Paul Doherty - The Book of Fires

‘Master Falke,’ Cranston retorted, ‘Sir Walter was not fit for turbulent bed sport.’

‘No, he wasn’t. He just wanted to entice that young lady into his bedchamber to administer to him slowly with her hands and mouth.’

‘And did she?’ Athelstan snapped. ‘For heaven’s sake man, make your point!’

‘The fair Isolda was a foundling raised by the Minoresses, but so was Rosamund. The venerable Lady Anne introduced her to this household as Lady Isolda’s maid.’

‘And?’

‘According to household gossip and rumour, Buckholt himself was very sweet on Rosamund. Some people claimed she may have been his daughter. Others maintained he wanted to be betrothed to her.’

‘Proof,’ Athelstan insisted. ‘You are a lawyer, Master Falke. You deal with evidence, not scandalous gossip.’

‘Well, he visited the Minoresses when Sir Walter was courting Lady Isolda, and Buckholt never missed the opportunity to accompany him.’

‘So,’ Cranston poked Falke in the chest, ‘you are insinuating that our noble steward Buckholt nursed deep grievances against Sir Walter? Amongst these, Buckholt’s support for the Upright Men and his tender feelings for Rosamund Clifford? If the latter was true, I agree, he would not have been happy at Rosamund’s rather strange duties in the Beaumont bedroom. Are you implying that Buckholt was the murderer, desperate to cast his guilt on Lady Isolda?’

‘It is possible.’

‘But if Lady Isolda knew about her husband’s lust for her maid, surely she objected?’

‘She did. Sir Walter dismissed her protests. He claimed Rosamund was given to fey fancies.’

‘Why,’ Athelstan asked, ‘was this not argued at the trial?’ He forced a smile. ‘Of course, gossip and tittle-tattle are not evidence, are they, Master Falke? You can gossip away to us in the buttery but repeat this in a court? Moreover, I am sure that Richard Sutler, a veritable lurcher of a man, would have twisted such tittle-tattle back on Lady Isolda, accuse her of lying, of fabricating – but,’ he plucked at Cranston’s sleeve, ‘we shall bear in mind what you have said, Master Falke, now our stay here is done. Sir John and I have other matters to attend to …’

The ‘other matters’ Athelstan referred to preoccupied him long after the compline bell had tolled. He sat in the well-scrubbed kitchen of his little priest house and stared down at the elegantly written memorandum drawn up by Master Tuddenham. The Bishop’s envoy had been most thorough. He had questioned Fulchard and Richmond, his companion Fitzosbert and all relevant witnesses. He had summoned others he needed to question, whilst one of his clerks, skilled in detecting forged seals and letters, had scrutinized all the documents Fulchard carried with him. Tuddenham had carefully sifted the evidence and reached stark conclusions.

Item: Fulchard the cripple and Fulchard the healed man are one and the same person. Philippe the physician journeyed across the Thames in order to inspect the patient. He recognized the same man, albeit cured, who had visited the House of Mercy at St Bartholomew’s Hospital only a few days earlier. Philippe had noted the same height, looks, hair, eyes and distinguishing marks. The physician had added two codicils. Firstly, the man he had originally inspected was not only grievously injured and scarred but, because of his hideous wounds and the exertions of his journey south, also very weak. Secondly, if there were any differences noted, these could be explained by the cure itself.

Item: on the night of the Great Miracle, witnesses had seen Fulchard, cowled and cloaked, hobble on his crutch into St Erconwald’s and lie down in the nave close to the saint’s chantry chapel. He had lain there all night: those close by noticed him twitching and moaning but nothing remarkable. On one occasion Fulchard had sat up to drink from a waterskin then lain down again. He did not leave his place until the end of the Mass and the cure was proclaimed.

Item: Master Tuddenham and his clerks had scrutinized Fulchard’s letters, licences and warrants: they listened to Philippe the physician’s account and closely interrogated relevant witnesses. Tuddenham emphasized that, apart from Fitzosbert, these were strangers from different shires. Consequently, the only logical conclusion was that a miracle had, thanks be to God, occurred. Tuddenham added how the Bishop of London’s searchers, as well as those of the Archdeacon’s court, had made careful scrutiny throughout Southwark and the city to ensure there was ‘no other’, as Tuddenham tactfully put it, ‘Fulchard of Richmond’. Nothing had been discovered. The same searchers had questioned the boatmen along Southwark quay as well as Master Robert Burdon, keeper of the gates on London Bridge. They too had nothing to report.

