The Book of Fires (17 page)

‘You can sit there and reflect,’ Athelstan declared. ‘Come, Sir John.’ They left the chamber, with the keeper locking the door behind them.

‘She may be a pretty young maid,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘but she is also a bare-faced liar who is prepared to lead us a merry dance around the maypole of truth. Master Tweng,’ Athelstan shook the grim-faced keeper’s hand, ‘I am grateful. Now, sir,’ he plucked at the keeper’s sleeve, ‘may I impose on you further? Sir John and I must wait a while before revisiting our demure maid.’ Tweng showed them to a small cubicle, no more than a recess with stone seats built in beneath the heavily barred lancet window. He asked if they needed anything else. Athelstan shook his head. Tweng left as they made themselves comfortable, pulling their cloaks tightly around them.

‘A busy day,’ Cranston yawned, ‘and a dangerous one.’ He gestured with his head. ‘Do you really believe Rosamund is hiding the truth?’

‘Yes, I do, Sir John. I sense what is happening with her. I reflect on Buckholt’s words and he has studied the woman he loved. She is possessed by the soul of her mistress. Sir John, I have lived my life in male communities: the novitiate at Blackfriars, hall life in Oxford. In such communities men form intense relationships, sometimes as sexual, intimate and loving as any marriage. The same deep and even illicit friendships are formed in nunneries. I know that because I have heard many a confession. Now most of these friendships are truly innocent. They spring from a deep dependence but, occasionally, I have come across friendships, particularly between young women, which are deep and intensely passionate: it’s almost as if the soul of one possesses the other. A domination emerges which is breathtaking. The tie between those women is stronger than any oath a warrior knight makes to his lord, a monk to his abbot or even a wife to her husband. I truly believe that’s happened here.’ Athelstan rose and paced the paved gallery running past the enclave. He paused, closed his eyes and listened to the soul of this dreadful building nicknamed the Jug, the Stone, the very pit of Hell. Foul odours polluted the air whilst he could hear, though faintly, the constant, raucous noise of the prison: yells, curses, screams, shouted orders and cries of dreadful pain. Rosamund would also hear these. Athelstan prayed she would weaken; he was desperate to plan a way forward. He was tired of being deliberately frustrated, of not being able to grasp anything substantial. He was in a chamber of leaping, shifting shadows with no idea of the truth …

‘Brother?’

‘Come, Sir John.’

‘Our guest awaits.’

Rosamund was still sitting on the edge of the bed, as close as possible to the pool of light from the lanthorn. She glanced up fearfully as they entered, shivered and returned to plucking at the folds of her dress. Cranston took the stool brought by the turnkey and sat down. Athelstan picked up the lanthorn and walked over to the bleak whitewashed wall. Former inmates had carved graffiti, usually prayers such as ‘
Jesu Miserere
’ – ‘Jesus have mercy’, or ‘
Kyrie Eleison
’ – ‘Lord have pity’. He carefully studied the most recent scratchings and glanced over his shoulder at the turnkey.

‘Lady Isolda was the last person to be imprisoned here – I mean, before Mistress Rosamund arrived?’

‘Yes, Brother.’

‘How was she as a prisoner?’

‘Few visitors came. She kept to herself. There was that outburst when she attacked Lady Anne. Towards the end – well, she went to the execution cart like a dream-walker.’

Athelstan nodded and, holding up the lantern, used his finger to trace the letters which looked as if they had been recently carved there, ‘LIB’ – Lady Isolda Beaumont. The friar stared in puzzlement at the scratches next to it, the letters ‘SFSM’.

‘Rosamund?’ Athelstan repeated the letters. ‘Do you understand what these mean?’

The maid rose and stumbled across to stand beside the friar. ‘No!’

Athelstan turned swiftly and caught the slight cast in her eyes. He recalled his studies on demonology and possession. For a few heartbeats he wondered if Lady Isolda’s ghost had set up house in the soul of this young woman. Oh, she looked frightened and cowed, yet there was something else, a secret, stubborn resistance.

‘Shall we begin?’ And, taking her by the elbow, Athelstan led her back to the bed. ‘That scratching on the wall means nothing to you?’

‘I told you, Brother, nothing.’

‘Sir Walter and Lady Isolda were married for five years. How long were you her maid?’

‘Four.’

‘You knew each other at the Minoresses. You must have grown up together?’

‘Yes.’

‘You were close friends?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you telling me the truth?’ Athelstan persisted. ‘We can leave you here to rot, not in a comfortable cell but deep in the bowels of this pestilential place.’

