by Paul Doherty
‘I am the Lord’s servant,’ he announced in a hollow, sepulchral voice. ‘The Righteous Man!’
For once in her life Kathryn saw Colum totally surprised. He just stared at this man with his dyed hair, black-garbed like a crow.
‘Master Murtagh, Mistress Swinbrooke, may I introduce the Righteous Man,’ Gabele declared stoically. ‘A pilgrim from Avignon, Rome, Jerusalem, Compostela.’
‘Aye,’ the Righteous Man interrupted. ‘And more! I have seen the Great Cham of Tatary! The Golden Hordes of Kublai Khan and the icy pastures of the Indus Kush!’
Kathryn bit her lip in an effort not to laugh, for the pardoner had all the tricks of his trade. His strange garb, the ear-catching voice and the exotic tales. Yet, of all such rogues, the Righteous Man seemed the most skilled. He sketched a blessing in the air before her and then clasped Colum’s unresisting hand.
‘Brother in Christ,’ he intoned. ‘We are well met. You wish to have words with me? About the man Brandon, a prisoner in Christ, whose soul is now before God. Let us pray he suffers the fires of Purgatory rather than those of Hell. For, as the Good Book says, “It is indeed a terrible thing for any mortal soul to fall into the hands of the living God.”’
Kathryn stole a look at Margotta. She was now staring at the floor, shoulders shaking with laughter, whether at Colum’s look of surprised bemusement or the Righteous Man’s antics, Kathryn did not know.
‘Quite so. Quite so.’ Colum recovered his poise and pointed to the bench, pushing aside Brandon’s possessions.
‘Do sit down.’
The pardoner held a hand up. ‘No, sir, I always stand when I have speech with a brother. As the Good Book says, “The just man stands upright, his face ever turned towards the Lord.”’
‘What is your real name?’ Colum snapped, getting tired of the man’s antics.
‘What’s in a name?’ the pardoner replied. He pointed to the rushes on the floor. ‘Grass is still grass whatever you call it. And we are like the grasses of the field, here today, gone tomorrow. I have no name, I have no past. I just stand in righteousness before the Lord.’
Colum kicked at the rushes. ‘I am the King’s Commissioner in Canterbury,’ he whispered menacingly. ‘You, sir, are a subject of the King. You are present in this castle. You spoke to the King’s prisoner, Brandon. I have every right to ask you who you are and whence you came.’
The pardoner’s head went back like that of an angry bird and he peered at Colum.
‘My name is the Righteous Man,’ he repeated. However, seeing the Irishman’s growing annoyance, he unclasped his wallet, plucked out a handful of greasy parchments and thrust them at Murtagh.
‘These are letters, licences of passage.’
Colum handed them to Kathryn, who studied them quickly.
‘He’s right,’ she declared. ‘These are signed by port bailiffs, town reeves, sheriffs, declaring the person who calls himself the Righteous Man to be a pardoner with full licence to go about his business. Some of them are sealed, so they can’t be forgeries.’
She handed them back to the pardoner, who smiled his thanks.
‘So, what are you doing in Canterbury?’ Colum asked.
The pardoner tapped his wallet. ‘I have indulgences and bulls from Rome. Letters of absolution as well as relics, verified by all of those holy men and women who have shown us the path of righteousness.’ He pointed to the small white bones hanging round his neck. ‘You can have, sir, at a reasonable price, the knuckle-bone of one of the seven thousand virgins of Cologne. And here, sir’ – he pointed to another – ‘is part of the skull of the good thief, the rib of the blessed Samaritan!’
‘Shut up!’ Colum roared.
Kathryn looked warningly at the pardoner. The fellow gulped and smiled thinly at this irascible Irishman.
‘I asked you a question!’ Colum repeated.
‘Then I will answer. I am in Canterbury to do business amongst the pilgrims. You can check, and you very well might, sir, but I have presented my letters at the Guildhall and at the cathedral. I also sought a bed and clean lodgings at the Chequers, the Tabard, the Sun in Splendour, and even the Poor Priests’ Hospital. However, like the good Lord, I found no room at the inn. So I came to the castle and, for a price, I have a clean bed, breakfast in the hall, and the last meal of the day.’
‘Good,’ Colum breathed. ‘Now, Master Brandon?’
