A Maze of Murders

by Paul Doherty

  Kathryn held his gaze. ‘Alexander Wyville was a Lancastrian, a Yorkist, whatever you wanted him to be, Father. He was also a drunkard and a wife-beater, a man who lived behind a mask. Now his body lies in a pauper’s grave in the west country and his soul has gone to God.’

  Father John turned away.

  ‘I like what you say about masks, Mistress. We all wear them but they cannot hide the truth.’

  ‘Pilate asked what was truth? With Christ’s help,’ Kathryn replied, ‘I’ll find it.’

  Father John sketched a blessing in the air and quietly left. Kathryn sat and reflected on what he had told her. Was there any loose thread there? Anything she could tease out to unravel this mystery? Kathryn was not surprised by what she had learnt. Sir Walter had been a man who had armoured his soul and feelings against the outside world, a man oppressed by sin. But who had murdered him? Kathryn rose and went to the door. She opened it and crept out into the passageway. She glanced down the gallery. On shelves and ledges more candles glowed, capped or hidden behind pottery and glass; soon they would burn out. The passageway was empty, though she heard the scurry of mice and the dark shape of a cat came sneaking up the stairs and padded gently along the gallery. Kathryn closed the door and bolted it. She felt safe and secure, her investigation was incomplete. She had faced attack before but not now; after all, she had learnt nothing to accuse and indict a possible suspect, so what danger could she pose? She crossed and sat on the edge of the bed. To calm herself Kathryn went through the preparations for her wedding day. The church would have to be decorated, and flowers laid round the font and up in the sanctuary. The church was her choice: St. Mildred’s was where she had been baptised and her parents buried. The list of guests was long. Kathryn tried to recall if there was anyone she had omitted. For some reason she kept thinking of Alexander Wyville.

  ‘Go away!’ she whispered. ‘Just go and leave me alone!’

  Her stomach curdled. Too much meat and wine, she thought. Kathryn pulled back the curtains and lay down on the bed, resting herself against the bolster and staring up into the darkness. She missed her house in Ottemelle Lane: Thomasina clattering about, Wulf and Agnes chasing each other up and down the stairs, Colum stitching some leatherwork or, even better, trying to draw up the accounts for King’s Mead. He was good with his numbers and letters but always wrote with his tongue sticking out of his mouth. Kathryn drifted into sleep. When she woke she thought the clanging was part of some nightmare: the running feet, the cries and shouts, both from the gallery and from below. Kathryn hastily pulled herself off the bed and ran to the window. Servants, carrying torches, were hurrying towards the maze where a great fire was burning, orange-tongued flames leaping up to the night sky. She heard a pounding on the door and ran across, pulling back the bolts. Amelia, heavy-eyed with sleep, leaned against the lintel, a blanket wrapped round her shoulders.

  ‘Mistress, you had better come.’

  ‘A fire?’ Kathryn asked.

  ‘Aye, a fire, Mistress, and started mysteriously!’

  Chapter 4

  ‘Thanked be Fortune and hire false wheel,

  That noon estaat assureth to be weel. . . .’

  —Chaucer, ‘The Knight’s Tale,’

  The Canterbury Tales, 1387

  Kathryn grabbed her cloak, pulled on her soft walking boots and followed Amelia down the stairs. The house was now in an uproar, sleepy-eyed servants and retainers hastily dressing themselves. Kathryn went through the main door and out onto the steps. Gurnell and some of the guards were there, swords drawn. Father John, looking rather pathetic in his white nightshirt, also came hurrying down. Gurnell lent him his cloak. Thurston was shouting and screaming at the servants to bring water from the well. Kathryn stood before the steps and stared through the darkness: it seemed as if the rearmost hedge of the maze was fully alight, the flames roaring up to the night sky. She went down into the meadow and started as an owl, disturbed by the fire and noise, swooped over her head, a dead mouse in its beak. Someone bumped into her, and she hastened along the side of the maze and round the corner. She felt a blast of heat, caught the stench of oil whilst floating ash tickled her throat and nostrils. A gust of smoke made her cough and splutter; she moved away, rubbing her eyes.

