by Paul Doherty
Colum nodded sympathetically.
‘What else?’ Kathryn asked sharply, resentful at the knowing looks passed between Colum and Gabele.
‘What do you mean?’ Gabele shifted his hands slightly.
‘Well,’ Kathryn began, then leaned her hands on the table. She momentarily wondered if Thomasina was scrubbing the medicine table at the house in Ottemelle Lane. Kathryn expected a long troop of patients the following morning. She rubbed her eyes. She felt tired and silently vowed she would write down everything she learnt at this meeting.
‘What I mean,’ she continued, ‘is that Brandon fled from Barnet Field early in the hours of Sunday, the fourteenth of April. He was captured two weeks later. Didn’t he say where he had been and what he had done?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Webster replied. ‘Brandon had been fearful of looters and the usual depredations which take place after every battle. Master Murtagh, you are a soldier. You know what happens. Some take prisoners, others think it’s easier to slit a man’s throat.’
‘What had Brandon been doing?’ Kathryn interrupted coldly.
‘He had been hiding out in the countryside, buying food from the occasional farm, trying to conceal himself from the King’s soldiers.’
‘Did you ask him why he was coming to Canterbury?’
Webster blinked. He glanced pointedly at this rather cold, formidable young woman who refused to be deflected from her questions.
The Constable looked at Colum, who nodded imperceptibly. Kathryn caught the glance.
‘Please answer my question,’ she insisted.
‘I asked him that,’ Webster replied tactfully. ‘To put it bluntly, Mistress Swinbrooke, Brandon said he was tired, cold and hungry. He intended to reach Canterbury and take sanctuary at Christchurch Priory.’
Colum was about to take over the questioning but Kathryn put her hand on his arm.
‘Sir William, when Brandon was arrested and brought here, you knew he was a fugitive from the battle.’
Webster nodded.
‘And you must have interrogated him at length. Did you keep a record?’
‘Yes, yes, we did,’ Fitz-Steven the clerk interrupted, now slightly overawed by Kathryn and eager to please.
‘Sir William, shall I fetch it?’
Webster agreed and they all sat in silence until Fitz-Steven breathlessly reappeared, a piece of parchment in one hand, a candle in the other. The clerk sat down on his stool.
‘“Robert Brandon,”’ he began to read, ‘“Fugitive from the battle of Barnet, squire to the late dead traitor called Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, captured by Fletcher, deputy constable, in the Potter’s Field just north of Canterbury. He had little on his person except a belt, dagger, wallet and a slightly dented sword.”’ Fitz-Steven drew in his breath. ‘“He made a full confession of his treason and threw himself upon the mercy of the King.”’ Fitz-Steven raised his head, his finger running along the small, cramped writing. ‘“Since Barnet, Brandon had separated from his companions and had been hiding in the countryside north of the city. He had decided not to visit the place of his birth where he had kith and kin, the parish of Saint James the Less at Maidstone.”’ Fitz-Steven tossed the parchment down on the table and shrugged. ‘That is all, Mistress.’
‘So he said nothing about his companions?’ Colum asked.
Webster shook his head. ‘No, Brandon claimed that after the battle, everyone made their own escape, though Reginald Moresby, captain of Warwick’s bodyguard, did try and impose some order.’
‘He’s dead,’ Kathryn intervened. ‘Moresby’s corpse was found, badly disfigured, in a ditch outside Rochester.’
Webster shrugged. ‘What does it matter? Brandon would keep quiet about his friends. Apart from him and Moresby, the rest of Warwick’s retinue probably reached a port and crossed to foreign parts.’
‘Did Brandon form any special friendships during his six weeks’ captivity?’
‘Not really.’ Gabele shook his head. ‘My daughter Margotta visited him a few times. I spoke to him about the war but nothing untoward. There was another prisoner in the next cell and there’s a small gap in the dividing wall. I suspect Brandon and he often whispered together.’
‘Who was this?’ Colum asked.
‘A murderer, Nicholas Sparrow,’ Webster replied. ‘He’d been involved in a brawl in a tavern in Westgate and stabbed a man in the throat. We were holding him here for the next Assize.’
‘And where is Sparrow now?’
Webster’s head drooped. The rest of his household looked equally discomfited.
