by Paul Doherty
‘This is the Prior’s parlour,’ the lay brother whispered as they entered this Holy of Holies. ‘I believe Father Anselm and the others are waiting for you.’
The lay brother tapped on the door, pushed it open, and gently ushered them in.
Chapter 5
‘The clothered blood, for any leechcraft,
Corrupteth, and is in his bouk ylaft.’
– Chaucer, ‘The Knight’s Tale,’
The Canterbury Tales
‘Mistress Swinbrooke.’
Venables, in a costly velvet cote-hardie loosened at the collar, made the introductions in the friars’ parlour.
‘This is Brother Jonquil, the late Roger’s lay brother and manservant; Brother Gervase, the sub-prior; Brother Simon, the infirmarian; and Prior Anselm. Reverend Fathers, this is Colum Murtagh, the keeper of the royal stables at Kingsmead.’
The introductions were completed, people shuffling backwards and forwards, and only Venables seemed to have any poise. Prior Anselm, smiling with his watery eyes, waved them to seats round the polished walnut table whilst Jonquil served them white wine and a dish piled high with sugared comfits. Kathryn placed her writing satchel over the back of the high ornate chair and took her seat. She had been to the Friary of the Sack once as a child and had never returned. It was a wealthy house, as the parlour demonstrated with its dark, wooden panelling, the cream-washed walls above decorated with coloured cloths and small pictures depicting the life of Christ. The fire in the large hearth had not been lit, but the room was warm and comfortable; rugs lay on the floor, whose tiles were specially carved in the shape of lozenges, as were the small, mullioned panes in the windows.
Prior Anselm gestured at Jonquil to take his seat and shuffled certain papers about on the table in front of him. A tall, angular man with high cheekbones and sunken cheeks, Anselm had hair reduced to mere white tufts. A careful, considerate man, Kathryn judged, eager to please and highly nervous. Sub-prior Gervase was rather sombre-looking with bushy eyebrows and red-veined cheeks; with his snub nose, pouting mouth, and protuberant belly, he reminded Kathryn of a piglet Thomasina had once kept. Simon the infirmarian was young-looking, smooth-faced, olive-skinned, his tonsure perfectly cut, not a speck on his brown gown; the white, knotted cord was pulled correctly across his slim waist; the cowl and hood were neatly folded back behind his head.
Brother Simon had beautiful white hands with long, womanish fingers. A rather shy man, every time he caught Kathryn’s gaze, he coloured slightly and glanced away. Brother Jonquil looked like a farm boy with his blonde hair, red cheeks, and protuberant blue eyes. He sat, mouth slightly gaping, a youngish man Kathryn judged to be not yet thirty. Kathryn secretly wondered if he had all his wits about him. Prior Anselm sat at one end of the table, and Venables slouched in the chair at the other. The Queen Mother’s henchman looked as if he had slept badly and sat tapping his fingers quietly on the rim of the table. Beside her Colum pushed his chair back and crossed his arms as if he wished to observe but not participate in what was about to happen. Brother Anselm seemed fascinated by the candelabra standing on a flat bronze dish to catch the wax.
‘Father Prior!’ Brother Gervase sat up straight in his chair. ‘I think we’d best begin.’
‘Yes, yes, we ought.’ Prior Anselm picked up a scroll and tapped it on the table. ‘I . . . I do,’ he stammered, ‘I do welcome you here. Er . . .’ He glanced despairingly at the sub-prior, who just glared back. ‘I really don’t know where to begin, but well, we’ll begin at the beginning, yes? Erm . . .’
‘Ten days ago,’ Simon the infirmarian intervened, ‘Brother Roger Atworth was buried before the Lady Chapel in our Conventual Church. He was a holy man, whatever his past life. He died in the odour of sanctity, both literally and figuratively.’ He laughed sharply at his own joke. ‘Since then Brother Jonquil here has experienced a vision above his tomb whilst certain miracles have taken place.’
‘You are gathering the recipients of these miracles together?’ Venables spoke up.
‘Oh yes.’ The infirmarian nodded quickly. ‘They’ll assemble here tomorrow.’
‘Continue,’ Venables ordered.
Prior Anselm, his agitation now under control, cleared his throat. ‘We’ve had the vision; we’ve had the miracles.’
