The Book of Fires

by Paul Doherty

  ‘But she rejected you?’

  ‘She’s possessed by her mistress.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Ask her yourself. It’s quite simple. Rosamund only thought what Lady Isolda thought. Rosamund only did what Lady Isolda approved of. As I said, ask her yourself.’

  ‘And this morning?’ Athelstan queried.

  ‘What about this morning?’ Buckholt flinched as Cranston banged the table.

  ‘Rosamund and I accompanied Sir Henry and Lady Rohesia into Cheapside. We went our separate ways on different tasks and met a few hours later at the Standard.’ Buckholt refused to meet Athelstan’s gaze.

  ‘What tasks?’ the friar demanded.

  ‘Oh,’ Buckholt flapped his hand, ‘very few. I inveigled Rosamund into the Bishop’s Mitre off Cheapside.’

  ‘I know it well,’ Cranston murmured.

  ‘I tried to talk to her but she wouldn’t listen. I …’ he took a deep breath, ‘… let her go, drank too much and staggered out to complete my errands.’ He looked at Athelstan. ‘That’s the truth.’

  Athelstan could see Buckholt was growing more taciturn, so he dismissed him and summoned Rosamund Clifford into the buttery. The dark-haired, pretty-faced maid, garbed in a cloak draped over a russet dress with white edging at neck and cuffs, almost crept into the room. She sat down on a chair, hands in her lap, smiling demurely as if she was truly perplexed about why she had been summoned. Athelstan stared hard at this young woman, fighting to curb his own anger and resentment. He disliked her holier-than-thou attitude, that air of bewildered innocence, as if all the horrors happening around her were of no concern whatsoever.

  ‘You were a foundling, and a novice at the Minoresses?’

  ‘Yes, Brother.’

  ‘You have no knowledge of your parents?’

  ‘No, Brother.’

  ‘And your mistress’ relationship with Sir Walter?’

  ‘In all things harmonious, Brother.’

  ‘And the poisoning of Sir Walter?’

  ‘Brother, I fell ill on the same day. I was gravely sick, confined to my chamber.’

  ‘Did your mistress ever discuss the possible annulment of her marriage?’

  ‘Brother, such matters were beyond me.’ Rosamund blinked quickly. ‘I was only her maid.’

  You are a liar, Athelstan reflected. You know the truth about that. You are too good to be wholesome, too sweet by half. He stared at a point above Rosamund’s head. He’d once heard a lecture on the human soul. How many believe the body houses the soul, whereas this theologian argued that the soul houses the body. Did souls brush each other and speak silently in their own spiritual language? Athelstan closed his eyes. He felt that now. Rosamund was a secretive, sly and subtle spirit hiding behind a mask of feigned innocence.

  ‘Brother?’

  Athelstan opened his eyes. He glanced at Sir John and winked quickly.

  ‘Sir John, as coroner of this city, I want you to arrest Rosamund Clifford now.’

  ‘On what charge?’ Rosamund screeched, springing to her feet, her face twisted in resentment.

  ‘Sit down, mistress,’ Cranston roared, ‘or I will have you in chains!’

  Rosamund obeyed, bringing her clenched fists to her face and glaring at Athelstan, who leaned across the buttery table.

  ‘Have you ever seen,’ he asked, ‘a human being burnt alive, mistress? Hideous! Even the bloodthirsty crowds who gather to watch at Smithfield become sickened by the sight. They throw stones to stun him or her to lessen the pain. A short while ago, I witnessed a poor torch-bearer, a totally innocent soul, burn to death for being in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong people. That was the first assault on me. This morning the Ignifer launched a fresh attempt. Others have also been murdered for doing nothing more than their duty. Sir John and I are desperately trying to resolve mysteries including the possible innocence of your executed mistress.’ Athelstan’s voice rose to a thunderous shout. ‘We want your help but all we get are your honeyed lies pattering through your pretty mouth. Very well, Sir John. Flaxwith and your bailiffs are outside. I suggest we take mistress Rosamund to Newgate.’

  ‘On what charge?’ she screamed again.

  ‘Oh, possibly murder, frustrating the Crown in its searches, lying, perjury.’ Athelstan waved a hand. ‘Sir John, I would be grateful if you could arrange it.’

