Saintly Murders

by Paul Doherty

  ‘Are you well, Mistress Swinbrooke? You have all you need? Brother Eadwig said he would be back soon.’

  Kathryn lifted a hand to indicate that all was well, then stared down at the small calf-skin tome studded with imitation jewels. She opened the crackling pages, making full use of the light lancing through the window above her. On the first folio were Atworth’s name and the date, written some two years previously. Kathryn leafed through it quickly. It was nothing more than a collection of prayers: the ‘Anima Christi,’ ‘De Profundis,’ ‘The Lord’s Prayer,’ and the ‘Ave Maria.’ Kathryn noticed how Brother Atworth seemed very fond of Psalm 51:

  Have mercy on me, oh God, have mercy on me.

  And, in your great compassion, blot out my offence.

  Truly my sins I know. They are always before you . . .

  Kathryn marked how this verse was constantly repeated throughout the psalter, whilst the phrase ‘Truly my sins I know’ was underscored time and time again. Kathryn’s attention, however, was drawn to the crude miniature paintings which often prefaced the prayers. In the opening words of Psalm 51, ‘Have mercy on me,’ the H was enlarged to include a painting in the top and bottom loops of the letter, both done in red, green, and black. Kathryn had seen better in many a Book of Hours, though these paintings had a vibrancy, a vigour all their own. She picked up the magnifying glass the librarian had provided and studied them more closely. The first was of a woman lying in a bed, a man beside her. In the second painting the woman was lying by herself. Kathryn looked for any insignia, livery, or heraldic device, the common trick of illuminators to signify whom they were describing, yet she could find none. She cradled the glass, tapping her fingers on the polished desk. Was this a scene from the Old Testament? Or perhaps a fable? Kathryn racked her brains. She turned the page over, and her eye caught the beginning of the ‘De Profundis’: ‘Out of the depths have I cried to ye, O Lord.’ Kathryn again studied the painting. This time there was no woman but a man, a king – or was it a duke? – sitting at a table surrounded by his knights. Kathryn immediately thought of the legend of Arthur. She noticed how the king’s standard bore the red, blue, and gold livery of England, whilst his livery was emblazoned with the Suns of York. Kathryn, now intrigued, turned the pages over.

  ‘It’s not from the Bible,’ she whispered.

  Kathryn recognised the legends of Arthur. One painting had the Green Knight appearing at Arthur’s court. At last the significance dawned on her. Atworth, in his own shrewd way, had been paying homage to his patron, the Duke of York, symbolising him as Arthur. The series of paintings, however, abruptly ended: There were no more references to York or Arthur, but two knights, one killing the other, stabbing him in the back. Kathryn couldn’t recall anything like this from the Arthurian legend and wondered if Atworth had decided to include the story of Cain and Abel. Or was this the killing, the sin over which Atworth constantly grieved? Kathryn heard a door close and looked down the room. The librarian had gone.

  ‘Hello!’ Kathryn called. She got to her feet. ‘Hello!’

  She walked down the library, looking in the different carrels, but all were deserted. She turned and went back, slightly alarmed. The library was empty; she was alone! Kathryn returned to her seat. The shelves of the library jutted out at right angles to the walls, but from where she sat, she had a good view of the librarian’s desk and the door beyond. She could see anyone come or go. Yet she was reluctant to continue her studies; a feeling of danger – a cold prickling of sweat on the nape of her neck – alarmed her. To all appearances this place was deserted; Kathryn tried to remember the different sounds she’d absent-mindedly heard. The librarian left, but hadn’t she heard the door open and close again? Had someone else slipped in? Kathryn clutched Atworth’s small psalter, and as she did so, her middle finger was pricked by something sharp. Forgetting her fears, she opened the book and realised, only on close inspection, how certain pages had been expertly removed with a razor-sharp paper-knife, cut so close to the binding that their absence would not normally be missed.

