The Book of Fires

by Paul Doherty

  ‘Was Vanner Isolda’s lover?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘He wasn’t, was he?’ Athelstan retorted. ‘Perhaps she promised favours she never gave. She used him as she used you?’

  For a brief moment Athelstan saw the anger flare in Rosamund’s eyes, a tightening of the lips and jaw, almost as if she had been struck, then she blinked.

  ‘Isolda would never use me. I know the truth.’

  ‘Oh, I am sure you do, but whether you are telling it now is another matter. Vanner? What happened to him?’

  ‘He disappeared, fled whilst I lay ill.’

  ‘And your mistress? Did she meet anyone else outside Firecrest Manor? Go into the city on some mysterious errand?’

  ‘I was her maid,’ Rosamund coolly replied. ‘Where she went I was supposed to follow. Yes, there were occasions when she would not want me to accompany her.’

  ‘Whom did she meet? The Greeks?’

  ‘I suspect so. They wanted “The Book of Fires” – my mistress told me so. They promised her gold. But there were other occasions. I think you are correct, Brother – she met someone else apart from the Greeks.’ Rosamund shrugged prettily and glanced away. ‘I don’t know who.’

  Athelstan stared down at the ground. This woman was leading him up the devil’s staircase away from the truth. She was telling him a mixture of fable and fact. She would not confess to her true relationship with Isolda nor betray her mistress in any way.

  ‘Don’t you think it was a coincidence,’ Cranston asked, ‘that you fell so seriously ill on the day Sir Walter was allegedly murdered by his wife?’

  ‘Sir John, as you say, it was a coincidence. I cannot explain it.’

  ‘Did lawyer Falke know your mistress before the death of Sir Walter?’

  ‘No, no, certainly not.’ Rosamund’s relief at the change of direction in the questions was obvious.

  ‘And Buckholt,’ Athelstan asked, ‘he was sweet on you, yes?’

  ‘I could not tolerate him. I told him so.’

  ‘He believes you rejected him because of Isolda?’

  ‘Nonsense! Buckholt was lewd and greedy for me. I wanted nothing to do with him. He hated my mistress and she despised him.’

  ‘So Buckholt’s testimony about your mistress and the goblet of posset might have been a lie?’

  ‘I think it was. The same goes for that little runt of a buttery clerk, Mortice. Lady Isolda truly disliked him. She thought he looked at her lecherously.’

  ‘And Lady Anne Lesures?’

  ‘I know very little of her. Kind, considerate, a fairly constant visitor to both the Minoresses and Firecrest Manor. She introduced me there as Lady Isolda’s maid and companion. Lady Anne recognized how close we had been in the nunnery. She believed that after being placed in the Beaumont household I would make a good match.’

  ‘But not as grand as Sir Walter, you mean, with Steward Buckholt?’

  ‘Perhaps, but that was Lady Anne, not me. I was devoted to my mistress and made that very clear to Lady Anne. I told Buckholt the same this morning in a Cheapside tavern.’ Athelstan nodded in agreement. He was correct: the only person who mattered to this young woman, whether living or dead, was Lady Isolda.

  ‘And your origins?’ Cranston asked.

  ‘I don’t know. I was a foundling and raised as one by the Minoresses.’ Athelstan caught the steel in her reply. Both she and Isolda were of the same spiritual stock. They’d hardly been born when they were given away, whatever the reason, by their own kith and kin, who had rejected them as babies. No one had really cared for them, so why should they care for anyone else? Such an attitude would have bound them closely together. Cranston rose at a rapping at the door. He went, had a few words with someone in the passageway and came back.

  ‘Parson Garman has returned from the execution ground. He awaits you in the chapel.’ Athelstan turned back to Rosamund. ‘Parson Garman was much smitten with Lady Isolda?’

  ‘I know nothing of that, Brother.’

  ‘Did Garman visit Firecrest Manor before the murder?’

  ‘Yes, he did, but he had business with Sir Walter.’

  ‘What business?’

  ‘Ask him yourself, Brother. He’s apparently waiting for you.’

  Athelstan stared at the graffiti on the wall and wondered if it hid some secret Isolda kept to herself. He breathed in deeply, there was little prospect of Rosamund telling the full truth. Isolda dead was as influential with this young woman as she was when she was alive. She would say no more. Athelstan got to his feet.

