by Paul Doherty
‘Oh, there were hints but nothing serious. Questions were raised about Sir Walter’s stomach ailments. Of course, that’s a dangerous path to go down, isn’t it, Brother? Sutler could not prove Sir Walter’s belly sickness was caused by poison, whilst the intimate relationship between husband and wife is very difficult to judge. Sutler was very careful as Falke argued how there was great tenderness, friendship and cordiality between Sir Walter and his wife. Sutler replied there was no real proof for that. He let the facts speak for themselves. Lady Isolda had a great deal to gain by becoming a very rich widow, whilst the balance of proof that she murdered her husband indicates a deep malevolence, at least on her part, towards Sir Walter. If Vanner was seized and questioned, perhaps he could have helped Isolda’s case. But let’s say he has fled, Brother, and is deep in hiding; surely a trained clerk such as he would have done something to help his former lover – a letter to the justices or the sheriff?’
‘And “The Book of Fires”, Sir John?’
‘Cannot be found, and Gaunt wants us to find it. I can understand why. Greek fire is highly dangerous – even when thrown on water it will still ignite. Dominus Matthew at Westminster cites authorities such as Leo the Isaurian on its power. Now the classic use of Greek fire is to hurl small pots against an enemy followed by a flame. Swift and sudden destruction ensues. Sometimes Greek fire can be shot from long tubes like a stone from a cannon. Water only makes it worse. They recommend the use of sand, vinegar or human urine to extinguish it. Now,’ Cranston sipped from his goblet, ‘Isolda Beaumont died in the flames at Smithfield. About three weeks later, on the Feast of Saints Perpetua and Felicitas, Richard Sutler was making his way down to his chambers at Westminster. Halfway along an alleyway, according to not the best of witnesses, he was attacked. A pot of liquid was thrown over him, followed by a candle flame. He was soaked and the fire seemed to shoot up from the very ground. He was turned into a living firebrand. All that was left was a blackened, twisted monstrosity. Later the same morning, Justice Tressilian was easing himself in a cubiculum in the latrines of a tavern close to Westminster Hall. Perched on the close stool, his hose about his ankles, he too was attacked. Fire-bearing liquid was poured under the door, soaking his boots and hose. A candle flame was thrown in. Tressilian did what we would all do. He leapt to his feet, beating at the flames and, of course, soaking himself even further in that dangerous liquid. He was burnt to death. This morning, I was supposed to meet Justice Gavelkind in Parsnip Lane. The justice left his house. A cowled figure swiftly approached. What looked like the contents of a small pot were thrown over the justice, a flame was hurled and, within a few heartbeats, Gavelkind became a tongue of fire.’
‘And his assailant?’
‘Shielded by the inferno he created, he fled whilst Gavelkind was reduced to blackened flesh.’
‘So Gaunt has turned to you?’
‘And to you, Brother, I am afraid.’
‘It would seem,’ Athelstan declared, ‘as if someone, perhaps Vanner the fugitive, is punishing by fire all those who destroyed Lady Isolda in a similar way. Acts of cold, horrid revenge. I would also suggest they are using information which might originate from that rare manuscript, Mark the Greek’s “The Book of Fires”. Sir John, from what you know, how difficult would it be to collect all the elements for this fire?’
‘Oh, very easy, Brother. Greek fire, or something similar to it, has been used for centuries. I could go out tomorrow and buy sulphur, pitch, resin, bitumen, saltpetre and quicklime. The secret probably lies in the actual composition. What are the best quantities to use, perhaps there is one element that is special? Once the liquid is ready, very similar to a potion mixed by a physician or apothecary, it’s poured into a small capped pot and can be carried in a sack, bag or satchel. The pot is dropped, mix it with flame and you have a raging inferno difficult to control or extinguish.’
‘So, Sir John, when and where do we begin?’
‘Soon,’ the coroner smiled enigmatically, ‘and we will begin here, Brother. But let’s leave that for a while. Whilst hurrying about the city I received your stark message about a miracle at St Erconwald’s. What’s happened? Is Pike now a devoted man of prayer? Has Watkin vowed never to touch ale?’
‘Seriously, Sir John, listen now.’ And the friar described in short, pithy sentences all the details of the Great Miracle. Once he’d finished, Cranston whistled under his breath.
