The Eye of God

by Paul Doherty

  ‘Yes, I have heard the news,’ Kathryn said, sitting opposite him. ‘And Thomasina has told you about our visitor?’ She started as Colum leaned forward and dashed both the winecup and the bread onto the floor.

  ‘God damn him!’ he shouted. ‘God damn his black soul!’

  Wuf began to cry and pushed closer to Thomasina. Kathryn turned and indicated with her head that they should both leave. Thomasina needed no second bidding, whilst Agnes continued to sift the rushes time and again, as if frightened to re-enter the kitchen.

  ‘What does it all mean, Colum?’ Kathryn asked.

  The Irishman glanced up at her, his eyes red-rimmed with dark circles beneath. He scratched his chin.

  ‘What does it mean?’ Kathryn repeated. ‘Fitzroy said he was the fourth to come after you.’

  ‘Aye, he’s right.’ Colum sighed. ‘I sent the other three packing. This’ – he waved his hand at the fallen cup – ‘this is how they always warn you. The cup of bitterness and the bread of sorrows.’ The Irishman smiled bleakly. ‘Fitzroy is saying my death is very close.’

  ‘And you are afraid?’ Kathryn could have kicked herself as soon as the words were out of her mouth.

  Colum straightened up, resting his elbows on the table, his hands up to his mouth, looking strangely at her.

  ‘Afraid?’ he said. ‘Afraid of Fitzroy? No, I am not frightened, Kathryn. I am angry that he came here to leave his filthy message. I would have had more respect for him if he had gone to Kingsmead. But that’s the way of Fitzroy, he always did have a bully-boy streak in him. Believe me, for that I’m going to kill him. I don’t know how or when, but I am going to kill him!’

  Colum refused to say any more. Thomasina came back and, without being invited, served him bread, cheese and a jug of beer. After that, Colum went upstairs to shave, wash and change. He came down a different man, almost happy. Kathryn knew that Fitzroy’s visit was now a closed book and Colum was eager to tell her about Faunte’s capture.

  ‘He was betrayed,’ the Irishman declared, sitting by the hearth to put his boots on. ‘His following was reduced to six. One of these sent a message to a powerful burgess in London, offering to betray Faunte in return for a pardon. We captured him as he left the wood, like a hawk would a pigeon. Making for a port they were. They surrendered without a fight.’

  ‘And where are they now?’ Kathryn asked.

  ‘At the Guildhall, Faunte and five others. They are going to be tried at noon and hanged at one o’clock. Or at least Faunte will. The traitor has already received his pardon and been released.’ Colum glanced at Kathryn and winked. ‘I want you to come with me. In fact, the Duke is most insistent on that.’

  ‘Why?’ Kathryn asked. ‘Colum, did Faunte have any news about Wyville?’

  ‘You’d best come,’ Colum repeated.

  Kathryn left instructions with Thomasina and hurriedly prepared herself. Colum went to collect their horses from the tavern at the far end of the street. They were not even half-way up Hethenman Lane before Kathryn realised that the news of Faunte’s capture had swept through the city. When they turned into the High Street the crowds were already massing. Colum had to force their way through to the Guildhall steps, which were thronged by soldiers wearing Gloucester’s livery; men-at-arms in their steel conical hats and chain-mail hauberks; archers in their leather jackets and green hoods whilst, at the top of the steps, stood three heralds each carrying a flag bearing the arms of England, York and Gloucester. At the entrance to the Guildhall one of Gloucester’s henchmen, a heavy-lidded, handsome-faced man who introduced himself as Lord Francis Lovell, allowed them into the passageway thronged by servitors, chamberlains and more soldiers.

  They found Gloucester in the upper council chamber, seated behind a long, polished oak table which the aldermen of the city used. He was talking softly to Gabele and Fletcher whilst, at one end of the table, a busy-looking Luberon was preparing parchments, ink and wax for the coming trial. As soon as Gloucester glimpsed Colum, he waved the two soldiers away and beckoned both Kathryn and the Irishman forward. Rising in that lopsided way of his, he firmly clasped Colum’s hand and, with a swift jerking movement, raised Kathryn’s fingers to his lips.

  ‘Mistress Swinbrooke,’ he said. ‘Once again I have the pleasure.’

  Kathryn smiled but she was apprehensive; in his half-armour and chain-mail coif, Gloucester, unshaven and tired, looked even more dangerous than the smooth courtier she had met in London. The Duke sat down, beating a tattoo on the table with his fingers.

