The Book of Fires Read online

  Athelstan grinned, raised his hand in blessing and stood in the doorway watching Cranston stomp off towards London Bridge. The friar stared across at the concourse before his parish church. Men-at-arms and mounted hobelars, their scarlet and blue tabards proclaiming the royal arms, now mingled with the visitors and pilgrims. Their arrival was a logical result of the previous night’s attack on the barges. A fruitless task. The Upright Men would have long disappeared, separated and merged back into their villages, farms, hamlets or, as here, their wards and parishes. Moreover, the soldiers would have to be most careful. Any overbearing search or scrutiny might provoke a riot.

  Athelstan wondered when the miscreants from his own flock would appear. Until then he would pursue the hypothesis he had begun to develop before his visitors arrived. Nicephorus’ information had been most useful but most of it would have to wait for a while. The question of Rievaulx wouldn’t. Athelstan collected his cloak, left the house and hurried into the church. The throng of visitors had thinned. The only parishioners were Crim, Benedicta, Imelda and other women. Athelstan raised his hand in greeting but hurried on up the nave into the chantry chapel. Once there he paused, collecting his thoughts and trying to recall the sequence of events. On the night of the great miracle, Fulchard of Richmond had hobbled into the church, a crutch resting under his right arm. He was cloaked and hooded; he may have had a visor over his face. He lay down and was cured so he did not need the crutch. Pilgrims whose prayers were answered at a shrine, be it a cure or any other type of healing, would leave some token of appreciation: a stick, a cane or, as in this case, a crutch to be hung over the saint’s shrine. ‘Right,’ Athelstan whispered to himself, ‘I will begin with that.’ He went into the chapel and he pushed his way through the worshippers, explaining he needed to clean the crutch. He grasped this, smiled benevolently at everyone and hurried back to his house. Once inside he pulled back his cloak and pushed the crutch under his right armpit. At first he thought the discomfort and unsteadiness were due to him being shorter than Fulchard whilst the crutch, being even-sided, could be used either way. Mystified, he laid the crutch on the floor, examining it carefully, and realized the crutch had been specially fashioned to be used only on the right side of the body. The cushioned rest was slightly angled to accommodate this; the hand clasp further down faced the outside whilst the very thick leather toe, stiffened to hardness, was worn away by the angle of how the crutch rested against the ground. Athelstan turned it over time and again – he could hardly believe his eyes. Then he lifted it up, trying it under his left armpit and then his right. Once finished, he put it across the table and sat down face in his hands. ‘You stupid, stupid, stupid friar,’ he whispered. ‘You pride yourself on your sharp eyes and perception, yet you can’t distinguish your left from your right.’ He took his hands away from his face. ‘Very well, my beloveds. You now have my full attention.’

  PART SIX

  ‘Another type of fire … Which burnt houses situated in the mountains and burnt the mountain itself.’

  Mark the Greek’s ‘The Book of Fires’

  Athelstan stood at the top of the long common table in the taproom of the Piebald tavern. He stared at the men grouped either side – Joscelyn, Watkin, Pike, Merrylegs, Ranulf, Giles of Sempringham also known as the Hangman of Rochester, Fulchard of Richmond, Fitzosbert and all the other members of the canting merry crew. Parson Garman had also joined them, summoned by Athelstan, ‘on a matter of life or the cruellest death’. Night had fallen. Curfew lamps glowed in church steeples, for darkness had wrapped everything in its shroud. The parish church had been closed. Athelstan had insisted that all approaches to the Piebald be strictly guarded. Everything was now ready. Joscelyn had served the ale and fired the torches and candles as well as the corner braziers. All doors and windows were firmly bolted. The assembled men, now cleansed of their masks, painted faces and other disguises used in the previous night’s assault, did not know where to look – at Fulchard, Athelstan or that crutch lying down the centre of the table. Athelstan dramatically intoned the ‘Gloria’, blessed them and sat down.

