The Book of Fires Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  A Selection of Titles From Paul Doherty

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  PART ONE

  PART TWO

  PART THREE

  PART FOUR

  PART FIVE

  PART SIX

  A Selection of Titles from Paul Doherty

  The Canterbury Tales Mysteries

  AN ANCIENT EVIL

  A TAPESTRY OF MURDERS

  A TOURNAMENT OF MURDERS

  GHOSTLY MURDERS

  THE HANGMAN’S HYMN

  A HAUNT OF MURDER

  THE MIDNIGHT MAN *

  The Brother Athelstan Mysteries

  THE NIGHTINGALE GALLERY

  THE HOUSE OF THE RED SLAYER

  MURDER MOST HOLY

  THE ANGER OF GOD

  BY MURDER’S BRIGHT LIGHT

  THE HOUSE OF CROWS

  THE ASSASSIN’S RIDDLE

  THE DEVIL’S DOMAIN

  THE FIELD OF BLOOD

  THE HOUSE OF SHADOWS

  BLOODSTONE *

  THE STRAW MEN *

  CANDLE FLAME *

  THE BOOK OF FIRES *

  * available from Severn House

  THE BOOK OF FIRES

  Paul Doherty

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  This first world edition published 2014

  in Great Britain and in the USA by

  Crème de la Crime, an imprint of

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.

  Trade paperback edition first published 2015 in Great

  Britain and the USA by SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.

  eBook edition first published in 2015 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 2014 by Paul Doherty.

  The right of Paul Doherty to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  Doherty, P. C. author.

  The Book of Fires.

  1. Athelstan, Brother (Fictitious character)–Fiction.

  2. John, of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, 1340-1399–Fiction.

  3. London (England)–Fiction. 4. Tyler’s Insurrection,

  1381–Fiction. 5. Great Britain–History–Richard II,

  1377-1399–Fiction. 6. Detective and mystery stories.

  I. Title

  823.9’2-dc23

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-066-9 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-549-7 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-588-8 (e-book)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Falkirk,

  Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  To our second beloved granddaughter, Edie Grace Doherty, with all our love.

  PROLOGUE

  ‘Another kind of fire for the burning of enemies where ever they are …’

  Mark the Greek’s ‘The Book of Fires’

  Richard Sutler, serjeant-at-law, and Crown Prosecutor in the King’s Bench at Westminster, empowered to plead before the King’s justices of oyer and terminer, was a proud, some would even say arrogant man. He was self-made, the child of marsh people from Poplar, close to the muddy waters of the Thames. Serjeant Sutler had, in his words, pulled himself up by his own bootstraps. He was, in the opinion of a Westminster wit, the sort of fellow who would cheerfully give you the shirt off your back. Another tartly claimed that Sutler knew the gamut of human emotions from A to B. Tall and commanding with a sharp, shaven face, popping-eyed with the mouth and jaw of a hungry lurcher, Sutler was in his heyday, especially on the morning of the feast of Saints Perpetua and Felicity, women of Carthage martyred by the cruel Emperor Severus in the amphitheatre of that city. Full of his own worth, Richard Sutler did not realize that on that cold, dark February morning he was about to be brutally murdered; in the words of scripture, a fate sprung on him ‘like a trap’. Death would strike like a thief in the night and Master Sutler certainly did not know the day nor the hour.

