by Paul Doherty
‘Where is it now?’ Kathryn asked.
‘Wait there. Brother Ralph, come with me.’
The two Franciscans left the chapel.
‘Is that all you are going to do?’ Colum whispered. He gripped Kathryn’s hands and stared down at her. ‘You look like a dove, Kathryn. In truth, you are a peregrine falcon falling out of the sky onto your unsuspecting quarry.’
‘Then we are well matched.’ Kathryn stood on tiptoe and kissed his lips. ‘Father Prior is not a bad man, just a Franciscan with a misplaced sense of justice. He didn’t injure anyone except frighten Maltravers. He didn’t steal for personal gain and, who knows, perhaps he saved poor Laus Tibi from a hanging?’
Kathryn kissed Colum again and drew aside as Prior Barnabas and the infirmarian came hurrying down the church and into the chapel. He opened a leather sack and Kathryn gasped at the brilliant ruby he drew out. She took it gently from his hand and held it up against the fading light pouring through the window. The ruby was quite heavy, and resembled in the shape and size a large pigeon’s egg. It glowed like blood, a brilliant red with a deeper shade of red within as if there were two rubies, one inside of the other. It was polished, flawless.
‘Beautiful!’ she whispered. ‘Exquisite! A man,’ she grinned, ‘or a woman could lose their soul over something like this.’
She handed it to Colum who also examined it, exclaiming softly under his breath. He handed it back to the Prior, who replaced it in the leather sack.
‘Do I have your word, Father?’
Prior Barnabas shuffled his feet.
‘Do I have your word?’ Kathryn repeated.
‘Tell her!’ Brother Ralph urged.
‘On the feast of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary.’ Prior Barnabas smiled. ‘Greyfriars will witness a great miracle. The Lacrima Christi will be found at the foot of her statue, just as we brothers gather there to sing a hymn to mark the great feast.’ His smile faded. ‘And, when Lady Elizabeth Maltravers demands its return, I shall hand it back.’
‘Amen! Alleluia!’ Kathryn replied.
She stretched a hand out, Prior Barnabas clasped it. ‘I have given my vow.’ The Prior’s eyes were now soft, his voice barely above a whisper. ‘I have given my word in a sacred place.’
Late in the afternoon Colum and Kathryn returned to Ottemelle Lane. Colum was teasing her about performing miracles, but she swore him to silence, telling him that the matter of the Lacrima Christi must never be discussed, and Colum gave his word. By the time they entered the house, Kathryn was more intent on distracting Thomasina who, if given time and reason, would study her most closely and find out about the grisly business at the old hunting lodge. Kathryn was relieved to find that Thomasina, with the help of Agnes and Wulf, had decided to weed the herbers. Colum said he’d have to go out to King’s Mead; he quietly promised that the corpses at the hunting lodge would be brought into Greyfriars after dark, secretly coffined and given hasty burial. Kathryn absentmindedly kissed him and went up to her own chamber. She took off her gown, dress and underkirtle and washed herself vigorously at the lavarium. She changed all her clothes and sat for a while before the small mirror Colum had bought as a gift, combing her raven black hair, trying to calm her mind.
‘The business at Greyfriars is finished,’ she murmured. ‘But my pursuit is not yet over.’
She recalled the events at the old hunting lodge: Ursula’s hate-filled face, that cruel barb pointed at her chest, the Vaudois woman’s sleepy eyes; Colum’s sword snaking out, a sliver of sun-filled silver; the blood pools glistening amongst the cobbles. Kathryn continued her vigorous brushing. Thomasina brought up a cup of light ale and two manchet loaves on a black wooden platter. Kathryn said she was tired.
‘Is there anything wrong?’
Thomasina was at the door; through the mirror Kathryn could see that she was watching her intently.
‘Lost in my thoughts, Thomasina. I’ll be with you shortly. I need . . .’
‘I know what you need!’ Thomasina grumbled but thankfully left.
