Paul Doherty - The Book of Fires

‘I was born in Yorkshire,’ Garman began slowly. ‘I met Black Beaumont when I was a green stripling agog for adventure. Beaumont was forming a company. I will spare you the details. Black Beaumont waxed powerful. He realized the power of cannon. He argued that one day massed arrays of culverins and cannon would shatter the schiltroms of pikemen, the phalanxes of archers, the shield-rings of foot soldiers, the cohorts of cavalry. Warfare would be transformed. Battles would take on an even more gruesome aspect. Castles and fortified towers would be smashed to powder. He became a master, a skilled captain. Beaumont wanted money but he was also hungry for knowledge. He hired his company out not just to the highest bidder but to the one who could teach him the most. Eventually we reached Constantinople, attached to the Varangian Guard, manning its walls and gates or skirmishing with Turcopoles out on the plains. Occasionally we served with the Imperial fleet. I witnessed the power of Greek fire, an all-devouring flame which billowed out with a life of its own, a raging inferno almost impossible to extinguish. Brother Athelstan, I saw the sea catch fire. Beaumont became obsessed with discovering its secrets, which the Greeks guarded so closely. He spent every waking moment trying to discover the whereabouts of Mark the Greek’s “The Book of Fires”. He bribed officials, officers and courtiers till he found out at last where the secret was kept …’

‘And he seized his moment?’ Athelstan intervened.

‘Yes. Constantinople was racked by famine, plague and civil war. Riots occurred in the great square before Hagia Sophia, the Church of Holy Wisdom. Beaumont formed his plan. Other mercenaries were keen to plunder. We broke into the secret chancery, where Beaumont seized the book.’

‘Did you see it?’ Cranston asked.

‘Yes. A thick, heavy book though very small: its pages were twined together and bound in a heavily embossed calfskin covered with silver clasps. I glimpsed it for a short while. It reminded me of a book of hours. Anyway, we fled to Manzikert. Of course, the Secretissimi, the secret agents of the emperor, pursued us.’ He shrugged. ‘They still do. Beaumont was ecstatic, full of himself; apart from that glimpse, neither I nor anyone else was allowed to see “The Book of Fires”.’ He pulled a face. ‘The Luciferi broke up. We had no choice. We went our different ways. I had grown tired of my life as a hired killer. I joined the Hospitallers in Rhodes and served in their infirmary. I later returned to England where I was ordained by the Bishop of London and given this benefice. Brother Athelstan, I am a sinner. I have wenched, robbed and killed. In the words of the psalmist, my offence is always before me. I now do reparation here in this stench and squalor.’

‘You also use your position to support the Upright Men.’

‘Brother Athelstan, I plough my furrow, you plough yours.’

‘You could be accused of treason,’ Cranston whispered.

‘Then, Sir John, arrest me and I will impeach Gaunt for a greater treason: the evil he inflicts on the Community of this Realm.’

Athelstan tapped his feet. He recalled ferreting when he was a boy, trying to cover the holes in a warren with netting but the rabbits would still escape. This was similar. Garman could be accused of a host of crimes, yet, on a moral basis, he would escape, arguing these were no crimes but acts of goodness. Garman was a person who exemplified St Augustine’s shrewd observance of human beings – that each individual was a veritable sack of different conflicting emotions. Garman was a priest yet a radical. A former soldier, now devoted to dispossessing the people he served. He preached God’s goodness whilst advocating aggression to curb the greed of Gaunt and others. A man dedicated to peace, yet one who viewed violent revolt as the only way to achieve a lasting peace.

‘God have mercy on us all,’ Athelstan whispered. ‘I will not debate philosophy with you, Parson Garman. You visited Sir Walter?’

‘To beg for monies for this place, I have told you that.’

‘You visited him on the very day Lady Isolda allegedly poisoned him?’

‘Yes. I saw him just before his untimely death. As usual I visited him early in the morning. I brought him a delicacy from our days abroad, a dish he could never resist, figs rolled in an almond sauce.’

‘Did he eat them?’

‘No. As always, his belly hurt.’

‘So why did you bring them?’ Athelstan snapped.

Garman just grinned.

‘Did you ever hear his confession?’

The parson snorted with laughter.

‘Did you reminisce about old times?’

‘Never.’

‘Never?’

‘I had nothing to say to him and what could he say to me? We had ceased to be comrades.’

Athelstan pointed a finger. ‘Good Lord,’ he breathed, ‘you came to bait him. You hated Beaumont, didn’t you?’

‘He was a truly selfish, mean-spirited knave. A caitiff as great a felon as any who have been taken from here and hanged. He stole “The Book of Fires” and then turned out his comrades as if we were serfs. He did not care what happened to us. So it was not just to bait him. I visited Sir Walter to wring money out of him for the poor bastards here. I enjoyed making him reflect on Christ’s warning: “What does it profit a man to gain the whole world if he suffers the loss of his immortal soul?” In my hushed conversations, I would warn him about the wages of sin as he drew to the end of his life. What did he love? What did he have? Children? Heirs? And where did he get his wealth from? Fashioning machines of war and other means to kill human beings.’

‘It’s a wonder he did not forbid you entrance,’ Cranston demanded.

‘Oh, Sir Walter was past all that. He took my visits as the fruit of his own sin. I liked nothing better than to remind him of that phrase, “Remember man that thou art dust and into dust ye shall return”.’

Athelstan stared hard at this ruthless preacher, a professional killer who had experienced a conversion along his own road to Damascus.

‘Beaumont stood for everything you hated, didn’t he?’

‘Yes, Brother, he certainly did.’ The answer was almost cheery.

‘And his marriage?’ Athelstan caught the swift smirk. ‘Don’t lie,’ he warned. ‘You know the truth about that May-December marriage. You are a priest. Sir Walter was burdened with guilt – he must have referred to it.’

Garman’s chilling grin widened.

‘Sir Walter was impotent with Isolda,’ Athelstan continued. ‘He suspected, and I think wrongly, that she was his illegitimate daughter, the offspring of one of his cast-off doxies from years ago.’

Garman pulled a face as if to hide his own malicious glee.

‘I wager you did not dissuade him?’

‘Naturally.’ Garman was truly enjoying himself. ‘I did admit that I could see a faint likeness in her of him.’

‘You were lying?’

‘I was just answering his question.’

‘So was Lady Isolda innocent?’ Cranston intervened, taken aback by the heated exchange between these two priests.

‘I think I can answer that,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘You liked Lady Isolda. You admired her. You felt sorry that she was one of Sir Walter’s many victims. In your eyes, killing the likes of Black Beaumont was no crime, no sin.’

‘As regards her innocence, Lady Isolda never confessed to his murder.’

‘But that doesn’t mean she was innocent.’

‘Nobody is innocent, Brother.’ Garman shrugged. ‘There could be other explanations for his death. On one occasion Lady Isolda said Sir Walter might have taken his own life.’

‘That’s nonsense! There is not a shred of evidence to substantiate such a claim.’ Athelstan pointed at the chaplain. ‘What is more logical, more likely, given your hatred of Sir Walter – how do we know those figs in almond sauce which you brought earlier in the day he died were not laced with poison?’