The Book of Fires (3 page)

‘I have seen that happen,’ Merrylegs spoke up. ‘I am always wary of my oven. I keep oil well away from it.’

‘True,’ Joscelyn the taverner added, ‘if you are drenched in oil the fire races to embrace you as eager as any lover for his sweetheart. Oh, sorry, Father,’ Joscelyn coughed, ‘I shouldn’t have said that, should I?’

‘But it’s true.’ Athelstan smiled. ‘In my youth I served in the king’s array in France.’

‘Did you, Father?’ Watkin and the rest chorused. They were as greedy as a host of hungry sparrows for any tittle-tattle about their priest’s former life.

‘I served in France,’ Athelstan repeated, ‘at a siege where the defenders poured down oil followed by fiery brands. Some of them missed but the oil had a life of its own. I saw fire move as swiftly as the wind. Master Fulchard, continue.’

‘I was burnt, roasted from my head down the entire length of the right side of my body. I was only saved by an old soldier. He knew what to do. He wrapped me in a cloak soaked in vinegar. He saved my life, an English mercenary but one with a good heart. He later took what money I had and used some of his own to help me. I was shipped to the Hospitallers in Rhodes. From there I travelled back to England. My life was saved but I was scarred, a hard, open wound, the pain a dull constant ache. I moved to Richmond in Yorkshire and from there journeyed around the northern shires.’ Fulchard pointed to the heavy, thick wallet on his belt still held by the rat-catcher. ‘Read the letters I hold from the Hospital in Rhodes, licences from the Mayor of York and others. Indeed, I have a more recent one. When I journeyed to Southwark for the vigil, I suffered great pain. I attended the House of Mercy in the hospital at the Priory of St Bartholomew, Smithfield. I was seen by Philippe the physician.’

‘Philippe,’ Athelstan intervened, ‘I know him well. A most skilled doctor, merciful but thorough.’

‘He examined me,’ Fulchard continued. ‘He gave me a tincture to dull the pain. I was to sprinkle it on anything I drank or ate.’

‘Who accompanied you here?’ Athelstan asked. ‘You must have had help?’

‘I did.’ A voice came from behind the clustered parish council. A man pushed his way through and came to genuflect beside Athelstan. The stranger had a square, thick-set face slightly yellowing in the poor light, though his eyes were sharp and bright. He looked harsh and forbidding with unshaven skin and balding head yet his voice was low and cultured.

‘And you are?’

‘Fitzosbert. Former priest, former soldier, former clerk, former this and former that.’ He answered Athelstan’s smile with his own and held up the stump of his left hand. ‘Once a priest, Father, until I became involved in this and that. Hazard was my downfall. The roll of the dice, be it cogged or not. Defrocked by Despenser Bishop of Norwich, the sheriff of the same county eventually took my left hand. I met Fulchard in Richmond on my tour of the shire. He told me a curious tale.’

Athelstan glanced at Fulchard.

‘I told Fitzosbert, Father, how I was sheltering in a hospice near Richmond, also dedicated to St Erconwald. I had a vision, a dream: a man in a long robe appeared to me. He had long hair, a beard and carried a crozier. He said he was Erconwald, formerly Bishop of London and now a Lord of Heaven. He told me to go to St Erconwald’s in Southwark and experience God’s mercy. So I did. The journey was hard and difficult but, unlike Fitzosbert here, I have full licence to beg. In return for a little payment, Fitzosbert helped me. I arrived here at the beginning of the vigil …’

‘And what actually happened during the night?’ Athelstan blessed Fitzosbert and indicated he should stand with the rest.

‘I fell asleep close to the door of the chantry chapel. I was warm and comfortable. You began your Mass. I did not know if I was dreaming or not. I glanced at the chantry chapel door, my eye drawn by the glow of candlelight. This began to grow stronger and move like a mist across the floor. I could not tell if I was asleep or awake but, as the light crept closer, it ran like liquid gold, snaking across the floor, curling past other pilgrims until it reached me. I felt as if I was back in that tavern so many years ago in Athens. I was kneeling, my whole body was swept by a sweetness I could never imagine. Then it left. I wondered what had happened and realized there was no pain. I roused myself and stared down. I thought it was a sham, some trickery. My body was healed. I didn’t know what to say or do. I wanted to wake up and yet at the same time stay in that most pleasant dream. But then as the Mass ended, I fully realized what had happened, that I wasn’t dreaming.’ His voice faltered.

‘And you did not leave the church during the night-time vigil?’

‘No, Father, ask those around me. When I was crippled, I needed help to get up, grasp my crutch. I have to clear people out of my way. Father, I will leave my crutch here …’

Athelstan held up a hand.

‘Mauger,’ he ordered, ‘Watkin and you, Benedicta, go back into the nave. Bring all those who were close to Master Fulchard. Do so now.’

‘I was, Father,’ Fitzosbert spoke up with a lopsided grin. ‘But I suppose you need stronger witnesses?’

‘I suppose I do,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘Now, let’s wait a while.’ He heard the raised voices of members of his parish council calling for witnesses. A short while later six pilgrims stumbled and staggered into the great pool of light, gnarled, twisted and suffering. All clad in rags, they displayed hideous wounds, raw scars and fearful injuries. Athelstan rose, blessed them and walked forward to exchange the kiss of peace. As he did so, he opened his purse on the cord around his waist and pushed a coin into each of their hands feeling their cold skin, their coarse, twisted fingers.

‘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 …’

oOoOo

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 …’

‘Satan’s tits!’ Cranston growled. ‘From one stew pot of wickedness to the next.’ He gazed round the judgement chamber; everything had been removed from the walls: crucifixes, triptychs, painted cloths, tapestries and other ornaments. All these, together with court rolls and other manuscripts, had been taken down to the steel-bound arca, the massive security chest in the Guildhall cellars.

‘Everything which can be stored away has been,’ Cranston murmured to himself. This included his own buxom wife, the Lady Maude, his poppets Stephen and Francis the twins, his wolfhounds Gog and Magog, together with his household retainers. Cranston had sent them deep into the countryside and the protection of a moated, fortified manor house. He’d also arranged for the families of Oswald and Simon, his scrivener and clerk, to join them. Brother Athelstan, however, was a different matter. The little Dominican priest was obdurate. He would not flee when the Great Revolt broke out, even though he conceded that London would be sacked. Cranston certainly agreed with that. He had clashed openly with the Regent, John of Gaunt, and others of the Royal Council who believed the mailed might of royal troops would prevail. How they would fortify the Tower and crush all dissent from there …