The Eye of God

by Paul Doherty

  And before Thomasina could think of a suitable reply, Gloucester had led them out into the passageway, down a gallery and into another chamber very similar to the one they had left. As soon as they were inside, Gloucester gripped Colum by the arm.

  ‘We know so little about Brandon,’ he murmured, ‘or those from Warwick’s retinue who fled from Barnet.’ He gnawed his lip. ‘They’re probably across the seas, though we found the corpse of one of them, the captain of Warwick’s guard, Reginald Moresby, in a ditch near Rochester. He was still wearing the Bear and Ragged Staff livery. We only recognised him by a signet ring.’ Gloucester pulled a face. ‘His features were unrecognisable.’

  ‘Who killed him?’ Colum asked.

  Gloucester shrugged.

  ‘Probably footpads, outlaws.’ He sighed. ‘If we’d only discovered Brandon’s whereabouts earlier, but the war, the chaos . . .’ His voice trailed off and he stared down the chamber.

  ‘Moresby may have had the pendant?’ Kathryn remarked.

  ‘We doubt that. If he had, outlaws would soon try and sell it, yet there’s not even been a whisper of the pendant’s whereabouts.’

  ‘Of course,’ Colum spoke up, ‘with Moresby dead and the others fled, Brandon is our only link to what really happened to the Eye of God.’

  ‘Even though he died,’ Gloucester added wryly, ‘in rather mysterious circumstances. Now you must discover the truth.’ He smiled bleakly. ‘Whatever that may be.’

  Gloucester walked over and had words with the clerk. He then came back, this time ignoring both Kathryn and Thomasina. He stood in that lopsided fashion before Colum, fingering a piece of parchment, his lower lip caught between his fine white teeth.

  ‘The Eye of God should concern you in more ways than one, Master Murtagh. You and Brandon may have been the last to see it. Now – I tell you this in confidence – my father took the pendant from Saint Patrick’s Cathedral in Dublin when he was Lord Lieutenant there.’ Gloucester caught the Irishman’s swiftly intaken breath. ‘Oh, yes, there was much debate about whether he took it or was given it. As you may know, Irishman, that pendant has a long and tangled history.’ Gloucester stroked his chin with one bejewelled finger. ‘Legend has it that the pendant was fashioned out of gold once owned by the Druids whilst the Eye of God comes from the crown of the ancient kings of Ireland.’ Gloucester shrugged. ‘To put it succinctly, Master Murtagh, some of your compatriots in Ireland want the Eye of God back! Those same men who intend to take your head!’

  ‘The Hounds of Ulster!’ Colum exclaimed.

  ‘The same.’ Gloucester looked down at the scrap of parchment. ‘And so I give you two pieces of information. First, merchants in Bristol talk of an Irishman, with long red hair and a black patch over his eye, asking questions about a golden pendant of one of the leading silversmiths in the city. Secondly, two weeks later, the same Irishman is in London. He not only makes similar enquiries amongst the goldsmiths of Cheapside but also frequents the taverns used by clerks of the chancery. He asked them whether they knew the whereabouts of his old comrade-in-arms, Colum Murtagh.’

  Colum paled and stared bleakly at Gloucester.

  ‘You know the man?’ Kathryn asked anxiously.

  ‘Padraig Fitzroy,’ Colum replied slowly. ‘Once, a lifetime ago, we were roaring boys running through the dark woods and green glens outside the Pale of Dublin. Young puppies of the Hounds of Ulster.’

  Gloucester threw the scrap of parchment down on the table.

  ‘I have done what I promised,’ he said. ‘I can do no more.’

  He led them out onto the gallery, down the stairs past the silent guards and into the street, where he abruptly left them. Colum, Kathryn and Thomasina stood for a while lost in their own thoughts, ignoring the clamour and noise of the London tradesmen. Colum shook himself from his reverie and grasped Kathryn’s arm.

  ‘Do you remember the “Pardoner’s Tale?”’ he abruptly asked.

  ‘Oh, no!’ Kathryn groaned in exasperation. ‘Colum, we both love The Canterbury Tales, but not now!’

  Colum smiled weakly. ‘No, when Gloucester was talking, I remembered those three revellers who went looking for Death and found it in a pot of gold. Only this time it’s a golden pendant, a beautiful, brilliant sapphire, and there’s more than three prepared to kill for it!’

  ‘Sombre thoughts on an empty stomach,’ Thomasina grumbled, ‘only deepen melancholy.’

