Authors: Paul Doherty
Athelstan broke from his reverie. Cranston was bellowing at two apprentices from a nearby smithy who were hurling pieces of charcoal at each other. His shouts and the ugly muttering of others drove the sooty-faced imps back into the smithy. They walked on. Athelstan’s attention was caught by an itinerant preacher garbed like St Christopher, or so he proclaimed, as he warned about the ‘foul, bubbling stew of corruption of the city, rich with murderous misdeeds and all forms of wickedness’. Athelstan quietly agreed with the words. He felt uneasy, as if they were being watched and shadowed, though he could not detect anything amiss. They reached St Andrew’s Cornhill, a veritable haven for felons, a dark den of thieves, apple squires, nips and foists. Cranston was immediately recognized. Insults were hurled, followed by clods of icy filth. Cranston drew both sword and dagger and the danger receded. They went up Aldgate towards the imposing entrance to the Minoresses. Just before the great double-barred gate, Cranston plucked at Athelstan’s sleeve and pointed to a large life-like statue of the Virgin half-stooped over an empty cradle. Beside the statue hung a bell under its coping, a red tug rope dangled down to lie curled in the empty cradle.
‘If a mother,’ Cranston explained, ‘does not want her baby, she places it in the cradle and pulls the rope.’ He turned and pointed back down the street. ‘The mother would probably hide there to watch and wait until one of the good sisters appeared.’ He approached the gate and pounded on the wood. A hatch high up in the door opened and a face peered out.
‘Jack Cranston,’ the coroner declared, ‘and Brother Athelstan, parish priest of St Erconwald’s.’
‘Oh, the miracle!’ a voice exclaimed.
‘Yes, we are.’ Cranston laughed. ‘Now come on, Sister, open up. Our legs are freezing and I do not want the cold to rise any further.’ The portress giggled, the postern door swung open and both the coroner and friar stepped inside. They followed their blue-garbed guide across the cobbles, through the great cloisters and into the parlour of the guesthouse. A warm sweet-smelling chamber, its white walls were dominated by the cross of San Damiano and painted scenes from the lives of St Francis and St Clare. The rushes on the floor were green, supple and fragrant with powdered herbs. The portress ushered them to chairs placed around a square table and wheeled in two capped braziers to provide greater warmth. She explained that Mother Superior would be with them soon – in the meantime, would they like refreshment? Blackjacks of ale and dishes of soft herb cheese on strips of manchet bread were just being served when Mother Clare bustled into the guestroom. A cheery-faced woman, the Mother Superior gave a scream of delight at seeing ‘Old Jack’. She then embraced both him and Athelstan in a warm, tight hug of welcome.
‘Well,’ she indicated that they retake their seats, ‘eat and drink. Remember what St Francis said, and this even includes Dominicans.’ She winked at Athelstan. ‘The first rule of a Christian is to be hospitable. Good, you are eating. Now, why are you here? Oh, no,’ her fat fingers flew to her chubby face, ‘of course, Lady Anne Lesures is already here.’ Her voice fell to a whisper. ‘Poor Isolda Beaumont.’
‘She was left here as a foundling?’
‘Yes, Brother, we took Isolda. I was novice mistress at the time,’ she shook her head, ‘just over twenty years ago. We called her Isolda Fitzalan because she was left in the gate cradle, wrapped in a cloth boasting the arms of the Fitzalans …’
‘Azure and Or, a branch of oak, vert and fructed or …’
‘Precisely, Sir John – correct to the last detail.’
‘The Fitzalans.’ Athelstan glanced swiftly at Cranston. ‘Surely Thomas Fitzalan, the present Earl of Arundel, is powerful? Feared even by Gaunt?’
‘Don’t let your imagination run away with you, Brother.’ Mother Clare smiled. ‘The Fitzalans are legion in number. I suspect that one of their young women from a minor branch of the family became pregnant out of wedlock and decided she must give the child away.’ Mother Clare sighed and helped herself to a strip of toasted cheese. ‘The swaddling blanket is no real indication of birth, it could be used by some maid or servant to show the child was noble born.’
‘Why Isolda?’ Athelstan asked. ‘A rather unusual name?’
‘Very simple, Brother. We found a scrap of parchment pushed into a fold of the blanket on which the name Isolda was written.’
‘Are many such children left here?’
‘A few, always girls, and remember, Brother, many mothers often change their mind and return for their child.’
‘But not in Isolda’s case?’
‘Never.’
‘What was she like?’
Mother Clare touched her starched white wimple. ‘She was, even as a little girl, extraordinarily beautiful, graceful in all her ways.’ Mother Clare put her face to her hands then took them away. ‘God forgive me, Isolda was also avaricious, wilful, obdurate and selfish.’ The nun crossed herself swiftly. ‘There. I have said it, God forgive me but it’s the truth. Isolda was greedy for wealth and power.’
