by Paul Doherty
‘No, sirs, it’s a place of mystery and sudden death. I am in your care. And how did you know I . . .?’
‘I alerted them,’ Brother Eadwig replied. ‘I heard your shouts and saw the fiery pieces of parchment being dropped as I approached. I hurried to the Prior’s chamber, then ran across here. Mistress, there was no one.’
‘Oh yes, there was,’ Kathryn declared, ‘and I want to make sure that he doesn’t return.’ She fought back tears, got to her feet, and turned her back on them. ‘As I said, Father Prior, this is a place of murder and mystery. But I will find the truth, and you shall help me!’
Chapter 8
‘Somme hadden salves, and somme hadden charmes;
Fermacies of herbes, and eke save . . .’
– Chaucer, ‘The Knight’s Tale,’
The Canterbury Tale
‘Per ipsum et cum ipso . . . Through Him and with Him, in the unity of the Holy Ghost, all honour and glory are yours All Mighty Father, world without end . . .’
‘Amen,’ Kathryn intoned.
She was sitting before the Lady Altar and watching the priest, his back to her, raise the chalice and host to the tortured figure of Christ on the cross. Kathryn ignored the incongruity of the open tomb of Brother Roger, which lay to her right: the raised slab stones, the mound of loose earth, the yawning gap in the transept floor. She still smelt the faint perfume, and distracted from the Mass, wondered once again about its source.
‘May the body and blood of Christ,’ the priest intoned, ‘be not to my damnation.’
Aye, Kathryn thought. From the other side chapels, she could hear similar whispered words of the mass. Was one of these Friars of the Sack committing sacrilege and blasphemy? Did they include the assassin who had so barbarously killed Brother Gervase and been waiting for her on that darkened stairwell the night before? She stared up at the gargoyle in one of the pillars separating the altar from the main sanctuary – a macabre, devilish face. Kathryn couldn’t make her mind up whether it was demon or human, with its popping eyes and twisted mouth.
Brother Eadwig picked up the hand-bell and rang it, the sign of the priest’s communion. Kathryn glanced at the altar and flinched, shielding her eyes at the blaze of sunlight which came pouring through the rose-tinted oriel window above the Lady Altar. It was so piercing, so brilliant, that Kathryn had to look away. At first she thought it was some phenomenon, but of course the altar faced east: Outside the sun was rising full and strong in the clear April skies. Black motes danced before her eyes. Kathryn shook her head and tried to compose herself. She had to move on the bench and peered up at the altar out of the corner of her eye. The old friar celebrating his dawn mass had turned and come to the edge of the steps; he was waiting, a small host between his fingers. Kathryn smiled apologetically, went up, and knelt before him. She tilted back her head, and the silver paten Eadwig held gently grazed her chin to catch any of the sacred species which might fall.
‘Ecce Corpus Christi! Behold the Body of Christ!’
‘Amen,’ Kathryn replied.
She took the wafer of bread and let it dissolve in her mouth. The priest returned to the altar as Kathryn went back to her bench and sat, head bowed. She ignored all distractions, closed her eyes, and prayed earnestly for Colum, Thomasina, Agnes, and Wulf. She said the ‘Miserere’ for the souls of her dead parents and asked for guidance and safety in solving this bloody tangle of murder. Kathryn glanced quickly at the statue of the Virgin and prayed that Monksbane would return with good news. The mass ended. The priest left the side altar. Eadwig came and sat beside her. She crossed herself, a sign that her thanksgiving was over.
‘Well?’ Eadwig shifted along the bench. ‘Mistress Swinbrooke, I am now your guardian angel. Where you go, I follow. I’ll sleep outside your chamber. I’ll watch your every step.’
Kathryn smiled at his unshaven, grizzled face, the friendly brown eyes.
‘I am sorry I lost my temper last night, but I didn’t imagine it.’
‘I don’t think you did,’ Eadwig agreed. ‘I’ve never seen anyone in such a state. Anselm should have been more careful. If anything had happened to you, Colum Murtagh would have sacked this place.’ Eadwig chuckled at his own pun. ‘Now come, you’ve fed the spirit, so feed the body.’
‘No, wait a minute.’
Kathryn got up and inspected the raised slabs. She picked up the soil and ran it through her fingers. She couldn’t trace the origin of the perfume, but it was still there, a subtle lingering fragrance which teased both her palate and her memory.
