Saintly Murders

by Paul Doherty

  In the centre, on a chair of state, his slippered feet resting on a footstool of red satin, sat the aged Bourchier, Archbishop of Canterbury, prelate and politician. He was a priest who had quietly confided to his own confessor that, now past his eightieth year, he constantly prepared for death. Bourchier’s face showed his age, with its dark, liverish blotches; spotted, sallow, sunken cheeks; and slack mouth with abscesses on the gums. His hair was gone apart from a few wisps, though his eyes were bright and sharp as any young man’s. ‘He was a true falcon,’ as one critic commented. Bourchier’s mind was as agile, his wits as nimble as those of any young serjeant-at-law at the Inns of Court. Now he sat, eyes watering, staring into the fire, ears pricked for that dreadful sound he and his two companions were waiting for. One vein-streaked hand was raised; the beautiful episcopal ring, once worn by Thomas a Becket, shimmered in the light. Bourchier stretched his other hand out to the fire. He wore a hair shirt against his skin; that was penance enough! The cold he couldn’t stand, and he was dressed in two thick, woollen houpelandes and, over these, a cotehardie with a round neck edged with fur. Around his bony shoulders hung an ermine-trimmed military cloak.

  On Bourchier’s left, Luberon, clerk to the City Council, perched on the edge of a seat like a little pigeon, eyes bright in his red, cheery face, prim lips pursed. Dressed in a long, grey robe with a white pelisse, Luberon didn’t feel the cold and quietly prayed that this meeting would not be too long as the heat from the fire was intense.

  On a high-backed chair to the Archbishop’s right, Kathryn Swinbrooke silently shared Luberon’s discomfort. At first the fire had been welcoming enough, but she wore a thick, woollen dress of dark murrey. She had already loosened the top button and discarded her cloak, which lay across her lap. She pulled her feet, shod in thick buskins, under the chair and tried to relax. Kathryn Swinbrooke, apothecary and physician to the City Council, decided to distract herself by watching Luberon. The little man always amused her: kind-hearted and generous, Luberon was also proud as a peacock and constantly tried to hide the fact that his eyesight was beginning to fail. Only when Kathryn pressed him would Luberon agree to wear the spectacles she had specially bought for him in London.

  For the umpteenth time since she had arrived an hour previously and been left to kick her heels in an antechamber, Kathryn wondered why both the council and the Archbishop required her presence. She had a litany of tasks waiting for her at her house and shop in Ottemelle Lane, whilst Thomasina – not to mention Alice and Wulf – would be worried about where she was and what had happened. She leaned back and winked at Luberon. The city clerk blushed and glanced away.

  You are beautiful, he reflected. The physician was dressed so elegantly: the white, high-collared pelisse blending subtly with her olive-skinned face. The cowl-like wimple round Kathryn’s head discreetly hid her raven-black hair though revealing the slight grey above the temples – a product, the clerk reflected, of those violent days with her husband. Luberon felt his face flush with embarrassment. Alexander Wyville, Kathryn Swinbrooke’s first husband, was one of the reasons for this meeting. Bourchier, once he had made his point, would come to that soon enough. And how would Kathryn take it? Luberon glanced at his friend: Her young-looking face was serene, her large, dark eyes calm, her generous mouth slightly smiling at Bourchier’s dramatic manner. Luberon knew Kathryn. Despite the pert nose and smiling lips she could, when provoked, be hot-tempered and very passionate and give free rein to her tongue. Kathryn moved her hands, peeled off her pearl-studded samite gloves, and wiped at the bead of sweat coursing down her forehead. She started as Bourchier abruptly exclaimed, ‘There! There! Do you hear it now, Kathryn, Simon?’ He glanced at Luberon.

  They had both heard and nodded.

  ‘Rats!’ Bourchier exclaimed. ‘Rats all over Canterbury and all over my palace!’

  He turned, glaring down the hall as if, by look alone, he could excommunicate and drive off this sudden plague on both his city and church.

  ‘Halegrins!’ the Archbishop declared.

  ‘What are those, Your Eminence?’ Kathryn asked.

  ‘An old word’ – Bourchier sat back in his chair – ‘for the violators of tombs and the devourers of human flesh!’