  ‘Did Chaucer say that?’ Colum asked.

  ‘No, he bloody well didn’t, but it’s still true!’

  Colum laughingly apologised. They walked along the street and down an alley-way towards the gold-painted sign of a spacious tavern. Inside, the taproom was thronged by traders, tinkers, pedlars, all snatching something to eat before the day’s trade resumed. They were busily catcalling three one-legged men who performed a strange dance in return for pennies tossed at them by the customers. Kathryn looked pityingly at the beggars and the small boy who helped the dance with a reedy tune on a flute whilst, beside him, an old woman beat lack-lustrely on a small drum.

  ‘London’s a cruel place,’ she observed.

  ‘And noisy,’ Colum replied.

  He grabbed a scullion by the shoulder, found the landlord and hired a small chamber above-stairs with a table and stools. A servant brought up a jug of watered wine and a beef pie, the meat still fresh and not too heavily disguised with herbs and spices. For a while all three ate silently, till Colum pushed away his trencher of iron-hard bread.

  ‘A strange man, Gloucester,’ he began. ‘He and his House of Secrets.’ He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and stared at Kathryn, who was sipping carefully from the pewter cup. ‘Once,’ Colum continued, ‘during the war, when Edward of York had to flee to the Low Countries, we were staying in the port of Dordrecht, where there was a house with a hall of mirrors. It was owned by a glass-maker who had fashioned long mirrors for the amusement of some wealthy nobleman. Apparently this nobleman fell on hard times, so the glass-maker seized the mirrors. He installed them in his own hall and charged visitors to go in and look. I visited the place, being bored with nothing to do; the hall was small but every wall was covered by those mirrors. Each gave a distorted view of what you saw.’

  Thomasina clicked angrily with her tongue.

  ‘What are you saying, Irishman? Why do you have to speak in parables?’

  ‘Hush, Thomasina!’ Kathryn interrupted. ‘Colum speaks the truth. Everything we learnt this morning was like that hall of mirrors, distorted, twisted. Am I right, Colum?’

  The Irishman glared angrily at Thomasina.

  ‘Let’s reflect on what was shown to us,’ he said, pushing the cups aside and leaning his elbows on the table. ‘First, our noble king’s family. Edward’s infatuated with his queen but she hates his two brothers, particularly Clarence, who has already tried to betray the House of York. Secondly, this sapphire, the Eye of God, why is it so precious to the King? And why now? Thirdly, did Brandon have it? And, if so, where is it now? Fourthly, Gloucester’s visit to the House of Secrets; we know your husband left Canterbury hale and hearty, but did he die at Barnet with the rest?’ Colum smiled at Kathryn. ‘At least we can exorcise two ghosts: that your father may have murdered Wyville or that Alexander committed suicide.’ Colum stared down at the table-top. ‘Perhaps someone else in Canterbury already knew the truth, that’s why those blackmail letters stopped. Don’t you agree, Thomasina?’

  The nurse stared stonily back. She had vowed to tell no one how she had discovered that Widow Gumple had been the perpetrator. Or that she, Thomasina, had threatened that pompous bitch with the most dire warnings if any further letters were sent.

  Colum shrugged off Thomasina’s silence.

  ‘Finally, we have the Hounds of Ulster, who want not only my head but the Eye of God.’

  ‘Were you a traitor to them?’ Kathryn asked.

  Colum rolled the wine-cup between his hands.

  ‘Never! When I was captured, I was, oh, fif
teen, sixteen summers old. I was sentenced to die and was on the gallow steps when York pardoned me.’ He put the cup down. ‘The rest, apart from one other, were hanged, including Fitzroy’s brother. Once my former comrades heard what had happened, they put the cart before the horse. I became the traitor responsible for the capture and execution of all those men.’ He smiled bitterly. ‘And there’s the rub. It looks that way. I can’t protest my innocence, and if I did, they wouldn’t believe me. Only one other person knows the truth, John Tuam. He was also pardoned, being two years younger than I am.’

  ‘And where is he now?’

  ‘A Dominican lay brother in Blackfriars here in London. Before I leave the city, I’ll send him a warning. A simple message, “Fitzroy is hunting us.” At least he will be warned.’

