The Book of Fires (22 page)

Buckholt simply smiled with his eyes.

‘A frustrated lover who hated Isolda for what she was and what she did,’ Athelstan continued, ‘but also because of the real danger she posed – a ruthless, selfish woman who had her own secret plans for Sir Walter.’

‘And me?’ Falke asked. ‘My part in this?’

‘You know the answer to that, master lawyer. You were just another man caught up in the tempestuous passions of Lady Isolda. Sutler, God rest him, discovered the truth and if it hadn’t been for him, Lady Isolda would have enjoyed the fruits of her sin. She was guilty; her defence was a lie but, like all great lies, contained fragments of truth. How there were others at Firecrest Manor who wished to discover Sir Walter’s secrets. How members of this household secretly espoused the cause of the Great Community of the Realm. How Vanner may have fed Sir Walter poison earlier in the day. Rosamund, you would have been sacrificed. Isolda certainly turned on Vanner. Fearful that he might become a King’s Approver, she killed him down near the mere and burnt any incriminating manuscripts. In the end, however, Sutler proved to be her match.’

‘Are you finished?’ Athelstan caught a note of jealousy in the lawyer’s voice.

‘No,’ Athelstan smiled thinly, ‘I am certainly not.’ He emphasized the points on his fingers. ‘Where is “The Book of Fires”?’ Besides the Greeks, whom did Isolda secretly meet in the city? She sometimes went there by herself, yet no one knows where and why? What do the letters “SFSM” scrawled on the wall of her death cell mean? Is this a reference to the person she secretly met?’ Athelstan chewed the corner of his lip. ‘Is that the same individual who came to the execution ground to collect her remains and pretended to be Vanner?’

‘I didn’t know that happened!’ Sir Henry exclaimed. ‘Was it you, Falke?’

The lawyer just looked away.

‘And the Ignifer?’ Lady Anne asked.

‘Oh, yes, the Ignifer. If Lady Isolda is one root of this wickedness, he certainly is the other. We are hunting him but he may go quiet. He has certainly created a world of terror for anyone involved in Isolda’s destruction. He will let this play on your minds, bide his time, lull you into false comfort.’ He held a hand up and blessed them. ‘I am finished but be careful. Remain very vigilant.’

The meeting broke up, the household silent as they went their different ways. Athelstan suspected they would reflect on what was said and, in the weeks ahead, changes would be made, but that was not his business.

‘Do you think,’ Cranston asked, filling their tankards, ‘the likes of Rosamund or Sir Henry could tell us more?’

‘I doubt it, Sir John. Only three people know the truth about this and two of them are dead – Vanner and Isolda. The other is the Ignifer.’

‘But why has he turned on us?’ the coroner asked.

‘Because, my fine friend,’ Athelstan put his hand on the coroner’s arm, ‘the Ignifer, as I call him, though it could be she or they, whatever guise that demon assumes, certainly knows us by reputation. Yes,’ Athelstan scratched his lip, ‘now that’s a thought, Sir John. The Ignifer is hunting us as ruthlessly as we are him. We must keep ourselves safe.’

‘And so we shall. I have Flaxwith’s bully boys, whilst those four lazy buggers from the Tower will look after you. What now, Brother?’

‘Sir John, let us scrupulously study Sir Walter’s manuscripts, though I’d be very surprised if we discover anything interesting.’

Athelstan’s prophecy proved correct. They sat in the intricately panelled chancery chamber at the heart of Firecrest Manor with all its dockets, coffers, cabinets and cupboards containing narrow small drawers. Household accounts, memoranda, letters, bills and indentures were filed within as neatly as in any royal chancery or exchequer. Cranston, in his gilded youth, or so he confessed, when his hair had been blond and his body all svelte, had trained to be the most sharp-eyed and nimble-fingered clerk, and the coroner brought such expertise to bear on separating the wheat from the chaff. The personal papers of Sir Walter described his life in both the city and the court. Nevertheless, the more they read the more Athelstan’s conviction deepened that they were fencing with shadows or, as Cranston claimed, ‘It was all sizzle and no sausage.’ Sir Walter was a most astute businessman who kept his past and all its secrets very close to his chest. The only noteworthy items were his generous donations to the Minoresses at Aldgate, certain sums paid to the chaplain of Newgate and gifts to Lady Anne Lesures, including the loan of his ‘
Novum Testamentum
’ – his New Testament.

‘Nothing remarkable,’ Athelstan concluded, ‘except for what these accounts don’t tell us.’

