by Paul Doherty
There was a knock at the door, and Venables strode in.
‘Mistress, Father Prior is all a-fluster: the so-called miracles await us. Listen!’ Venables picked up a small stool just inside the doorway, came across, and sat down. ‘The Duchess is alarmed at the way matters are proceeding.’
‘How are matters proceeding, Master Venables?’
The henchman smiled, eyes crinkling up. ‘It’s plain as a pikestaff,’ he murmured. ‘You entertain deep doubts, as I do, Mistress, about the Blessed Atworth’s death. He may have been a repentant sinner, but God knows what else.’
‘He was frightened,’ Kathryn replied. ‘He often talked to someone else. He was frightened of giving up his secrets.’
‘What secrets?’ Venables queried, tapping his foot. ‘I know Duchess Cecily is still deeply concerned by the death in the Tower of Henry of Lancaster. Rumour has it that all her sons were involved. Henry, or King Henry as the Lancastrians liked to style him, was a fool, but certainly a holy one.’
‘And would the French be interested in that?’ Colum asked.
‘Perhaps; their Spider King would love nothing more than to portray Edward of England and his two brothers as the slayers of a saint, very similar to Henry II’s murder of Becket. But’ – Venables got to his feet – ‘God’s work awaits us.’ He gestured to the door.
‘When do we have to be at the Archbishop’s palace?’ Kathryn asked.
‘At about four this afternoon, when the banquet is over,’ Colum replied.
‘And you will speak for Mathilda Chandler?’
Colum was already helping her to her feet.
‘Don’t worry,’ he reassured her, ‘I’ll speak to the King myself.’
They left the library to find that Anselm, flanked by Jonquil and Brother Simon, were waiting. The Prior looked highly uncomfortable. He attempted a fumbling apology for what had happened the previous evening. Kathryn went to reassure him, but Colum brusquely intervened.
‘Time waits for no one,’ the Irishman snapped. ‘The day draws on; people are waiting.’
‘We have to be there,’ Simon the infirmarian spoke up. ‘We want to be present when Mistress Swinbrooke investigates these miracles.’
‘And so you will be,’ Kathryn replied. ‘The more the merrier – though Cardinal Spineri is noticeable by his absence.’
‘Cardinal Spineri has already made his mind up,’ Venables retorted.
The henchman kept his face impassive, but Kathryn could see the humour in his eyes.
‘His Eminence has affirmed that he will advance Blessed Roger’s cause in Rome.’
Kathryn felt like adding how the good Cardinal could do the same for the Duchess’s pet monkey, but she bit her tongue.
Anselm led them across to his parlour. The so-called miracles of Roger Atworth were waiting in the corridor outside, not the happiest group, nervous and ill-at-ease. Kathryn sat at the head of the Prior’s table, Murtagh and Venables to her right, the three friars on her left. Each so-called miracle was called up and closely interrogated. A pox-faced young man, who claimed to have regained potency, spoke in halting, broken sentences. Kathryn kept her face grave, and Colum avoided her eye, whilst Venables hid his smile behind his hands. A mother followed, carrying her child, whom she claimed had been bitten on the wrist by a rat. Again Kathryn questioned her closely. The child, who had been sleeping, now awoke and added his own contribution to the discussion with loud squeals and yells. Kathryn was only too pleased to wish the mother well. A lay brother guided her out across the refectory, where refreshments had been prepared. A young woman with scrofula was followed by an old soldier who had suffered an ailment of the bowels. Again Kathryn asked them about their condition and their treatment, and then dismissed them. Once the door closed on the last of them, Simon the infirmarian raised a hand in protest.
‘Mistress Swinbrooke, you were hasty and peremptory.’
‘A miracle,’ Kathryn retorted, ‘and correct me if I am wrong, Father Prior, is the direct intervention by God to change the laws of the physical world and, in doing so, create wonder and surprise amongst the faithful. For the love of God, Father Prior, look at these so-called miracles! The young man who suffered a loss of potency: That is quite common amongst young bridegrooms who sometimes fear their virility may not be up to their expectations or those of their wives. Any man will confess that his potency can be affected by ale, disease, or fear.’
‘You seem to know a great deal.’
Colum kept his face grave.
