The Colour of Evil: A Sebastian Foxley Medieval Murder Mystery

by Toni Mount

  ‘Kate, lass, I pray you, fetch some azure pigment for me, if you will? I have changed my mind about using lapis.’

  ‘Aye, master. Did you finish the drawing of the, er, treber-thing? You said you would show it to me and explain what it does. And you promised to show me how to paint the look of wood.’ She set the required pot of blue before me.

  ‘You mean the trebuchet? Aye. I finished it yesterday. ’Tis covered by that cloth over there. Look at it by all means but I be uncertain I can explain its workings to you. As for painting a wood effect, I shall show you later, when I be done with St George here.’

  She lifted the cloth from the other miniature, now with its gilding done and ready to paint, studying it with care, her tongue poked at the corner of her mouth – her sure sign of concentration.

  ‘Master?’

  ‘Mm?’ I loaded my brush to apply the kermes grain and worked it to a fine point afore applying a line of highlight, so the folds of the saint’s cloak no longer seemed flat upon the page. Master Collop had taught me this trick to deceive the eye.

  ‘Master, why have you written ‘dog’ on the drawing?’

  ‘Nay, lass. I have drawn a dog into the scene, but I did not write it.’

  ‘But you did. You have written it on the treber-thing.’

  I frowned. I could not recall doing such a thing. Then I realised.

  ‘You mistake me, lass,’ I laughed. ‘You read the letters on the hurled rock: ‘d-o’ and ‘g’. They indicate gold to be used with dark ochre over to give it shape and shadow.’

  ‘Ah! That makes sense then. Shall I fetch us all some ale, master?’

  ‘That would be welcome,’ Adam said afore I could reply and without glancing up from his neat lettering.

  ‘And then you may serve in the shop awhile,’ I said. ‘Let Rose be about other matters. I be sure she and Nessie yet have the wet linen to see to, upon a Monday. D-o-g,’ I muttered to myself and chuckled anew afore returning to my miniature.

  My good humour was of short duration, I fear, forwhy my neighbour, Jonathan Caldicott, called out my name from the shop. We had ne’er been close friends but after his behaviour last Eastertide, I had lost all respect for that gutter-snipe and trusted him not. Besides, his arrival always seemed but the precursor of trouble and the business of the wretched chicken was yet fresh in my mind. What did the wretch want of me now? I sighed, cursed silently and washed out my brush with due care – the fellow could wait.

  ‘Seb! I would speak with you,’ he shouted.

  Since I would not invite him into the workshop for all he was, supposedly, a fellow guildsman, I must go to him.

  ‘Good day, neighbour.’ I remembered my manners if he did not. ‘What is it you require that you would raise the hue-and-cry, bellowing like a crazed ox?’ I turned to the counter-board to tidy the pamphlets displayed, though they lay straighter than a draper’s yardstick.

  ‘L-listen, Seb…’ Jonathan was twisting his cap in his hands, making a dishrag of it. ‘Now I know you d-don’t owe me any favours much – except for the chicken, of course. You owe me for that, most certainly…’

  ‘I do not. As Bailiff Turner told you: if you believe you have a case, then take it to the law. Be off with you. I have no intention of discussing it any further. I bid you farewell.’

  ‘No, no, Seb… have a heart, can’t you? You know I can’t afford to pay lawyers’ fees and the rest. And ’tis St John’s Day, come Thursday…’

  ‘Then enjoy the bonfires and celebrations.’ I made to return to my work but he blocked my way.

  ‘I will, if I’m not in gaol by then.’

  ‘Why? What mischief have you caused now?’

  ‘None. But you know what happens on the twenty-fourth day of June.’

  I looked at him but remained silent. His eyes glanced hither and yon, unable to settle.

  ‘All the city rents fall due on the quarter day. You know that.’ He picked up a pamphlet of William Langland’s Piers Plowman and fanned the pages.

  I took it from him and replaced it with its fellows, smoothing it flat.

  ‘I do not pay rent,’ I said. ‘I bought this house and shop outright. I owe no man and that includes you, Jonathan, so get you gone from my premises.’