‘Which is, little friar?’

‘Look at the allowances paid to Isolda.’

‘Paltry sums.’

‘Precisely, Sir John. So how could she afford costly gowns and expensive perfume which smells like crushed lilies?’

‘What was the source of such monies?’ Cranston asked. ‘Brother Athelstan, are you sure Rosamund couldn’t tell us more?’

‘Oh, we are finished here. Rosamund, I am sure, knows very little else. Isolda would not render herself vulnerable to a maid. Let us leave it at that. Look, Sir John, darkness is falling. Outside the bats will squeak, dogs will howl and all good souls prepare for the night. So should we.’

Athelstan and Cranston gathered their cloaks, said goodbye to Sir Henry and left. Once outside Athelstan assured Cranston that the four Tower archers would be protection enough. He blessed the coroner, bade him goodnight and swiftly strode down the narrow alleyways, slivers of blackness reeking of corruption. Athelstan and his escort reached the quay where, due to the turbulent waters of the Thames, they had to wait for a barge. An enterprising storyteller, with mummers to act his tale, caught Athelstan’s attention. The masque was about two merchants who had insulted a local sorceress. She visited them in their tavern chamber. She used her powers so the hinges of the door to their room sank out of their sockets, the bolts shot away from their clasps and the bolts on the crossbar sprang free. Once inside, the sorceress, hair all grizzled, torn and sprinkled with ash, her feet unshod, face pale as boxwood, carried out her murders. She cut the merchants’ throats, pretending to catch their blood in a dog’s bladder. Athelstan stood fascinated both by the story and the clever mimicry of the mummers, who performed their drama in a great pool of light thrown by torches lashed to poles.

Athelstan was still absorbed by what he had seen as he took his seat in a high-sterned barge. The oarsmen cast off and the boat turned to make its way carefully across the choppy Thames. Gulls screamed above them, flashes of white in the gathering blackness broken only by the lamps on other craft. Athelstan sat back and wondered about the masque he had just seen. Was this also true of the mystery confronting him? Was the Ignifer a storyteller, a master mummer directing his minions to play their parts? If that were true, what would be the next dramatic development? A night-bird shrieked. Athelstan glanced up at the glowering sky. The clouds had broken and patches of weak light appeared, a phenomenon which fascinated him. Kites and buzzards hovered, dark shapes as they hunted over the moving sludge of the riverside. The friar abruptly recalled a battlefield just south of Bordeaux. He remembered the feather-winged scavengers flocking to feast, hovering like angels of death over the fallen. Suddenly, in a long dash of dying sunlight, a great eagle appeared, shimmering like pure gold in that last burst of day. Athelstan had always thought it was a symbol: Christ was God’s golden eagle appearing over the darkness of man. The kites and buzzards had disappeared as the majestic bird, its wings fully extended, floated so dramatically over the chaos and destruction below. Athelstan, steadying himself against the choppy waters of the Thames, prayed that Christ, heaven’s own eagle, would help him break through the brooding, malevolent darkness confronting him.

oOoOo

‘Where the body lies, there will the vultures gather.’ The verse from scripture was hoarsely whispered by the hedge priest John Ball as he and his confederates watched their cohorts muster on the great wasteland south of London Bridge. The local outlaws, Friar Foxtail and his coven, had quietly fled, leaving that haunted, bleak stretch of common land to the Great Community of the Realm. An attack was imminent. The captains of the Upright Men, the Raven, Crow, Hawk, Falcon and so on, swiftly marshalled their ranks along the barren heathland stretching down to the Southwark quay and the great boat yard where Gaunt was preparing his flotilla of barges. The carriers of the pots were also ready, as well those armed with torches and flint. They had all assembled around the Devil’s Oak, their armour and weapons hidden with no flame or fire to betray the glint of steel.

