Paul Doherty - The Book of Fires

‘Brother?’

Athelstan opened his eyes. He glanced at Sir John and winked quickly.

‘Sir John, as coroner of this city, I want you to arrest Rosamund Clifford now.’

‘On what charge?’ Rosamund screeched, springing to her feet, her face twisted in resentment.

‘Sit down, mistress,’ Cranston roared, ‘or I will have you in chains!’

Rosamund obeyed, bringing her clenched fists to her face and glaring at Athelstan, who leaned across the buttery table.

‘Have you ever seen,’ he asked, ‘a human being burnt alive, mistress? Hideous! Even the bloodthirsty crowds who gather to watch at Smithfield become sickened by the sight. They throw stones to stun him or her to lessen the pain. A short while ago, I witnessed a poor torch-bearer, a totally innocent soul, burn to death for being in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong people. That was the first assault on me. This morning the Ignifer launched a fresh attempt. Others have also been murdered for doing nothing more than their duty. Sir John and I are desperately trying to resolve mysteries including the possible innocence of your executed mistress.’ Athelstan’s voice rose to a thunderous shout. ‘We want your help but all we get are your honeyed lies pattering through your pretty mouth. Very well, Sir John. Flaxwith and your bailiffs are outside. I suggest we take mistress Rosamund to Newgate.’

‘On what charge?’ she screamed again.

‘Oh, possibly murder, frustrating the Crown in its searches, lying, perjury.’ Athelstan waved a hand. ‘Sir John, I would be grateful if you could arrange it.’

Cranston, who now realized what Athelstan intended, hastily complied. Flaxwith and his bully boys entered the buttery and escorted them out into the hallway. The commotion had roused the household. Sir Henry and Lady Rohesia, escorted by Buckholt, hurried to protest, but Athelstan wasn’t in a giving mood and they were soon out into the freezing twilight. They made their way swiftly up through the tangle of streets towards the fleshing market which stood close to the iron-gated prison. The butchers and slaughterers and had now finished their grisly trade. Huge bonfires burnt the day’s rubbish. Stalls were being taken down by apprentices who moved amongst the horde of beggars, fighting the half-wild dogs for giblets, offal and other discarded globules of flesh. The air stank of brine and blood. Salt and vinegar sharpened the breeze. Huge high-sided carts were being prepared to take away the gutted cadavers of cows, pigs and a host of slaughtered birds. The cobbles gleamed red from the washing vats now being emptied. Urchins danced in and out close to the bonfires to roast white scraps of meat they had filched. Beadles, supping from blackjacks, wandered about, their iron-tipped canes whisking the air. Flaxwith and his bailiffs forced their way through the broad concourse which stretched in front of the sombre, soaring mass of Newgate prison. Athelstan knew it well. A hall of horror piled upon horror. A place of calamity. A dwelling from the darkest Hell. A bottomless pit of violence where voices screamed and howled unheard. Athelstan kept his cowled head down as he entered that stygian kingdom of absolute despair. Newgate was greatly feared even though its keeper, Matthew Tweng, an old soldier friend of Sir John’s, had been appointed to implement reforms. Tweng certainly faced a herculean task. The air was foul, riven by the most wretched cries, howls and screams. The very walls sweated in a glistening mess. Huge cobwebs spanned corners. The fleas and lice underfoot were so thick and plentiful, every step crunched and crackled. Vermin swarmed impudently. Smoke and cooking stenches swept through mingling with the rank odour of cesspits, close-stools and open garderobes. They crossed a maze of shuttered, stinking wards where the screeching of lunatic prisoners echoed constantly. They picked their way around the filth which swilled ankle-high, kicking aside the prowling dogs and pigs. Athelstan glanced over his shoulder. Rosamund Clifford looked as if she was about to faint. Athelstan steeled himself. He recalled that poor torch-bearer turned into a living flame. He whispered what he wanted and both coroner and keeper promised they would do a full and complete circuit of this antechamber to Hell. They visited the underground dungeons, known as the stone-hole, and they entered the ‘Newgate kitchen’ where the quartered bodies of recently executed traitors were being hacked, boiled, soaked and tarred. The heads of all three victims lay close by, waiting to be cauldron-cooked in a broth of blood, bay-salt and cumin seeds. Once ready, the severed tangled remains would be publicly exposed throughout the city. Close to this were cells where gaunt-faced prisoners loaded with chains shuffled like ghosts, mad eyes glared at them through grilles high in the dungeon doors. They left the building, passing across the great yard where a prisoner was being pressed to plead under a heavy door loaded with chains and stones. Tweng unlocked an inside gate, iron spikes along its rim. They were now in a dry stone dwelling where, for a high price, prisoners could be lodged more comfortably, though it was still bleak and soulless. Athelstan was aware of iron-gated windows, thick oaken doors festooned with bars, bolts and spikes. Rosamund Clifford was almost prostrate when the heavy door of the cell where the Lady Isolda had been housed was unlocked. A square chamber with a black wooden floor and whitewashed walls, the furniture was paltry: a cot bed, table, stool, chair and jakes pot. Athelstan ordered Rosamund to sit on the bed with a glowing lanthorn on the table beside it.

‘You can sit there and reflect,’ Athelstan declared. ‘Come, Sir John.’ They left the chamber, with the keeper locking the door behind them.

‘She may be a pretty young maid,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘but she is also a bare-faced liar who is prepared to lead us a merry dance around the maypole of truth. Master Tweng,’ Athelstan shook the grim-faced keeper’s hand, ‘I am grateful. Now, sir,’ he plucked at the keeper’s sleeve, ‘may I impose on you further? Sir John and I must wait a while before revisiting our demure maid.’ Tweng showed them to a small cubicle, no more than a recess with stone seats built in beneath the heavily barred lancet window. He asked if they needed anything else. Athelstan shook his head. Tweng left as they made themselves comfortable, pulling their cloaks tightly around them.

‘A busy day,’ Cranston yawned, ‘and a dangerous one.’ He gestured with his head. ‘Do you really believe Rosamund is hiding the truth?’

‘Yes, I do, Sir John. I sense what is happening with her. I reflect on Buckholt’s words and he has studied the woman he loved. She is possessed by the soul of her mistress. Sir John, I have lived my life in male communities: the novitiate at Blackfriars, hall life in Oxford. In such communities men form intense relationships, sometimes as sexual, intimate and loving as any marriage. The same deep and even illicit friendships are formed in nunneries. I know that because I have heard many a confession. Now most of these friendships are truly innocent. They spring from a deep dependence but, occasionally, I have come across friendships, particularly between young women, which are deep and intensely passionate: it’s almost as if the soul of one possesses the other. A domination emerges which is breathtaking. The tie between those women is stronger than any oath a warrior knight makes to his lord, a monk to his abbot or even a wife to her husband. I truly believe that’s happened here.’ Athelstan rose and paced the paved gallery running past the enclave. He paused, closed his eyes and listened to the soul of this dreadful building nicknamed the Jug, the Stone, the very pit of Hell. Foul odours polluted the air whilst he could hear, though faintly, the constant, raucous noise of the prison: yells, curses, screams, shouted orders and cries of dreadful pain. Rosamund would also hear these. Athelstan prayed she would weaken; he was desperate to plan a way forward. He was tired of being deliberately frustrated, of not being able to grasp anything substantial. He was in a chamber of leaping, shifting shadows with no idea of the truth …