‘So-called miracles,’ Gervase declared.
‘And we’ve had the interest of the Queen Mother and Cardinal Spineri. His Eminence is already in the church.’
‘Then I think we should go there.’
Anselm looked as if he wished to continue: Kathryn could sense the agitation of these friars but was unsure of its source.
‘Everything depends on the exhumation,’ Brother Jonquil leaned across the table and whispered to her. ‘If that goes well, Brother Roger will be a saint, won’t he?’
Kathryn just smiled in return. The Prior, all a-fluster, led them out of the parlour, along passageways, out through a porticoed entrance, and across a small courtyard into the church. They entered through the Galilee porch. Kathryn was immediately aware of how imposing and sombre the church was. Sculptured statues, faces carved in images of serenity, stood cheek by jowl with the most grotesque and ugly gargoyles, the faces of demons and monkeys, hares with protuberant eyes, griffins and dragons. Inside, the church was grand, with a long nave and small oval windows high in the walls; a black-beamed roof supported by squat pillars guarded shadowy transepts. The floor was made of paving-stones, neatly laid and carefully scrubbed; these caught all sound and made it echo.
‘Truly a place for a vision,’ Colum whispered.
They walked up the centre of the nave towards the rood screen, a great carved, wooden barrier placed across the entrance to the sanctuary; this was ablaze with candlelight, as was the recess to the left, where a group of lay brothers armed with picks, bars, and poles clustered round a paving-stone. Kathryn glimpsed Spineri, who, to keep his dignity, had persuaded someone to bring one of the throne-like chairs from the sanctuary. The Cardinal now sat like a judge come to judgement.
Led by Prior Anselm, they all genuflected at the entrance to the rood screen. Kathryn glimpsed the high altar, its tall candles lit, and on either side, the polished wooden choir stalls of the community. The Lady Chapel was just as grand, a small church in itself with its tiled floor and paintings on either side depicting scenes from the Virgin’s life. There was a small altar and, above that, a black, ancient statue of the Virgin Mary depicted as a queen sat embracing the Child Jesus. A gorgeous oriel window full of brilliantly painted glass provided light. Before the shrine rose iron stands, carrying small, blue oil lamps, which the faithful could light after placing a coin in the strongbox bolted to the floor beside the red-quilted prie-dieus.
Kathryn wandered off to look at this hallowed place before coming over to join the rest. Spineri was on his feet, extending his hand so Colum could kiss the episcopal ring; he then did the same to Kathryn. Spineri’s hand was soft, warm, and heavily perfumed, and the garnet ring caught the light and dazzled her eyes. For a while all was confusion. Jonquil wanted to tell everyone where he was kneeling when the vision took place. Anselm was trying to impose order amongst the lay brothers, who kept milling about, uncertain as to what to do. At last order was imposed. Chairs and stools were brought for Kathryn, Prior Anselm, and his guests. Kathryn inspected the paving stone on which Atworth’s inscription had been carved. She and Spineri pronounced themselves satisfied. The stone was lifted, and the exhumation began. Loose soil and rubble were cleared, and the burial pit was exposed. At this point Cardinal Spineri insisted on prayer and led the brothers in singing the ‘Veni Creator Spiritus.’ The grave was then sprinkled with holy water, and one of the lay brothers was gingerly lowered down to attach cords to the grip handles on either side of the coffin. Even as he did this, Kathryn was aware of muttering amongst the friars. She got up and walked across. At first she wasn’t sure, but then she caught the most delicious fragrant smell, like that of sweet crushed roses but thicker, heavi
er, like the perfume of some highborn lady.
‘Is it myrrh, frankincense?’ Kathryn murmured.
‘I can smell it, too!’ Venables exclaimed.
Colum, his curiosity aroused, also came over. Kathryn swiftly looked round.
‘What is it?’ Spineri, plump hands folded as if in prayer, leapt to his feet.
‘I can smell the strongest perfume,’ Kathryn replied drily. ‘I am searching for its source.’ She stared around.
‘But that’s impossible!’ Simon the infirmarian spoke up. ‘There are no flowers in the Lady Chapel. No baskets. I tell you, it comes from the grave itself!’
