by Paul Doherty
Athelstan studied Garman carefully. The friar recognized the importance of these moments from years of shriving, of hearing confessions, of listening to souls opening the gates sealed deeply within them. Parson Garman was now very close to those gates.
‘We are not your enemy,’ Athelstan added gently. ‘Like you, sir, I am a priest. All I want is the truth. What is wrong with that?’
Garman drew a deep breath. ‘We fled Constantinople,’ he began, ‘pursued by Turcopole mercenaries. We hid here, there, everywhere we could. Eventually we struck out across the desert.’ He rubbed his forehead. ‘The names of the different places we visited now fail me but we stopped at an oasis. We shared out our wine and food. To this day I swear Beaumont drugged it with a sleeping potion. The following morning, we woke late and heavy-headed. Beaumont and his henchmen had fled. We had our horses, water, weapons and maps – he had just forsaken us. We eventually reached Izmir. By then we were tired of each other’s company. I journeyed into Rhodes and entered the service of the Hospital.’
‘And when you returned to England you must have confronted Black Beaumont?’
‘Oh,’ Garman laughed wryly, ‘he claimed it was all due to mere chance. According to Beaumont, he and his henchmen had risen early that day. They decided to let us sleep whilst they struck out to search for the best way forward. They encountered a roving band of sand-dwellers who attacked them, so they took refuge in a high, rocky outcrop. They drove their attackers off but by the time they returned to the oasis we had left.’ Garman wiped a sheen of sweat from his face. ‘A farrago of lies.’
‘And “The Book of Fires”?’ Athelstan asked.
Garman’s eyes swiftly shifted.
‘That’s the real reason you visited Sir Walter. Oh, you loved the baiting and revelled in Beaumont’s discomfiture but your real intent was to seize that book!’
‘Why should I …’
‘Have you too been approached?’
‘What do you mean?’ Garman’s tone was brittle, betraying his fear.
‘Oh, you have,’ Athelstan persisted, ‘by the agents of the Greek emperor, the Secretissimi and perhaps by others? The princes of this earth would offer a veritable fortune for Mark the Greek’s “The Book of Fires”. The Secretissimi are in London – don’t act all surprised, you know they are. You have admitted as much. They want the manuscript back and would pay a fortune for it.’
‘You must know its value,’ Cranston intervened. ‘I mean, from the days you served in the Luciferi calling yourself Saint-Croix. What was your role? If Black Beaumont was skilled in the use of cannon and powder, so must you be. You’ve fired culverins, you’ve mixed the different elements, yes? That’s what the Luciferi offered – the ability to hurl fiery missiles. So, Parson Garman, if “The Book of Fires” fell into your hands, you would know how to manufacture Greek fire and the other deadly mixtures.’
The parson licked dry lips and stared down at the glow of candlelight near the small Lady altar. He sat as if listening to the prison settling for the night, the banging of doors, the sharp clatter of chains.
‘“The Book of Fires”, Garman began, still staring down the chapel, ‘was the cause of everything. Beaumont seized it and made sure that his companions who had served him so faithfully would have no share of it. He brought the secrets back to London and doled out those secrets like a miser would pennies. I suspect he held a great deal back to maintain his monopoly, to hold something in reserve, to tease, bait and lure would-be customers.
‘Naturally, the Secretissimi followed him here, but what could they do against a powerful merchant patronized by the King? Move against him and they would forfeit their immun-ity – they could even end up in this stinking hole or on the scaffold at Smithfield. If they secretly assassinated Beaumont, the whereabouts of “The Book of Fires” could die with him or pass into other hands. I …’ Garman beat his chest, ‘had a right to that book. I was with Beaumont in the Imperial chancery when the manuscript was stolen.’ Spittle now formed on his lips. ‘I was a high-ranking member of the Luciferi. I should have had my share. Yes, you are correct, that’s the real reason I took to visiting him. Oh, I deepened his guilt, agitated whatever conscience he had left, milked him for alms but I demanded my share. Sir John, Brother Athelstan, just think what I could do with such wealth.’ He blew his cheeks out. ‘But you know the verse of scripture, “By their fruits ye shall know them.”’ Garman’s voice changed as he mimicked that of an old man. ‘Beaumont quavered and trembled. He listed his donations to this and to that but he hadn’t changed. Black Beaumont was a flint-hearted, greedy, nasty human being. If I baited him he taunted me back, saying that the whereabouts of the book would be a revelation, secretly hidden on the island of Patmos. God knows what that babbling meant. But if Lady Isolda was a killer, so was Sir Walter.’ He wagged a finger and rose. ‘I am not just talking about men killed in battle but the cold-blooded murder of friends and comrades.’ Garman, agitated, walked into the darkness then returned to retake his seat. ‘The Luciferi,’ he continued, ‘were mostly English. Beaumont deserted us, taking six of our companions; those who remained with me survived to die elsewhere or return to England. Buckholt’s father was one of the former, which may be why his son later secured the position of steward to Beaumont. Buckholt senior was a much older man, as was Adam Lesures, Lady Anne’s husband, who returned to London and became a wealthy merchant. Lesures was highly intelligent – he had little to do with Sir Walter. They remained fairly estranged. After Sir Roger’s death Lady Anne became more friendly. There were others who returned. Some are dead, a few are now missing.’
