by Paul Doherty
‘And he was,’ Kathryn declared. ‘He simply made a few mistakes and paid for them with his life.’
Clitheroe left, and Colum, shaking his head in disbelief, went to fetch his cloak and war-belt. Kathryn left instructions with Thomasina.
‘If any patients come, send them to the Poor Priests’ Hospital.’
Thomasina grabbed Kathryn by the arm and held her fast. ‘You know who it is, don’t you?’
‘Yes, Thomasina, but trapping him is another matter!’
Kathryn, escorted by Colum, walked quickly up Ottemelle Lane. A weak sun was struggling through an early morning mist, and the city was not yet fully awake. They walked down the centre, well away from opening windows and the shouts of ‘Gardez loo!’ as chamber-pots were emptied into the street below. Heavy-eyed apprentices were setting up the stalls under the watchful gaze of their masters. Two street-walkers, skirts held high to reveal dirty legs and thighs, ran shrieking with mocking laughter away from a fat, red-faced, perspiring beadle. A Capuchin friar begged for alms, his cadaverous face peering out from under his deep cowl. Two debtors from the castle prison, shackled together, carried a basket from door to door for provisions for themselves and their companions. A roisterer who had drunk too much was being escorted down to the stocks with an empty beer cask over his head. The doors to cookshops and taverns were flung wide open, allowing the savoury smells from their ovens to waft out and tempt the early risers. Horses neighed in stable yards as the carts of peasants and scavengers trundled noisily over the cobbles. Colum found it difficult to speak, whilst Kathryn was in one of her tight-lipped moods.
They arrived at the soaring gate-house of the Friary of the Sack. A lay brother let them through and escorted them round the buildings to the Garden of Gethsemane. Prior Anselm, Simon, and Jonquil were already there with other members of the community. The smell of burning was rank. Plumes of grey smoke still wafted across the dew-fresh lawn and frightened the birds into noisy fluttering round the gables and spires of the friary.
Prior Anselm came across, all anxious-eyed. ‘A terrible act! A terrible act!’ he wailed. ‘The poor woman!’
‘A hideous death indeed!’
Kathryn turned round. Venables, wrapped in a brown military coat, stood behind her, one hand resting on the pommel of his sword.
‘Her Grace the Duchess asked me to come here.’ He pointed to the trees. ‘Another murder, eh, Mistress?’
‘Truly a place of death,’ Kathryn replied. ‘Let’s see for ourselves.’
When Kathryn reached the prison cell, her heart sank. The fire had been so intense, the door and steel plate had buckled, the walls were cracked, and the bricks round the Judas squint had crumpled away. The smoke was still fairly thick and acrid, stinging her nostrils and throat. Kathryn, taking a rag offered by Prior Anselm, pulled at the small door, which gave way in her hand as the inside panels had crumbled. Kathryn crouched down and peered in. ‘It’s like an oven!’ she exclaimed.
The walls and ceiling were black; everything else had been reduced to ash, still hot to the touch. Kathryn, ignoring Colum’s protests, made her way gingerly in. Now and again a hot cinder scored her ankle or the edge of her hand, and every time she moved, puffs of acrid smoke made her cough and sneeze. A little light was provided by the Judas squint and the open door. At one point Kathryn had to pause, fighting for breath. She panicked and blinked quickly; her eyes were stung to tears. She reached what must have been the bed. Again, there was nothing but black cinder and feathery ash. Kathryn searched carefully, and then grinned and made her way out. For a while she stamped away the ash, cleaning it from her gown and sandals.
‘You look a bit like Thomasina after she has burnt the bread.’ Colum’s smile faded. ‘I’m sorry, Kathryn.’
‘Well, I’m not.’ Kathryn pushed by them onto the lawn. ‘Mathilda Chandler!’ she shouted. ‘Mathilda!’
She walked along the edge of the copse, the rest following.
‘Mathilda, don’t worry! It’s me, Kathryn!’
Nothing but the raucous cawing of crows and the chatter of a jay answered her. Kathryn quietly prayed that she wasn’t wrong.
‘Mathilda!’ she shouted. ‘You have nothing to fear! I will take you to a safe place!’
Kathryn had almost reached the end of the copse: A bush swayed, and Mathilda Chandler stepped out onto the lawn, shrouded in her thick cloak. She hastened across to Kathryn, eyes glittering, face white and pinched. Kathryn grasped her cold hands.