  A short while later they left the tavern. Colum stopped at a parchment-seller’s where he wrote a short note and paid the apprentice a penny to take it to Brother John Tuam at the monastery of Blackfriars. After that they went down to Queenshithe where Kathryn became engaged in sharp but successful negotiations with various spice merchants over the purchase of saffron, mint, angelica seeds, calamine, powdered cloves, basil and thyme. Once she was satisfied, Kathryn visited a journeyman’s yard and entered into an indenture, drawn up by a tired-looking clerk, regarding the hiring of carts to bring the same spices to her house in Ottemelle Lane, Canterbury. By the time she had finished, darkness was beginning to fall. Colum, the thought of Fitzroy’s face still clear in his mind, insisted that they return to the tavern and begin preparations for an early return to Canterbury the following morning.

  In the monastery at Blackfriars, Brother John Tuam had received Colum’s note. He studied it carefully, threw it in a brazier and went to pray in the monastery church. The note had been a sharp reminder from his past. He had left the violence, the clash of swords, the sudden ambush. Like Colum, he had stood in the courtyard of Dublin Castle with the hangman’s noose about his neck whilst his comrades, one after another, had been forced up the ladder, then turned off to dangle and jerk like broken dolls. Only he and Colum had been spared. Murtagh had entered the service of York but John believed his pardon was a sign from God. He had entered the Dominican order in Dublin. Four years later, at his own request, he had been sent to the Blackfriars Monastery in London. John stared up at the huge cross and the carved, writhing figure of the crucified Christ.

  ‘I had forgotten the past,’ he murmured. ‘But oh, sweet Lord, the past has not forgotten me. I am no traitor, no Judas. I have no man’s blood on my hands!’

  He was still praying intensely when the master almoner tapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘Brother John, Brother John, is there anything wrong?’

  Tuam raised his face and stared at the old friar.

  ‘No, Father, just remembering past misdeeds,’ he joked.

  The almoner patted him gently on the shoulder.

  ‘The past does not concern God,’ the almoner remarked. ‘But the present does. John, we have guests.’

  Tuam smiled and rose. He genuflected towards the glowing sanctuary lamp and followered Father Almoner through the cloisters into a large open yard before the main gate. The place was now thronged by the beggars, the pitiful and pathetic wrecks of London life: the cripples, the maimed, those incapable of fending for themselves. Every dawn and dusk they thronged into Blackfriars for a loaf of bread, some dried meat and a cup of ale. On long trestle tables the brothers already had the food ready, and the dirty, huddled beggars massed, mouths salivating at the sweet, savoury smells. John seized a basket and moved amongst them. He tried to smile at the disfigured faces, one man with his eye plucked out, another with his nose slit from top to bottom. One woman had an ear missing, another, both legs cut off beneath the knee. Hands grimy, caked in dirt, thrust forward.

  ‘May Christ bless you, my brother. May Christ bless you, my sister.’

  John repeated the phrase he always used at the distribution of bread. He reached the back of the crowd. A man lay huddled there. John glimpsed red hair as he pulled the threadbare blanket back. He shook the man, pushing a small loaf of bread under his nose.

  ‘Christ have mercy on you, brother.’

  Suddenly the man turned, his face full, fresh and strong. He seized John’s hand in an iron grip and, before Tuam could pull away, stuck the long dagger straight into his chest.

  ‘May Christ have mercy on you, Judas!’ Padraig Fitzroy hissed.

  And even before Tuam slumped to the ground, the assassin had fled like a shadow out through the open gate.

  Chapter 3

  Kathryn and Colum sat before the table in the stark upper chamber of Canterbury Castle waiting for the others to take their seats. Outside the arrow-slit windows the sky began to darken. Kathryn and Colum had returned to the city earlier the same day and immediately Colum had demanded an audience with the Constable and the principal members of his household. Now they trooped in casting long dark shadows against the dimly lit walls. Sir William Webster, his rubicund face looking worried, was constantly dabbing his balding pate, forehead and shaking jowls with a grimy rag. Fletcher, his deputy, thin and gaunt, had an ashen face and tired eyes under a mop of greasy hair. His leather jacket was worn and the white shirt underneath none too clean. Gabele, the master-at-arms, was a typical soldier, hair closely cropped, his tanned face lean and lined. He stood with his great thick military coat wrapped close about him. Father Peter, the chaplain, looked grey-faced and fussy. Beside him was the waspish, vinegar-faced clerk Fitz-Steven, with bulbous eyes and a slack mouth, the oil on his thick black hair making him look even more distasteful. The introductions were quickly made. Kathryn caught a flicker of contempt from the priest and the clerk. She stared stonily back, being used to such silent insults.

