Authors: Paul Doherty
‘This fire, once started, will burn increasingly for a year.’
Mark the Greek’s
‘
The Book of Fires’
B
rother Athelstan, Dominican priest of St Erconwald’s in Southwark, pulled his thick serge cloak about him. He scrutinized the sky, watching the night fade and the first streaks of dawn lighten the dark. He was fascinated by the way stars faded and disappeared. Did they simply diminish, he wondered, beneath the growing power of the sun even though it was still winter? The friar chewed the corner of his lip and wondered what the authorities such as Friar Bacon and Bartholomew the Englishman wrote about the phenomenon of dawn and dusk. Athelstan crouched and scratched the scarred head of his constant companion, the great battle-worn one-eyed cat Bonaventure.
‘You will get your warm milk soon enough, brother cat. Until then we will watch the first red streaks of dawn streaming like Christ’s blood through the firmament.’ Athelstan once more looked up at the sky and sighed. He grasped the rusting bar which stretched between the moss-eaten crenellations of his ancient church tower and pulled himself up. Once steady, he looked over the side, turning his head slightly against the brisk, freezing breeze. He murmured a prayer as he looked down, for the church tower soared to a dizzying height. He brushed aside his unease as he glimpsed the pinpoints of moving lights, the torches held by his parish council: these were supervising the arrival of the sick, the lame and the cripples eagerly wending their way into St Erconwald’s for the last stage of the night-time vigil which would end with the Jesus Mass at dawn. He squatted down with his back to the stone wall, absentmindedly stroking Bonaventure, who slid on to his lap. In a week’s time Athelstan and his parish would celebrate the great feast of St Erconwald with a solemn High Mass, ale tasting, cake savouring, dancing and carols ending with a special masque staged by Judith, Mistress of the Parish Mummers.
‘God bless you, Judith,’ Athelstan whispered. ‘You will need all the patience our great and saintly patron can bestow.’ In the nine days preceding the feast the nave would be open all night so the infirm and crippled could shelter close to the chantry chapel.
‘The chapel contains a tomb, Bonaventure,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘But the tomb does not contain St Erconwald. He lies buried in St Paul’s. No, our tomb houses powerful relics of that famous and saintly bishop.’ Athelstan screwed his eyes up as he tried to recall the list. ‘Ah, yes, that’s it! Part of his cloak, a rod from his horse litter, the belt around his hair shirt and,’ Athelstan smiled, ‘a piece of the handbell used to summon his parishioners.’ Athelstan returned to his thoughts. St Erconwald’s vigil was an ancient custom which, according to the bell clerk and parish archivist Mauger, dated from the murky, misty past long before William the Norman crushed the Saxons at Senlac Hill. According to both tradition and legend, miraculous cures had occurred here during the novena night vigil. ‘But none since I have been parish priest, Bonaventure.’ Athelstan sighed, getting to his feet. ‘I just thank God for the constant miracle of sunrise and,’ he crossed and pulled back the trapdoor, ‘a peaceful vigil.’
Athelstan, followed by a very hungry cat, made his way carefully down the winding spiral staircase and into the church. Watkin the dung collector and Pike the ditcher, leading henchmen of the parish council, had organized things well. The nave was lighted by flaring torches placed in their sconces on each rounded drum-like pillar along either transept. Charcoal braziers crackled merrily supervised by the pretty, dark-eyed widow woman Benedicta, whilst Cecily the courtesan, assisted by Crispin the carpenter, ensured that the straw palliasses for the pilgrims remained clean and soft. The smoky cinder-centred warmth of the nave was a welcome relief to the friar’s own icy vigil on top of the church tower. Athelstan had meant to take a chafing dish of burning coal to keep his mittened fingers warm, but he had forgotten this. He went across to a brazier to warm his hands and stared around at the pilgrims shrouded in their blankets on palliasses arranged as close as possible to St Erconwald’s chantry chapel where Athelstan would celebrate the Jesus Mass. In the transept, Imelda, Pike’s wife, and Joscelyn, the one-armed former river pirate and owner of the Piebald tavern, gathered with Merrylegs the pie-man and his brood of little Merrylegs to organize bread, cheese, dishes of dried vegetables, strips of pork and tankards of light ale for the pilgrims. Athelstan was touched by the kindness and compassion of his parishioners, who, though certainly not wealthy, were prepared to share their food with strangers. He smiled to himself. Of course, there was profit to be made. Many parishioners had set up stalls and booths along the enclosure outside. They offered a range of petty goods and geegaws. Athelstan never asked for their origin, whilst Beadle Bladdersmith just looked the other way.