‘Don’t say anything,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t say anything at all. Just agree with whatever I say.’
Mathilda nodded. ‘I . . . I . . .’
‘Hush!’ Kathryn urged.
‘What is this?’ Prior Anselm strode forward. ‘We thought you were dead!’
‘Don’t question her.’ Kathryn put an arm round Mathilda’s shoulder. ‘She’s frightened enough.’
‘This is my friary.’ Prior Anselm boomed. ‘I am Father Prior!’
‘You are also a liar,’ Kathryn retorted.
‘How dare you?’
‘Oh, I dare everything. I am here on the orders of the Queen Mother, Cecily, Duchess of York.’
Prior Anselm blanched, his Adam’s apple bobbing like a cork on a mill pond.
‘I will see you, Brother Simon, and Jonquil in your parlour. Not at my request, Father Prior, but on the Duchess’s orders. If you refuse,’ Kathryn gazed up at the sky, ‘the King’s men will be here within the hour.’
Prior Anselm spun on his heel, whispered to his two companions, and walked across the lawn without a second glance. Kathryn indicated that Colum and Venables should approach no further. She led Mathilda away and gave her a squeeze.
‘I am so glad,’ Kathryn whispered, ‘so happy!’
Mathilda sobbed quietly.
‘Comfort yourself,’ Kathryn whispered. ‘You are safe.’
‘I’ve become like an animal,’ Mathilda replied. ‘I stayed in my cell, but I felt an unspoken, unseen danger, like one of those cold morning mists which gathers round and clings to your skin like a shroud cloth. Yesterday afternoon I wrapped what little provisions I had in a rag. I left my cell, closed the door, and put the steel sheet back in its place. I hurried to the end of the copse, and like a fox being hunted, made myself a new lair.’
‘Did you see anything?’ Kathryn asked.
Mathilda shook her head. ‘The first I knew was when I smelt the smoke and heard the crackling. I was terrified. I could hear the flames roaring. If I hadn’t moved, my body would have been consumed and my soul sent to God.’
‘Well, listen,’ Kathryn replied, ‘listen very carefully. You are not to say anything, not even to Master Murtagh, but when I ask you a question, agree with whatever I say. Do you understand that?’
‘Do I have to go back there?’
Kathryn gave her another hug.
‘You can be sure of two things, Mathilda Chandler: The sun will set today, and your imprisonment is over. I promise you that.’
Kathryn turned and led Mathilda back to Colum. The Irishman was full of questions, but Kathryn pressed her finger against his lips.
‘You are not to ask her anything.’ She smiled at Venables. ‘I would be grateful if all three of you would wait in the small chamber near the Prior’s parlour. I assure you this will not take long.’ She grasped Colum’s wrist. ‘Don’t let Mistress Chandler out of your sight. Where she goes, so must you.’
Colum agreed. Kathryn kissed him quickly on the lips, smiled at Mathilda, and hurried back across the lawn.
The three friars were in the parlour, sitting like scholars waiting to be chastised by a master. Kathryn closed the door behind her, turned the key, and sat across the table from them.
‘I’ll come swiftly to the point, and I am not bluffing.’
‘I would like to object.’ Prior Anselm raised a hand.
‘Shut up!’ Kathryn banged the table with her hand. ‘You’ve wasted enough time with your lies and fables. Brother Jonquil, y
our real name is Edmund Brotherton. You come from Pickering in Yorkshire. You are York’s man, body and soul. You were a page in Duke Richard’s household and later a retainer in Duchess Cecily’s.’
Jonquil’s face paled, his fingers went to his lips.
‘How did . . .?
‘The Duchess told me,’ Kathryn cut him off. ‘You were placed here to protect the Blessed Roger Atworth. You are no more a lay brother than I am an abbess. Prior Anselm, Sub-Prior Gervase, and Simon the infirmarian were the only members of the community who were informed of your true identity and your real task here at the Friary of the Sack. That is the truth?’
Jonquil agreed.
‘You found it irksome,’ Kathryn continued, ‘but now and again at night you crossed Gethsemane, climbed the wall, took off your habit, and became another young man out to enjoy himself in the taverns and cookshops or wherever else you wanted to go. Whilst you were gone, Prior Anselm, Gervase, and Brother Simon kept an eye on the Holy Roger.’
Jonquil put his face in his hands.