  ‘If Sir John Cranston were here,’ he began, ‘you would need every prayer I could utter because all of you would undoubtedly hang. No, Pike,’ he slapped the table with the palm of his hand, ‘you would hang and it would not be swift. Now, Fulchard of Richmond, or so you call yourself, what do the following mean: “arete”, “doulos”, “agathos”, “kakos”, “kalos”?’

  The man gazed blankly back.

  ‘They are Greek words,’ Athelstan explained, ‘from Koine, the lingua franca used commonly around the Middle Sea. They mean “virtue”, “servant”, “good”, “bad” and “beautiful”. Fulchard of Richmond was allegedly injured whilst working at a tavern in Athens. If he worked there he must have known such common, simple words. To continue,’ Athelstan leaned over and touched the crutch, ‘Fulchard of Richmond was damaged on his right side. Crutches for the perennial cripple are fashioned uniquely. Fulchard’s crutch was made to be held under the right armpit. However, this one, which Fulchard allegedly used, is for the left. Of course, it would not matter for that very brief journey into the church before this farce took place. All the false cripple had to do was shuffle up the steps and along the nave and lie down near the chantry chapel. When the so-called miracle occurred, the crutch was only needed as a relic and nothing else. You also carried a small phial of perfume to exude something akin to the odour of sanctity, a fragrance which could indicate the intervention of heaven. It was all a sham. The real Fulchard of Richmond never entered that church – you did.’ Athelstan pointed down the table at the imposter. ‘Darkness was falling, the nave was gloomy. All you needed was to disguise the right side of your face with make-believe burns. Southwark houses a legion of counterfeit cranks and cunning men and, if that wasn’t the case, you may have even worn a mask. Who would remember a hooded, visored cripple, the crutch under the wrong arm, face down, stumbling up towards the shrine?’

  ‘The witnesses?’ Pike spluttered.

  ‘Oh, shut up!’ Athelstan roared. ‘Do not depict me as a complete fool. The witnesses, including you, Fitzosbert, were all hand-picked, fervent supporters of the Upright Men.’ Heads were bowed, booted feet shuffled. ‘Now,’ Athelstan continued, ‘the real Fulchard of Richmond was indeed very ill. Brother Philippe, an eminent physician, testified to that. It was a shrewd move to take Fulchard to St Bartholomew’s, where Philippe would adjudge him both as a cripple and a very sick man.’ Athelstan snapped his fingers at Pike. ‘You also brought the real Fulchard to see me: you wanted me to personally witness how ill he truly was.’

  The ditcher kept his head down.

  ‘So,’ Athelstan declared, ‘on the night of the so-called miracle, the real Fulchard remained hidden, either here at the Piebald or in a garret at Merrylegs’ shop. He would keep his crutch as he still needed it. The so-called miracle occurred, but Fulchard, truly ill, quietly died, and his corpse was kept hidden. I was, thankfully for you, distracted by other business. I am sure you planned Fulchard’s secret burial in my cemetery but then Merrylegs senior also died around the same time. This provided you with an excellent opportunity for honourable interment. Watkin and Pike dug the grave deep and on the night before the funeral Mass for Merrylegs senior, you arranged Fulchard’s secret burial. Some of you miscreants, under the guise of gaping pilgrims, visited Godbless and his goat.’ Athelstan ignored the snort of laughter from the shadows. ‘There was great excitement in the church and the parish. Godbless was only too willing to be swept up in the festivities. Thanks to you, both he and Thaddeus became helplessly drunk. Godbless did not watch the cemetery – he did not see the secret burial of Fulchard whose funeral rites were conducted by you, Fitzosbert, a defrocked priest but still an ordained minister with the God-given power to conduct such a ceremony.’

  Athelstan banged the table. ‘I can easily prove this if needed. Once dawn breaks I’ll have Cranston’s bailiffs open that grave and dig until they f
ind what I am looking for.’ He noticed Fitzosbert’s hand drop beneath the tabletop. Ranulf the rat-catcher, sitting beside him, jabbed the defrocked priest with his elbow and Fitzosbert’s hand reappeared.

