Paul Doherty - The Book of Fires

‘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 …’

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.’