Paul Doherty - The Book of Fires

‘And “The Book of Fires” by Mark the Greek?’ Athelstan stared across at Lady Anne, now lost in her own sad thoughts.

‘“The Book of Fires,”’ Sir Henry’s voice fell to a whisper, ‘is a great secret. They say it is passed on from one Emperor of Constantinople to another …’

‘I know its history,’ Athelstan interjected, ‘as I know your brother owned a copy. It’s now gone, so where was it kept?’

‘In a bound leather casket in his bedchamber, the key always around his neck, or so we were led to believe.’ Sir Henry rubbed his face. ‘On the morning Walter was found dead, the key was still there and the casket locked. However, when I opened it, the book was gone. Who stole it, how and when?’ Sir Henry shook his head. ‘No one knows.’

‘What did it look like?’

‘I saw it many years ago, just after my brother returned from Outremer. Small yet thick, tightly bound in an embossed calf-skin cover. Only my brother knew its contents.’

Athelstan stared around the chamber. This is a desert of emotions, he thought. Lady Isolda is gone and everyone seems to want to bury her memory deep. It was understandable: Sir Henry and his wife were prosperous merchants. Falke had lost his case and could do nothing. Buckholt had been vindicated. Parson Garman and Lady Anne had performed their duties as diligently as they could. Rosamund seemed lost in her own world. Nevertheless, Isolda’s execution had left a devastating legacy.

‘The Ignifer!’ Athelstan exclaimed. ‘The assassin who has murdered three people and who could kill and kill again.’

The assembled guests moved in their seats, hands going out to their goblets or the sweetmeats, anything to distract their nervousness.

‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan,’ Falke declared, ‘we sit here and talk about Lady Isolda but Reginald Vanner should be your real quarry.’ The lawyer, face all determined, leaned forward, ticking the points off on his fingers. ‘Firstly, Vanner could have been involved in Sir Walter’s murder. Secondly, Vanner was Sir Walter’s clerk. He had access to “The Book of Fires”. Thirdly, he must know something about Greek fire. Fourthly, he has disappeared. Fifthly, he has a motive. He is now a proclaimed outlaw, a wolfshead to be killed on sight. Consequently he has nothing to lose in waging war against those who were responsible for the death of a woman who might have been his lover.’

‘I would agree,’ Sir Henry murmured. ‘Vanner could be the Ignifer.’

‘Sir Henry,’ Athelstan asked, ‘how easy is it to make Greek fire?’

‘Not too difficult,’ Sir Henry declared. ‘There are different types, ranging from,’ he spread his hands, ‘simple kitchen oil to a substance which is quite unique. “The Book of Fires”, I suppose, would describe all these categories and list the correct proportions and right elements for each.’

‘Sir John,’ Lady Anne spoke up, ‘Jack, my friend, I am tired. Surely you have finished here?’

Cranston looked at Athelstan and nodded.

‘In which case, Sir Henry,’ the coroner stretched, ‘I would ask you a great favour: lodgings for Brother Athelstan and me at Firecrest Manor. At the moment St Erconwald’s is rather busy.’

‘I heard,’ Lady Anne exclaimed. ‘Some story about a miracle? I must visit your parish.’

‘The Bishop of London’s people are there,’ Athelstan answered, staring down at the tabletop. Cranston’s request had taken him by surprise, though he swiftly conceded the wisdom of it. Tuddenham and the parish council would keep the miracle-seekers at bay, whilst a visit to Firecrest Manor might prove useful.

‘As for myself, of course,’ Cranston pushed back his chair, ‘at the moment I am living like a bachelor, so fresh lodgings …’

‘Of course,’ Sir Henry declared, getting to his feet. ‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan, we shall be pleased to escort you there.’

‘I will do that,’ Lady Anne intervened, grasping Cranston’s arm. ‘I need to have a few words with my old friend Jack and discover more about the miracle at St Erconwald’s.’