  Cranston, who now realized what Athelstan intended, hastily complied. Flaxwith and his bully boys entered the buttery and escorted them out into the hallway. The commotion had roused the household. Sir Henry and Lady Rohesia, escorted by Buckholt, hurried to protest, but Athelstan wasn’t in a giving mood and they were soon out into the freezing twilight. They made their way swiftly up through the tangle of streets towards the fleshing market which stood close to the iron-gated prison. The butchers and slaughterers and had now finished their grisly trade. Huge bonfires burnt the day’s rubbish. Stalls were being taken down by apprentices who moved amongst the horde of beggars, fighting the half-wild dogs for giblets, offal and other discarded globules of flesh. The air stank of brine and blood. Salt and vinegar sharpened the breeze. Huge high-sided carts were being prepared to take away the gutted cadavers of cows, pigs and a host of slaughtered birds. The cobbles gleamed red from the washing vats now being emptied. Urchins danced in and out close to the bonfires to roast white scraps of meat they had filched. Beadles, supping from blackjacks, wandered about, their iron-tipped canes whisking the air. Flaxwith and his bailiffs forced their way through the broad concourse which stretched in front of the sombre, soaring mass of Newgate prison. Athelstan knew it well. A hall of horror piled upon horror. A place of calamity. A dwelling from the darkest Hell. A bottomless pit of violence where voices screamed and howled unheard. Athelstan kept his cowled head down as he entered that stygian kingdom of absolute despair. Newgate was greatly feared even though its keeper, Matthew Tweng, an old soldier friend of Sir John’s, had been appointed to implement reforms. Tweng certainly faced a herculean task. The air was foul, riven by the most wretched cries, howls and screams. The very walls sweated in a glistening mess. Huge cobwebs spanned corners. The fleas and lice underfoot were so thick and plentiful, every step crunched and crackled. Vermin swarmed impudently. Smoke and cooking stenches swept through mingling with the rank odour of cesspits, close-stools and open garderobes. They crossed a maze of shuttered, stinking wards where the screeching of lunatic prisoners echoed constantly. They picked their way around the filth which swilled ankle-high, kicking aside the prowling dogs and pigs. Athelstan glanced over his shoulder. Rosamund Clifford looked as if she was about to faint. Athelstan steeled himself. He recalled that poor torch-bearer turned into a living flame. He whispered what he wanted and both coroner and keeper promised they would do a full and complete circuit of this antechamber to Hell. They visited the underground dungeons, known as the stone-hole, and they entered the ‘Newgate kitchen’ where the quartered bodies of recently executed traitors were being hacked, boiled, soaked and tarred. The heads of all three victims lay close by, waiting to be cauldron-cooked in a broth of blood, bay-salt and cumin seeds. Once ready, the severed tangled remains would be publicly exposed throughout the city. Close to this were cells where gaunt-faced prisoners loaded with chains shuffled like ghosts, mad eyes glared at them through grilles high in the dungeon doors. They left the building, passing across the great yard where a prisoner was being pressed to plead under a heavy door loaded with chains and stones. Tweng unlocked an inside gate, iron spikes along its rim. They were now in a dry stone dwelling where, for a high price, prisoners could be lodged more comfortably, though it was still bleak and soulless. Athelstan was aware of iron-gated windows, thick oaken doors festooned with bars, bolts and spikes. Rosamund Clifford was almost prostrate when the heavy door of the cell where the Lady Isolda had been housed was unlocked. A square chamber with a black wooden floor and whitewashed walls, the furniture was paltry: a cot bed, table, stool, chair and jakes pot. Athelstan order
ed Rosamund to sit on the bed with a glowing lanthorn on the table beside it.

  ‘You can sit there and reflect,’ Athelstan declared. ‘Come, Sir John.’ They left the chamber, with the keeper locking the door behind them.

  ‘She may be a pretty young maid,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘but she is also a bare-faced liar who is prepared to lead us a merry dance around the maypole of truth. Master Tweng,’ Athelstan shook the grim-faced keeper’s hand, ‘I am grateful. Now, sir,’ he plucked at the keeper’s sleeve, ‘may I impose on you further? Sir John and I must wait a while before revisiting our demure maid.’ Tweng showed them to a small cubicle, no more than a recess with stone seats built in beneath the heavily barred lancet window. He asked if they needed anything else. Athelstan shook his head. Tweng left as they made themselves comfortable, pulling their cloaks tightly around them.

