Book of Shadows

by Paul Doherty

  ‘All the Justices are there,’ he declared as Kathryn came into the kitchen. ‘Bedecked in their scarlet and ermine, armed with sword and gibbet they will execute the King’s justice.’

  ‘I know.’ Kathryn winked at Thomasina.

  ‘Ah!’ Rawnose’s dirty finger pointed to the ceiling. ‘What you don’t know, Mistress, is that the Justices of Oyer and Terminer are already sitting in the castle hall. The jury has been assembled and our friend Mathilda Sempler is due to appear,’ Rawnose paused for effect, ‘at the fourth hour after mid-day!’

  ‘So soon,’ Kathryn whispered.

  ‘Aye, the Justices are in a hurry.’ Rawnose licked chapped lips and glanced over his shoulder at the buttery. ‘A list of man’s wickedness faces them. Arson, robbery, theft, the stealing of a pyx from a church, a knifing in the Swindlestock tavern, the violation of virgins, the despoiling of widows . . .’

  ‘Rawnose, enough!’ Kathryn interrupted. Thomasina, bring our guest a jug of ale and some oatcakes.’ She smiled at the beggar who gathered his rags about him as regally as any judge would his robes. ‘You’ve been down to the castle?’

  ‘Oh yes, the Commission of Oyer and Terminer has already begun.’

  ‘What does it mean?’ Agnes spoke up. ‘Oyer and . . . ?’

  Kathryn gratefully accepted the jug of ale Thomasina brought her.

  ‘The King’s Justice of Assize is in Canterbury,’ Kathryn explained. ‘They will hear the life and death cases and determine judgement. However, before a case can reach them, one of the judges holds a court called Oyer and Terminer, a lawyer’s term meaning to listen and terminate. What will happen to poor Mathilda is that she will be put before a jury. If they believe there’s a case to answer, the Justice will commit her to trial at the Assizes, probably some time next week.’ Kathryn put the ale down and rubbed her face.

  ‘You should rest.’ Thomasina came over and patted her shoulder. ‘You look tired.’

  Kathryn got to her feet.

  ‘No, Thomasina, someone has to speak for old Mathilda.’ She glanced at the hour candle. ‘It’s already between three and four. I’ll go down to the castle.’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ Thomasina offered.

  ‘And me!’ Wuf spoke up, dancing from foot to foot. He plucked the wooden sword from his belt. ‘I’ll free Mathilda!’

  Agnes also offered to go whilst Rawnose quickly drained his tankard.

  Kathryn glanced at them all. ‘In which case,’ she declared, ‘you’d all better come!’

  Thomasina bustled around, busily locking cupboards and doors. Kathryn splashed some water on her face and they left, going along Ottemelle Lane into Wistraet. They hurried through the late afternoon crowds, avoiding the carts driven by tired-eyed peasants who, having sold their produce, were making their way towards Worthinggate and the villages beyond.

  A small crowd had gathered outside the castle gate and was being held back by guards. An officer recognised Kathryn, as she had been there the previous year to investigate the death of the Constable. They were allowed to pass without hindrance into the yard where a tipstaff took them up into the Great Hall. This had been dramatically changed since their last visit. The grimy walls had been freshly whitewashed, the great beams painted black whilst precious cloths covered the walls, displaying both the arms of England as well as the personal insignia of each judge. Royal Serjeants wearing their blue, red and gold tabards had cordoned off the lower end of the hall for spectators. Farther up Kathryn glimpsed the King’s Justice sitting on the dais behind a long table, clerks, scriveners and advisers on either side of him. Just below the dais, to the right, sat a jury of Canterbury burgesses and, facing the dais, a long bar had been slung from wall to wall. Here the prisoners would stand whilst the Justice’s clerk read out the list of charges. The Justice would then ask questions and the jury would reply. For a while Kathryn and the rest who, thanks to Thomasina’s bulk, had pushed themselves to the front, heard this litany of human misery. An arsonist who had set fire to a hayloft. A whore who had assaulted a customer with a knife. A thief who had stolen a pyx from a city church. Kathryn’s heart sank: the Justice was not inclined to mercy. His questions were blunt and quick and the harassed jury given little time to reflect.

  ‘Come on! Come on!’ The Justice banged his small hammer on the table. ‘What reply do you make? What reply do you make?’

  Time and again the leader of the jury would stand, shuffling his feet nervously.

