The Book of Fires (14 page)

‘We still go to Firecrest Manor, Brother?’

Athelstan took a full mouthful of the rich Bordeaux.

‘Of course we do.’ Athelstan handed the wineskin back. ‘Sir John, I am truly sorry about earlier. I was daydreaming.’

‘You were anxious, highly so?’

‘Yes,’ Athelstan conceded. ‘This business at Firecrest, “The Book of Fires”, the attacks, it’s different from the other mysteries that have challenged us. I feel there is something important we have missed. And, of course, there is the business at St Erconwald’s.’ He smiled up at the coroner. ‘Trust me, Sir John, I would love to experience a miracle.’ Athelstan slumped down on a plinth of stone and stared up the lane. He wasn’t speaking the full truth. He dare not tell Sir John how sometimes, as today, he wished to be free of all this. He would love to escape back to the calm serenity of the cloisters, some hall at Oxford or Cambridge or even a village parish deep in the countryside. He scrutinized the narrow thoroughfare, the filthy sewer choked with filth and sludge, the shuttered windows, lock-fast doors, the crumbling plaster and decaying beams of the houses three or four storeys high, some held up by crutches as they leaned over to block out the sky. The stench was offensive, the cold now tingling the sweat on his body. Athelstan closed his eyes, breathed a prayer and got up.

‘Come, Sir John, enough of my morbid thoughts.’ They walked further down the street. Athelstan saw dust trailing from the scaffolding holding up one of these tottering tenements. He heard a shout behind him and turned. Four men stood at the mouth of the alleyway, dark shapes against the poor light. Athelstan’s heart sank – more grief and trouble!

‘Sir John?’ The coroner had also noticed the strangers and drawn both sword and dagger.

‘Satan’s tits,’ Cranston whispered. ‘Come, Athelstan, flight is better than fight.’ They backed further up the thoroughfare. One of the four men stepped forward, shouting and gesturing at them to return, pointing up at the scaffolding. Cranston and Athelstan, however, continued to retreat. Again the stranger shouted, first in English then in Norman French.

‘Be warned! Be warned!
Avisera! Avisera!
’

Athelstan recalled the dust falling from the tenements. He whirled around and glimpsed the figure high on the scaffolding, the pots arching like two balls through the air. He grabbed Cranston’s cloak, dragging him back up the street. They collided, staggering and clinging to each other as if drunk. Athelstan heard the pot smash close by, followed by the whoosh of one fire arrow and then another. Both coroner and friar fled as the breadth of the entire alleyway behind them erupted into sheets of flame, the fire following the liquid snaking from the shattered pots as remorselessly and as swiftly as any predator its prey. The conflagration greedily seized and consumed everything in its path, racing over midden heaps, so swift Athelstan heard the rats screaming in alarm and agony. He and the coroner, however, were fortunate: they were now free of the racing fire. Athelstan stared up at the scaffolding but the black, bleak figure had vanished. He glanced over his shoulder; his rescuers had also disappeared. The alarm had been raised. Cries of ‘Harrow! Harrow!’ echoed. Doors and shutters were flung open. Householders spilled into the street. Cranston had the presence of mind to shout at them to bring sand, dirt and vinegar-soaked sheets. Luckily the flames had not spread to the wooden-beamed houses either side, though the occasional blue and orange flame flickered dangerously close here and there.

‘Come, Friar.’ Cranston plucked Athelstan’s sleeve and they went back the way they had come. ‘Shall we eat and drink our fill, Brother?’ Cranston offered his constant remedy to any danger.

‘I don’t think so.’ Athelstan’s fear had given way to anger. ‘I sensed we were being followed and that was true,’ he laughed abruptly, ‘by the Ignifer as well as our angel escort, who have rescued us twice in one morning. I wonder who they are and why they save us? Sir John, this mystery is deep, dangerous and tangled.’ He paused. ‘If I didn’t know better, I would truly wonder whether Lady Isolda didn’t escape the fires of Smithfield and, like some vengeful wraith, now pursues her persecutors.’ Athelstan walked on, vigilant about the sights and sounds around them. ‘And there’s the rub,’ he added. ‘We were not party to her death, so why the attacks on us?’

