by Paul Doherty
‘Allegedly he deserted one set of companions and may have murdered the group who left with him. Bloodthirsty and ruthless, Sir Walter returns home, where he amasses a fortune manufacturing machines of war for the likes of Gaunt. He keeps “The Book of Fires” close to his heart, a great secret. He does not reveal all its mysteries, perhaps he dare not for fear of the Greeks or is he waiting for the right occasion to sell the manuscript to the highest bidder? Undoubtedly he uses some of the formulas recorded in that book to manufacture more deadly weapons of war. In the meantime, he hides the book’s whereabouts with foolish references to it being a revelation or safe on the island of Patmos. Eventually Black Beaumont grows old and sickly. Remember that, master cat. Rumours abound that he is being slowly poisoned so he takes great care over what he eats or drinks. He is certainly sick in soul and that proves a fertile breeding ground for further evil. The lechery of his youth comes back to haunt him. He wonders whether his new wife could be the daughter of one of his cast-off mistresses. If Garman knew this, others would. His brother, Sir Henry, probably did little to disabuse him of such a notion. Oh, yes, Henry and Rohesia are like scavenging cats, horrified at Sir Walter’s marriage and the prospect of Isolda producing an heir. They must have been delighted at the turn of events. Parson Garman also plays his part. He views Sir Walter’s guilty conscience and nagging scruples as a fertile furrow to till. He hates Beaumont for a number of reasons: the merchant’s appalling reputation abroad, his betrayal, his desertions, his greed, everything Garman has come to hate.’ Athelstan paused in his pacing. ‘Bonaventure, this was all in the past and we must keep it that way. So, Garman wanted the return of “The Book of Fires”, or at least the ability to plunder its secrets, which he could either sell to raise money or assist the cause of the Upright Men. Garman also delighted in darkening Beaumont’s soul. The parson baited his old leader, bringing him those almond-coated figs from Beaumont’s green and salad days. He knew Sir Walter couldn’t or wouldn’t eat them. He certainly brought such a delicacy early on the day Beaumont died and, if Sir Walter did not eat the delicacy, who did – a member of his household?’ Athelstan paused, fingers flying to his lips. ‘Oh, my goodness!’ he exclaimed. ‘Oh my goodness, Bonaventure, is that possible?’ He leaned down and scratched the tomcat’s scarred ears. ‘For the moment, let’s keep to the path we are following. We have Sir Walter, “The Book of Fires” and then Sir Walter’s plan to have his marriage annulled. Of course, “by their fruits ye shall know them”. Sir Walter was not keen on his wife but he took a fancy to the doe-eyed Rosamund, who could perform certain lecherous tasks for him with her soft, light fingers. She certainly visited him on the day he died but then she mysteriously fell ill, a sickness which confined her to her chamber whilst the tragedy which engulfed her mistress was played out.
‘Secondo, Bonaventure, the actual poisoning. Rumour has it that Beaumont may have been the victim of slow poisoning for some time before his death, hence the ailments of both belly and bowel. Brother Philippe says that is possible – he also mentioned that members of the Beaumont household suffered similar conditions. There is no firm evidence of this. Nevertheless, Sir Walter probably became more prudent about what he ate and drank. He’d also be wary of Isolda and his clerk, Vanner. After all, Sir Walter must have heard the rumours of how friendly his estranged wife and clerk had become. Of course, there is the faithful Buckholt, or was he as faithful as he should have been? Buckholt’s father had been in the Luciferi – did his son bear a grudge? Did Sir Walter employ Buckholt as an act of gratitude and reparation to the memory of his steward’s father? A strange man, Buckholt, a paradox, he serves as a rich merchant’s steward yet espouses the cause of the Upright Men.’ Athelstan paused and chuckled. ‘Could the Great Community of the Realm be the real reason for Buckholt’s service? Oh, Bonaventure, at last the threads of this tapestry are beginning to loosen. Nor must we forget how Buckholt nourished a passion for the fair Rosamund. He certainly resented Isolda and he would fiercely resent Rosamund’s ministrations for his master. In the end, however, one thing is certain: Buckholt was instrumental in the successful conviction of Isolda.’ Athelstan walked over to the table. He sifted through the leaves of parchment Cranston had sent across to him, a transcript of the trial proceedings, but they were little more than a summary and could provide no new information.
