Paul Doherty - The Book of Fires

Athelstan took Icthus by the hand, led him to the pool and whispered what he wanted. The henchman replied in a high-pitched voice, his colourless eyes studying Athelstan carefully.

‘The water must be freezing cold,’ Athelstan warned. Icthus gave a strange lop-sided smile. He took the friar’s hand and pressed it firmly against his own arm so Athelstan could feel the thick grease smearing his skin. Icthus shrugged off his gown and, to the cries and exclamations of the others, and garbed only in a tight-fitting loincloth, waded into the mere and slipped beneath the surface. He reminded Athelstan of an otter he’d once studied as a boy at a gurgling brook on his father’s farm. Icthus was long and sinuous, merging with the water as if that was his true home. Bubbles appeared on the surface. Icthus broke from the water, breathing noisily before disappearing once again. This time he was longer, but when he surfaced he wiped the slime from his face and grinned. The Fisher and his coven served out a long coil of rope. Icthus grabbed one end and sank into the depths. The rope hung slack, then it shook tight and taut. Icthus rose to take a further breath and, impervious to the biting cold, dived again. The rope was tugged. The Fisher and his companions, intoning the hymn ‘ Salve Regina Marum ’ – ‘Hail, Queen of the Seas’, began to draw in what Icthus had found: a corpse, encrusted with the dirt and sludge of the mere, broke the surface, its belly bloated and its face masked by a mesh of weeds. Athelstan ignored the exclamations of surprise as the swollen, disfigured cadaver was dragged free of the water.

‘Vanner!’ Buckholt exclaimed. ‘Reginald Vanner!’

Athelstan knelt by the corpse. He sketched a cross on the bulging forehead and stared into the empty open eyes sunk deep into their sockets.

‘May Christ have mercy on your soul, Reginald Vanner,’ Athelstan breathed. He pressed his hand against the dead flesh, bloated until buttons and points had burst. He felt the hilt of a dagger, its blade thrust so deep into the left side that only the ornamental handle could be detected. Others gathered close. Athelstan cleared the dirt in the area around the fatal thrust. He pulled the dagger, its blade popping out with a loud sucking sound.

‘Vanner.’ Sir Henry grew closer as Icthus and his coven stepped away. The Fisher dried off his henchman, handing back the thick, heavy gown.

‘And the dagger?’ Cranston asked.

‘Isolda’s!’ Sir Henry exclaimed. ‘She always kept it in an embroidered sheath.’

‘Is that so?’ Cranston beckoned Rosamund forward. The maid, shivering with cold, approached and nodded.

‘Lady Isolda’s,’ she agreed.

Falke and Parson Garman could only stare. Lady Anne shook her head wordlessly.

Athelstan walked around the mere and returned. ‘Sir Henry,’ he asked, ‘you have bonfires where you burn the rubbish?’

‘Of course, Brother. There are fire-pits deep in the trees. Why?’

‘I believe Isolda, on the Thursday before she was arrested,’ Athelstan explained, ‘invited Vanner here. She insisted it was important for him to come with any manuscript injurious to her. Sutler was pressing his case heavily. It was time to remove any evidence, including Vanner. The clerk arrived, standing on the edge of this mere. Isolda came through the trees, took the manuscripts and then she struck. Vanner was standing on the edge. Notice how the land dips slightly to the water. Isolda closed swiftly. Perhaps Vanner thought she was going to kiss him. Instead, she thrust her dagger in. She meant to withdraw it, but she was no sword fighter. The violence of the blow sent Vanner reeling back into the freezing water. Both shocks would render the dying man unconscious. He collapsed, thrashed out in agony, turned and floated further out. Isolda watched him sink deep into the tangle of weeds at the bottom of the mere. Once he had gone, she hurried to one of the burning pits and made sure that all the manuscripts that he had given her were burnt to ash.’ Athelstan crossed himself. ‘God have mercy on them both. Now, Sir John, pay the Fisher what is due. Ask him to take Vanner’s corpse back to the Mortuary of Souls and, if unclaimed after further proclamation, have him buried in some poor man’s plot in one of the city churches. Sir Henry, I need to see you and the others in a much warmer place.’

