The Book of Fires Page 19

  ‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan,’ Flaxwith called, ‘they are here.’ Both friar and coroner turned to greet the strange torchlight procession making its way through the trees led by the Fisher of Men. This eerie official of the city council had left his ‘Mortuary of the Sea’, which stood on a deserted quayside just beyond La Reole. A figure of mystery with a highly colourful past as a knight of St Lazarus, the Fisher of Men’s principal task was to harvest the Thames of corpses, the victims of suicide, accident or murder. The Fisher gathered his grisly finds in his Chapel of the Drowned Men: the bloated, river-slimed corpses would be stretched out, washed and covered with a shroud drenched in pine juice whilst they waited inspection and collection. The Fisher was assisted by a coven of rejects and outcasts who rejoiced in such names as Maggot, Brick-Face and Hackum. Leader of these was Icthus, the Fisher’s henchman, garbed as always in black. He had assumed the Greek name for fish, Icthus, a fitting title. He was a young man who had no hair even on his brows or eyelids, whilst his oval-shaped face, jutting cod mouth and webbed fingers and toes made him even more fishlike. He was in truth a superb swimmer. Fast and as slippery as any porpoise, Icthus could thread the waters of the Thames night or day, in high summer or midwinter.

  Athelstan ignored the swelling murmurs and protests as he greeted the Fisher and his entourage; they immediately sank to one knee and chorused their salutation to which Athelstan responded with a solemn blessing. They all stood and, like some well-trained choir, burst into the hymn ‘Ave Maris Stella’ – ‘Hail, Star of the Sea’, a paean of praise to the Virgin. Afterwards the Fisher of Men, his bald head and skeletal features shrouded by a black leather hood fringed with the purest lambswool, his body hidden beneath a thick military cloak which hung down to the ankles of costly leather walking boots, raised gauntleted hands.

  ‘We have come,’ he proclaimed. ‘The waters of this earth are no mystery to us. Brother Athelstan, Sir John, we have brought ropes! We are ready to do God’s will and that of the King. Sir John, if we find what you are looking for … we will double the price?’

  ‘And a little more.’ Cranston took a slurp of the miraculous wineskin and handed it to the Fisher, who took a most generous mouthful before passing it back.

  ‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan,’ Sir Henry bustled forward, ‘this is my property, demesne …’

  ‘And I am on the King’s business,’ Cranston snarled. ‘My guests have come by barge. I ordered your porter at the watergate to let them through. Sir Henry, you get on with your own business and let me get on with mine. Brother?’

  Athelstan took Icthus by the hand, led him to the pool and whispered what he wanted. The henchman replied in a high-pitched voice, his colourless eyes studying Athelstan carefully.

  ‘The water must be freezing cold,’ Athelstan warned. Icthus gave a strange lop-sided smile. He took the friar’s hand and pressed it firmly against his own arm so Athelstan could feel the thick grease smearing his skin. Icthus shrugged off his gown and, to the cries and exclamations of the others, and garbed only in a tight-fitting loincloth, waded into the mere and slipped beneath the surface. He reminded Athelstan of an otter he’d once studied as a boy at a gurgling brook on his father’s farm. Icthus was long and sinuous, merging with the water as if that was his true home. Bubbles appeared on the surface. Icthus broke from the water, breathing noisily before disappearing once again. This time he was longer, but when he surfaced he wiped the slime from his face and grinned. The Fisher and his coven served out a long coil of rope. Icthus grabbed one end and sank into the depths. The rope hung slack, then it shook tight and taut. Icthus rose to take a further breath and, impervious to the biting cold, dived again. The rope was tugged. The Fisher and his companions, intoning the hymn ‘Salve Regina Marum’ – ‘Hail, Queen of the Seas’, began to draw in what Icthus had found: a corpse, encrusted with the dirt and sludge of the mere, broke the surface, its belly bloated and its face masked by a mesh of weeds. Athelstan ignored the exclamations of surprise as the swollen, disfigured cadaver was dragged free of the water.

  ‘Vanner!’ Buckholt exclaimed. ‘Reginald Vanner!’

  Athelstan knelt by the corpse. He sketched a cross on the bulging forehead and stared into the empty open eyes sunk deep into their sockets.

  ‘May Christ have mercy on your soul, Reginald Vanner,’ Athelstan breathed. He pressed his hand against the dead flesh, bloated until buttons and points had burst. He felt the hilt of a dagger, its blade thrust so deep into the left side that only the ornamental handle could be detected. Others gathered close. Athelstan cleared the dirt in the area around the fatal thrust. He pulled the dagger, its blade popping out with a loud sucking sound.

