Paul Doherty: The Book of Fires

‘Clever little friar.’ She took the cloth from her mouth, where a slight creamy froth bubbled. ‘So accurate, so exact in so many details.’ She moved, her hands still clutching the cloth, and wagged a finger at Athelstan. ‘Cranston is right. You are a ferret in human flesh. I warned Turgot about you, I really did. There’re a few errors, some gaps, but what does it matter, eh? Why should I wait? Isolda has gone. Turgot has gone. What is left for me?’ She coughed throatily. Athelstan glimpsed blood bubbling in the froth staining her thin, pale lips. ‘At least we sent Black Beaumont to judgement before us. He was the cause of it all.’ She coughed, a sobbing sound which twisted her body. ‘He stole from us and I nearly stole it back.’ She sat rocking in her chair, her face twisted, her eyes fluttering. She gave a deep sigh and tilted sideways, sprawling on to the floor, her body convulsing, then she lay still.

Athelstan knelt down and pressed his hand against the side of her neck, but he could detect no pulse of life. He twisted her face towards him. She stared back, an empty, glassy gaze as blood trickled between her lips.

‘God knows what she swallowed.’ The friar rose and gingerly shook the blood-stained cloth. He gently sifted the small yellow pellets out on to the tabletop.

‘You knew she would do that?’ Cranston demanded.

‘Yes, I did. Whatever her crimes, Sir John, the tortures Gaunt would have inflicted should not be imposed on any human being. I prayed for judgement and we have received it. She and Turgot have gone to God to answer for their crimes.’

‘You will give her the last rites, Brother?’

‘Not me, Sir John.’ Athelstan walked to the door. ‘Stay with her until I return.’ He rapped on the door and the turnkey unlocked it. He glimpsed Lady Anne’s corpse sprawled on the floor. Athelstan calmed him, whispering that the coroner had matters in hand. The gaoler took him down to the shadow-filled chapel where Parson Garman was kneeling on a prie-dieu before the small Lady altar, lit by a halo of taper-light. The chaplain did not move as Athelstan walked slowly up behind him.

‘You must have suspected why we brought her here,’ the friar declared. Parson Garman remained kneeling, glancing over his shoulder as the turnkey left, closing the chapel door.

‘She’s dead,’ Athelstan continued. ‘She took her own life. You should give Lady Anne what spiritual solace you can.’

‘Why?’ Garman whispered.

‘You know who she really was,’ Athelstan continued. ‘You recognized what Anne Lasido was capable of. You and her, Parson Garman, are well suited. Sir Walter returned decades ago from Outremer – you followed shortly afterwards. You, Adam Lesures and Anne Lasido became firm friends. I suspect that you and she had a passionate affair. Did she become pregnant with your child?’

‘You are correct.’ Garman’s voice was calm. ‘There were three of us – me, Anne and Adam Lesures. Anne was a wild, free spirit, flattered by our passion for her. She held love trysts with both of us and became pregnant. Adam Lesures did not wish to acknowledge the child, and neither could I. I had applied to the Bishop’s curia to be ordained.’ The parson rose from the prie-dieu and walked through the dancing shadows towards Athelstan. ‘We thought it best if Anne withdrew, had her child and then married Adam Lesures. Whatever you may think of her, Brother Athelstan, Adam truly loved her.’

‘And the child?’

‘You know full well, Brother Athelstan, that she was handed over to the Minoresses. Adam Lesures swore that if that happened, and we both kept silent, he would marry Anne.’

‘Isolda could have been your daughter?’

‘Could have been, might have been.’ The chaplain mimicked Athelstan’s words. ‘There are more important matters than a love child, a baby girl. I had a vocation to be a priest, to spread the message amongst the poor.’

‘You approved of Isolda’s marriage to Beaumont?’

‘I neither approved nor disapproved.’

‘Yes, you did. You and Lady Anne saw the marriage as a way of bringing Sir Walter down, of seizing his secrets and sharing his wealth. Beaumont, however, was a match for all of you – cunning as a snake. Isolda did not get what she wanted. Sir Walter began to raise doubts about his marriage. You, because of your deep hatred for him, were only too willing to feed his anxieties, to taunt him. You brought those almond-coated figs. Did you suspect Isolda was poisoning him? Given Sir Walter’s grumbling sickness, the thought must have crossed your mind, but you did not really care, did you, as long as Beaumont died. Revenge sweet enough for you.’

Garman just stood, Ave beads wrapped around his right hand as he rubbed his mouth with his left. Athelstan was immediately struck by the similarity between this priest and Lady Anne: that same hard, unfaltering gaze of a zealot, of a soul totally locked in its own purposes.

‘Your daughter …?’

‘If she was my daughter.’

‘Isolda was condemned to a brutal death.’

‘I could do nothing.’

‘Except allow Lady Anne to give her Ave beads?’ Athelstan pointed at those wrapped around Garman’s finger. ‘Though Isolda’s beads were not for prayer.’ The chaplain did not reply.

‘And afterwards,’ Athelstan stepped closer, ‘did you suspect who the Ignifer was? You knew Anne Lesures. You were once close to her as she was to you – that’s one of the reasons she visited this prison, to sustain a relationship begun decades earlier.’

‘I hear what you say, Brother, but,’ he shrugged, ‘what are suspicions? Anne Lesures and Isolda never confided in me. I was a mere spectator. Moreover, I am dedicated to causes more noble, more important than the wicked doings of this person or that. I pray, I strive for a better world. The building of a New Jerusalem, God’s Commonwealth here on earth.’

‘Parson Garman, you frighten me, you truly do.’

‘Why, Brother?’

Athelstan shrugged and turned away. ‘You still have duties, Parson Garman. You should see to Anne Lesures’ corpse and soul. I must meet Nicephorus.’

‘Brother Athelstan, I asked you a question. Why do I frighten you?’

‘Oh, because you make me wonder. Do we priests, who claim to love everybody, do we, in the end, really love anybody?’ Athelstan raised a hand. ‘Good day, Parson Garman.’