A Shrine of Murders

by Paul Doherty

  Colum released her fingers and stepped back. Kathryn continued to glare at him. What in God’s name, she wondered, was he doing here with his sword-belt, his dagger and his sword? She felt tired and slightiy light-headed and walked over to her father’s great high-backed chair before the hearth. She sat down and stared into the fire. What had gone wrong? Life had once seemed so happy. She heard a movement beside her.

  ‘You’d better go,’ she said, not shifting her gaze. ‘You’d best go now.’

  Kathryn heard the Irishman walk away and waited for the door to open and shut. She closed her eyes and forced back the tears. She had been too harsh with Thomasina. She hadn’t even asked how the message had come, and the Irishman had only meant well. She heard Murtagh return and looked up. He had put his cloak on but he also held two wine-cups. He thrust one at her.

  ‘Drink, woman. For God’s sake, drink. Anyone can see you’re frightened.’

  He squatted down beside her and stared at the dying embers of the fire as if he wished he could pluck the message out and read what had startled this enigmatic woman.

  ‘I meant well,’ he said. ‘God save you, Mistress, I did. But what affects you now affects me. Was that message about the murders?’

  ‘No, it wasn’t.’

  ‘Then what could frighten you so much?’

  ‘It’s my business.’

  ‘Can I help?’

  Kathryn sipped from the wine and looked at him. He looks like a boy, she thought, open-faced and clear-eyed. Perhaps he could help. Then she remembered Alexander could also look like that, in the morning after he had shaved, washed and cleaned his mouth, as if purifying himself of the demons from the night before. She looked away and steeled herself. She would have loved to have screamed at Colum to get out, to leave her alone. She recalled the gibbet on the letter, the menacing words, and realised she might need, if not this man’s friendship, then at least his help. But not now! She could not open her heart like some chattering child in front of a stranger.

  ‘You are badly frightened, Mistress,’ he repeated.

  Kathryn sighed. ‘Yes, Colum. You understand the word “fear”?’

  The Irishman half-sighed and backed away.

  ‘When I was a young boy,’ he began softly, ‘ten or eleven summers old, I was a page, really a lackey, at the manor of Gowran, a great sprawling place in the countryside near Dublin. You have been to Ireland?’

  Kathryn shook her head.

  ‘A wild greenness,’ Colum continued. ‘Harsh land, bogs, swamps, forests, but also the most beautiful pasture land, rich and yielding; bubbling streams, meadows full of flowers. The Master of Gowran owned land like this and I was being trained in his household. Now there was a priest there, a worldly man. All he lived for was hunting. He loved his dogs and horses more than his parishioners. He said the quickest Mass in Christendom and seemed little concerned with matters of his soul. He drank and wenched and didn’t give a fig for God or man. He was small, fat-bellied, red-faced and had the coldest eyes I have ever seen. He was called the Dog Priest because of his hounds.’ Colum paused and drew his cloak more firmly about him. ‘I hated this man, his very touch made my skin crawl. One day he went out hunting, suffered a seizure and fell dead on the spot.’ Colum stared into the dying flames of the fire. ‘God knows why, but the Master of Gowran refused to have him laid to rest in the church. Instead he was buried on the brow of a hill under a cairn of stones.’ Colum paused and listened to the sounds of the night from the street outside.

  ‘Continue, Colum.’

  ‘The priest was buried at night. I remember the torch-lit procession, his coffin on a high-wheeled cart, and around it, men from the manor carrying torches. We went to the top of a hill. A terrible wind whipped our faces and we struggled to keep the torches alight. We tried to sing the “De Profundis”, but the words died on our lips. The sky became overcast. The only sound was the horrible howling of a dog baying at the night skies.’ Colum stopped to control those childhood terrors which had never left his soul. ‘We reached the top of the hill,’ he continued. ‘The coffin was lowered into the ground and covered with earth; then the peasants rolled huge boulders on top. The Master tried to say some words.’ Murtagh looked at Kathryn. ‘There was no priest. The clouds massed, whipped up by the wind. The rain began to fall, and all the time that terrible howling continued, so we made a sign of the cross, the horses were hitched and we left that dreadful hill.’ Colum grasped Kathryn by the wrist. ‘As we descended that hill, the rains stopped, the storm died and the Master had the sconce torches re-lit. I was sitting beside the driver on a cart, and suddenly, along the moonlit trackway, we saw a figure walking before us. He didn’t turn or stop. I thought it was someone who had left the funeral service early. The carter drew alongside him. I called out, “Good evening, stranger.”’ Colum’s grip on Kathryn’s smooth wrist tightened. ‘You must believe me, Mistress. That hooded, cowled figure turned and the white, ugly face of the Dog Priest, the very man we had just buried, was grinning at me.’ Murtagh gazed into the fire and then back at Kathryn. ‘Oh, Mistress Swinbrooke,’ he murmured, ‘I screamed and fell into a swoon. When I awoke I was back in the manor and the wife of the Master was bending over me, forcing wine between my lips. She asked me what had happened, and being a child, I told her. She looked troubled but shook her head; she said it was a phantasm and warned me to tell no one else.’