The pardoner spread his hands dramatically. ‘Sir, he was a prisoner. I wondered if he was interested in one of my relics or, if matters grew worse, in a papal bull or letter of indulgence.’
‘And was he?’
‘Oh, no, sir. He had his heart set on freedom.’
‘How many times did you meet him?’
‘Just once, sir.’
‘And Sparrow, the other prisoner?’
‘Oh, a veritable limb of Satan. Brandon was courteous but his companion was a fiend from hell. He cast me from his cell and mocked me as a rogue.’
The look of outraged innocence on the pardoner’s face was too much for Colum. He turned to Margotta, who was still trying to stifle her laughter.
‘And you, Margotta?’ he asked.
The girl smiled prettily whilst her eyes flirted with Colum.
‘Well, Brandon was handsome, he was kind, he was courteous.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Colum said testily. ‘And what else?’
‘He was also lonely, rather pathetic. He talked of his early days at Maidstone and the death of Warwick.’
‘Did he talk of anything else?’
‘Such as?’
‘A golden pendant with a beautiful sapphire called the Eye of God?’
‘For Lord’s sake, Colum, no. What would a poor squire have to do with that?’
Kathryn saw the gleam of profit in the pardoner’s eyes.
‘A golden pendant and a beautiful sapphire,’ the Righteous Man muttered. ‘Did Brandon have something like that?’
‘He may have,’ Kathryn answered.
The pardoner whistled softly under his breath. ‘Now I see your interest.’ He smiled.
‘Mistress Gabele,’ Kathryn continued, ‘did you speak to Sparrow?’
‘Of course not! He was a caitiff and a knave!’
Colum sighed. ‘Well, in which case thank you for coming.’
Margotta smiled at him and kissed him gently on the cheek.
‘It’s good to see you again, Colum,’ she whispered.
Then both she and the pardoner sauntered away.
Kathryn waited until they were out of earshot.
‘Quite the troubadour, Irishman. What is it, a girl in every town?’
Colum winked at her. ‘Aye, and in every camp. I fought with Gabele from the Welsh march to the Scottish border. Margotta has always been a minx.’ He looked away, troubled. ‘She has an ability to make men talk, yet it’s strange that she nor anyone else in this castle heard Brandon mention the Eye of God.’
‘What happens if Moresby, not Brandon, had the sapphire?’ Kathryn asked. ‘Perhaps the outlaws who killed him still have it.’
Colum kicked moodily at the rushes. ‘No, Warwick would have given it to a body squire.’ He glanced at Kathryn. ‘I served as marshal of the royal household with the spurious honour of questioning many a thief. An outlaw would try and sell that immediately, before another took it from him.’ Colum bit the quick of his thumb. ‘I wonder how Moresby did die?’ he murmured. ‘Was it outlaws or someone else? I suspect only Brandon could answer that. But come, we are, for the moment, finished here.’
He and Kathryn collected their cloaks, made their farewells and walked through the inner and outer baileys and out, by a postern gate, into Winchepe. They hurried along the darkening alleyways and up into Wistraet. At the small gate which guarded that street, a man slipped out of the shadows. Colum’s hand fell to his sword.
‘Peace, Master!’
Holbech, Colum’s burly lieutenant from Kingsmead, stepped into the poor light from the sconce torch fixed abo
ve the gate.
The burly northerner bowed at Kathryn. ‘Mistress, good evening. I have been to your house in Ottemelle Lane. Thomasina gave me the rough edge of her tongue and said you and Murtagh were at the castle, so I waited here.’
‘What is the matter?’ Colum asked.
‘A messenger, Master, from His Grace the Duke of Gloucester. Your friend, John Tuam, a Dominican at Blackfriars, was mysteriously stabbed to death. The Prince’s messenger said you would know what this would mean.’
‘Oh, my God!’ Colum breathed.
He walked a little farther on and leaned against the wall of the alehouse. He stared at the slivers of light coming through the narrow windows, half-listening to the sounds of drunken revelry.
‘Poor John!’ he whispered. He remembered a wild boy running along the green side of a hill, shouting and leaping like a young deer. Colum stared down the darkened alleyways. ‘Gone!’ he whispered. ‘Oh, Christ, have mercy on his soul!’