  ‘Good.’ Athelstan stared round. ‘I beg you in Christ’s name, as well as for the amity and respect you should owe me, do not think of doing anything stupid. I admit, the story you gave about Fulchard’s early history contains some grains of truth. Fulchard of Richmond did go abroad. He served as a mercenary in Black Beaumont’s free company, the Luciferi. He assumed another name, Rievaulx, a reference to the great Benedictine abbey in Yorkshire where he and you, my friend,’ Athelstan pointed at the imposter, ‘were educated as boys. Black Beaumont and his troop arrived in Constantinople. During unrest there, they stole Mark the Greek’s “The Book of Fires” and fled the city. Black Beaumont decided not to share the secrets of that manuscript and the wealth they would bring with anyone else. He deserted one set of comrades in the desert outside Izmir and fled with a group of henchmen to Patmos in the Middle Seas where he committed further treachery, carrying out a horrid atrocity. Black Beaumont drugged and burnt alive his remaining companions, except,’ Athelstan pointed down at the imposter, ‘the man known as Rievaulx. He was grievously injured but, God knows how, he managed to escape. He eventually returned to England, crippled and worn. He hid for a while, then Fulchard of Richmond emerged as a professional beggar who suffered a hideous accident abroad. Of course,’ Athelstan smiled thinly, ‘you know all this, don’t you?’

  The imposter just stared coolly back. ‘I examined all the possibilities, including a miracle. However, given all that I have said, I have reached a much stronger possibility, in fact the strongest, that it was probable that you, sir, and the real Fulchard of Richmond are identical twins.’ Athelstan sat back in the chair. He moved his tankard slightly forward. ‘I cannot tell you about your life – why should I? But you and your twin eventually became reconciled. Fulchard did not tell you the full truth immediately. He peddled the tongue-smooth tale of a dire accident in some Greek tavern. Time passed and the truth eventually emerged. You were horrified. Black Beaumont was now a well-known, leading merchant in this kingdom. You wanted revenge. You sent Beaumont threatening messages, “As I and ours burnt, so shall ye and yours”. But then others intervened.’ Athelstan’s gesture took in the entire company. ‘The Upright Men are strong in both Yorkshire and Lincolnshire. Like the ancient Saxon hero, Hereward the Wake, the Upright Men are fortifying hiding places in the dark, damp fens of East Anglia. Gaunt vowed to burn them out and his flotilla of flat-bottomed barges would be crucial in achieving this. It’s no idle threat. The royal dockyards along Southwark were busy and the barges would soon be deployed. The Upright Men decided to destroy them. They held council and a very subtle plot was concocted. You and Fulchard would meet others here at St Erconwald’s for the novena vigil to our saint. The miracle would take place assisted by witnesses who are also Upright Men from different shires, ably assisted by your coven in this parish led by you, Ranulf. Once the so-called miracle had occurred, your brother would be hidden and later secretly whisked away. The miraculous occurrence would attract the crowds and wealth, a good source of revenue for some of our parishioners.’ Athelstan glared at Pike and Watkin. ‘As well as a source of great profit to the Upright Men in more ways than one. Visitors streamed into Southwark. Pilgrims thronged this ward and my church. Carts, sumpter ponies and barrows arrived with goods for sale. The crowd surged in and set up camp. Gaunt’s spies were overwhelmed – they found it impossible to survey such a multitude. God had worked a great wonder and, according to canon law, pilgrims and shrines were specially blessed and protected by Holy Mother Church. Moreover, this was not some sham – both the Bishop of London’s curia and one of this city’s eminent physicians have tendered the only logical conclusion on the evidence they have scrupulously examined, that a genuine miracle has occurred. The Upright Men now had an ideal way to smuggle in both men and arms in preparation for the great assault on Gaunt’s fleet of barges. You needed one more thing.’ Athelstan pointed at Parson Garman. ‘You too served with Black Beaumont. You were an ignifer, skilled in the casting of fire. You were also searching for “The Book of Fires”. You must have found it to create that inferno amongst the barges.’ Athelstan paused. He strove to remain passive even as the sweat started and his stomach lurched. These were desperate men. If he published abroad what he’d whispered in this close, dark room, all those grouped here would die a hideous death. Garman, cleric though he was, would feel the full fury of Gaunt’s rage. The justices of oyer and terminer, the Regent’s creatures, would be instructed to charge each and every one of them with high treason as they had committed arson in the royal dockyards. Punishment would be dire: drawn to the scaffold, half hanged, their bodies split open, heart and entrails plucked out, their limbs quartered, their heads severed.

