Paul Doherty - The Book of Fires

‘Stay back, Sir John, for God’s sake,’ he exclaimed, ‘there is nothing to be done!’

Athelstan could only stand terror-stricken at this heinous murder of a truly innocent man. The fire was now dying, its victim a twisted, blackened corpse over which the flames ran like deadly caresses, as if seeking any part not yet burnt. Bailiffs and wardsmen arrived. An enterprising merchant brought out a canvas sheet soaked in bitter, pungent vinegar, as well as a tun of sand. Both were used to douse the flames and cover the puddle which had caused it. Athelstan knelt on the ground. He felt his knee scrape something sharp. He moved back, picked up a shard of the broken pot and sniffed at the glistening, odourless oil. He rubbed it between his fingers and felt how thick the substance was. He dropped it, then closed his eyes and intoned the prayers for the dead. A deep revulsion at such a sickening death gave way to a violent rage which cut across the psalms he was murmuring. He paused and in his heart uttered a powerful curse against the assassin, a passionate prayer demanding justice and punishment for this most atrocious sin. The torch-bearer had died in agony, an innocent working man, one of the poorest, earning paltry pennies and for what? To die like this?

‘Come.’ Athelstan crossed himself and rose. He took a deep breath.

‘Lady Anne.’ His hostess, face all pale and juddering in the torchlight, now rested on Turgot’s arm. ‘Mistress, go back home. Sir John and I will find our own way. And be careful, for this truly is a place of deadly sin …’

Athelstan knelt on the prie-dieu before the altar in the small but delicately furnished chapel of Firecrest Manor. The chapel was a perfect jewel, a beautifully decorated chamber of prayer which, like the rest of the house, exuded an air of exquisite opulence. Sir Walter, Athelstan reflected, had amassed a great deal of wealth from war and his other business activities. Athelstan had risen before dawn, shaved and washed before donning his robes and sandals. Afterwards he’d walked the gleaming, oak-panelled galleries of the manor, visited the butteries, kitchens and refectory where servants were already kindling fires, laying out chafing dishes and moving sealed, sweet-smelling braziers to crackle and glow. Tapestries of many hues decorated shiny plaster walls, the oaken staircases were polished to a gleam. Thick Turkey rugs and soft white rope matting covered most of the floors. Cabinets, side cupboards and open aumbries displayed precious gold and silver plates. The manor boasted a long hall with an elaborately carved minstrel gallery; a cavernous hearth, leather-back chairs and a long polished elmwood table with a gorgeous golden nef, a model of a war cog in all its splendour at the centre.

Athelstan crossed himself and sighed. Such wealth and comfort were a stark contrast to the smoky tenements of his own parishioners. The friar stared up at the figure on the crucifix. Despite his surroundings, he could not forget the abomination he had witnessed the previous night. Cranston had solemnly promised the torch-bearer’s family would be given the most generous assistance. Athelstan had celebrated his daily Mass here in this jewel of a chapel, offering it up for the repose of the soul of that poor, hapless man. The friar had prayed, even as he beat his breast, that God would judge and punish such evil. Athelstan rose genuflecting towards the pyx and left the chapel. The manor had now come to life. Servants and maids hurried about. Savoury odours drifted from the kitchen. Outside echoed the sounds of the stableyard. Athelstan stopped a servant and asked her to bring Buckholt to the bottom of the main staircase. The steward arrived, a brown leather apron about him, and explained how he had been surveying stores of powder, resin, saltpetre and other combustible commodities in the manor’s great warehouse.

‘Will the loss of “The Book of Fires” injure your trade?’ Athelstan asked, grasping the newel post.

‘No.’ Buckholt shook his head. ‘The different powders and their strengths are fairly well known in the trade be it here or across the Narrow Seas. Our most serious rivals are the merchants of the Hanse. “The Book of Fires”,’ he lowered his voice, ‘lists, describes and analyses the different types of fire as well as how it can be strengthened, varied, safely transported and stored. Sir Walter had a phrase for it: “Everything in nature expresses itself in a hierarchy.” Greek fire, the real Greek fire, truly is the Emperor of Flames, a fire which seems to feed on itself and, in some cases, is totally impervious to water.’ He paused. ‘I heard what happened last night. The attack on you and Lady Anne. From what Sir John has said,’ he indicated with his head, ‘he is in the buttery breaking his fast. Believe me, our Lord Coroner is very fortunate to be doing that.’

‘You mean the fire that was thrown at us last night was the finest and the most deadly?’

‘Yes, Brother. Only a small bowl was tossed but, as Sir John describes, it is like the heaviest glue and clings to its victim as close as his own skin.’ Buckholt peered at Athelstan. ‘But why? Why should the Ignifer attack you?’

‘Why indeed?’ Athelstan stared past the steward at a tapestry hanging on the wall depicting St George in combat with a fire-breathing dragon. The previous night’s attack truly puzzled him. The murder of the torch-bearer was a dire act, but what had been the real object of the assault? Himself and Sir John? Or Lady Anne? Bearing in mind what she had told him about her quarrel with Isolda in Newgate, it was probably her. The meeting called last night at her house must have been known and attracted the Ignifer, whoever that was. Perhaps the assassin just waited and watched, seizing any opportunity.

‘Brother?’

Athelstan shook his head. ‘I am sorry. I was just thinking.’

‘Brother, I took the liberty of bringing someone you may wish to talk to.’ Buckholt walked away and returned with Mortice, a fussy little man, the clerk of the buttery who had noticed Sir Walter’s goblet had been exchanged. He simply repeated what Athelstan had already learnt and waddled away to resume, as he put it, ‘A whole list of very important duties.’

‘Very well.’ Athelstan tapped Buckholt on the shoulder. ‘I want to repeat what happened on the night Lady Isolda took the posset into her husband, yes?’

Buckholt pulled a face but agreed. He climbed the staircase and turned right into the gallery. Athelstan followed him up to the top.

Buckholt indicated where he had met Lady Isolda. ‘She took the goblet from me; I went downstairs and she came in here.’ He led Athelstan into a spacious, elaborately furnished bedchamber with a wide window in an enclosure above a cushioned seat. There were chests and coffers, tables, chairs and stools. A great four-poster bed shrouded in deep blue damask curtains dominated the room. At its foot, Athelstan glimpsed a richly polished cedarwood coffer, its lid thrown back. Buckholt confirmed it once contained ‘The Book of Fires’. Athelstan scrutinized it and went across to the garderobe built into the corner of the wall. He opened the door, its exter-ior covered in stiffened, painted leather. The chamber inside was quite spacious. The hole in the lid of the jakes box was large enough to easily drop a goblet – it would have fallen down the chute sinking deep into the messy underground cesspit below.

Athelstan took Buckholt to the top of the stairs and asked him to go down and stay as long as he remembered being distracted by Vanner. The steward agreed. Once he’d left, Athelstan strode back to Sir Walter’s bedchamber. He carefully rehearsed what he’d been told about Isolda. He pretended to take a goblet from his gown; half fill it, sprinkle in powder and pour in some of the posset then feed this to his make-believe victim. Once satisfied, Athelstan hurried across to the garderobe, sustaining the pretence of throwing down the goblet before returning to sit on the edge of the bed, sharing the goblet he’d left as Lady Isolda must have done. Athelstan concluded he had more than enough time to do all this before Buckholt returned. However, one fact puzzled him: he certainly did not have enough time, according to his reckoning, to persuade her husband to hand over the key around his neck, open the casket, take out ‘The Book of Fires’, hide it on her person and return to the bed.