‘Do you think this perfume has a spiritual origin?’ she demanded.
‘Are you saying God can’t afford perfume for his saints?’ Eadwig teased her.
Kathryn shook her head and followed Eadwig out through the corpse door into the over-grown cemetery. The tombstones were almost hidden by the sprouting grass and wild flowers; this was a peaceful, sun-dappled place echoing with the liquid song of the blackbirds in the gnarled yew trees, their branches spread out like the arms of some monster.
‘My last resting place,’ Eadwig murmured. ‘Now that spring’s come, we’ll have to have it cut. We allow the grass to grow very long; it provides good fodder after the winter. Mistress, you’ll break your fast?’
Eadwig was extremely curious about this young woman with such an old head upon her shoulders. How many years, Eadwig reflected, was it since he had last kissed a woman? Twenty? Twenty-five? Mistress Swinbrooke was definitely attractive, with large, dark eyes and the creamy smooth colour of her face. She had a serene, calm appearance, which, as he’d learnt the previous evening, masked a fiery temper. Now she stood as sedately as any prioress in her dark-blue dress tied chastely and fringed, at cuff and collar, with white bands. A dark-blue wimple hid most of her hair. Eadwig could see why Colum was so attracted to her: She was a subtle mixture of the comely and the alluring. Eadwig clutched his belly as his stomach rumbled.
‘Mistress, you’ll break your fast?’
‘Has Father Prior assembled those who experienced the miracles at Atworth’s tomb?’ Kathryn asked over her shoulder. She had been thinking about what wild herbs must grow here, quietly promising herself that, one day, she would return: in these wild, over-grown areas rare plants and herbs could often be found.
‘They will all be assembled by noon,’ Eadwig replied.
Kathryn turned to face him. ‘And you are going to follow me everywhere?’
Eadwig grasped the staff he had left in the porch before mass.
‘“One thousand may fall on your left hand,”’ he quoted from the Psalms, ‘“ten thousand on your right, but the Terror which stalks at mid-day shall not approach you.”’
Kathryn’s serenity disappeared, her burst of laughter transforming her face. Eadwig’s heart warmed to her.
‘You’ll be safe, Mistress.’
‘But will you be?’ Kathryn teased. She patted her writing satchel, its leather strap over one shoulder. ‘Are you used to corpses, Eadwig?’
‘At St. Albans, Mistress, they sprawled knee-high, eyes gouged, limbs missing, the blood ankle deep.’
‘Very well,’ Kathryn breathed. ‘In which case we should visit the charnel-house for one final look at the corpses of Atworth and Gervase. I would like you with me.’
The smile disappeared from Eadwig’s face.
‘I think it best,’ Kathryn declared, ‘that we examine such grisly remains before we eat.’
Eadwig swallowed hard and agreed. He led her round the church and across to the infirmary. The charnel-house stood in a small courtyard behind this: a low, one-storied chamber, its ceilings were supported by black pillars, the walls thickly coated with lime against flies and other insects. The floors had been similarly treated. The lay brother who let them in was only too happy to stand outside and, as he put it, ‘catch God’s air.’ Three corpses lay under the canvas sheets. Eadwig explained how the first was a poor beggar who had been found dead in an alleyway outside. The second was Atworth’s. Eadwig
removed the sheet, and Kathryn began a careful examination. She noticed how exposure to the air had increased putrefaction and decay. The corpse was beginning to lose that waxen feel, the stomach was starting to bloat, and surprisingly, the left eye was slightly open.
‘A bad sign,’ Eadwig muttered behind his hand. ‘It means that someone else is to die.’
Kathryn, however, was immersed in her scrutiny. She studied every inch of the corpse, front and back, but could find, in the circumstances, nothing untoward. Old scars from Atworth’s fighting days marked the arms, shoulders, and back; the right arm must have been broken, but had been expertly fixed by some leech or physician. She turned her attention to the so-called stigmata on the wrists and ankles: large puncture wounds on the inside with some break in the skin on the back of both wrists and ankles; they were faintly scored as if something had been tied round them. Kathryn recalled how these wounds had been bound very tightly before Atworth had been buried. She could still detect a faint perfume but nothing else. Satisfied, she moved on to Gervase’s corpse; because it was now nothing but blackened ash, it was difficult to realise that, only the previous day, this had been a vibrant human being, an important friar, a leader in this community. Now his features, hair, and limbs had all been horribly scorched, shrunken by that fearsome blaze.