  ‘We are most pleased,’ he declared. ‘Most pleased with you, Colum.’ His green, cat-like eyes studied the Irishman. ‘You knew the roads well, or Faunte could have slipped through our fingers. Oh yes, oh yes, he could have done. Now he will stand trial for his life. You, Mistress Swinbrooke, will be a witness at the trial. Our loyal servant Luberon the clerk, and I, under letters patent issued by my good brother the King, will be Faunte’s judges. Master Murtagh, you will assist me, as will my henchmen, Lovell, Catesby and Ratcliffe.’ He caught the look of disbelief in Kathryn’s eyes. ‘I know what you are thinking, Mistress,’ he snapped. ‘No trial by jury, but this is war. Faunte was a rebel and a traitor. When I rode against him this morning I carried the unfurled banner of the King of England. Faunte fled from that, which is treason. He will be tried by the rules of war and condemned. Now—’ He got to his feet, his fingers resting on the table as he leaned over. ‘This business of the Eye of God, Irishman.’ Gloucester’s eyes were cold and hard. ‘No success! No success! But time will tell. You have our permission to exhume Brandon’s body.’

  ‘But whom do we have who can recognise him?’ Colum enquired.

  Gloucester’s lips crooked into a smile, his eyes slid to Kathryn.

  ‘Have a word with Faunte,’ he said. ‘And his companions. We are inclined to be merciful. Faunte must die, but there’s no need for the rest. Oh, and Mistress Swinbrooke, ask Faunte and his followers about Alexander Wyville.’ He watched Kathryn’s face pale. ‘No,’ he continued softly, ‘don’t be afraid, let them tell you what they know.’

  He sat down, shouting for the captain of his guard to take Kathryn and Colum down to the cells beneath the Guildhall.

  A few minutes later Colum and Kathryn were ushered into Faunte’s sour-smelling cell. A small, narrow chamber with no grille or window, only a torch spluttered in its rusty holder high in the mildewed wall. Nicholas Faunte, once the proud mayor of Canterbury, crouched on a tattered sack which served as a bed. Kathryn remembered the mayor in better days. She could hardly believe her eyes as she and Colum sat on stools provided by the guard. Faunte’s face was almost hidden by straggling hair and beard, all she could see were dirty cheeks and the man’s sad eyes. He was dressed in rags, bound hand and foot with chains and gyves. Every time he moved, the heavy manacles clinked. Kathryn felt a pang of compassion at the tight chain which linked the iron clasps about his ankles to those round his wrists: it pulled his shoulders forward, making Faunte look hunchbacked and misshapen. He stared at Colum, who looked away.

  ‘What’s the matter, Irishman?’ Faunte mumbled. ‘Have you come to gloat or to torture me?’ He lifted his clasped hand and gingerly felt the purpling bruise over his left eye. ‘There was no need for that,’ he whispered.

  ‘I am sorry,’ Colum replied.

  ‘It’s when they brought me down here,’ Faunte retorted.

  Kathryn noticed the blood bubbling at his lips. Colum turned and called for the guard.

  ‘A skin of wine,’ he ordered.

  The man was about to refuse.

  ‘Do it!’ Colum snarled. ‘Or I’ll have you digging latrines for a month!’

  The man shrugged and hurried away. He came back with a wineskin. Colum gently raised the man’s head and put it to his lips. Faunte drank greedily until he spluttered and coughed.

  ‘Leave it,’ he begged as Colum took the wineskin away. ‘When you leave, please leave it. No man should die sober.’

  Colum pl
aced the wineskin by his stool. Faunte nodded at Kathryn.

  ‘Who is she and why is she here?’

  ‘My name is Kathryn Swinbrooke, my father was a physician in Ottemelle Lane.’

  ‘Swinbrooke?’ Faunte’s head went back. ‘Ah yes, I remember him. A good physician.’ He leaned forward, the chain tugging at his neck and hands. ‘So you are his daughter?’ He coughed. ‘I did you no injury.’

  ‘No, sir, you did not,’ Kathryn replied. ‘But you may have known my husband, Alexander Wyville, an apothecary. He joined your master early in the year.’

  ‘Glorious days,’ Faunte said wistfully. ‘Do you know I really did think Warwick would be victorious at Barnet. What did your husband look like?’

  ‘Tall, blond-haired, his nose slight, a small birth mark on his cheek, smooth-shaven.’