‘And did she get that through her marriage to Sir Walter?’
‘No.’ Mother Clare blew her cheeks out in a long sigh. ‘Isolda often returned here after her marriage, ostensibly to help Lady Anne and others with our novices.’
‘And?’
‘Isolda always had a bitter litany of recriminations against her husband. He was wealthy, his purse bulged with coins, but the purse strings rested very firmly in his hands.’
‘Are you sure?’ Cranston asked.
‘Jack, would I lie to you?’ Mother Clare blew him a mock kiss.
‘So,’ Cranston shook his head, ‘Isolda had little or no money for herself?’
Mother Clare nodded in agreement.
‘Nicholas Falke, God bless him,’ Cranston breathed, ‘is a very experienced serjeant-at-law. He is also expensive.’
‘So who paid him to represent Lady Isolda?’ Athelstan asked. ‘It could have been “pro bono” or, in this case, “pro amore” – love. Falke was, and still is, much smitten with Lady Isolda.’ The friar turned to Mother Clare. ‘Do you know?’ She pulled a face and shook her head.
‘So in your view, the marriage was a failure?’
‘Brother,’ she replied, ‘after her marriage Isolda often came here. At first she acted the great lady, being feasted and feted. Time passed. She was married to Sir Walter for five years, but we noticed the change. She became deeply unhappy but, there again, I wasted little time on that. Isolda was rarely satisfied. I think she resented her husband for many reasons.’
‘Did Vanner ever come with her?’
‘Oh, yes, an obsequiously faithful shadow, a man of keen wit but few words. I suspect Isolda liked to see him dance attendance.’
‘And Rosamund Clifford, her maid – she too was a foundling here?’
‘Yes, she was.’
‘Rumour claims her father was Buckholt, Sir Walter’s steward?’
‘Rumour, Brother, can go hang itself,’ Mother Clare retorted. ‘That is nonsense. All I can tell you is that after Sir Walter married Isolda, Lady Anne Lesures secured Rosamund a place in the Beaumont household.’
‘And the relationship between the two women?’
‘Rosamund was as different from Isolda as chalk is from cheese. Pretty, very demure, very much in awe of Isolda.’ She paused, scratching her chin. ‘Indeed, both came back here. I suppose they regarded this house as the only home they truly had.’
‘Do you know if Isolda met anyone else in the city?’
‘Brother, I am immured here. I cannot say where Lady Isolda went.’
‘And the murder of Sir Walter came as a shock?’
‘God save us, Brother. It chilled our souls. At first I couldn’t believe what had happened. I thought it was a mistake. In the weeks before Sir Walter died, neither Isolda nor Rosamund came here. We only learnt what happened …’ Her voice faltered, and Athelstan leaned over and squeezed her hand.
‘Mother Clare,’ he said softly, ‘all we want is the truth.’ He withdrew his hand.
‘After Sir Walter died we had visitors enough: Lady Anne Lesures, Sir Henry, Buckholt, Garman and of course Master Nicholas Falke, the lawyer. The household of Firecrest Manor were always welcome here. The Beaumonts have always been generous patrons of this nunnery.’ She blinked. ‘Sometimes I wonder why. I mean, you men are so eager to make reparation for the sins of the flesh, especially those of hot-blooded youth.’
‘I can’t comment on that,’ Cranston retorted. ‘There is only one woman in my life, the Lady Maude, God bless her. Anyway, since the murder?’
‘Sir Henry still visits us. He has made it very clear that the murder of his brother was Isolda’s doing and hers alone, no reflection on the Minoresses or our good work here.’
‘But Sir Walter came here after his marriage?’
‘Yes, until he fell sick and weak. Sometimes he would send Buckholt, his steward.’
‘And Parson Garman?’
‘Edward Garman is a former Hospitaller, now a priest, chaplain at Newgate and,’ her smile widened, ‘my very distant kinsman. Oh, yes, like all men he was much smitten by Isolda and, as with Master Falke, came here after the murder to discover more about her past, her childhood, anything that could be used in her defence. Falke and Garman passionately believed in Isolda’s total innocence. However,’ she added flatly, ‘Buckholt told me about me about the posset cup. God forgive her but that was damning evidence.’
‘And Lady Anne Lesures?’