Athelstan peeled off his mittens and walked up the nave. The Hangman of Rochester had left his anker-hold in the transept and already unlocked the door to the rood screen. Athelstan went through this and stared around the sanctuary – all was in order. Athelstan genuflected towards the pyx, a roundel of sparkling gold hanging from a thin silver-filigreed chain next to the fluttering sanctuary lamp in its red alabaster jar.
‘Father?’ Athelstan turned. The Hangman of Rochester, garbed in his usual night-black jerkin, hose and cloak, stood rather nervously, Athelstan thought, shuffling from foot to foot.
‘Giles of Sempringham.’ Athelstan used the hangman’s proper name, which he had set aside after outlaws had murdered his wife and child. A talented fresco painter, Giles had given up his chosen calling to assume the name and reputation of London’s most skilled hangman, his first victims being the wolfsheads who had slaughtered his family. Athelstan walked closer. The hangman’s long snow-white face, his hair matted and yellow as a tangle of straw, appeared tragic. Nevertheless, Athelstan recognized that the hangman had found peace here in St Erconwald’s. A disused chantry chapel had been converted into a comfortable anker-hold. Occasionally the hangman would leave the cell to carry out his duties as an executioner, but his real task was a series of brilliantly executed frescoes on the walls of the church which stirred the envy of other parish priests. ‘Giles,’ Athelstan repeated. ‘You seem lost in thought.’ He felt a mild panic. Were his parishioners plotting something? ‘Giles, what is it?’
‘Father, I wonder if we have the purveyance to feed all these?’ The hangman spread his hands. ‘Some of the infirm are very weak and a good few are filthy. They need to be washed.’
‘I thought the Fraternity of Free Love …’ Athelstan referred to an eccentric group of parishioners who openly espoused the idea that love could solve all problems. Athelstan allowed the brotherhood or fraternity to meet here on the strict understanding that their philosophy did not include sexual licence. They had assured him it did not, though Athelstan entertained his own deep suspicions.
‘The Brotherhood,’ Athelstan repeated, ‘remember, Giles, they promised to set up a great
lavarium
in God’s Acre next to the old death house. Godbless the keeper said he would assist.’
‘People are frightened of Thaddeus,’ the hangman grumbled. ‘Despite Godbless’ efforts, that goat will devour everything, including a wash cloth. Perhaps we can use the new death house? Praise the Lord we have no corpses.’
Athelstan agreed and walked across the sanctuary. He knelt before the pyx, trying to cleanse his mind and heart of all sin, asking for God’s guidance to celebrate the Mass and Eucharist in a worthy fashion. He rose and entered the sacristy. He took off his cloak, washed his hands and face at the
lavarium
then vested swiftly assisted by Crim the altar boy, who scampered in and out as busy as a squirrel along a branch. Candles were lit in the chantry chapel. Cruets set out along with the wine and sacring bread. Athelstan unlocked the parish chest and took out the missal, the Book of the Gospels and a small pyx for the viaticum as he hoped to take the Eucharist to Merrylegs’ father, who lay mortally ill in a narrow chamber above his son’s pie shop. Mauger tolled the bell. Crim rang the Sanctus chimes in the chapel then returned to the sacristy. He grasped the candleholder and, at a nod from Athelstan, led the friar out across the sanctuary and down through the rood screen into the chantry chapel. Athelstan began his Mass, consecrating the bread and wine, exchanging the kiss of peace and distributing the Eucharist, moving amongst the dark shapes of the infirm as well as his own flock of parishioners. The friar was aware of flitting shadows, the smell of incense and candle grease mingling with the smoky odours of the braziers and the stale, heavy stench of unwashed bodies. Eyes glittered out of rugged faces, tongues jutted out between decaying teeth to receive Christ’s body under the appearance of bread. Athelstan became acutely aware of the human flesh in all its frailties; the dumb, deaf and blind. Hobbling cripples and wound-scarred former soldiers. He returned to the altar built against the wall, St Erconwald’s statue to his left. The press of bodies warmed the chapel and the constant ejaculatory prayers were an unending refrain. Athelstan kissed the altar stone and turned to deliver the ‘
Ita, Missa est
’ – the Mass has finished, the final blessing, when a voice called out.
