The Book of Fires (13 page)

‘I would agree with that,’ Cranston murmured. ‘But Adam and Sir Walter were enemies?’

‘No,’ Lady Anne retorted. ‘Their relationship was cold, distant but professional. I gathered there was bad blood between them but Adam remained tight-lipped. I, on the other hand, had a most cordial relationship with Sir Walter.’ She fluttered her eyelids flirtatiously. ‘I think Sir Walter liked me.’

‘And my original question about “The Book of Fires”. Did Isolda ever discuss it with you?’

‘Very rarely. When she was imprisoned I did ask her of its whereabouts – had she stolen it? But all she knew was that Sir Walter had said its hiding place would be a revelation to all. How few would even guess it was safe on the island of Patmos – and no, Brother, I don’t know what he meant by that.’

‘And Buckholt?’

‘Forget the rumours, Brother Athelstan, about Buckholt being Rosamund Clifford’s father – that’s nonsense. After Sir Walter was introduced to Isolda he often visited this convent, and Buckholt would accompany him. In a word, Buckholt became very sweet on Rosamund.’ Lady Anne licked her lips. ‘I introduced Rosamund into the Beaumont household with Sir Walter’s permission. We hoped Rosamund and Buckholt would become betrothed, but they certainly did not. Buckholt loved Rosamund but she would have none of it. Some people argued that was another reason for Buckholt’s hatred. He believed Isolda had turned Rosamund against him.’

‘Did Isolda,’ Athelstan asked, ‘have such power and influence over Rosamund?’

‘Oh yes,’ Lady Anne declared. ‘That’s why we introduced Rosamund into Sir Walter’s household, I mean, Rosamund and Isolda being so close. They seemed to be born for their respective roles, Isolda the great lady and Rosamund the trusted maid.’

The conversation petered out. Athelstan rose and walked around the chamber. ‘Garman, Lesures and Beaumont,’ he spoke over his shoulder, ‘served in the Luciferi. Apparently the company broke up and the soldiers went their separate ways. Beaumont held “The Book of Fires” and kept it to himself. Could the manuscript be the cause of the breakup of the Luciferi, Lady Anne? Mother Clare?’

‘I’m not sure,’ Lady Anne replied. ‘Adam refused to talk about his service.’

‘And the same is true of Parson Garman,’ Mother Clare quickly added.

‘I think you are correct, Brother,’ Lady Anne continued. ‘Sir Walter amassed a great deal of information about cannon, powder and, above all, Greek fire, but he refused to share these secrets with others. Knowing Sir Walter’s greed for both money and power, I suspect he cheated them out of it and no man, especially a soldier, likes to proclaim how he was tricked and duped.’

Athelstan nodded and returned to his chair.

‘One further matter,’ Cranston asked, ‘Parson Garman? He also visited you here, Mother Clare. He met Isolda and was much taken by her. What else?’

‘Edward is a distant kinsman in more ways than one,’ the nun replied. ‘In his youth he too served with the Luciferi. Afterwards he lived for a while as a Hospitaller in Outremer. He returned to London to be ordained, was appointed as chaplain and became a spokesman for the poor, especially the wretched prisoners in Newgate. He didn’t just come here to visit Isolda but also to see Lady Anne.’

‘Oh, don’t …’ Lady Anne waved a hand playfully.

‘What?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Lady Anne does good work for us but she also performs sterling service as the Abbess of the Order of St Dismas, which is dedicated to helping prisoners in Newgate. Now,’ Mother Clare’s voice fell to a whisper, ‘Edward Garman, God bless him, knows about the Upright Men – he is passionate about their cause. They have assured him that when the Great Revolt occurs he will be amongst the saved not the damned. When the black and red banners are raised, Newgate will be stormed and any official, be he Crown or Church, will face summary trial and execution.’

‘I understand,’ Cranston murmured, ‘many places will be marked down for destruction, whilst others will be protected, and the same goes for individuals.’

‘We are the same here,’ Mother Clare added. ‘All we do is help the poor. Edward Garman came here to beg Lady Anne’s help for certain prisoners. In return, Garman promised that Lady Anne’s house, her person, possessions and retainers would be protected even if all London burns. Sir Walter, God rest him, always believed that because of Lady Anne’s work amongst the prisoners of Newgate, her house would be the safest in London when the revolt breaks out.’

‘I am sure,’ Lady Anne tried to hide her blush, ‘that Brother Athelstan will also be safe. You are highly regarded.’

‘I’m not too sure,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘What the Upright Men decree now and what will actually happen when the mud is stirred is another matter. But,’ he sketched a blessing in the air, ‘Sir John and I must leave you.’ He paused. ‘Oh, Lady Anne, I just remembered. You said you had something to say to me?’