‘Did Isolda kill her husband?’ Athelstan returned to his pacing. ‘Sir Walter was hated by many people for many reasons. He received warnings a year ago which stopped as suddenly as they began. How did they go? Yes, “As I and ours burnt, so shall ye and yours.” The writer of those warnings was hinting that Sir Walter’s ability to provide fire as a weapon of war had injured the writer and his kin, but if that was the case, Bonaventure, there must be a legion of such victims.’ Athelstan sat down on his chair, resisting the creeping but weakening tiredness which dimmed his mind and made his body feel heavy and full of aches. ‘Others may have had a motive to murder Sir Walter, yet the case against Isolda,’ he allowed Bonaventure to jump on his lap and sat absentmindedly stroking the cat, ‘yes, the case weighs heavily against her. Her relationship, illicit or not, with Vanner; the latter’s deliberate distraction of Buckholt; Isolda feeding that posset to her husband; the disappearance of the original goblet and its replacement from a set specially purchased by Vanner. Finally, there’s the despatch of the goblet down the privy and the buttery clerk’s sworn testimony that the goblet he prepared was not the one which came down.’ Athelstan gently lowered Bonaventure to the floor. ‘But why, master cat, did she strike on that particular day? What prompted her and Vanner?’ Athelstan smiled to himself. ‘I may have an answer for that when I begin my writing. What real defence did she and Falke make? References to Vanner feeding Sir Walter something poisonous; a plot by Buckholt and Sir Henry to seize “The Book of Fires”? Every lie, Bonaventure, contains a scrap of truth. Vanner could not answer for himself because Vanner has disappeared and so have his manuscripts. Who could have destroyed them? Was it really Vanner at the execution stake collecting Isolda’s pathetic remains?’ Athelstan rose to his feet in a surge of excitement. ‘Of course, I suspect where Vanner is, I truly do. He did not collect Isolda’s ashes at Smithfield – that’s a pretence.’
Elated by what he had concluded, Athelstan sat down and, grasping a quill pen, swiftly wrote out his different hypotheses and the proof which supported them. His eyes grew heavy so he slept for a while. When he awoke the fire had burnt low. He shook himself and, leaving the murder of Sir Walter, turned to the vexed question of ‘The Book of Fires’. Undoubtedly Beaumont had hidden it and many others wanted to find it. Garman, Sir Henry, perhaps even Buckholt – certainly the Greeks who had been so instrumental in protecting Sir John and himself the previous morning. The book’s whereabouts were a mystery but so was a second problem. Sir Walter had stolen it, used its secrets but, Athelstan suspected, had kept some of the specialist knowledge to himself – why? This in turn led to the identity of the Ignifer because, whoever he was, he was also very knowledgeable about what ‘The Book of Fires’ contained and was using it to devastating effect. The only conclusion Athelstan could reach was that the Ignifer had stolen the book; someone who also passionately believed that those responsible for Lady Isolda’s conviction and cruel death should be barbarously punished by being burnt alive. But who was this person? The only people who believed in Lady Isolda’s innocence were Garman and Falke – were one of these, or both, the Ignifer? Or could it be someone else? Cranston had wondered if a former member of the Luciferi had returned to London. Could such a person be responsible? Or again, did Isolda have some secret admirer or kinsman? After all, she was accustomed to going into the city by herself. She may have met the Greeks, but Athelstan was convinced that she also met someone else – a paramour, perhaps? Was that soul, now demented beyond reason, carrying out these atrocious attacks? Had Isolda in fact discovered the secret of Greek fire and passed it on to this mysterious person, man or woman? According to the
beggar Didymus, the assailant had reeked of expensive perfume like that of crushed lilies, the same perfume Isolda had used. Did the graffiti on the wall of Isolda’s prison cell, ‘SFSM’, conceal the identity of this sinister figure now prowling the streets with pots of deadly fire? Athelstan dozed for a while. When he awoke he decided a good night’s sleep would have to wait. He stripped, washed, shaved, donned fresh robes and, sitting at the kitchen table, began to write out his conclusions. The more he wrote, his quill pen skimming the soft, smooth surface of the parchment, the more Athelstan realized he was close to resolving some of the truth to these mysteries.
