The Book of Fires Page 2

  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 Ric
hmond, 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.’

  ‘I have seen that happen,’ Merrylegs spoke up. ‘I am always wary of my oven. I keep oil well away from it.’

  ‘True,’ Joscelyn the taverner added, ‘if you are drenched in oil the fire races to embrace you as eager as any lover for his sweetheart. Oh, sorry, Father,’ Joscelyn coughed, ‘I shouldn’t have said that, should I?’

  ‘But it’s true.’ Athelstan smiled. ‘In my youth I served in the king’s array in France.’

  ‘Did you, Father?’ Watkin and the rest chorused. They were as greedy as a host of hungry sparrows for any tittle-tattle about their priest’s former life.

  ‘I served in France,’ Athelstan repeated, ‘at a siege where the defenders poured down oil followed by fiery brands. Some of them missed but the oil had a life of its own. I saw fire move as swiftly as the wind. Master Fulchard, continue.’

  ‘I was burnt, roasted from my head down the entire length of the right side of my body. I was only saved by an old soldier. He knew what to do. He wrapped me in a cloak soaked in vinegar. He saved my life, an English mercenary but one with a good heart. He later took what money I had and used some of his own to help me. I was shipped to the Hospitallers in Rhodes. From there I travelled back to England. My life was saved but I was scarred, a hard, open wound, the pain a dull constant ache. I moved to Richmond in Yorkshire and from there journeyed around the northern shires.’ Fulchard pointed to the heavy, thick wallet on his belt still held by the rat-catcher. ‘Read the letters I hold from the Hospital in Rhodes, licences from the Mayor of York and others. Indeed, I have a more recent one. When I journeyed to Southwark for the vigil, I suffered great pain. I attended the House of Mercy in the hospital at the Priory of St Bartholomew, Smithfield. I was seen by Philippe the physician.’

  ‘Philippe,’ Athelstan intervened, ‘I know him well. A most skilled doctor, merciful but thorough.’

  ‘He examined me,’ Fulchard continued. ‘He gave me a tincture to dull the pain. I was to sprinkle it on anything I drank or ate.’

  ‘Who accompanied you here?’ Athelstan asked. ‘You must have had help?’

  ‘I did.’ A voice came from behind the clustered parish council. A man pushed his way through and came to genuflect beside Athelstan. The stranger had a square, thick-set face slightly yellowing in the poor light, though his eyes were sharp and bright. He looked harsh and forbidding with unshaven skin and balding head yet his voice was low and cultured.

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘Fitzosbert. Former priest, former soldier, former clerk, former this and former that.’ He answered Athelstan’s smile with his own and held up the stump of his left hand. ‘Once a priest, Father, until I became involved in this and that. Hazard was my downfall. The roll of the dice, be it cogged or not. Defrocked by Despenser Bishop of Norwich, the sheriff of the same county eventually took my left hand. I met Fulchard in Richmond on my tour of the shire. He told me a curious tale.’

  Athelstan glanced at Fulchard.

  ‘I told Fitzosbert, Father, how I was sheltering in a hospice near Richmond, also dedicated to St Erconwald. I had a vision, a dream: a man in a long robe appeared to me. He had long hair, a beard and carried a crozier. He said he was Erconwald, formerly Bishop of London and now a Lord of Heaven. He told me to go to St Erconwald’s in Southwark and experience God’s mercy. So I did. The journey was hard and difficult but, unlike Fitzosbert here, I have full licence to beg. In return for a little payment, Fitzosbert helped me. I arrived here at the beginning of the vigil …’

  ‘And what actually happened during the night?’ Athelstan blessed Fitzosbert and indicated he should stand with the rest.

  ‘I fell asleep close to the door of the chantry chapel. I was warm and comfortable. You began your Mass. I did not know if I was dreaming or not. I glanced at the chantry chapel door, my eye drawn by the glow of candlelight. This began to grow stronger and move like a mist across the floor. I could not tell if I was asleep or awake but, as the light crept closer, it ran like liquid gold, snaking across the floor, curling past other pilgrims until it reached me. I felt as if I was back in that tavern so many years ago in Athens. I was kneeling, my whole body was swept by a sweetness I could never imagine. Then it left. I wondered what had happened and realized there was no pain. I roused myself and stared down. I thought it was a sham, some trickery. My body was healed. I didn’t know what to say or do. I wanted to wake up and yet at the same time stay in that most pleasant dream. But then as the Mass ended, I fully realized what had happened, that I wasn’t dreaming.’ His voice faltered.

  ‘And you did not leave the church during the night-time vigil?’