Kathryn came up beside him.
‘They are here, aren’t they?’ she asked and felt a surge of fear, for despite his abrupt ways and hot temper, she had grown close to this enigmatic Irishman, with his changeable moods and sardonic smile.
‘Colum, you are in danger!’
He took her hand and pressed it gently.
‘I have always been in danger, Kathryn, but yes, the dogs are closer now!’
Kathryn withdrew her hand and walked a little farther on.
‘Woman!’ Colum called softly. ‘You’re not afeared for me, not you, Kathryn Swinbrooke?’
‘I’m not your woman, Colum,’ Kathryn replied, not daring to turn and show her face. ‘No matter what you told your masters in London.’
‘Then what are you?’
Kathryn let that question hang for a while, as she had ever since she’d met this Irishman.
‘What are you then?’ Colum repeated insistently. ‘Am I like Wuf, an orphan taken into your care?’
Kathryn grinned over her shoulder. ‘I’m now Wuf’s mother,’ she teased. ‘But to you, Irishman? For the moment be satisfied I’m your guardian angel!’
Chapter 4
‘You will let me in! You have no right to obstruct me!’
Kathryn Swinbrooke stood in Jewry Lane in the parish of Saint Mary Redman, spots of fury high on her cheeks. She glared at the two corpse-collectors who stood truculently in front of the door of the small house on which the red plague cross was garishly daubed. The corpse-collectors, brothers with the ugly, pitted faces of bull mastiffs, stood just as obstinately, thumbs tucked in their belts, and shook their heads.
‘You know the rules, Mistress.’ One of them spoke up. ‘Once plague strikes a house, all doors and windows are to be locked and the red cross painted on the door. The inmates are not allowed to leave and no one is permitted to enter.’
Kathryn advanced threateningly on them.
‘I am a physician,’ she insisted. ‘In that house live sisters, two old ladies, Mistress Maude and Mistress Eleanor Venables. True, their servant may have died of the plague and she has been buried, but the two ladies are hale and hearty. I demand the right to speak to them!’
‘We have been appointed by the parish,’ the uglier of the two said pompously, ‘to enforce civic regulations. The old ladies will die and their corpses will be removed to the burial pits outside the city walls.’ He unhooked his thumb from his belt.
Thomasina and the young boy, Wuf, standing behind Kathryn, moved together. Wuf sped forward and kicked the man heartily in the shins. The fellow screeched in pain. His brother tried to seize Wuf but the young boy hid behind Kathryn’s skirts. Thomasina advanced on both of them like a man-of-war, her great cloak billowing, and brandished Kathryn’s baskets of ointments and unguents as she would a battle-axe.
‘You filthy, thieving poltroons!’ she roared, her broad face becoming even redder, her small dark eyes ablaze with fury. ‘Don’t you touch my mistress!’
The corpse-collectors moved back behind the shelter of their grease-stained handcart.
‘She’s a personal friend of Richard, Duke of Gloucester. A physician in the service of the city of Canterbury and,’ Thomasina added, ‘the good friend of the King’s own commissioner, Lord Colum Murtagh.’
Kathryn bit her lip to hide her smile at Thomasina’s swift elevation of the Irishman. Thomasina glared at the small crowd assembling in the narrow street.
‘Are you,’ she roared, ‘going to allow two caitiffs to stop an act of mercy?’
Thomasina took one step forward, jabbing her finger at the corpse-collectors.
‘You’re bloody thieves!’ she bellowed. ‘I know what you are up to. You remove the dead and anything valuable in the house. These two old ladies have fair good stock and you know that.’
Her words were greeted with a murmur of approval from the small crowd.
‘Yes, but you could spread the plague!’ one of the corpse-collectors countered and his words won even greater approval from the bystanders.
Kathryn looked up as a small shutter was opened, then quickly shut. She looked in desperation at the red cross daubed on the door. If she lost this argument and walked away, Maude and Eleanor would think she had deserted them. They might not die of the plague, but they would weaken from hunger and sheer desperation.
‘I am going into that house!’ she declared.
One of the corpse-collectors moved to block her way.
‘That’s enough! That’s enough!’