  As usual, the serjeant had risen early in his comfortable chambers in Casket Lane within bowshot of the great abbey of Westminster. He had washed, shaved, oiled his skin and donned his best robes, pulling on his high-heeled Spanish boots before swinging round his shoulders a pure woollen cloak edged with the costliest ermine. Sutler collected his chancery satchel bulging with documents which, within the day, would despatch a cartload of felons to the gallows at Smithfield, Tyburn stream or even outside the towering fortified gatehouse of the abbey. Sutler was full of his day as he made himself comfortable in the whispering recess of the Gates of Purgatory, a handsome tavern which stood on the corner of Casket Lane, close to his own comfortable wainscoted chamber with its fine silver-inlaid furniture, woollen Turkey rugs, coffers, chests and aumbries, not to mention that lux-urious four-poster bed Sutler had been so reluctant to leave after the previous night’s drinking here in his favourite tavern. The taproom now lay empty. People had flocked to the Jesus Mass. Once this was finished, they would come here to break their fast on strips of roasted pork and capon, dusted slightly with a savoury peppered sauce and served on the softest manchet coated with crushed spiced herbs. Sutler, however, had decided to leave matters spiritual for the moment. He wanted to prepare for the day’s business. Above all, he wanted to revel in his most recent triumph: the searching out, arrest, conviction and execution of Lady Isolda Beaumont, widow of Sir Walter, merchant, former soldier, adventurer and close friend of the Regent, John of Gaunt. Lady Isolda was a self-made widow. Sutler had proved that. The serjeant squirmed on the thick cushioned seat. He stretched out his hands towards the two capped braziers which had been wheeled into the comfortable corner enclave beneath one of the taproom’s beautifully painted stained-glass windows. Sutler had proved how Lady Isolda had helped her failing husband through the Gates of Eternity with a goblet of rich posset generously laced with the most deadly poison. At first she had protested her innocence. An easy enough task for a beautiful young woman like Isolda with her corn-coloured hair, sloe-blue eyes and lips full and generous as the rose. She could dress in gowns of damask and samite, wear gauze veils as demurely as any nun, but she still remained an assassin. Sutler had proved that well enough, his only regret was that her accomplice, the clerk Reginald Vanner, had fled, mysteriously disappeared. Sutler comforted himself that it was only a matter of time before Vanner was seized and thrown into Newgate. Reginald Vanner, formerly clerk to Sir Walter Beaumont, had been put to the horn, proclaimed as a murderer with a bounty on his head, thirty pounds sterling if he was brought in alive, fifteen for the head only. Vanner had been proclaimed ‘utlegatum’, beyond the law, a wolfshead who could be slain on sight. Sutler sipped at the silver tankard, his own, which the taverner kept specially for him. He reminisced on his recent great triumph. He had received the personal thanks of the Regent as well as those of Gaunt’s nephew, the young King Richard II. Such royal gratitude had been expressed with the grant of land
in Middlesex. A small manor but one with fertile fields, a well-stocked carp pond and a thick rich copse of trees.

  Sutler cradled the tankard between his hands. Lady Isolda and her accomplice, Vanner, had considered themselves very subtle: their crime had been perpetrated in a matter of seconds, a few heartbeats, but serjeant Sutler had been more cunning than either …

  ‘A relic, sir, a true relic from the Holy Blood of Hailes.’

  The serjeant glared at the tinker dressed in a motley collection of rags, a felt cap on his tattered grey hair, his scratched leather jerkin festooned with miniature cockle shells, amulets and brooches which boasted, at least in theory, that he had visited all the great shrines of the kingdom and beyond. Sutler leaned forward aggressively and the relic-seller scuttled away. Sutler returned to his reflections. Gaunt had commissioned him to investigate Sir Walter’s death and he had done so thoroughly, detecting Lady Isolda’s very clever sleight of hand. He had closed in swiftly like any good lurcher in pursuit of a deer. He had trapped her and brought her down. Oh, the lady had tried to seduce her way out of the trap, pressing herself close, whispering all forms of sweet inducements. Sutler smirked to himself; little did she or anyone know the truth. The serjeant-at-law peered over his tankard at the svelte round buttocks of the tapboy as he leaned over a table to clear away some pots. Sutler licked his lips. No one knew where his true predilections lay. Indeed, Lady Isolda had been greatly surprised by his reaction. Sutler placed his tankard down. Isolda had been convicted: all her parry and thrust, as well as that of her lawyer Nicholas Falke, had proven futile. She had been found guilty. Justices Tressilian, Gavelkind and Danyel had imposed the ultimate horrid penalty for the murder of a husband by his wife: Lady Isolda had been sentenced to be burnt alive at Smithfield. The punishment was imposed ‘sine misericordia’ – ‘without mercy’. No opiate was to be offered, nor could the Carnifex, the executioner, slip through the surging smoke to garrotte her. Sutler, despite his arrogance, flinched at the memory of the burning: Lady Isolda standing on a stool, lashed to that soaring execution stake! He closed his eyes. The memories were still strong: the smoke billowing, the flames licking greedily around their victim. Sutler opened his eyes. He wondered why Lady Isolda hadn’t bargained for her life. Surely she must have known the whereabouts of that secret codex, Mark the Greek’s ‘Book of Fires’? A manuscript which described the devastating liquid fire that could devour an entire ship, or so they said … A crackling from the hearth carved in the shape of a gaping dragon’s mouth caught Sutler’s attention. He watched the turnspit press the creaking iron on which half a piglet was spitted. The leaping flames, the sweating boy, the way the fire scorched the white, fleshy pork brought back memories of that macabre execution. Sutler quickly finished his ale, despatched the tankard back to Mine Host, grabbed his chancery satchel and staggered out of the main door into the narrow alleyway. Sutler stood taking deep breaths. He glanced to his left. The runnel snaked before him, the muck and filth, frozen hard by a hoar frost, glittered in the grey dawn-light. Sutler glimpsed a hooded figure holding a bucket shuffle out of an enclave, one of those recesses used as a laystall where rubbish could be heaped. He peered at the shambling, awkward figure.

