Paul Doherty - The Book of Fires

‘Brother?’

‘Come, Sir John.’

‘Our guest awaits.’

Rosamund was still sitting on the edge of the bed, as close as possible to the pool of light from the lanthorn. She glanced up fearfully as they entered, shivered and returned to plucking at the folds of her dress. Cranston took the stool brought by the turnkey and sat down. Athelstan picked up the lanthorn and walked over to the bleak whitewashed wall. Former inmates had carved graffiti, usually prayers such as ‘ Jesu Miserere ’ – ‘Jesus have mercy’, or ‘ Kyrie Eleison ’ – ‘Lord have pity’. He carefully studied the most recent scratchings and glanced over his shoulder at the turnkey.

‘Lady Isolda was the last person to be imprisoned here – I mean, before Mistress Rosamund arrived?’

‘Yes, Brother.’

‘How was she as a prisoner?’

‘Few visitors came. She kept to herself. There was that outburst when she attacked Lady Anne. Towards the end – well, she went to the execution cart like a dream-walker.’

Athelstan nodded and, holding up the lantern, used his finger to trace the letters which looked as if they had been recently carved there, ‘LIB’ – Lady Isolda Beaumont. The friar stared in puzzlement at the scratches next to it, the letters ‘SFSM’.

‘Rosamund?’ Athelstan repeated the letters. ‘Do you understand what these mean?’

The maid rose and stumbled across to stand beside the friar. ‘No!’

Athelstan turned swiftly and caught the slight cast in her eyes. He recalled his studies on demonology and possession. For a few heartbeats he wondered if Lady Isolda’s ghost had set up house in the soul of this young woman. Oh, she looked frightened and cowed, yet there was something else, a secret, stubborn resistance.

‘Shall we begin?’ And, taking her by the elbow, Athelstan led her back to the bed. ‘That scratching on the wall means nothing to you?’

‘I told you, Brother, nothing.’

‘Sir Walter and Lady Isolda were married for five years. How long were you her maid?’

‘Four.’

‘You knew each other at the Minoresses. You must have grown up together?’

‘Yes.’

‘You were close friends?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you telling me the truth?’ Athelstan persisted. ‘We can leave you here to rot, not in a comfortable cell but deep in the bowels of this pestilential place.’

‘I am telling you the truth, Brother.’

‘Did your mistress murder Sir Walter?’

The dark eyes shifted and the pretty lips puckered, as if the death of her master was slightly amusing.

‘I don’t know. I truly don’t.’

‘I think you know more than you tell us, Rosamund. But let’s come to your illness. You succumbed to the sweating sickness on the same day Lady Isolda gave the posset to Sir Walter?’

‘Yes. Brother Philippe will attest to that. I lay ill. I only fully recovered after my mistress died.’

‘And your relationship with Sir Walter?’

‘I helped him.’ She sniffed. ‘When we were alone I put my hands under the coverlet. I played with him until he was satisfied.’

‘Did you visit him the day he died?’

‘Yes, very early in the day. He asked for my ministrations. I complied,’ she shrugged, ‘reluctantly, but I think he liked me to act all coy and shy.’

‘Did you talk?’

‘Only about what he wanted.’

‘And his health?’

‘Sir Walter was very much the same. He complained of his belly being delicate. I soothed him and I left. I noticed nothing untoward.’

Athelstan hid his surprise. Rosamund was very cunning. She must have realized that she would have to concede something, which is what she was doing now.

‘And your mistress knew of such ministrations?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Rosamund leaned forward. ‘Sir Walter could not bear her near him, so he asked me to comfort him.’

‘What?’ Cranston broke from his doze.

‘My mistress,’ Rosamund now perched on the edge of the bed like some conspirator with Athelstan and Cranston as her confederates, ‘told me she had married for wealth but she found Sir Walter as mean as a miser with little passion in bed or the parlour. I think she frightened him. According to my mistress, he was impotent with her.’ She sniffed, looking all petulant. Athelstan wondered if the young woman wasn’t fey-witted. ‘Sir Walter became angry with my mistress and that’s when the lies emerged.’

‘What lies?’

‘That Isolda was really his daughter.’

‘Why on earth should he think that?’ Athelstan exclaimed.

‘According to my mistress, in his bachelor days Sir Walter Beaumont had been a great one for the ladies. He had enjoyed many mistresses. He knew for certain, or so he claimed, that baby girls, his offspring, had been left in the care of the Minoresses. Isolda had immediately caught his eye. Only after the marriage did he begin to wonder whether the likeness between Isolda and one of his paramours was because they were mother and daughter.’ Rosamund paused at a piercing scream which ran through the prison, a blood-chilling cry from the press yard.

‘ Peine forte et dure ,’ Athelstan whispered. ‘Justice can crush. Remember that. So,’ he continued, ‘Isolda was bitterly estranged. What did she make of her husband’s scruples?’

‘Nothing but a pretence, a sham, a pretext to get rid of her. Isolda was convinced he was planning an annulment.’ She chewed the corner of her lip. ‘He was encouraged by that fat tub of lard his brother and his bitch-wife, Rohesia. Lady Isolda hated them and so do I. They planned that Sir Walter should die without an heir.’

‘Lady Isolda had to accept all this?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Yes, but Sir Walter also made lewd references to me, to the possibility of me becoming his leman, his mistress. Lady Isolda agreed to this – she had to. Firstly, Sir Walter might become crueller. Secondly, she begged me to use my skill in making her husband confess to the whereabouts of “The Book of Fires”.’ Rosamund fell silent as if listening to the nightmare sounds of the prison. ‘Before you ask, Brother, Lady Isolda believed she would be cast off. She told me that if we acquired that book we would both be very, very rich. Sir Walter welcomed my ministrations. He said I was very skilled. I asked him about “The Book of Fires”. Sir Walter refused to even mention it, so I withheld my favours.’

‘And?’ Cranston asked.

‘Sir Walter laughed. He mocked me. He became evasive. He then told me he had left the book on a Greek island called Patmos, and that its whereabouts would be a revelation to everyone. Later he changed his story, claiming that book was locked in that casket in his bedchamber. Other times he rambled and grew feverish. He claimed there were spies paid by the Greeks in his household.’

Athelstan held up a hand. ‘Greeks?’

‘Yes, from Sir Walter’s past. He would then tell me about his early days. How he had served in Outremer. How he relished the intrigue. He described the different women he’d possessed and the fortune he’d accumulated.’

‘But he never showed you “The Book of Fires”?’

‘No, the closest he ever said “The Book of Fires” was …’

‘In that casket in his bedchamber?’

‘Yes. However, when it was opened after he died, the casket was empty.’

‘And this alleged spy of the Greeks?’ Athelstan asked.

‘I don’t know – possibly Vanner. I do believe they approached a number of the household at Firecrest Manor but Vanner knew no more than I did. Brother, I can assure you on oath, the whereabouts of that manuscript are a total mystery to me.’

‘Was Vanner Isolda’s lover?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘He wasn’t, was he?’ Athelstan retorted. ‘Perhaps she promised favours she never gave. She used him as she used you?’