‘Do you think she was innocent, Brother?’

‘Lady Isolda was spoilt and wilful,’ Athelstan paused as a cripple scuttled across the street in front of him, his wooden hand rests clattering on the frozen ground. Somewhere in a chamber above them a boy’s voice chanted the ‘
Kyrie
’ from the ‘Lamentations’ of Good Friday. ‘Aye, Lord, have mercy on us.’ Athelstan translated the refrain. ‘And Lord have mercy on Lady Isolda and Sir Walter – their marriage was certainly not made in heaven. I wonder who wanted that annulment? She, Sir Walter or both? Was she looking at that Codex of Canon Law because her husband was threatening her?’ Athelstan scratched the side of his face. ‘And if there was an annulment, I wonder on what grounds? No, Sir John, it’s idle to speculate on that or her innocence. We must get to Firecrest Manor as soon as possible. I want answers to certain questions as well as establish who was absent this morning. Strange, isn’t it, Sir John?’

‘What is?’

‘We are dealing with these mysteries, we suffer attacks by the Ignifer, yet we also face danger from the Upright Men. Violence seems to meet us at every turn.’

‘Because?’ Cranston gripped Athelstan’s shoulder. ‘That is the way of the world. The way things are. Such assaults are common and we have just been caught up in one. A similar ambuscade was sprung three days ago in Farringdon ward. A few days before that, a string of pack ponies were seized in Cripplegate. Clement of Chatham, one of Gaunt’s tax collectors, was kidnapped outside St Michael’s Cornhill. The revolt is imminent, Brother, what – two, three months at the very most? Like fruit come to fullness, it has to burst. All we can do is prepare. Look at the signs, Brother, as you would the weather; the clouds gather, the wind picks up and the storm is ready to burst upon us.’

‘And in the meantime?’ Athelstan gathered his cloak about him. ‘Murder awaits, scuttling before us. We catch its shadow but never the substance. So, let us see what new things Firecrest Manor can tell us.’

‘It burns up all things on which it is thrown by bow or catapult.’

Mark the Greek’s
‘The Book of Fires’

C
ranston and Athelstan arrived at the manor only to be informed that no one was available. Sir Henry, Lady Rohesia and Buckholt had gone into the city to deal with certain matters; Rosamund the maid had accompan-ied them. Mortice the buttery clerk, all puffed up with self-importance, his eyes gleaming like those of an angry ferret, brusquely informed them they would either have to wait or go. He soon changed his attitude when Cranston grabbed him by the shoulder and shook him into a more humble and cooperative mood. They were shown into the well-furnished buttery adjoining the kitchen. Here Cranston set up, as he put it, his ‘seat of judgement’. A cook hurriedly served bowls of a steaming hot, well-spiced pottage, dishes of cheese and dried fruit, freshly baked bread and two large blackjacks of ale. One of the turnspits was ‘inducted into the service of the Crown’: Cranston gave him a coin and ordered him to go as swift as a pigeon to the city Guildhall to fetch the coroner’s official scurrier, the red-headed, green-garbed Tiptoft. Athelstan washed himself at a nearby
lavarium
, cleaning off the dirt of the city and the effects of the furious fight near Aldgate. He quickly ate the food, drank the ale, made himself comfortable in a corner and fell asleep. He awoke at least two hours later, according to the day candle on its spigot. Sir John, looking remarkably refreshed, informed him that Tiptoft had been and gone.

‘Nothing,’ the coroner declared, ‘he had nothing to report. Fulchard of Richmond appears to be genuine enough. It would seem a miracle has occurred and he was cured. No lookalike had been seen by any of my searchers and the same is reported by the Harrower of the Dead and the Fisher of Men.’