‘Do I?’ Kathryn teased. ‘Five men sit in this room with me. All five of you who are on oath would agree with what I have said. This young man was nervous. He was seeking relief. He was too frightened to go to a physician, too embarrassed to discuss it with anyone. He hears about the Blessed Roger, comes here, and finds that relief.’
‘And the young woman with scrofula?’ Prior Anselm demanded.
‘What the physicians call “King’s malady,”’ Kathryn replied, ‘cured by the King’s touch. Oh, I don’t doubt,’ she continued, ‘that the young woman was cured at the Friary of the Sack. She was a guest here, yes? Did you feed her?’
Brother Simon nodded.
‘And she brought her best gown? By her own admission she also bathed before visiting the so-called shrine. Her malady was light; I could have cured the same. Scrofula is often caused by a lack of good food, especially fresh vegetables. It is worsened by woollen clothes which seem to harbour fleas and dirt. Give the patient fresh fruit, a warm bath, a change of clothing.’ She could tell from Brother Simon’s embarrassed glance that the infirmarian knew all this. ‘It’s common knowledge,’ Kathryn declared. ‘I knew it before I questioned the woman. I have seen my father work so-called miracles amongst sailors from the Medway.’
‘And the child bitten by a rat?’ Colum asked.
‘The skin is healed; the child is only a babe. True, such bites can kill an infant. At the time,’ Kathryn replied, ‘by her own admission, the mother was suckling the infant. According to the masters, a mother’s milk will strengthen the child’s humours, but I listened to the mother carefully. The woman has a wise head on her shoulders and doesn’t realise it.’ Kathryn ticked the points off on her fingers. ‘First, she washed the bite with wine. Now that would make the child scream and inflame the bite, but actually do more good than harm. She then used an ancient cure, a mixture of dried milk and honey. This concoction can be found in many a book of remedies to cleanse what the physicians call a dirt-infested cut. I don’t’ – she dropped her hands – ‘I don’t know how it works.’ She shook her head. ‘But it arouses the pus and cleans it out.’
‘So,’ Venables stirred in his chair, fascinated by what Kathryn was saying, ‘she brought the child to Brother Atworth’s tomb. The wound looked malignant, but it was actually healing?’
‘Yes,’ Kathryn confirmed. ‘It’s the same as when you drain a boil or carbuncle: the pus and the blood can look offensive, but as my father said, “Better out than in.” To put it bluntly, the child’s wound would have healed, Brother Atworth or not.’
She glanced at the three friars. Anselm and Simon looked embarrassed. Kathryn quietly vowed that, when the opportunity presented itself, she would have words with these two cunning priests. Jonquil had assumed his air of bemused innocence, but Kathryn wasn’t fooled. She was more intrigued by why Jonquil was here in the first place. True, he had been Atworth’s guardian angel and his servant, but he held no position of authority in the friary.
‘And the old soldier?’ Colum asked.
‘That is difficult,’ Kathryn said. ‘And it intrigues me. He suffered from the flux. He came to the friary, stayed a day, and then left.’
‘But by his own admission,’ Simon interrupted, ‘the distressing condition has not returned. And he claims to have been suffering from it for at least six years.’
‘As I said,’ Kathryn retorted, ‘I don’t know. I may have to ask the advice of others. Such an ailment can be caused by certain
foods which may agree with me but upset another’s humours. It could have been putrid water, or . . .’ she paused.
‘Or what?’ the infirmarian demanded. ‘Mistress Swinbrooke, I agree with your diagnosis of the other three. A natural explanation may be logical, but they could still be miracles. This last one, however, is puzzling.’
Kathryn played with the buckle on her writing satchel.
‘Master Venables, have you fought as a soldier?’
‘Yes, both on land and sea.’
Kathryn studied the heavy-lidded eyes of this henchman, his smooth-shaven face, the hair neatly coifed, fingers beating a gentle tattoo on the table.
‘You look in remarkable health, Master Venables. I don’t wish to embarrass you but . . .’
Venables’s secretive face creased into a smile.
‘Mistress, I am in good health, body and soul. Thanks be to Heaven I have been brought through the most bloody conflicts without a scathe or a wound.’
‘But you have been frightened?’ Kathryn asked. ‘You were at Tewkesbury where King Edward met the Lancastrians?’
‘Yes, I was at that great slaughter.’
‘And the morning before the battle did you eat or drink?’
Venables shook his head. ‘My stomach felt like a cloth, tightly wrung. If I had eaten, I would have been sick. It happens to any soldier.’