  ‘And did you?’ Kathryn asked.

  ‘No. I kept my thoughts to myself, but I knew others had seen him. Dreadful things began to happen in the area. The Master of Gowran had new walls built; stronger doors, which were bolted at night.’ Murtagh paused and drew a deep breath. ‘Oh, I heard the old women tell about the Deargdul. Do you know who they are?’

  Kathryn shook her head, though Colum noticed how tense and watchful she had become.

  ‘It’s Gaelic,’ Colum said. ‘Roughly translated, it means the “drinkers of blood”.’ Colum saw Kathryn shudder. ‘Two years later,’ he continued, ‘I left Gowran to serve as a squire within the Pale of Dublin, but I wanted to confront my fears. So one afternoon, I went back up that lonely hill to the Dog Priest’s grave.’

  ‘And what did you find?’

  ‘The stones were overturned,’ Colum whispered. ‘I later discovered that this had happened almost immediately after the Dog Priest’s funeral.’

  ‘And the grave?’

  ‘A dusty, empty pit.’

  Kathryn smiled and glanced at Murtagh.

  ‘An old Irish trick,’ she said, ‘to replace one fear with another.’ She crossed her arms and shivered. ‘A frightening story.’

  Colum thought of the Hounds of Ulster and their lifelong vendetta against him. ‘I suppose I spoke in parables,’ he replied. ‘I have fears which spring out from my past. I suspect the same is true of you, Mistress Swinbrooke.’ He tapped her on the wrist and this time she did not flinch. ‘But now I must leave you.’ He nodded at the ceiling. ‘I am sure Thomasina is lying above, her ear pressed to the floor-boards.’

  ‘No, I’m not, Irishman!’ the maid’s voice echoed down the dark passageway. ‘I know your sort. I’m here with the biggest broom I can lay my hands on!’

  Both Kathryn and Colum laughed. The Irishman sketched a bow and walked to the kitchen door.

  ‘Oh.’ He paused and spun round. ‘I also bring messages from your friends, Alderman Newington and Master Luberon. They have studied the names of the doctors and apothecaries in Canterbury and have drawn up a list of those they think could be suspects. We are to meet them tomorrow in the Guildhall at eleven o’clock. Good night, Mistress Swinbrooke. My thanks for your hospitality.’

  Kathryn smiled over her shoulder. ‘Good night to you, Master Murtagh, and may the angels speed you to your rest.’

  Kathryn’s joke was not lost on Colum as a very thick-set ‘angel’ in the person of Thomasina, who looked even more fearsome in a long nightgown buttoned closely at the neck, escorted him to the door and, with a loud sniff, slammed i
t firmly shut behind him. Colum grinned and made his way carefully across the cobbles to a small tavern on the far corner, the Black Jack, where he had stabled his horse. A sleepy ostler trotted it out and Colum, patting and talking to it gently, led it out into the street. He was still thinking of the story he had told Mistress Swinbrooke whilst ideas and thoughts sparkled like lights in his mind, images from the past: his mother, red-haired and white-faced, leaning over him; an old harpist thrilling him with the exploits of Cuchulain; a darkened passageway in some cold sombre tower in Ireland; dark green glens whipped up by a bold cutting wind; strange crosses inscribed in a language now forgotten; the thunder of horses’ hooves, the bloody swirl of battle and the sense of being lost, of having no family. Colum was about to mount his horse but stopped as a soft voice called out in Gaelic from the shadows.

  ‘Colum Ma fiach! Colum my son! Do not turn round. I bear messages from your brothers in Ireland.’