‘Well?’ Colum repeated. ‘The murderer, Nicholas Sparrow, where is he?’
‘He escaped,’ Webster rasped. ‘For God’s sake, Master Murtagh, it was easy. Both he and Brandon, as is the custom, were allowed an hour on the green in front of the keep.’ Webster chewed his lip. ‘Now we have few soldiers here. Some joined Faunte, others went south to meet the King whilst, after the war, the remaining garrison were used to patrol the roads and river crossings. For God’s sake, that was how we caught Brandon in the first place!’
Kathryn remembered the castle as she had entered it. The great forbidding keep of flint and mortar, the darkening, rain-sogged green and, beyond that, the archways and high walls of the inner and outer baileys.
‘How on earth did he escape?’ she asked. ‘Surely he may have known something about Brandon?’
‘All we know,’ Gabele replied defiantly, ‘is that Brandon went out for his hour of fresh air, then he was taken back. Sparrow followed. It was early in the evening. The sun was beginning to set. Sparrow was alone on the green, but we thought there was no danger, because he was chained and manacled at both wrist and ankle. Somehow or other he inveigled the turnkey to let him go over to a wall to relieve himself, there’s a small recess there. Sparrow apparently wrapped the chain round the turnkey’s neck, took the keys, released his manacles, changed clothes with the dead man and walked through the castle gates into Winchepe.’
‘Some time elapsed,’ Webster continued the sorry tale, ‘before it was realised that Sparrow was missing. Everyone thought he had been taken back to his cell. Only when food and drink were brought was the mistake discovered.’ Webster sighed wearily. ‘A report has been drafted to the Sheriff. Proclamations were issued for Sparrow’s arrest but now he could be in Wales, Scotland, or even across the Narrow Seas.’
Kathryn glanced at Colum. She wondered if he shared her suspicions. Had Sparrow managed to wriggle into Brandon’s confidence? Had he escaped after making some pact about the Eye of God?
‘How long after this did Brandon fall ill?’
‘Oh, about five days,’ Peter the chaplain said. ‘At first I thought it was nothing serious, but then the fever became hot, disturbing the humours of the body. I tried what remedies I knew, but he died. I gave him the last rites. The body was anointed. I sang a Mass in the castle chapel and poor Brandon was buried with the rest of the forgotten prisoners in the old graveyard.’
‘And there’s been no sign of Sparrow?’ Colum asked abruptly.
Webster shook his head. ‘None whatsoever.’
Somewhere high on the castle walls, a sentry called to a comrade; a bell began to toll, the sign for the garrison to assemble for evening prayer before supper in the hall. The men round the table grew restless. Webster pointedly looked at the flame of the hour-candle edging its way down to the next red hour ring.
‘If there are no more questions?’ he murmured.
‘Are you certain,’ Colum asked, getting to his feet, ‘of your allegiance to the King? Are you all sure that Brandon made no mention to the pendant or the Eye of God?’
All brusquely agreed. Colum stretched and glanced at Webster.
‘And Brandon said nothing else?’
The Constable shook his head, but Kathryn wondered why Webster still looked so nervous and agitated.
‘And, Father—’ Colum stared at the priest. ‘You anointed him and placed the lid over the c
offin?’
‘Yes, I have said.’
‘Tell me, Father,’ Kathryn spoke up. ‘I know you can’t break the seal of confession, but you must have shriven Brandon?’
The priest nodded his head in agreement.
‘So,’ Kathryn continued, ‘he may have made some reference, when talking to you, about the whereabouts of the pendant?’
The priest just stared fixedly back. Kathryn realised he would not even discuss the matter.
‘Very well,’ she changed tack. ‘Who nursed him?’
‘My daughter,’ Gabele snapped. ‘Sometimes Father Peter did. Why do you ask?’
‘Well . . .’ Kathryn’s eyes rounded in mock innocence. ‘Master Gabele, you are a soldier, well acquainted with camp fever. Such men often babble in their delirium.’
‘Brandon didn’t,’ Gabele retorted. ‘And it wasn’t that sort of fever. He just grew listless, hot and clammy.’ Gabele turned to the Constable. ‘Sir William, we have other matters to attend to. Master Murtagh, are there any more questions?’