‘If we didn’t have Brother Timothy’s testimony,’ she whispered, ‘this corpse could be anyone’s. But why? What was he like, Eadwig?’
‘Gervase was a good brother. It’s against our rule to curl our lip, lift our hand against another, or speak ill of any member of our community,’ the lay brother chattered on. ‘In his own way Gervase was kindly enough, but he had his weaknesses.’
‘Such as?’ Kathryn asked.
‘Oh, not wine and women. He was the treasurer of the friary. He always liked to see gold and silver pour into our coffers. Mistress.’ Eadwig pulled a face. ‘Must we talk here?’
Kathryn agreed. They went out and washed their hands at a nearby well. Kathryn shook her hands dry.
‘Well,’ she asked, ‘did Gervase respect Brother Atworth?’
‘Mistress, you know he didn’t. Yet on one occasion, about eight months ago, just as autumn began, Gervase offered to write Atworth’s life story. Brother Roger refused. Gervase was deeply offended.’
Kathryn stared up at the spire of the church: the blue sky around it was cloud free, and the day promised to be warm. Only a few friars walked about; others were in the refectory or the Chapter House.
‘The brothers were saying,’ Eadwig chattered on, ‘that Gervase was consumed by a heavenly fire.’
‘Nonsense!’ Kathryn retorted, wiping her hands on the side of her gown. ‘Gervase was murdered.’
Eadwig gaped. ‘Murdered? Well, why not just have his throat cut? Or a knife between his shoulder-blades?’
‘I’ve been thinking of that,’ Kathryn replied. ‘Come, I’ll show you.’
She picked up her writing satchel, stared once more at the door of the charnel-house, and led Eadwig back to Gethsemane. In the morning sunlight this was a paradise: The broad expanse of green lawn was fringed by the great trees; the air was sweet with the smell of grass and all things fresh. Of course, they had to wave a hand at Brother Timothy, who’d opened the casement window and was staring down at them. He reminded Kathryn of an old bird peering from its nest.
‘I’ve seen nothing untoward!’ the Ancient One shouted. ‘I’ve been watching where Brother Gervase died; I have glimpsed nothing.’
Eadwig thanked him, and with his benediction ringing in their ears, they crossed the grass. Kathryn paused at the great, dark stain where Gervase’s corpse had lain, then walked towards the hawthorn bush. The ground was still grey with feathery ash.
Kathryn crouched down. She tried to remember what she had seen the night before. ‘Someone has been here.’ She picked up a rotting branch and sifted amongst the ash.
‘Well, of course they have,’ Eadwig retorted. ‘Brothers came out here this morning: The whole community is talking about Gervase’s murder.’
‘I suspect the assassin may have returned to check his handiwork.’
Kathryn went deeper into the bushes. From behind the wall rose the sound of a hand-cart being wheeled along the alleyway.
‘What are you implying, Mistress?’
Kathryn grabbed Eadwig by his bony shoulder and stared into his eyes. ‘Eadwig, I am going to tell you! I lay on my bed last night puzzled. Why should Gervase suddenly be engulfed in flame? And, no, I do not think the fires burst from heaven or hell. The Ancient One, Brother Timothy, informed me how Gervase used to come across here, ostensibly to visit Mistress Chandler.’
‘Ah yes, the Accursed!’
‘Let’s call her the widow woman,’ Kathryn replied. ‘I have also spoken to her. Gervase treated her as he would a pet dog. However, he didn’t come over here yesterday,’ she continued, ‘out of concern for her, but because he was meeting someone. Who, I don’t know. Why?’ She shook her head.
Eadwig’s eyes rounded.
‘Now, this is only a surmise,’ Kathryn continued. ‘But I believe Gervase chose this spot because, possibly in all the friary, it’s the safest place to meet, yes?’
Eadwig nodded.
‘After all,’ Kathryn added, ‘this is where young Jonquil leaves the friary for his own nefarious purposes.’
‘Could he be the assassin?’
‘Anyone could be. I suspect Gervase’s death is linked to my arrival here. Early yesterday afternoon Gervase met his assassin in this secret place and was murdered.’