  So this book did contain some truth. Someone had already tampered with it! Kathryn got to her feet, slipped the psalter into her writing satchel, and made her way slowly down the library. This was not the darkened stairwell outside her chamber: The air was sweet, the sunshine pouring through the windows, the dust motes dancing, the gleaming woodwork catching the light. Nevertheless, Kathryn felt as if every stair she passed was like the mouth of some darkened alleyway. She heard a sound, paused, and stared at the door: The middle bolt was pulled across! The librarian couldn’t have done this. Someone must have entered, pulled the bolt across, and be lurking here. There was no other door, the librarian had told her that, whilst the windows were too small and high for anyone to clamber through. Kathryn measured the distance and abruptly broke into a run. Feet thudding on the wooden floor, she fled down round the librarian’s table and flung herself at the door.

  ‘Mistress Swinbrooke?’

  Kathryn pulled back the bolt.

  ‘Please, Mistress Swinbrooke!’

  Kathryn turned: Jonquil came out of the shadows of the bookshelves.

  ‘Stay where you are!’ Kathryn raised her hand.

  The door to the library was open. She could hear voices outside, whilst the table was between her and this soft-footed friar who had stolen in like some cat bent on mischief. Jonquil, however, looked frightened, hands stretched out, tongue fighting for words.

  ‘I am sorry. I am sorry.’ He leaned against the table.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Kathryn felt confident enough to walk back. She rested against the librarian’s chair. ‘You came in here. I called out. Why didn’t you reply? Why did you bolt the door? Where is Eadwig?’

  ‘Mistress,’ Jonquil stretched out a hand, his face and manner all servile, ‘I came in here with a message for the librarian. Ask him. Eadwig said you were not to be left alone, so when he left for the refectory, he asked me to stay and make sure you were safe. I drew the bolt across. You were so engrossed in what you were doing you never heard or saw me. The rule is that we have to whisper here, walk and talk softly. You became disturbed and agitated, and I didn’t know what to do. If I suddenly appeared – ’ He shrugged. ‘I heard what happened last night.’

  Kathryn didn’t know whether this lay brother was lying or just cunning. What he said made sense. She had been engrossed in Atworth’s psalter. She had been aware of some sounds. Kathryn pulled back the librarian’s chair and sat down.

  ‘Well, Brother, perhaps I was mistaken. Next time I would advise you to declare yourself immediately, not lurk like some cat in the shadows waiting for the mouse to appear.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ he stammered.

  ‘And are you sorry, Brother, when you climb the friary wall across Gethsemane and slip into the city?’

  ‘Father Prior often sends me on errands.’

  ‘And you have an aversion to gates and doors?’

  Jonquil sighed; his farmer’s-boy face was now pale, eyes constantly blinking, small beads of sweat lacing his forehead.

  ‘Shall I tell you who you really are, Jonquil?’ Kathryn continued. ‘I don’t think you are a friar any more than I am. You are a varlet, aren’t you?’

  Jonquil kept his head down.

  ‘You are a retainer from the royal household, Duchess Cecily of York’s man. You joined the Friary of the Sack as a lay brother, without taking vows, to guard and protect, even spy on, the Blessed Atworth. Prior Anselm, Brother Gervase, Simon the infirmarian, and possibly Atworth himself realised this. Look at your wrists. Go on, pull back the sleeves of your gown.’

  Jonquil haplessly obeyed.

  ‘Strong arms,’ Kathryn declared. She picked up a quill and used the end to brush the red marks around Jonquil’s wrists. ‘Colum Murtagh loves Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales. Have you ever read Chaucer’s description of the yeoman? The archer with the wrist-guards? Is that what you were, Jonquil, an archer, a master bowman? You did your job w
ell, didn’t you? But now and again, the pleasures of the city called. Some tavern maid or merry-eyed girl who caught your fancy, a jug of ale, and a meat pie? You must be pleased Atworth’s dead, and when this business is all over, you’ll be trotting back to Duchess Cecily.’

  Jonquil’s head came up. ‘I am a true lay brother,’ he protested, his eyes harder, his face more resolute.

  ‘Of course you are,’ Kathryn smiled. ‘You are not going to confess anything without the Duchess’s permission. Nevertheless, I’ll be talking to the Duchess sometime soon.’

  Jonquil’s eyes shifted.

  ‘Did you really see a vision?’ Kathryn asked.

  ‘The Blessed Roger is truly a saint.’