‘I am telling you the truth, Brother.’

‘Did your mistress murder Sir Walter?’

The dark eyes shifted and the pretty lips puckered, as if the death of her master was slightly amusing.

‘I don’t know. I truly don’t.’

‘I think you know more than you tell us, Rosamund. But let’s come to your illness. You succumbed to the sweating sickness on the same day Lady Isolda gave the posset to Sir Walter?’

‘Yes. Brother Philippe will attest to that. I lay ill. I only fully recovered after my mistress died.’

‘And your relationship with Sir Walter?’

‘I helped him.’ She sniffed. ‘When we were alone I put my hands under the coverlet. I played with him until he was satisfied.’

‘Did you visit him the day he died?’

‘Yes, very early in the day. He asked for my ministrations. I complied,’ she shrugged, ‘reluctantly, but I think he liked me to act all coy and shy.’

‘Did you talk?’

‘Only about what he wanted.’

‘And his health?’

‘Sir Walter was very much the same. He complained of his belly being delicate. I soothed him and I left. I noticed nothing untoward.’

Athelstan hid his surprise. Rosamund was very cunning. She must have realized that she would have to concede something, which is what she was doing now.

‘And your mistress knew of such ministrations?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Rosamund leaned forward. ‘Sir Walter could not bear her near him, so he asked me to comfort him.’

‘What?’ Cranston broke from his doze.

‘My mistress,’ Rosamund now perched on the edge of the bed like some conspirator with Athelstan and Cranston as her confederates, ‘told me she had married for wealth but she found Sir Walter as mean as a miser with little passion in bed or the parlour. I think she frightened him. According to my mistress, he was impotent with her.’ She sniffed, looking all petulant. Athelstan wondered if the young woman wasn’t fey-witted. ‘Sir Walter became angry with my mistress and that’s when the lies emerged.’

‘What lies?’

‘That Isolda was really his daughter.’

‘Why on earth should he think that?’ Athelstan exclaimed.

‘According to my mistress, in his bachelor days Sir Walter Beaumont had been a great one for the ladies. He had enjoyed many mistresses. He knew for certain, or so he claimed, that baby girls, his offspring, had been left in the care of the Minoresses. Isolda had immediately caught his eye. Only after the marriage did he begin to wonder whether the likeness between Isolda and one of his paramours was because they were mother and daughter.’ Rosamund paused at a piercing scream which ran through the prison, a blood-chilling cry from the press yard.

‘
Peine forte et dure
,’ Athelstan whispered. ‘Justice can crush. Remember that. So,’ he continued, ‘Isolda was bitterly estranged. What did she make of her husband’s scruples?’

‘Nothing but a pretence, a sham, a pretext to get rid of her. Isolda was convinced he was planning an annulment.’ She chewed the corner of her lip. ‘He was encouraged by that fat tub of lard his brother and his bitch-wife, Rohesia. Lady Isolda hated them and so do I. They planned that Sir Walter should die without an heir.’

‘Lady Isolda had to accept all this?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Yes, but Sir Walter also made lewd references to me, to the possibility of me becoming his leman, his mistress. Lady Isolda agreed to this – she had to. Firstly, Sir Walter might become crueller. Secondly, she begged me to use my skill in making her husband confess to the whereabouts of “The Book of Fires”.’ Rosamund fell silent as if listening to the nightmare sounds of the prison. ‘Before you ask, Brother, Lady Isolda believed she would be cast off. She told me that if we acquired that book we would both be very, very rich. Sir Walter welcomed my ministrations. He said I was very skilled. I asked him about “The Book of Fires”. Sir Walter refused to even mention it, so I withheld my favours.’

‘And?’ Cranston asked.

‘Sir Walter laughed. He mocked me. He became evasive. He then told me he had left the book on a Greek island called Patmos, and that its whereabouts would be a revelation to everyone. Later he changed his story, claiming that book was locked in that casket in his bedchamber. Other times he rambled and grew feverish. He claimed there were spies paid by the Greeks in his household.’

Athelstan held up a hand. ‘Greeks?’

‘Yes, from Sir Walter’s past. He would then tell me about his early days. How he had served in Outremer. How he relished the intrigue. He described the different women he’d possessed and the fortune he’d accumulated.’

‘But he never showed you “The Book of Fires”?’

‘No, the closest he ever said “The Book of Fires” was …’

‘In that casket in his bedchamber?’