‘Impossible!’ Eadwig scoffed. ‘I may not be a scholar or learned man’ – a bony finger tapped his temple – ‘but I’ve got keen wits. Gervase died in the early evening.’
‘No, he didn’t.’ Kathryn led him deeper into the bushes. ‘This is what happened: Gervase came here in the early afternoon and met his killer. Only God knows what happened then, but his murder was sudden and silent.’
‘How do you know that? Chandler?’
Kathryn pointed further along the wall.
‘The widow woman wouldn’t have heard any disturbance. Gervase was surprised: a swift knife thrust to the back or his throat cut.’
‘And?’
‘The killer knew then that he couldn’t just leave the corpse; it would be too suspicious. He also needed time. Dressed as Brother Gervase – or, if he was a member of this community – in a simple friar’s habit, he took the sub-prior’s keys and went to his chamber.’
‘Why?’ Eadwig stared at this young woman. Her theory behind the sub-prior’s death was not as mysterious as those discussed in the refectory, but it made more sense.
‘I don’t really know’ – Kathryn paused – ‘except that the killer wished to go through Gervase’s possessions. In the afternoon the friary is fairly quiet. Everyone is going about their duties, yes?’
Eadwig agreed.
‘Hooded and cowled, the killer slips into the sub-prior’s chambers. He has the keys he needs and all the time.’
‘Someone may have disturbed him.’
‘Oh, they could knock and tap on the door, but the killer would have remained silent. He gets what he wants, puts everything neatly back, tidies the room, and returns here.’
‘But he could have been noticed.’
‘Oh, come.’ Kathryn smiled. ‘If a friar walks across the lawn, would you give him a second thought?’
Eadwig joined his hands together. ‘I stand rebuked, Mistress.’
‘I believe,’ Kathryn pointed back to the hawthorn bush, ‘the killer returned here with a wineskin full of oil. You’ve served as a soldier, Eadwig, or seen accidents in cookshops. I certainly have. A scullion, his apron soaked in oil, too close to a naked flame?’
‘Oh, it’s happened to me,’ Eadwig agreed.
‘Gervase’s corpse is doused in oil from head to toe, totally soaked. Who knows, grains of saltpetre or some inflammable mixture may have been added.’
‘Why not jus
t burn it out in the copse?’
‘The Ancient One definitely said Gervase was standing by the hawthorn bush. Look around you,’ Kathryn offered. ‘Find me a stout pole, a branch.’
Eadwig shrugged but did as Kathryn said. He went off into the undergrowth and came back.
‘Now, I may be wrong, but Eadwig, you can pretend to be a corpse.’ Kathryn turned the lay brother round and pushed him towards the hawthorn bush. ‘All Brother Timothy saw was Gervase standing here.’
Kathryn grasped the long branch, dug one end into the ground, and propped the other against Eadwig’s back between his shoulder-blades.
‘His hands were up his sleeves!’ Eadwig protested over his shoulder.
‘Wrists can be loosely tied.’ Kathryn answered. ‘His cowl was pulled up. Now we have a corpse standing, propped up, staring across at the friary. The killer is hidden by the bush as well as by Gervase’s corpse.’
‘And how was the fire lit?’
‘A slow fuse,’ Kathryn declared, dropping the stout pole.
Eadwig turned round.
‘A piece of string or rope soaked in oil and fastened to the back of Gervase’s robe. Again, Brother Timothy wouldn’t see this in the sunlight. The flame runs along it, and Gervase becomes a human torch. Now,’ she spread her hands, ‘I’ve expressed it clumsily. Perhaps there was no pole? Perhaps Gervase was held up by the branches of the hawthorn? Come.’ She walked to the other side of the bush untouched by the fire, its branches stout and firm.
‘For a while they’d support a man propped up.’
‘You are right, Mistress. I have heard similar stories about soldiers attacking a castle. The defenders soak them with oil and drop firebrands on them.’
‘Colum Murtagh would say the same,’ Kathryn replied, staring at the sky. ‘The fire is ravenous. It can’t be put out. By the time anyone arrives, poor Gervase’s remains are nothing but charred cinders, unrecognisable.’
‘And the killer?’
‘He has prepared everything well. The oilskin is thrown over the wall, the ground is cleared of blood stains, and any trace of what truly happened has disappeared.’