The meeting broke up. Sir Henry assured Cranston and Athelstan that two comfortable chambers would be ready and both of them would be his honoured guests. Chaplain Garman wandered over to invite Athelstan into his chapel at Newgate. Rosamund Clifford sat lost in her own thoughts until Lady Rohesia called her away. Cranston became deep in conversation with Lady Anne, so Athelstan crossed to study the paintings hanging on the walls above the linen panelling. He found them fascinating. The paintings, from the new schools in northern Italy, were held in gold-scrolled frames and glowed brilliantly both in colour and depiction. Athelstan noticed how Lady Anne had a special devotion to her holy namesake St Anne, mother of the Virgin Mary. At least four of the paintings celebrated this holy relationship, with others describing events from the Virgin Mary’s youth. Now and again the artist had scrolled the tribute in the corner of the painting, ‘ Sicut mater, sicut filia ’ – ‘As the mother, so the daughter.’

‘My patron saint.’

Athelstan turned. Lady Anne stood smiling at him, behind her the ever faithful Turgot.

‘I think Sir John wishes to go,’ she added.

Cloaks were collected and, with a hired torch-bearer going ahead of them, Lady Anne led Cranston and Athelstan out into the cold, bleak street. All trading was now done. The call of the bellman could be clearly heard. Lanthorns glowed from the doorposts of the houses casting pools of light around which the shadows danced. Rats squeaked – black darting shapes followed by the blurred outline of hunting cats. Dogs howled up at the full winter moon. Here and there from some cranny or corner a beggar, licensed to plead in that part of the city, shook his clacking bowl for alms. Cranston drew his sword as Lady Anne led them briskly on.

‘Don’t worry,’ she called over her shoulder, ‘Turgot will be our guard.’ Athelstan turned and glimpsed a cowled figure with a drawn blade of a sword glinting like a flame of warning. A soothsayer shuffled out of the dark, asking if they wished their fortune described, only to scuttle away as Cranston bawled at him to ‘Go back to the Halls of Hell!’ Once they had cleared the street Lady Anne stopped. Further back their escort also paused whilst Lady Anne shooed the torch-bearer out of earshot. She beckoned Athelstan and Cranston closer and pulled down her muffler. ‘I did not wish to appear vindictive, harsh of tongue or hard of heart, but Lady Isolda was a veritable virago, beautiful with blonde hair and lustrous blue eyes. She was a most attractive lady: in her soul, however, she was selfish, spoilt and arrogant.’

‘And capable of murder?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Yes,’ Lady Anne nodded, ‘yes, Isolda was capable of murder. I believe she killed her husband for no other reason than she had grown tired of him. She would have used Vanner for her own evil, selfish purposes.’ Lady Anne crossed herself. ‘She would have escaped justice if not for that sharp-eyed buttery clerk Buckholt’s suspicions and Sutler’s logic and persistence. Lady Isolda was a murderess and one who could – and did – dupe the likes of Falke, Garman and Sir Henry.’

‘Why do you tell us this now?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Because it is the truth and because I believe Vanner was just as wicked. He may well be the Ignifer – but come, Sir Henry will be waiting.’

They entered an area well known to Athelstan as it lay close to his mother house at Blackfriars. Athelstan, lost in his own thoughts about what he had seen and heard, was faintly aware of the noises of the night. He heard a sound and glanced up. A cloaked figure had stepped out of an alleyway. At first, Athelstan thought he was dreaming. The figure seemed to swoop towards them then hurled something which smashed at the feet of the torch-bearer. For a few breaths nothing happened until the flame of the lowered torch dipped towards the liquid lapping around its holder’s boots and the ground erupted, a fierce fire which sped up the torch-bearer’s body, leaping to devour him. The torch-bearer, screaming in agony, fell to his knees, which only made matters worse. The raging fire also screened their attacker, who disappeared as Cranston took off his cloak and tried to beat out the flames. Athelstan hastened to help. Lady Anne raised the hue and cry with screams of ‘Harrow! Harrow!’ Doors and shutters flew open. People in their nightshirts hurried out. The silence of the night was brutally shattered with screams and shouts. People bustled out then crept back at the horror blazing in their street. Turgot came running up waving his hands at his mistress to keep away. Cranston was trying to beat the flames but the fiery pool of liquid was trickling closer. Athelstan leapt forward and dragged the coroner away.