‘One of those could be the Ignifer?’ Cranston demanded.
‘Yes, yes, I’ve thought of that.’
Athelstan could see the chaplain wasn’t convinced.
‘Parson Garman, you claim Sir Walter was a cold-blooded murderer?’
‘Brother Athelstan, that’s one thing I did ask Beaumont time and again. He left with six of our company. I swear to God, not one of these have been heard of or seen since that night at the oasis.’
‘None!’ Athelstan exclaimed. The friar moved on the bench, very much aware of the darkness, the deepening cold, the dying light of the tapers and the winter wind tugging at the outside shutters.
‘You are alleging foul play,’ Cranston murmured. ‘That Sir Walter murdered those six men?’
‘Sir John, it was in his nature. Now look. I have been honest.’ Garman shook his head and refused to meet their gaze. ‘Well, as honest as I can be in this business. Lord Coroner, I am a marked man – my sympathies are well known to Gaunt. I work amongst the poor and dispossessed. I am what I am: a simple prison chaplain with a rich, tangled past. I took this post for many reasons. One of them is the prominence it gave me.’
‘Amongst the Upright Men?’
Garman smiled thinly at Cranston’s remark. ‘There’re other reasons.’ He continued slowly, ‘This prison post is a watch tower. I have worked amongst mercenaries. Now, as I have explained, most of those who stayed at the oasis eventually returned home. Like me, they renounced their false names. A few went back to loved ones but many drifted into London to seek shelter in the twilight world of Whitefriars, Southwark and the other halls of darkness. A few even passed through here. Anyway, over the years, I have been visited by former comrades but never, I repeat never, by anyone who left that oasis with Black Beaumont. Those who visit me tell a similar tale. They too have never heard of those six comrades.’
‘You must have put this to Sir Walter?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Oh, I did, and his reply was stark and simple: they’d wandered off and he knew nothing of their whereabouts or their fate. All I can say is that Sir Walter would have done anything to keep “The Book of Fires” to himself.’ Garman rubbed his face between his hands. ‘Gentlemen, more than that I cannot say.’
‘Lady Isolda’s cell,’ Athelstan asked, ‘those markings on the wall – “SFSM” – do you know what they mean?’
‘No.’
‘And her visitors before she died?’
‘Lady Anne Lesures with her mute body servant, Falke, of course, but no others.’
‘And you still believe her to be innocent?’
‘Brother Athelstan, I am biased. Beaumont was a black-hearted sinner, a truly evil man. If he was murdered, then he merited it. Now, Brother Athelstan, Sir John, I do have other business.’
‘And her last days here?’ Athelstan also got to his feet.
Garman indicated that they follow him out of the chapel along a hollow, stone-paved corridor. The reek of boiled cabbage, sweat and the privy mixed with the stench of tar being heated in an enclave next to a chamber, its narrow door flung open. Inside thick, evil-smelling tallow candles fluttered. A man sat behind a trestle table heaped with items of clothing, buckles and belts, hose, girdles, hoods, jerkins, dagger sheaths, battered purses and women’s clothing. Next to him sat an old clerk with a dripping nose, long, thinning hair and popping watery eyes; he was itemizing the different pieces which the other man held up, brusquely described and tossed into a huge chest to the right of the table.
