by Paul Doherty
‘Master Falke, what are you implying?’ Cranston asked. ‘That “The Book of Fires” might have been stolen by Sir Henry as a bargaining counter with the Upright Men? Do you have proof?’
‘No,’ Falke dabbed at his mouth, ‘nor do I have proof that Buckholt is secretly a rebel. Did you know his father served with Sir Walter when our noble merchant was a mercenary? I tell you this,’ Falke swayed on his feet, ‘Buckholt never liked Isolda, nor did Sir Henry. Lady Anne Lesures may act the grand lady, be all compassionate and caring, but she upset Lady Isolda by refusing to listen or accept her plea of innocence. Maybe Lady Anne has forgotten that she was responsible for Isolda’s marriage. I could tell you more. Parson Garman liked to visit Sir Walter and I suspect their relationship lies tangled in the past. He too served in the Luciferi. Oh, yes!’ Falke spread his hands, moving to the left then right. ‘You have seen the splendour of this house. Like the paint on a whore’s face it hides all forms of filth and lewdness.’ Falke put a finger to his lips. ‘Sir Walter was hot, not for Lady Isolda, his God-given wife, but her maid Rosamund, Rosa Mundi,’ he spat out, ‘Rosa of the World. Yes? More like Rosa Munda – Soiled Rose.’
‘Master Falke,’ Cranston retorted, ‘Sir Walter was not fit for turbulent bed sport.’
‘No, he wasn’t. He just wanted to entice that young lady into his bedchamber to administer to him slowly with her hands and mouth.’
‘And did she?’ Athelstan snapped. ‘For heaven’s sake man, make your point!’
‘The fair Isolda was a foundling raised by the Minoresses, but so was Rosamund. The venerable Lady Anne introduced her to this household as Lady Isolda’s maid.’
‘And?’
‘According to household gossip and rumour, Buckholt himself was very sweet on Rosamund. Some people claimed she may have been his daughter. Others maintained he wanted to be betrothed to her.’
‘Proof,’ Athelstan insisted. ‘You are a lawyer, Master Falke. You deal with evidence, not scandalous gossip.’
‘Well, he visited the Minoresses when Sir Walter was courting Lady Isolda, and Buckholt never missed the opportunity to accompany him.’
‘So,’ Cranston poked Falke in the chest, ‘you are insinuating that our noble steward Buckholt nursed deep grievances against Sir Walter? Amongst these, Buckholt’s support for the Upright Men and his tender feelings for Rosamund Clifford? If the latter was true, I agree, he would not have been happy at Rosamund’s rather strange duties in the Beaumont bedroom. Are you implying that Buckholt was the murderer, desperate to cast his guilt on Lady Isolda?’
‘It is possible.’
‘But if Lady Isolda knew about her husband’s lust for her maid, surely she objected?’
‘She did. Sir Walter dismissed her protests. He claimed Rosamund was given to fey fancies.’
‘Why,’ Athelstan asked, ‘was this not argued at the trial?’ He forced a smile. ‘Of course, gossip and tittle-tattle are not evidence, are they, Master Falke? You can gossip away to us in the buttery but repeat this in a court? Moreover, I am sure that Richard Sutler, a veritable lurcher of a man, would have twisted such tittle-tattle back on Lady Isolda, accuse her of lying, of fabricating – but,’ he plucked at Cranston’s sleeve, ‘we shall bear in mind what you have said, Master Falke, now our stay here is done. Sir John and I have other matters to attend to …’
PART THREE
‘The second kind of flying fire is created this way …’
Mark the Greek’s ‘The Book of Fires’
The ‘other matters’ Athelstan referred to preoccupied him long after the compline bell had tolled. He sat in the well-scrubbed kitchen of his little priest house and stared down at the elegantly written memorandum drawn up by Master Tuddenham. The Bishop’s envoy had been most thorough. He had questioned Fulchard and Richmond, his companion Fitzosbert and all relevant witnesses. He had summoned others he needed to question, whilst one of his clerks, skilled in detecting forged seals and letters, had scrutinized all the documents Fulchard carried with him. Tuddenham had carefully sifted the evidence and reached stark conclusions.
Item: Fulchard the cripple and Fulchard the healed man are one and the same person. Philippe the physician journeyed across the Thames in order to inspect the patient. He recognized the same man, albeit cured, who had visited the House of Mercy at St Bartholomew’s Hospital only a few days earlier. Philippe had noted the same height, looks, hair, eyes and distinguishing marks. The physician had added two codicils. Firstly, the man he had originally inspected was not only grievously injured and scarred but, because of his hideous wounds and the exertions of his journey south, also very weak. Secondly, if there were any differences noted, these could be explained by the cure itself.
