Paul Doherty: The Book of Fires

‘Watkin,’ Athelstan murmured, going back to his chair, ‘make sure these six eat well this morning. Now,’ he raised his voice, ‘what did you see?’

The friar listened as the witnesses, some thick with accent, describe how Master Fulchard of Richmond had hobbled into the church the previous evening. They had been close around him as they prayed and slept. Two of the pilgrims said they would go on solemn oath how, in the early hours, Fulchard began to stir and chatter, talking in his sleep. They all agreed he had not left the church, nor had anyone approached him. They witnessed no disturbance whatsoever apart from a certain restlessness just before he woke. Once the pilgrims were finished, Watkin, Pike and others from the parish council chorused how they had witnessed the same. Athelstan could only sit dumbfounded by what he had seen and heard.

‘Look,’ he stammered, ‘I need to think and pray. Master Fulchard will join me in the priest’s house. Afterwards, Joscelyn, he will lodge at the Piebald, yes?’

The taverner swiftly agreed. The watchful silence was now broken as Athelstan’s obvious acceptance of what had happened dawned on the rest. The friar instructed Mauger and Benedicta to look after the sacristy and sanctuary. He rose, nodded at Fulchard and left through the rood-screen door. The nave was packed with people all agog with news at what had happened. The story of the ‘Great Miracle’ had spread wide and fast. Athelstan had to shoulder his way across the nave, through the Devil’s Door and into God’s Acre. Even Godbless, the beggar man who had turned the old death house into a comfortable cottage for himself, and the omnivorous Thaddeus were waiting for news amongst the decaying tombstones and battered crosses.

‘I have seen angels flying!’ Godbless shouted.

‘In which case,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘you have certainly seen more than I have. Now look, Godbless, keep a vigilant eye on God’s Acre, because the angels you see are causing all this excitement.’ Athelstan strode on, Godbless’ praises ringing in his ears. He reached his house, unlocked the door and entered the warm, well-scrubbed flagstone kitchen which served as his chancery, store room and, as he joked, solar and dining hall. Everything was in place. The fire banked. The charcoal braziers glowing. The air sweet with the oatmeal mixed with honey and spice bubbling in the black pot-bellied cauldron on its tripod above the fire. Athelstan quickly scrutinized everything, his communion chest, the lectern, his chancery coffer and well-ordered bed-loft. He opened the door in response to Bonaventure’s constant scratching and served the tomcat his morning drink of warm milk. Once Bonaventure was satisfied, Athelstan prepared the table ladling out the oatmeal and filling two blackjacks with light ale. Fulchard arrived escorted by members of the parish council. Athelstan thanked them but insisted that he and Fulchard would eat alone. Once he was at table, Athelstan closely inspected the miracle as Fulchard hungrily ate the oatmeal. The friar recalled meeting the pilgrim the previous day and marvelled at the change. He could detect no physical scars and yet, in the better light of his house, would go on oath that this was the same man: the voice, the mannerisms and certain marks he’d noticed on the good side of the pilgrim’s face. Once Fulchard had finished, Athelstan demanded to see the letters and licences he carried. The pilgrim opened his wallet, spilling its contents out on to the table. Athelstan sifted through them, studying each very carefully. Fulchard, by his own admission, possessed a host of letters and licences allowing him to beg in a wide variety of places, as well as describing his disabilities. Athelstan scrupulously examined both the writing and the appropriate seal on each document. After all, the consummate skill of cunning men who forged licences and could change appearances as deftly as any conjuror was well known. Athelstan studied both Fulchard and his documents. He was sure this was not the case here. The friar sighed and rose to his feet.

‘Master Fulchard, I insist you remain in my parish as I, according to canon law, must pass all this on to the curia, the council of the Bishop of London.’ Athelstan grasped his chancery satchel, laid out his writing implements and hastily drafted a letter to Master Henry Tuddenham, clerk to the Bishop of London’s council, detailing what had happened in his parish. He re-read this and, satisfied, swiftly sealed it, telling Fulchard to eat more oatmeal and drink another blackjack of ale. Athelstan left the priest’s house and re-entered the church. St Erconwald’s had been transformed. Usually at this hour the nave lay silent but now it was busy and frenetic as a Smithfield fair. Athelstan drew up his hood and pushed his way through the throng. His parishioners, true to form, were self-appointed keepers of the shrine and first-hand witnesses to what Watkin claimed to be ‘Southwark’s one and only Great Miracle’. All the sharp-witted denizens of the ward had swarmed in: the foists, the nips, the cunning men, conjurors, strumpets, pimps and their prostitutes along with tinkers, traders and relic-sellers. They rubbed shoulders and, in some cases, felt the pockets and purses of the ordinary gaping visitors. The noise was constant. The stench of packed, sweaty bodies in dirty clothes wafted everywhere. Someone intoned a hymn to St Erconwald only to be drowned by a coster shouting, ‘Mussels, fresh mussels blessed by St Erconwald himself!’ The trader bawled even louder over the laughter his remark provoked. Further down the nave, a travelling puppet show, a box with an opening at the top perched on a barrow, told the story of St Erconwald as Athelstan had never heard it before. The friar tried to remain tolerant but when he glimpsed an itinerant cook with heavily salted pork chops slung on a dirty cord around his neck, his good humour faded. He told the cook he could not fire his stove in church and strode off angrily towards the sanctuary. The Hangman of Rochester, on guard at the rood screen, took one look at Athelstan’s face and hastily opened the door. Athelstan swept into the sanctuary, beckoning the hangman to follow.

‘Giles, I want the entire parish council here, and I mean now before I finish reciting ten Aves or there will be no fair.’

The hangman hurried off and, one by one, the parish council trooped into where their priest stood on the top step of the high altar.

‘Right, my beloveds, my little flock.’

‘The nave belongs to the people,’ Pike protested, ‘the sanctuary to the priest, if we …’ Pike swallowed the rest of his sentence as Benedicta brought the heel of her boot down on his toes whilst Athelstan took a step down, face white with anger.

‘Whatever you say, Father,’ Pike stammered.

‘Good, Pike. This is our parish, not the council of the Upright Men, and I am your priest. Mauger, I have a letter for you to take to Master Tuddenham. Joscelyn, collect Fulchard from my house and lodge him at the Piebald. Benedicta and Crim,’ he winked at the altar boy, ‘you and Giles will scour the sanctuary and sacristy to ensure all is well. The rest of my beloveds, including Pike, will clear the church. Pilgrims are most welcome – the rest can use the enclosure outside. Merrylegs,’ he beckoned at the pie-man, ‘I am going to take the Sacrament to your sick elderly father.’

‘The Ancient One of Days will be most pleased,’ Merrylegs lugubriously replied.

‘Which is more than I am,’ Athelstan snapped. ‘So, let us begin …’

Sir John Cranston, Lord High Coroner of London, rose from his judgement chair and walked over to the horn-filled window of his courtroom at the Guildhall. He opened the window and stared moodily down at the broad, cobbled bailey which stretched to the soaring, battlemented gatehouse leading into Cheapside. He had just finished reading the indictment against Ralph Tailor of Cripplegate: ‘That he did feloniously rape Alice Beggar of Queenhithe, and did carnally lie with her in her own house from day to day and night to night. The same said Ralph continued to indulge publicly in the shameful and abominable sin of debauchery …’