  ‘But, Seb… I’m only a few shillings short. Please… I beg you…’

  ‘You be asking me to lend you money? I cannot believe such temerity. After the trouble you caused me, you expect me to make a loan unto you? I be no money-lender, no unChristian usurer. You mistake me, if you think…’

  ‘Just a few pence, then, betwixt friends. I’ll pay you back, I swear to Christ.’

  ‘You will not, forwhy I shall not lend you a farthing.’

  ‘Think of it as alms for the needy of the parish, Seb.’ He held my sleeve. ‘Would you see my Mary homeless, wandering the streets, begging her bread?’ he wheedled. ‘And who knows what sort of disreputable, drunken, foul-mouthed neighbours you might get in our place. Think of the bad language, the unruly behaviour your little son might see and learn from them. Think how their kind might leer at your Rose… torment young Kate and thieve the stuff from your garden plot…’

  By the time the wretch had turned our neighbourhood into a midden of crime, I was reaching for my purse, fool that I be.

  ‘Take it.’ I put a handful of coins, uncounted, into his outstretched, greedy hand. ‘And do not ask me ever again. Now go. Get out of my shop.’

  Incredulous, I watched as the knave remained, counting out the money I had given him.

  ‘Five-and-twenty pence and three farthings… Could you not…’

  ‘Out! And show not your face again. If I see it, I shall not be the master of reason but strike it full square.’

  Jonathan gave me such a look – of disbelief at the threat, no doubt – but slunk off, his fist tight around the money.

  I was unsure whether I meant what I said but, watching him depart, how sorely was I tempted to hasten him on his way with the toe of my boot. I realised I had been holding my breath and blew it out. Feeling the first stirrings of a headache behind mine eyes, I put my hand to my brow.

  ‘Are you alright, master?’ Kate asked.

  ‘That man would try the patience of Job.’

  ‘Will he pay you back, do you think?’

  ‘In kind? Nay. In the like degree of trouble: most probably.’ I looked to my depleted purse. A few coins yet remained. ‘Here, Kate, take these to Master Lewis and purchase more dragon’s blood pigment, if you please. I have used more than I reckoned and will be in need by afternoon.’

  ‘How much shall I get?’

  ‘Whatever amount three pence ha’penny will buy. ’Tis all the coin I have to hand, at present.’

  ‘Who will watch the shop, master? Shall I fetch Rose?’

  ‘I shall serve in your absence, lass.’ In truth, I was yet unfit for the delicate application of colours. My nerves, strung taut as bow-strings, would not make for a steady hand, nor my aching head for a keen eye. Sitting in the shop would provide respite, so long as no other customer of Jonathan’s kind came to annoy me further. The wretch had put me quite out of sorts.

  A plump merchant required a Latin primer for his son who was now of age to have a tutor. Anyone who could afford to hire a tutor for tuition at home must have wealth enough that I showed him a Latin primer of good quality, bound in blue leather. I had penned it myself, so knew it to be accurate in grammar and finely set out in excellently clear lettering. I asked a most reasonable price of fifteen pence but it seemed he was inclined to quibble until a handsome young woman entered the shop and, of a sudden, the fellow paid quite readily, his gaze turned upon the newcomer.

  As I wrapped the book in a linen square to keep it clean, the merchant paid his respects to the lady, bowing low and sweeping off his hat in a lordly gesture. He announced his name and smiled at
her, creasing his fat cheeks.

  The fine woman turned from admiring a pretty little volume of poetry and I experienced difficulty in keeping a bland expression upon my face. It was no woman but that strange one: John Rykener, in his guise as ‘Eleanor’. She – or he – (I never knew which) gave the merchant her fullest attention, a beguiling smile, as though he was some godlike creature she had awaited all her life. Dark eyelashes fluttered. Laughter tinkled like a Moorish-dancer’s bells. I recalled that sound all too well.

  It was clear to me that she had followed the merchant into my shop with every intention of capturing her prey, as a cat waylays a mouse. And now, cat-like, she would play with him a while afore revealing her claws to the unsuspecting victim. The pair left the shop, arm-in-arm, but ‘Eleanor’ glanced back at me, over her velvet-clad shoulder, winked and mouthed ‘See you in the tavern, later, Seb’. As if we were firm friends! And using my premises as a place to ply her counterfeit trade… Far from improving, my headache grew worse and little wonder that it did so.

