by Paul Doherty
Kathryn put on her boots and followed Colum round the house. They passed where he had laid the two corpses under a tawdry canvas sheet. The flies were already buzzing over the dark blood stains seeping through. The garden at the back of the house was overgrown; here and there plots and patches had been cultivated. Amongst the small copse at the far end Kathryn glimpsed mounds of earth against which a mattock and hoe leaned.
‘You’ve been very busy.’
‘I wanted to make sure.’ Colum put an arm across her shoulder. ‘I felt guilty. I wondered if Ursula had just been boasting. Yet it’s true, they have killed before. Now, look at this.’
Colum led Kathryn round a rambling hawthorn bush, the grass scorched with fire. In the centre lay a mound of black ash and white cinders; a few tendrils of dust and smoke still curled up. Colum picked up a stick and raked amongst the ashes, pulling out the blade of a two-edged axe, its wooden handle burnt away. He sifted amongst the ashes again and dragged out pieces of blackened fabric. Some had been reduced to ash, others were only partly burnt. Kathryn stooped down and pulled the axe blade towards her; it was about a foot broad, its winged blades nine inches long.
‘Good steel,’ Colum remarked. ‘They burnt the handle, they probably intended to throw the blade away in some mere or bury it in the garden.’
Kathryn picked up a piece of the half-burnt cloth. The fabric was very coarse, one end strengthened with close set stitching.
‘Stephen the sacker,’ she murmured. ‘I’d recognise his handiwork anywhere. This is one of his sacks.’ She glanced at Colum. ‘Of course,’ she breathed. ‘The axe was used to kill Maltravers and the decapitated head placed in a sack which Ursula was trying to burn.’
‘So, are they the killers?’ Colum asked.
‘It’s possible that the Vaudois woman climbed the wall carrying that axe and sack. Somehow, she entered the maze and, with her daughter’s help, killed Sir Walter. Later that night they brought the head back, set it on a pole and burnt the rearmost hedge of the maze to hide their secret entrance.’
Kathryn walked away. She stared up at the sky; the blue was darkening. She reckoned it must be midafternoon, and only now did she become aware of the sun and the heat, the distant call of a bird. She closed her eyes. The attack had been so sudden! She cursed her own foolishness. Whenever she questioned people about murder, some bloody-handed work, she must remember she might be talking to the assassin who’d only kill and kill again to hide bloody secrets.
‘Kathryn, are you well?’
She opened her eyes. ‘The Vaudois woman didn’t kill Mawsby, nor did Ursula. I have no direct proof, except I can’t imagine them creeping into Ingoldby to poison wine. My conclusion is more a matter of logic,’ she declared. ‘They were just two poor souls caught up in their own mist of hate and revenge, and they were also fearful. Do you remember what Ursula said about the sounds at night?’ Kathryn walked over, kicking the axe and sacking with the toe of her boot. ‘The assassin used these in his bloody execution of Sir Walter, then brought them here, not to hide, but to incriminate those two poor women.’ Kathryn paused. ‘They discovered them and became alarmed and frightened. You can follow their logic, twisted though it was. Two women living by themselves with the will to murder as well as the means. Any sheriff’s court would have them guilty, they’d have hanged at the crossroads in the blink of an eye.’
‘So, who brought these things here?’
‘I don’t know, Colum. I want to be away from here, I don’t even want to enter that house.’
‘I’ve been through the old hunting lodge,’ Colum replied. ‘I could see nothing untoward, just the remains of two pathetic lives. I had no choice,’ he added as an afterthought. ‘Kathryn, I truly didn’t.’
They walked back down the lane and unhobbled the horses. Kathryn stayed whilst Colum rode swiftly back to Ingoldby Hall and returned a short while later with four of Gurnell’s retainers. He left instructions about what they were to do, then he and Kathryn rode into Canterbury. The closer they got to the city gates the busier the roads became. Now, late in the afternoon, many traders had sold their produce and were eager to get back to use the rest of the day. The crowds milled about them as they entered Ridingate and rode up Watling Street. Colum wanted to return home but Kathryn demurred.
‘We have other business at Greyfriars, perhaps not so bloody, at least I hope not! First, Colum, we must eat, I don’t want Thomasina questioning me about how pale or gaunt I look.’