‘I heard the rumours, Brother. Muckworm and Tiptoft met me in Cheapside. They are this city’s best source for all news and scandal. They were full of it. Do you believe it, Brother?’ Cranston gestured at the tavern door. ‘This city swarms with cranks, conjurors, counterfeit men, the whole canting crew of priggers, prancers and poncers. Certain magicians in Whitefriars are masters of the art of changing and transformation. They could turn both of us into lepers to confuse and confound the most skilled physician. However,’ Cranston paused, ‘it’s another matter to hide gruesome wounds, burns which have stripped the skin and marbled the flesh.’ The coroner blew his cheeks out. ‘I would say it’s nigh impossible.’
‘Fulchard of Richmond appears to be genuine, Sir John. I recognize him as the same man I met when the vigil commenced. I have inspected his warrants, letters and licences. I have talked to those around him in the nave. I have established that he did not leave the church during the night.’
‘And now, little friar?’
‘In such cases the Bishop’s curia takes over. Master Tuddenham, the Archdeacon’s court together with a cohort of scribes, clerks and even physician Philippe have assembled in my house. I issued strict instructions to the parish council. Tuddenham and his retinue will stay in St Erconwald’s until the day after tomorrow. The Piebald is packed to overflowing, especially as Master Fulchard is staying there. So, Sir John, I will be looking for fresh lodgings tonight.’
Cranston sat smiling to himself.
‘Sir John?’
‘I think I might be able to help.’ Cranston paused as the tavern door opened and a youngish man, slim and well proportioned, approached the window seat, pulling back his hood to reveal a rubicund, cheerful face under thinning sandy hair. Athelstan noticed how the well-spaced eyes were expressive even as his lips moved soundlessly. He shook Cranston’s outstretched hand and turned smilingly to clasp Athelstan’s. He then stepped back, indicating with signs that they follow him.
‘Good evening, Master Turgot. Brother Athelstan, may I introduce Lady Anne Lesures’ faithful henchman, who since birth has been a mute but has probably uttered more wisdom than a host of well-tongued scholars. We are to follow him. Lady Anne and the rest have assembled, so it’s time to settle our bill and be gone …’
PART TWO
‘If you smear it then let it dry, it burns as soon as a spark falls on it and cannot be doused.’
Mark the Greek’s ‘The Book of Fires’
On the south side of the Thames, though well beyond London Bridge, stretched a wasteland, marshy and treacherous. Even in the full light of day this moorland of coarse grass, wild straggling bushes and twisted, stunted trees did not lose its air of dank threatening menace. A haunt of ghosts, the dwelling place of earthbound malevolent spirits, or so the local peasants gossiped. Its sense of dread was deepened by those who prowled the heathland: smugglers, outlaws, river pirates, as well as the warlocks and wizards who sheltered in the grass-filled dells to perform their own macabre rites. Successive sheriffs had vainly tried to exorcize the evil aura of such a place by sweeping it with mounted archers and erecting soaring gallows against the sky, four-branched scaffolds, each decorated by a rotting corpse, all to no avail. One outlaw gang led by a defrocked priest who rejoiced in the name of Friar Foxtail now ruled the heathland, though only with the permission of the Upright Men, whose Earthworms also patrolled that sombre place. On that particular evening, long after the bells had marked the last verses of the ‘Salve Regina’, the curfew being tolled and beacon-fires lit in steeples, Friar Foxtail had been given strict
instructions about what to do. He was to clear the heath of all trespassers and build a fire close to the Devil’s Stump, a massive, ancient oak split by lightning during a fearsome storm. He was to leave, close to the fire, a freshly skinned coney basted with oil and herbs, as well as a wineskin and a few drinking cups. On no account, Friar Foxtail was warned, should he or anyone else approach the solitary stranger who entered the wasteland. This stranger would come hooded, masked and carrying a lanthorn. Friar Foxtail accepted that he had no choice in the matter; instead, he and his coven had decided to leave the heathland and plunder newly built warehouses further along the riverside. As the Upright Men had predicted, the stranger appeared, drawn on by the flare of the campfire. At one point he paused, crouched and only rose at three piercing whistle calls from the Upright Men grouped around the fire. Eventually he walked forward. The Upright Men, faces hidden behind masks carved in the form of different birds, just sat staring at the stranger who squatted down opposite.