  ‘A busy day,’ Cranston yawned, ‘and a dangerous one.’ He gestured with his head. ‘Do you really believe Rosamund is hiding the truth?’

  ‘Yes, I do, Sir John. I sense what is happening with her. I reflect on Buckholt’s words and he has studied the woman he loved. She is possessed by the soul of her mistress. Sir John, I have lived my life in male communities: the novitiate at Blackfriars, hall life in Oxford. In such communities men form intense relationships, sometimes as sexual, intimate and loving as any marriage. The same deep and even illicit friendships are formed in nunneries. I know that because I have heard many a confession. Now most of these friendships are truly innocent. They spring from a deep dependence but, occasionally, I have come across friendships, particularly between young women, which are deep and intensely passionate: it’s almost as if the soul of one possesses the other. A domination emerges which is breathtaking. The tie between those women is stronger than any oath a warrior knight makes to his lord, a monk to his abbot or even a wife to her husband. I truly believe that’s happened here.’ Athelstan rose and paced the paved gallery running past the enclave. He paused, closed his eyes and listened to the soul of this dreadful building nicknamed the Jug, the Stone, the very pit of Hell. Foul odours polluted the air whilst he could hear, though faintly, the constant, raucous noise of the prison: yells, curses, screams, shouted orders and cries of dreadful pain. Rosamund would also hear these. Athelstan prayed she would weaken; he was desperate to plan a way forward. He was tired of being deliberately frustrated, of not being able to grasp anything substantial. He was in a chamber of leaping, shifting shadows with no idea of the truth …

  ‘Brother?’

  ‘Come, Sir John.’

  ‘Our guest awaits.’

  Rosamund was still sitting on the edge of the bed, as close as possible to the pool of light from the lanthorn. She glanced up fearfully as they entered, shivered and returned to plucking at the folds of her dress. Cranston took the stool brought by the turnkey and sat down. Athelstan picked up the lanthorn and walked over to the bleak whitewashed wall. Former inmates had carved graffiti, usually prayers such as ‘Jesu Miserere’ – ‘Jesus have mercy’, or ‘Kyrie Eleison’ – ‘Lord have pity’. He carefully studied the most recent scratchings and glanced over his shoulder at the turnkey.

  ‘Lady Isolda was the last person to be imprisoned here – I mean, before Mistress Rosamund arrived?’

  ‘Yes, Brother.’

  ‘How was she as a prisoner?’

  ‘Few visitors came. She kept to herself. There was that outburst when she attacked Lady Anne. Towards the end – well, she went to the execution cart like a dream-walker.’

  Athelstan nodded and, holding up the lantern, used his finger to trace the letters which looked as if they had been recently carved there, ‘LIB’ – Lady Isolda Beaumont. The friar stared in puzzlement at the scratches next to it, the letters ‘SFSM’.

  ‘Rosamund?’ Athelstan repeated the letters. ‘Do you understand what these mean?’

  The maid rose and stumbled across to stand beside the friar. ‘No!’

  Athelstan turned swiftly and caught the slight cast in her eyes. He recalled his studies on demonology and possession. For a few heartbeats he wondered if Lady Isolda’s ghost had set up house in the soul of this young woman. Oh, she looked frightened and cowed, yet there was something else, a secret, stubborn resistance.

  ‘Shall we begin?’ And, taking her by the elbow, Athelstan led her back to the bed. ‘That scratching on the wall means nothing to you?’

  ‘I told you, Brother, nothing.’

  ‘Sir Walter and Lady Isolda were married for five years. How long were you her maid?’

  ‘Four.’

  ‘You knew each other at the Minoresses. You must have grown up together?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You were close friends?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you telling me the truth?’ Athelstan persisted. ‘We can leave you here to rot, not in a comfortable cell but deep in the bowels of this pestilential place.’

  ‘I am telling you the truth, Brother.’

  ‘Did your mistress murder Sir Walter?’

  The dark eyes shifted and the pretty lips puckered, as if the death of her master was slightly amusing.

  ‘I don’t know. I truly don’t.’

  ‘I think you know more than you tell us, Rosamund. But let’s come to your illness. You succumbed to the sweating sickness on the same day Lady Isolda gave the posset to Sir Walter?’

  ‘Yes. Brother Philippe will attest to that. I lay ill. I only fully recovered after my mistress died.’

  ‘And your relationship with Sir Walter?’