  ‘Vanner.’ Sir Henry grew closer as Icthus and his coven stepped away. The Fisher dried off his henchman, handing back the thick, heavy gown.

  ‘And the dagger?’ Cranston asked.

  ‘Isolda’s!’ Sir Henry exclaimed. ‘She always kept it in an embroidered sheath.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Cranston beckoned Rosamund forward. The maid, shivering with cold, approached and nodded.

  ‘Lady Isolda’s,’ she agreed.

  Falke and Parson Garman could only stare. Lady Anne shook her head wordlessly.

  Athelstan walked around the mere and returned. ‘Sir Henry,’ he asked, ‘you have bonfires where you burn the rubbish?’

  ‘Of course, Brother. There are fire-pits deep in the trees. Why?’

  ‘I believe Isolda, on the Thursday before she was arrested,’ Athelstan explained, ‘invited Vanner here. She insisted it was important for him to come with any manuscript injurious to her. Sutler was pressing his case heavily. It was time to remove any evidence, including Vanner. The clerk arrived, standing on the edge of this mere. Isolda came through the trees, took the manuscripts and then she struck. Vanner was standing on the edge. Notice how the land dips slightly to the water. Isolda closed swiftly. Perhaps Vanner thought she was going to kiss him. Instead, she thrust her dagger in. She meant to withdraw it, but she was no sword fighter. The violence of the blow sent Vanner reeling back into the freezing water. Both shocks would render the dying man unconscious. He collapsed, thrashed out in agony, turned and floated further out. Isolda watched him sink deep into the tangle of weeds at the bottom of the mere. Once he had gone, she hurried to one of the burning pits and made sure that all the manuscripts that he had given her were burnt to ash.’ Athelstan crossed himself. ‘God have mercy on them both. Now, Sir John, pay the Fisher what is due. Ask him to take Vanner’s corpse back to the Mortuary of Souls and, if unclaimed after further proclamation, have him buried in some poor man’s plot in one of the city churches. Sir Henry, I need to see you and the others in a much warmer place.’

  Within the hour Cranston and Athelstan met the rest in the retainers’ refectory, just off the great kitchen. It was a warm, spacious chamber where the savoury smells of cooking sweetened the air. They gathered around the long trestle table, Cranston with Athelstan on his right, the others ranged down either side. Cups of mulled wine along with bowls of mortress, a cream soup of pork and chicken, were served. Athelstan blessed the food and they ate in silence till Cranston asked the scullions to clear the table. Once the doors were closed behind them Athelstan began.

  ‘I thank you for coming here so that I can share some of my conclusions with you. Five years ago Sir Walter Beaumont married Isolda Fitzalan, as she was then known, a spring–winter marriage. Sir Walter had an extremely colourful past as Black Beaumont, leader of a free company of mercenaries known as the Luciferi. During his travels abroad Black Beaumont acquired a veritable treasure trove of secrets regarding cannon, powder and all kinds of fiery missiles. The culmination of his career was the acquisition of Mark the Greek’s “The Book of Fires”, a manuscript set to play a major part in the tragedy which unfurled. Now we know his marriage wasn’t a happy one. I will not spare your blushes. Sir Walter was cunning, powerful and ruthless. He soon realized his fairy-queen wife had the soul of a selfish, equal
ly ruthless harridan beneath a mask of beauty. In her turn, Isolda soon learnt that Sir Walter had no intention of endowing her with the wealth, freedom and power she craved. Isolda led a secret life. I’m sure Sir Walter suspected but I don’t think he really cared. He had plans of his own. Isolda certainly fostered a relationship with Vanner in order to keep a strict eye on her husband, and how better than through his chancery clerk?’ Athelstan paused to let the others reflect on his words. He noticed there were no protests. ‘Part of this secret life is that Isolda would often disappear into the city. Yes, Rosamund?’

  ‘Brother Athelstan,’ the maid quavered, ‘I have mentioned that. She undoubtedly met the Greeks but there were other times … I do not know where she went, why or whom she met.’

  ‘Does anyone?’ Athelstan asked.

  No one replied.