  Kathryn leaned back and scratched her chin. Jonquil protested that he was a lay brother, but he certainly hadn’t denied her allegation. Had he been the one outside the stairwell last night? Had he killed Gervase?

  ‘Tell me about Atworth.’

  ‘He was a saint. I was his lay brother, his servant. Sometimes he could be frail. He lived a good life and died a good death.’ Jonquil’s nervousness had passed. ‘More than that, Mistress, I can’t say.’

  ‘And Gervase?’

  ‘I disliked him. He disliked me. The reason was Blessed Roger.’

  ‘And did Blessed Roger tell you about his life, his fears, his anxieties?’

  Kathryn chose her words carefully. She did not want to betray the confidences Mathilda Chandler had entrusted to her. Jonquil, his composure now regained, shrugged, putting the cord round his waist.

  ‘Mistress, I am a lay brother. Prior Anselm often sends me into the city, and yes, sometimes I become bored with friary life. I have not taken vows of poverty, chastity, or obedience. What I do and where I go are my . . .’

  He paused at a knock on the door. Eadwig burst through.

  ‘Mistress, I am sorry I am late. You have visitors.’

  He stepped aside hurriedly as Murtagh and Venables swept through the door. On any other occasion Kathryn would have jumped up. Colum was usually such a welcoming sight, yet his appearance now surprised her: his face was shaved, his hair cut and washed. He was dressed in a dark-green, velvet cote-hardie, with a white shirt beneath, a gold-and-silver belt clasped round the waist, and hose of the same colour pushed into his best Spanish riding boots. He carried his war-belt in one hand, not the usual one but a gift from the King, shining and smooth, the scabbards cleverly brocaded with red stitching.

  ‘Master Murtagh,’ she teased, ‘you look as if you are ready for your wedding day.’

  Colum came over, leaned down, and kissed her on the cheek. He smelt of some fragrant oil he had rubbed into his skin, his dark-blue eyes bright with mischief.

  ‘It’s good to see you, Mistress. It’s time you returned. We have business, haven’t we, Master Venables?’

  The Duchess’s henchman came over, grasped Kathryn’s hand, and kissed it. He, too, was exquisitely dressed in all the finery of a courtier: a jacket with puffed sleeves and ivory collar, tight multi-coloured hose, and polished boots. His livery was adorned with the favours or colours of the Duchess, and rings glinted on his fingers.

  ‘Is it your wedding day, too?’ Kathryn asked. ‘What is this?’

  Colum raised his head and gestured for the two lay brothers to leave.

  ‘Why, Mistress, we are to meet the King.’

  Kathryn got to her feet.

  ‘Or rather his mother. Later this afternoon they are entertaining’ – Colum’s eyes held Kathryn’s – ‘the Vicomte de Sanglier, the French King’s personal envoy, in the grounds of the Archbishop’s palace. We are all invited.’

  Kathryn looked them up and down: She felt rather shabby and dishevelled in contrast to these two peacocks.

  ‘We are not invited to the banquet,’ Venables declared, as if revealing her thoughts. ‘And, Mistress, you look as elegant as any lady at Court. Her Grace wishes to meet you: I am sure her beloved sons will be in attendance.’

  ‘But I am not finished here.’

  ‘It’s not till late this afternoon.’

  Colum grasped Kathryn’s hand. ‘Master Venables, if I could have a word in private with Mistress Swinbrooke?’

  Venables gave a lopsided grin. ‘I’ll be outside guarding the door.’

  He left, and Kathryn and Colum embraced.

  ‘Thank God these books don’t have tongues,’ Kathryn whispered, extricating herself. ‘I doubt if they see a kiss like that every day.’

  ‘I hope not,’ Colum teased. He pulled across a stool and indicated that she sit. ‘We’ve just arrived, yet I can tell from Prior Anselm that something is wrong. What is it?’

  Kathryn gave him a blunt description of everything that had happened since he’d left. Colum’s good humour disappeared in the twinkling of an eye. He got up and paced up and down, pulling the dagger on his war-belt in and out of its sheath, a sign of his agitation.

  ‘Anselm should have known better,’ he snapped. ‘Do you have that scrap of parchment?’

  Kathryn opened her writing satchel and handed it across. Colum read it, then threw it back.