  ‘I helped him.’ She sniffed. ‘When we were alone I put my hands under the coverlet. I played with him until he was satisfied.’

  ‘Did you visit him the day he died?’

  ‘Yes, very early in the day. He asked for my ministrations. I complied,’ she shrugged, ‘reluctantly, but I think he liked me to act all coy and shy.’

  ‘Did you talk?’

  ‘Only about what he wanted.’

  ‘And his health?’

  ‘Sir Walter was very much the same. He complained of his belly being delicate. I soothed him and I left. I noticed nothing untoward.’

  Athelstan hid his surprise. Rosamund was very cunning. She must have realized that she would have to concede something, which is what she was doing now.

  ‘And your mistress knew of such ministrations?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Rosamund leaned forward. ‘Sir Walter could not bear her near him, so he asked me to comfort him.’

  ‘What?’ Cranston broke from his doze.

  ‘My mistress,’ Rosamund now perched on the edge of the bed like some conspirator with Athelstan and Cranston as her confederates, ‘told me she had married for wealth but she found Sir Walter as mean as a miser with little passion in bed or the parlour. I think she frightened him. According to my mistress, he was impotent with her.’ She sniffed, looking all petulant. Athelstan wondered if the young woman wasn’t fey-witted. ‘Sir Walter became angry with my mistress and that’s when the lies emerged.’

  ‘What lies?’

  ‘That Isolda was really his daughter.’

  ‘Why on earth should he think that?’ Athelstan exclaimed.

  ‘According to my mistress, in his bachelor days Sir Walter Beaumont had been a great one for the ladies. He had enjoyed many mistresses. He knew for certain, or so he claimed, that baby girls, his offspring, had been left in the care of the Minoresses. Isolda had immediately caught his eye. Only after the marriage did he begin to wonder whether the likeness between Isolda and one of his paramours was because they were mother and daughter.’ Rosamund paused at a piercing scream which ran through the prison, a blood-chilling cry from the press yard.

  ‘Peine forte et dure,’ Athelstan whispered. ‘Justice can crush. Remember that. So,’ he continued, ‘Isolda was bitterly estranged. What did she make of her husband’s scruples?’

  ‘Nothing but a pretence, a sham, a pretext to get rid of her. Isolda was convinced he was planning an annulment.’ She chewed th
e corner of her lip. ‘He was encouraged by that fat tub of lard his brother and his bitch-wife, Rohesia. Lady Isolda hated them and so do I. They planned that Sir Walter should die without an heir.’

  ‘Lady Isolda had to accept all this?’ Athelstan asked.

  ‘Yes, but Sir Walter also made lewd references to me, to the possibility of me becoming his leman, his mistress. Lady Isolda agreed to this – she had to. Firstly, Sir Walter might become crueller. Secondly, she begged me to use my skill in making her husband confess to the whereabouts of “The Book of Fires”.’ Rosamund fell silent as if listening to the nightmare sounds of the prison. ‘Before you ask, Brother, Lady Isolda believed she would be cast off. She told me that if we acquired that book we would both be very, very rich. Sir Walter welcomed my ministrations. He said I was very skilled. I asked him about “The Book of Fires”. Sir Walter refused to even mention it, so I withheld my favours.’

  ‘And?’ Cranston asked.

  ‘Sir Walter laughed. He mocked me. He became evasive. He then told me he had left the book on a Greek island called Patmos, and that its whereabouts would be a revelation to everyone. Later he changed his story, claiming that book was locked in that casket in his bedchamber. Other times he rambled and grew feverish. He claimed there were spies paid by the Greeks in his household.’

  Athelstan held up a hand. ‘Greeks?’

  ‘Yes, from Sir Walter’s past. He would then tell me about his early days. How he had served in Outremer. How he relished the intrigue. He described the different women he’d possessed and the fortune he’d accumulated.’

  ‘But he never showed you “The Book of Fires”?’

  ‘No, the closest he ever said “The Book of Fires” was …’

  ‘In that casket in his bedchamber?’

  ‘Yes. However, when it was opened after he died, the casket was empty.’

  ‘And this alleged spy of the Greeks?’ Athelstan asked.

  ‘I don’t know – possibly Vanner. I do believe they approached a number of the household at Firecrest Manor but Vanner knew no more than I did. Brother, I can assure you on oath, the whereabouts of that manuscript are a total mystery to me.’