The Book of Fires (16 page)

‘One household amongst many.’

‘And Sir Walter?’

‘Brother, an enigmatic man. I fed him physic but I hardly knew him. To be honest, his household always seemed cloaked in secrets and mystery.’

‘And Lady Isolda?’

‘No better than her husband. She wore her beauty like a shield, fair of face and lovely of form. Isolda kept her distance and she made sure you kept yours.’

‘And her health?’

‘I never had to tend to either Isolda or Vanner the clerk, but Sir Walter was close to his sixty-sixth summer, a man whose body had certainly been battered by time and indulgence.’

‘In the year before he died,’ Cranston asked, ‘Beaumont fell ill, greatly confined to his bed. Could that have been poison?’

‘It’s possible, Sir John. Look,’ the physician sipped from his tankard, ‘Brother Athelstan, we have discussed this before. It is very easy to disguise poisons. Too much foxglove and the heart can be seriously affected. Too much arsenic, and remember it can be used for stomach ailments, and the person dies. I would go on oath that some of my patients who died of so-called natural causes were truly poisoned, but it’s one thing to allege, another to prove and convince a jury. Sir Walter is a fine example. He had served abroad. God knows what ills, miasmas, contagions or diseases he’d encountered. He returned to London and lived high on the hog; his belly, bowel, blood and humours must have been affected by all of this. Yes, I had my suspicions, but it was a question of much suspected and nothing really proved. I gave him potions to purge, cleanse and restore his humours. I urged caution in what he ate and drank. After a while, this wasn’t necessary – Sir Walter ate and drank very little.’

‘But on the morning you examined his corpse you concluded that he had been poisoned?’

‘I disagreed with the local physician Milemete – though, there again,’ Brother Philippe spread his hands, ‘it’s hard to link cause and effect. I examined Beaumont’s corpse most carefully: his face was liverish, eyes slightly popping, a white sputum or froth coated his lips and chin. Here,’ the physician patted his own stomach, ‘purplish blotches. Now,’ he supped from his tankard, ‘there are physicians who would argue that such symptoms could be caused by malignant humours rather than a potion. You must also remember, as I told Sutler, that Sir Walter was known to take his own remedies – for example, the last cup of posset was thickly coated with herbs and spices. The wealthy ignore my advice and, as both of you know, many gardens contain more poisons than a sorcerer’s cabinet. When I arrived in the house that morning, of course, there were whisperings and mutterings, so I was most scrupulous. I examined the inside of Sir Walter’s mouth, which had turned singularly dry. I was able to establish that he had drunk a thick, rich posset. I removed some of the crushed herbs, little shreds caught between his teeth and gum. I noticed a blackness of his tongue, mouth and throat. I detected an offensive smell and I concluded that the posset had been used to disguise something. Sutler pressed me on this and I had to be careful. I did concede that I couldn’t prove it beyond reasonable doubt. I used a less rigorous assessment, namely, that on the balance of probability Sir Walter appeared to be poisoned. Sutler seemed satisfied with that.’

‘Of course, he would be,’ Athelstan conceded.

‘You must remember my conviction deepened when Sutler produced more proof. If that steward and buttery clerk had not given evidence, it would have been very difficult to prove anything against Isolda. According to Sutler, Isolda seized the posset to feed her husband, she changed the goblet and Vanner, who went into the city to buy an extra goblet, appears to have been her accomplice. Both judges and jury fastened on that and, Brother, what real defence did Isolda muster?’

‘And the maid?’ Cranston asked. ‘Rosamund Clifford?’

‘Very strange. I was summoned to attend Sir Walter’s corpse. Buckholt told me that Rosamund was lying very ill. Of course, I examined her. She had been vomiting until her belly ached. She had a fever, a terrible thirst and looseness of the bowels, but she was also very young and vigorous.’

‘Could she have been poisoned?’ Athelstan asked. ‘It’s strange that she fell ill on the same day Sir Walter died.’

‘Brother, coincidence is one thing, proof is another. Rosamund had an ailment of the belly but such a condition, though not as serious, was common in this household.’

‘Was it?’