  Faunte just shook his head. ‘So many,’ he murmured. ‘And so many died. But wait, an apothecary? Yes, I remember him.’ Faunte rubbed his face in a rattle of chains. ‘Two men in one; sober he was good, clean and effective, but when drunk, an ugly character. I had to warn such a man, just after we left Canterbury, about an alleged attack on a woman.’ Faunte shook his head. ‘Secretive and sly he seemed. Yet he didn’t call himself Wyville but Robert . . . yes, Robert Lessinger.’

  Kathryn’s stomach churned. ‘Lessinger, you are sure?’

  ‘Yes, why?’

  ‘It was his mother’s name.’

  ‘Well, that’s what he called himself, and before you ask, Mistress, I don’t know whether he lived or died. He was in my troop at Barnet, but after that . . .’ Faunte sneered. ‘Most of them ran like rabbits. Lessinger, or whatever he called himself, amongst them.’

  ‘Did you know Brandon?’ Colum asked abruptly.

  ‘Warwick’s squire?’

  ‘The same. You saw him at Barnet?’

  Faunte shrugged. ‘From afar. Why? Have he and the other poor bastards been caught?’

  ‘The others?’ Kathryn asked.

  ‘Yes. When York attacked and Warwick fell, the cry went up, “Sauve Qui Peut!” Every man was left to his own. I and my companions fled into the woods. Some days after the battle we were alarmed by news of a troop of horsemen, so we planned an ambush. We thought they were pursuers but they still wore Warwick’s colours – Moresby, Brandon, and four other companions from the battle.’

  ‘Four?’ Colum interrupted.

  ‘Oh yes, I had nothing to do with them. Ask one of my comrades. Yes, Philip Sturry.’ Faunte laughed. ‘I think he’s close by and not very busy. I left them alone but Sturry, Moresby and Squire Brandon exchanged gossip. The squire confirmed Warwick was dead and said he hoped to reach Canterbury. They were going to break out of the woods and go to Harbledown.’ Faunte shrugged. ‘That’s all.’

  Colum nodded and helped Kathryn to her feet.

  ‘I am sorry,’ he said, picking up the wineskin and handing it to Faunte. ‘Is there anything I can do?’

  ‘How about a pardon?’

  Colum shook his head. Faunte cradled the wineskin.

  ‘Then give my love to the sunlight.’ The ex-mayor grinned. ‘Drink a cup of claret for me on a soft summer’s evening. Oh, and ask Gloucester for a priest.’

  Chapter 10

  Sturry and the rest of Faunte’s companions were huddled in the next cell. They were convivial, relieved their trials were over as well as confident that, unlike their master, they would not pay the supreme penalty for their opposition to the King. Sturry was a talkative little man, merry-eyed; his hair should have been blond but it was covered with dirt and mud. Like Faunte’s, Sturry’s beard and moustache had grown straggling like a bush. Neither he nor his companions were Canterbury men but hailed from the villages and towns around, so none of them recognised Kathryn nor she them. At first Colum reassured them all would be well and that Richard of Gloucester would not exact full retribution for their treason.

  ‘Indeed,’ Colum declared, ‘if you can help us in our present enquiries, God knows what our good Duke might decide.’

  Sturry scratched his beard, pulling out the straggly ends.

  ‘We’ll take no oath against Faunte,’ he said. ‘Nor provide any testimony. We may be beaten men, Master Murtagh, but we don’t betray good friends.’

  ‘No, no,’ Colum replied. ‘We are more interested in your meeting with Moresby and his party after Warwick’s defeat at Barnet.’

  ‘Ah!’ Sturry grinned. ‘Why not be honest, Irishman. You are really interested in what they were carrying.’

  ‘Then tell me,’ Colum ordered.

  Sturry shook his head. ‘I don’t know what it was but both Brandon and Reginald Moresby, the captain of Warwick’s bodyguard, were most secretive about what they were guarding.’

  Sturry moved to ease the chafing of the chains biting into his wrist. ‘You don’t have to be a scholar from Oxford, Irishman, to put two and two together. Brandon and Moresby never let that wallet out of their sight. Moreover, they had just avoided Yorkist patrols and were eager to slip quietly into Canterbury.’ Sturry glanced slyly at Colum. ‘What was in the pouch?’ he asked. ‘Some precious item belonging to the dead Earl?’

  Colum shrugged.

  ‘Did Brandon or Moresby say anything else?’ Kathryn asked.