oOoOo
Sir John Cranston was also troubled by various imaginings. He was finding it difficult to get back to sleep in his great four poster-bed in the opulent chamber he and Lady Maude had decorated over the years. The coroner threw himself back against the bolsters, Ave beads slipping from his fingers. He missed his family and household more than he could say; Lady Maude should be chattering: the two poppets chasing each other; the great Irish wolfhounds Gog and Magog sprawled at the foot of the bed. Outside the maids should be hurrying, whispering and giggling along the wooden-panelled galleries, yet there was nothing but a hollow constant silence. Cranston rolled over on to his back, staring up at the tester. He was certain he had done the right thing despatching his wife, family and household to a moated manor deep in the countryside. Kinsmen and retainers would mount vigilant watch over them. The revolt would come, yet his family would be safe. There would be violence, but, in the end, the rebels would be crushed with all the savagery the great lords of the soil could muster. In the meantime, Cranston rolled over to one side, staring at the sliver of grey dawn-light peeking through the shutters, his mind returning to the mystery of the Greek fire.
Cranston had personally witnessed the devastating effects of boiling oil cascading down castle walls in France, a rushing, bubbling torrent of Hell’s blackness, scolding, burning and searing the flesh. Even worse was when that oil was lighted. The coroner was still shaken by the vicious attacks on both himself and Athelstan. If the friar could only find a way through, yet Athelstan seemed as perplexed as he was. Somebody prowling the city was definitely using Greek fire and not just in these murderous attacks. One of Cranston’s spies had reported a mysterious meeting out on the heathland beyond London Bridge, of a fire being abruptly caused, of flames leaping up against the blackness. Was this a coincidence? At the same time other spies reported that the Upright Men, who had been quiet for weeks, were once again beginning to muster. Did the Upright Men now possess Greek fire? If so, how? Where was that damned ‘Book of Fires’ and who was this Ignifer? Cranston narrowed his eyes at a sound below but then dismissed it. Was the Ignifer someone they had never met, a former member of the Luciferi? Someone who had left Dover under his baptismal name but in France changed that to something more fanciful as he sold his sword or bow to the highest bidder? Once military service was over, he would arrive back in an English port under his baptismal name. It was a way of sealing the past, of forgetting what had happened as veterans settle down to become some parish worthy or city dignitary. Was that the case here? A member of the Luciferi now turned respectable like Falke or Garman? Or was the Ignifer hidden deeper in the shadows, someone they had never met?
Cranston pulled himself up to lean against the bolsters. He snatched the miraculous wineskin from the table beside him, took his morning sip and wondered how Athelstan was coping with the Great Miracle at St Erconwald’s. Cranston was truly perplexed by this wondrous occurrence. As Lord High Coroner of London, he had earned a reputation, second to none, for exposing counterfeits, cranks and cunning men. He had broken through the most elaborate deceits, disguises and deceptions, yet the miracle at St Erconwald’s was not one of these. According to all the evidence, Fulchard of Richmond had entered that church a cripple; he had not left as one. He had been healed and proclaimed himself as such. Cranston’s spies had swept the city; if one such as the crippled Fulchard had emerged, he would have been observed. Sooner or later anyone who hid in this bustling city had to crawl out to be invariably noticed by someone, but not here. Cranston gnawed on his lip. He took some comfort from the fact that his spies had stumbled on other juicy morsels of information. The Upright Men were becoming very active; their captains had been glimpsed in both the city and Southwark. One spy, who rejoiced in the sobriquet ‘the Eye of God’, had reported how the great miracle at St Erconwald’s seemed to have attracted a goodly number of young, rather well-armed men amongst the pilgrims flocking there. Now this did concern the coroner. He was about to seize the miraculous wineskin for a second time when he heard that sound again, a clattering in the scullery which separated the kitchen and buttery from the garden. The outside door was made of thick, heavy oak and studded with metal bosses, its latch stout and noisy. Was someone trying to get in? Cranston slid off the bed. He pushed his feet into tight-fitting buskins and drew both sword and dagger from his warbelt hanging on a hook against the wall.