  A further glance proved her first suspicions were correct: the rearmost hedge had been soaked in oil, and torched as a farmer does stubble. Servants were already throwing buckets of water on the flames; others brought sheets and old blankets, rakes and spades to beat the flames out. Only then did Kathryn become aware of something else. Three of the servants had moved away from the fire and were gaping into the darkness. One raised his hand and shouted. Kathryn couldn’t understand his accent. She followed his directions, aware of Gurnell and Thurston beside her. Just beyond the pool of light thrown by the fire, Kathryn glimpsed a spear shaft or pole dug deep into the soil, a severed head on top. The fire roared, the light shifted and Kathryn glimpsed the ragged neck, gaping mouth, half-open eyes and straggly hair framing a liverish-white face.

  ‘In God’s name!’ she breathed.

  Father John pushed by her. He took off the cloak and, even as the other servants drifted towards the gruesome spectacle, removed the head. He wrapped it tenderly, plucking out and throwing the pole into the darkness. Attempts to fight the fire now faltered as Father John, bearing his grisly burden, hastened back to the house. On the steps leading up to the porch a group had gathered. Kathryn could make out Lady Elizabeth and Eleanora surrounded by armed retainers. Father John hurried by them. Kathryn heard a scream as Thurston arrived, shouting orders at the servants to fight the fire. Kathryn, pulling her cloak about her, walked into the darkness. She found the pole, one end sharpened, the other crusted with blood. Kathryn gingerly picked it up. It was one of those poles used by farmers as a garden stave to allow a tender plant to grow.

  ‘Are you well, Mistress?’

  Kathryn turned. Thurston was standing behind her, great hands hanging by his side. In the poor light he looked ominous, threatening.

  ‘No, I am not,’ Kathryn retorted and, walking forward, thrust the pole at him.

  The fire was now under control but a whole swathe of the rear hedge stood charred and burnt.

  ‘How did it happen?’ Kathryn asked.

  ‘I was doing my nightly rounds.’ Thurston coughed and spat. ‘I smelt burning and saw the smoke but it’s harvest time, Mistress, such fires are common. Only sometime later did I see the flames and raise the alarm. It was started by oil,’ he continued in a rush. ‘The hedge is dry. After all, the sun is hot and it’s been weeks since we had rain.’

  ‘So, whoever it was,’ Kathryn concluded, ‘took a pannikin of oil.’ She noticed how the grass was burnt and added, ‘Yes, it would be dry as tinder. The oil is poured, a torch is thrown and we are all brought out here to see the grisly spectacle.’

  ‘I don’t know who did it,’ Thurston wailed. ‘I saw no one, nothing suspicious. I have duties to do.’ The Manciple was talking to himself; Kathryn wondered if this was a pretence or if his wits were really disturbed.

  ‘Lady Elizabeth has returned to her room.’ Gurnell came out of the darkness. He carried sword and dagger as if expecting some assailant.

  Kathryn stared at the sword. Gurnell, apologising, resheathed his weapon and stretched out his hand.

  ‘Mistress, you can do nothing here. You’d best come in.’

  Kathryn watched this man of war, eyes bright with excitement, chest slightly heaving, his loose shirt, open at the neck, displaying glistening beads of sweat. Kathryn recalled what Father John had told her. She was surrounded by men of war, soldiers who had spent most of their lives fighting.

  ‘Do you miss the heat of battle, Master Gurnell?’

  The words were out before Kathryn could think. Gurnell’s hand fell away, he stepped back.

  ‘Mistress.’ He looked perplexed. ‘Are you well?’

  ‘I am well, Master Gurnell. My sleep’s disturbed but my wits are sharp. That fire
was started to bring us all out here to see the head displayed on the pole, so the assassin must have started it. That’s what you do in war, isn’t it? Spike the heads of traitors on London Bridge? We had our fair share in Canterbury.’ She paused. ‘And at Towton. You were there with Lancaster, weren’t you?’

  Gurnell faced her squarely.

  ‘Mistress Swinbrooke, I’ll be honest and as blunt as you are. I am a soldier, a self-confessed mercenary. I fight for gold and silver and, when that runs out, so do I. I couldn’t give a fig if the great Cham of Tartary sits on the throne of England.’ Gurnell spat the words out. ‘I am one of the worms of the soil, son of a peasant, grandson of a peasant. I had two choices in life: to break my back over a plough or pick up a sword and fight.’ He wiped the sweat from his throat. ‘Aye, I was at Towton. I fought bravely enough for my silver. Lancaster’s line broke and we were in full retreat. Edward of York issued an order, kill the nobles, spare the commoners; that’s why I am here today.’ He leaned closer. ‘I was given a choice: change sides and receive fresh clothing, a hot meal and some pennies or hang from a nearby elm tree. Now, Mistress physician, which would you choose?’ Gurnell spoke passionately, tears in his eyes.