Within the hour Cranston and Athelstan met the rest in the retainers’ refectory, just off the great kitchen. It was a warm, spacious chamber where the savoury smells of cooking sweetened the air. They gathered around the long trestle table, Cranston with Athelstan on his right, the others ranged down either side. Cups of mulled wine along with bowls of mortress, a cream soup of pork and chicken, were served. Athelstan blessed the food and they ate in silence till Cranston asked the scullions to clear the table. Once the doors were closed behind them Athelstan began.

‘I thank you for coming here so that I can share some of my conclusions with you. Five years ago Sir Walter Beaumont married Isolda Fitzalan, as she was then known, a spring-winter marriage. Sir Walter had an extremely colourful past as Black Beaumont, leader of a free company of mercenaries known as the Luciferi. During his travels abroad Black Beaumont acquired a veritable treasure trove of secrets regarding cannon, powder and all kinds of fiery missiles. The culmination of his career was the acquisition of Mark the Greek’s “The Book of Fires”, a manuscript set to play a major part in the tragedy which unfurled. Now we know his marriage wasn’t a happy one. I will not spare your blushes. Sir Walter was cunning, powerful and ruthless. He soon realized his fairy-queen wife had the soul of a selfish, equally ruthless harridan beneath a mask of beauty. In her turn, Isolda soon learnt that Sir Walter had no intention of endowing her with the wealth, freedom and power she craved. Isolda led a secret life. I’m sure Sir Walter suspected but I don’t think he really cared. He had plans of his own. Isolda certainly fostered a relationship with Vanner in order to keep a strict eye on her husband, and how better than through his chancery clerk?’ Athelstan paused to let the others reflect on his words. He noticed there were no protests. ‘Part of this secret life is that Isolda would often disappear into the city. Yes, Rosamund?’

‘Brother Athelstan,’ the maid quavered, ‘I have mentioned that. She undoubtedly met the Greeks but there were other times … I do not know where she went, why or whom she met.’

‘Does anyone?’ Athelstan asked.

No one replied.

‘Neither do I. Undoubtedly she met the Greeks, who wanted their manuscript returned. They approached her as they did others. But,’ Athelstan continued swiftly to hinder any comment, ‘more grave matters intervened. Your brother, Sir Henry, grew old and weak. I believe guilt for past sins weighed heavily on him but whether that sorrow was genuine or not, I cannot say. He certainly reflected on his marriage and the possibility that Isolda might be his daughter, the offspring of one his paramours when he was a lusty bachelor. Some people here,’ Athelstan emphasized his words, ‘played on such wild imaginings.’ He glanced around. Parson Garman had leaned back staring up at the ceiling. Sir Henry and Lady Rohesia kept their heads down. Rosamund was examining her fingernails.

‘Sir Walter,’ Athelstan continued, ‘decided to apply for an annulment. Undoubtedly he would have used Vanner to write a submission to the Bishop’s curia and the Archdeacon’s court asking for this annulment on the very strong grounds of consanguinity. Vanner, of course, informed Isolda, who became desperate. She encouraged Vanner to keep her informed as she maintained all the appearances of a cordial marriage. In truth, she and her husband were deeply alienated. He maintained the pretence as effectively as did she. Isolda still thought she would get “The Book of Fires”, sell it for a fortune and be free. When that door firmly closed, Isolda wanted revenge. She was keen to seize her husband’s wealth. She had failed to secure “The Book of Fires”, so the riches of this manor should really come to her. She realized that if the annulment went forward she would be depicted as Sir Walter’s cast off, disgraced in the eyes of society and once again dependent on the likes of you, Lady Anne, and the Minoresses. Isolda was so desperate she even allowed you, Rosamund,’ Athelstan chose his words carefully, ‘to keep Sir Walter company and provide whatever comfort you could.’ The maid coloured and stared down at the empty platter before her. ‘Rosamund,’ Athelstan continued softly. ‘You loved your mistress so much you would do anything for her, and yet she almost poisoned you.’