Athelstan whistled in surprise. He had confided in Cranston that the only way the Great Miracle could be disproved was to demonstrate that someone, however they did it, had taken the place of Fulchard of Richmond, whilst the real cripple had, even though it was nigh impossible to prove, been spirited away. Such a theory, however, lacked any form of evidence. The Fisher of Men had searched the river, the Harrower of the Dead all the lanes, laystalls and alleyways of Southwark – nothing had been found.

‘And the same goes for Reginald Vanner,’ Cranston added. ‘Brother, you are correct. Vanner is dead, but by whose hand, why and how or where his corpse is hidden: all are a mystery.’

‘Then come, Sir John.’ Athelstan undid his chancery satchel. ‘The household have returned?’

‘Aye, and have resigned themselves to further questioning.’

‘Then let’s begin. If it’s to be done,’ he smiled at the coroner, ‘it’s best done swiftly and ruthlessly. We shall take Sir Henry and Lady Rohesia first.’

Cranston asked Mortice, who’d been appointed usher, to fetch both of these. They arrived looking very ill at ease and sat down at the buttery table opposite the coroner and his
secretarius
.

‘We have answered your questions,’ Sir Henry bleated.

‘Then answer them again,’ Athelstan snapped. He had slept well but the memory of the violence earlier in the day still affected him.

‘You are a merchant, Sir Henry. You deal in cannon, culverins, fire, missiles and gunpowder. You and your brother hold a commission for this from the Crown. You own foundries, warehouses and all the impedimenta of a great merchant. Yes?’

Sir Henry agreed.

‘You also own “The Book of Fires” by Mark the Greek?’

‘I don’t, Brother. I never held it. Sir Walter kept it very close. Of course, he talked about it being in a coffer or casket in his own bedchamber. I don’t think it was ever there. In all the years I worked with Sir Walter I swear I never opened it, let alone read it.’

‘Yet Sir Walter dealt in fiery liquids, he distilled oils and ground powders which could inflict great damage?’

‘Yes, but on certain special creations my brother insisted on working by himself. All our craftsmen and their apprentices would fetch things, go here and there or do this and that but, in these matters, Sir Walter acted by himself. Of course,’ Sir Henry hurried on, ‘this was when he was hale and hearty. As he sickened, he withdrew from the trade. Sometimes, perhaps he was preparing for death, he openly regretted what he had done, the wealth he had accumulated and the way he had done it. He declared that the whereabouts of “The Book of Fires” was a matter of revelation, safe on the island of Patmos. Of course, I didn’t know what he was referring to. Patmos is a Greek island, perhaps he visited it as a young man or something happened to him there. I assure you, “The Book of Fires” was Sir Walter’s great secret. He once informed me that the mysteries it held should be left hidden. Sir Walter believed we human beings have a hunger to discover new ways of destroying each other.’

‘Of course,’ Athelstan replied tartly, ‘and that would include himself? As the scripture says, “What doth it profit a man if he gain the whole world but suffer the loss of his immortal soul?”’

‘Perhaps.’ Sir Henry refused to meet Athelstan’s gaze.

‘But “The Book of Fires” definitely exists?’

‘Certainly, Brother, though I have no knowledge of its whereabouts.’

‘Brother Athelstan,’ Lady Rohesia leaned forward, ‘we are not lying. We want that book, as others do. It holds secrets which could provide even greater wealth.’

‘Where did it come from?’ Cranston asked.

‘Another mystery.’ Sir Henry took a deep breath. ‘In our youth Walter and I were apprentices, traders, craftsmen. I was content with that but my brother had a wanderlust, a deep curiosity which pricked and spurred him on. He left London and travelled abroad to Outremer, then on to Constantinople. There are rumours he even journeyed along the Great Silk Road to the fabulous kingdoms of the East, but in truth I know little about that.’

‘How long was he absent?’