‘Of course it does,’ Kathryn agreed. ‘Now on this matter I am as knowledgeable as the pigeons outside. I do not know how the mind affects the humours of the body. To put it candidly, as you say, Master Venables, fear makes the heart beat faster, the stomach churn, the skin sweat.’
‘Ah, I see,’ Colum spoke up. ‘You are saying this old soldier . . .?’
Kathryn shrugged. ‘He may have found peace here in the friary. He did say that he confessed and had been shriven by one of the friars. Perhaps the cause of his ailment was not so much a matter of the bowel or the stomach as of the mind?’
‘In which case,’ Prior Anselm declared triumphantly, hand raised, ‘it is still a miracle. You may chatter on, Mistress, about your remedies, but God’s will shall be done.’
Kathryn felt a spurt of anger at this prior whose lack of care had nearly cost her her life.
‘God’s will,’ she retorted hotly, ‘is more about compassion, Father Prior! I am to leave the Friary of the Sack, and I thank you for your hospitality. However, I would be most grateful if Brother Eadwig would keep a solicitous eye on Mistress Chandler.’
‘The Accursed!’ Anselm almost spat the words out. ‘I have heard of your friendship with her.’
‘She is a poor widow woman,’ Kathryn declared, ‘who has more than atoned for her crime. If I had my way, Father Prior, this friary would house her for only a few days more.’
‘Very well. Very well,’ the Prior muttered. ‘But, Mistress, on these miracles?’
‘Brother Simon is my witness. I will draw up an account.’
‘You’ll look for natural causes?’
‘If I believe God’s will has been made manifest, then the Blessed Roger truly looks on God and is in heaven interceding for us, sinners and all.’
‘And there’s the matter of the vision?’ Brother Simon spoke up.
Kathryn refused to be drawn into another argument. ‘I think we’ll discuss the vision later.’
Kathryn could still feel her anger bubbling within her: She didn’t truly care whether Brother Atworth was a saint or not. It was more the attitude of the Prior, his lack of compassion for Mathilda Chandler, and his determination to use the spiritual for his own advancement and that of his friary that bothered her.
‘One thing I can’t understand.’ Kathryn unbuckled her writing satchel and took out a sheet of vellum on which she had made a summation of her thoughts. ‘You claim, Father Prior, that Atworth died in his sleep? You broke the door down. He was lying on his bed serenely as any saint, almost expecting a visit from God or one of his angels.’
‘Don’t be sarcastic!’ the infirmarian suddenly shouted.
‘No, Brother, I am being truthful. According to you, the door was locked and bolted from the inside; that was common?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘And the only people who approached Brother Roger were you three?’
There were nods of agreement.
‘So what happened to the letters Brother Roger received from Duchess Cecily?’
‘We told you, Brother Roger must have burnt them.’
‘Ah, yes, so you did. And you have relics of Brother Roger?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Come, come, Father Prior. If you have your way, Atworth’s shrine will be visited by hundreds, perhaps thousands of pilgrims. They will bring offerings, stay at your guest-house. Money will flow like a river into your coffers. Your friary church will be patronised by the great and the good.’ She ignored Venables’s sharp intake of breath. ‘Isn’t it common to have relics the faithful can touch?’
‘Brother Roger had two robes and a shift,’ Anselm retorted. ‘He was buried in one of them.’
‘And the other?’
‘It’s somewhere in the friary.’
‘Could you get it for me?’
The Prior gaped at her.
‘Why? It’s probably been taken to the wash-house.’
‘The wash-house?’ Kathryn exclaimed. ‘So it will be used again? Given to another friar or some poor man who comes knocking at your gate?’
‘Yes, that’s the rule of the friary.’
‘But this was the robe of the Blessed Roger!’ Kathryn put the piece of vellum back on the table. ‘I thought it would be folded up, specially kept, even hung up in your church so the faithful could touch it. Or you could have cut it up and sold the pieces as relics.’
Prior Anselm swallowed so fast and hard that he clearly found it difficult to speak.
‘We have his rosary beads,’ Simon the infirmarian interrupted. ‘And his psalter.’
Kathryn patted her writing satchel.
‘Not any longer. I have it here.’
‘That’s theft!’ Jonquil shouted.