They stopped at the Rose of York, a newly furnished tavern in an alleyway off Beercart Lane; its kitchens had a good reputation. Kathryn ordered parsley bread and a dish of custard lombard whilst Colum had strips of pheasant in a sauce of spiced apple and oats. The ale was newly brewed. The tavern was a pleasant eating house, its round tables carefully scrubbed. Kathryn and Colum occupied a seat just near the window overlooking a small herber and carp pond.
‘Will you tell me what happens at Greyfriars?’
Kathryn wiped the corner of her mouth with a finger.
‘It’s best if I surprise you.’
‘So, you know where the Lacrima Christi is?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Or Laus Tibi?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Oh Kathryn!’ Colum banged the horn spoon against the platter.
The tavern master sitting on a stool feeding crumbs to a pet weasel started to his feet, but Colum shook his head so the fellow sat down.
‘The Lacrima Christi is not very far away,’ Kathryn murmured. ‘Laus Tibi, however, will be over the hills and miles away. He’s probably safely ensconced in some tavern at Dover, where he is considering a sojourn abroad until the market bailiffs of England forget his name and face.’ She leaned over and gently caressed Colum’s cheek. ‘I know you, Irishman. You have a hot temper and the words come spilling out faster than you want. Anyway, let’s test my theory.’
They finished their meal, collected their horses from the stables and walked through the busy lanes and streets towards Greyfriars. Here and there Kathryn met a patient or a friend from the parish, but she didn’t pause to chatter, claiming her business was urgent. The paths and alleyways were busy, particularly with pilgrims who, according to custom, would spend the morning in the cathedral and the afternoon seeing other sights of the city. Rich merchants perspired in their heavy, embroidered robes, their wives loudly complaining at the press and push. Tinkers and chapmen offered ribbons and geegaws for sale, badges or small statues of Becket or other saints. One enterprising chapman had rosary beads round his neck, shouting loudly how they had been blessed by no less a person than the Pope himself. Another offered dirty scraps of parchment which he claimed bore special prayers to the martyred archbishop copied down by a visionary. Kathryn had a sharp eye for the false leeches who peddled medicines and advertised them as elixirs of good health and a long life. One, a pockmarked individual popularly known as Toadwort, who had been driven from Kathryn’s quarter, suddenly recognised the physician and disappeared like a whippet up an alleyway.
‘So, you are feared as well as liked?’ Colum joked as they turned into a small tavern to stable their horses.
‘Oh, that’s Toadwort,’ Kathryn explained. ‘Most false leeches are harmless. Toadwort’s different. I have seen him sell foxglove for a bad cough and water hemlock for the rheums. He advertises them as a cure.’ She handed the reins to Colum. ‘In a way, he’s correct, they cure all ills – you die!’
Colum pulled a face and led the horses away. Kathryn walked back to the tavern gate and peered down the lane. Toadwort had reappeared but, as soon as he glimpsed Kathryn, he stepped back into the darkness of a narrow runnel.
‘I must see Luberon,’ Kathryn declared as Colum returned. ‘The bailiffs must seize the likes of Toadwort, they should at least have a licence before they sell their rubbish. Now, come on!’
They walked through the streets and into Greyfriars. A porter led them in. Kathryn did not go to the church but asked the la
y brother to take them round the grounds of the priory, taking special note of the different doors and entrances. She was busy doing this when Prior Barnabas, accompanied by Brother Ralph and Brother Simon the sacristan, came striding through a door towards her.
‘Mistress Swinbrooke, you did not tell us you were coming.’ The Prior stopped and studied her carefully. ‘You look pale, rather dishevelled.’
‘We have had some excitement,’ Colum replied. ‘Prior Barnabas, I need a scribe to write an urgent letter for me. Perhaps a lay brother could take it out to my serjeant, Holbech at King’s Mead?’
‘Of course, of course,’ the Prior murmured. ‘Come with me.’
He led them through the cloisters and into the scriptorium, a large barnlike room with plain white walls and a hard wooden floor. The brothers were busy at their carrels under the window using the full light of day. Colum dictated a short letter which a beak-nosed scribe swiftly took down. Once he had finished, Colum asked Kathryn to check it. The piece of vellum was then rolled, the red wax imprinted with the priory seal.