  Kathryn thought he was being dramatic but held her peace. The Archbishop gestured at Luberon. ‘Come on, Simon. Give me your report.’

  ‘We are now at the beginning of April.’ The clerk steepled his fingers. ‘By the end of this month, Your Eminence, Canterbury will be full of pilgrims. His Grace the King is already at Islip.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know about that.’ Bourchier gestured at Luberon to continue. ‘This plague? This plague?’

  ‘Canterbury has always had rats,’ Luberon declared sonorously.

  ‘I know that!’ Bourchier snapped. ‘Some of them have two legs!’

  Luberon glowered at the Archbishop; Kathryn bit her lower lip.

  ‘Come to the point, Simon!’

  Luberon winced at the pain in his stomach and wondered again if the meat he had eaten at that city tavern had been rancid. He quietly promised himself to have a word with Kathryn. Perhaps she could help? Or had the meat been tainted by these rats?

  ‘Simon?’ the Archbishop purred.

  ‘The rats appeared,’ Luberon continued, ‘at the beginning of March, around the Feast of St. David of Wales. We first had reports of an infestation beyond the city walls near the river Stour, followed by similar reports of infestations in Westgate and North-gate Wards.’ He shrugged. ‘By then it was too late. They are seen everywhere. As you know, Your Eminence, ancient sewers and tunnels run beneath the city. The rats use these. Once they surface on the streets’ – he held out his hands – ‘they have food enough, mounds of refuse, the offal in the Shambles, the poulterers, the refuse which litters every alleyway. They are doing great damage to food stocks, particularly grain – indeed, anything stored in the cellars of houses. If hungry, they will attack what’s available. Vintners and taverners are complaining how the rats will gnaw at wood: casks, tuns, and vats are ruined.’

  ‘Is that possible?’ Bourchier turned to Kathryn.

  ‘Your Eminence, I am a physician, not a rat-catcher.’

  ‘I know, I know, but . . .’

  ‘Rats will eat anything,’ Kathryn hurriedly continued. ‘Normally they will not gnaw at wood or baskets; but if that wood has been drenched in food or drink, like a wine vat, yes, they would. They are great devourers. They live to eat and procreate . . .’

  ‘Like many sons of Adam,’ Bourchier interrupted drily.

  ‘Each pair can breed at least four litters a year,’ Kathryn declared. ‘This is an infestation the city has never witnessed before. Rats can live anywhere, move anywhere. They can swim; they will eat anything. Some physicians claim they are the carriers of malignant diseases.’

  ‘Why?’ Bourchier asked.

  Kathryn forgot about the excessive warmth. She leaned forward, emphasizing the points on her finger.

  ‘First, where there is dirt and refuse, disease and rats always flourish. We do not know what is the cause and what is the effect. Secondly, their urine and faeces must be tainted.’

  Luberon swallowed hard, hand to his lips. He did feel a little queasy.

  ‘And?’ Bourchier demanded.

  ‘My father – God rest him, Your Eminence – loved to talk to Italian visitors, particularly physicians. He met some who claimed how the very breath of a rat is fetid and polluted.’

  ‘So what is our danger?’ Bourchier wanted to know.

  ‘As summer comes, the incidence of disease will increase; it always does in hot weather. The rats will make it worse. Secondly, they may have an effect on foods, though last year’s harvest was good and plentiful . . .’

  ‘And?’

  Kathryn gestured at Luberon to explain.

  ‘Canterbury, Your Eminence, is the pilgrimage centre of the kingdom. If this news is bruited abroad, the number of pilgrims may well fall; and the effect on trade,�
� Luberon added, ‘would be disastrous.’

  Bourchier leaned back in his chair and stared at a gargoyle carved in the centre of the mantelpiece, a monkey’s face shrouded in a cowl. The sculptor, Bourchier reflected, must have had little love for monks or priests, a sentiment Bourchier himself often shared.

  ‘So what do you recommend?’

  Luberon stared at the floor. Kathryn played with her pair of gloves. The rats concerned her. Only this week she had dealt with three children who had been bitten; even her house and shop, swept and cleaned, had been visited by what Thomasina called ‘those damnable slinkers of the night.’ Kathryn had discussed the problem with the Master of the King’s Horse, Colum Murtagh, who lodged with her. Murtagh, who had served in the Royal Wars, knew a great deal about rats and had expressed his surprise at how intense this infestation had become.