Kathryn went and lay down on the bed. She closed her eyes and forced herself to go back to Ingoldby Hall. She imagined the great meadow, the rambling maze with its tall green hedges, the sun-washed grass, the dark copse of trees. She tried to picture it on that fateful afternoon when Murder had stepped into the maze and taken Sir Walter’s head. She could imagine the sunshine, the warm haze, the lazy call of the birds, bees and butterflies hunting amongst the grass. Gurnell’s retainers would be sprawled before the maze, the master-at-arms walking up and down. Did he disappear? Thurston coming out of the track, Father John too. Did they return to the hall? Lady Elizabeth and Eleanora in the bower playing sweet music. Sir Walter on his knees, crawling towards the Weeping Cross. A dark shadow slipping out of the copse behind the maze, crossing the grass. And what else? The Vaudois woman and her daughter skulking amongst the trees? Mawsby returning from Canterbury, Brother Ralph leaving the hall. Kathryn smiled to herself. Prior Barnabas had shown great cunning, but she was convinced the Franciscans had nothing to do with Sir Walter’s hideous death, so what else was there? Gurnell? Mawsby? They were soldiers who had fought for Lancaster. Thurston had lost kin whilst Father John . . .?
‘A deep pool,’ Kathryn murmured, ‘with unfathomed depths.’
She recalled the mere near the derelict tower, Veronica’s soaked corpse. Kathryn rolled over on her back and stared up at the beautifully embroidered counterpane of the four-poster bed.
‘Why kill a poor maid?’
She recalled her own terror in the cellars.
‘That’s it!’
Kathryn sat up, pushing back the bolsters to rest against. The assassin had seen her examine that mosaic in the library and concluded she’d discovered the map; the same was true of her kneeling at the edge of the maze.
‘They thought I was looking for a secret entrance,’ Kathryn whispered.
She rearranged the bolsters and lay down against the cool, white linen coverings. From the garden drifted the sound of Thomasina and Wulf chanting some doggerel rhyme. Kathryn closed her eyes and tried to recall every detail of her investigation. Mawsby sprawled in that chamber, the wine drops on the grass. Veronica, did she have that green mask? What could a young woman, who had her chamber at the front of the house, have seen that cost her her life? Veronica had been looking for her locket. Kathryn gasped and sat up.
‘Veronica left the kitchen!’ she exclaimed. ‘She thought Amelia had taken her locket. She wouldn’t go back to her own chamber, she went up to Amelia’s which overlooked the maze.’ The shock of her conclusion made Kathryn gasp. ‘Veronica must have seen someone?’
She sat for a while, turning the thought over and over again. Kathryn recalled the story a sheriff’s man had told her: how the ghosts of murder victims often haunt the minds of those searching for the culprit.
‘You didn’t die in vain,’ Kathryn declared, quickly crossing herself. ‘Oh, no, you didn’t.’
She slipped from her bed and finished her dressing, pushing her stockinged feet into a pair of dark purple slippers. She went down to the kitchen for something to eat, then locked herself in her writing chamber. She lit the candles, took a fresh piece of vellum and began to write. Thomasina came and knocked at the door but Kathryn asked not to be disturbed.
Kathryn continued writing lines of neatly formed words; occasionally she would scratch out a line, and she grew so tense she had to stand up and stretch. Thomasina was preparing the evening meal, and the smell of baked meats and a highly spiced sauce drifted into the chamber. A few visitors arrived but Thomasina dealt with them, patients demanding salves or ointments. Eventually Kathryn left the writing chamber and went out to sit near the beehives in the small orchard at the end of the garden; she loved to watch the frenetic activity of these tiny, tireless workers.
‘Talking to the bees?’
Kathryn whirled round. Colum stood unstrapping his war belt. He came and sat beside her, kissing her gently
on the cheek.
‘Colum, a favour.’ Kathryn dug into her purse and brought out a small, square piece of parchment sealed with a blob of wax. ‘I want you to take this to Brother Ralph at Greyfriars. No; no.’ She grasped Colum’s hand. ‘That business is finished. Ask him to read it and give you an answer. Tell him to express his suspicions. Ask him, is it possible?’
‘What’s possible?’
Kathryn kissed him noisily on the cheek, her hand combing the sweaty, black tendrils of hair on the nape of his neck.
‘Irishman, if you love me truly . . .?’
A short while later Colum left. Thomasina came out grumbling that she would have to delay the meal. Kathryn wouldn’t answer her questions so Thomasina launched the most ferocious attack on a clump of weeds in one of the raised herb patches. Colum returned and Thomasina demanded that they eat. After they’d grouped round the table and Kathryn absentmindedly chanted the grace, Thomasina began to loudly proclaim how meals in this house were delayed, how almond fish stew was an exquisite dish and didn’t everyone appreciate it.