Kathryn was forced to agree and withdrew. Slowly and surely the coffin, scraping and creaking, was raised to the top, where wooden boards were swiftly placed across the opening. The coffin, of the finest wood, was covered in dust and dirt, its silver-encrusted handles dull and dingy. The smell of perfume, however, had grown stronger, as if a jar of the precious stuff had been shattered on the hard, paved floor. The lay brothers raised the coffin and placed it on the trestle table brought specially in; their task finished, they were then ordered to withdraw.
Kathryn and Spineri were invited to inspect the casket. Spineri simply walked round. Kathryn, however, took the small knife from her writing satchel and carefully checked the casket lid. The smell of perfume was now very strong. She tapped the wood, but the clasps held tight, and Kathryn could see they had not been loosened or interfered with. At her request Colum and Venables put on their gloves and began to unscrew these. Outside the sunshine faded. The transept grew darker, gloomier. Candles were brought.
‘They are all loosened.’ Colum stood back.
He looked rather fearful, uncomfortable. A true Irishman, Kathryn reflected, winking at him: Colum was a man of this world with a healthy respect for anything which might lie beyond the veil.
The coffin lid was removed. Kathryn expected a foul smell, the usual gases and bad humours which any corpse would exude, but she could detect nothing except a pervasive fragrance. The corpse itself was hidden by linen sheets, and when she was removing these, Kathryn noticed how they were coated with a fine red dust, as were the white satin cushions around the edges. At last the cadaver of the Blessed Roger was exposed to gasps and cries of exclamation.
Kathryn herself stood astonished. Atworth had been buried in the brown robe, white girdle, and open leather sandals of the Friars of the Sack. He had been dead for days, but though his lined cheeks were slightly sunken and slight hair had grown round his mouth and chin, he looked as if he had only died in the last few hours. His body had a white, waxen appearance like that of some effigy Kathryn had seen in funeral processions. The dead friar’s hands were clasped before him. A crucifix had been lashed to the fingers and had slipped slightly to one side. Kathryn peered into the coffin; ignoring the pious ejaculations, she stared hard at this would-be saint. Atworth had a severe face, like that of a hunting falcon: strong chin, the lips now bloodless, a beaky nose, and deep-set eyes. The skin was old, wrinkled, the hair round the makeshift tonsure mere wisps; but in her mind’s eye, Kathryn could imagine this man with a war helm on, eyes glinting, or indeed, as a saint kneeling before the altar staring in a mystic trance at a crucifix or statue. She felt the skin of the corpse’s face, hands, and neck; it was like touching cold, soft wax. She smelt the perfume but was more curious at the bittersweet smell of his skin. Was it corruption? Kathryn felt the legs and arms, which were spongey but slightly stiff. She drew her hand along the satin-covered side of the coffin and noticed the red powdery dust on her fingers.
Could it be? She stepped back, hastily wiping her hands on her dress. She remembered one of her father’s lectures and a memory from the past: St. Mildred’s churchyard one rain-swept afternoon in October, seven or eight years ago. The King’s coroner, the dirt of a grave piled high, the wooden casket of an exhumed coffin, the lid being taken off. Her father later studied the corpse in the nearby charnel-house, made all the more sombre and ghoulish by the flickering light of a fat tallow candle. What was the woman’s name? Margotta, that was it! She had been dressed in a crumbling shift, her face still recognisable.
Venables stretched out his hand to touch the corpse.
‘Don’t!’ Kathryn exclaimed.
Venables hastily withdrew. The rest stared owlishly at her.
‘Prior Anselm, I want bowls of hot water and clean napkins. Quickly! No one is to touch the coffin. If they do, they must wash their hands very carefully.’
The Prior stared fearfully back.
‘Why? What is the matter?’
‘I am not sure,’ Kathryn replied. ‘I may be wrong. I must consult my manuscripts. However, I believe Roger Atworth’ – she continued in a rush – ‘may not have died of natural causes but of a heavy infusion of red arsenic, a deadly poison.’
‘What?’ Brother Simon came forward, hands extended. ‘What are you saying, Mistress Swinbrooke? That Blessed Roger was poisoned? You are mistaken, you foolish woman!’
‘Watch your tongue, Friar!’
