The Book of Fires (8 page)

‘I would agree,’ Sir Henry murmured. ‘Vanner could be the Ignifer.’

‘Sir Henry,’ Athelstan asked, ‘how easy is it to make Greek fire?’

‘Not too difficult,’ Sir Henry declared. ‘There are different types, ranging from,’ he spread his hands, ‘simple kitchen oil to a substance which is quite unique. “The Book of Fires”, I suppose, would describe all these categories and list the correct proportions and right elements for each.’

‘Sir John,’ Lady Anne spoke up, ‘Jack, my friend, I am tired. Surely you have finished here?’

Cranston looked at Athelstan and nodded.

‘In which case, Sir Henry,’ the coroner stretched, ‘I would ask you a great favour: lodgings for Brother Athelstan and me at Firecrest Manor. At the moment St Erconwald’s is rather busy.’

‘I heard,’ Lady Anne exclaimed. ‘Some story about a miracle? I must visit your parish.’

‘The Bishop of London’s people are there,’ Athelstan answered, staring down at the tabletop. Cranston’s request had taken him by surprise, though he swiftly conceded the wisdom of it. Tuddenham and the parish council would keep the miracle-seekers at bay, whilst a visit to Firecrest Manor might prove useful.

‘As for myself, of course,’ Cranston pushed back his chair, ‘at the moment I am living like a bachelor, so fresh lodgings …’

‘Of course,’ Sir Henry declared, getting to his feet. ‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan, we shall be pleased to escort you there.’

‘I will do that,’ Lady Anne intervened, grasping Cranston’s arm. ‘I need to have a few words with my old friend Jack and discover more about the miracle at St Erconwald’s.’

The meeting broke up. Sir Henry assured Cranston and Athelstan that two comfortable chambers would be ready and both of them would be his honoured guests. Chaplain Garman wandered over to invite Athelstan into his chapel at Newgate. Rosamund Clifford sat lost in her own thoughts until Lady Rohesia called her away. Cranston became deep in conversation with Lady Anne, so Athelstan crossed to study the paintings hanging on the walls above the linen panelling. He found them fascinating. The paintings, from the new schools in northern Italy, were held in gold-scrolled frames and glowed brilliantly both in colour and depiction. Athelstan noticed how Lady Anne had a special devotion to her holy namesake St Anne, mother of the Virgin Mary. At least four of the paintings celebrated this holy relationship, with others describing events from the Virgin Mary’s youth. Now and again the artist had scrolled the tribute in the corner of the painting, ‘
Sicut mater, sicut filia
’ – ‘As the mother, so the daughter.’

‘My patron saint.’

Athelstan turned. Lady Anne stood smiling at him, behind her the ever faithful Turgot.

‘I think Sir John wishes to go,’ she added.

Cloaks were collected and, with a hired torch-bearer going ahead of them, Lady Anne led Cranston and Athelstan out into the cold, bleak street. All trading was now done. The call of the bellman could be clearly heard. Lanthorns glowed from the doorposts of the houses casting pools of light around which the shadows danced. Rats squeaked – black darting shapes followed by the blurred outline of hunting cats. Dogs howled up at the full winter moon. Here and there from some cranny or corner a beggar, licensed to plead in that part of the city, shook his clacking bowl for alms. Cranston drew his sword as Lady Anne led them briskly on.

‘Don’t worry,’ she called over her shoulder, ‘Turgot will be our guard.’ Athelstan turned and glimpsed a cowled figure with a drawn blade of a sword glinting like a flame of warning. A soothsayer shuffled out of the dark, asking if they wished their fortune described, only to scuttle away as Cranston bawled at him to ‘Go back to the Halls of Hell!’ Once they had cleared the street Lady Anne stopped. Further back their escort also paused whilst Lady Anne shooed the torch-bearer out of earshot. She beckoned Athelstan and Cranston closer and pulled down her muffler. ‘I did not wish to appear vindictive, harsh of tongue or hard of heart, but Lady Isolda was a veritable virago, beautiful with blonde hair and lustrous blue eyes. She was a most attractive lady: in her soul, however, she was selfish, spoilt and arrogant.’

‘And capable of murder?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Yes,’ Lady Anne nodded, ‘yes, Isolda was capable of murder. I believe she killed her husband for no other reason than she had grown tired of him. She would have used Vanner for her own evil, selfish purposes.’ Lady Anne crossed herself. ‘She would have escaped justice if not for that sharp-eyed buttery clerk Buckholt’s suspicions and Sutler’s logic and persistence. Lady Isolda was a murderess and one who could – and did – dupe the likes of Falke, Garman and Sir Henry.’