‘I did not know you were coming here,’ she explained, ‘so I sent Turgot with a letter to you at St Erconwald’s. On the night we were attacked, Turgot returned to the corner of that alleyway. You recall it, a thin slit of blackness from where the Ignifer launched his murderous assault? Turgot knows those runnels, slender as arrow shafts which cut through the lanes and shops. He has formed relationships with the beggars and other outcasts who haunt such dark places. Men and women like himself, mutes and cripples.’ Lady Anne drew in a breath. ‘There is one in particular – Didymus.’

‘Didymus,’ Athelstan intervened. ‘That’s Greek for “twin”?’

‘Ah, yes,’ Lady Anne continued, ‘that’s the mystery. Didymus maintains he is a twin. He claims his brother is always with him, though nobody else can see him.’

‘Not the most reliable witness,’ Cranston joked.

‘Sir John, Didymus sees and smells things we do not.’

‘Smells?’ Athelstan asked.

‘As he did the night we were attacked,’ she replied. ‘Apparently Didymus was in his enclosure discussing matters with his twin brother. Didymus, like Turgot, was educated by the Cistercians. He is skilled in their sign language. On the night of the attack, Didymus saw our assailant creep up the runnel and pause. Didymus informed Turgot how this person was heavily cloaked like a priest,’ she pulled a face, ‘or a woman. He emphasized the latter because he claimed he caught the strong fragrance of a delicate perfume. Turgot questioned Didymus closely. The smell was like that of crushed lilies, very strong and pervasive. The figure did not notice Didymus and passed on. Didymus followed and actually glimpsed the attack taking place at the end of the alleyway. Well, not everything. He glimpsed the flare of flames and heard the hideous screams. Didymus, not the bravest of souls, fled to hide in his enclave. Now,’ she leaned across the table, ‘what is remarkable is Didymus’ description of the perfume. Sir John, Brother Athelstan, Mother Clare will be my witness – that is the same fragrance Lady Isolda always wore.’ She smiled thinly. ‘Anyway, that is the information that Turgot has taken by letter to St Erconwald’s …’

oOoOo

Athelstan and Cranston stood outside the house of the Minoresses and stared down Aldgate.

‘Interesting,’ Cranston murmured. ‘I’ve just remembered Didymus. Despite his apparent folly, he has reputation for being sharp-eyed. On reflection I would say he is a reliable witness. I just wonder who our assailant was, heavily robed and reeking of a woman’s perfume? Anyway, what now, Brother?’

‘I think we should return to Firecrest Manor, Sir John. I have more questions for them all. And that’s the problem,’ he added, ‘many questions, few answers.’ Athelstan stared around. He felt uncomfortable, that chill of apprehension when he suspected he was being watched had returned yet he could not detect the cause, though that would be difficult in this part of the city. The world and its wife processed through here; the good and the great as well as that shifting, constant swarm of London’s underworld, those who lived, lurked and prowled in its shadow. Athelstan stepped aside as a troop of Poor Toms swung by bare-legged and bare-armed, their hair gathered in elf-locks, hollow boots shuffling along the ground. Nearby a line of lunatics, shaking their chains and roaring some madcap song, distracted others making their way to dine at the many cook shops. The colour, noise and stench were intense after the hallowed serenity of the Minoresses. Cranston led him off, Athelstan walking just behind, remained ever-vigilant, searching the crowd for anything suspicious. He was shoved and pushed by emaciated beggars pleading with hands outstretched, waving their clacking dishes under his nose. Gaunt faces glared out of ragged hoods and tattered capuchons. Horses neighed, donkeys brayed and dogs constantly barked. Athelstan glimpsed a slow-moving, lumbering convoy of supply carts with its military escort on its way to the Tower. Shouts, yells and screams pierced the air as two market bailiffs chased a cunning man they had unmasked. The miscreant, his crutch over his shoulder, now leapt like a hare through the crowd. A group of musicians took up residence near a horse trough, but they were so drunk, one of them, wailing on a set of bagpipes, tipped over and fell into the water, provoking raucous laughter from a group of traders bringing their mounts to drink. The toper kept playing his bagpipes provoking the wandering dogs to snarl and bark even more. Horsemen trotted by. Dust clouds swirled in the ice-cold air. Athelstan tried to shake off his unease. He conceded that the true cause might not be so much the noisy crowd but the mysteries they were facing. Truly tangled, probably more than any they had ever confronted. The friar felt many lies had been peddled …

‘Brother, Brother?’ Cranston had walked back. ‘Athelstan, what is the matter? Why are you …?’

The friar just shook his head.

‘Look around, Sir John, we are in the company of rogues. Look at their crafty, gleaming eyes, fingers ready to pick purses. They slide out of their dirty dens like slugs after the rain.’ Athelstan pointed to a cunning man offering the heart of a turtledove wrapped in the skin of a dog to passers-by as a sure remedy against unchaste thoughts.

‘Oh, Brother,’ Cranston followed his direction, ‘and they all come my way. There are many here who’ll be buried in the air at the end of a piece of hempen rope – that’s how these rogues describe a hanging.’

