Pat McIntosh - The King's Corrodian

‘No,’ said Gil. Brother Dickon glanced sharply at him, and returned to staring over the Prior’s shoulder.

‘No? What d’ye mean?’ asked Boyd.

‘It wasny the smoke that slew him,’ said Gil deliberately. He bent over the dreadful object, touching with care. ‘See, his skin’s blackened by the smoke, but there’s no sign it entered his mouth. He wasny breathing by the time the fire took hold.’

‘Not breathing?’ repeated his kinsman. ‘Why? He was well enough when I saw him after I spoke wi you, Gilbert. He wasny taken sick that fast.’

‘No,’ Gil agreed. ‘Here’s what killed him, sir.’ The corpse was rigid, presumably from the effects of the fire, but if one looked from the side, as Gil had done when they lifted the bedstead over the broken wall, it was clear enough. ‘Someone’s taen a knife to his throat, and slit it wide open, like killing a pig. I suspect we ken why Brother Augustine’s knife is missing.’

‘A library, mem?’ said Jennet warily. ‘All full o books and that?’

‘Yes, indeed,’ said Alys, and thought longingly of the library she had known in Paris, with Mère Isabelle peering at her latest acquisition for the convent and demonstrating its delights to her pupil. A complete copy , she would say with satisfaction. The entire work .

‘But is it safe?’ Jennet persisted. ‘They study a’ kind o things, don’t they no? Witchcraft and heresy and the like. And ackelmy, and the stars.’

‘Alchemy,’ Alys corrected. ‘They study such things, true, but in order to prove they are wrong. The books can do no harm — they can hardly leap off the shelves and attack you.’

‘Aye, for they’re chained,’ said Jennet.

‘You may stay by the door,’ Alys said, but was not surprised when her maidservant followed her into the library, sidling after her with an apprehensive gaze for the shelves.

It was not a large chamber, but it contained three big cases of books. There must be — she reckoned quickly — near 200 volumes, far more than Bishop Brown had said. A great collection. A row of reading-desks stood by the windows, with a big, broad-shouldered Dominican just raising his head to stare at her in surprise; beyond him was another man, getting to his feet from a writing-desk like Gil’s, shock and indignation written all across his narrow face.

‘You canny come in here!’ he hissed. ‘Shoo! This is no place for women! Go away, go away, shoo!’ He flapped his hands at them ineffectually. The man at the reading-desk bent his head to his book, clearly not wishing to be involved.

Alys curtsied, aware of Jennet bobbing behind her.

‘I should like to consult some of the books, Father,’ she said respectfully.

‘Consult? Women canny consult books — they canny read! It’s naught for you! And if it’s your fortune you want,’ he added suspiciously, ‘you can go elsewhere. I’m no having sic practices in my library.’

Alys met his eye, smiling reassuringly. He was a thin awkward man, with heavy dark eyebrows which twitched in agitation; his hands were trembling. He is afraid of us, she thought with incredulity.

‘Mère Isabelle deplored such practices too,’ she agreed. ‘How can paper and print know what God has in store for us? I’ll do your books no harm, sir, I’ll treat them wi care. See, my hands are clean.’

‘Go away!’ he said, ignoring her words. ‘Women canny consult books! They’re all in Latin, they’re no use to you.’

‘Mère Isabelle?’ said the other Dominican. He closed his book, marking his place with a tattered crow’s feather, and looked more closely at Alys. ‘In Paris? Do you speak of Isabelle de Marivaux? Is she still alive?’

‘Indeed, sir,’ said Alys, and curtsied again. ‘I had a letter from her quite lately, written before Yule. I was her pupil for two years.’

‘When you reply, gie her Henry White’s greetings,’ he said, and she bowed her head in assent. ‘Alexander, we could let the lady consult as she wishes. If Mother Isabelle de Marivaux taught her, she’s fit to enter the library.’

‘No — no, I’ll no have it-’ The librarian wrung his hands, almost dancing in despair. ‘It’s no right, it’s irregular. The rules canny permit it, I canny allow it!’

‘Away and ask Father Prior,’ suggested his colleague. ‘I’ll mind your books while you’re gone.’

‘And leave you — and leave you — ’ Brother Alexander looked from White to Alys and back.

‘She has her woman wi her,’ White pointed out. ‘Away and speak wi Father Prior.’

The librarian crossed himself, then darted past Jennet and out of the door, which thudded heavily behind him. Jennet sighed in relief, and let go of her beads.

‘Now,’ said White as the echoes died. He was older than Alys had at first thought, though his hair was still thick and dark round the tonsure; he had a penetrating stare, now bent on her. ‘What did you wish to consult, daughter?’

‘Albert the Great,’ she said promptly. White’s eyebrows rose.

‘Indeed? His works are here. Which volume would you want, d’you suppose?’

‘His writings on alchemy.’

White considered her carefully. ‘Now, why would you want those?’ he said after a moment. ‘He never found how to make gold, you ken that.’

‘I do,’ she said. ‘But I wish to learn more o the subject, and I knew you’d have his writings here, seeing he’s-’

‘One o ours,’ he agreed. ‘He’s here. But I’ll ask again: why would you want to read his alchemy?’

‘I hope to learn more of his method,’ Alys said, with what she hoped was an earnest smile. ‘He was very clear on method.’

‘Hmm,’ said White. ‘Method you’ll find, but no summoning o spirits or the like.’

‘ A daemonibus doctuture ,’ she quoted, and continued in the Latin, ‘ It is taught by demons, it teaches about demons and it leads to demons . He was very clear about that too.’

White frowned slightly, and after a moment turned to the furthest shelf. Scanning it briefly, he located a row of six disparate volumes carefully marked A MAGN on their fore-edges, drew out one and leafed through it.

‘His Compositum de Compositis ,’ he said, handing her the volume. ‘It’s a beginning. You read Latin as well as quoting it, a course?’

‘A course.’ She carried the book to the nearest reading-desk, handling it lovingly. He watched with approval as she checked the spine and front of the binding, then opened the heavy boards and inspected the first leaf and the last where the list of the contents had been inscribed, keeping the place he had found for her with one hand.

‘Does any here make a special study of alchemy?’ she asked casually. He paused, on his way back to his own desk.

‘No,’ he said. ‘That’s no an interest o this house. A comparison of Brother Albert,’ he nodded at the volume before her, ‘and Brother Thomas on the Epistles of Paul, a new commentary on the Sentences, a wider study o witchcraft, but no alchemy.’

‘Using one shining light of the Church to illumine another. Which is your own interest, sir?’ she asked. Always a good way to engage a scholar, Mère Isabelle had said.

‘The witchcraft is mine.’

‘What do you find?’ she pursued, trying to ignore Jennet crossing herself at the words.

‘I find,’ he said, watching her face, ‘I find that there’s no sic thing. It’s no a popular stance, I’ll admit, but I’ve concluded that the curses, the spells, the summoning o their Black Master, are all illusions.’

‘But-?’ she prompted, answering his intonation rather than any word.

‘But those who practise such things are generally far gone in heresy and wickedness.’