‘Master Binny,’ Garman declared, ‘I am sorry to interrupt, but Sir John and Brother Athelstan …’
‘Oh, I know Sir John.’ Eustace Binny, Carnifex, or executioner for Newgate, was a cheery-faced imp of a man dressed soberly in a dun-coloured robe. He seemed pleased to meet Cranston and sprang to his feet to clasp Sir John’s outstretched hand before bowing his sweaty pate for Athelstan’s blessing. He introduced his clerk, Scrimshaw, and brusquely ordered him to bring three stools for his visitors before retaking his seat and gesturing at the items heaped on the table.
‘The worldly goods of all those I have hanged this week,’ he declared, picking up a faded petticoat then tossing it back on to the table.
‘The legitimate profits of the hangman,’ Cranston murmured, ‘including those of Lady Isolda?’
‘Oh, a very nice bracelet, a costly gown, petticoats, shoes, girdle and belt. They all came to me. She went to her death in a long grey hair shirt daubed with a red cross. I also had her brooch and the twine which braided her tresses.’ He sniffed as he crossed himself swiftly. ‘My heart was moved to pity. Scrimshaw here watched her strip; he made sure we had everything before he gave her the hair shirt. He said she had a beautiful body, unmarked, white as the purest snow.’
Athelstan glanced at the scrivener, who smiled vacuously back with a display of yellow, blackening teeth. ‘We missed nothing,’ Scrimshaw muttered.
‘No books?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Oh, no books, we are vigilant about that. Books fetch a good price. Our prisoners,’ Scrimshaw smiled reassuringly, ‘when they know they are going to die, are honest. What they own, we get.’
‘Who rented the solitary cell?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Lawyer Falke. He gave us silver for a clean chamber, nearly fresh bedding and the same victuals as ours. We made it very clear that when the end arrived all her property was ours,’ Binny gabbled on. ‘I tell my wife that all movables and items worn by …’
‘Very good, Eustace,’ Cranston intervened. ‘We are more interested in those last two days before her execution.’
‘She was very frightened,’ Scrimshaw screeched. ‘She quarrelled with Lady Lesures and drove her away. I felt sorry for her. She truly didn’t know what was coming. I told her no mercy was to be shown, though for a few coins I could hire some ruffians to toss bricks and stones at her head when she was lashed to the …’
‘Shut up!’ Binny roared, his face turning puce. ‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan,’ he glanced spitefully at the scrivener, ‘he shouldn’t have said that. When all this,’ he gestured at the chest, ‘is sold to the fripperers I will deduct a fine. Our orders were very clear – no mercy was to be shown and it wasn’t. Everything she ate or drank was tasted. I made sure Scrimshaw,’ he glared at his scrivener, ‘did that. Yet in the end, Lady Isolda frightened herself into a stupor, a daze. I’ve seen the likes before.’
‘She was very quiet,’ Garman spoke up. ‘I was at her execution.’
‘We had to carry her to the execution stake,’ Binny murmured. ‘We bound her fast, the fire started and the crowd thronged about. True, stones were thrown to smash her skull to stun her as you would some cow in a slaughter shed but there was no real need. The flames roared up and she was gone.’
Athelstan hid his chill at the horror described so casually. ‘Afterwards,’ he asked, ‘did anyone come to gather ashes or her bones?’
Binny pursed his lips and shook his head.
‘Oh, yes they did.’ Scrimshaw picked up a cheap bangle off the table. ‘I’ve just remembered – someone did. I was busy around the execution stake collecting chains, any items; you know, it’s very important.’
‘What happened?’ Cranston snapped. ‘Who came?’
‘A man. He was hooded and visored. He carried a cedarwood casket, a little trowel and a pair of tongs. He collected the remains, shards of blackened bone. I asked him who he was.’
‘And? His name?’
‘Reginald Vanner, clerk …’
PART FIVE
‘Take petroleum, black petroleum, liquid pitch and oil of sulphur. Put all these in a pottery jar buried in horse manure for fifteen days.’
