by Paul Doherty
‘I will be well prepared for Purgatory,’ Thomasina muttered, ‘but, Kathryn, the bread’s baked.’ She looked up at the basket pulled up to the rafters against foraging mice. ‘The little thieves won’t get it, will they? Where’s that Wulf?’
‘He’s out in the garden,’ Kathryn replied absent-mindedly.
‘You’ve been busy.’
Thomasina stood, hands on her hips. Kathryn agreed, again absent-mindedly. There’d been a stream of customers all morning to her shop at the front of the house. The council had not allowed her to have a stall; instead the customers came to her house to buy their herbs and spices: goat’s beard, tarragon, thyme, basil, nipplewort, black poplar, white clover. There had even been a few requests for those phials and small jars of poisons locked away in her strong-box, the malevolent mushroom or the ground leaves and bark of the boxwood plant. Kathryn wrote such purchases down in the great ledger. She knew the reason for such sales. Everyone was complaining about the infestation of rodents and demanding poisons to clear them out.
The usual patients had arrived: Molkyn the miller complaining about his stomach; Edith and Eadwig, the daughters of Fulke the tanner, who had begun their monthly courses; a pedlar with a gum infection; a woman with a boil on her breast. Kathryn had examined this carefully. She always kept an eye on such matters. If there was something she didn’t understand, some evil contagion or malignant tumour, she would always direct such people to Father Cuthbert at the Old Priests’ Hospital. Thomasina was always ready to take people there. Kathryn glanced up. Thomasina fulfilled all the roles of maid, mother, and shop-keeper, and, above all, close friend. She liked nothing better than stomping round the house, but she always leapt at a chance to visit the Old Priests’ Hospital. Many times widowed, Thomasina, as a young girl, had carried a fervent flame for the young, handsome Father Cuthbert, who, like Kathryn’s father, had studied physic and medicine at Salerno and Montpellier.
‘When will that Agnes be back?’ Thomasina gripped her knife like an executioner and advanced towards a piece of ham.
‘You know where she is,’ Kathryn replied, staring down at the scrap of manuscript. ‘She has gone to the Butter Market. Wulf’s in the garden.’
‘And Colum?’
‘He has ridden hastily out to Kingsmead. He’s going to leave matters with Holbech, his serjeant.’
‘And he’s coming back to marry you?’
‘No, Thomasina, he’s coming back to take me to the Friars of the Sack.’
‘Another coven of time-wasters,’ Thomasina muttered. ‘Can’t stand monks, can’t stand friars, can’t stand Irishmen with hot eyes and greedy fingers.’
‘You like Colum,’ Kathryn replied, as if reciting a psalm. ‘Colum likes you. I love Colum. Colum loves me. I told you, if Monksbane finds the truth, Colum and I will be handfast at St. Mildred’s Church. You and Father Cuthbert can dance on the green.’
‘I can’t dance!’ Thomasina blustered and disappeared into the buttery.
Kathryn lowered her head. Colum had made a very swift copy of what they had found in Padraig Mafiach’s chamber at the Falstaff. They had not returned home until just before midnight. Kathryn had retired immediately, but they had all risen early before dawn and broken their fasts here in the kitchen. Kathryn had told everyone what had happened the day before, to the round-eyed glances of Agnes the maid, the ‘Oohs’ and ‘Ahs’ of Wulf, and the muttered commentary of Thomasina.
Kathryn cupped her chin in her hand and nibbled at her fingernail. Much as she tried to figure it out, Mafiach’s murder was a total mystery, as was the message he had copied out and placed in that crucifix. She had taken down the family Bible her father had bought in Cheapside and traced the Latin extract from the prophet Zephaniah. She looked at it again.
Regis regum rectissimi prope est dies domini
dies irae et vindictae tenebrarum et nebulae
diesque mirabilium tonitruorum fortium
dies quoque angustiae meroris ac tristitiae
in quo cessabit mulierum amor ac desiderium
hominumque contentio mundi huius et cupide.
The day of the Lord,
The Kings of Kings most righteous, is at hand:
A day of wrath and vengeance, of darkness and cloud:
A day of wondrous mighty thunderings,
A day of trouble also, of grief and sadness,
In which shall cease the love and desire of women
And the strife of men and the lust of this world.