  ‘I am sorry,’ Kathryn apologised, extending her hand. ‘My world is more comfortable than yours, Gurnell, I sometimes forget.’

  Gurnell’s harsh face suddenly broke into a smile as he grasped her hand.

  ‘You’ve a tart tongue, Mistress. I hope you speak to that Irishman as bluntly as you do to me.’

  ‘Even harsher.’

  Gurnell laughed and, taking her gently by the elbow, led her back to the house. Kathryn stared up at the sky.

  ‘It’s a beautiful summer’s night,’ she murmured. ‘Look at the stars, Gurnell, the harvest moon.’

  She heard a sound at the far edge of the meadow as a russet dog fox, a rabbit hanging from its jaws, padded arrogantly towards the trees.

  ‘Yet death is all around us.’

  Kathryn glanced back. Smoke still billowed about; the odd spark rose; ash, floating gently on the night breeze, drifted towards them to stain face and clothing.

  ‘I need a drink.’

  Gurnell coughed and led her on.

  ‘To answer your question, Mistress, the spiking of heads was common. When the King’s father and brother were killed at Wakefield, the Lancastrians spiked their heads above Micklegate Bar in York and put paper crowns on them. After Towton Edward removed the heads and replaced them with Lancastrians’.’

  Kathryn paused at the foot of the steps. Lady Elizabeth had withdrawn, and only two of Gurnell’s retainers remained, carrying torches and, swords drawn, guarding the rear entrance to the manor house.

  ‘Where is Mawsby?’ Kathryn asked.

  Gurnell demanded the same from one of his guards.

  ‘Oh, he is busy with Lady Elizabeth,’ the fellow replied, gesturing with his head. ‘The mistress asked him to stay. They have gone inside now, taking some mulled wine in the solar. Lady Elizabeth was crying.’

  ‘Shall we join them?’ Gurnell asked.

  Kathryn climbed the steps: Gurnell still touched her elbow, a gesture of friendship she appreciated.

  ‘No,’ Kathryn declared. ‘Master Gurnell, I need to think, though I would appreciate a glass of that mulled wine.’

  They entered the house and Gurnell led Kathryn down passageways to a small, whitewashed chamber with clean rushes on the floor. In the centre stood a trestle table with benches on either side. A crucifix was nailed to the far wall and beneath that was a battered dresser with a pewter jug and some cups.

  ‘This is where the labourers break their fast in harsh weather,’ Gurnell explained.

  Kathryn sat on a bench. Gurnell left and returned with a steaming pottery jug. The spiced wine smelt delicious. He placed two pewter cups on the table, filled them to the brim and drew two napkins from his belt. Kathryn wrapped hers round the cup and sipped gratefully. The wine was good, a rich claret from Bordeaux spiced with ginger, nutmeg, cloves and a little sugar. Gurnell sat opposite. The light in the room was quite strong: a number of squat, tallow candles glowed fiercely beneath their metal caps. Kathryn pointed to one.

  ‘Maltravers must have been a very wealthy man to provide light, even during the hours of darkness.’

  ‘Very wealthy,’ Gurnell agreed, watching Kathryn intently.

  Kathryn blushed slightly and returned to her cup. Something about Gurnell reminded her of Colum: the calm watchfulness, the direct gaze, blunt speech, the slight hint of mockery in his voice. Gurnell, as if sensing her embarrassment, got to his feet, undid his sword belt and placed it on the floor.

  ‘This chamber is also used by the night watchman.’

  ‘So, the house is patrolled and guarded at night?’

  ‘Oh yes. Old Thurston never sleeps. He says he only needs two or three hours.’

  ‘Are there watchmen in the grounds?’

  ‘No, the house is secured and locked. Sometimes the huntsmen and verderers go out looking for poachers but Sir Walter was very indulgent. He always claimed he’d never miss the odd pheasant or deer; the only thing he objected to was when they poached out of season.’

  ‘But could someone leave the manor house unnoticed?’

  ‘Oh, it’s possible. There are enough postern doors and side entrances. We don’t guard against that.’ Gurnell laughed. ‘It’s people trying to break in.’