  ‘There’s a case to answer,’ he’d squeak.

  ‘You what?’ The Justice cupped his ear. ‘Speak up, man!’

  ‘There’s a case to answer, my Lord.’

  ‘Of course there bloody well is!’ the Justice roared. ‘Take the prisoner away!’

  At last Mathilda Sempler’s name was called. The old woman came shuffling in through a side door, wrists and ankles secured by manacles. She moved so slowly the Justice snapped his fingers impatiently. The turnkeys gave her a shove so she almost collided with the bar. The scribe read the charges out, finishing with the proclamation: ‘And those who have business before His Grace’s Justice of Oyer and Terminer draw close!’ In all the other cases this had been a mere formality, but now Isabella Talbot, resting on the arm of brother-in-law Robert, swept out of the side door. She was still dressed completely in black, a lace veil hiding her features. She looked every inch the grieving widow.

  ‘Now!’ Thomasina hissed.

  Kathryn waved over a royal serjeant and whispered in his ear. The man released the rope and allowed Kathryn and Thomasina up before the bar. The Talbots were standing to Mathilda’s left as far away as possible, not only to distance themselves from the accused, but because the old woman stank sourly. Kathryn schooled her features as she gently tapped Mathilda on the shoulder. The accused turned, bright-eyed, and smiled up at her.

  ‘What’s this? What’s this?’

  The Justice, who had been expecting a brief hearing, banged his hammer on the table and glared at Kathryn. Hard-eyed under thick, white eyebrows, he looked as sour as vinegar; by the twist to his lips, Kathryn knew she would find little compassion here.

  ‘What’s this? What’s this?’ The Justice drummed bony fingers on the table.

  On either side of him, the clerks just bowed their heads, intent on their scribbling.

  ‘You should not touch the prisoner!’ the Justice bellowed, eyebrows raised in shocked disbelief.

  Kathryn gazed coolly back, and the justice lost some of his composure.

  ‘It’s against all usage! It’s against all usage!’ He tapped his hammer against the table. ‘Mathilda Sempler, you are accused of witchcraft and murder!’ He turned to Isabella. ‘What evidence do you proffer?’

  The old judge forced a smile as Isabella raised her black-edged veil and began to recite tearfully the same tale she had told Kathryn.

  ‘So.’ The justice steepled his fingers. ‘Your husband threw this woman out of a cottage because she failed to pay her rent. She cursed him in the church porch and later sent the same curse to him on a scrap of parchment?’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’ Isabella’s voice quivered with grief. She then turned and shot a malicious glance at Kathryn.

  ‘And on the morning your husband died,’ the judge continued, ‘he was hurrying downstairs because thieves, and some of those same buggers may well be appearing before me soon, were filching goods from his stalls?’

  ‘Yes, Your Honour. I espied them from our bed chamber window. My husband ran out.’

  The old judge leaned back, his hands resting on the quilted arms of his chair. ‘Clear as anything to me.’ He glared at Mathilda. ‘Did you curse him?’

  The old woman nodded.

  ‘Did you send that curse?’

  ‘Yes,’ Mathilda whispered.

  The justice looked at Kathryn.

  ‘And what have you to say about all this?’

  ‘Mathilda Sempler,’ Kathryn declared, ‘is an old woman. She dabbles in herbs and potions.’
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  The justice leaned over to listen to one of his clerks whisper in his ear. He straightened up, indicating with his hand for Kathryn to be quiet.

  ‘I can see she’s old. And I know she dabbles in potions but that doesn’t stop her being a murderer, does it, Mistress Swinbrooke?’ He leaned forward. ‘I understand you are a city physician and also dabble in potions?’

  ‘I am a healer,’ Kathryn retorted.

  ‘Yes, and one who is wasting my time.’

  ‘I am also wasting my own time,’ Kathryn replied, ‘coming here to seek justice. My lord, I, too, am involved in royal business. I work with Colum Murtagh, King’s Commissioner in Canterbury; we are presently trying to discover the murderer of the magus Tenebrae.’

  The justice’s jaw fell slack. He leaned back to listen to his clerk whisper once again. This time he forced a smile.

  ‘Like a silver plate on a coffin lid,’ Thomasina whispered.

  ‘Mistress Kathryn,’ the justice said. ‘I did not mean to give offence.’

  ‘You have!’ Robert Talbot exclaimed.

  ‘Shut up!’ the justice snapped. ‘Mistress Swinbrooke, you were going to say?’