‘Oh, yes, Brother, belly sickness, bowel disorders, ailments of the spleen and other conditions but nothing fatal. The same applied to Rosamund. She did not die. I did ask her if she could explain the cause of her illness. She was unable to. I told her to drink good clear water and not to consume anything else until her stomach became calm and the fever abated. I distilled her a potion, dried moss mixed with sour milk. She recovered but by then her poor mistress had been arrested, tried, condemned and executed.’

‘And the Great Miracle at St Erconwald’s?’

‘Brother, I met Fulchard of Richmond on his arrival in the city. He came into the House of Mercy at the hospital because of his condition, badly burnt down his right side, weak and infirm after his journey south. Such terrible injuries are eye-catching. I also noted his left side, the colour of his hair and distinguishing marks. You might ask why. As a physician, I would reply that’s a habit. If a man’s hand is shrunken, you immediately look at the other to compare, to judge, to assess. He told me about his past life and the hideous injuries he’d received years ago in a Greek tavern. I gave him treatment and a letter of attestation which,’ Philippe gestured at Cranston, ‘he could use in London if stopped by the city bailiffs who wage constant war against counterfeits.’

‘True,’ Cranston grunted.

‘Anyway,’ the physician continued, ‘Master Tuddenham summoned me to St Erconwald’s and presented me with a Fulchard of Richmond who was all healed. Of course, I found him stronger, fit and able, intelligent and reflective, yet still the same man. I noted the mole high on his left cheek, I questioned him about his past experiences. Brother, I could find nothing to say he wasn’t Fulchard of Richmond. Like you, I am a priest. Our faith teaches that due to God’s grace miracles do happen. Master Tuddenham is a lawyer, a master of logic. I had to tell him the only conclusion I could reach. A miracle had occurred. That there was no other evidence to suggest trickery.’ Philippe sighed and drained his tankard. ‘Brother Athelstan, Sir John, what have I talked to you about? Signs and symptoms, and that is what we all deal with, particularly in physic where the rash on a man’s chest or back can have a hundred and one causes. It can be symptomatic of a wide variety of contagions, a predictor of minor infirmity or some deadly disease. The same is true of Fulchard. I found him the same man with all his symptoms cured. I could produce no evidence to contradict such a story.’

The physician made his farewells and left. Buckholt then joined them. Athelstan questioned him closely about the events of that fateful day, but the steward would not concede anything he had not declared before.

‘I hated Isolda,’ he confessed. ‘I despised her. She poisoned Sir Walter and I believe she weakened him in the months before his death. She used Vanner as she used anybody. She loved no one but herself. Master Sutler had the truth – she was an assassin.’

‘You mention Vanner?’

‘And I have answered you, Brother. She used him. I know what I saw that day. I believe both of them were involved in Sir Walter’s murder.’

‘Did you serve with Sir Walter abroad?’

‘No.’ Buckholt shook his head. ‘My father did and died in Outremer. I think that’s why Sir Walter gave me a post in his household. And before you ask, I have never seen “The Book of Fires”. I don’t know where Sir Walter kept it or what he meant by his riddles. I don’t know where it is now. Perhaps Vanner knew more than I but he’s probably dead.’

‘What makes you say that?’ Athelstan asked sharply.

‘Vanner liked his comforts. He hasn’t fled. He took none of his possessions except his chancery satchel. He’s not been seen, he’s just disappeared. I suspect Isolda killed him, though God knows how, when, where or why.’

Athelstan studied this stubborn, resolute steward who seethed with hatred for his former mistress. Did that hatred, he wondered, cause him to lie, and what was its source? Did he believe Isolda had frustrated his yearning for the fair Rosamund?

‘Did you have any dealings with Falke, Lady Anne or Parson Garman?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Very little. Why should I?’

‘Garman is parson at Newgate. They say he is close to the Upright Men. A supporter of the Great Community of the Realm.’ Cranston jabbed a finger. ‘They also say the same about you.’

‘I don’t know who “they” are,’ Buckholt snapped. ‘Most of London supports their cause. Gaunt is hardly popular, is he? Anyway, what has that got to do with Sir Walter’s death?’

‘Aren’t you frightened?’ Athelstan asked softly. ‘The Ignifer is dealing out judgement.’