‘In the name of the Lord’s own commonwealth,’ Ball hissed through the darkness. Orders were issued and the line moved soundlessly off. Men sloped like hunting wolves through the darkness, heading down towards the river. The attackers surged forward, swiftly gathering speed, spreading out, eager to get as close as possible to the barges. John Ball’s scouts, men from Southwark including the parish of St Erconwald’s, had carefully studied Gaunt’s defences. The quayside and boat yard were protected by a ditch or moat with spiked stakes and, on the other side, a fortified palisade with a fighting platform. This arc of defence, half-moon in shape, sealed the quayside from all approaches by land, whilst war barges patrolled the river. The Upright Men had counted on surprise and the possibility of probing a weakened position where the palisade arched down to the quayside. A column of archers and footmen now aimed for that gap like a well-aimed spear. They reached the moat – fascines of bracken and wood were hurled into the ditch, a makeshift platform lowered across it and the attackers surged forward, siege ladders at the ready. The Upright Men, many of them veterans, skilled in siege craft from their years in France, swarmed over the pointed palisade. Only then was the alarm raised. A horn sounded. Trumpets brayed but the attackers, brushing aside the sleep-soaked guard, were now through the defences and the quayside stretched before them. Part of the palisade was swiftly hacked down, pushed out to create a drawbridge across the moat so more attackers could stream over. Gaunt’s forces were now alert. The knights banneret and serjeant-at-arms realized the futility of trying to defend the breached fortifications. They fled their tents and bothies, falling back on to the broad, well-lit quayside, dragging carts to form a barricade between the different buildings. Gaunt’s captains were confident – they may have lost the palisade but they could easily hold this new line of defence. The Upright Men, however, had their own strategy. They pushed their assault as close as they could to the quayside then paused to take care of their own wounded and finish off those of the enemy. The screams and cries of the injured faded. An eerie lull descended. The captains of the Upright Men hissed their instructions. Six small trebuchets or catapults were pushed forward. These easily constructed engines of war, their wheels well oiled, were positioned carefully on the slight rise stretching down to the quayside. Crews skilled in their use calculated distances and prepared. Ropes creaked and tightened as the deep cup at the end of each long throwing beam was pulled back, the cords on either side becoming taut as drawn bow strings. Once ready, sealed clay pots carefully stacked beside each machine were placed in position. All six catapults were primed with two pots to every throwing cup. Tinder was struck. Flaming brands were plucked from the campfires of the defenders. Row upon row of archers took up position, their war bows at the ready.

‘Loose!’ one of the captains screamed. Cords and ropes sang, wood clattered and clashed, wheels creaked. The catapults loosed their burdens into the night sky. The clay pots disappeared into the darkness then fell. Some shattered on the quayside, smashed into buildings or the hastily assembled barricade. At first the defenders were puzzled, shouts and cries echoed, but the captains of the catapults had learnt their lesson: peering through the poor light, they noted that a few of the pots had risen high over the quayside to crash on to the host of barges bobbing on the water. Winches, levers, ropes and cords were adjusted accordingly. The catapults were repositioned. A fresh volley of sealed pots seared the night sky. Orders were rapped out. The line of archers, bows slung, arrows notched, waited as footmen raced down their ranks with flaming torches. The fire arrows glowed. The war bows swung up and, in a fearsome whoosh, the blazing long shafts streaked the night sky before falling on to the quayside and the barges beyond. For a few heartbeats, a strange stillness descended then the fire arrows caught the oil seeping from the pots and both the quayside and the barges erupted in a blazing inferno.

The fire attack on the barges roused all of Southwark and St Erconwald’s in particular. Athelstan was woken by Crim hammering on the door with the startling news of a fire raging along the riverside. Athelstan, braving the cold, immediately hurried across to the church with his escort of archers trailing behind him. The friar forced his way through the throng of pilgrims and visitors, now all agog about the attack along the Thames. Athelstan told the archers to wait and, with Crim trotting behind him, climbed to the top of the tower to see the fires blazing against the lightening sky.

‘They’ll all be there, won’t they, Crim? Watkin, Pike and the rest, up to their necks in devilry. God save them.’ Crim did not reply. Athelstan stretched out and tousled the boy’s greasy hair. ‘Don’t worry, lad, I know you can’t say anything. Just pray that they not be taken or slain.’ Athelstan returned to his house. He could not settle. Dawn would come and the busyness of the day press in with its demands. The friar shaved, washed, donned fresh robes and sat drinking a cup of water, staring into the strengthening flames of the fire he had stoked in the small hearth.

‘My soul is ready, O Lord,’ he prayed. ‘My soul is ready. Awake, my heart, awake, lyre and harp. I will awake the dawn.’ Athelstan said a brief prayer to the Holy Spirit before returning to the mysteries of the Ignifer, Firecrest Manor and ‘The Book of Fires’. ‘A jumble of veritable facts and details,’ he murmured, ‘with no coherence or pattern. Ah, well.’ He rose at the scratching against the door and let in Bonaventure, who streaked to the hearth where he sprawled, washing his paws until Athelstan brought him a bowl of milk and a platter of diced ham.