Paul Doherty - The Book of Fires

‘If a mother,’ Cranston explained, ‘does not want her baby, she places it in the cradle and pulls the rope.’ He turned and pointed back down the street. ‘The mother would probably hide there to watch and wait until one of the good sisters appeared.’ He approached the gate and pounded on the wood. A hatch high up in the door opened and a face peered out.

‘Jack Cranston,’ the coroner declared, ‘and Brother Athelstan, parish priest of St Erconwald’s.’

‘Oh, the miracle!’ a voice exclaimed.

‘Yes, we are.’ Cranston laughed. ‘Now come on, Sister, open up. Our legs are freezing and I do not want the cold to rise any further.’ The portress giggled, the postern door swung open and both the coroner and friar stepped inside. They followed their blue-garbed guide across the cobbles, through the great cloisters and into the parlour of the guesthouse. A warm sweet-smelling chamber, its white walls were dominated by the cross of San Damiano and painted scenes from the lives of St Francis and St Clare. The rushes on the floor were green, supple and fragrant with powdered herbs. The portress ushered them to chairs placed around a square table and wheeled in two capped braziers to provide greater warmth. She explained that Mother Superior would be with them soon – in the meantime, would they like refreshment? Blackjacks of ale and dishes of soft herb cheese on strips of manchet bread were just being served when Mother Clare bustled into the guestroom. A cheery-faced woman, the Mother Superior gave a scream of delight at seeing ‘Old Jack’. She then embraced both him and Athelstan in a warm, tight hug of welcome.

‘Well,’ she indicated that they retake their seats, ‘eat and drink. Remember what St Francis said, and this even includes Dominicans.’ She winked at Athelstan. ‘The first rule of a Christian is to be hospitable. Good, you are eating. Now, why are you here? Oh, no,’ her fat fingers flew to her chubby face, ‘of course, Lady Anne Lesures is already here.’ Her voice fell to a whisper. ‘Poor Isolda Beaumont.’

‘She was left here as a foundling?’

‘Yes, Brother, we took Isolda. I was novice mistress at the time,’ she shook her head, ‘just over twenty years ago. We called her Isolda Fitzalan because she was left in the gate cradle, wrapped in a cloth boasting the arms of the Fitzalans …’

‘Azure and Or, a branch of oak, vert and fructed or …’

‘Precisely, Sir John – correct to the last detail.’

‘The Fitzalans.’ Athelstan glanced swiftly at Cranston. ‘Surely Thomas Fitzalan, the present Earl of Arundel, is powerful? Feared even by Gaunt?’

‘Don’t let your imagination run away with you, Brother.’ Mother Clare smiled. ‘The Fitzalans are legion in number. I suspect that one of their young women from a minor branch of the family became pregnant out of wedlock and decided she must give the child away.’ Mother Clare sighed and helped herself to a strip of toasted cheese. ‘The swaddling blanket is no real indication of birth, it could be used by some maid or servant to show the child was noble born.’

‘Why Isolda?’ Athelstan asked. ‘A rather unusual name?’

‘Very simple, Brother. We found a scrap of parchment pushed into a fold of the blanket on which the name Isolda was written.’

‘Are many such children left here?’

‘A few, always girls, and remember, Brother, many mothers often change their mind and return for their child.’

‘But not in Isolda’s case?’

‘Never.’

‘What was she like?’

Mother Clare touched her starched white wimple. ‘She was, even as a little girl, extraordinarily beautiful, graceful in all her ways.’ Mother Clare put her face to her hands then took them away. ‘God forgive me, Isolda was also avaricious, wilful, obdurate and selfish.’ The nun crossed herself swiftly. ‘There. I have said it, God forgive me but it’s the truth. Isolda was greedy for wealth and power.’

‘And did she get that through her marriage to Sir Walter?’

‘No.’ Mother Clare blew her cheeks out in a long sigh. ‘Isolda often returned here after her marriage, ostensibly to help Lady Anne and others with our novices.’

‘And?’

‘Isolda always had a bitter litany of recriminations against her husband. He was wealthy, his purse bulged with coins, but the purse strings rested very firmly in his hands.’

‘Are you sure?’ Cranston asked.

‘Jack, would I lie to you?’ Mother Clare blew him a mock kiss.

‘So,’ Cranston shook his head, ‘Isolda had little or no money for herself?’

Mother Clare nodded in agreement.

‘Nicholas Falke, God bless him,’ Cranston breathed, ‘is a very experienced serjeant-at-law. He is also expensive.’

‘So who paid him to represent Lady Isolda?’ Athelstan asked. ‘It could have been “pro bono” or, in this case, “pro amore” – love. Falke was, and still is, much smitten with Lady Isolda.’ The friar turned to Mother Clare. ‘Do you know?’ She pulled a face and shook her head.

‘So in your view, the marriage was a failure?’

‘Brother,’ she replied, ‘after her marriage Isolda often came here. At first she acted the great lady, being feasted and feted. Time passed. She was married to Sir Walter for five years, but we noticed the change. She became deeply unhappy but, there again, I wasted little time on that. Isolda was rarely satisfied. I think she resented her husband for many reasons.’

‘Did Vanner ever come with her?’

‘Oh, yes, an obsequiously faithful shadow, a man of keen wit but few words. I suspect Isolda liked to see him dance attendance.’

‘And Rosamund Clifford, her maid – she too was a foundling here?’

‘Yes, she was.’

‘Rumour claims her father was Buckholt, Sir Walter’s steward?’

‘Rumour, Brother, can go hang itself,’ Mother Clare retorted. ‘That is nonsense. All I can tell you is that after Sir Walter married Isolda, Lady Anne Lesures secured Rosamund a place in the Beaumont household.’

‘And the relationship between the two women?’

‘Rosamund was as different from Isolda as chalk is from cheese. Pretty, very demure, very much in awe of Isolda.’ She paused, scratching her chin. ‘Indeed, both came back here. I suppose they regarded this house as the only home they truly had.’

‘Do you know if Isolda met anyone else in the city?’

‘Brother, I am immured here. I cannot say where Lady Isolda went.’

‘And the murder of Sir Walter came as a shock?’

‘God save us, Brother. It chilled our souls. At first I couldn’t believe what had happened. I thought it was a mistake. In the weeks before Sir Walter died, neither Isolda nor Rosamund came here. We only learnt what happened …’ Her voice faltered, and Athelstan leaned over and squeezed her hand.

‘Mother Clare,’ he said softly, ‘all we want is the truth.’ He withdrew his hand.

‘After Sir Walter died we had visitors enough: Lady Anne Lesures, Sir Henry, Buckholt, Garman and of course Master Nicholas Falke, the lawyer. The household of Firecrest Manor were always welcome here. The Beaumonts have always been generous patrons of this nunnery.’ She blinked. ‘Sometimes I wonder why. I mean, you men are so eager to make reparation for the sins of the flesh, especially those of hot-blooded youth.’

‘I can’t comment on that,’ Cranston retorted. ‘There is only one woman in my life, the Lady Maude, God bless her. Anyway, since the murder?’

‘Sir Henry still visits us. He has made it very clear that the murder of his brother was Isolda’s doing and hers alone, no reflection on the Minoresses or our good work here.’

‘But Sir Walter came here after his marriage?’

‘Yes, until he fell sick and weak. Sometimes he would send Buckholt, his steward.’