  ‘What,’ he’d asked, ‘has brought so many rats to Canterbury in so short a time?’

  Thomasina had replied that it was a judgement of God. Kathryn couldn’t decide, but the topic was on everyone’s lips, particularly amongst other members of the Apothecaries’ Guild who had precious stocks to guard.

  ‘We have rat-catchers.’ Luberon broke the silence. ‘And the City Council has been approached by one Malachi Smallbones.’

  ‘Who?’ Bourchier demanded.

  ‘Principal rat-catcher from the city of Oxford,’ Luberon explained. ‘He claimed a similar infestation occurred there last year: Both Town and Gown hired his services. Apparently he was very successful.’

  ‘You have proof of this?’

  ‘Your Eminence, he brought letters of recommendation.’

  ‘And what does he advise?’

  ‘That the council,’ Luberon glanced sly-eyed at the Archbishop, ‘with the help of the Cathedral, allocate monies to hire a veritable army of rat-catchers under Malachi’s command; that he be allowed to buy potions and powders, not to mention small hunting dogs; that he be given a commission to enter all dwellings and go where he wishes to wipe out these vermin from hell.’

  ‘It will be very costly,’ Bourchier growled.

  ‘Malachi well deserves his reward,’ Luberon answered.

  ‘Kathryn, do you agree with this?’ Bourchier extended his fingers.

  ‘If this Malachi is as organised and skilled as he claims to be,’ Kathryn shrugged, ‘I would accept. Canterbury is divided into wards. Every citizen should be alerted, a small reward placed for every’ – she raised her hand – ‘two-dozen rats brought in. Allow Malachi and his confederates to go through the streets and kill where they wish. But these potions?’ She glanced across at Luberon.

  ‘Poison, henbane, belladonna, foxglove.’

  ‘He will have to be careful,’ Kathryn replied. ‘Domestic animals, not to mention children, must not pick up such bait. He should also be prudent.’

  ‘How’s that?’ Luberon snapped.

  ‘Poisoned baits can be eaten by humans,’ Kathryn declared. ‘But I have some knowledge of rats: If they eat certain poisons, eventually they become impervious to them.’

  ‘Impossible!’ Luberon jibed.

  ‘No, no. I have seen men and women with a similar condition. Powders and potions which work on others seem to have little effect upon them.’

  The Archbishop still looked askance.

  ‘Your Eminence, I only report what I know. It is important,’ Kathryn warmed to her topic, ‘that Malachi be given every help. It’s not enough that rats are killed.’ She smiled. ‘You know what I am going to say, Simon? More city scavengers must also be hired, rubbish cleared from the streets, sewers cleaned. The Butchers’ and the Poulterers’ Guilds must co-operate: offal should be collected, taken outside the city gates, and burnt, and heavy fines imposed on those who dump refuse or fail to clean latrines and cesspits.’

  ‘You are enjoying this, aren’t you?’ Luberon glared across at Kathryn.

  ‘You know why, Simon. If the council spent more money on clearing refuse and keeping the water supply sweet . . .’

  ‘This will cost so much,’ Luberon declared mournfully. ‘Perhaps Your Eminence will approach the King and ask for a respite on taxes and levies? Perhaps the King, in his infinite compassion, will make a grant to his city of Canterbury . . .?’ Luberon faltered.

  Infinite compassion! Kathryn thought. Edward IV and his two brothers, George of Clarence and Richard of Gloucester, were men of war. ‘Wolfish men’ was how Colum described them, with more sins on their souls than hairs on a woman’s head. Kathryn had met them all: Edward, standing over six foot, beautiful face, blue eyes, his blond hair like a golden aureole round his well-shaped head. George of Clarence was just as handsome, except for that smirk on his lips which betrayed a venomous, even murderous nature. Finally, Richard of Gloucester, dwarfed by his brothers, with his russet hair and white, pinched face, was a man who could never stay still. Richard was the King’s right-hand man, and if Colum was to be believed, a ferocious warrior who’d played a great part in his brother’s late victory at Tewkesbury in the West Country.