  ‘What I have said is the truth,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘I want none of you to hang. I do not hunt the Upright Men but the Ignifer who has tried to murder me and my good friend, Sir John Cranston.’ Athelstan stared at Garman. In his soul he felt the prison chaplain was the most obdurate and probably the moving spirit behind this subtle plot. A highly intelligent officer with great experience of war, Garman also nursed a deep hatred against the lords of the soil. Athelstan decided to press the point. ‘Parson Garman, you always suspected that a hideous massacre took place on Patmos. Perhaps you also suspected that the mercenary Rievaulx escaped. Did you know his real name? Fulchard of Richmond?’

  The chaplain did not answer.

  ‘You certainly learnt from gossip at Firecrest Manor about the threats issued a year ago. You must have deduced such threats were connected with the Luciferi, how someone did escape that massacre and was now back in England. The Upright Men have covens and conventicles from here to the Scottish border. You made enquiries and your plot at St Erconwald’s was concocted and hatched. Strange,’ Athelstan mused, ‘that you expressed little interest in the miracle, nor did you ever come here because you knew the truth. So, I ask you formally, do you have Mark the Greek’s “The Book of Fires”?’

  Garman made to rise but the imposter restrained him, one hand on the chaplain’s wrist as he pointed at Athelstan.

  ‘Brother, we in turn wish you no harm. No!’ he shouted to still the muttering of Fitzosbert and the other strangers. ‘For the love of God,’ he hissed, ‘Athelstan has all the proof he needs. It lies in his graveyard. Let us tell the truth, or as much as we can.’ No one dissented. Athelstan was comforted to see his parishioners, the majority around the table, would also stoutly resist any assault on their priest. He beckoned at the imposter to continue.

  ‘My true name is John of Richmond.’ The hubbub in the taproom died. ‘I am the identical twin of Fulchard, alike in all ways except upbringing. My father was a yeoman farmer, prosperous enough to be a herbalist and an apothecary. At first, the birth of identical twin boys delivered safely was a source of great joy and blessing. Fulchard and I were not only very similar in looks but even on a spiritual level. If he was hurt I also felt injury in that place. Anyway, my father’s wealth and good fortune provoked envy and malice, whispering and gossip, talk of witchcraft and other evil nonsense. In the end my father decided to send us out of the locality to be raised separately. Fulchard went to Rievaulx whilst I was educated at Fountains Abbey. We remained separate. Fulchard matured differently. He found obedience difficult. He resisted all the strictures of the good brothers and expressed this in a love of fire. Nothing serious or malicious – Fulchard was simply fascinated by creating fires with different mixtures.’ John of Richmond spread his hands. ‘The night draws on. I will be brief. Fulchard fled Rievaulx. He served as a squire in a troop of mounted archers but his true love was for culverins, cannon and, above all, fire in all its forms. Like many restless young men, he arrived in London and left for Dover as a member of Beaumont’s Luciferi, assuming his mercenary name of Rievaulx, a joke at the expense of the goo
d brothers who had tried to educate him. The Luciferi campaigned all over Europe until they arrived in Constantinople.’