‘You mean the ghost of Lady Isolda,’ Buckholt jibed. ‘Yes, that’s what they say. Only a soul steeped in wickedness such as hers could wreak such horror.’ He lifted his hand. Ave beads were wrapped around his fingers. ‘I put my trust in God. I know what the Ignifer is doing.’

‘What?’

‘He is leaving me for last so I can drink and feed on all the terrors which are supposedly coming for me. I will deal with that when it happens. I do not regret what I did.’

‘But you do regret some things, don’t you?’ Athelstan retorted. ‘Rosamund Clifford? You used to visit the Minoresses with Sir Walter. You became acquainted with young Rosamund?’

‘No, Brother, I didn’t become acquainted; I fell in love with her. I truly did and I still am.’

‘But she rejected you?’

‘She’s possessed by her mistress.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Ask her yourself. It’s quite simple. Rosamund only thought what Lady Isolda thought. Rosamund only did what Lady Isolda approved of. As I said, ask her yourself.’

‘And this morning?’ Athelstan queried.

‘What about this morning?’ Buckholt flinched as Cranston banged the table.

‘Rosamund and I accompanied Sir Henry and Lady Rohesia into Cheapside. We went our separate ways on different tasks and met a few hours later at the Standard.’ Buckholt refused to meet Athelstan’s gaze.

‘What tasks?’ the friar demanded.

‘Oh,’ Buckholt flapped his hand, ‘very few. I inveigled Rosamund into the Bishop’s Mitre off Cheapside.’

‘I know it well,’ Cranston murmured.

‘I tried to talk to her but she wouldn’t listen. I …’ he took a deep breath, ‘… let her go, drank too much and staggered out to complete my errands.’ He looked at Athelstan. ‘That’s the truth.’

Athelstan could see Buckholt was growing more taciturn, so he dismissed him and summoned Rosamund Clifford into the buttery. The dark-haired, pretty-faced maid, garbed in a cloak draped over a russet dress with white edging at neck and cuffs, almost crept into the room. She sat down on a chair, hands in her lap, smiling demurely as if she was truly perplexed about why she had been summoned. Athelstan stared hard at this young woman, fighting to curb his own anger and resentment. He disliked her holier-than-thou attitude, that air of bewildered innocence, as if all the horrors happening around her were of no concern whatsoever.

‘You were a foundling, and a novice at the Minoresses?’

‘Yes, Brother.’

‘You have no knowledge of your parents?’

‘No, Brother.’

‘And your mistress’ relationship with Sir Walter?’

‘In all things harmonious, Brother.’

‘And the poisoning of Sir Walter?’

‘Brother, I fell ill on the same day. I was gravely sick, confined to my chamber.’

‘Did your mistress ever discuss the possible annulment of her marriage?’

‘Brother, such matters were beyond me.’ Rosamund blinked quickly. ‘I was only her maid.’

You are a liar, Athelstan reflected. You know the truth about that. You are too good to be wholesome, too sweet by half. He stared at a point above Rosamund’s head. He’d once heard a lecture on the human soul. How many believe the body houses the soul, whereas this theologian argued that the soul houses the body. Did souls brush each other and speak silently in their own spiritual language? Athelstan closed his eyes. He felt that now. Rosamund was a secretive, sly and subtle spirit hiding behind a mask of feigned innocence.

‘Brother?’

Athelstan opened his eyes. He glanced at Sir John and winked quickly.

‘Sir John, as coroner of this city, I want you to arrest Rosamund Clifford now.’

‘On what charge?’ Rosamund screeched, springing to her feet, her face twisted in resentment.

‘Sit down, mistress,’ Cranston roared, ‘or I will have you in chains!’

Rosamund obeyed, bringing her clenched fists to her face and glaring at Athelstan, who leaned across the buttery table.

‘Have you ever seen,’ he asked, ‘a human being burnt alive, mistress? Hideous! Even the bloodthirsty crowds who gather to watch at Smithfield become sickened by the sight. They throw stones to stun him or her to lessen the pain. A short while ago, I witnessed a poor torch-bearer, a totally innocent soul, burn to death for being in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong people. That was the first assault on me. This morning the Ignifer launched a fresh attempt. Others have also been murdered for doing nothing more than their duty. Sir John and I are desperately trying to resolve mysteries including the possible innocence of your executed mistress.’ Athelstan’s voice rose to a thunderous shout. ‘We want your help but all we get are your honeyed lies pattering through your pretty mouth. Very well, Sir John. Flaxwith and your bailiffs are outside. I suggest we take mistress Rosamund to Newgate.’