  The voice was gentle. Colum suspected it was an old man but sensed he was in no danger. The Hounds would have struck immediately.

  ‘They sent you this message, Colum Ma fiach. Say to Colum we have not forgotten him, but as the Bible says, “There is a season under Heaven for everything: a time for peace and a time for killing.” Remember that!’

  Colum, one hand resting on the horn of his saddle, waited for a while before turning round, but when he peered into the shadows, no one was there. He felt the hairs on the nape of his neck curl, as if some cold hand had gently caressed him. He thought of the white-faced Dog Priest; the voice reminded Colum of him. Somewhere in the streets beyond a dog suddenly howled, baying at the moon. Colum mounted, cursing the demons which still haunted him.

  Chapter 5

  Kathryn rose early the next morning. Thomasina was already bustling around the kitchen. She had started the fire, washed the metal cups and sharp-looking knives and, in accordance with instructions given by Kathryn’s father long ago, heated such implements over the fire. Kathryn, dressed in a long, tawny-coloured gown, stood and watched her. She forgot the reason her father had insisted on this; he had always recommended it after a journey to Oxford to study the writings in a precious manuscript kept in Duke Humphrey’s library. Agnes, still drugged with sleep, wandered round the kitchen like a dream-walker. Thomasina shouted and even gently cuffed the girl on the arm before losing her temper and telling her to go and wash her hands and face in the butt of cold water out in the garden.

  They breakfasted on bread and watered ale. Kathryn, lost in her own thoughts, remained impervious to Thomasina’s sulks and grumblings about entertaining ragged-arsed soldiers. When Thomasina found such tactics did not work, she eventually confronted Kathryn as she stood in her writing-chamber getting herbal pots out of a cupboard built against the wall.

  ‘Well, what do you think?’ Thomasina snapped.

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Kathryn, do not play games. What kind of man is Murtagh?’

  Kathryn smiled. ‘Of mankind,’ she quipped.

  ‘And that letter?’ Thomasina added accusingly.

  ‘Just someone’s stupid malice.’

  ‘What do such notes say? It’s not the first!’

  Kathryn closed her eyes. She had vowed not to brood over the malicious letters. They came from a person with a sick mind. Perhaps they would stop if she did not react.

  ‘So,’ Thomasina persisted defiantly. ‘The Irishman?’

  ‘A mere shadow. I hardly think of him.’

  Thomasina let out a great sigh and flounced away.

  ‘What do I really think of him?’ Kathryn murmured to herself. She stared at the small earthenware jar, its top covered by a scrap of hardened parchment held in place by a piece of twine. ‘Strange,’ she answered her own question. ‘I find him strange and dangerous.’ She heard a knock at the door, the first patient of the morning.

  She tied her hair more firmly back, readjusted her veil and slipped her feet into leather-thonged pattens. Her first patient, Beatrice, the daughter of Henry the sack-maker, was an augury of how difficult the day would be. Henry was a small man with popping eyes, his bald head covered in fluffs of hair. With his fat jowls and protuberant lips, he always reminded Kathryn of a rather large carp. His daughter Beatrice, gaunt, white-faced, dull of eye and slack of jaw, was just recovering from a fit she had suffered the previous evening.

  ‘What can I do?’ the little man wailed, pushing his poor daughter down on a stool in the kitchen.

  Kathryn sat opposite and held the girl’s hand.

  ‘You shouldn’t have brought her,’ she murmured. Her eyes pleaded with Henry. ‘There is little I can do.’

  Henry shuffled from foot to foot. ‘Venta, the wise woman,’ he retorted, ‘says a hole should be opened into her skull to let the evil humours out.’

  Kathryn tightened her lips. Venta was a grey-haired, evil-smelling old harridan. She lived in the slums to the north of the city and made a fortune peddling coloured water or making outrageous claims. Kathryn peered at Beatrice’s eyes, noticing how the irises were enlarged. She took a piece of wool and dabbed at the spittle trickling from the corner of the girl’s mouth.

  ‘If you follow Venta’s advice,’ she whispered gently, ‘the girl will die. I have seen it before.’

  Henry pointed a finger at the blooding cups and small row of sharp knives lying on the table.

  ‘Then why not bleed her?’

  Kathryn stared into Beatrice’s listless face.