‘Oh, about fifteen summers. He left a young man and returned a veteran soldier, a warrior and a most cunning and skilful trader and merchant. He was hardly home a year when I realized how much he had learnt. We began to produce fine powder, better culverins, bombards and cannon. We could manufacture a substance to be used in mining a wall, attacking a gate or defending a castle against besiegers: a fire with horrendous effect, easy to ignite, devastating once lit and most difficult to douse. Only then did we discover that Sir Walter nursed great secrets and had a copy of “The Book of Fires”.’

‘And its origins?’ Athelstan repeated Cranston’s original question.

‘Brother, I do not really know. Search Sir Walter’s manuscripts – everything about his years abroad still remains a mystery. I learnt only a few facts; he was here, there, everywhere. He learnt different languages and used these to disguise and hide even more cleverly all he knew about fire and its use in war. Sometimes in his cups he’d betray a few facts. He apparently led a troop of mercenaries, like the famous White Company in France or Hawkmoor’s in Italy. He called them the “
Luciferi
” – the “Light Bearers”, his own private army. Walter became a
peritus
, highly skilled in cannon, powder and fire, all the impedimenta of war. He led a
comitatus
similarly trained.’

‘Did any of his present household serve with him?’

‘No. Buckholt, Mortice and the rest were hired on his return, I believe Buckholt’s father was a member of his company but he died abroad.’

‘Did your brother’s past,’ Athelstan asked, ‘ever surface to confront and threaten him?’

‘The warnings just over a year ago. I did wonder …’

‘Yes, yes,’ Athelstan replied, ‘how did they go, “As I and ours burnt, so shall ye and yours”? Yet these abruptly ended. Anything else?’

‘Occasionally,’ Sir Henry declared, ‘we would have visitors – Greeks: men muffled, cowled and cloaked. They came here to meet my brother but what their business was he wouldn’t tell me. Occasionally my brother would go into the city and elsewhere; he would insist on being by himself. Again, I cannot help.’

Athelstan stared at this plump merchant prince, the sweat glistening on his thinning pate and rubicund cheeks, the constant shifting eyes, the stubby fingers never still, whilst beside him Lady Rohesia sat as if carved out of stone. You are not telling the full truth, Athelstan thought, but, there again, you are a weak man. Your brother ignored you. Athelstan glanced at Lady Rohesia, who probably was the source of any strength her husband showed. Athelstan drummed his fingers on the tabletop, aware of Sir John moving restlessly beside him.

‘Did you approve of your brother’s marriage to Isolda?’ the coroner asked.

‘I neither approved nor disapproved. It was none of my business.’

‘Oh, yes it was,’ Athelstan accused. ‘Sir Walter was hale and hearty when he espoused Isolda. He was deeply in love with her, at least then. She could have conceived a son, and if that had happened you would no longer be Sir Walter’s heir – but of course that didn’t happen …’ Athelstan pulled a face, ‘Well, it’s obvious. Walter and Isolda are dead – there is no other possible heir except you.’

‘I could object to that.’ Sir Henry quivered with indignation.

‘Object as much as you like, it is still the truth.’ Athelstan caught the smugness in these two worthies. They were cocksure, confident. He sensed their underlying attitude – they would cheerfully confess that they had done nothing wrong, though whether they had done anything right was another matter. ‘Did you hear either Sir Walter or Lady Isolda mention the possible annulment of their marriage?’

‘Never,’ they chorused together, a little too quickly, Athelstan thought.

‘And the fees paid to Master Falke to defend Isolda?’

‘Again,’ Lady Rohesia spoke up, ‘we don’t know. When she was committed to Newgate we sent her comforts, necessities. We thought she had money or that Falke defended her pro bono.’

‘Before all this happened did Falke ever come to this house? Was he on speaking terms with Sir Walter or Lady Isolda?’

‘Never, never,’ Sir Henry repeated emphatically.