‘And,’ Athelstan picked up a parchment from the table, ‘neither have Sir John’s searchers and he hires the very best – greyhounds in human form.’ Athelstan leaned back in his chair and stared around. All was in order here. Master Tuddenham had used this small house to conduct his investigations and left with his entourage. Benedicta, with the help of some of the parish council, had then swept through the house, cleaning, scrubbing, changing and preparing for his return. A pie and a bowl of pottage stood in the oven next to the hearth, and there was fresh ale, bread and milk in the buttery. Athelstan had checked his three-locked chancery chest and personal coffer. Woda the washer woman had cleaned his two robes and changed the blankets on his bed. Crim the altar boy had ensured that Bonaventure had feasted like a prince so the great tomcat now lay sprawled by the hearth lost to the world. ‘Yet everything is not in order,’ Athelstan whispered. He peered down the table. Merrylegs senior had slipped into death tended by a Crutched Friar who was visiting the church because of the Great Miracle. The friar had administered the last rites and Athelstan intended to celebrate the requiem Mass the following morning and commit the body to the grave. The family plot in God’s Acre had been dug and prepared. ‘Which brings me to that other small mystery,’ Athelstan murmured. Apparently, the night before, Godbless the beggar, keeper of God’s Acre, had been visited in his cottage, the old parish death house, by some pilgrims eager for news. They had shared a tun of ale with him and celebrated until both Godbless and his nefarious goat Thaddeus had become hopelessly drunk. According to Benedicta, long after the chimes of midnight, Godbless was found riding a staggering Thaddeus around the tombstones singing at the top of his voice how he had been visited by his kinsman, Oberon, Prince of the Fairies. Pike and Watkin eventually put both man and beast to bed. Athelstan had paid a visit but Godbless was still ‘full of the drink’, as he put it, whilst Athelstan had never seen Thaddeus so quiet. He had left them to sleep it off and returned to his home to have supper and study Tuddenham’s report.

Athelstan rose to his feet and began to pace the kitchen. He crossed himself and intoned the ‘ Veni Creator Spiritus ’ for guidance. The Great Miracle could pose serious problems. The Bishop of London had made his decision and the case would be referred to synod of English bishops and then on to the Pope. If Rome agreed, St Erconwald’s would become an official place of pilgrimage, but what then? Athelstan tried to control his disquiet: his faith was a faith of miracles, yet he felt deeply uneasy about what was happening. If Sir John was suspicious, he was even more so. The same unease disturbed his mind about the grisly murders carried out after the execution of Lady Isolda. Why had they happened? Was the Ignifer someone who passionately believed the dead woman was innocent? Yet the burden of proof, Athelstan conceded, lay heavily against Lady Isolda. She was certainly no innocent lamb despatched to the slaughter. Of course, there was the mysterious Vanner, but Athelstan was almost convinced the clerk was dead and not in hiding. Undoubtedly, the Ignifer knew about Greek fire and might even possess ‘The Book of Fires’. From the little Athelstan had learnt, once the secret formulas were known it was easy to manufacture that liquid death. Nevertheless, murders of Sutler, Gavelkind and Tressilian were beyond him, brief moments in time leaving very little, if any, evidence to study. But the attack on Lady Anne? He and Cranston had been with her and Turgot when that shadowy assassin had slipped out of the darkness. Who could move so swiftly? Athelstan pulled a face. Virtually everyone he’d questioned. Some of these regarded Lady Isolda as guilty but two men passionately believed in her innocence, Garman and Falke. One of these, or both, could be the Ignifer. And what about others, were they telling the truth? Sir Henry, Buckholt, even that pretty-faced maid, Rosamund? Athelstan crouched next to his great tomcat. ‘It’s possible, Bonaventure, that any one of these might be a murderer. As for why, it’s in the past,’ he murmured. ‘Somewhere deep in this tangle of human souls sprouted a root which has waxed strong and poisonous. I am the gardener, Bonaventure, me and Sir John, heaven help us. This tangle is thick and thorny – it will take time to uproot and that means more deaths.’ Athelstan straightened up. ‘Ah, well, it’s time to see what is happening in my church.’