‘I am simply borrowing it, Brother. But before I return it, you do realise certain pages have been cut out?’
All three friars stared at her.
‘But let’s continue with these relics. I am so pleased to have all three of you here at the same time.’
Kathryn ignored Colum’s warning look. Venables was also growing visibly uneasy.
‘Mistress Swinbrooke, where is this leading? Who’s asking this?’
‘Brother Roger died in his bed.’ Kathryn joined her hands together. ‘Now, when I visited his chamber, all I saw was a wafer-thin mattress on a small truckle bed. I do not deny that Brother Roger lived a life of austerity, but he did have a bolster, sheets, and a blanket. These were cloths touched by his holy body. What happened to them?’ She lifted her hand. ‘Don’t tell me! The bed was stripped, and they were sent to the wash-house, yes?’
The Prior nodded.
‘Didn’t the thought occur to you,’ Kathryn continued, ‘to keep such precious cloths as relics? Here you are, Father Prior, advancing the Blessed Roger’s cause; yet according to all the evidence, you appear to have destroyed or removed as many of Brother Roger’s paltry possessions as possible.’
‘What are you implying?’
‘Nothing! I am just mystified.’
‘You forget one thing.’ Jonquil laced his fingers together and smiled at her out of the corner of his eyes. ‘This is a house of friars: many good and holy men have lived and died here. When we discovered Brother Roger’s corpse, we were distressed and sad, but death is a common occurrence. He was an old man. He suffered many ailments. We did not know he was going to be a saint. We did not have the gift of prophecy. True, there were certain phenomena, such as the perfume and the stigmata on Brother Roger’s corpse, but we did not foresee the miracles, the visions . . .’
His two companions chorused their agreement. Kathryn pulled a fac
e and put the sheet of parchment away.
‘In which case I am grateful for your advice.’ She tightened the buckles on the satchel. ‘Master Murtagh, if I could have a word with you in private?’
The meeting broke up. The friars, darting angry glances at Kathryn, swept out of the parlour. Venables announced that he was totally intrigued.
‘I understand Brother Roger’s body is to be re-buried?’ he asked. ‘The Duchess would like me to pay her respects.’
‘Isn’t she going to visit the corpse herself?’
‘Tomorrow, Mistress, but I am still under orders.’ Venables bowed and left.
‘Well, well, well.’ Colum pushed back his chair and stretched. ‘I would say this is not a safe place for you, Mistress Swinbrooke. When it comes to priests, you have a sharp tongue.’
‘No, Colum,’ Kathryn leaned over and squeezed his hand, ‘just when it comes to liars. We have to separate the wheat from the chaff. Atworth may have been a very holy man; I think he was. Miracles may have occurred, and I don’t deny that. But the more I investigate his death, the more I reject the accepted story.’
‘What? Are you going to say he was poisoned?’
‘No, Colum,’ Kathryn whispered, ‘but I do believe he was murdered. A little more time, and I’ll have my proof.’
‘What makes you say that?’ Colum insisted.
‘Atworth himself. I never asked these good friars – well, not in a thorough way – why Atworth should burn his papers and lock his door.’
‘Because he knew he was going to die? He may have welcomed death?’
Kathryn shook her head. ‘No man welcomes death. Not even a saint. Our three friars are liars, and they are hiding the truth!’
Chapter 10
‘Lordes in paramentz on hir courseres,
Knyghtes of retenue, and eek squieres . . .’
– Chaucer, ‘The Knight’s Tale,’
The Canterbury Tales
The Archbishop’s palace had been transformed by the Court’s presence. Royal Archers wearing the personal livery of York on their leather jackets, long yew bows slung over their shoulders, clustered around the gates and side entrances. Inside the grounds the Royal Standard depicting the Golden Leopards of England fluttered bravely in the late afternoon breeze. Knight bannerets, in full plate-armour adorned with the gorgeous tabard of the Royal Household, guarded doors, galleries, and entrances. A group of scurriers stood with their horses, ready to carry out the King’s least whim. Messengers galloped in from London and elsewhere, bearing letters and reports from sheriffs, judges, and commissioners. The Cathedral precincts had lost their aura of sanctity, the fragrance of beeswax and incense replaced by heavy perfume and the stench of horses and leather. The quiet serenity of the buildings and the chanting of the monks were shattered by the clatter of steel and the raucous shouts of serjeants-at-arms.
