Paul Doherty - The Book of Fires

‘Why should I do that?’ Garman sneered. ‘I much preferred to watch him suffer.’

‘I am sure,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘you are a practical man, parson. Your heart danced to see Sir Walter suffer, to view his growing weakness, his deepening sense of guilt. Naturally you wanted to bait him with the past – that’s why you bought those figs, a delicacy from Outremer which would remind him of a time when he could indulge his appetites. Of course, not now. Sir Walter was ill, his belly extremely delicate. He might have to forgo such sweetmeats and leave them for the servants.’

‘Brother Athelstan, are you claiming I attended Sir Walter for more nefarious reasons?’

‘We’ll come to that by and by. Let’s return to Sir Walter’s death. Did you feed him anything during that last visit?’

‘You mean poison? No, as I have said, I wanted him to suffer, to brood and to regret.’

‘I have asked this before,’ Athelstan persisted. ‘Why did you hate him so much? I understand he deserted you, kept “The Book of Fires”, but mercenary companies break up, people go their separate ways. Oh, by the way, what name did you use?’

‘I was called Saint-Croix.’

Athelstan studied Garman carefully. The friar recognized the importance of these moments from years of shriving, of hearing confessions, of listening to souls opening the gates sealed deeply within them. Parson Garman was now very close to those gates.

‘We are not your enemy,’ Athelstan added gently. ‘Like you, sir, I am a priest. All I want is the truth. What is wrong with that?’

Garman drew a deep breath. ‘We fled Constantinople,’ he began, ‘pursued by Turcopole mercenaries. We hid here, there, everywhere we could. Eventually we struck out across the desert.’ He rubbed his forehead. ‘The names of the different places we visited now fail me but we stopped at an oasis. We shared out our wine and food. To this day I swear Beaumont drugged it with a sleeping potion. The following morning, we woke late and heavy-headed. Beaumont and his henchmen had fled. We had our horses, water, weapons and maps – he had just forsaken us. We eventually reached Izmir. By then we were tired of each other’s company. I journeyed into Rhodes and entered the service of the Hospital.’

‘And when you returned to England you must have confronted Black Beaumont?’

‘Oh,’ Garman laughed wryly, ‘he claimed it was all due to mere chance. According to Beaumont, he and his henchmen had risen early that day. They decided to let us sleep whilst they struck out to search for the best way forward. They encountered a roving band of sand-dwellers who attacked them, so they took refuge in a high, rocky outcrop. They drove their attackers off but by the time they returned to the oasis we had left.’ Garman wiped a sheen of sweat from his face. ‘A farrago of lies.’

‘And “The Book of Fires”?’ Athelstan asked.

Garman’s eyes swiftly shifted.

‘That’s the real reason you visited Sir Walter. Oh, you loved the baiting and revelled in Beaumont’s discomfiture but your real intent was to seize that book!’

‘Why should I …’

‘Have you too been approached?’

‘What do you mean?’ Garman’s tone was brittle, betraying his fear.

‘Oh, you have,’ Athelstan persisted, ‘by the agents of the Greek emperor, the Secretissimi and perhaps by others? The princes of this earth would offer a veritable fortune for Mark the Greek’s “The Book of Fires”. The Secretissimi are in London – don’t act all surprised, you know they are. You have admitted as much. They want the manuscript back and would pay a fortune for it.’

‘You must know its value,’ Cranston intervened. ‘I mean, from the days you served in the Luciferi calling yourself Saint-Croix. What was your role? If Black Beaumont was skilled in the use of cannon and powder, so must you be. You’ve fired culverins, you’ve mixed the different elements, yes? That’s what the Luciferi offered – the ability to hurl fiery missiles. So, Parson Garman, if “The Book of Fires” fell into your hands, you would know how to manufacture Greek fire and the other deadly mixtures.’

The parson licked dry lips and stared down at the glow of candlelight near the small Lady altar. He sat as if listening to the prison settling for the night, the banging of doors, the sharp clatter of chains.

‘“The Book of Fires”, Garman began, still staring down the chapel, ‘was the cause of everything. Beaumont seized it and made sure that his companions who had served him so faithfully would have no share of it. He brought the secrets back to London and doled out those secrets like a miser would pennies. I suspect he held a great deal back to maintain his monopoly, to hold something in reserve, to tease, bait and lure would-be customers.

‘Naturally, the Secretissimi followed him here, but what could they do against a powerful merchant patronized by the King? Move against him and they would forfeit their immun-ity – they could even end up in this stinking hole or on the scaffold at Smithfield. If they secretly assassinated Beaumont, the whereabouts of “The Book of Fires” could die with him or pass into other hands. I …’ Garman beat his chest, ‘had a right to that book. I was with Beaumont in the Imperial chancery when the manuscript was stolen.’ Spittle now formed on his lips. ‘I was a high-ranking member of the Luciferi. I should have had my share. Yes, you are correct, that’s the real reason I took to visiting him. Oh, I deepened his guilt, agitated whatever conscience he had left, milked him for alms but I demanded my share. Sir John, Brother Athelstan, just think what I could do with such wealth.’ He blew his cheeks out. ‘But you know the verse of scripture, “By their fruits ye shall know them.”’ Garman’s voice changed as he mimicked that of an old man. ‘Beaumont quavered and trembled. He listed his donations to this and to that but he hadn’t changed. Black Beaumont was a flint-hearted, greedy, nasty human being. If I baited him he taunted me back, saying that the whereabouts of the book would be a revelation, secretly hidden on the island of Patmos. God knows what that babbling meant. But if Lady Isolda was a killer, so was Sir Walter.’ He wagged a finger and rose. ‘I am not just talking about men killed in battle but the cold-blooded murder of friends and comrades.’ Garman, agitated, walked into the darkness then returned to retake his seat. ‘The Luciferi,’ he continued, ‘were mostly English. Beaumont deserted us, taking six of our companions; those who remained with me survived to die elsewhere or return to England. Buckholt’s father was one of the former, which may be why his son later secured the position of steward to Beaumont. Buckholt senior was a much older man, as was Adam Lesures, Lady Anne’s husband, who returned to London and became a wealthy merchant. Lesures was highly intelligent – he had little to do with Sir Walter. They remained fairly estranged. After Sir Roger’s death Lady Anne became more friendly. There were others who returned. Some are dead, a few are now missing.’

‘One of those could be the Ignifer?’ Cranston demanded.

‘Yes, yes, I’ve thought of that.’

Athelstan could see the chaplain wasn’t convinced.

‘Parson Garman, you claim Sir Walter was a cold-blooded murderer?’

‘Brother Athelstan, that’s one thing I did ask Beaumont time and again. He left with six of our company. I swear to God, not one of these have been heard of or seen since that night at the oasis.’

‘None!’ Athelstan exclaimed. The friar moved on the bench, very much aware of the darkness, the deepening cold, the dying light of the tapers and the winter wind tugging at the outside shutters.

‘You are alleging foul play,’ Cranston murmured. ‘That Sir Walter murdered those six men?’