  ‘Mistress, the keeper will arrange for an escort to take you back to Firecrest Manor. We are finished, at least for the time being.’ Athelstan swept out of the cell, Cranston followed. A guard, waiting in the dank mildewed gallery, led them up a flight of steps into the prison chapel; a barn-like room with a hammer-beam roof, a paved floor and whitewashed plaster walls stretching down to a stark stone altar in the bare sanctuary. Athelstan’s gaze was caught by the myriad small black crosses etched into the plaster walls.

  ‘Each of those,’ Parson Garman’s voice echoed eerily, ‘represents a human being condemned to death.’ The chaplain emerged from the shadows further down the church. Behind him taper-light danced before a statue of the Virgin. The friar walked over to the white plaster wall. A flaring sconce torch illuminated the hundreds of small hastily etched crosses, a silent but ominous testimony to the legion of condemned who had been brought here before being loaded on to the execution carts. Athelstan blessed the crosses even as Garman beckoned them further down the small narrow nave to a bench against the wall. Cranston and Athelstan sat down, the prison chaplain on a stool opposite them.

  ‘I am sorry, but I’ve been very busy.’ The chaplain’s dark, close face was drawn, his eyes were red-rimmed and dark stubble darkened his upper lip and square jaw.

  ‘How many?’ Cranston asked.

  ‘Five at Tyburn, four at Smithfield and two river pirates on the gallows near Dowgate. Some screamed and begged. Others cursed. A few prayed. All now gone to God.’ He gestured at the wall. ‘All carved crosses, their last memorial on earth. Now,’ he forced a smile, ‘you want to question me. Yet,’ he spread his hands, ‘I have little to say.’

  ‘How many years have you been chaplain here?’

  ‘About ten this Pentecost.’

  ‘You volunteered for this post?’

  ‘Of course, Brother. Few want it as they would your parish of St Erconwald’s. I understand there’s been a great miracle there?’

  ‘I do not want to discuss that.’

  The chaplain sat back, eyes guarded at the friar’s sharp response.

  ‘What I want to discuss, Father,’ Athelstan continued, ‘is you. Where were you born?’

  ‘At Boroughbridge, on the River Ure in North Yorkshire.’

  ‘I know that place.’ Cranston intervened to ease the tension. ‘My father fought there against Thomas of Lancaster during the reign of the king’s great-grandfather. Humphrey Bohun, Earl of Hereford, was speared up the arse as he defended the bridge.’

  ‘I have heard of such stories,’ Garman responded, ‘though I was born of peasant stock.’

  ‘And later?’

  ‘Brother, I journeyed abroad.’

  ‘No, no,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘I will not accept bland words.’ The friar leaned forward, holding the chaplain’s gaze whilst half-listening to the dire sounds drifting in from the prison. ‘Innocents have been killed, horribly burnt. Royal officials barbarously executed for doing their duty. I will be blunt. You tended to Isolda before she died?’

  Garman nodded.

  ‘But you visited Firecrest Manor long before Sir Walter’s untimely death. I know you did. Why? You are youngish looking, my friend. How old are you?’

  ‘Fifty-five summers last year past.’

  ‘Old enough to have served with Sir Walter Beaumont abroad – Black Beaumont, captain of the free company of the Luciferi, men skilled in the use of culv
erins and other ordnance. You were with him in Constantinople, yes? For God knows what reason, you left his service. You entered the Hospitallers as a lay brother then returned to London, where you were ordained as a priest. You eventually volunteered to serve here as a chaplain, where,’ Athelstan gestured at Cranston, ‘we know you have won a reputation for being partial to the Great Community of the Realm, the Upright Men and their minions, the Earthworms. You give them solace, both spiritual and physical. You also, I suspect, have aided in the escape of a few of these from the fastness of Newgate. No, no, no,’ Athelstan held up a hand, ‘you are not alone, Master Chaplain. I too see the suffering of the poor and the dispossessed. Sometimes, secretly, I also support the cause of the Upright Men. What little else can they do in the face of such stifling oppression? Now that does not concern me, but your travels with Black Beaumont certainly do.’ Athelstan pressed his sandal against Cranston’s boot at the coroner’s surprise at Athelstan’s words. The friar had calculated and gambled. He had voiced his suspicions though he had little hard evidence. ‘So, Master Chaplain, the truth,’ Athelstan smiled, ‘or at least part of it?’

