s father, Agnes had always insisted on working and would sulk for days if Kathryn tried to stop her. Sensible and level-headed, Agnes, however, had an undying passion for Wormhair. Despite his cheeky face and greasy hair
which always stood up in great tufts or spikes, Agnes regarded Wormhair as her Sir Galahad.

  ‘Is he well?’ Kathryn asked.

  ‘Well no, he’s . . .’ Agnes licked her lips. ‘Whilst you were out last night, Mistress, Wormhair came round, suffering pains and spasms in his belly. I know there are no patients coming this morning so –’

  ‘Mistress Kathryn never dispenses medicines on Saturdays,’ Thomasina trumpeted.

  ‘But I told him to come,’ Agnes continued in a rush; then her mouth fell open at the sudden rapping on the door. ‘And I think that’s him.’

  But it was Luberon who came striding into the kitchen, blithely shaking the drifting snow off his cloak, ignoring Thomasina’s shrieks of horror.

  ‘There has been another death at the Wicker Man,’ he announced grandly. ‘Vavasour, the stupid fool, went walking across the Great Meadow. He went down the hill and, for God knows what reason, tried to cross the small mere or pond at the bottom.’ Luberon sat down and smiled knowingly at Thomasina. ‘And a bowl of your oatmeal for me, oh fairest of the fair.’

  Thomasina, who had a secret liking for this rubicund-faced clerk, brought a heated bowl from the hearth, pushing the jug of milk and pots of honey and nutmeg towards him.

  ‘Why on earth would he do that?’ Colum came into the kitchen, holding the stirrup he had been mending.

  Luberon cleared his mouth. ‘I said death, but, then again, it could be murder. Old Raston, one of the servants and probably a poacher, saw Vavasour cross the trackway. Raston went into the tavern and reported what he had seen to the Smithlers, who also seemed nonplussed. Anyway, his curiosity aroused, Raston decided to follow Vavasour. He got to the top of the hill; through the mist he saw Vavasour pause at the edge of the mere, then he began to walk across. Now, this is where it turns strange. Raston is certain someone holding a lantern was waiting for Vavasour.’

  ‘A lantern!’ Colum exclaimed.

  ‘Well, yes, that’s how Raston could see what was going on.’ Luberon sprinkled nutmeg over the oatmeal. ‘And then it happened. Raston heard the ice snap. He saw Vavasour floundering around but he was too old and the mere too far away to be of any help. Raston ran down the hill but, by the time he reached the edge of the mere, Vavasour was gone and so had the light.’

  Luberon glanced across at Kathryn. ‘That’s all I know. The boy the Smithlers sent to me reported how his master would try to drag the mere for Vavasour’s body.’ Luberon smiled thinly. ‘But they are already talking about ghosts: how the curse of the Wicker Man lured Vavasour to his death.’ The clerk breathed noisily out. ‘We will have to go back there.’

  ‘We were going anyway,’ Kathryn declared. ‘I have certain questions to ask all those guests.’ She shook her head at Luberon’s enquiring look. ‘No, not now, Simon.’ Kathryn rose and went to the corner of the hearth where the sack containing the remains of Frenland’s cloak lay. ‘I want to ask you a favour, Simon.’ She winked quickly at Colum. She went and collected her father’s greasy vellum map of Kent from her writing office and handed it to Luberon. ‘The roads are passable now,’ she said. ‘No man knows Kent and its byways like you, Simon. I want you to have a word with Colum and go back to the crossroads where Frenland disappeared. Colum will tell you the exact path he took.’ Kathryn smiled at Luberon. ‘Please make enquiries at the farmsteads and villages along that trackway. They may know something about Frenland’s death.’

  ‘But I was going to . . .’ Colum caught Kathryn’s warning look.

  ‘Master Murtagh,’ she said in mock solemnity. ‘You are the King’s Commissioner in Canterbury. The Crown’s tax collector has been murdered and, perhaps, the same fate has befallen his clerk. Your duty is to go to the Wicker Man.’

  Luberon, a master of the law and its procedures, nodded wisely. Kathryn leaned across the table and grasped his podgy hand.

  ‘Simon, please do this for me and so help clear Colum of these malicious rumours.’

  ‘I’ll need an escort,’ the little clerk declared.

  ‘Colum will provide one,’ Kathryn replied. ‘He’ll write a letter to Holbech for you.’

  ‘But I also need to question you about Blunt,’ Luberon added.

  ‘On your return,’ Kathryn promised. She gestured at Colum. ‘Don’t be such a slug-a-bed, Irishman. Oh, for goodness’ sake!’

  Kathryn swept back to her chancery. She seized a piece of parchment, quill and ink horn and wrote out the authorisation for Luberon to take to Kingsmead. She then called Colum, melted a little red wax upon which she impressed the seal of his signet ring. Colum, tongue between lips, laboriously signed the letter.

  ‘Why all the hurry, woman?’ he asked half crossly.

  Kathryn stood on tiptoe and kissed him on each cheek.