‘Did Edmund Garman, Newgate chaplain, visit here?’

‘Yes, yes, he did.’

‘Why?’

‘I suppose because my brother is a rich man and Garman wanted alms for the prisoners. I do know Sir Walter furnished a small chapel in Newgate. I have little to do with Garman. Rumour has it that he too served in the Luciferi before he left to become a Hospitaller.’

‘Were you ever present at their meetings?’

‘No, why should I be? My brother dealt with petitions and requests. I am a merchant.’

‘And when did Sir Walter become ill?’

‘Oh, about a year ago.’

‘In the light of what actually happened,’ Athelstan asked, ‘do you now think that Sir Walter was being poisoned in the months before his death?’

‘Perhaps, but hindsight makes us all very wise. My brother used to love his food. He had a terrible weakness for figs in almond sauce. I believe Parson Garman, who had learnt of this delicacy whilst abroad, would bring him some.’

‘I repeat my question: did you suspect poison?’

‘No. Nor did our physician, Brother Philippe. I believe you know him, Brother Athelstan?’

‘I certainly do. I have a very high regard for him. I will be asking his opinion. By the way, did Brother Philippe attend young Rosamund?’

‘Yes, he did, but he could detect nothing except the fever. Brother Philippe became very busy with this household. Rosamund fell ill on the very day that Lady Isolda took the goblet from Buckholt.’

‘Tell me now,’ Athelstan glanced quickly at Sir John, who now sat with his eyes half closed, ‘your brother travelled abroad about …?’

‘Forty years ago.’

‘And he was away for about fifteen years?’

‘Yes.’

‘He returned and married?’

‘Yes, but his first wife, Matilde, died of a bloody flux only a few months after their wedding. By then my brother was winning a reputation as a great merchant. In fact, we both were. The House of Beaumont was respected, and still is, by Crown, court and Church.’

‘Your brother was a widower. Did he seek consolation with other ladies? Please,’ Athelstan smiled, ‘I don’t want to give offence but simply comment on what many men do.’ He shrugged. ‘And, I confess, some priests as well.’

‘He certainly did.’ Rohesia lost some of her stone-like demeanour.

‘Could that be the reason,’ Athelstan chose his words carefully, ‘Sir Walter was so generous to the Minoresses in Aldgate, well known for their care of female foundlings?’

‘Yes, yes.’ Sir Henry coloured slightly and shifted in his chair. Athelstan wryly noticed how he edged away from his wife and the friar wondered if Sir Walter had made reparation through alms to the Minoresses for his brother’s sins as well as his own.

‘Before you ask,’ Sir Henry measured his words, ‘it is possible my brother may have sired a bastard child, a girl but,’ he added hurriedly, ‘I really can’t say.’

‘No, no, you can’t,’ Athelstan agreed sardonically. ‘In fact, you can’t say much about anything.’

‘And your brother’s murder?’ Cranston, smacking his lips, pulled himself up from his chair. ‘Did you notice anything amiss, out of place, in the weeks, days preceding his death?’

‘Vanner!’ Lady Rohesia exclaimed. ‘We noticed he and Isolda grew much closer. Of course, at the same time, my brother-in-law was confined more and more to his bedchamber. Isolda, when she wasn’t consulting with Vanner, and neither of us can tell you about what, also kept to herself. Oh,’ Lady Rohesia waved a gloved hand, ‘we sensed something was wrong but we had no proof and we were very busy. Sir Walter’s death was a great shock, then the allegations were made and Sutler swept like a tempest into the house. Sir Walter was found dead on Tuesday morning. On the following Friday, just before compline, Sutler returned with a guard and a warrant for Isolda’s arrest.’

‘And Vanner?’ Cranston asked. ‘He was your brother’s clerk. You must miss him?’

‘Yes, I do,’ Sir Henry tapped the table, ‘but now he is gone. He was last seen on the Thursday before Isolda’s arrest going out into the garden just after the angelus bell.’