‘Why do you tell us this now?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Because it is the truth and because I believe Vanner was just as wicked. He may well be the Ignifer – but come, Sir Henry will be waiting.’

They entered an area well known to Athelstan as it lay close to his mother house at Blackfriars. Athelstan, lost in his own thoughts about what he had seen and heard, was faintly aware of the noises of the night. He heard a sound and glanced up. A cloaked figure had stepped out of an alleyway. At first, Athelstan thought he was dreaming. The figure seemed to swoop towards them then hurled something which smashed at the feet of the torch-bearer. For a few breaths nothing happened until the flame of the lowered torch dipped towards the liquid lapping around its holder’s boots and the ground erupted, a fierce fire which sped up the torch-bearer’s body, leaping to devour him. The torch-bearer, screaming in agony, fell to his knees, which only made matters worse. The raging fire also screened their attacker, who disappeared as Cranston took off his cloak and tried to beat out the flames. Athelstan hastened to help. Lady Anne raised the hue and cry with screams of ‘Harrow! Harrow!’ Doors and shutters flew open. People in their nightshirts hurried out. The silence of the night was brutally shattered with screams and shouts. People bustled out then crept back at the horror blazing in their street. Turgot came running up waving his hands at his mistress to keep away. Cranston was trying to beat the flames but the fiery pool of liquid was trickling closer. Athelstan leapt forward and dragged the coroner away.

‘Stay back, Sir John, for God’s sake,’ he exclaimed, ‘there is nothing to be done!’

Athelstan could only stand terror-stricken at this heinous murder of a truly innocent man. The fire was now dying, its victim a twisted, blackened corpse over which the flames ran like deadly caresses, as if seeking any part not yet burnt. Bailiffs and wardsmen arrived. An enterprising merchant brought out a canvas sheet soaked in bitter, pungent vinegar, as well as a tun of sand. Both were used to douse the flames and cover the puddle which had caused it. Athelstan knelt on the ground. He felt his knee scrape something sharp. He moved back, picked up a shard of the broken pot and sniffed at the glistening, odourless oil. He rubbed it between his fingers and felt how thick the substance was. He dropped it, then closed his eyes and intoned the prayers for the dead. A deep revulsion at such a sickening death gave way to a violent rage which cut across the psalms he was murmuring. He paused and in his heart uttered a powerful curse against the assassin, a passionate prayer demanding justice and punishment for this most atrocious sin. The torch-bearer had died in agony, an innocent working man, one of the poorest, earning paltry pennies and for what? To die like this?

‘Come.’ Athelstan crossed himself and rose. He took a deep breath.

‘Lady Anne.’ His hostess, face all pale and juddering in the torchlight, now rested on Turgot’s arm. ‘Mistress, go back home. Sir John and I will find our own way. And be careful, for this truly is a place of deadly sin …’

oOoOo

Athelstan knelt on the prie-dieu before the altar in the small but delicately furnished chapel of Firecrest Manor. The chapel was a perfect jewel, a beautifully decorated chamber of prayer which, like the rest of the house, exuded an air of exquisite opulence. Sir Walter, Athelstan reflected, had amassed a great deal of wealth from war and his other business activities. Athelstan had risen before dawn, shaved and washed before donning his robes and sandals. Afterwards he’d walked the gleaming, oak-panelled galleries of the manor, visited the butteries, kitchens and refectory where servants were already kindling fires, laying out chafing dishes and moving sealed, sweet-smelling braziers to crackle and glow. Tapestries of many hues decorated shiny plaster walls, the oaken staircases were polished to a gleam. Thick Turkey rugs and soft white rope matting covered most of the floors. Cabinets, side cupboards and open aumbries displayed precious gold and silver plates. The manor boasted a long hall with an elaborately carved minstrel gallery; a cavernous hearth, leather-back chairs and a long polished elmwood table with a gorgeous golden nef, a model of a war cog in all its splendour at the centre.

Athelstan crossed himself and sighed. Such wealth and comfort were a stark contrast to the smoky tenements of his own parishioners. The friar stared up at the figure on the crucifix. Despite his surroundings, he could not forget the abomination he had witnessed the previous night. Cranston had solemnly promised the torch-bearer’s family would be given the most generous assistance. Athelstan had celebrated his daily Mass here in this jewel of a chapel, offering it up for the repose of the soul of that poor, hapless man. The friar had prayed, even as he beat his breast, that God would judge and punish such evil. Athelstan rose genuflecting towards the pyx and left the chapel. The manor had now come to life. Servants and maids hurried about. Savoury odours drifted from the kitchen. Outside echoed the sounds of the stableyard. Athelstan stopped a servant and asked her to bring Buckholt to the bottom of the main staircase. The steward arrived, a brown leather apron about him, and explained how he had been surveying stores of powder, resin, saltpetre and other combustible commodities in the manor’s great warehouse.