  ‘Master Foxley.’ The next person through the door was not a customer. It was Geoffrey Wanstead, Bishop Kempe’s man of letters. I felt as though I had been felled by a blow to my breast. ‘My lord bishop’s librarian and I have been waiting for you, Master Foxley. You did not come as arranged.’

  ‘Sir, I, er… Did I not say I would come this afternoon?’ In truth, I could not recall what I had said. ‘Forgive me if…’

  ‘We agreed upon the forenoon. The bishop is in haste to have this matter dealt with.’ Master Wanstead fixed me with his eye. Dagger-sharp, his glance would pin me down.

  ‘Mea culpa. I forgot what was decided. The fault be mine entirely. I shall come now, if ’tis convenient?’

  Wanstead nodded.

  I hastened to the workshop to fetch my scrip.

  ‘Adam? Could you mind the shop awhile, if you will?’

  ‘Where’s Kate? I’m in the midst of this.’ He waved his pen at me.

  ‘The lass be upon an errand. The bishop’s man has come for me. I was supposed to go to the library at the palace this morn to examine some documents suspected to be false. I forgot all about it and must make amends immediately. I apologise for disrupting your work but ’tis urgent.’

  ‘Aye. I suppose part two of Vegetius can wait a while.’ Adam left his desk. ‘I wish you good fortune in appeasing the bishop’s wrath, Seb.’

  ‘’Tis Master Wanstead’s displeasure I fear the more. Ask Rose to set dinner aside for me, if she may. Do not wait upon my return. I know not how long this will take.’

  The Library at the Bishop of

  London’s Palace in St Paul’s Precinct

  Master Wanstead referred to the attic chamber at the head of the stair as ‘the library’ and introduced me to Brother Henry, the librarian. Yet no books were in evidence. Instead, there were great oaken chests, locked, stacked around the walls. Chests full of precious books, I supposed. And the librarian had a mighty ring of keys dragging at his girdle, such that he clanked like a Newgate gaoler when he walked. A dusty little man with a protuberant wart upon his forehead seeming to support his tonsure, he looked too frail to bear the weight. A curt nod and a sniff were his greeting to me when I removed my cap and bowed. I dare say I deserved no better, having kept him waiting all morn.

  A board of considerable age, much wood-wormed, stood in the midst of the chamber with a stool. Two cheap tallow candles were ready for lighting, an uncovered inkwell and pens provided, together with a palimpsest of parchment, scraped clean of its old writings for reuse. At least I was not expected to provide my own necessities. Upon the board was a wooden box, lying on its side with the lid opened back. Within, were parchment rolls, ribbon-tied, two dozen or more. Was I supposed to examine them all?

  Brother Henry brought a taper and lit both candles.

  ‘You’ll have a care with the flames. These documents must not come to harm. At least, not until we know which ones are faked.’ The brother scowled at me, pulling the wart down betwixt his brows. It was hard to keep from staring at it, the eye drawn to it, unerringly, as iron to a lodestone.

  ‘I shall take care,’ I assured him, purposefully looking away. Yet I wondered why this windowless chamber served as a library. Reading required light but candles were e’er a danger close to old parchments. Why did they not use a well-lit chamber? No doubt but a building the size of the Bishop’s Palace must have rooms to spare, better suited for the purpose.

  Brother Henry sniffed significantly, extinguished the taper and departed, his monkish sandals slapping on floorboards that creaked alarmingly ’neath even his slight weight. It was miraculous, indeed, that the floor supported the great book-chests at all. How long afore it would surely collapse? I could but hope – seeing how Dame Fortune had turned against me of late – that this day would not be the day it succumbed to the burden of books.

  I had hardly seated myself upon the stool provided – it wobbled, I discovered – when Master Wanstead took a parchment from the box, undid the ribbon, unrolled the document and thrust it ’neath my nose. Of course, it promptly re-rolled itself. None had thought to provide weights to prevent this. Wanstead huffed and tutted and went off to remedy the lack by which time I had supplied my own river-pebbles from my scrip. He huffed again at having troubled to fetch a couple of brass weights in the shape of a matching pair of sleeping hounds.