  ‘Neither do I. Undoubtedly she met the Greeks, who wanted their manuscript returned. They approached her as they did others. But,’ Athelstan continued swiftly to hinder any comment, ‘more grave matters intervened. Your brother, Sir Henry, grew old and weak. I believe guilt for past sins weighed heavily on him but whether that sorrow was genuine or not, I cannot say. He certainly reflected on his marriage and the possibility that Isolda might be his daughter, the offspring of one his paramours when he was a lusty bachelor. Some people here,’ Athelstan emphasized his words, ‘played on such wild imaginings.’ He glanced around. Parson Garman had leaned back staring up at the ceiling. Sir Henry and Lady Rohesia kept their heads down. Rosamund was examining her fingernails.

  ‘Sir Walter,’ Athelstan continued, ‘decided to apply for an annulment. Undoubtedly he would have used Vanner to write a submission to the Bishop’s curia and the Archdeacon’s court asking for this annulment on the very strong grounds of consanguinity. Vanner, of course, informed Isolda, who became desperate. She encouraged Vanner to keep her informed as she maintained all the appearances of a cordial marriage. In truth, she and her husband were deeply alienated. He maintained the pretence as effectively as did she. Isolda still thought she would get “The Book of Fires”, sell it for a fortune and be free. When that door firmly closed, Isolda wanted revenge. She was keen to seize her husband’s wealth. She had failed to secure “The Book of Fires”, so the riches of this manor should really come to her. She realized that if the annulment went forward she would be depicted as Sir Walter’s cast off, disgraced in the eyes of society and once again dependent on the likes of you, Lady Anne, and the Minoresses. Isolda was so desperate she even allowed you, Rosamund,’ Athelstan chose his words carefully, ‘to keep Sir Walter company and provide whatever comfort you could.’ The maid coloured and stared down at the empty platter before her. ‘Rosamund,’ Athelstan continued softly. ‘You loved your mistress so much you would do anything for her, and yet she almost poisoned you.’

  Rosamund’s head came up, her mouth gaping.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Falke shouted.

  ‘Ask Parson Garman,’ Athelstan declared, ‘a former comrade of Sir Walter during his years abroad when Black Beaumont loved figs baked in a creamy almond sauce. Yes, parson?’

  ‘I have told you that.’

  ‘Yes, you have, and how you specially purchased this delicacy to remind Sir Walter of those stirring days in Outremer.’

  ‘The figs!’ Lady Anne exclaimed. ‘Brother Athelstan, are you alleging they were poisoned?’

  ‘Not by me,’ Garman declared.

  ‘No, by Isolda, probably assisted by Vanner – some delicate poison which would increase in strength, the likes of white or red arsenic. Sir Walter loved his figs. He grew sick. He tried to eat them but then—’

  ‘But then what?’ Falke interrupted.

  ‘On the day Sir Walter was murdered I believe his intention to seek an annulment was on the verge of becoming public. He was about to serve his case to the Bishop for inspection by the Archdeacon’s court. Isolda and Vanner realized they had little time left and became agitated. On that memorable morning, you, Parson Garman, brought the usual delicacy – figs in a cream almond sauce, yes?’ The priest nodded. ‘You conversed with Sir Walter, the usual parry and thrust, after which you left?’ Again the chaplain agreed. ‘You, Rosamund,’ Athelstan pointed at the now pallid maid, fingers to her lips, ‘visited Sir Walter later on. He gave you the figs left by Parson Garman?’

  ‘How?’ Rosamund spluttered. ‘How could she poison them? I mean …’

  ‘I suspect Isolda also visited Sir Walter shortly after you left Parson Garman. She either exchanged the dish or poured some poison over it which would sink into that creamy almond sauce. Oh, they’d been poisoned before but very lightly; if they were eaten by a healthy person, the potion would have little effect, but this time the dosage was deadly.’ Athelstan paused. ‘Brother Philippe, your own physician, treated Sir Walter for these minor stomach ailments; he could not detect poison. He also treated others in this household suffering from a similar condition. I suspect those who shared these figs out …’ He let his words hang in the air.

  ‘True, true.’ Buckholt turned to Sir Henry. ‘On one occasion I had ill-humours of the belly – so did others. I am sure I had eaten some of those figs.’

  ‘And if you reflect,’ Athelstan declared, ‘neither Isolda nor Vanner suffered such ailments. Brother Philippe declared he had no dealings with either of them. I am certain Brother Philippe would corroborate what I’ve just said.’

  ‘You are correct,’ Sir Henry declared. ‘Isolda and Vanner – I cannot recall either of them having to be treated. Others certainly were …’

  ‘But why should they poison the figs,’ Falke interrupted, ‘if they knew Sir Walter was not eating them? I could understand them doing that at the beginning to disable Sir Walter, but as he grew more sickly the figs were left. Moreover, why coat them with a truly malignant dose if they were to be eaten by others?’