  ‘Don’t “woman” me, Irishman. Just do what you are told. Master Luberon will go to Kingsmead and show this letter to Holbech. He has got my father’s map, which he’d better not lose, then he can search for the truth behind this Frenland business.’

  Colum stared at her. ‘If I called you woman, would you kiss me again?’

  Kathryn slapped him playfully on the wrist. ‘I want Luberon out of here,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to be questioned about the murders at the Blunt household.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘In a while,’ Kathryn replied, ‘I’ll tell you.’

  ‘But why send him on a wild goose chase?’

  ‘Oh, it’s no fool’s errand,’ Kathryn replied. ‘As soon as I rose this morning, I studied Master Frenland’s cloak again. I was rather intrigued: I discovered small fragments of leather.’

  Colum frowned down at her.

  ‘Just think about it.’ Kathryn grinned. ‘I don’t want to raise expectations, but, for God’s sake, Colum, much as I like him, send Master Luberon about his business.’

  Colum strode back into the kitchen. Kathryn heard his effusive flattery, telling Luberon that, in this matter, the clerk was his most faithful and able lieutenant.

  ‘Easy with the flattery, Irishman,’ Kathryn whispered. ‘Thomasina!’

  The old nurse came waddling in, the sleeves of her smock pushed back above her elbow, her hands and thick wrists covered in flour.

  ‘Thomasina, you know that Blunt’s dying.’

  ‘Aye, that cough!’

  ‘Aye, the cough,’ Kathryn repeated. ‘Now, please stay here and look after Agnes and Wuf. However, if you have the opportunity, find out who was Blunt’s physician. Go and ask him questions, tell him you are acting for me.’ Kathryn stared down at her fingers. ‘But, Thomasina, do not tell anyone about what you learn.’

  Kathryn and Colum left a few minutes later, hurrying down Wistraet into the parish of St. Mary of the Castle, then along an alleyway to the Wicker Man. Kathryn refused to answer any of Colum’s questions, but she told him to watch his step because she had the King’s business to do and not the King’s Commissioner to look after, should he sprain his wrist or graze his arm. They arrived in the taproom just after Tobias Smithler and a number of servants brought in Vavasour’s water-soaked corpse.

  ‘Another death, Mistress Swinbrooke,’ the landlord called out. ‘The corpse, where shall we put it?’

  Kathryn pointed to a table. Smithler was about to object.

  ‘For God’s sake, man!’ Colum ordered. ‘It won’t be for long.’

  Smithler nodded at the servitors who laid Vavasour out along the trestle table. Kathryn had seen many corpses but this one was ghastly. Vavasour was both drowned and frozen. His wispy hair stood up like icicles whilst the skin of his face had turned a whiteish-blue, freezing into a mask, the awful rictus of his death agony. Kathryn quickly and expertly searched the corpse.

  ‘What are you looking for?’ Sir Gervase bellowed.

  ‘I am looking for a wound,’ Kathryn replied. She indicated to Colum to turn the corpse over. ‘But I can’t find any: this man drowned.’

  ‘An accident?’ Smithler asked.

  Kathryn stared down at the hideous fa
ce. ‘What on earth was Vavasour doing walking on a frozen mere?’

  The anxious-faced de Murvilles just shook their heads.

  ‘I can understand any of you going out for a breath of fresh air, but why cross the Great Meadow on such a night in the middle of winter? And why walk through almost a foot of snow to cross a frozen mere?’

  ‘He wouldn’t know it was there.’ Raston, the gnarl-faced poacher, pushed his way to the front of the group. ‘He was lured to his death, Mistress! I saw the lantern winking in the darkness. Vavasour was heading for that. I heard him call out as if greeting someone. Then he began to walk across the mere. The rest you know.’

  ‘Let’s visit it,’ Colum declared, clapping the old poacher on the shoulder. ‘And I should be most grateful if you, Master Raston, would come with us and tell us exactly what you saw.’ Colum glanced at the guests. ‘The rest of you are welcome to come; however, if what Master Raston says is the truth, then we are dealing with no accident but bloody-handed murder. Have any of you searched Vavasour’s room?’

  ‘No.’ Smithler shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t let anyone go near it until Master Luberon came. By the way, where is he?’

  ‘Involved in other business,’ Kathryn remarked. ‘But come, let’s visit the Great Meadow.’

  Her words had the same effect as a hanging judge’s death sentence. The servants began whispering amongst themselves. The guests, the de Murvilles, Father Ealdred and even the hard-bitten serjeant Standon glared despairingly at one another.

  ‘Master Standon,’ Kathryn called out. ‘I would be grateful if you stayed and put a guard on Erpingham’s and Vavasour’s chambers.’

  ‘There’s little point in any of that,’ Blanche Smithler said. ‘Sir Reginald’s room has been cleaned.’ She pointed at Vavasour’s purse. ‘And each chamber only has one key.’

  Kathryn opened the slime-covered wallet. Inside were a few coins and a long, rusting iron key. She handed the coins to the landlord.

  ‘You’d best keep these,’ she said. ‘And, for the moment, if you don’t mind, I’ll keep the key.’