Paul Doherty - The Book of Fires

‘And the Great Miracle at St Erconwald’s?’

‘Brother, I met Fulchard of Richmond on his arrival in the city. He came into the House of Mercy at the hospital because of his condition, badly burnt down his right side, weak and infirm after his journey south. Such terrible injuries are eye-catching. I also noted his left side, the colour of his hair and distinguishing marks. You might ask why. As a physician, I would reply that’s a habit. If a man’s hand is shrunken, you immediately look at the other to compare, to judge, to assess. He told me about his past life and the hideous injuries he’d received years ago in a Greek tavern. I gave him treatment and a letter of attestation which,’ Philippe gestured at Cranston, ‘he could use in London if stopped by the city bailiffs who wage constant war against counterfeits.’

‘True,’ Cranston grunted.

‘Anyway,’ the physician continued, ‘Master Tuddenham summoned me to St Erconwald’s and presented me with a Fulchard of Richmond who was all healed. Of course, I found him stronger, fit and able, intelligent and reflective, yet still the same man. I noted the mole high on his left cheek, I questioned him about his past experiences. Brother, I could find nothing to say he wasn’t Fulchard of Richmond. Like you, I am a priest. Our faith teaches that due to God’s grace miracles do happen. Master Tuddenham is a lawyer, a master of logic. I had to tell him the only conclusion I could reach. A miracle had occurred. That there was no other evidence to suggest trickery.’ Philippe sighed and drained his tankard. ‘Brother Athelstan, Sir John, what have I talked to you about? Signs and symptoms, and that is what we all deal with, particularly in physic where the rash on a man’s chest or back can have a hundred and one causes. It can be symptomatic of a wide variety of contagions, a predictor of minor infirmity or some deadly disease. The same is true of Fulchard. I found him the same man with all his symptoms cured. I could produce no evidence to contradict such a story.’

The physician made his farewells and left. Buckholt then joined them. Athelstan questioned him closely about the events of that fateful day, but the steward would not concede anything he had not declared before.

‘I hated Isolda,’ he confessed. ‘I despised her. She poisoned Sir Walter and I believe she weakened him in the months before his death. She used Vanner as she used anybody. She loved no one but herself. Master Sutler had the truth – she was an assassin.’

‘You mention Vanner?’

‘And I have answered you, Brother. She used him. I know what I saw that day. I believe both of them were involved in Sir Walter’s murder.’

‘Did you serve with Sir Walter abroad?’

‘No.’ Buckholt shook his head. ‘My father did and died in Outremer. I think that’s why Sir Walter gave me a post in his household. And before you ask, I have never seen “The Book of Fires”. I don’t know where Sir Walter kept it or what he meant by his riddles. I don’t know where it is now. Perhaps Vanner knew more than I but he’s probably dead.’

‘What makes you say that?’ Athelstan asked sharply.

‘Vanner liked his comforts. He hasn’t fled. He took none of his possessions except his chancery satchel. He’s not been seen, he’s just disappeared. I suspect Isolda killed him, though God knows how, when, where or why.’

Athelstan studied this stubborn, resolute steward who seethed with hatred for his former mistress. Did that hatred, he wondered, cause him to lie, and what was its source? Did he believe Isolda had frustrated his yearning for the fair Rosamund?

‘Did you have any dealings with Falke, Lady Anne or Parson Garman?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Very little. Why should I?’

‘Garman is parson at Newgate. They say he is close to the Upright Men. A supporter of the Great Community of the Realm.’ Cranston jabbed a finger. ‘They also say the same about you.’

‘I don’t know who “they” are,’ Buckholt snapped. ‘Most of London supports their cause. Gaunt is hardly popular, is he? Anyway, what has that got to do with Sir Walter’s death?’

‘Aren’t you frightened?’ Athelstan asked softly. ‘The Ignifer is dealing out judgement.’

‘You mean the ghost of Lady Isolda,’ Buckholt jibed. ‘Yes, that’s what they say. Only a soul steeped in wickedness such as hers could wreak such horror.’ He lifted his hand. Ave beads were wrapped around his fingers. ‘I put my trust in God. I know what the Ignifer is doing.’

‘What?’

‘He is leaving me for last so I can drink and feed on all the terrors which are supposedly coming for me. I will deal with that when it happens. I do not regret what I did.’

‘But you do regret some things, don’t you?’ Athelstan retorted. ‘Rosamund Clifford? You used to visit the Minoresses with Sir Walter. You became acquainted with young Rosamund?’

‘No, Brother, I didn’t become acquainted; I fell in love with her. I truly did and I still am.’

‘But she rejected you?’

‘She’s possessed by her mistress.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Ask her yourself. It’s quite simple. Rosamund only thought what Lady Isolda thought. Rosamund only did what Lady Isolda approved of. As I said, ask her yourself.’

‘And this morning?’ Athelstan queried.

‘What about this morning?’ Buckholt flinched as Cranston banged the table.

‘Rosamund and I accompanied Sir Henry and Lady Rohesia into Cheapside. We went our separate ways on different tasks and met a few hours later at the Standard.’ Buckholt refused to meet Athelstan’s gaze.

‘What tasks?’ the friar demanded.

‘Oh,’ Buckholt flapped his hand, ‘very few. I inveigled Rosamund into the Bishop’s Mitre off Cheapside.’

‘I know it well,’ Cranston murmured.

‘I tried to talk to her but she wouldn’t listen. I …’ he took a deep breath, ‘… let her go, drank too much and staggered out to complete my errands.’ He looked at Athelstan. ‘That’s the truth.’

Athelstan could see Buckholt was growing more taciturn, so he dismissed him and summoned Rosamund Clifford into the buttery. The dark-haired, pretty-faced maid, garbed in a cloak draped over a russet dress with white edging at neck and cuffs, almost crept into the room. She sat down on a chair, hands in her lap, smiling demurely as if she was truly perplexed about why she had been summoned. Athelstan stared hard at this young woman, fighting to curb his own anger and resentment. He disliked her holier-than-thou attitude, that air of bewildered innocence, as if all the horrors happening around her were of no concern whatsoever.

‘You were a foundling, and a novice at the Minoresses?’

‘Yes, Brother.’

‘You have no knowledge of your parents?’

‘No, Brother.’

‘And your mistress’ relationship with Sir Walter?’

‘In all things harmonious, Brother.’

‘And the poisoning of Sir Walter?’

‘Brother, I fell ill on the same day. I was gravely sick, confined to my chamber.’

‘Did your mistress ever discuss the possible annulment of her marriage?’

‘Brother, such matters were beyond me.’ Rosamund blinked quickly. ‘I was only her maid.’

You are a liar, Athelstan reflected. You know the truth about that. You are too good to be wholesome, too sweet by half. He stared at a point above Rosamund’s head. He’d once heard a lecture on the human soul. How many believe the body houses the soul, whereas this theologian argued that the soul houses the body. Did souls brush each other and speak silently in their own spiritual language? Athelstan closed his eyes. He felt that now. Rosamund was a secretive, sly and subtle spirit hiding behind a mask of feigned innocence.