‘Now,’ Kathryn smiled at Prior Anselm, ‘regarding Brother Roger’s death and the miracles’ – she shrugged – ‘I think Brother Simon here knows that they are as much the work of nature as they are of God, but they don’t bother me. The perfumed smell – ’ Kathryn opened her wallet and took out a small piece of membrane, transparently thin. ‘Do you ever blow bubbles, Brother Simon? When they burst, you can smell their soap. You did the same, didn’t you? You are an apothecary. You filled pieces of membrane, very similar to this, with some perfume concocted in your infirmary.
‘You placed them in your pocket and, when appropriate, let two or three fall on the ground. You crushed them under your sandalled foot, and the smell became pervasive.’
Brother Simon sat, eyes closed.
‘I’ve heard of schoolboys doing the same,’ Kathryn declared, ‘but with a substance not so sweet. You went into Brother Roger’s chamber. You allowed three or four pieces to fall on the floor and quietly crushed them under your foot. You placed these in Brother Roger’s coffin, and, when the tomb was opened and no one was looking, you did the same again.’ Kathryn waved a hand. ‘The air became sweet with some mysterious fragrance. If you search for the source, you can’t find it. The membrane is very thin, and, of course, it can be kicked under soil, between a crack in the floorboards, or under a bed. Whatever.’ She glanced at the young lay brother, who still sat with his head in his hands. ‘As for your vision, Brother Jonquil – I have knelt in the Lady Chapel when the sun comes pouring through the window. That’s all you saw, wasn’t it? The rest was mere fable, like the perfume, to gladden Duchess Cecily’s heart and prevent her asking too many embarrassing questions about Brother Roger’s death. All three of you must have got on your knees and thanked God when Atworth’s corpse was exhumed and found to be uncorrupted. Brother Simon may throw his hands in the air, but I think he knows the effect of arsenic as much as I do. Brother Roger was taking very minute grains for a stomach ailment. I am sure that did not kill him, but it did keep his corpse intact.’ Kathryn sighed. ‘So, am I to tease it out of you, like some clumsy thread of tapestry?’
‘We have sinned.’ Prior Anselm’s hands went together. He bowed his head. ‘Mistress Swinbrooke, we have sinned, and we have lied. Not because of greed!’ He spread his hands. ‘Well, perhaps that did play a part.’
‘The truth?’ Kathryn demanded.
‘Very well.’ Prior Anselm sat back in his chair. ‘Roger Atworth joined this community and soon won a name for holiness of life. In many ways he was an excellent companion: humble, pious, always ready to please. I liked him. I knew about his former life, the hideous deeds he’d committed. Yet if there was ever a man searching for God, it was Roger Atworth.’ He paused. ‘The war between York and Lancaster ended. We soon realised that Brother Roger had very powerful friends. Duchess Cecily became a constant visitor here. Brother Roger was her confessor. They used to greet each other like brother and sister and go walking in Gethsemane. Duchess Cecily warned me to keep Atworth well and safe: If he suffered any distress, threat, or danger, I was to tell her immediately. Gervase and Simon were similarly instructed. Gervase didn’t like Brother Atworth. He often wondered what secrets Atworth held. He was certainly jealous of the intimacy between this holy friar and the mother of the King of England. Now and again we would have visitors, particularly from France: merchants, messengers. Even though they disguised it well, their interest in Brother Roger was noticeable. A few months ago I informed Duchess Cecily.’ He gestured towards Jonquil. ‘So he was sent to protect Roger.’
‘And?’ Kathryn asked.
‘An easy task,’ Jonquil spoke up, taking his hands away from his face. ‘Atworth was a holy man. He wanted to do nothing but pray, walk in Gethsemane Garden, and write in the small psalter you have seen in the library. It was not an onerous task, but I did find the life here stifling. Prior Anselm was kind enough to turn a blind eye to my occasional departures into the city.’
‘We didn’t think there was any danger,’ Prior Anselm took up the story. ‘Brother Roger went to church, to the refectory, the library, his own chamber, or to walk in Gethsemane. He struck up a friendship with our poor prisoner, but I thought that posed no danger. And then,’ he snapped his fingers, ‘suddenly, one night, everything changed.’ Prior Anselm laced his fingers together. ‘The Feast of the Annunciation falls on the twenty-fifth of March. On the evening of the twenty-third Brother Jonquil left for the city. Brother Roger, we thought, went for a walk in Gethsemane. No one really paid much attention until the morning of the twenty-fourth. Jonquil went to Brother Roger’s chamber and found it empty, his bed unslept in.’