A small, bald-headed, cheery-faced man walked out of the crowd towards the two corpse-collectors. He was dressed in a long green coat lined with squirrel fur. His portly face, puffed-out chest and slight waddle gave him all the dignity of an outraged sparrow. However, Simon Luberon, clerk to His Grace the Archbishop of Canterbury, and a member of the city council, knew his rights. He turned and winked quickly at Kathryn.
‘Who are you, you little bugger?’ one of the rogues snarled.
Simon Luberon soon put the man right. The corpse-collector, a hang-dog expression on his face, muttered an apology.
‘I am a city official,’ Luberon proclaimed for all to hear. ‘And you, sir, could lose your post because of such contumacious language!’
‘We are only doing our duty,’ the other one muttered.
Luberon, who carefully avoided Kathryn’s eyes, glared in outrage.
‘Your duty! I ask you solemnly, sir.’ Luberon raised one quivering finger. ‘Does anyone in this house suffer from the plague?’
‘Someone did.’
‘That wasn’t my question,’ Luberon remonstrated. ‘According to City Regulation Number 738, as well as the Codex Medicus, not to mention Clause 4 of the Act of Parliament passed in the third year of the reign of good King Henry the Fourth, a house where someone has died of the plague is to be cordoned off. However, healthy people remaining inside may have the services of a physician.’
The two corpse-collectors, now completely dumbfounded by Luberon’s profuse, if very inaccurate quotation of the law, decided to call it a day. They walked off with their handcart, grumbling that the old bitches would soon be dead anyway.
The crowd dispersed. Kathryn took the little man’s hand and stared into his light-blue, childlike eyes.
‘Simon, you were magnificent,’ she whispered.
The little man squirmed with embarrassment.
‘It was nothing.’ He stared up at her. ‘I met Master Murtagh on his way to Kingsmead this morning. He said that you have been to London and are now back in Canterbury on the King’s business.’
Kathryn nodded. Luberon looked expectantly at her.
‘If there is anything you can do to help, Simon, be sure we will ask you.’
Luberon smiled.
‘More importantly,’ Kathryn continued, ‘my application for a licence to trade as a spicer?’
Luberon spread his hands. ‘You know, Mistress, in these present troubles the King has suspended the city council, so the Guild of Spicers has not met. There ar
e some who will oppose your application.’
‘Why? Because I’m a woman?’
‘No, Kathryn, because you are successful.’ Luberon grinned. ‘If you weren’t, they would be only too willing to see you make a fool of yourself.’ He patted her reassuringly on the wrist. ‘I will do what I can. Have you heard the news?’
Kathryn shook her head.
Rawnose the beggar had tried to catch her attention as she left Ottemelle Lane but she had swept by before the garrulous man could delay her any further. Luberon looked around dramatically.
‘The rebel Faunte has been seen again, lurking on the outskirts of Blean Wood. They say he is not alone.’
Kathryn bit her lip. She’d confided in Luberon about her husband, Alexander. The industrious little clerk had promised to do all he could in discovering any information. They both knew there was a rare chance that Alexander might be with the fugitive mayor and other traitors hiding in the forests to the north of Canterbury. Again Luberon patted her on the wrist, said he would keep her informed, and hurried on.
‘What that man doesn’t know isn’t worth knowing,’ Thomasina murmured.
‘He means well,’ Kathryn replied, rapping on the door daubed with the red cross.
She stared down at the angelic-faced Wuf, patting him gently on his blond cropped head.
‘Wuf, you were very brave, but kicking the corpse-collector could have been dangerous.’
The orphan’s grin just widened as he gazed in admiration at this taciturn but kindly woman who had provided him with a home, hearth and bed.
‘Promise me you won’t do it again,’ Kathryn admonished.
The boy solemnly promised and, when Kathryn turned to knock again, stuck his tongue out at a glaring Thomasina.
Another fracas could have occurred but the door opened. Two old ladies stood huddled together, their lined old faces and tired eyes full of anxiety.
‘Oh, we heard you, Mistress,’ Eleanor said. ‘They are dreadful men.’
‘Have no fear,’ Kathryn replied, walking into the house. ‘All will be well.’
The two sisters led Kathryn and her companions into the small solar. Kathryn looked around approvingly. The rushes on the floor were clean and fresh. The walls had been scrubbed with a mixture of water and lime whilst the fire in the hearth provided warmth without making the room swelter.