And the strange message on the bottom: ‘Recto et Verso’ (Front and Back)? Yet there was nothing on the back! Was there something missing? And the strange scrawl in Latin at the end: ‘Veritas continet Veritatem’? A doggerel phrase translated ‘The truth contains the truth.’ What on earth did that mean?
‘Mafiach was a scholar,’ Colum had declared proudly, ‘and he loved nothing better than a cipher; but this time he’s been too clever for his own good.’
Colum had sent the original to Islip by a courier who lived two alleyways down and often carried out such errands for Kathryn and Colum.
Where did the truth lie, Kathryn wondered, in the Latin text or the translation? Colum had begun to quote Chaucer’s poetry.
‘That’s what I’d use,’ he said. ‘I wonder why Padraig chose Zephaniah?’
Kathryn took up her quill and pulled across the writing tray. She tried to make sense of the cipher but was unable to make out any pattern, discover any reason. She started at a pounding on the front door.
Thomasina, fast as a swallow, disappeared down the passageway. The door opened, and Kathryn heard a gruff voice demanding to see her. Thomasina sweetly objected, but the stranger’s voice was loud and insistent. Thomasina came back. The burly individual behind her scooped off his leather cap and stood in the kitchen doorway; it was a tall, thickset man with a red drinker’s face marred by warts and pox marks, a balding head, and quick, darting eyes.
At first he seemed more interested in the chamber than Kathryn and glanced round quickly as if assessing its worth. He was dressed completely in leather: a dark-brown jerkin tied with cord down the middle and hose of the same texture and colour, with hard-boiled leather boots on his feet. He wore no war-belt, but a great strap running across one shoulder buckled at the front; this carried a number of strange implements in small sheaths: keys, rods, little knives.
‘Are you Kathryn Swinbrooke?’
‘No, she’s the Queen of England!’ Thomasina declared, pushing her way back into the kitchen to confront this stranger.
‘I am Mistress Swinbrooke.’ Kathryn got to her feet. ‘And you, sir . . .?’
The fellow advanced, big chapped hands extended. ‘Malachi Smallbones, rat-catcher, formerly holder of such a position in the King’s town of Oxford. Now hired by the Mayor and Council of Canterbury for the extirpation and ruination of all such vermin.’
‘Four-legged or two?’ Thomasina interjected.
Kathryn kept her face straight. Malachi was like many such individuals, full of his own importance and status. His eyes had the sharp, humourous glint of a cunning man. She knew he was the sort of pedlar or trader, relic seller or conjuror, who swarmed into Canterbury for rich pickings from the pilgrims.
‘You’d best sit down, Master Smallbones,’ Kathryn said.
The man would have taken Colum’s chair at the end of the table, but Thomasina almost pushed him onto a bench at the side.
‘You want some ale?’
The man smacked his lips. Thomasina served two black jacks, Kathryn’s brimming to the top, Malachi’s only half-full. Kathryn smiled apologetically and exchanged the tankards. She raised hers in salutation.
‘Good fortune to your work, Master Malachi.’
‘I am here at the bidding of Luberon, the city clerk.’ Malachi took another gulp, watery brown eyes glaring at Kathryn over the tankard. ‘He said I would have to deal with you, keep you informed of what I was doing.’
‘And what are you doing?’
‘Well, it’s started already.’ Malachi stared into the tankard. ‘The number of scavengers has been doubled, and the clerks are all out. Proclamations are going up on church doors about the dumping of refuse. Master Luberon wanted all stray cats and dogs killed, but I told him not to. Such animals can kill rats, and we need all the help God sends us.’
Malachi raised his eyes intercedingly as if in prayer. Kathryn studied him closely. At first Smallbones had seemed slightly oafish, but the more he spoke, the less certain of that Kathryn became. Malachi was a man acting a part, the rough, clumsy rat-catcher. Yet the way he drank, the use of words like extirpation, the amused, detached look in his eyes belied this. The ring he wore in one ear-lobe appeared to be made of pure gold, and the bracelet on his left wrist looked costly enough. His leather jacket was of good quality, as was the belt and the strange implements it bore. Malachi followed her gaze.
‘Rods and traps,’ he explained, ‘for our enemy, the vermin: pouches of poison and tinders. Two things rats hate: poison and fire. Well, Mistress, will you advise me?’