  ‘By then Fulchard,’ Parson Garman broke in, ‘though I only knew him as Rievaulx, was an ignifer like me, skilled in casting fire, a good, faithful companion, trusted by all and trusting in us until that fateful night on Patmos.’

  ‘So Black Beaumont did massacre his henchmen.’ Athelstan nodded at the prison chaplain. ‘You could have told us this earlier!’

  ‘Brother, it’s not my tale to tell, nor could I without betraying others!’

  The friar turned back. ‘So, my question. Beaumont was an assassin?’

  ‘Yes, Brother.’ John of Richmond took up the story. ‘He first led them away from the group in the desert outside Izmir, claiming that the likes of Parson Garman, or Saint-Croix as he was then called, were traitors intending to betray everyone to the Greeks. Beaumont gave this select group of henchmen a choice: to stay or to accompany him.’

  ‘Why didn’t he leave all of them?’ Athelstan asked, then he smiled. ‘A truly selfish soul,’ he murmured. ‘Beaumont needed protection, an escort across the desert.’

  ‘At the time my brother Fulchard and the others reluctantly agreed, yet the seeds of mistrust were sown. Black Beaumont realized that. They eventually arrived at Patmos. Beaumont led them up into the mountains, claiming they would hide there until the pursuit lessened and he plotted a swift journey to Rome, other cities and then on to England. Quarrels and disputes broke out. As a gesture of trust, Black Beaumont declared they would share the mysteries of Greek fire. He journeyed to the villages and bought certain materials; Greek fire is not difficult, nor too costly to make. This was only occasion that Beaumont produced “The Book of Fires”, using it to create a concoction which burst into flames almost impossible to extinguish. Black Beaumont claimed they would make their fortunes by selling “The Book of Fires” to the highest bidder amongst the wealthy warlords of northern Italy, be it the Sforzas of Milan or the Medici of Florence. He insisted again that he had left the others because they wished to seize such secrets for themselves or sell them back to the pursuing Greeks. One night Black Beaumont, ostensibly to restore harmony and celebrate their success, declared they would feast on lamb, herbs, pitta bread and a fiery Greek drink, metaxa, which was heavily drugged. My brother only drank a little – his belly was disturbed. The others, however, collapsed as if dead. Fulchard woke to find Beaumont emptying wineskins full of Greek fire all over them, followed by flaming brands from the campfire. A dire scene, Brother Athelstan! The drugged men were aroused but by a raging inferno. Fulchard stumbled away into the dark, Hell’s fires burning behind him, the night riven by the most soul-chilling screams. He staggered into a pit of dust which probably saved him as the right side of his body was scorched by strange blue and gold flames. He fainted from the pain. When he woke he found himself in a goatherd’s hut being tended by a man and his daughter. They had found and hidden him as Black Beaumont, like some demon from Hell, sword in one hand, dagger in the other, prowled those lonely outcrops hunting for the one who had escaped. Beaumont eventually left. The goatherd was extremely skilled, whilst the flames on my brother’s body had been almost immediately doused by falling into the dust pit. The injuries were washed and treated with poultices soaked in dried moss and stale milk. My brother recuperated from his injuries, though it took years. He told me that during his stay his soul changed, seared by the murderous treachery of Beaumont yet healed by a compassion he had never experienced before.’ John of Richmond paused to sip from his tankard. ‘My brother stayed with that goatherd and his daughter for a number of years. They truly cared for him.’ He shrugged. ‘You are correct. Fulchard became fluent in Greek. Time passed. The remains of his companions were collected and interred. Memories faded. The goatherd died and so did his daughter. Fulchard, grief stricken, also grew homesick. He’d secured a little wealth and so began his pilgrim journey to England. He arrived back in Yorkshire with letters of accreditation from the Hospitallers in Rhodes, where he had stayed on his travels. He became a hermit, a recluse who begged for alms.’