‘Oh, Anne, like many a young woman, married a man much older than her, a powerful city merchant, a patron of this house. He introduced Lady Anne to us. Good Lord, I have known her for so many years. Adam Lesures was an apothecary, a spicer and a very good one despite his deep love for rich red wine. Lady Anne has inherited his place in the Guild. Adam was also, so I understand,’ Mother Clare lowered her voice, ‘a member of Sir Walter’s free company, though after he returned, Adam ploughed his own furrow and left Sir Walter to his own devices. Adam became a patron of our house and, as I say, introduced us to Lady Anne – Anne Lasido as she was then known, the daughter of a London wool merchant.’ Mother Clare touched the wooden tau cross hanging on a cord around her neck. ‘Lady Anne proved to be of great assistance to us, introducing our novices to noble and genteel society according to a particular young woman’s talents and inclinations. Lady Anne had a great admiration for Isolda but, like me, she was not fooled by Isolda’s air of cloying sweetness. We thought marriage to Sir Walter would answer her needs and change her.’
‘And Isolda continued to come back here, I mean before the murder?’
‘Of course.’
‘Did she,’ Athelstan asked, ‘ever refer to “The Book of Fires”?’
‘I have heard of that,’ Mother Clare replied. ‘Of course, Sir Walter was the King’s Master of Ordnance. Rumours abounded that the Beaumonts possessed secret formulas. Isolda sarcastically referred to how her husband’s wealth came from fire.’
‘And did she discuss her marriage to Sir Walter?’
‘Not so much discuss as pronounce. As I have said, she resented his control. Isolda really wanted to be by herself and do what she wanted. You could see the marriage was not one made in heaven and on that,’ Mother Clare rapped the tabletop with her fingers, ‘let me explain. On a number of occasions, just weeks before the murder, Isolda visited our small library. She was as learned in her horn-book as any scholar at St Paul’s, though her real interest, or so I thought, was the tales of Arthur and Avalon. You can imagine my surprise when I decided to follow her into the library. I hid in the shadows – you see, her visits had made me curious. Anyway, something happened and she had to leave quickly. Once she had gone, I crossed to the book she had placed on the lectern. To my surprise it was the
Codex Juris Canonici –
the Code of Canon Law. When I opened the book, the marker, a red ribbon, lay across the chapter on seeking an annulment to a marriage.’
‘An annulment!’ Athelstan exclaimed. ‘Did she ever say anything about that?’
‘Never, Brother. I don’t know if she was seeking an annulment. Did she hate her marriage so much, resent her husband so deeply? I don’t …’ She broke off at a knock at the door. A young novice entered and whispered a message.
‘Oh, bring her in,’ Mother Clare trumpeted. She glanced around the novice. ‘Come in, Lady Anne. I have no secrets from you.’
Lady Anne Lesures, garbed in robes very similar to the nun, swept in, smiled at Cranston and Athelstan then pecked Mother Clare on the cheek.
‘Brother Athelstan,’ she explained, ‘I have been very busy. I wish I’d known you were coming here.’
‘Why?’
‘Oh, never mind, I shall explain before we leave.’
‘Come,’ Mother Clare beckoned, ‘come in, Anne, and close the door. I was telling Sir John about Isolda reading the code about annulment.’
‘Did she ever discuss it with you?’ Athelstan asked.
‘No.’ Lady Anne’s face sharpened. ‘Never. Isolda was spoilt, wilful and greedy but she had a high opinion of herself and her marriage. I didn’t give it a second thought. Indeed,’ she rubbed the side of her face, ‘I’d forgotten all about that.’
‘And you were friendly with her husband, Sir Walter?’
‘Brother Athelstan, as you can imagine, we walked the same meadow and rested in the same orchard: banquets, celebrations, guild days and festival occasions. I would pester Sir Walter for alms for a number of good causes. Sir Walter was very kind. He entrusted his
Novum Testamentum
– his New Testament – to me, a great family treasure. However, about a year before he died, Sir Walter grew sickly, tired, reserved and withdrawn, so I had fewer dealings with him.’
‘During the trial,’ Cranston observed, ‘it was alleged that Sir Walter’s sickness could have been due to a slow poisoning. Sutler seemed to believe that, as did Buckholt.’
‘Sir John,’ Lady Anne grasped Mother Clare’s wrist, ‘we know nothing of that.’
‘And Reginald Vanner?’
‘As I said,’ Mother Clare declared, ‘Isolda just used him like she used everyone else. Yes, Lady Anne?’
‘Oh, I agree.’
‘And “The Book of Fires”, Lady Anne? Did Isolda ever discuss that with you?’
‘Brother Athelstan, I know about “The Book of Fires”. Adam, my late husband, fought with Sir Walter and the Luciferi in Outremer.’ She held up a gloved hand. ‘No, Brother, they certainly did not act as comrades in arms. Adam, like many mercenaries who often adopt a new name and identity during their fighting years, was most reluctant to speak about his time in the House of War.’