  ‘Your Honour,’ Kathryn began, conscious of the whispering from the jury and the crowd at the back of the hall. ‘I thank you for your kindness. All I am saying,’ she glanced down at Mathilda leaning against the bar, ‘is that Mistress Sempler may have cursed Sir Peter, and with good cause, but in law there is no proof that her curse caused Talbot’s death.’

  The justice, now wary of Kathryn, nodded solemnly.

  ‘True, true.’

  ‘Your Honour,’ Robert Talbot now spoke up. ‘Mistress Swinbrooke cannot prove that the witch’s curse did not kill my brother.’

  Again the justice nodded and glanced expectantly at the jury.

  ‘What say ye?’

  The leading jury man, however, was sharp enough to sense what was happening. He shuffled to his feet.

  ‘My lord, we believe there is a case to answer, but . . .’

  Kathryn’s heart leapt.

  ‘If Mistress Swinbrooke can produce evidence to clarify the situation then . . .’

  He flapped his hands and sat down as the justice glared at him, then Mathilda.

  ‘You are to be returned to the city gaol,’ he intoned, ‘until Mistress Swinbrooke can produce further evidence.’ He glanced pityingly at Kathryn. ‘But, if not, you, Mathilda Sempler, will go on trial.’ The justice’s face hardened. ‘If you are found guilty, then the penalty will be terrible. You will be sentenced to hang in a cage above a burning fire until dead.’

  Kathryn quickly grasped Mathilda Sempler, otherwise she would have slumped to the floor.

  ‘Take the prisoner down!’ the justice roared.

  Two turnkeys seized the old woman by the arms and hustled her out. Kathryn walked down the hall even as the clerk began to read out the next indictment.

  ‘Kathryn, you did well,’ Thomasina whispered, plucking at her sleeve.

  Kathryn glanced despairingly at her. ‘Did I, Thomasina? What further evidence is there?’

  They rejoined Rawnose and the rest at the back of the hall, then went out into the fading sunlight.

  ‘Can you help Mathilda?’ the beggar man asked anxiously.

  Kathryn leaned against one of the buttresses of the castle wall and stared across at the goose wandering around, its long neck straining, looking for morsels to eat. Two boys ran by carrying a pitcher of water from the butts which stood near the warren. Somewhere in the stables a young girl was singing a lullabye. Kathryn closed her eyes. It was difficult to imagine the ordinary things of life going by after such a terrible sentence had been pronounced. She looked down at Agnes and Wuf.

  ‘You should not have come.’

  ‘Will they do that?’ Agnes asked, white-faced.

  ‘Aye, the cruel bastards will,’ Thomasina interrupted. ‘It’s what is called a double punishment. The burning is for murder and the slow death in a cage for witchcraft. I saw it happen myself once, when old John Tiptoft, Earl of Worcester, crushed some rebels and found a warlock in their company.’ She grasped Kathryn’s hand. ‘Come on, Mistress.’

  They walked back into Wistraet. Kathryn stopped and looked round.

  ‘Where did the Talbots go?’

  ‘Oh,’ Thomasina scoffed. ‘They left by the side door.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘Are you thinking the same as me, Kathryn? She acts the grieving widow a little too perfectly.’ Thomasina’s double chins quivered. ‘I should know. I’ve been one three times.’

  Kathryn glanced at Rawnose. ‘Well, my herald of Canterbury. You may not have a nose, but you have the finest ears in the city! Have you heard any scandal?’

  The beggar man’s face broke into a grin. ‘No, but I will. I know where the Talbots live, their servants are bound to frequent the nearest tavern.’

  Kathryn slipped a coin into the calloused hand. She grasped Rawnose by the shoulder and kissed him on his unshaven, chapped cheek. For once the garrulous Rawnose did not know what to say. He touched his face and looked down at the coin as if wondering which was the more precious.

  ‘Find out,’ Kathryn insisted. She glanced down at Wuf. ‘And then come to our supper party tonight.’

  Little Wuf’s face lit with pleasure. ‘Party, what for?’

  ‘I didn’t tell you,’ Kathryn said. ‘I have obtained my licence to trade as a spicer and an apothecary.’

  She couldn’t say anything else. Thomasina gripped her in a vice-like hug whilst Agnes and Wuf danced round, clapping their hands. Even Rawnose indulged in a strange, shuffling dance before making his farewells.