‘No, but perhaps we can visit the cells where Brandon and Sparrow were kept. Oh, and the prisoner’s belongings?’
‘Kept in a sealed bag in the castle storeroom.’
‘We’ll see them,’ Colum demanded. ‘Who else was in the castle when all this happened?’
The Constable shrugged. ‘Just the small garrison, servants, scullions.’
‘No, I mean, did anyone else approach the prisoner?’
‘As I have said,’ Gabele answered, ‘my daughter, Margotta. Oh, yes, and the Righteous Man.’
‘The Righteous Man?’ Colum queried.
‘Well, he calls himself that. He’s a pardoner with a host of relics and indulgences from all over Christendom. A strange character.’
‘I gave him lodgings,’ Webster interrupted. ‘He said the inns and taverns in Canterbury were too expensive.’ Webster waved his fingers in the air. ‘God knows, there’s enough room here.’
Kathryn could only agree. Canterbury was like a magnet to relic-sellers, religious quacks, counterfeit-men, all the human fleas who battened on people’s superstitions. In summer every hostelry in Canterbury was packed with pilgrims; the Constable, like private householders, would always be prepared to sell the space of a bed.
‘We should see him,’ Kathryn insisted. ‘Indeed, anyone who spoke to the prisoner.’
The Constable agreed and the meeting broke up. Colum and Kathryn watched the different members of the household leave the room. Most of them were grumbling, throwing dark glances, especially at Kathryn, insulted at being interrogated by a woman. Fletcher, Fitz-Steven, Webster and Gabele gathered at the door, talking in murmurs.
‘You are a hard woman.’ Colum spoke out of the corner of his mouth. ‘Your questions were most insistent.’
‘I’m a busy woman!’ Kathryn snapped. ‘Why can’t people answer a question put to them?’
Colum leaned across and stared into her face.
‘What do you think?’ he asked.
‘Someone’s lying. Three things strike me as wrong. First, Brandon’s death: he was a sturdy young man in a comfortable cell. Why did he succumb to gaol fever with such strange symptoms? Most cases suffer high fever and become delirious.’
‘And secondly?’ Colum asked.
‘I find it strange that Brandon made no mention of the Eye of God. Finally, Sparrow’s escape. The fellow was well named,’ Kathryn wryly concluded. ‘He literally flew over the castle walls!’
Colum tapped his fingers on his dagger hilt.
‘Such escapes are common,’ he replied. ‘There’s even a bill before the next Parliament listing the complaints from the worthy burgesses about how prisoners can walk from gaols or clinks with effortless ease. As for the gaol fever . . .’
Colum was about to continue when Gabele came over. He totally ignored Kathryn as he clasped Murtagh’s hand.
‘It was good to meet again, Irishman. I’m pleased fortune has favoured you.’ Gabele turned and smiled dazzlingly at Kathryn. ‘Mistress Swinbrooke, I apologise for my sharp retorts, but as this bog-trotter here will explain, my manners are more of the camp than the court.’
Kathryn, surprised, accepted the rather nicely turned apology.
‘I had not intended to be so insistent,’ she stammered.
Gabele held a hand up. ‘Enough. Come, I’ll show you what you want to see.’
He led them out of the chamber and onto the bottom floor of the keep. He unlocked an iron-studded door and, taking a pitch torch from the wall, led them down to the cells. There were six in all, three on either side of the dank, dimly lit passageway. The one Gabele opened was large and airy, with a grille high in the wall to allow in some light and fresh air. The walls were lime-washed and the room had a table, a battered stool and a simple crucifix on the wall. The rushes on the floor were surprisingly clean. Gabele pointed to the metal holders for candles as well as the oil-lamp on the table.
‘This is where Brandon was kept,’ he explained.
Then the master-at-arms lay on the bed, drew his dagger, chipped away at the wall and loosened a brick. ‘Apparently the same can be done in the other cell.’
‘Was that Sparrow’s work or Brandon’s?’ Colum asked.
Gabele shook his head. ‘Oh, no, some long-forgotten prisoner.’ He slid the brick back and got to his feet. ‘We should hire a mason to have it put right.’ He grinned. ‘But, there again, the Constable’s a kind man. Very few people escape from Canterbury Castle and it’s a mercy for the prisoners to talk to one another.’