  ‘Infinite compassion.’ Bourchier smiled at Kathryn as if he could read her mind. ‘I will see what I can do. The King’s mother, the Duchess Cecily, has a soft spot for this city. Yet it seems,’ he sighed, ‘that only gold will cure this pestilence; so gold must be spent, eh, Kathryn?’

  ‘Your Eminence, it’s either that or fire.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Fire.’ Kathryn pushed her chair further from the hearth. ‘A fire would burn out the nests and the hunting runs of these rats.’

  ‘We can’t burn the city!’ Luberon screeched.

  ‘I am not saying that. Yet Malachi must not only kill rats, he must search out their nests . . .’

  ‘It’s so strange,’ Bourchier mused. ‘Do you know, Kathryn, the rats were first seen in the Cathedral grounds?’

  ‘Some people see it as a visitation from God,’ Luberon interjected, ‘the scourge of His anger.’

  ‘Why is that?’ Bourchier glared at Luberon.

  ‘I speak discreetly, Your Eminence. I trust you and Mistress Swinbrooke.’

  ‘Spit it out, man!’ Bourchier growled.

  ‘The King’ – Luberon looked around as if he was frightened lest the walls had ears or the King’s eavesdroppers lurked behind the arras – ‘the King is coming to Canterbury,’ Luberon chose his words carefully, ‘to give thanks for his great victory, that God has given him the crown and confirmed his rule.’ Luberon paused.

  Bourchier began playing with the episcopal ring. He glanced quickly at Kathryn and stared at the fire. ‘I think you’ve said enough,’ Bourchier whispered.

  Kathryn stared across at Luberon and shook her head, a sign that the clerk should say no more. Yet Luberon had simply voiced what other people thought. The House of York had been victorious at Tewkesbury, and a savage blood-letting had occurred. Their great rivals, the war chiefs of Lancaster, had been killed or barbarously executed in market places up and down the kingdom. Even here in Canterbury, Nicholas Faunte, the Mayor, who had thrown his lot in with the Lancastrians, had died a hideous death on the gallows near the market-place cross. More sombre news had arrived from London: how the saintly Lancastrian King, Henry VI, had been taken prisoner and housed in that dark, narrow place, the Tower. Edward and his brothers had sworn great oaths that not a hair of his head would be hurt; yet shortly after the victorious Yorkist leaders had reached London, Henry had died suddenly and mysteriously. Some people claimed he had taken a fall; others that he had been knifed most cruelly to death by Yorkist henchmen. His body had been moved to Chertsey, and already pilgrims were visiting his tomb, claiming miraculous cures. Bourchier himself had been petitioned that Henry VI had died a martyr’s death and should be proclaimed a saint.

  ‘If God wished to punish any house,’ Bourchier had replied slowly, ‘he has other, more subtle ways than punishing our city of Canterbury. Do you not agree, Kathryn?’

  The physician held her peace.

  ‘Whatever
.’ Bourchier stirred in his chair and extended his hands towards the fire. ‘Kathryn, Mistress Swinbrooke’ – he smiled – ‘you will give this Malachi every help and sustenance.’

  He paused and stared up at the black wooden crucifix fixed on the wall above the mantel hearth.

  ‘Martyrs and saints,’ he murmured. ‘Let us now leave the rats to their rat-catcher. Malachi Smallbones has three weeks to prove his boast.’ He drummed his fingers on his thigh. ‘Do you believe in miracles, Mistress Swinbrooke?’

  ‘God can do what he wishes.’

  Bourchier leaned across and squeezed Kathryn’s hand. ‘You would make a good theologian, Mistress. You know the Friars of the Sack?’

  Luberon winked quickly; now he was warning her.

  ‘They had a brother, a member of their order,’ Bourchier continued, ‘a Roger Atworth, a man well past his seventy-fifth year. A former soldier, he became a merchant; then he gave up all his wealth and entered the friary. Atworth soon won a name for sanctity, austerity, and prayer. People were astonished at the change, particularly those who had known him in France, including Cecily, widow of Richard, Duke of York, and mother of our King.’ Bourchier paused.