  ‘If I do that, I’ll kill her.’

  She went back to her small medical chamber, took two pieces of parchment and scraped a small portion of powder into each of these and returned to the kitchen.

  ‘Mix both of these with watered wine.’

  ‘What are they?’ Henry asked.

  ‘A mixture of patis flora and poppy seed.’ Kathryn pressed them into the sack-maker’s reluctant hand. ‘I am sorry there is nothing else I can do,’ she added. ‘Except, as I have said before, when your daughter has one of these attacks, make sure she lies straight and that her tongue is free in her mouth. When she recovers give her good broth and a cup of full-bodied wine, and in the evening, this medicine mixed in watered wine.’

  Henry’s lower lip jutted out farther. Kathryn thought he was about to refuse.

  ‘I am not God,’ she murmured.

  Thomasina came up behind them. ‘You could pray,’ the maid said gently.

  ‘Where?’ Henry snapped. ‘At the shrine? We have heard the stories; there’s a killer loose!’

  The sack-maker threw his coins down on the table, and with the medicine clutched in one hand and steering his daughter Beatrice with the other, he stomped out of the room.

  Other patients arrived. Torquil the carpenter, who had cut his hand and neglected to wash it. Now the wound was full of greenish-yellow pus. Kathryn cleaned it with vinegar and wine, which made Torquil yelp. Thomasina told him off for being such a baby, then applied a mixture of dried milk containing powder ground from dried moss. Mollyns the miller came next, the beak of a magpie slung round his neck. He held the right side of his jaw and moaned constantly. His whey-faced wife, Alice, trailing behind him, gave a graphic description of his savage toothache.

  ‘He can’t sleep at night,’ she wailed. ‘And neither can I. He is like a dog with three legs. The corn hasn’t been ground. He snaps at his customers and takes his staff to the apprentice.’

  ‘Why the magpie beak?’ Kathryn asked, pushing Mollyns down into the chair and asking Thomasina to bring a candle closer.

  ‘I was always told it would cure the toothache,’ Mollyns moaned.

  Kathryn wrinkled her nose. ‘It smells. Open your mouth, Mollyns my lad.’

  The miller obeyed. Kathryn brought the candle close, making sure it didn’t scorch Mollyn’s tangle of beard and moustache. She stared into the cavernous mouth, trying not to show her distaste at the sour, fetid breath. Mollyn’s teeth, surprisingly enough, were quite white and clean, except one at the back, which looked black and
ugly, the gum around it red and inflamed. Kathryn handed the candle back to Thomasina.

  ‘How do you keep your teeth so white and clean?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m not here for the bloody good ones!’ the miller snapped, his little piggy eyes glaring at Kathryn. ‘Your father wouldn’t have asked such a stupid question!’

  ‘Shut up, Mollyns!’ Thomasina jibed. ‘I have known you since you were a lad. You always had a big mouth and an itchy hand. The toothache is God’s judgement on you for using faulty weights and mixing dust with your flour.’

  ‘No, he does not!’ the miller’s wife shouted back. ‘And I know you, Thomasina!’

  ‘Good, good,’ Kathryn intervened. ‘Then we all know each other. I asked your husband a simple question. Do you clean your teeth with salt and vinegar?’

  ‘Never touch the stuff.’

  ‘He likes apples,’ Alice said, coming closer. ‘He’s always eating them. We’ve got a small orchard. He eats more than the pig does.’

  Kathryn smiled her thanks and vowed to remember this. She had observed the same before with Falloton the fruiterer and Horkle the grocer. Had her father been right? He had been forever claiming that the monks of Christ-church had healthy teeth and gums because they ate more fruit than meat. Mollyns suddenly moaned and Kathryn stared down at his red, angry, wart-covered face.

  ‘Mollyns,’ she said. ‘I can do nothing. The tooth must come out and you must go to a barber-surgeon. But look.’ Kathryn opened the case of ointments Thomasina always put on the table. She took a piece of washed wool, rolled it into a small ball and soaked it in oil of cloves. She told Mollyns to open his mouth and pressed this on the aching tooth, making the miller yelp. She then handed a phial of the oil to the miller’s wife.

  ‘Until he goes to a barber-surgeon and gets it plucked out, do the same again at noon and before he retires.’

  Kathryn suddenly wrinkled her nose. Alice looked at her guiltily.