‘Praise to the Lord Jesus, a miracle! I am cured! Brothers and sisters, I am cured. I am cured. A miracle! God be praised! St Erconwald be thanked. I am cured …’
The statement caused uproar in the church. Figures shoved and pushed. Candles and torches were moved, flames streaking in the draught as doors were flung open. Athelstan finished the Mass and shouted for silence as Watkin, Pike and others of the parish council tried to subdue the outburst. Athelstan returned to the sacristy where he divested swiftly, telling Ranulf the rat-catcher to bring the entire parish council into the sanctuary, whilst Beadle Bladdersmith imposed order. Athelstan needed to see this miracle, whatever it was. He went back into the sanctuary and sat down on the priest’s chair. The hubbub beyond the rood screen was growing, with shouts of ‘Alleluia!’ and ‘Glory to Christ!’ ringing through the cavernous nave. Athelstan ignored this. Watkin, Pike and Crispin brought cresset torches close about the sanctuary chair and a tall, dark figure stepped into the light. He pulled back his deep hood, loosened the heavy ragged cloak and let it fall to the ground. He undid his belt and handed it to Ranulf. Athelstan leaned forward and stared in utter disbelief at the smooth unshaven face, the deep-set eyes, snub nose and firm mouth and chin of the man before him. He continued to scrutinize the stranger, ignoring the whispers around him, his black tangled hair streaked with iron grey, the now un-mittened hands, their skin and flesh unmarked.
‘Fulchard of Richmond!’ Athelstan gasped. ‘I met you when you first arrived here. Pike introduced you. I gazed at the left side of your face and body, but your right side …’ Athelstan shook his head. ‘You were a cripple leaning on a crutch. I remember the right side of your face, down the length of your body, horrifying burns …’
The man unclasped his dirt-stained chemise and drew it off, followed by a grimy linen undershirt. Athelstan repressed a shiver. He rose to his feet and walked slowly forward. Fulchard stood, hands hanging down. Ranulf crept near and touched the man’s shoulder.
‘I saw them too,’ Ranulf rasped, ‘your horrible burns.’
‘Twenty years I have suffered.’ Fulchard’s broad Yorkshire voice carried around the sanctuary. ‘Twenty years of scalding burns inflicted when I was a mere stripling in Outremer.’ He touched the side of his face, his fingers turning down. ‘From head to toe, the entire right side, the flesh erupted, corrupted, an open, weeping sore.’ Fulchard had everyone’s attention now. Athelstan walked slowly around the man, studying him intently. The friar was certain this was the same Fulchard that he’d met the previous day. He had seen that horrible open wound, the way the man hobbled, his looks, his gestures. Athelstan was certain this was no counterfeit or crank. Fulchard had hobbled in and out on his crutch, his scarred burns open for everyone to see: now, the flesh was white and unmarked. Athelstan could detect nothing amiss. He recalled the man’s voice – it was the same although a little stronger. He stepped close so his face was only inches from Fulchard’s. He recognized the mole, high on the left cheek, the shape of the good eye. Athelstan crossed himself, took off his own cloak and wrapped it around Fulchard.
‘What happened?’ he whispered close to Fulchard’s ear and, as he did, Athelstan smelt a lovely fragrance like that of some exquisite perfume. Athelstan was agitated. At the same time he mentally beat his breast. He preached about a Risen Christ. How all things were possible with God including a miracle. So why did he have these doubts?
‘What happened?’ he repeated, gesturing at Watkin to bring a sanctuary stool for Fulchard to sit on whilst he returned to the celebrant’s chair. Silence now reigned, even the turbulent noise from the nave had subsided. ‘You are in the presence of God,’ Athelstan intoned. ‘Master Fulchard of Richmond, tell me what truly happened, from the beginning.’
‘I was born in Knaresborough in the shire of York, the son of Ralph and Elizabeth Spicer. My father was a leech, and I became his apprentice. Of course, in the wild years of youth, the blood runs hot and the heart is a merciless hunter for things fresh and new. I was placed in the care of the Benedictines at Rievaulx Abbey but I tired of the brothers. I journeyed abroad, serving in a cog out of Whitby. I then began my travels. I have seen the icy-massed forests of the north where huge white bears prowl and where Leviathan plays in the sea close by. I have visited Outremer. I have kissed the Sacred Stones in the Holy Sepulchre and stood on the demon-swept shores of the Dead Sea. I have wandered here and I have wandered there. Eventually I journeyed to Athens to earn more coin. I worked in the kitchen of a tavern. I was put in charge of the turnspit. One night, the eve of the feast of St George, the tavern master was preparing a sumptuous feast. Oilskins were brought down into the great kitchen, I carried one here.’ Fulchard tapped his right shoulder. ‘God knows what happened. I admit, I had been drinking heavily and I staggered. The bulging oilskin abruptly split, drenching the right side of my body. At that very moment, I was passing the great hearth where a fire danced as merrily as the tongues of Hell, and so it proved to be. The flames seemed to leap out at me as if drawn by the oil.’