‘The Vaudois woman!’ the Prior exclaimed as he led them out of the scriptorium. He paused to hand the sealed scroll to a lay brother. ‘Ask Bruno to take that down to King’s Mead,’ he ordered. ‘The Vaudois woman,’ he continued, ‘and her daughter Ursula, they are both dead?’
‘An unfortunate accident,’ Kathryn replied. ‘In fact, Father, I would like to ask you a favour: their corpses have to be coffined, churched and buried. You have a place here?’
‘We have the Poor Man’s Plot,’ the Prior answered.
‘There will be three other corpses,’ Colum added.
‘What?’ the Prior exclaimed.
‘God in Heaven!’ Brother Ralph declared. ‘Has there been a battle out at the old hunting lodge?’
‘Five corpses in all,’ Kathryn replied. ‘Master Luberon will pay any reasonable expense. However, Father Prior, I haven’t come about the Vaudois woman. I need to see you and Brother Ralph in the chantry chapel of St. Michael.’
‘I . . .’ The Prior seemed confused. ‘I cannot see why?’
‘Oh, I can, Father Prior. I have solved the mystery. I need to see you and your infirmarian alone.’
The sacristan was dismissed. Prior Barnabas, head bowed, shoulders hunched, led them into the church. He unlocked the door of the chantry chapel, drew back the bolts, and they stepped inside. Kathryn immediately sat down on the altar steps. Colum leaned against the door whilst, at Kathryn’s insistence, Prior Barnabas and Brother Ralph sat on small stools next to him.
‘You know where the Lacrima Christi is?’ Brother Ralph asked.
‘No, I don’t.’ Kathryn shook her head. ‘But I do know how it was taken!’
The Prior’s eyes widened, his face fearful. Brother Ralph stirred uncomfortably on the stool.
‘My father and I used to often debate, as the scholars do in the schools at Oxford,’ Kathryn continued. ‘I would ask a question, such as, does God exist? Prove it. My father would reply with a different view, that if he could prove that God existed, God would cease to exist, for how can a finite mind comprehend that which is infinite? You have heard the famous disputation?’
Prior Barnabas nodded.
‘Or, if challenged,’ Kathryn continued, ‘to prove God’s existence, you counter it with a similar question for your opponent to prove that God doesn’t exist.’
‘What has this to do with the Lacrima Christi?’
‘Oh, I am just making the very important point, Father Prior, how it all depends on how you look at the problem in order to resolve it.’ Kathryn rubbed her hands together. ‘Take Laus Tibi: everyone thinks he disappeared from the church.’
‘Well, he did.’
‘No he didn’t, Father Prior. He disappeared from the priory and you should know. After all, you all helped him, just as you helped yourself to the Lacrima Christi!’
Chapter 10
‘My theme is alwey oon, and evere was—
Radix malorum est Cupiditas. . . .’
—Chaucer ‘The Pardoner’s Prologue,’
The Canterbury Tales, 1387
What?’
Prior Barnabas would have leapt to his feet but Kathryn gently pushed him back on the stool. Colum came away from the doorway as Brother Ralph, white-faced, put a restraining hand on his superior’s arm.
‘That’s my theory and I will explain it,’ Kathryn continued. ‘Let’s take our rogue Laus Tibi, a cutpurse, a thief, a felon whom the bailiffs want to lay by the heels. Laus Tibi was destined for exile or a hanging, probably the latter. He has taken refuge, penniless, hungry, dirty and fearful in this church, yet he has the arrogance and skill, apparently, to walk through solid brick wall and escape the vigilance of his would-be captors.’
Prior Barnabas sat, hands on his knees, gazing intently at her. Now and again he would move his head as if fearful of Colum standing behind him.
‘When Laus Tibi disappeared,’ Kathryn went on, ‘everyone immediately thought he had escaped from the church. Such a sly cutpurse! Such a cunning man! If he can escape from sanctuary, evade the vigilance of the bailiffs, surely he’s the man who stole the Lacrima Christi? This suspicion hardens when the receptacle for the sacred ruby is later sold to a city trader for a goodly amount. Everything points to Laus Tibi, but let’s examine the basic theory.’ Kathryn paused, pulling back the sleeves of her gown. She was happy to talk, give vent to her feelings, even though the bloody events out at the old hunting lodge still haunted her. ‘Laus Tibi didn’t escape from the church,’ she explained, ‘because he couldn’t escape from a church locked, barred and guarded! Everyone looked at the church, that’s where Laus Tibi was sheltering.’
