Paul Doherty: The Book of Fires

‘The ghosts are gathering,’ Athelstan murmured. He held Lady Anne’s gaze. ‘All the souls have come to witness. Evil is like a snake,’ he smiled thinly, ‘or Greek fire. Eventually it turns and strikes back.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘So we begin. You were born Anne Lasido, daughter of a London merchant who strove to secure a good marriage for you. However, you were headstrong and wilful, indeed, very much like your daughter, Isolda.’

Lady Anne started, clenched white fists coming up to her mouth.

‘You became,’ Athelstan continued, ‘involved with a young man. Now for the moment, indeed for the matter in hand, his name and status do not concern us. One thing I am certain of, it was not Walter Beaumont. Anyway, you had a romance, an affair, with this bachelor, and became pregnant.’ Athelstan gestured at the coroner. ‘Sir John here has provided a few details about your family life: after all, you consider him an old friend whom you’ve known for many years. Of course, that did not matter when our noble coroner became an obstacle to your plans. You truly are a Judas woman. In brief, your father was horrified. He did what many do in such circumstances. He hid you away until the girl child was born. Your father managed to secure a cloth bearing the Fitzalan arms to cover the baby in its swaddling clothes and the child was handed over to the Franciscan Minoresses at Aldgate. You fiercely protested. You truly loved that child with a passion as strong as, if not stronger than, any mother’s for her newborn child. You confronted your father. You insisted on having your way, naming the little girl Isolda, an anagram of your own family name, Lasido.’ Athelstan shrugged. ‘It was just a matter of playing with the letters of a word. Time passed. You matured into a ruthless, strong-willed woman who never forgot what had happened. You became betrothed to Adam Lesures and eventually exchanged vows with him at the church door and settled down to married life. Your husband was an apothecary, skilled in powders and potions, a worthy member of the Guild – but he also had a past. Adam Lesures had once served with Black Beaumont’s Luciferi. Adam was probably an officer, an ignifer, skilled in casting fires. At first he did not talk about his years abroad. This was common enough amongst seasoned veterans. The past was the past. Yet, Lady Anne, you are most persuasive and the truth would dribble out, a little here, a little there, whenever Sir Adam was in his cups and, I am sure, that was quite often.’ Athelstan stared at this ‘ ferrea virago’ , a woman undoubtedly of iron will and inflexible purpose. ‘Slowly,’ he continued, ‘your late husband divulged secrets about Beaumont. How he deserted his comrades and, above all, his monopoly of the secrets contained in Mark the Greek’s “The Book of Fires”. It would explain how Beaumont’s wealth was mainly rooted in that but, if Sir John here is to be believed, Adam Lesures was no match for Beaumont. He was fearful of him, wasn’t he? Too frightened to take arms against him. Too in awe of a man who had led an attack on the Imperial chancery in Constantinople. Your late husband would also whisper about much darker secrets. How some of those Black Beaumont had led had mysteriously disappeared. He may have even given you chapter and verse about those dreadful events on the island of Patmos. But what could he do? I suspect your husband was exhausted, weakened by his years abroad. If challenged, Black Beaumont would prove to be a most resolute foe and Sir Adam Lesures simply accepted things for what they were. You were different. Sir Adam was wealthy in himself and you acted as his lady, the wife of a powerful, rich burgess. Your husband undoubtedly drew a good profit as an apothecary, his experience abroad, his knowledge of strange powders and potions, the mixture of certain elements. You used your status under the guise of good work to return to the house of the Minoresses in Aldgate. Of course, your real task was to keep a close and solicitous eye on Isolda. You would single her out as your favourite good work. In truth, you watched her grow and mature. You noted her beauty. In your eyes Isolda was unique, very special, hence your devotion to your holy namesake, St Anne, mother of the Virgin. In your twisted soul, in that mind of yours which teems like a box of worms, you drew a comparison between St Anne and her child with yourself and Isolda. Your house is decorated with paintings and triptychs which proclaim this devotion. You are much taken with the verse “ Sicut mater, sic filia ” – “As the mother, so the daughter”. You taught that to Isolda, who learned at a very early age that you were her mother and that she must keep this secret. “ Sicut mater, sic filia ” in Isolda’s eyes became “ Sicut filia, sic mater ”, “As the daughter, so the mother”, which,’ he got to his feet and walked over to the graffiti etched on the wall, ‘would explain this last carving by Isolda – SFSM.’

Athelstan walked back to stand over Lady Anne, who glared fiercely back. I have you, the friar thought. I have flushed you out of the undergrowth and you are running.

‘You knew I might.’ Athelstan voiced his thoughts as he read the challenge in her eyes. ‘You did, didn’t you? You feared the confrontation which is now taking place. That’s why you tried to kill me and Sir John. You are a high-ranking city lady. Sir John knows about you – you must have heard of our reputation. You wanted to end our interfering.’

‘Brother Athelstan,’ she smiled, ‘you should have been a minstrel, a songster, a troubadour. What a tale. A dark ballad.’ Her smile faded. ‘Isolda would never have kept such a secret.’

‘As the mother, so the daughter,’ Athelstan responded blithely. ‘It was very much in her interest to keep silent because,’ he leaned over the table, ‘your snake-like mind, curling as dangerously as any viper, had decided to have justice. Your husband died. You and he had no children but your secret daughter had matured into a beautiful young woman and the very wealthy Black Beaumont was a bachelor. Everyone respects Lady Anne Lesures. Beaumont saw you for what he thought, a silly widow woman with too much time and money on her hands, full of fanciful ideas about helping the poor and dispossessed. Oh, what a hideous mistake he made! As you danced between Firecrest Manor and the Minoresses, you began weaving your web. You plotted to get your Isolda into Beaumont’s arms, his bed, his household and his wealth. You succeeded, but it truly was a May-December marriage and, worse, one fashioned in Hell rather than Heaven. Beaumont made a mistake about you but when it came to his own he was as cunning as any old fox. He did not concede anything to Isolda, be it wealth or, more importantly, the secrets of Mark the Greek’s “The Book of Fires”. Isolda, frustrated, turned back to you, her mother and patroness, to advise her. She secretly met you in the city. You provided her with money, even presents, such as a stoppered jar of precious perfume which exudes the odour of crushed lilies.’

‘Evidence!’ Lady Anne snapped. ‘Friar, you tell a tittle-tattle tale with no proof.’

‘In a while, in a while,’ Athelstan replied. ‘But back to my tittle-tattle tale. The marriage worsened. Beaumont, full of idle recriminations, recalled the sins of his youth. He was a great sinner, Sir Walter, a lecher with many paramours. He began to wonder if he was Isolda’s father, one of those blind acts of fate. Did he ever raise the issue with you? Perhaps he did, but you would assure him that she was not.’

For a moment, Lady Anne let the mask slip and she smirked as if savouring some secret joke.

‘Others, however,’ Athelstan continued, ‘hotly encouraged him in such fanciful thoughts for their own secret reasons. Sir Henry, Parson Garman.’