  ‘They cursed their fortune and that of Warwick’s. They said they would reach Canterbury, do what they had to do, then either go into hiding or take a ship abroad.’

  ‘What was Brandon like?’

  ‘Cultured, diplomatic.’ Sturry sniffed. ‘In appearance a sturdy, pliant fellow with sandy hair. The real leader was Moresby. He exercised great discipline over the rest.’

  ‘Who were they?’

  ‘Squires from Warwick’s household.’

  ‘Listen.’ Kathryn crouched down, hiding her distaste at the sour, foul smells of the cell. ‘Did Moresby and Brandon describe what route they’d take into the city?’

  ‘No, except they were going to break out of the woods, hide by day and ride by night. They had already decided to conceal themselves at Sellingham. You know the place, Mistress?’

  Kathryn nodded. ‘A deserted village ten miles north of Canterbury. There’s an old church and some ruins. One of those places devastated by the plague.’

  Sturry agreed, his eyes bright with excitement. ‘The same. Brandon said he would lead his group there. Moresby invited us to join them but Faunte ruled against it. After that, we parted.’

  Colum and Kathryn thanked the man and prepared to leave.

  ‘Irishman!’ Sturry called out. ‘You’ll speak to Gloucester for us?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘And, for the love of God, some water, a little food?’

  Colum promised he would do what he could. When they left the cells, he did ask the captain of the guard, as a personal favour, to ensure the prisoners were fed.

  They returned to the Guildhall chamber where Gloucester was putting final touches to the tribunal. He waved Colum to an empty seat and introduced his henchmen. Kathryn quickly glanced at these. Warriors all, she thought, with their hard faces and hooded eyes. A group of falcons come to mete out judgement: Faunte would find little mercy with them.

  ‘We should begin,’ one of Richard’s henchmen declared. ‘Your Grace said Faunte would hang within the hour.’

  ‘If it pleases your Grace.’ Colum got up, tapping the table-top. ‘Your Grace, if it pleases, may I make a request?’

  Gloucester nodded.

  ‘Faunte is a traitor,’ Colum said. ‘But, your Grace, I beg you to show mercy to his followers, especially Sturry, who may be of help to us in another matter.’

  Gloucester half-turned and studied Colum’s face.

  ‘If your Grace remembers,’ Colum persisted, ‘it is your brother’s policy to execute the leaders but show great compassion to their followers.’

  Gloucester raised one green-gloved hand, the jewelled ring winking in the weak sunlight, and beckoned Colum forward. The Irishman went and leaned over the high-backed chair. Glo
ucester whispered and Colum replied. The Prince nodded and whispered again before dismissing Colum with a flicker of his fingers.

  ‘Faunte will stand trial,’ Gloucester pronounced, straightening in his chair. ‘The rest can cool their heels in the cells for another month. They will be freed on a pardon after their families have each paid a fine of one hundred marks. Sturry is an exception, he will be released into your custody, Irishman. If he provides assistance, he shall go free.’

  After that Faunte’s trial began. The prisoner, still loaded with chains, was hustled up into the chamber. Luberon, in a strong voice, read out the charges and Kathryn had to admire the ex-mayor’s courage. He refused to deny anything.

  ‘I fought,’ he declared, ‘for the Lord’s Anointed, Henry the Sixth, God rest him, by divine favour, King of England. If I have to die,’ he said, smiling, ‘then I die in his service. No king had a better servant than I.’

  Kathryn watched the formalities being observed as the trial swung to its inevitable conclusion. It lasted, at the very most, half an hour, before Luberon took a black silk cloth and placed it carefully on top of Gloucester’s head.

  ‘Nicholas Faunte,’ Gloucester declared, ‘you stand convicted as an attainted traitor of bearing arms against your rightful sovereign, Edward the Fourth, King of England, Ireland, Scotland and France. Now hear the sentence of this court!’ Gloucester’s voice became sombre. ‘You are to be taken from this place on a hurdle and carried to a legal place of execution where you will be hanged, drawn and quartered; your bowels removed; your head struck off and the parts of your corpse sent to different areas of the kingdom as the King’s will directs! May the Lord have mercy on your soul!’

  Faunte paled a little at each terrible word Gloucester uttered.

  ‘I ask the court for mercy.’

  ‘No mercy!’ one of Gloucester’s henchmen shouted.

  The Duke raised a hand.

  ‘My family?’ Faunte asked.

  ‘We do not make war against women and children,’ Gloucester replied.