Thomasina glared so fiercely round the table that everyone lustily agreed, yet Kathryn found she wasn’t hungry. As soon as she could, she excused herself and returned to her writing office. Colum followed her in.
‘I gave your message to Brother Ralph. You don’t seem interested in the answer?’
‘I didn’t want to alert Thomasina,’ Kathryn replied, ‘though I anticipated his reply: it was possible?’
‘Is it true,’ Colum asked sitting on the stool beside her desk, ‘that Sir Walter’s stomach gripes were due to poison?’
‘Conjecture.’ Kathryn nodded. ‘A hypothesis with very little evidence. Colum.’ She smoothed the top of the desk with her fingers. ‘I know what happened to Sir Walter. Why he was killed, when and how.’
‘And?’
‘I have no real evidence.’ Kathryn played with the ring on her finger. ‘Indeed, I have very little proof, only conjecture. I know how Sir Walter was killed, why Veronica had to die, why I was attacked and how Mawsby was poisoned.’
Colum stared in amazement. ‘But, if you have no proof, no evidence, what can be done?’
‘Have you ever,’ Kathryn replied, ‘met anyone for the first time and taken a great dislike or liking for that person?’
‘Yes, I loved you the moment I saw you.’
‘Silver-tongued flatterer! You know what I mean. Our humours dictate our actions and, sometimes, there is neither rhyme nor reason. I have patients, people who walk in here for the first time, and I say to myself I like you, or I dislike you. If it’s the latter, I feel guilty, for I have no evidence or reason for my feelings. The same is true here, so I am going to trap this murderer by trickery. I am going to fight a lie with a lie and, for that, I need your help.’
‘Kathryn!’ Colum warned. ‘This will mean returning to Ingoldby Hall, won’t it?’
‘You hold the King’s warrant,’ Kathryn said. ‘You can arrest . . .’
‘Kathryn!’ Colum rose kicking over the stool. ‘Lady Elizabeth Maltravers’s household,’ he declared, ‘are in mourning.’
‘I know they are. The old hunting lodge has been cleared?’
Colum nodded.
‘I want you,’ Kathryn stood up, ‘I am begging you, to go back to King’s Mead tonight. You have a clerk of the stables with parchment, quills and ink. I want you to swear out warrants for the arrest of Father John, Gurnell, Thurston and the lady-in-waiting Eleanora.’
‘On what charge?’
‘Hideous murder.’
‘And on what evidence?’
‘I shall soon produce that, and the King’s Justice will be done.’
‘Kathryn! Kathryn!’ Colum’s hands grasped her by the shoulders and pulled her close. ‘Lady Elizabeth Maltravers is very powerful. Father John is a priest and so protected by benefit of clergy.’
‘I want you to arrest them,’ Kathryn replied firmly. ‘You are to take men-at-arms and do what is necessary. I don’t want them brought into Canterbury, to the castle or to the dungeons of the Guildhall. They are to be taken to the hunting lodge, given food and drink and I shall join them there.’
‘This will take time?’
‘Oh, take your time,’ Kathryn advised. ‘You have to ride to King’s Mead, swear out the warrants, organise your men, journey through the darkness to Ingoldby Hall and arrest those people.’
‘If you are wrong?’
‘If I am wrong, Colum, then I will purge my guilt. But they must be arrested and taken away.’
Colum was about to refuse but Kathryn became stubborn.
‘Colum, time is passing. Gurnell, Father John, Thurston and Lady Eleanora may soon go their own ways. The assassin will escape the net of justice and Sir Walter’s blood will be unavenged. Think of him, Colum, sent into the darkness! Poor Veronica struck on the back of her head and drowned in a filthy pool! Your own beloved,’ she forced a smile, ‘hunted like a rat in that dark, dank cellar.’
Colum stepped closer and, placing his hand on the back of her head, drew her closer and kissed her on the brow.
‘If that’s the case, sweetheart, I’d arrest the Queen herself!’ He stepped back. ‘Yet you have no evidence, you are sure?’
‘Of a sort.’ Kathryn pushed him back on the stool. ‘I will leave; remain here until I call.’
Colum sat staring at the candle. He heard Kathryn busy in the kitchen and buttery beyond. He got to his feet and looked at what she had been writing; it was in her own cipher, nothing elaborate, just each word abbreviated, a text Colum couldn’t understand.