‘Will the loss of “The Book of Fires” injure your trade?’ Athelstan asked, grasping the newel post.

‘No.’ Buckholt shook his head. ‘The different powders and their strengths are fairly well known in the trade be it here or across the Narrow Seas. Our most serious rivals are the merchants of the Hanse. “The Book of Fires”,’ he lowered his voice, ‘lists, describes and analyses the different types of fire as well as how it can be strengthened, varied, safely transported and stored. Sir Walter had a phrase for it: “Everything in nature expresses itself in a hierarchy.” Greek fire, the real Greek fire, truly is the Emperor of Flames, a fire which seems to feed on itself and, in some cases, is totally impervious to water.’ He paused. ‘I heard what happened last night. The attack on you and Lady Anne. From what Sir John has said,’ he indicated with his head, ‘he is in the buttery breaking his fast. Believe me, our Lord Coroner is very fortunate to be doing that.’

‘You mean the fire that was thrown at us last night was the finest and the most deadly?’

‘Yes, Brother. Only a small bowl was tossed but, as Sir John describes, it is like the heaviest glue and clings to its victim as close as his own skin.’ Buckholt peered at Athelstan. ‘But why? Why should the Ignifer attack you?’

‘Why indeed?’ Athelstan stared past the steward at a tapestry hanging on the wall depicting St George in combat with a fire-breathing dragon. The previous night’s attack truly puzzled him. The murder of the torch-bearer was a dire act, but what had been the real object of the assault? Himself and Sir John? Or Lady Anne? Bearing in mind what she had told him about her quarrel with Isolda in Newgate, it was probably her. The meeting called last night at her house must have been known and attracted the Ignifer, whoever that was. Perhaps the assassin just waited and watched, seizing any opportunity.

‘Brother?’

Athelstan shook his head. ‘I am sorry. I was just thinking.’

‘Brother, I took the liberty of bringing someone you may wish to talk to.’ Buckholt walked away and returned with Mortice, a fussy little man, the clerk of the buttery who had noticed Sir Walter’s goblet had been exchanged. He simply repeated what Athelstan had already learnt and waddled away to resume, as he put it, ‘A whole list of very important duties.’

‘Very well.’ Athelstan tapped Buckholt on the shoulder. ‘I want to repeat what happened on the night Lady Isolda took the posset into her husband, yes?’

Buckholt pulled a face but agreed. He climbed the staircase and turned right into the gallery. Athelstan followed him up to the top.

Buckholt indicated where he had met Lady Isolda. ‘She took the goblet from me; I went downstairs and she came in here.’ He led Athelstan into a spacious, elaborately furnished bedchamber with a wide window in an enclosure above a cushioned seat. There were chests and coffers, tables, chairs and stools. A great four-poster bed shrouded in deep blue damask curtains dominated the room. At its foot, Athelstan glimpsed a richly polished cedarwood coffer, its lid thrown back. Buckholt confirmed it once contained ‘The Book of Fires’. Athelstan scrutinized it and went across to the garderobe built into the corner of the wall. He opened the door, its exter-ior covered in stiffened, painted leather. The chamber inside was quite spacious. The hole in the lid of the jakes box was large enough to easily drop a goblet – it would have fallen down the chute sinking deep into the messy underground cesspit below.

Athelstan took Buckholt to the top of the stairs and asked him to go down and stay as long as he remembered being distracted by Vanner. The steward agreed. Once he’d left, Athelstan strode back to Sir Walter’s bedchamber. He carefully rehearsed what he’d been told about Isolda. He pretended to take a goblet from his gown; half fill it, sprinkle in powder and pour in some of the posset then feed this to his make-believe victim. Once satisfied, Athelstan hurried across to the garderobe, sustaining the pretence of throwing down the goblet before returning to sit on the edge of the bed, sharing the goblet he’d left as Lady Isolda must have done. Athelstan concluded he had more than enough time to do all this before Buckholt returned. However, one fact puzzled him: he certainly d
id not have enough time, according to his reckoning, to persuade her husband to hand over the key around his neck, open the casket, take out ‘The Book of Fires’, hide it on her person and return to the bed.