‘On what charge?’ she screamed again.

‘Oh, possibly murder, frustrating the Crown in its searches, lying, perjury.’ Athelstan waved a hand. ‘Sir John, I would be grateful if you could arrange it.’

Cranston, who now realized what Athelstan intended, hastily complied. Flaxwith and his bully boys entered the buttery and escorted them out into the hallway. The commotion had roused the household. Sir Henry and Lady Rohesia, escorted by Buckholt, hurried to protest, but Athelstan wasn’t in a giving mood and they were soon out into the freezing twilight. They made their way swiftly up through the tangle of streets towards the fleshing market which stood close to the iron-gated prison. The butchers and slaughterers and had now finished their grisly trade. Huge bonfires burnt the day’s rubbish. Stalls were being taken down by apprentices who moved amongst the horde of beggars, fighting the half-wild dogs for giblets, offal and other discarded globules of flesh. The air stank of brine and blood. Salt and vinegar sharpened the breeze. Huge high-sided carts were being prepared to take away the gutted cadavers of cows, pigs and a host of slaughtered birds. The cobbles gleamed red from the washing vats now being emptied. Urchins danced in and out close to the bonfires to roast white scraps of meat they had filched. Beadles, supping from blackjacks, wandered about, their iron-tipped canes whisking the air. Flaxwith and his bailiffs forced their way through the broad concourse which stretched in front of the sombre, soaring mass of Newgate prison. Athelstan knew it well. A hall of horror piled upon horror. A place of calamity. A dwelling from the darkest Hell. A bottomless pit of violence where voices screamed and howled unheard. Athelstan kept his cowled head down as he entered that stygian kingdom of absolute despair. Newgate was greatly feared even though its keeper, Matthew Tweng, an old soldier friend of Sir John’s, had been appointed to implement reforms. Tweng certainly faced a herculean task. The air was foul, riven by the most wretched cries, howls and screams. The very walls sweated in a glistening mess. Huge cobwebs spanned corners. The fleas and lice underfoot were so thick and plentiful, every step crunched and crackled. Vermin swarmed impudently. Smoke and cooking stenches swept through mingling with the rank odour of cesspits, close-stools and open garderobes. They crossed a maze of shuttered, stinking wards where the screeching of lunatic prisoners echoed constantly. They picked their way around the filth which swilled ankle-high, kicking aside the prowling dogs and pigs. Athelstan glanced over his shoulder. Rosamund Clifford looked as if she was about to faint. Athelstan steeled himself. He recalled that poor torch-bearer turned into a living flame. He whispered what he wanted and both coroner and keeper promised they would do a full and complete circuit of this antechamber to Hell. They visited the underground dungeons, known as the stone-hole, and they entered the ‘Newgate kitchen’ where the quartered bodies of recently executed traitors were being hacked, boiled, soaked and tarred. The heads of all three victims lay close by, waiting to be cauldron-cooked in a broth of blood, bay-salt and cumin seeds. Once ready, the severed tangled remains would be publicly exposed throughout the city. Close to this were cells where gaunt-faced prisoners loaded with chains shuffled like ghosts, mad eyes glared at them through grilles high in the dungeon doors. They left the building, passing across the great yard where a prisoner was being pressed to plead under a heavy door loaded with chains and stones. Tweng unlocked an inside gate, iron spikes along its rim. They were now in a dry stone dwelling where, for a high price, prisoners could be lodged more comfortably, though it was still bleak and soulless. Athelstan was aware of iron-gated windows, thick oaken doors festooned with bars, bolts and spikes. Rosamund Clifford was almost prostrate when the heavy door of the cell where the Lady Isolda had been housed was unlocked. A square chamber with a black wooden floor and whitewashed walls, the furniture was paltry: a cot bed, table, stool, chair and jakes pot. Athelstan ordered Rosamund to sit on the bed with a glowing lanthorn on the table beside it.