Colum broke from his reverie and came to stand beside Kathryn, who stared quickly around. Anselm stood like a frightened boy, fingers to his lips. Jonquil couldn’t understand what was happening. Gervase was smirking as if relishing some secret joke.
‘I apologise.’ The infirmarian lowered his hand and stepped back.
‘Will you do what Mistress Swinbrooke demanded?’ Colum insisted.
Simon snapped his fingers at Jonquil. ‘Go on!’ he urged. ‘Bring the water!’
Now Kathryn, not the corpse, was the centre of attention. Venables had turned his back on her. Kathryn wondered if it was to hide his surprise or to study the corpse more carefully. Kathryn walked back to the nave and sat at the foot of the steps leading up to the sanctuary. The rest gathered around.
Kathryn kept looking at her hands. ‘I urge you not to touch the corpse and eat with polluted fingers. Prior Anselm, you have a library here, manuscripts? A pharmacopeia?’
The Prior nodded.
Kathryn kept her hands resting in her lap. She was relieved when Jonquil came hurrying back: he had had the presence of mind to bring water and a small tablet of expensive Castilian soap. Kathryn rose, washed her hands vigorously, and cleaned them on the napkin provided.
‘Arsenic,’ Kathryn said, now more composed, ‘is one of nature’s deadly poisons; there are two main types, red and white. Both are noxious substances. If taken in considerable quantity, they will cause sudden death.’
Simon the infirmarian had lost his poise and was chewing his lip nervously.
‘Arsenic is a well-known poison,’ Kathryn explained. ‘Any book on herbs or substances will tell you this. Arsenic interferes with the humours of the body, and a victim will retain the poison long after death. It can halt, even prevent, decomposition and decay. I must examine the corpse further,’ she added hastily, ‘but in my view, this is the reason for the state of the corpse and why the shroud, as well as the satin covering around the edge of the coffin, is covered in a fine red dust: that is the effect of the arsenic. So if that coffin and whatever it contains are touched, I urge you to wear gloves and wash your hands and face carefully of any of that dust. Brother Simon, wouldn’t you agree?’
‘It has been known.’ The infirmarian didn’t raise his head.
‘I remember a similar case in Canterbury,’ Kathryn continued. ‘It was after Michaelmas, seven or eight years ago. The children of a woman named Margotta Arrowsmith informed the city coroner that their mother had been poisoned by her second husband. Eventually their petition was accepted by the Church, and an exhumation was ordered. My father found Margotta’s corpse in a similar condition to the Blessed Roger’s. The murderer later confessed, when he was confronted with the evidence, that he had travelled to Dover and London and spent considerable amounts purchasing large quantities of arsenic.’
‘But what about the stigmata?’ Prior Anselm exclaimed.
Kathryn drew her writing satchel clo
ser, opened it, and put on her rather expensive calfskin gloves. She told the rest to stay, went across, and stood over the corpse. The cowl had been pulled up, and a fringe of hair hung down over the white forehead. When she pushed this back, Kathryn could see red marks as if a crown of brambles might have been placed there, though the cuts had faded in the days since the burial. She then looked down at the wrists and realised these had been bound with strips of brown fabric very similar to the habit Atworth had been buried in. Kathryn, using a small knife, cut these and saw the dull red wounds on the inside of each wrist. Both wounds were just under an inch long and about half an inch across. On the back of the wrist the wound was more like a small, red puncture mark; any blood flow had been congealed by death as well as the corpse’s stay in the casket. She then removed the sandals and the strips of fabric and examined each instep just above the ankle. She probed with her finger and could feel the wounds in the gaps between the bones. The wounds were very similar to those of the wrists, with a small, red hole on the back of each leg just above the shin.
Kathryn ignored the exclamations and cries of the brothers as she now turned the corpse over to undo the cord. She pulled up the brown robe and the shift beneath, exposing the white, vein-streaked flesh. The stomach was slightly distended, but Kathryn realised that, when the corpse had been prepared for burial, the innards had probably been drained. The wound to the left side, just under the rib cage, was long and thin, as if a sword had pierced it; it left a dullish, red gape in the white, waxy flesh. Kathryn noticed how the perfume had now faded and the odours of the corpse were more apparent. She shook her head and stepped back.