  ‘No, Father, ask those around me. When I was crippled, I needed help to get up, grasp my crutch. I have to clear people out of my way. Father, I will leave my crutch here …’

  Athelstan held up a hand.

  ‘Mauger,’ he ordered, ‘Watkin and you, Benedicta, go back into the nave. Bring all those who were close to Master Fulchard. Do so now.’

  ‘I was, Father,’ Fitzosbert spoke up with a lopsided grin. ‘But I suppose you need stronger witnesses?’

  ‘I suppose I do,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘Now, let’s wait a while.’ He heard the raised voices of members of his parish council calling for witnesses. A short while later six pilgrims stumbled and staggered into the great pool of light, gnarled, twisted and suffering. All clad in rags, they displayed hideous wounds, raw scars and fearful injuries. Athelstan rose, blessed them and walked forward to exchange the kiss of peace. As he did so, he opened his purse on the cord around his waist and pushed a coin into each of their hands feeling their cold skin, their coarse, twisted fingers.

  ‘Watkin,’ Athelstan murmured, going back to his chair, ‘make sure these six eat well this morning. Now,’ he raised his voice, ‘what did you see?’

  The friar listened as the witnesses, some thick with accent, describe how Master Fulchard of Richmond had hobbled into the church the previous evening. They had been close around him as they prayed and slept. Two of the pilgrims said they would go on solemn oath how, in the early hours, Fulchard began to stir and chatter, talking in his sleep. They all agreed he had not left the church, nor had anyone approached him. They witnessed no disturbance whatsoever apart from a certain restlessness just before he woke. Once the pilgrims were finished, Watkin, Pike and others from the parish council chorused how they had witnessed the same. Athelstan could only sit dumbfounded by what he had seen and heard.

  ‘Look,’ he stammered, ‘I need to think and pray. Master Fulchard will join me in the priest’s house. Afterwards, Joscelyn, he will lodge at the Piebald, yes?’

  The taverner swiftly agreed. The wa
tchful silence was now broken as Athelstan’s obvious acceptance of what had happened dawned on the rest. The friar instructed Mauger and Benedicta to look after the sacristy and sanctuary. He rose, nodded at Fulchard and left through the rood-screen door. The nave was packed with people all agog with news at what had happened. The story of the ‘Great Miracle’ had spread wide and fast. Athelstan had to shoulder his way across the nave, through the Devil’s Door and into God’s Acre. Even Godbless, the beggar man who had turned the old death house into a comfortable cottage for himself, and the omnivorous Thaddeus were waiting for news amongst the decaying tombstones and battered crosses.

  ‘I have seen angels flying!’ Godbless shouted.

  ‘In which case,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘you have certainly seen more than I have. Now look, Godbless, keep a vigilant eye on God’s Acre, because the angels you see are causing all this excitement.’ Athelstan strode on, Godbless’ praises ringing in his ears. He reached his house, unlocked the door and entered the warm, well-scrubbed flagstone kitchen which served as his chancery, store room and, as he joked, solar and dining hall. Everything was in place. The fire banked. The charcoal braziers glowing. The air sweet with the oatmeal mixed with honey and spice bubbling in the black pot-bellied cauldron on its tripod above the fire. Athelstan quickly scrutinized everything, his communion chest, the lectern, his chancery coffer and well-ordered bed-loft. He opened the door in response to Bonaventure’s constant scratching and served the tomcat his morning drink of warm milk. Once Bonaventure was satisfied, Athelstan prepared the table ladling out the oatmeal and filling two blackjacks with light ale. Fulchard arrived escorted by members of the parish council. Athelstan thanked them but insisted that he and Fulchard would eat alone. Once he was at table, Athelstan closely inspected the miracle as Fulchard hungrily ate the oatmeal. The friar recalled meeting the pilgrim the previous day and marvelled at the change. He could detect no physical scars and yet, in the better light of his house, would go on oath that this was the same man: the voice, the mannerisms and certain marks he’d noticed on the good side of the pilgrim’s face. Once Fulchard had finished, Athelstan demanded to see the letters and licences he carried. The pilgrim opened his wallet, spilling its contents out on to the table. Athelstan sifted through them, studying each very carefully. Fulchard, by his own admission, possessed a host of letters and licences allowing him to beg in a wide variety of places, as well as describing his disabilities. Athelstan scrupulously examined both the writing and the appropriate seal on each document. After all, the consummate skill of cunning men who forged licences and could change appearances as deftly as any conjuror was well known. Athelstan studied both Fulchard and his documents. He was sure this was not the case here. The friar sighed and rose to his feet.