‘Do you really want my advice, Master Smallbones? Aren’t you skilled enough? Where are you from?’ She’d caught the burr in his voice.
‘Helston in Cornwall.’ The rat-catcher became slightly defensive.
‘And where do you work?’
‘Up and down the kingdom. My last indenture was with the city of Oxford, where I cleared the vermin from the streets and cellars.’
‘You are a wealthy man, Master Smallbones?’
‘I take lodgings in the Mercery, but my house is in London: a small tenement near St. Giles Cripplegate.’
‘Ah yes,’ Kathryn agreed, as if she knew the capital like the back of her hand. ‘And this infestation, Master Smallbones?’
‘Oh, it’s common at this time of the year.’
‘And what do you think is the cause?’
Malachi undid the belt round his chest and gently lowered it to the floor.
‘Probably a swarm, Mistress. Rats do swarm. As I journeyed into Canterbury, I saw that there are a number of derelict villages. Like humans, rats live in colonies. Only the devil knows the reason, but sometimes they move.’
‘You will be paid well,’ Kathryn declared.
‘Aye, Mistress, and I’ll work hard.’
‘How did you resolve the problem in Oxford?’
‘Well, it’s smaller than Canterbury, Mistress, so it was easier to work there. Cesspits and sewers were cleaned. Scavengers removed all refuse from the streets and lanes; but in Oxford, there are ruins, underground cellars, and streams. As I said, fire is a great cleanser!’
‘You will not do the same here,’ Kathryn warned, fearful for the close-packed houses, many of them built of wood and plaster.
‘No, Mistress, we’ll try poison first, and we’ll see how it goes. But that’s the problem.’ He scratched his head. ‘Poisons cost money. What can you recommend, Mistress?’
Kathryn pursed her lips. If the truth be known, she thought, I have no solution. The rat-catcher was correct: Poisons cost good silver. They would have to find something common as well as alert householders to the dangers it posed.
‘I will consider that, Master Smallbones.’
‘Well, I must go.’
Malachi got to his feet and picked up the belt. Kathryn had the impression he had come just to introduce himself rather than seek her advice.
‘Master Smallbones, do you have a map of Canterbury?’
‘Master Luberon has supplied one.’
‘Is every ward infested?’
‘No, not yet.’
‘So what will you do?’
‘I am going down to the Cathedral close. I have had bills posted, proclamations made at the Market Cross. I am hiring men. We’ll go through each ward; some will have cats, but they are fairly useless. We’ll just seek out the vermin and kill them.’ He moved to the doorway. ‘Mistress, if you could think of anything, I am lodged at the Standard in the Mercery. I’ll always be there just after vespers.’
Thomasina showed him out.
‘What do you think?’ Thomasina asked, coming back into the kitchen.
‘I don’t know.’
Kathryn sat down at the table and folded the piece of parchment. She put this carefully in her writing satchel along with her ink-horn, quills, pumice, and sharpening knife. She checked the strap to make sure it was still good and strong and, ignoring Thomasina’s chatter, went along to her writing office. She stared at the piece of polished steel which served as a mirror.
‘I am ready for the Friars of the Sack,’ she whispered, staring at her reflection. In fact, Thomasina said she looked like a nun in her light-blue wimple and fringed gown of the same colour. Kathryn had not painted her face; she noticed the lines beneath her eyes.
‘Medice sane te ipsam: Doctor, heal thyself,’ she whispered.
Colum would be home soon. Despite all the excitement of the night before, Kathryn couldn’t forget Monksbane sitting so assuredly in that tavern room. She heard the bells of St. Mildred’s toll the mid-day angelus. A short while later Colum returned, ‘smelling to high heaven,’ as Thomasina put it, ‘of horse and meadow.’ He quickly washed, ate, and drank whilst Kathryn told him what had happened. The Irishman, sitting on a stool, changing his boots, nodded, interrupting now and again with the occasional question.
‘I’ve been thinking about Mafiach. I must ask Father Cuthbert to say a Requiem Mass. Serjeant Holbech was sad. He fought with Macfiach in France, both outside Calais and in the Narrow Seas. I also told Holbech about the rats.’ He grinned at Kathryn. ‘Have you ever heard of a poem called Beowulf?’