‘Welcome.’ The Raven, Captain of the Upright Men, leaned forward. ‘Welcome, Brother. You have heard the news from the city? Well,’ he laughed throatily, ‘of course you have. The assassin, now called the “Ignifer”, the Fire Bringer, has appeared. Three royal officials burnt to death. Whatever the killer’s reason we welcome such slaughter. Sutler has seen to the hanging of some of our comrades, whilst the justices relish their harsh and cruel sentences against the Sons of the Soil.’ He paused. ‘Eat, drink! Please do. You are our honoured guest.’ Another Upright Man scurried forward, knife flashing in the firelight. He cut strips from the coney and put these on an earthenware platter along with a deep bowled cup of rich red wine. The stranger ate swiftly, as did the Upright Men. Once they were finished, the Raven, wiping his fingers on his jerkin, leaned forward again.
‘Please accept our condolences on your sad loss.’ His guest nodded. ‘You received,’ the Raven continued, ‘the same information we did?’
‘Yes. Where did you get it?’ the stranger asked. ‘That was always regarded as a great secret.’
‘It still is.’ The Raven laughed. ‘But not to us. More importantly, did you understand it?’
‘Yes.’
‘And did you make it?’
‘I have brought some. I will show you.’ The stranger rose. ‘You must come with me,’ he insisted. ‘Stand well away from the fire and bring everything you have.’ The Upright Men obeyed. Rising to their feet, they followed the stranger into the dark. He leaned down and picked up an earthenware pot where he had left it on his approach. The pot was no bigger than the palm of his hand. The stranger unstoppered the lid then, like a child playing skittles, weighed the pot in his hand as if it was a ball, gauging the distance between himself and the now dying fire. The Earthworms watched intently. Satisfied, the stranger hurled the pot. It shattered against the smouldering embers and the campfire surged up with a roar as fierce as any furnace. The Upright Men clapped their hands exclaiming in surprise.
‘We have our fire!’ the Raven exclaimed. ‘Fire from heaven or, as Gaunt will experience, fire from Hell …’
oOoOo
Cranston and Athelstan, huddled in their cloaks, followed Turgot, his face and head hidden by a deep capuchin, out of the Holy Lamb and along Cheapside turning into Poultry, the richest trading area of the city. Its name was ancient but its purpose had changed. No longer were ducks and capons up for sale; Poultry had become the heart of London’s wealth. The day’s trading was finished. Merchants were now clearing stalls and boarding up shop fronts. Bailiffs and hired mercenaries, drawn blades glittering in the dancing torchlight, patrolled the streets vigilant for any felon lurking in the shadows. Such a close guard was necessary. The goods being stored away were costly cloths from Douai, Bruges, Ypres and elsewhere. There were silks from Lucca, linen and flax from Flanders and wool from the Midlands. Even in the fading light the red, vermilion, rose and scarlet cloths shimmered invitingly. The air was rich with the smell of pepper, saffron and salt, sugar from Syria and the purest wax from Morocco. Barrels of cinnamon were being sealed, a precious spice imported from beyond Outremer, whilst the fragrance of cassia reminded Athelstan how the trees which carried it were allegedly guarded by ferocious winged animals. The friar could only marvel at the wealth being taken out, heaped and checked before being moved to the great arca, or strong boxes, deep in the cellars of the palatial houses either side of Poultry. These were gilded mansions boasting highly decorated and embossed gables, gleaming plaster and, in many cases, windows of the purest glass. Athelstan glimpsed a pile of rubies, lapis lazuli, diamonds, pearls and ivory rings all gathered in the dish of a set of scales guarded by two mercenaries with weapons bristling. Cranston and Athelstan were inspected but never troubled. They turned into Old Jewry, dominated by the dark mass of St Olave’s Church. The houses here were truly magnificent, four storeys high and divided from each other by an alley either side. Turgot stopped at a door and knocked. A servant opened it, introduced himself as Picquart the steward and beckoned them into a stone-paved entrance hall.