Mark the Greek’s ‘The Book of Fires’
‘Days of darkness and the deepest gloom. A day of blackest clouds and thick shadows like some sombre dawn. These spread across the horizon as if some vast and mighty host approaches such as has never been seen before. All the power of Hell has swept up to confront the wickedness of man …’
Athelstan stood outside the grim, gloomy portals of Newgate and stared at the preacher perched on an overturned barrel surrounded by blazing bonfires. Their light made the ragged, bony itinerant preacher even more eerie and grotesque. The friar drew a deep breath. He was glad to be out of the prison now, waiting for Sir John, who was arranging for Rosamund Clifford to be taken back to Firecrest Manor as well as greasing the palms of Tweng, the turnkey, Master Binny, Scrimshaw and the rest. The great fleshing markets, the butchers’ stalls outside Newgate, had ceased trading. Night had fallen. It was now the hour for others. Fishmongers from Billingsgate wheeled their barrows crammed with silvery salmon, white-bellied turbot, scarlet lobsters, dun-coloured crabs and mackerels with their gleaming green backs. Here to greet them clustered the real poor, the shirtless, shoeless, breadless and homeless. They would buy the stinking fish and take over this busy part of the city. They gathered like a tribe, their blue, bootless feet ulcerous from the cold, to feast on whatever globules of meat or fish they could filch or buy. Bonfires of the day’s rubbish had been torched to provide some light and warmth in the freezing night. The air stank with the odour of the rancid food now being toasted. The grisly-faced fripperers gathered, their barrows full of rags, discarded clothing and half-putrid hare-skins. Costermongers offered pickled herring in a slimy sauce, or salted whelks which looked like huge snails floating in a sea of brine. Athelstan looked pityingly at this horde of beggars and recalled Garman’s revolutionary fervour. Was the prison chaplain right? he wondered. Would the great revolt sweep all this squalid poverty away, burn it up like a fire sweeping through stubble? Athelstan felt a hand on his shoulder. Cranston, leading a group of bailiffs, had come quietly up behind him.
‘Little friar,’ he remarked, ‘the day is done and we are for the dark.’
‘Sir John, we have no choice, for the darkness seeks us …’
Athelstan recalled the events of the day as he sat at table in the kitchen of his priest’s house. Outside the faded hubbub of noise of the pilgrims still intent on the vigil echoed faintly. Matters, however, were now more orderly in the parish of St Erconwald’s. Admission to the church, as well as supervision of the stalls offering food, drink or relics of the Great Miracle, was now in the iron grip of the parish council led by Watkin and Pike. Queues were now more orderly and, at the agreed time, an hour before midni
ght, the church would be closed. Athelstan smiled to himself. His parishioners had been most insistent that matters be left to them. ‘Hadn’t Father,’ they asked, ‘had a truly busy day? Hadn’t that strange creature the Ignifer, so rumour had it, struck again?’ On his return the privy council had been most solicitous. They had pointed out how the priest’s house had been thoroughly cleaned, the braziers lit, the hearth fire built up and banked. Merrylegs’ best venison pie was waiting in the oven, whilst a jug of the Piebald’s finest ale stood covered in the buttery.
Athelstan took their hint to leave the flow of pilgrims to them, though he remained deeply suspicious. He’d retired to the house along with Bonaventure, who now sprawled like a well-fed emperor across the hearth. Athelstan drummed his fingers on the tabletop. He picked up the letter that Lady Anne had sent with Turgot, where she recounted what she had said when they met at the Minoresses earlier that day. Athelstan re-read the finely etched script which described what the beggar Didymus had seen on the night the Ignifer had attacked them. How Didymus was sure their would-be assassin was garbed in heavy robes and reeked of a woman’s fragrant perfume. According to Crim the altar boy, who was in the house at the time, the heavily cowled and cloaked Turgot had knocked at the door, entrusted the letter to Crim and promptly disappeared. Athelstan stared up at the ceiling beams. He knew where Turgot and Lady Anne had been when the Ignifer struck that morning but what about the rest, including that sly-faced maid? Sir Henry, Buckholt, Garman or even Falke or Vanner? Had those he’d met been busy in Cheapside? As for Vanner, Athelstan believed Beaumont’s clerk was dead, yet he might be wrong. Athelstan decided to busy himself. He drew out a large piece of parchment from the leather case in his personal coffer. He quickly smoothed it with a pumice stone, putting small weights on each corner. Once ready, however, Athelstan rose and paced backwards and forwards, watched by a now bemused Bonaventure. ‘So, master cat, let us move to the arrow point. Primo, Sir Walter. Very wealthy, sickly but entertaining grave doubts about his second wife, the lovely Isolda. An old man with a very guilty conscience, which he richly deserved. Black Beaumont, as he was then called, served abroad. The climax of his career was the theft of “The Book of Fires” from the Greeks.