  ‘I was born in Yorkshire,’ Garman began slowly. ‘I met Black Beaumont when I was a green stripling agog for adventure. Beaumont was forming a company. I will spare you the details. Black Beaumont waxed powerful. He realized the power of cannon. He argued that one day massed arrays of culverins and cannon would shatter the schiltroms of pikemen, the phalanxes of archers, the shield-rings of foot soldiers, the cohorts of cavalry. Warfare would be transformed. Battles would take on an even more gruesome aspect. Castles and fortified towers would be smashed to powder. He became a master, a skilled captain. Beaumont wanted money but he was also hungry for knowledge. He hired his company out not just to the highest bidder but to the one who could teach him the most. Eventually we reached Constantinople, attached to the Varangian Guard, manning its walls and gates or skirmishing with Turcopoles out on the plains. Occasionally we served with the Imperial fleet. I witnessed the power of Greek fire, an all-devouring flame which billowed out with a life of its own, a raging inferno almost impossible to extinguish. Brother Athelstan, I saw the sea catch fire. Beaumont became obsessed with discovering its secrets, which the Greeks guarded so closely. He spent every waking moment trying to discover the whereabouts of Mark the Greek’s “The Book of Fires”. He bribed officials, officers and courtiers till he found out at last where the secret was kept …’

  ‘And he seized his moment?’ Athelstan intervened.

  ‘Yes. Constantinople was racked by famine, plague and civil war. Riots occurred in the great square before Hagia Sophia, the Church of Holy Wisdom. Beaumont formed his plan. Other mercenaries were keen to plunder. We broke into the secret chancery, where Beaumont seized the book.’

  ‘Did you see it?’ Cranston asked.

  ‘Yes. A thick, heavy book though very small: its pages were twined together and bound in a heavily embossed calfskin covered with silver clasps. I glimpsed it for a short while. It reminded me of a book of hours. Anyway, we fled to Manzikert. Of course, the Secretissimi, the secret agents of the emperor, pursued us.’ He shrugged. ‘They still do. Beaumont was ecstatic, full of himself; apart from that glimpse, neither I nor anyone else was allowed to see “The Book of Fires”.’ He pulled a face. ‘The Luciferi broke up. We had no choice. We went our different ways. I had grown tired of my life as a hired killer. I joined the Hospitallers in Rhodes and served in their infirmary. I later returned to England where I was ordained by the Bishop of London and given this benefice. Brother Athelstan, I am a sinner. I have wenched, robbed and killed. In the words of the psalmist, my offence is always before me. I now do reparation here in this stench and squalor.’

  ‘You also use your position to support the Upright Men.’

  ‘Brother Athelstan, I plough my furrow, you plough yours.’

  ‘You could be accused of treason,’ Cranston whispered.

  ‘Then, Sir John, arrest me and I will impeach Gaunt for a greater treason: the evil he inflicts on the Community of this Realm.’

  Athelstan tapped his feet. He recalled ferreting when he was a boy, trying to cover the holes in a warren with netting but the rabbits would still escape. This was similar. Garman could be accused of a host of crimes, yet, on a moral basis, he would escape, arguing these were no crimes but acts of goodness. Garman was a person who exemplified St Augustine’s shrewd observance of human beings – that each individual was a veritable sack of different conflicting emotions. Garman was a priest yet a radical. A former soldier, now devoted to dispossessing the people he served. He preached God’s goodness whilst advocating aggression to curb the greed of Gaunt and others. A man dedicated to peace, yet one who viewed violent revolt as the only way to achieve a lasting peace.

  ‘God have mercy on us all,’ Athelstan whispered. ‘I will not debate philosophy with you, Parson Garman. You visited Sir Walter?’

  ‘To beg for monies for this place, I have told you that.’

  ‘You visited him on the very day Lady Isolda allegedly poisoned him?’

  ‘Yes. I saw him just before his untimely death. As usual I visited him early in the morning. I brought him a delicacy from our days abroad, a dish he could never resist, figs rolled in an almond sauce.’

  ‘Did he eat them?’

  ‘No. As always, his belly hurt.’

  ‘So why did you bring them?’ Athelstan snapped.

  Garman just grinned.