‘Yes. However, when it was opened after he died, the casket was empty.’

‘And this alleged spy of the Greeks?’ Athelstan asked.

‘I don’t know – possibly Vanner. I do believe they approached a number of the household at Firecrest Manor but Vanner knew no more than I did. Brother, I can assure you on oath, the whereabouts of that manuscript are a total mystery to me.’

‘Was Vanner Isolda’s lover?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘He wasn’t, was he?’ Athelstan retorted. ‘Perhaps she promised favours she never gave. She used him as she used you?’

For a brief moment Athelstan saw the anger flare in Rosamund’s eyes, a tightening of the lips and jaw, almost as if she had been struck, then she blinked.

‘Isolda would never use me. I know the truth.’

‘Oh, I am sure you do, but whether you are telling it now is another matter. Vanner? What happened to him?’

‘He disappeared, fled whilst I lay ill.’

‘And your mistress? Did she meet anyone else outside Firecrest Manor? Go into the city on some mysterious errand?’

‘I was her maid,’ Rosamund coolly replied. ‘Where she went I was supposed to follow. Yes, there were occasions when she would not want me to accompany her.’

‘Whom did she meet? The Greeks?’

‘I suspect so. They wanted “The Book of Fires” – my mistress told me so. They promised her gold. But there were other occasions. I think you are correct, Brother – she met someone else apart from the Greeks.’ Rosamund shrugged prettily and glanced away. ‘I don’t know who.’

Athelstan stared down at the ground. This woman was leading him up the devil’s staircase away from the truth. She was telling him a mixture of fable and fact. She would not confess to her true relationship with Isolda nor betray her mistress in any way.

‘Don’t you think it was a coincidence,’ Cranston asked, ‘that you fell so seriously ill on the day Sir Walter was allegedly murdered by his wife?’

‘Sir John, as you say, it was a coincidence. I cannot explain it.’

‘Did lawyer Falke know your mistress before the death of Sir Walter?’

‘No, no, certainly not.’ Rosamund’s relief at the change of direction in the questions was obvious.

‘And Buckholt,’ Athelstan asked, ‘he was sweet on you, yes?’

‘I could not tolerate him. I told him so.’

‘He believes you rejected him because of Isolda?’

‘Nonsense! Buckholt was lewd and greedy for me. I wanted nothing to do with him. He hated my mistress and she despised him.’

‘So Buckholt’s testimony about your mistress and the goblet of posset might have been a lie?’

‘I think it was. The same goes for that little runt of a buttery clerk, Mortice. Lady Isolda truly disliked him. She thought he looked at her lecherously.’

‘And Lady Anne Lesures?’

‘I know very little of her. Kind, considerate, a fairly constant visitor to both the Minoresses and Firecrest Manor. She introduced me there as Lady Isolda’s maid and companion. Lady Anne recognized how close we had been in the nunnery. She believed that after being placed in the Beaumont household I would make a good match.’

‘But not as grand as Sir Walter, you mean, with Steward Buckholt?’

‘Perhaps, but that was Lady Anne, not me. I was devoted to my mistress and made that very clear to Lady Anne. I told Buckholt the same this morning in a Cheapside tavern.’ Athelstan nodded in agreement. He was correct: the only person who mattered to this young woman, whether living or dead, was Lady Isolda.

‘And your origins?’ Cranston asked.

‘I don’t know. I was a foundling and raised as one by the Minoresses.’ Athelstan caught the steel in her reply. Both she and Isolda were of the same spiritual stock. They’d hardly been born when they were given away, whatever the reason, by their own kith and kin, who had rejected them as babies. No one had really cared for them, so why should they care for anyone else? Such an attitude would have bound them closely together. Cranston rose at a rapping at the door. He went, had a few words with someone in the passageway and came back.

‘Parson Garman has returned from the execution ground. He awaits you in the chapel.’ Athelstan turned back to Rosamund. ‘Parson Garman was much smitten with Lady Isolda?’

‘I know nothing of that, Brother.’

‘Did Garman visit Firecrest Manor before the murder?’

‘Yes, he did, but he had business with Sir Walter.’

‘What business?’

‘Ask him yourself, Brother. He’s apparently waiting for you.’

Athelstan stared at the graffiti on the wall and wondered if it hid some secret Isolda kept to herself. He breathed in deeply, there was little prospect of Rosamund telling the full truth. Isolda dead was as influential with this young woman as she was when she was alive. She would say no more. Athelstan got to his feet.