  ‘Some beggar trying to sell water as the purest from the spring,’ he muttered, and strode purposely forward. As he walked through the thinning mist, Sutler realized the waterman beggar was carrying a pail in one hand and a lantern in the other, the flame of the tallow candle glowing fiercely against the frosted horn covering. Sutler bit his lip in anger. The beggar looked as if he was reluctant to give way. The serjeant-at-law was almost upon on him when the beggar, head and face hidden by a deep capuchon, stepped aside. Sutler sniffed and swept by. His high-heeled boot caught a piece of frozen rubbish. He paused to regain his balance and felt a sticky substance splash the right side of his face. He turned abruptly and glared. The beggar stood, his bucket now empty as its contents, tossed over the back of Sutler’s costly cloak, dripped on to his hose and boots. The serjeant-at-law glanced down then back up in anger. The beggar stepped closer. He snatched the candle from the lanthorn and tossed it ever so leisurely towards Sutler, who could only stare in open-mouthed amazement. The flaring candle caught his cloak and the fire seemed to erupt all around him. He tried to take his cloak off but the fiery tongues darted about him. Sutler struggled, mouth opening in a hideous scream as the flames swiftly engulfed him …

  Sir Francis Tressilian, Royal Justiciar and Judge in the King’s Bench, was also preparing for what he did not know was his last day on earth. Tressilian loved the law and all the pomp and ceremony surrounding it: the herald, the criers, the proclamations and processions, the blaring trumpets, the costly woollen robes, white-furred red hats, the glittering badges and insignia of office and, above all, the obsequiousness which accompanied him everywhere. Tressilian smirked to himself as he sat on the jakes stool in the Golden Cresset tavern close to Westminster Hall. All the pomp and ceremony of a judge were certainly missing here, though Tressilian prided himself on hiding his weak stomach and watery bowels. Like Richard Sutler earlier in the day, Tressilian had risen, dressed and hastened to break his fast. He’d eaten a little too swiftly and now sat in the garderobe in the tavern stableyard. Justice Tressilian tried to compose himself as he listened to the sounds from outside. A knocking on the door annoyed him. He was supposed to sit here and take his ease, not be disturbed! He shouted at the would-be intruder to withdraw and got to his feet. Only then did he notice the liquid seeping beneath the door. Tressilian could only gape as the pool splashed about him. He abruptly broke from his surprise, but it was too late. One, two and then a third lit taper were tossed over the door to fall into that widening pool of mysterious liquid, now lapping over his soft leather boots and woollen leggings. Tressilian’s hands went out to the latch even as the ground around him erupted into fire, the flames roaring up turning the King’s Justiciar into a living, screaming torch.

  PART ONE

  ‘This fire, once started, will burn increasingly for a year.’

  Mark the Greek’s ‘The Book of Fires’

  Brother 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 ope
n 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.