  ‘To dig for some juicy tidbits!’

  Kathryn and the rest walked back home. Thomasina now diverted everyone’s attention by exclaiming how Agnes would look after the kitchen whilst she would look after the shop. On the corner of Ottemelle Lane they met Helga, the rotund wife of Torquil the carpenter. She was in a great state of agitation, using her apron to wipe the sweat from her face.

  ‘Thank the Lord!’ she exclaimed, grasping Kathryn’s arm. ‘And may all the saints in the kingdom of God bless your way. May they bless you in your sleeping and in your waking.’

  ‘Thank you, Helga.’ Kathryn was used to the religious hysteria of Torquil’s wife. She had not decided whether the woman was out of her wits or really a saint.

  ‘It’s Torquil,’ Helga explained. ‘The Lord is calling him.’

  By now Wuf and Agnes were giggling. Even the garrulous Thomasina was staring, pop-eyed, at Helga’s strange antics.

  ‘He’s dying!’ Helga screeched.

  ‘Nonsense!’ Kathryn replied. ‘He came to me last week with the stomach gripes and the flux in his bowels. I gave him a mixture of angelica and camomile. He was to drink sweet water mixed with honey and a faint trace of wax. He should be in his workshop.’

  ‘Well, come with me!’ Helga exclaimed, grasping Kathryn’s wrist.

  The physician told Thomasina to take Agnes and Wuf back to the house whilst she followed Helga through the narrow alleyways to Torquil’s house in Hawks Lane. The downstairs shop was all shuttered up and, in the garden behind, Helga explained, the apprentices were looking after the children. Kathryn followed the carpenter’s wife up the wooden stairs, speechless at how many crucifixes hung on the walls whilst every niche held a small statue of some patron saint. In the bed chamber above the solar she found Torquil resting against the bolsters, crisp, white, linen sheets tucked up under his chin.

  ‘The Angel of Death is very close!’ Helga solemnly intoned. ‘I can hear the beat of his wings.’ She threw herself down beside the bed. ‘Lord have mercy! Christ have mercy! Lord have mercy! Our Lady, Saint Joseph who was a carpenter . . .’

  Whilst Helga finished her verbal assault on the Heavenly Court, Kathryn pulled back the bed-sheets. She felt Torquil’s skin, hot and dry, and noticed how his cheeks were sucked in, the lips bloodless. She slipped her hand beneath his night-shirt.

 
; ‘He’s burning,’ she exclaimed.

  Torquil’s head moved and his eyelids fluttered. He opened them and looked up at Kathryn.

  ‘Help me please!’ he whispered. ‘Is it the plague?’

  Kathryn forced a smile. ‘Nonsense!’

  ‘I took the medicine,’ Torquil whimpered. ‘Mistress Swinbrooke, I feel worse.’

  Kathryn glared at Helga, whose voice was now rising as she reached Saint Malachai and began her tirade to all the great Celtic saints.

  ‘Helga!’ she snapped. ‘Remember, the good Lord helps those who help themselves. Stand up and come here!’

  The carpenter’s wife obediently trotted round the bed.

  ‘What has Torquil eaten or drunk?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Helga wailed, hands clasped to her ample bosom. ‘Nothing.’ Her eyes became more calculating. ‘Nothing except your medicine, Mistress.’

  Kathryn sat down on the bed, clasping Torquil’s hand, which felt as dry as a withered leaf. ‘If anything,’ she murmured, ‘what I gave him should have brought his slight fever down, not increased it.’

  Kathryn stared round the cosy bed chamber. Small oil-lamps had been lit and placed in chafing dishes. Helga had sprinkled dried herbs over these to make the air sweet; nevertheless, Kathryn caught the stench of sickness.

  ‘Are you well, Helga? You and your children?’

  ‘Oh, yes, never in better health.’

  Kathryn stroked the side of Torquil’s face. ‘I will brew something. A very special potion.’ She recalled her father’s instructions about an herbal remedy used by the great Gaddesdon: a concoction of moss juice mixed with the scrapings of dried milk.

  ‘I don’t think he should take anything else from you,’ Helga snapped. ‘I put my trust in prayer.’

  ‘Then why did you come for me?’ Kathryn asked. ‘Helga, I agree. Torquil is very ill, but I don’t know the source. It can’t be infected meat or drink. It’s not the sweating sickness. Look,’ Kathryn got to her feet. ‘I will come back later this evening and bring some medicines.’