The house was comfortably warm. Candles glowed in spigots fastened above linen panelling, whilst soft rope-matting washed in herbs and spices covered the floor. On the left, a half-open door revealed a rich furnished chamber, an arras hanging on the wall and finely polished oak furniture, tables, chairs, chests and cushioned stools. They passed a great open kitchen where servants scurried about. A yawning hearth built into the wall dividing it from the hall gave off gusts of sweet warmth. Picquart led them into the solar, where others were waiting seated around an oval table which glittered in the light of a myriad candles placed along the rims of three lowered Catherine wheels. The hall was furnished with gleaming dark oak panelling but the lights, the candelabra and the flames from the roaring fire in the bell-like hearth made it a place of merry cheer and relaxing comfort. A woman rose from the top of the table and walked gracefully towards them. She was dressed like a Cistercian nun in a light-grey gown and veil: her patrician face, framed by a starched white wimple, emphasized the authority of her commanding dark eyes, and her nose was sharp above a firm mouth and chin. Athelstan reckoned she was a woman past her fortieth summer.
‘Good evening,’ she murmured. ‘Welcome to my house. I am Lady Anne Lesures.’ She smiled at Athelstan and winked quickly at Cranston. She then clasped the friar’s hand and bowed her head for his blessing. Athelstan delivered this and was almost knocked aside by Sir John as he scooped Lady Anne up in his arms, half raising her to kiss her lips and forehead before lowering her gently down.
‘Oh, if I was a bachelor!’ Cranston breathed. ‘Lady Anne, it is so good to see you. Come.’ They exchanged the full kiss of peace followed by Cranston’s spate of questions which Lady Anne, her face beaming with pleasure, said she would answer some other time as they had to meet the others. She led the coroner and friar around the table. Each of her guests rose, scraping back their chairs to clasp hands and receive Athelstan’s hasty blessing. The first was Sir Henry Beaumont, the late Sir Walter’s brother: he was fat-faced and rather corpulent, his thinning hair combed forward to cover a balding pate. Sir Henry was dressed in a costly blood-red jerkin with hose to match; his cambric shirt was snow-white, the collar open. Athelstan glimpsed the precious bejewelled crucifix on its silver chain. Sir Henry struck the friar as most eager to please, highly nervous and rather apprehensive. Rohesia, Sir Henry’s wife, was pretty in a severe sort of way: auburn haired, eyes constantly narrowed, head slightly tilted back, lower lip jutting out as if judging all who came under her scrutiny. She was dressed rather soberly in a brown veil and an old-fashioned gown of the same hue with white bands at the cuff and neck. Edward Garman, prison chaplain of Newgate, was of medium stature; bald, his clean-shaven, oval face burnt a deep brown by the sun of Outremer. He was light and swift in movement; his large eyes looked troubled, his fleshy lower lip slightly quivering as if he was preparing to protest. Garman was dressed simply in a mud-coloured robe, stout sandals on his feet, a set of small A
ve beads circling his left wrist, a white-rolled cincture around his waist. Nicholas Falke the lawyer was blond-haired and earnest-faced; his small eyes screwed up against the light, a snub nose above rather pretty, womanish lips which constantly twitched. Falke was dressed in a dark-blue jerkin and hose, the high stiffened collar of his undershirt jutting up just under his chin. Buckholt, Sir Walter’s steward, looked what he was: the stolid, stout, reliable house retainer who let nothing pass him by. He was square-faced with a strong mouth and jaw of a stubborn man, an impression heightened by deep-set, guarded eyes. He dressed demurely in a long old-fashioned houppelande which fell beneath the knees of his dark woollen hose. Rosamund Clifford, now apparently Lady Rohesia’s personal maid, was garbed in a Lincoln-green gown, her dark hair hidden by a tightly clamped veil. She was petite and pretty with ever-darting eyes and puckered lips. Athelstan could not decide whether she was fey-witted or just acting the part.
Once the introductions were finished, chilled white wine and small bowls of marzipan were served to each guest. Cranston sat at the head of the table with Lady Anne on his right and Athelstan on his left. The friar immediately laid out his writing implements as the coroner, who had eaten all his sweetmeats, now turned on the friar’s. Athelstan leaned closer and whispered on the whereabouts of the miraculous wineskin.
‘Left it at the Guildhall,’ Cranston murmured, ‘silly fool, but I know my precious is waiting for me there.’
‘Sir John,’ Falke intoned as if ready to plead, ‘we have come, we have waited and we still wait.’