  ‘I may not be your husband, Kathryn, but one thing I know is that you have spent your last night in the Friary of the Sack.’

  ‘And Mistress Chandler?’ Kathryn asked. ‘You will do something for her?’

  ‘If I can catch the King’s ear, yes. But what do you make of it all?’

  ‘Of the rats’ – she tried to make him laugh – ‘I have vague suspicions.’

  ‘Devil take the rats!’ Colum barked. He glowered down at her. ‘What about Brother Atworth? And Padraig Mafiach. God knows, tomorrow we’ll hurry his body to a lonely grave.’

  ‘How Mafiach was killed, Colum, I don’t know. There is a loose thread, but I am in the dark searching for it. As for the verse from Zephaniah?’ She shook her head. ‘I have yet to study that again. It’s no coincidence,’ she added, ‘that the Vicomte de Sanglier is here. Has he come to crow?’

  ‘To crow and to collect,’ Colum replied. He was still angry, gnawing at his lips and glaring at the door. ‘And Brother Atworth?’ he asked.

  ‘He may have been a saintly man’ – Kathryn scratched her hand where she had grazed it in pulling back the bolt – ‘but he was also a dangerous one. Duchess Cecily trusted him, perhaps even loved him. They both share some hideous secret.’

  ‘Do you think Atworth could have been her lover?’

  Kathryn raised her eyebrows. ‘The great Duchess Cecily, “the Rose of Raby,” deigning to bestow her favours on a mercenary? No, no, it’s not that.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Perhaps we should ask Duchess Cecily?’

  Colum’s hand snaked out and pressed a finger against Kathryn’s lips. ‘Never,’ he warned.

  Kathryn removed his hand. ‘We may have to. However,’ she continued briskly, ‘Duchess Cecily confessed to Atworth. I suspect they were soul companions. But something happened: The secrets they shared may have leaked out. Dame Cecily became deeply concerned. She visited Atworth more often. She also became frightened for Atworth’s safety. Whatever, that lay brother who calls himself Jonquil was sent here to guard and protect the Blessed Roger. I suspect Anselm, Gervase, and the infirmarian were also warned by the Duchess – you know how fiery and haughty she can be – to give Jonquil as much rope as he needed.’ Kathryn leaned closer to Colum, lowering her voice. ‘Others, now deeply interested, left the shadows to participate in this macabre dance. I have no proof,’ Kathryn measured her words, ‘but I suspect Gervase was bribed with gold, possibly preferment in the future. He was told to discover as much as he could about Atworth.’

  ‘By whom?’ Colum interjected.

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps someone outside. Or does Prior Anselm also have allegiance to people we don’t know? Anyway,’ Kathryn sighed, ‘Atworth died. Brother Gervase was no longer needed. In fact, he became a nuisance. He was lured out across Gethsemane, brutally murdered, his chamber carefully searched, and the k
iller then went back and burned Gervase’s corpse. The same killer became alarmed at my presence here. He may have wished to frighten me . . .’

  ‘No, no,’ Colum interrupted, ‘he came to kill. But who was it?’

  Kathryn spread her hands.

  ‘Colum, you are a soldier, as is Venables. You could climb that wall, lurk in the undergrowth, and, disguised as a friar, go across the grounds.’

  ‘Well, I know that can’t be true.’ Colum pointed to the door. ‘What time did this assailant visit you?’

  ‘Oh, between the hours of eleven and twelve. I remember the chimes of midnight came after Anselm had left me.’

  ‘I was at Islip,’ Colum replied, ‘and so was Venables, with other members of the King’s Council.’

  ‘It must be someone here,’ Kathryn said. She told him about Jonquil hiding in the library.

  ‘I could take him out to Kingsmead,’ Colum offered, ‘and put him to the question.’

  ‘Wrong in principle, my wild Irishman. Moreover, I suspect Jonquil enjoys a very powerful protector.’ She patted her writing satchel, which contained Atworth’s psalter. ‘I’ll show you Atworth’s work later. Something was gnawing away at his soul. He released it in two ways: drawing pictures, thus wrapping his secret sin up in myth and legend, and by talking to Mathilda Chandler.’