Item: on the night of the Great Miracle, witnesses had seen Fulchard, cowled and cloaked, hobble on his crutch into St Erconwald’s and lie down in the nave close to the saint’s chantry chapel. He had lain there all night: those close by noticed him twitching and moaning but nothing remarkable. On one occasion Fulchard had sat up to drink from a waterskin then lain down again. He did not leave his place until the end of the Mass and the cure was proclaimed.
Item: Master Tuddenham and his clerks had scrutinized Fulchard’s letters, licences and warrants: they listened to Philippe the physician’s account and closely interrogated relevant witnesses. Tuddenham emphasized that, apart from Fitzosbert, these were strangers from different shires. Consequently, the only logical conclusion was that a miracle had, thanks be to God, occurred. Tuddenham added how the Bishop of London’s searchers, as well as those of the Archdeacon’s court, had made careful scrutiny throughout Southwark and the city to ensure there was ‘no other’, as Tuddenham tactfully put it, ‘Fulchard of Richmond’. Nothing had been discovered. The same searchers had questioned the boatmen along Southwark quay as well as Master Robert Burdon, keeper of the gates on London Bridge. They too had nothing to report.
‘And,’ Athelstan picked up a parchment from the table, ‘neither have Sir John’s searchers and he hires the very best – greyhounds in human form.’ Athelstan leaned back in his chair and stared around. All was in order here. Master Tuddenham had used this small house to conduct his investigations and left with his entourage. Benedicta, with the help of some of the parish council, had then swept through the house, cleaning, scrubbing, changing and preparing for his return. A pie and a bowl of pottage stood in the oven next to the hearth, and there was fresh ale, bread and milk in the buttery. Athelstan had checked his three-locked chancery chest and personal coffer. Woda the washer woman had cleaned his two robes and changed the blankets on his bed. Crim the altar boy had ensured that Bonaventure had feasted like a prince so the great tomcat now lay sprawled by the hearth lost to the world. ‘Yet everything is not in order,’ Athelstan whispered. He peered down the table. Merrylegs senior had slipped into death tended by a Crutched Friar who was visiting the church because of the Great Miracle. The friar had administered the last rites and Athelstan intended to celebrate the requiem Mass the following morning and commit the body to the grave. The family plot in God’s Acre had been dug and prepared. ‘Which brings me to that other small mystery,’ Athelstan murmured. Apparently, the night before, Godbless the beggar, keeper of God’s Acre, had been visited in his cottage, the old parish death house, by some pilgrims eager for news. They had shared a tun of ale with him and celebrated until both Godbless and his nefarious goat Thaddeus had become hopelessly drunk. According to Benedicta, long after the chimes of midnight, Godbless was found riding a staggering Thaddeus around the tombstones singing at the top of his voice how he had been visited by his kinsman, Oberon, Prince of the Fairies. Pike and Watkin eventually put both man and beast to bed. Athelstan had paid a visit but Godbless was still ‘full of the drink’, as he put it, whilst Athelstan had never seen Thaddeus so quiet. He had left them to sleep it off and returned to his home to have supper and study Tuddenham’s report.
Athelstan rose to his feet and began to pace the kitchen. H
e crossed himself and intoned the ‘Veni Creator Spiritus’ for guidance. The Great Miracle could pose serious problems. The Bishop of London had made his decision and the case would be referred to synod of English bishops and then on to the Pope. If Rome agreed, St Erconwald’s would become an official place of pilgrimage, but what then? Athelstan tried to control his disquiet: his faith was a faith of miracles, yet he felt deeply uneasy about what was happening. If Sir John was suspicious, he was even more so. The same unease disturbed his mind about the grisly murders carried out after the execution of Lady Isolda. Why had they happened? Was the Ignifer someone who passionately believed the dead woman was innocent? Yet the burden of proof, Athelstan conceded, lay heavily against Lady Isolda. She was certainly no innocent lamb despatched to the slaughter. Of course, there was the mysterious Vanner, but Athelstan was almost convinced the clerk was dead and not in hiding. Undoubtedly, the Ignifer knew about Greek fire and might even possess ‘The Book of Fires’. From the little Athelstan had learnt, once the secret formulas were known it was easy to manufacture that liquid death. Nevertheless, murders of Sutler, Gavelkind and Tressilian were beyond him, brief moments in time leaving very little, if any, evidence to study. But the attack on Lady Anne? He and Cranston had been with her and Turgot when that shadowy assassin had slipped out of the darkness. Who could move so swiftly? Athelstan pulled a face. Virtually everyone he’d questioned. Some of these regarded Lady Isolda as guilty but two men passionately believed in her innocence, Garman and Falke. One of these, or both, could be the Ignifer. And what about others, were they telling the truth? Sir Henry, Buckholt, even that pretty-faced maid, Rosamund? Athelstan crouched next to his great tomcat. ‘It’s possible, Bonaventure, that any one of these might be a murderer. As for why, it’s in the past,’ he murmured. ‘Somewhere deep in this tangle of human souls sprouted a root which has waxed strong and poisonous. I am the gardener, Bonaventure, me and Sir John, heaven help us. This tangle is thick and thorny – it will take time to uproot and that means more deaths.’ Athelstan straightened up. ‘Ah, well, it’s time to see what is happening in my church.’