  ‘But the assassin must have left the house.’ Kathryn looked around for an hour candle. ‘What time is it, Master Gurnell?’

  ‘About two hours after midnight.’

  ‘So, the fire must have been started just after midnight? The assassin goes out, retrieves the severed head, digs that pole into the ground and places the head on top. The hedge is soaked in oil, the tinder struck.’

  ‘That could have been done yesterday evening just after dark,’ Gurnell objected. ‘That’s what I would have done.’ He held Kathryn’s gaze. ‘Prepared everything under the cover of darkness, then slipped out later to light the fire. No one would dream of walking in the darkness beyond the maze, especially after what happened.’

  Kathryn sipped from her cup. ‘Yesterday afternoon, Master Gurnell, you were guarding the entrance to the maze. You never left?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Could someone have climbed the rearmost hedge, slipped into the maze and waited for Sir Walter?’

  ‘That’s possible but they would have been glimpsed by the Lady Elizabeth, if not while entering then certainly when leaving. Indeed, Mistress, once they were in, how could they find their way to the centre?’

  ‘Are there secret passageways,’ Kathryn asked, ‘here in the Hall?’

  ‘There is a passageway from the cellars out under the great meadow.’ Gurnell put down his cup and held up his hand to fend off Kathryn’s exclamation. ‘I assure you it’s well known to servants. However, a fall of earth has blocked it and the previous owner built a makeshift wall against it. Even if it was open, I am not too sure whether it led to the maze or elsewhere.’

  ‘So, you were at the entrance to the maze? Lady Elizabeth and Eleanora were in the flower arbour to the right of the entrance. Mawsby was in Canterbury. Father John was in the library, Thurston busy in the kitchen. Were there any other visitors or strangers here?’

  ‘That infirmarian Brother Ralph. He came to speak to Sir Walter. I think he brought the Prior’s apologies about the Lacrima Christi, but Sir Walter was adamant: he would receive no guests on a Friday.’

  ‘Was Sir Walter furious at the loss of the Lacrima Christi?’

  ‘He grieved but he said the ruby was too precious to sell on the open market. He was confident it would be returned. Perhaps he was distracted by other matters. None,’ he added hastily, ‘that I know about. To answer your earlier question,’ Gurnell continued, sipping at his cup, ‘for the assassin to climb a hedge in the maze, he would need ladders. He would certainly be seen through a window from the manor. Even if he did enter, he would
have to know that maze like the back of his hand.’

  ‘Is there a map?’

  Gurnell shook his head. ‘None that I know of. Sir Walter never spoke of one.’

  ‘And the Athanatoi?’

  Gurnell tapped the side of his head.

  ‘Only what was in Sir Walter’s mind.’ He glanced suspiciously at her.

  ‘You mentioned Towton?’

  ‘Yes I did.’ Kathryn smiled. ‘I had been talking to Father John . . .’

  ‘Perhaps these Athana . . .’ Gurnell stumbled over the word.

  ‘Athanatoi,’ Kathryn finished, ‘had something to do with Towton?’

  ‘It’s possible,’ Gurnell agreed. ‘You see, Mistress, in the eyes of the lords the likes of me and mine are nothing.’ He was clearly struggling to hide his feelings. ‘I plough the lord’s fields and fight his battles. If I have sons, they will do the same whilst my daughters will take their pigs out to snout for acorns. On a holy day I am given some ale so I can drink myself stupid.’ Gurnell blinked. ‘I can count to twenty and recognise the letters of the alphabet, but that’s all. The lords are different. They believe God especially created them, their blood is sacred . . .’

  ‘You sound bitter.’

  ‘No, just truthful.’ Gurnell leaned across the table, wetting his lips. ‘I fought in Italy once, Mistress, eight months for the city of Siena. They had the blood feud there. Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, life for life. It’s the same with the great ones here. Many died at Towton; perhaps Sir Walter had the blood feud invoked against him? Perhaps some Lancastrian heard the story about the Athanatoi and thought he’d use it against Sir Walter?’ He shook his head. ‘But I don’t know.’

  ‘Yet the warning letter only appeared recently?’

  ‘Perhaps that person was biding his time.’

  There was a knock on the door; a tousled-haired boy came in. He peered at Kathryn and gestured at Gurnell.