‘We were terrified,’ the infirmarian spoke up. ‘Roger Atworth had been placed in our special care. Jonquil had been out in the city, and in that time, Brother Roger had disappeared. His chamber was undisturbed. He only had a few paltry possessions, and we know he kept the Duchess’s letters in a wallet on a cord. We had to keep this secret from the rest of the community. We thought he might have gone into the city or been in another part of the friary. We had to work discreetly, quietly. As the day progressed, we could find no trace.’
‘But you found him, didn’t you?’ Kathryn asked.
‘Yes, after dusk. We began to search Gethsemane and the copse beyond.’
Prior Anselm sucked on his lips. Kathryn could see his hand was trembling.
‘We found him dead in the disused cellar, lying on the floor, hands crossed. We waited till it was dark and the rest of the community had retired. We brought his corpse back in the dead of night and laid it on his bed in his chamber. Only then did we notice something was wrong.’
‘Let me see,’ Kathryn interrupted. ‘First, he was dirty and dishevelled, yes? So you had to strip the corpse and, of course, the bed, now stained from the dirt on Brother Roger’s habit, yes?’
‘True.’ Prior Anselm kept his head down.
‘You took off his habit, washed the corpse, and as you said, sent his robe and the dirty blankets, sheets, and bolster to the wash-house.’
Kathryn paused at a sound from outside.
‘Even then, Brother Simon, you must have recognised something exceptional about Brother Roger’s corpse, already that waxen, sponge-like texture. What really frightened you, however, were the cord marks round his wrists and ankles. True?’
‘We realised’ – the infirmarian closed his eyes – ‘it was no accident. Brother Roger hadn’t simply gone down that cellar, become ill, collapsed, and died.’
‘He had been abducted, hadn’t he?’ Kathryn asked. ‘Atworth went for a walk in Gethsemane, and the assassin struck. God knows how he did it, but Atworth had been enticed into the copse, perhaps struck on the side of the head. When he regained consciousness, he found himself lying on a dirty slab, hands and feet lashed to some pole or clasp in the wall. The assassin didn’t want to kill Atworth. He wanted to interrogate him, question him about the secrets – he also took Atworth’s letter
s, didn’t he? Brother Atworth was terrified. Now a frail man, under the shock of such ill treatment, his heart gave way. The assassin released him from his bonds and left the corpse for you to find. You knew Duchess Cecily would demand an explanation. She would come to see the corpse, so that’s when the charade began: clean sheets, blankets, fresh robes, the story that Atworth had burnt the letters, locked the door, and lay down on his bed to wait for his God.’
‘We had no choice,’ Prior Anselm wailed.
‘Of course people would be suspicious,’ Kathryn declared. ‘Why was the door locked? Why didn’t Atworth, if he knew death was near, summon his brothers? Make his farewells? Ask to be taken down to your church? But that would be forgotten, wouldn’t it, once the marvellous stories began to circulate? The bed was changed, the corpse washed and re-clothed, the brazier lit; some parchments were burnt. Brother Simon brought his small sacks of perfume; some he broke, others he would leave for the morning. The only problem remaining were those awful red marks round the wrists and ankles. You, Brother Simon, are a physician. When death occurs, the blood flow stops. You had the marvellous idea of providing Roger Atworth with the stigmata, a rare mark of Christ’s approval for great saints like Francis of Assisi. Those wounds in his wrists, ankles, and side, as well as to his head, were your work, weren’t they? And, being a pious man, you had these holy wounds covered by strips of cloth. Consequently, any suspicious person would simply say that the marks on the wrists and ankles were caused by these miraculous stigmata and the cloths you used to bind them. Similar marks were placed round his forehead.’
Kathryn laid her hands on the table and stared at the three friars.
‘What people want to see,’ she murmured, ‘they will see. What people want to believe, they will believe. Atworth is hailed as a saint. Duchess Cecily is sorrowful, but she has two consolations: First, the man who knew all her secrets has taken them to the grave. Secondly, the man who was her confessor is now a saint in heaven. Duchess Cecily would like that, and so would you. You would win her patronage. Atworth’s tomb would become a shrine for pilgrims. The only suspicious person was our wily old Archbishop Bourchier, who, perhaps, knew more than he told us. He decided to use the process of canonisation to discover the real truth behind all this. Brother Roger is hurried to his grave. Duchess Cecily is eager for his canonisation. At the same time she becomes less confident that the secrets Atworth held are safe once and for all.’