Athelstan fastened his sandals, donned his cloak, pulled up its deep hood and slipped out into the night. The cemetery and the great enclosure before the church were busy. Cresset torches glowed on the end of poles or were stuck into wall crevices. Makeshift braziers crackled their heat. Bonfires fed with rubbish flamed the darkness. The pilgrims and visitors gathered close to these to warm themselves or to cook scraps of meat pushed on to ready-made skillets, pans or prongs. The air bubbled with the stench of sweaty bodies, roasting meat and wood smoke. The noise was constant. A babble of voices broken by the occasional hymn, shouted psalms as well as noisy salutations, laugher, curses and oaths. People swarmed in and out of the church under the watchful eye of Bladdersmith and his comitatus of bailiffs. Benedicta and other women of the parish assisted. Imelda, Pike’s wife, a true virago, stood on the top step of the church directing people as well as collecting pennies in a sealed wooden box with a slit on top. All the denizens of Southwark and beyond had crawled out of their rookeries and mumpers’ castles, or what Cranston called ‘the Dungeons of Darkness and the Halls of Hell’. They’d all assembled to make a profit: apple-women, watercress-sellers, onion pickers with their produce slung on ropes around their necks; vendors of sheep and pig’s trotters pushed and shoved by milk and water men. Poachers from the fields around, garbed in hare and rabbit skins, offered the pink, glistening flesh of their quarry hanging from poles over their shoulders. Boners and grubbers who scoured the midden heaps and simplers who foraged for herbs, mushrooms, snails and grubs offered their potions along with chunks of cat meat. Despite the late hour, this ragged, motley garbed mob surged backwards and forwards, desperate to sell to the pilgrims pushing their way up and down the church steps. Jongleurs, troubadours, firedrakes, puppet masters along with street musicians tried to entertain the crowd. Men-at-arms from the Tower and the gatehouse at the Bridge swaggered around trying to catch the eye of the orange-wigged whores who, under the pretence of prayer and pilgrimage, solicited ever so quietly for custom.
Athelstan walked through God’s Acre. He stopped to check on Godbless and Thaddeus. Both were fast asleep, so he made his way carefully out into the enclosure, past bothies and tents set up by the pilgrims. He entered the church. More people thronged there, going up and down the transepts or queuing for entrance to St Erconwald’s chapel. Everyone paused to admire Fulchard’s crutch, now discarded but given pride of place, hanging above the saintly bishop’s tomb. Fulchard, flanked by an ever-so-demure Cecily the courtesan on one side, her sister Clarissa on the other, sat in a throne-like chair before the rood screen so pilgrims could touch and talk to him in return for an offering placed in a sealed box at his feet. Athelstan sketched a blessing in the air and passed quietly on, praying for guidance as he wondered how long this feast of miracles would last. He left the church and took a vantage point on the top step, staring over the concourse and the people milling there. The friar studied the crowd carefully and felt a chill of apprehension as he noted the large number of young, able-bodied men who moved amongst it. Intrigued, he went back into the church and stared around. Crim and the ladies of the parish were busy arguing, assisting and organizing, but Athelstan couldn’t glimpse Watkin, Pike, Ranulf and the rest of that coven of mischief. He left the church, pushing his way through the crowd. He strode swiftly down the lane, past Merrylegs’ darkened pie shop and stopped beneath the garish sign of the Piebald. He was about to knock on the door when a man stepped out of the darkness; the meagre light from a lanthorn hanging on its hook glittered in the blade of a half-drawn dagger.
‘Who are you and what do you want?’ The guard slid between Athelstan and the door.
‘The Archangel Gabriel,’ Athelstan snapped. He pushed the man aside and rapped on the obviously locked door. The guard came back just as the door swung open and Watkin stepped into the pool of light.
‘Why, Father?’
‘Why, Watkin?’ Athelstan mimicked back. ‘Please tell this gentleman to leave your priest alone.’ The guard hastily withdrew. Athelstan stepped into the warm mustiness of the taproom. The chamber lay in darkness except for the ghostly pool of light cast around the great common table on which Merrylegs senior, garbed in his funeral clothes, lay stretched out, his bare feet sticking up, his grizzled head and thin-lined face almost hidden by the corpse wimple wound tightly about. The corpse’s closed eyes were sealed by two coins, whilst a small wafer of bread rested between his bloodless lips. Votive candles, about sixty in number, ringed the corpse. Along each side of the table sat the men of the parish with Watkin at the top and Pike seated at the other end. They all clutched tankards of Joscelyn’s choice ale and used the blackjacks to hide their faces as Athelstan walked across to greet them with a blessing.