  ‘Why is the good doctor here?’ Fitz-Steven rudely interrupted Colum’s opening courtesies.

  ‘I am here, Master Clerk,’ Kathryn replied, ‘because His Grace the King demands it.’ She chose to ignore Colum’s warning glance. ‘He is most concerned at the death of a prisoner, the squire Brandon. When did he die?’ she continued remorselessly.

  Webster’s little, darting eyes became more agitated. He wetted his thick lips, obviously frightened that the King saw Brandon’s death as his responsibility. ‘When did he die?’ Colum repeated.

  ‘A month ago, on Midsummer’s Eve,’ the Constable stuttered. ‘But it was not our fault. He was well housed and fed. He died of a fever.’

  ‘Who tended him?’ Kathryn asked.

  ‘I did.’ The priest spoke up. He smiled thinly at Kathryn. ‘He had a fever. There was little we could do. He died just before dusk on Midsummer’s Eve. He was placed in a coffin and lies buried in the small graveyard behind the castle outhouses.’

  ‘Did he say,’ Kathryn continued, ‘anything about a pendant or a sapphire called the Eye of God?’

  All looked confused and shook their heads.

  ‘How was he captured?’ Colum asked.

  ‘On the road north of Canterbury,’ Fletcher squeaked, straining his scrawny neck so his Adam’s apple bobbed like a cork on water. ‘I captured him. We had heard of the King’s victory at Barnet. His clerks had already sent out warrants ordering us to arrest Nicholas Faunte and other malcontents. I took some mounted men-at-arms and scouted the main road. We found Brandon’s horse standing in a field, beside it the squire was sleeping as peacefully as a babe.’ Fletcher nodded meaningfully. ‘It was obvious he was a rebel. His horse was exhausted, Brandon himself still wore a mail hauberk and he was covered from head to toe in mud and dirt.’

  ‘What date was this?’ Kathryn asked.

  Fletcher drummed his fingers on the table-top.

  ‘It was a Sunday; yes, Sunday, April twenty-eight.’

  Two weeks after Barnet, Kathryn thought. She looked at the assembled men, a motley group with their mixture of disdain and fear. Kathryn reflected on what she had learnt: Brandon had been captured on April 28, 1471, and six days later, the last of th
e Lancastrians had been defeated at Tewkesbury. The kingdom had been plunged into confusion. By the time the Yorkists realised that their search for the Eye of God was futile and began to suspect Brandon, he’d died in a castle cell on June 23.

  ‘And he was brought direct to the castle?’ Colum asked.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Webster replied. ‘I interrogated him here in this very chamber, he made no pretence at hiding who he was. Rather proud that he had been the personal squire of Richard Neville, the dead Earl of Warwick. So I clapped him in a dungeon and wrote to the Chancellor in London. However, the civil war was continuing, what with Queen Margaret’s landing in the West Country, the bloody fight at Tewkesbury Field and the general lawlessness, so no reply was heard until about two weeks ago. Richard, Duke of Gloucester, sent one of his squires to interrogate Brandon, but by then the fellow was dead.’

  ‘How was Brandon in himself?’ Kathryn asked.

  ‘I was his gaoler,’ Gabele said gruffly, ignoring Kathryn but staring at his old comrade Murtagh. ‘We moved him from the castle pit, that’s the lowest dungeon, and into a more comfortable cell just beneath the keep. He was a soldier, fairly cheerful, talkative but said nothing amiss. He seemed rather relieved that the war was ended. He was sad at the Earl’s death but hopeful that the King, in his fresh batch of pardons, would order his release.’

  ‘In the six weeks he was here, did Brandon ever talk about the Eye of God?’ Kathryn asked.

  Gabele shook his head. ‘What is this diamond?’

  ‘It belonged to his dead master, the Earl of Warwick.’

  ‘No. No.’ Gabele straightened up on his stool. ‘But he did talk of Warwick, especially his death.’

  ‘Repeat what he said,’ Colum ordered.

  ‘Well, he described the last moments at Barnet. How the battle line buckled. The confusion over Oxford’s arrival and Warwick’s men fleeing into the darkness. He said he went back to the horse lines. He took the Earl’s horse and shouted at him to come. But Warwick was weighted down by his armour, the field was muddy and York’s soldiers were beginning to appear. Warwick told them to flee. He ordered him to do so and Brandon obeyed. He rode off into the darkness, the howls of triumph from the enemy soldiers ringing in his ears. He realised his master had been killed. Brandon still felt ashamed, but what was there he could have done?’