  ‘Oh, I shall explain that!’ Athelstan replied.

  ‘No, no,’ Rosamund wailed, ‘this cannot be.’

  ‘Oh, but it was,’ Athelstan insisted. ‘At the same time Isolda and Vanner planned to poison Sir Walter’s posset. She was furiously plotting not to be caught. If it hadn’t been for Buckholt and Mortice, she would have escaped.’ Athelstan allowed his words to hang in the air.

  ‘Sweet God,’ Sir Henry breathed, ‘now I understand. There would have been two deaths in this manor, both by poison: Walter Beaumont and Rosamund Clifford.’

  ‘I visited Sir Walter,’ Rosamund gabbled. ‘He was comfortable. He said he wanted the figs but they were too much for him. He called them a temptation. He insisted that I accept them as a gift. I took them to my own chamber and ate them. I felt …’

  ‘You became very ill,’ Athelstan agreed, ‘but you are a young, healthy woman. Your body would resist, even as you manifested symptoms of the sweating sickness, yes?’

  Rosamund simply stared back in horror.

  ‘Even better,’ Athelstan continued, ‘on your return to your chamber, you violently vomited? You had to visit the latrines?’

  ‘I ate the figs,’ she replied, ‘and I vomited time and again through the following night until my belly ached. Later I felt a terrible thirst, and my skin burning up. Physician Philippe visited me after he had been summoned to attend Sir Walter. He examined my symptoms …’

  ‘By then, Rosamund, the poison was purged but your body had to recover, your humours be restored. The bile in your belly calmed, yet, remember this, your mistress almost murdered you whilst Parson Garman, whose relationship with Sir Walter was not the most cordial, would have fallen under deep suspicion.’

  The friar pointed at Falke. ‘Now I shall answer your question. At first Sir Walter ate the figs and became subject to stomach complaints. Eventually he stopped eating them, or at least all of them; others tasted this delicacy and suffered similar symptoms of the belly.’

  ‘Of course,’ Lady Rohesia murmured, ‘it served as a cover for what they were doing. Sir Walter suffered stomach cramps but so did others; it would
lessen suspicion, create the impression that this was some household sickness.’

  ‘And a fatal dose,’ Athelstan declared, ‘would help deepen suspicion that a poisoner was waging war on Sir Walter and his entire household. Let me explain. If Isolda and Vanner had not been detected by Mortice and Buckholt, if Rosamund had also died of suspected poisoning,’ he gestured at the prison chaplain, ‘against whom would the finger of suspicion be pointed? And you, Rosamund, were chosen by mere chance. It could have been Buckholt or anyone who ate those figs. It didn’t really matter as long as someone else in the household died of poisoning.’ Athelstan paused to let his words reverberate through minds and hearts. Garman and Rosamund were deeply shocked as their awareness deepened of how close Isolda had brought them to destruction. Sir Henry and his wife looked cowed, lost in their own thoughts. Falke stared unbelieving, his eyes blinking and lips moving wordlessly as if searching for words. Buckholt sat grinning to himself. Only Lady Anne, the mute Turgot behind her, seemed alert. She rolled back the voluminous cuffs of her cloak and leaned forward, tapping the table.

  ‘Brother Athelstan, what you say is logical. God be my witness.’ She stared around, hands outstretched. ‘We’ve seen Vanner’s corpse. What else can we believe except that Isolda was an assassin? Yet surely Sir Walter must have entertained his own suspicions? Why didn’t he voice them?’

  ‘Oh, he did, but he was very wary. In fact, he trusted none of you. That’s the problem with men like Sir Walter – everyone is suspect. And he was right, wasn’t he? Sir Henry, your brother realized you were waiting for him to die, praying that he would do so without an heir. No, no,’ Athelstan waved a hand, ‘now is not the time for protests of false innocence. Parson Garman, you know I speak the truth about your relationship with Black Beaumont. You hated him. You wanted revenge. Good enough motives for murder? Rosamund, you only graced Sir Walter with your company at your mistress’ behest. She used you to distract her husband, perhaps to discover the whereabouts of “The Book of Fires”. Sir Walter must have realized that. Lady Anne, Sir Walter may have respected you but never enough to confide in you. Moreover, like his wife, he may have come to resent you for introducing Isolda to him. Who knows, he may have suspected you of some nefarious, deeply laid scheme to discover his secrets …’