‘Father,’ Pike started to rise and the others followed suit, ‘we are having a funeral vigil.’
‘I am sure you are.’ Athelstan smiled. He glanced around. They were all there, even the hangman, along with a number of hard-faced, solemn-eyed strangers. Athelstan decided not to stay. He realized this was no funeral vigil. This was a meeting of the Upright Men from this ward and probably every other in Southwark. He talked quickly about the arrangements for the requiem Mass tomorrow, blessed the gathering and left. Once outside, Athelstan walked halfway along the lane and stared up at the slit of starry sky.
‘I wonder, Lord,’ he whispered, ‘do forgive me yet I truly do, if this Great Miracle has anything to do with the mischief being plotted back there …’
oOoOo
Thomas Pynchon, linen draper par excellence, or so he styled himself, spent his last night alive feeding and rewarding those fleshy appetites so roundly condemned by the preachers whom Pynchon half-listened to during Sunday Mass as he leaned against the wall of St Mildred’s in Bread Street. The church stood close to his three-storey town house: a fair dwelling of pink and cream plaster, gleaming black timbers and
glazed windows though the top ones were covered in oil-thickened linen. On that particular night, his last one on earth, Thomas Pynchon had been trying to stifle the terrors which dogged his soul during previous evenings. He waked sweat-soaked, fearful that some boneless wraith might be rising like a plume of black smoke in the corner of his bedchamber. He sat in terror wondering if the wraith had a gripping hunger, a feverish thirst for his immortal soul. During the day, busy amongst his apprentices, Pynchon would glimpse some blonde-haired, bright-eyed girl and all his fears would blossom afresh. Once again he’d wonder if some demon, some life-thief, was stalking him. Pynchon stopped on the corner of Bread Street and gazed back at the three stout mercenaries hired to guard him. He glimpsed the tavern door under which a glow of light beckoned invitingly.
‘I will take a stoup of ale,’ he called out, ‘then I will return.’ The mercenaries grunted their agreement. Pynchon slipped into the comfortable sweet-smelling taproom and made his way over to a window seat. A slattern fetched his order, a tankard of the strongest frothy ale. Pynchon took a deep sip, leaned back and sighed. Despite his terrors this had been a most enjoyable evening. He had dined sumptuously at the Full Delight, a discreet tavern for the well-to-do bachelor about town, and Pynchon was indeed a very wealthy bachelor. He had feasted on minced chicken in almond and rosemary sauce, venison steaks broiled in vinegar, red wine, ginger and a little cinnamon, followed by quiche of fish with a green topping. Delicious sweet wafers in a hippocras sauce had finished the meal before Pynchon had climbed the tavern stairs to sample the pleasures of a generously endowed, buxom chambermaid with olive skin and hair as dark as the night. Pynchon had insisted on that. He wanted no golden-haired woman with fair skin and ice-blue eyes. Such a sight would only thresh his soul with a flail of fresh terrors. It would remind him of Isolda Beaumont standing erect and proud at the bar before the King’s Bench, glaring furiously as Thomas Pynchon, foreman of the jury, solemnly pronounced the guilty verdict. Looking back, that proud face, those arrogant eyes had invoked a curse through which all the ghastly horsemen of the Apocalypse had stormed – at least in Pynchon’s mind. At the time he had been proud of what he had done. He had boasted how he’d argued with others of the jury that a unanimous guilty verdict was the only one they could reach. Afterwards he had regaled colleagues in the Guild as well as his many customers about what he had achieved. How he had been resolute as an iron gate against any plea for mercy. Indeed, as foreman of the jury, Pynchon had attended Isolda’s execution, determined that the Carnifex show no mercy and that the crowd did not hurl blocks of wood or stone to render the victim senseless. Justice had been done and that should have been the end of the matter, but not now. The mysterious Ignifer had appeared in the city dealing out terror and death to all involved in Isolda’s execution. Two of the judges and prosecutor Sutler had perished by fire, burnt to death as easily as some rubbish heap on a sweltering hot day. More recently a similar murderous attack had been mounted against Lady Anne Lesures, with whom Isolda Beaumont had publicly quarrelled. The terror was spreading. Justice Danyel and six other members of the jury had fled to the fastness of the Tower. Three others had taken sanctuary at St Paul’s. Pynchon, however, could not leave his trade nor, after his recent pronouncements, did he want to be a laughing stock dismissed as a coward. Consequently he had hired those three stout fellows and taken careful precautions in the cellar of his town house. He had proclaimed as much, openly mocking the Ignifer.