The coroner slipped silently out of his bedchamber, along the gallery and down the polished oaken staircase. Night candles glowed in their capped glass holders, emitting pools of golden light. Sir John paused on the bottom step wondering who the intruder might be. The Upright Men? Usually they were not so silent. Those Greeks? Cranston paused to control his breathing. The Greeks were allies rather than enemies. The Ignifer? He crept through the buttery and into the great kitchen beyond. He raced swiftly across and opened the door to the scullery; the latch on the garden door at the far end rattled. He stepped inside. He sniffed a perfume, one he knew, the light fragrance of crushed lilies. The floor was greasy. The shutters to his right rattled. Cranston abruptly realized what was about to happen. Sliding and slithering, the coroner hurled himself across the chamber. He ignored the door but crashed into the shutters, even as he felt the intruder press heavily against them. The Ignifer was here! Cranston realized this heavy shutter had been prised open from outside. The Ignifer had entered and the floor was covered in highly flammable oil, waiting to be fired. The assassin had plotted to lure a half-sleeping Cranston across the slippery floor towards the door whilst he pulled open the shutters and threw in a flame. If he had stepped into the trap the scullery would have been turned into an inferno. He pressed his bulk against the shutters. Again he smelt the faint traces of that perfume, of crushed lilies. Lady Maude had once worn it, a gift from the court. Cranston was now calm. Eventually he could feel no pressure. He kept a wary eye on the door and opened the shutter slightly, his sword piercing the gap, its broad, sharp blade jabbing forward before swinging to the left and right. He closed the shutters, refastening the inside hook and opened the garden door. Dawn was about to break. The garden stretched frozen white, bleak and empty. The Ignifer had escaped.
Athelstan, cloaked and hooded against the cutting wind, stood in the copse of ancient trees which lay at the heart of the great garden at Firecrest Manor. Sir Henry had arranged for open braziers to be stoked and fired. The crackling charcoal glowed fiercely, exuding gusts of scented heat and smoke. Beside Athelstan was a taciturn Sir John, his beaver hat pulled fully down, the muffler of his thick cloak raised as high as it could be. Athelstan stretched out his mittened fingers towards the blaze. Those he had summoned had almost arrived, complaining under their breath. They fell silent at the sight of this little friar standing so ominously quiet, in this haunted glade close to the edge of the green-slimed mere; a ghostly place, away from the pleasantries of the rest of the garden. The trees here rose like stark black figures, their outstretched branches frozen solid, bereft of all greenery. No birdsong or rustling in the undergrowth, just a brooding stillness, as if the copse hid a dreadful secret. Athelstan knew it did, but he would wait to uncover it and so would everybody else. Athelstan was furious at the turn of events. He had slept very little and been roused by Tiptoft, who informed him about the attack on the coroner. The messenger had reassured Athelstan that Sir John was safe and well. The friar had given t
hanks to this but hid his anger in swift preparations to leave. He and Tiptoft had hurried down to the Southwark quayside where Moleskin lay fast asleep in his barge. Athelstan had roused him and they had braved the swollen, mist-hung river to cross to Blackfriars wharf. Tiptoft had hurried away on other errands including messages for Sir John, whilst Athelstan entered the Dominican mother house. After he’d greeted the different brothers, Brother Caradoc the sacristan arranged for Athelstan to say his dawn Mass at a side altar in the main church. Cranston had arrived just in time for the Eucharist. Afterwards both coroner and friar had broken their fast in the great refectory dominated by a huge crucifix with a banner displaying the Five Holy Wounds hanging from the hammer-beam roof. Cranston had described the assault on him, Athelstan listened with deepening disquiet.
‘Three times, Sir John,’ he declared. ‘Three attacks on us. The first was not on Lady Anne but on thee and me as was the second and the third. It’s time we cleared the board of distractions and diversions, fascinating though they may be. Now listen …’
Athelstan had informed Cranston of what he wanted and now they waited in the gloomy, wooded glade with a winter wind rippling the icy surface of the mere. Sir Henry and Rohesia, Buckholt, Rosamund, Falke, Parson Garman, Lady Anne and Turgot, as well as Cranston’s posse of bailiffs and six royal archers from the Tower. The ‘guests’, as Athelstan called his array of suspects, were all protesting. The friar did not care. Some of these were liars and deceivers and one of them could be a hideous assassin secretly plotting the destruction of both himself and Sir John. He would now show them, to quote the scriptures, that ‘God did still raise prophets in the cities of the earth’.