‘But not today,’ Athelstan murmured. He stood, swaying slightly.

‘Athelstan?’ Cranston was now concerned. He knew this little friar sometimes experienced attacks of numbing panic.

‘Sir John, are we in danger? I can feel …’ Athelstan broke off. The convoy of carts to the Tower had now been blocked by a group of Flecti – the Kneelers. These men, their faces hidden behind white masks and garbed in bright yellow robes with a crude red star painted on their backs, were following their own high-backed cart, which displayed a soaring wooden cross in the centre. Such pilgrim groups were becoming increasingly common in London: public penitents doing reparation for their sins through processions, fasting and visiting city churches. Times were hard and fast changing. Plague and Pestilence walked hand in hand. The war in France was lost. Heresy and dissent flourished in the Church. The papacy was still weak, having just returned from its exile in Avignon. Prices were high. Food scarce. Taxes heavy. Trade disrupted. A deeply unwholesome broth was being cooked to bubbling and soon it would spill over. Groups like the Flecti were simply an expression of a deep underlying anxiety. Athelstan watched as the Flecti, about fifty in number, crept behind their cart. The leader would shout, ‘
Flectamus Genua
’ – ‘Let us bend the knee,’ and all would crouch down, heads bowed.

‘
Orate!
’ Pray! the leader shouted.

‘
Miserere Nobis Domine!
’ his followers bellowed back. ‘Lord have mercy on us!’

‘
Levate!
’ Arise, the leader cried, and the Flecti stood up and continued their rhythmic ritual. Yet something was amiss. The Flecti appeared very organized, moving in a military phalanx. Such groups were notorious for wandering about, breaking up in a crowd. Moreover, the Flecti were now spilling around the Tower carts, coming between them and the military escort. The officers in charge were also alarmed. Abruptly the Flecti surged forward, swords, daggers and clubs appearing from beneath their cloaks.

‘Flecti be damned!’ Cranston shouted, drawing both his weapons. ‘Upright Men! And they are after those carts.’ The ambuscade was now sprung. Some of the Upright Men knelt and released crossbow quarrels to empty the saddles of the military escort. Others attacked the line of foot and swarmed over the carts. A broad black banner was abruptly hoisted aloft to ripple ominously in the freezing breeze. The Upright Men were not only intent on seizing Gaunt’s stores but on displaying their power. For a few heartbeats the crowd thronging about fell silent, watching the sharp change of events in shocked surprise. This soon gave way to noisy panic. Many fled the battle now raging around the carts. Women, shrieking with terror, grabbed their children and fled to the nearest church for sanctuary. Others sought shelter in alehouses and taverns yet, even as the crowd scattered, the legion of rogues and rifflers, roaring boys and ruffians surged towards the fierce bloody struggle in the hope of plunder. The fighting was now spreading. A convoy of knights appeared, drawn swords shimmering as they strove to clear the carts of attackers, but more Upright Men streamed out of the mouths of alleys and runnels. Sir John grasped Athelstan and pulled him away, only to be surrounded by a group of Upright Men garbed in white masks and yellow robes. They glimpsed the royal insignia and chain of office around the coroner’s neck and swiftly closed in a clash of whirling steel. Cranston met them sharply. Athelstan picked up a fallen morning star and rushed to help his friend. Swinging the club, the friar beat back one attacker, whilst Sir John, surprisingly light and fast on his feet, closed with the other assailants. Athelstan forgot the freezing cold, only aware of scraping steel, the rasp of sharp breath and the litany of hissed curses. He struck and struck again but his opponent was swift, moving backwards and forwards eyes glittering behind the mask as he searched for an opening. Athelstan lunged, the attacker stepped back and the friar stumbled to one knee. He raised an arm against the expected blow but others had come between him and his assailant. Athelstan staggered to his feet and stumbled back. Sir John was also being protected. Four men, cloaked and hooded, armed with sword and dagger, were driving the Upright Men away in a glittering arc of steel. They were professional swordsmen more interested in forcing their assailants to flee than inflicting bloody wounds. Athelstan glimpsed dark, swarthy faces. He noticed the cloaks of these unexpected angels were of good quality. The same was true of their high-heeled boots, silver spurs clinking at every step. Sir John grabbed Athelstan’s arm, dragging him away from the conflict. The assault on the carts faded, the Upright Men disappearing into the maze of alleyways with what plunder they had seized. More soldiers were streaming into the great enclosure stretching down to Aldgate: archers from the Tower and even a company of Spanish mercenaries camped out at Moorfields. Athelstan stared around. Their mysterious rescuers had disappeared as swiftly and as silently as they had emerged. The friar felt the savage attack had purged his own anxiety as he followed Sir John across Aldgate and on to a thoroughfare leading down to the river. The coroner, having readjusted his warbelt, paused to take a generous slurp from the miraculous wineskin before offering it to Athelstan.