  ‘You could have let sleeping dogs lie,’ I said. It was a feeble attempt to lighten the situation and I should have spared my breath.

  Wanstead looked at me, frowning. I suppose levity was beyond him. He bent low at my elbow, leaning forward over my shoulder.

  ‘Now this is the document of which I… er, his grace, the bishop has most doubt.’ He tapped at the parchment with an ink-stained finger. ‘’Tis a dubious piece of script. And what of this date, eh? See how it is written? A half-decent scribe would never write it thus and this here… Look at it!’

  ‘I will indeed look at it, sir, given leave… and room enough to do so.’

  He moved back a little.

  ‘You asked me here to examine documents concerning which you seem to have made up your mind beforehand. Why do you require my services, if you know already which be false or otherwise?’

  ‘Well… Bishop Kempe requires certainty in the matter before we take it through the Court of Chancery.’

  ‘Aye.’ I smiled up at him, all the while knowing how churchmen guard their cash more surely than their holy relics. ‘You would not want to waste coin, paying lawyers’ fees and then discover your opponents’ documents be true and your own of doubtful provenance.’

  ‘Exactly so.’

  ‘The humiliation would be beyond bearing… for you.’

  ‘Aye, so just see that you find the faults in this charter and this with the green ribbon. I marked it so you’d know.’

  ‘Sir. I will examine these in my own way. Do not tell me which you believe or desire to be found counterfeit. My mind must be unbiased, if you want a true account of them. Now, I pray you, step away and allow me to begin my work – unhindered, if you please.’

  Wanstead did as I asked but I felt he hovered, watching over me, as a kestrel with a vole in its sight. How did he expect me to work, thus observed?

  Nonetheless, I began examining the parchments. Master Collop had instructed me in the study of old documents, oftentimes of a Saturday afternoon, when my fellow apprentices were at leisure, enjoying themselves. Since they ne’er wanted the company of a lame duck, dragging along, slowing them down, I was content to learn other skills at my master’s behest. How to discover the true origins of a warrant, charter or deed was among the knowledge I thus acquired.

  The first three parchments passed any test I could apply – whether that would please the bishop or not. But the fourth was another matter. Supposedly a charter dated to the long-ago time of the first King Edward and the twenty-first
year of his reign, the parchment and the seal appended were in agreement with such an age. However, other details were not. Being a church document, the year 1293 was also designated as to the year of the reign of the Holy Father in Rome. I recalled that year as being extraordinary in that there had been no pope – my reason for remembering it. Yet the date was noted as the fifth year of Pope Nicholas IV. But Nicholas had died after just four years as the incumbent of the Holy See in 1292 and his successor, Celestine V, had not been elected until the summer of 1294. Had the charter been written at the time, the scribe and those concerned in the matter would have known that. It was a basic error. And the scribal hand was of a later style, likely of an early date in our own century. The charter involved a property in the county of Essex, given to St John’s Abbey in Colchester by the owner, Walter Marley, in exchange for prayers to be made in perpetuity for him and his heirs for the good of their souls. Quite how that concerned the Bishop of London was not my business. I set the document aside and made my notes upon my observations.

  By the end of the afternoon, I had perused every document and set seven of them to one side as being suspect. My reasons for selecting them were varied. Though dated to the late thirteenth and early fourteenth century, two of them were quite plainly written on new parchment, the waxen seals still bright red with no sign of ageing, the ink sharply black and the hand of the modern style. They were amateurish efforts at counterfeiting that anyone with eyes to see could have recognised as faked. Three were copies made of St John’s Abbey’s account books made at various dates betwixt the reign of the second King Richard and the fifth King Harry of Agincourt fame. They were of interest because in each case, the income from the property in question in the first charter had been inserted into the accounts afterwards, evidenced from the fact that despite the records being in different hands, the first and the last more than forty years apart, the insertions were all in the same hand and with the same misspelling of the word ‘sterling’ as ‘sterrling’.