‘Yes,’ Kathryn answered. ‘About a warrior in ancient times who fought a great monster: I’ve read the tale.’
‘Well, Holbech surprised me; so has my valiant lieutenant out at Kingsmead. In Beowulf the hero claims that every man has a fear within him. Holbech confessed that his was rats. He hails from one of the southern ports, Rye or Winchelsea. Anyway, years ago, French privateers landed. They brought fire and sword. Holbech’s parents were killed. He sheltered in the sewers, where the rats were as thick as flies on a rubbish heap. Strange, isn’t it? Holbech confessed that he preferred to face a mounted knight, armed only with a horn spoon, than wade through a cellar half full of water and teeming with rats. He’s studied them. Holbech claims that, because rats eat such putrid waste, what would kill a man scarcely touches them.’
Kathryn, interested, pulled across a stool and sat opposite.
‘And so what does he recommend?’
‘He claims poison would cost a fortune and be very dangerous. He also said a strange thing. He’s heard all the gossip and chatter of the taverns. He says this infestation is very peculiar. Some parts of Canterbury haven’t seen any . . .’
‘Whilst other parts have them a-plenty.’ Kathryn finished his sentence.
‘Yes.’ Colum got to his feet and clapped his war-belt on. ‘Holbech is all a-feared. He says he won’t go where the rats are. Apparently they are thick in Westgate, along the high street and near the Cathedral; that’s what the scavengers have told him. Anyway, enough of our four-legged friends, “our little nightmares in black velvet,” as Holbech calls them. Now for the Friars of the Sack. Thomasina,’ he turned, ‘whilst we are gone, you will not entertain young men? I have spies, you know.’
‘Aye, and so have I about bog-trotting Irishmen!’
Colum laughed, helped Kathryn put on her cloak, and taking her gently by the elbow, led her down the passageway.
Ottemelle Lane was quiet, but as soon as they turned into Hethenman’s Lane, they met the crowds surging up to the market place. They reached the high street where the crowds pushed busily amongst the caparisoned stalls. The cookshops and taverns were doing a roaring trade, the air sweet with their spices and sauces. Pilgrims, round-eyed and rather lost, made their way through, grasping their staffs with one hand, the other on their wallets and purses. At every corner city officials shouted war
nings about pickpockets and thieves. The beggars, too, were waiting. The blind were holding each other’s hands, crying out for alms. Packmen and journeymen, who had no licence to trade from the council, offered their wares and shouted raucously for custom, one eye on making a profit, the other on the market beadles ever ready to place them summarily in the stocks around the Market Cross. Kathryn gripped her writing satchel, which hung over one shoulder. The day was surprisingly fine, and the weather had turned hot. The noise and shouting, the sea of shifting colour, made her journey difficult.
On either side rose the great timbered houses of the wealthy merchants and aldermen, their mullioned glass windows shimmering in the sunlight. A monkey raced across the street, a little yellow cap on its head, followed in hot pursuit by two dogs and a screaming child. A felon caught stealing from the stalls for the second time was being nailed by one ear to a pillory; his screams rent the air, but people had little time or compassion for him. Chanteurs and preachers tried to catch the attention of the crowd with stories or fiery sermons. A packman offered to sell them pilgrim medals. An apprentice darted out with a piece of cloth over his arm.
‘Madam, this will suit you, and if you lack anything . . .’ He gestured back at the stall guarded by his master.
Kathryn shook her head. The apprentice grew insistent and only retreated when Colum glowered. Here and there Kathryn could see the effects of Malachi’s work: the huge-sided scavengers’ carts clearing sewers and runnels, the annoyance of traders who claimed that the smell and the chaos drove away custom.
Kathryn was pleased to turn down an alleyway. It was shady here, and the beggars were as many but not as raucous. They crossed a piece of wasteland and went in under the shadow of the great gate-house of the Friars of the Sack. A lay brother let them through a postern door. Kathryn closed her eyes in welcome relief. The cobbled stable-yard was silent, the din of the city only a faint echo. Colum explained who they were and why they were here. The lay brother nodded. They went through cool, shadow-filled cloisters, where fountains splashed and wild roses throve, and along paved, stone-vaulted passageways. The silence was only broken by the faint singing from the soaring chapel or the murmur of the brown-garbed friars in their offices and chambers. They crossed a small garden and went through a porticoed door.