  ‘Did you ever hear his confession?’

  The parson snorted with laughter.

  ‘Did you reminisce about old times?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Never?’

  ‘I had nothing to say to him and what could he say to me? We had ceased to be comrades.’

  Athelstan pointed a finger. ‘Good Lord,’ he breathed, ‘you came to bait him. You hated Beaumont, didn’t you?’

  ‘He was a truly selfish, mean-spirited knave. A caitiff as great a felon as any who have been taken from here and hanged. He stole “The Book of Fires” and then turned out his comrades as if we were serfs. He did not care what happened to us. So it was not just to bait him. I visited Sir Walter to wring money out of him for the poor bastards here. I enjoyed making him reflect on Christ’s warning: “What does it profit a man to gain the whole world if he suffers the loss of his immortal soul?” In my hushed conversations, I would warn him about the wages of sin as he drew to the end of his life. What did he love? What did he have? Children? Heirs? And where did he get his wealth from? Fashioning machines of war and other means to kill human beings.’

  ‘It’s a wonder he did not forbid you entrance,’ Cranston demanded.

  ‘Oh, Sir Walter was past all that. He took my visits as the fruit of his own sin. I liked nothing better than to remind him of that phrase, “Remember man that thou art dust and into dust ye shall return”.’

  Athelstan stared hard at this ruthless preacher, a professional killer who had experienced a conversion along his own road to Damascus.

  ‘Beaumont stood for everything you hated, didn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, Brother, he certainly did.’ The answer was almost cheery.

  ‘And his marriage?’ Athelstan caught the swift smirk. ‘Don’t lie,’ he warned. ‘You know the truth about that May–December marriage. You are a priest. Sir Walter was burdened with guilt – he must have referred to it.’

  Garman’s chilling grin widened.

  ‘Sir Walter was impotent with Isolda,’ Athelstan continued. ‘He suspected, and I think wrongly, that she was his illegitimate daughter, the offspring of one of his cast-off doxies from years ago.’

  Garman pulled a face as if to hide his own malicious glee.

  ‘I wager you did not dissuade him?’

  ‘Naturally.’ Garman was truly enjoying himself. ‘I did admit that I could see a faint likeness in her of him.’

  ‘You were lying?’

  ‘I was just answering his question.’

&nb
sp; ‘So was Lady Isolda innocent?’ Cranston intervened, taken aback by the heated exchange between these two priests.

  ‘I think I can answer that,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘You liked Lady Isolda. You admired her. You felt sorry that she was one of Sir Walter’s many victims. In your eyes, killing the likes of Black Beaumont was no crime, no sin.’

  ‘As regards her innocence, Lady Isolda never confessed to his murder.’

  ‘But that doesn’t mean she was innocent.’

  ‘Nobody is innocent, Brother.’ Garman shrugged. ‘There could be other explanations for his death. On one occasion Lady Isolda said Sir Walter might have taken his own life.’

  ‘That’s nonsense! There is not a shred of evidence to substantiate such a claim.’ Athelstan pointed at the chaplain. ‘What is more logical, more likely, given your hatred of Sir Walter – how do we know those figs in almond sauce which you brought earlier in the day he died were not laced with poison?’

  ‘Why should I do that?’ Garman sneered. ‘I much preferred to watch him suffer.’

  ‘I am sure,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘you are a practical man, parson. Your heart danced to see Sir Walter suffer, to view his growing weakness, his deepening sense of guilt. Naturally you wanted to bait him with the past – that’s why you bought those figs, a delicacy from Outremer which would remind him of a time when he could indulge his appetites. Of course, not now. Sir Walter was ill, his belly extremely delicate. He might have to forgo such sweetmeats and leave them for the servants.’

  ‘Brother Athelstan, are you claiming I attended Sir Walter for more nefarious reasons?’

  ‘We’ll come to that by and by. Let’s return to Sir Walter’s death. Did you feed him anything during that last visit?’

  ‘You mean poison? No, as I have said, I wanted him to suffer, to brood and to regret.’

  ‘I have asked this before,’ Athelstan persisted. ‘Why did you hate him so much? I understand he deserted you, kept “The Book of Fires”, but mercenary companies break up, people go their separate ways. Oh, by the way, what name did you use?’

  ‘I was called Saint-Croix.’