Paul Doherty - The Book of Fires

‘What is it?’ the friar demanded. ‘What the time?’

‘Dawn is about an hour away,’ Tiptoft cheerily replied, ‘but the devil never sleeps, or so Sir John says. He needs you now in Poultry at Lady Anne Lesures’ house. Another assault, a hideous burning, Turgot her manservant lies foully slain.’

Athelstan hastily dressed. He snatched his chancery satchel and followed his escort out down towards the quayside, where a barge displaying the city pennant waited. They clambered in, took their seats and the barge pushed away. A swift, turbulent crossing with the clouds breaking and an icy breeze whispering like a ghost across the water. They disembarked at Queenhithe and moved through the tangle of streets towards Poultry. Athelstan didn’t know if he was dreaming or awake; his abrupt arousing and frenetic journey were unsteadying, his mind tumbled with the sights, sounds and smells that closed in around him. A beggar, garbed in black but with the white outlines of a skeleton painted on his gown, danced like a mad man in front of them before disappearing into the shadows. Beggars crept out of the mouths of alleyways, their clacking dishes rattling in the frosty air. Mounted archers rode by in a hot gust of sweat, leather and horse dung. A funeral procession preparing for the morning suffered an accident at the crossroads and the lily-white corpse of the deceased tumbled out from beneath its scarlet mort cloth to lie sprawled over the cobbles. Windows and doors opened and shut. Different voices trailed: a snatch of a song, the cries of lovers, a baby wailing, whilst a choir which had taken refuge in a tavern chorused the psalm: ‘I lift my eyes to the hills from which my Saviour comes’. A self-proclaimed exorcist, a placard hanging around his neck, swinging a battered thurible, billowing incense into the morning air, crying out that he was defending the living from the ghosts of the malignant dead. Outlaw-hunters from the wastes of Moorfields, admitted through the city gates before the market horn, led their pack ponies down to the Guildhall, the corpses of those they’d killed slung across the ponies’ backs. A macabre sight. The cadavers, stripped to the skin, displayed gruesome death wounds to the throat, belly or chest. Behind this sinister procession trailed a woman loudly lamenting, ‘Those slain on the plains of Megiddo’, whatever that meant. A group of moon-watchers huddled together, so close they seem to have one massive body and many heads. They gazed fiercely, their painted white faces straining madly as they watched the winter moon slide from cloud to cloud. Prisoners clamped in the cage on the Tun or the nearby stocks wailed against the bitter cold. A moveable gibbet on its clattering wheels moved backwards and forwards, the corpse hanging in its sheet of hardened canvas loudly creaking.

‘This is truly a land of deep shadow,’ Athelstan murmured as they turned up the street towards Lady Anne’s house. Lanterns glowed. Dark figures stood holding flaring sconce torches. Cranston was waiting for him in the entrance parlour. Even from there Athelstan could hear the wailing of Lady Anne, a soul keening like the wind for its loss. The friar glanced around at the opulent surroundings. The paintings and triptychs all proclaimed the same message – St Anne with her Holy Child the Virgin Mary. Cranston sat on a cushioned stool, head in his hands. He glanced up as Athelstan entered.

‘He’s struck again, Brother. Lady Anne, as you can hear, is deeply distressed. Let me show you.’ Cranston led Athelstan out along the hollow stone-paved passageway, through the kitchen, buttery and scullery into the great rear garden. Flaxwith and his bailiffs were busy there. The air was thick with smoke billowing out of a stone-built building which reminded Athelstan of the nave of a primitive church. It stood in the centre of the garden. In its prime it must have been pleasing to the eye but now its shutters, blackened and tattered, hung from their scorched leather hinges, whilst the door had buckled and crumbled under the heat.

Athelstan went inside the long, barn-like structure. All internal woodwork had been burnt to a feathery blackness, leaving smoke-blackened walls open to the sky. Clouds of ash and smoke still curled and swirled. Covering his mouth with the scented cloth Flaxwith gave him, Athelstan walked up the long chamber. He stared around, pressing the pomander firmly against his face. However, the smoke was too thick to stay, so he returned to the parlour. Athelstan sat down on the stool, gratefully accepting a mouthful of rich Bordeaux from Cranston’s miraculous wineskin.

‘What happened, Sir John?’ he asked, handing the wineskin back. ‘What was that building?’

‘A hermitage, a refuge built by Lady Anne’s late husband. A number of apothecaries have them, where they can safely concoct their remedies and elixirs. According to all the evidence, Turgot went in there to do the same last night. As usual he shuttered and bolted both windows and the door.’

‘Why? What did he fear?’

‘Like Lady Anne’s late husband he worked late at night. Lady Anne was most concerned about the Ignifer and other acts of violence against members of her household – but more of that later. Turgot was in there last night. Nobody gave it a second thought until a scullion heard the roaring flames. He roused the household. They went out but there was nothing they could do. By then the entire building seemed to be bulging with the heat, shutters and door buckling out, most of the red tile roof collapsing, flames shooting up.’ Cranston shrugged. ‘They let the fire burn. Once the conflagration had died they tried to enter. All that is left of Turgot are his blackened bones and the steel and iron from his warbelt.’ Cranston paused as Lady Anne’s steward, Picquart, bustled into the parlour.

‘Lady Anne cannot see anyone,’ he declared, laying a tray of food and pots of ale on the small table. ‘One tragedy follows another.’ He sighed. ‘I was the last to see Turgot alive, you know? Oh, yes,’ he babbled on, ‘the curfew bell was tolling. I went out to the Keep, that’s what the building is called, always has been, built by Lady Anne’s late husband when he was a bachelor in hot pursuit of the beautiful Lady Anne Lasido. A strong building, rather primitive inside but there were braziers to keep it warm and some rugs on the floor. Turgot was an apprentice here, a good one. I always thought he was the son Lady Anne yearned for …’

‘What happened,’ Athelstan asked sharply, ‘with Turgot last night?’

‘Nothing. I knocked on the door. He unlocked and unbolted it, I remember that. He looked content enough. I made signs asking him if he needed anything to eat or drink. He assured me, in his own unique way, that he did not. I remember he held a pot of lavender in his hand. He was mixing this with something else and he invited me to smell it. I did. I bade him goodnight and returned to the house.’

‘So Turgot was in the Keep mixing potions and powders?’

‘Yes. As I have said, he was very good at it. Lady Anne was most respected by the Guild.’

‘Did anything untoward happen?’ Athelstan demanded.

‘Lady Anne, after the tragedy occurred, was distraught, but she told us that she believed someone was in the garden last night. She was in her chamber when she heard sounds but she didn’t give it a second thought. Well, until that happened.’

‘So,’ Athelstan replied slowly, ‘the household retires for the night. Turgot is working in the Keep. The first signs of the tragedy are the flames roaring and the roof collapsing, yes?’

Picquart nodded in agreement.

‘All you could do was watch,’ Athelstan continued. ‘Turgot was inside?’

‘We found his remains, God assoil him. They were pathetic, nothing but blackened bones. They’ve now been sheeted. Lady Anne will see to the burial. She has also visited the devastation. She kept repeating that Turgot used the Keep to distil herbal concoctions. He liked to work alone. He would only open the door to admit someone he knew and trusted.’