‘Who is allowed down here?’ Kathryn asked.
‘Well, myself, indeed, and any of those you met in the chamber above. Mistress Swinbrooke, we are not cruel men. Father Peter would come down to give the sacraments, Webster and Fletcher to see that all was well. Margotta would bring food or just talk to them. Of course, when there are prisoners here, a soldier always stands guard in the passageway.’
He led them out back upstairs and into the large sombre hall of the castle. At the far end the Constable and his household were eating supper. A fire had been lit but the chimney-stack was poor because some of the smoke came back, mingling with the smell of freshly baked bread and cooked fish. Fitz-Steven the clerk rose and came down the hall. He held a leather bag, sealed at the top with a piece of string and a blob of wax. Resentful at being disturbed at his meal, he thrust the sack at Gabele.
‘Brandon’s belongings! Itemised and sealed, now the property of the Crown, whatever value it may find in them.’
And, spinning on his heel, Fitz-Steven stamped back to the high table.
Gabele winked at Kathryn, Colum drew his dagger, cut the cord at the neck of the sack and sifted the pathetic belongings out onto the bench. A pair of hose, a boiled leather jacket, a very soiled linen shirt, a war-belt with purses and sheaths for dagger and sword. Gabele tapped one of these.
‘They were good quality. We now have them in the armoury.’
In the wallet were some coins, a set of dice and a piece of rolled-up parchment. Colum handed this to Kathryn, who went under the torchlight and opened it.
‘It’s nothing,’ Gabele called out. ‘Just a prayer.’
‘Levate oculos ad montes. “Raise your eyes to the hills,”’ Kathryn translated.
‘What’s that?’ Colum asked.
‘Raise your eyes to the hills,’ Kathryn repeated, ‘From where my Saviour cometh. It’s from one of the psalms. Apparently a favourite prayer with prisoners.’
Kathryn paused, remembering the flickering lights in Brandon’s cell and Gabele removing the brick from the wall.
‘Brandon had scrawled the same words in his cell,’ Kathryn murmured.
‘Yes, just above the bed,’ the master-at-arms replied. ‘Don’t forget, Mistress, Brandon hoped for a pardon and a quick release. Every soldier has a favourite prayer.’ He grinned at Colum. ‘Do you remember yours, Irishman?’
Colum, who was sifting amongst the dead man’s posses
sions, now looked sheepish.
‘What was it?’ Kathryn, intrigued, came over.
‘Why not tell her, Irishman?’ Gabele teased.
Murtagh threw down the sword-belt, looked at Kathryn and closed his eyes.
‘Oh, God, treat me today as I would treat you if I were God and you were Murtagh.’
Kathryn smiled and clapped her hands. ‘I never knew you were a theologian, Colum.’
Any further banter ended as the group on the dais at the far end of the hall finished their meal. Webster came down accompanied by two others. The first, a raven-haired woman, dressed in a brown smock with a white collar and cuff-bands, walked purposefully towards Kathryn and Colum. She was small and fresh-faced, with large dark eyes and a smiling mouth. As Webster mumbled his excuses and left, she kissed Gabele on the cheek, then, crowing with delight, seized Colum’s hand.
‘Irishman, you have come back to marry me!’
Colum laughed with embarrassment. He seized the woman by the shoulder and kissed her lightly on each cheek.
‘Margotta, you are as pretty as ever.’ He turned and made the introductions. ‘Mistress Kathryn Swinbrooke, Margotta Gabele, a veritable minx.’
Kathryn smiled in acknowledgement, quietly cursing her small pang of jealousy. She was relieved by the distraction caused by Margotta’s companion, one of the most garish individuals Kathryn had ever met. A tall, well-built man, he had a smooth, youngish face framed by hair dyed a dirty yellow, which hung down to his shoulders. He was dressed quite fantastically in battered black leather from head to toe. He carried no sword or dagger but a huge belt with little pouches on, whilst round his neck was a thick string with what looked like fragments of animal bone. As he stepped forward into the light, he pushed his hair back like a woman and Kathryn glimpsed his cheap ear-rings glittering in the light. He stretched out one black gloved hand towards the ceiling.