‘What are you saying?’ The Prior’s voice was thick, though Kathryn could see she had hit the mark.
‘Laus Tibi didn’t escape from the church.’ Kathryn gestured with her hands. ‘Laus Tibi escaped from the priory.’
‘Kathryn!’ Colum warned.
‘No, Colum, think of it. Laus Tibi is shivering in the Sanctuary Chair. All the doors to this church are barred, locked and guarded; however, the priory isn’t.’
‘But the sacristy door?’ Brother Ralph stuttered. ‘That’s locked.’
‘It’s barred and locked from the outside,’ Kathryn agreed. ‘And the night Laus Tibi escaped, someone simply unlocked the sacristy door, drew back the bars and, dressed in a robe and a deep cowl, possibly a mask over his face, glided into the sanctuary and approached Laus Tibi. In a gruff voice this apparition tells Laus Tibi to rise, that his day of deliverance is at hand. He brings a fresh batch of clothes, some food, silver and the beautiful receptacle for the sacred ruby.’
‘Wouldn’t Laus Tibi protest?’ Colum asked.
‘Would a bird weep for being rescued from a cat? Oh no,’ Kathryn exclaimed. ‘Laus Tibi must have thought he was experiencing a vision. He doesn’t know who his benefactor is, he doesn’t really care. He strips in the sanctuary and dons his new clothes, all covered by one of the priory’s dark grey habits and cowl. He has money, the precious receptacle and a stout walking stick. His mysterious benefactor explains that, if he sells the receptacle, he will make even more money. Laus Tibi’s deliverer then leads our jubilant felon out of the sanctuary, through the sacristy and into the priory buildings.’
Colum, fascinated by Kathryn’s story, came over and, uninvited, sat down on the floor beside the Prior.
‘But wouldn’t Laus Tibi be wary? Suspicious?’
‘Would you?’ Kathryn laughed. ‘It’s a serious crime to take a man out of sanctuary, to provide him with sustenance. To give him what really belongs to a sacred relic. Why should he fear such an accomplice?’
The Prior’s head went down.
‘Laus Tibi would skip like a lamb on a May morning! The priory is silent and dark, the good brothers asleep. Even if one did wake and glimpse two figures in robes and cowls, what would he think? That two of his community are going about some priory business.’ Kathryn gestu
red at the Prior. ‘You were Laus Tibi’s liberator whilst Brother Ralph acted as your guard, spying out the land, making sure all was safe.’
The infirmarian stared back, pale-faced and glassy-eyed.
‘Laus Tibi, like Peter delivered from Herod,’ Kathryn continued, ‘suddenly finds himself taken through a postern gate of the priory, well away from the bailiffs busily camped in the cemetery on the far side of the buildings. I have walked the precincts of this priory: the bailiffs were like foxes watching three rabbit-holes, not realising there were six.’
‘Of course,’ Colum agreed. ‘No bailiff would dream that a member of the Greyfriars community would dare help a convicted felon to escape.’
‘You have said it,’ Kathryn replied. ‘Laus Tibi is a free man. Fast as a ferret down a hole, he puts as much distance between himself and Greyfriars as possible. Dawn breaks, he goes to a barber to be shaved and washed. He sells the relic-holder to our craftsman and, enriched even further, Laus Tibi heads for the city gates. He has new attire, is freshly shaven and cleansed, and strides out like a lord of the soil. No one would ever dream he was the same dirty, harassed felon who should be cowering on the Chair of Mercy in the sanctuary of Greyfriars. Laus Tibi is probably now in Dover or one of the Cinque ports, if he hasn’t already fled across the Narrow Seas to Calais or some other city in Christendom. Father Prior?’
Prior Barnabas lifted his head. He was haggard, anxious-eyed. Brother Ralph mouthed wordlessly, a sheen of sweat lacing his face.
‘Of course, the bells chime and the community rises to chant its praises. Laus Tibi has escaped. But how? The sacristy door has been relocked and bolted. The church is searched but the felon has gone and the mystery deepens.’
‘You have no proof of this!’ Prior Barnabas interrupted.
‘Tell me, Father, how many of the community hold keys to the sacristy door? How many of the community can unlock the store cupboard where you keep clothes to distribute to the poor? How many of your community would dare even to contemplate liberating Laus Tibi?