‘You are a mystery,’ Colum whispered, making himself comfortable on the chair.
Colum had known Kathryn for over a year. No woman intrigued him as she did yet, at the same time, he felt relaxed, perfectly at peace with her. He thought of her warm kisses and passionate embraces. On the one hand Kathryn could be as self-possessed as any nun and, at others, outrageously flirtatious, but always protected by a shield of her own making. Soon we will be married, Colum reflected, and I’ll clear the past. I’ll seal the door on it.
‘Colum?’
The Irishman grinned and sprang to his feet. If he knew Kathryn, Kathryn certainly knew him. He could lose his temper and sometimes speak or act before he reflected, hence her mysterious ways. He strode out of the chamber and down to the kitchen. Kathryn was enjoying a tankard of ale.
‘Pour one yourself, Colum.’
He went across to the small side table. Two of the tankards had already been used so he filled the third and joined her.
‘Well?’ he asked. ‘This evidence?’
Kathryn glanced quickly over her shoulder. Thomasina was still out in the garden crooning softly to herself.
‘Evidence, Irishman? You are just drinking it.’ She toasted him with her own tankard. ‘And tomorrow, whatever happens, remember that!’
Chapter 11
‘What is bettre than wisedoom? Womman. And what is
bettre than a good womman? Nothyng.’
—Chaucer, ‘The Tale of Melibee,’
The Canterbury Tales, 1387
When Colum and Kathryn reached Ingoldby Hall early the next morning, the Irishman was furious. Muttering under his breath, he glowered at Kathryn who, acting the minx, smiled coyly back. Colum had confessed how the previous evening had been highly unpleasant. He had arrived at the hall and served his warrants. Gurnell drew his sword and had to be restrained by Colum’s retainers. Eleanora had been furious, angrily shaking Colum’s hand off her sleeve. She had collected her cloak and, speaking quickly in her own tongue, cursed him roundly. Thurston, slightly drunk, hardly resisted whilst Father John quietly smiled and pointed out that he was a cleric and so protected by benefit of clergy. Lady Elizabeth Maltravers was icy in her anger, vowing that Colum and Kathryn would pay for their insults, both to her and the memory of her dead husband. In the end, however, Colum had his way. He did not tell them where they were going and a fresh dispute arose when they t
urned off the trackway down to the old hunting lodge. Nevertheless, Colum insisted that they were his prisoners and were to stay, at least until the following morning when Mistress Swinbrooke would visit them. He had then returned to Ottemelle Lane, found the house quiet and Kathryn already retired. She had roused him just before dawn. They had broken their fast and left but, when they reached the trackway leading down to the hunting lodge, Kathryn had sprung her surprise.
‘We are not going there, at least not yet.’
‘What?’ Colum had roared back. ‘I have provoked a powerful noblewoman, arrested four of her household and you are not even going to question them? Kathryn, you cannot hold them forever. Lady Elizabeth will send messages into Canterbury. The lawyers will be down here like flies over horse dung!’
‘A good likeness, but intemperate language,’ Kathryn coolly replied. ‘First, we must visit Ingoldby Hall.’
She spoke quietly but firmly, then urged her horse on. Colum was still swearing under his breath even as a bleary-eyed retainer opened the front door of the hall and reluctantly admitted them.
‘Tell the Lady Elizabeth that I wish to speak to her,’ Kathryn declared. ‘On the King’s business.’
She made her own way into the solar and sat down on the same chair she had occupied on her first visit here.
‘Mistress Swinbrooke!’
Kathryn rose as Lady Elizabeth swept into the room.
‘Mistress Swinbrooke.’ Lady Elizabeth flicked her hand as a sign for Kathryn to sit; Colum she totally ignored. ‘I am mourning for my husband. Last night your ruffian, abusing the King’s warrants, arrested four of my household. He shattered our mourning, alarmed our guests and now you rouse me from my bed as if I am some scullion maid.’
Lady Elizabeth made herself comfortable in the thronelike chair. She was wearing a nightgown of pure white linen gathered at the neck, and over this a dark blue robe lined with silver fur. Her dainty feet, pushed into red satin slippers, rested on a footstool. She’d parted her hair down the centre, letting it fall to her shoulders; her beautiful, pale face was mottled with anger, and white spittle stained the corner of her mouth whilst her eyes were full of haughty disdain.
