The Book of Fires Read online

  ‘And he approached you?’

  ‘Eventually, about four years ago. I had moved to Lincolnshire. I had a son.’ He fought to keep his voice steady. ‘My son was murdered for objecting to a market tax imposed by Lord Scales. I had prospered. I was a wealthy farmer and, like my father, an apothecary and herbalist. Lord Scales treated me and mine as if we were shit on his shoe. The King’s justices in Eyre were as corrupt, their souls bought, their justice twisted. Lord Scales was no better than a robber, an assassin. I became, for what it’s worth, a leading captain amongst the Upright Men in Lincolnshire. About the same time Fulchard sent messages which I eventually received. I journeyed to meet him. I arranged for secret lodgings. Fulchard was a veteran, proud of even his horrible burns. The story I told you about the tavern in Athens is what he first told me. Like all seasoned mercenaries, he was most reluctant to talk about his past. During his long years on Patmos, Fulchard had changed – become more humble, more loving. He wished to make atonement. He saw his sufferings as just punishment for his sins. What sins, he only began to tell me about two years ago. Reluctantly, slowly, he confessed to what truly happened on Patmos. I was horrified.’

  ‘You wanted revenge?’

  ‘I thirsted for it.’ John of Richmond paused as if listening to the sound of a dog howling at the moon: the squeak of rats and other vermin pierced the stillness of the night.

  ‘You sent those threatening messages?’ Athelstan demanded.

  ‘Yes, I knew about Sir Walter Beaumont, his power, his wealth, his close friendship with the demon Gaunt. I was set on revenge. Then the Upright Men of Lincoln received reports from Parson Garman about the construction of a flotilla of flat-bottomed barges in the royal dockyards on Southwark side.’

  ‘Do you know, Brother, what Gaunt intended?’ Fitzosbert the defrocked priest banged the table with the hilt of his dagger. ‘He plotted to bring Flemish mercenaries, killers who would be at home in the wet fens. They would thread the marshes on those barges. Oh, I know,’ the defrocked priest sneered, ‘outlaws, outcasts, wolfsheads and wastrels, men like me shelter in the Fens. But so do women and children, as well as peasants who’ve fled from cruel lords and taken their families with them. Can you imagine, Friar, what would happen? The black waters of the Fens would turn red with innocent blood.’

  ‘I travelled into Lincolnshire,’ Garman spoke up, leaning forward so Athelstan could see his face in the candlelight. ‘I met my comrades and our response was discussed. John wished to help, so did his brother Fulchard. It took us days to weave the different strands of our plot. We realized the vigil novena at St Erconwald’s provided us with a skilful and subtle way to prepare and mount our assault. The rest was as you say. Of course, we made mistakes, about the crutch, about how weak Fulchard had become. Nevertheless, we were successful. The barges have been destroyed.’

  ‘My brother wanted that,’ John of Richmond exclaimed. ‘He hoped Black Beaumont would realize he could no longer control Greek fire but, of course, Beaumont was sent to Hell’s eternal flame. All we needed,’ he spread his hands, ‘and God is good, was a brief period so that men and weapons could flow into this ward without Gaunt’s spies being alerted. Our envoys from the Great Community could come and go without hindrance. Comrades could fill every tavern and lodging house. Others camped out, all thronged into Southwark and learnt about its alleyways and runnels, whilst our spies inspected and reported on Gaunt’s defences. Now we are finished. Soon we will be gone, unless you …’ His voice trailed off.

  ‘What price did your brother ask for all this?’ Athelstan demanded.

  ‘To strike at Gaunt, to protect our comrades, to prepare for the great revolt and, when it came, to ensure that Firecrest Manor was burnt to the ground. Not one stone was to be left upon another, its soil sown with salt and its masters executed as traitors to the common good. And before you ask, Brother Athelstan, yes, we have sympathizers in the Beaumont household, though we do not yet fully trust them. They knew nothing about this. So, Brother, what do you want?’

  ‘The truth.’

  ‘You have had that.’

  ‘About the Ignifer, the assassin?’

  ‘We know nothing,’ Garman retorted. ‘I – we – can tell you no more.’

  ‘Oh, yes, you can. How you obtained Greek fire, its deadliest variety. You, Parson Garman, must have it. You must have met the leaders of the Upright Men to demonstrate its true power?’

  ‘No,’ John of Richmond intervened, ‘I did that. Oh, for the love of God, Garman, tell him! What does it matter now?’

  ‘We were given the formula,’ the prison chaplain admitted. ‘Brother, I swear to this. Every day I stand outside Newgate jail just before the vespers bell. I do that deliberately to receive petitions from the families of prisoners, scraps of parchment with a scrawled message for their loved ones confined inside. About a week ago I was standing there when a beggar pushed a small leather pouch into my hand. He was making signs to someone I could not see. I thought he was moonstruck. However, when I opened the message in the prison chapel, I found the writing was clerkly. The letter greeted me in the name of the Great Community of the Realm. Beneath this salutation was a formula, very precise and exact, giving the different constituents and elements of Greek fire. Anyone who had served as an officer in the Luciferi would recognize it for what it was.’

  ‘You mixed these?’

  ‘No, I did,’ John of Richmond retorted. ‘I am an apothecary, skilled in measurement.’

  ‘Yes, yes, you are,’ Athelstan agreed, slightly distracted. He would certainly remember that when he came to analysing all he had learnt here.

  ‘The Upright Men of Essex and Southwark wanted my assurances,’ John of Richmond continued, ‘that this truly was Greek fire. They trusted in my skill as an apothecary. They also believed Fulchard must have also instructed me. To a certain extent he did before he died. He could remember, albeit not precisely, the different combustibles Beaumont had bought and mixed on Patmos. I took a clay bowl out to meet them. They were soon convinced.’

  ‘Parson Garman,’ Athelstan asked, ‘do you know the source of the message delivered to you?’

  ‘The beggar came and went. He was constantly gesturing, as if there was someone with him.’

  Athelstan held the prison chaplain’s gaze, wondering if the zealot was lying. Whatever the truth, the friar sensed he’d obtained all that he could, so it was time to be gone. He rose abruptly to his feet, surprising them all.

  ‘Father!’ Pike exclaimed.

  ‘What I learnt here, Pike, I swear, remains with me. Now,’ Athelstan gestured around, ‘all of you who are not members of my parish must be gone from St Erconwald’s by curfew time tomorrow night. John of Richmond, before you leave, sometime around the angelus bell, I insist that you go on to the top step of my church. Pike and Watkin will create a makeshift pulpit for you and other members of the parish will help. You will proclaim to all and sundry that tonight you had a vision of St Erconwald. How our great saint instructed you that the proper place for pilgrims’ devotion is not St Erconwald’s but the saintly bishop’s own tomb in St Paul’s. Let us be honest, let us be frank,’ Athelstan added wryly, ‘that’s the truth. Gentlemen,’ the friar raised his hand in blessing, ‘to those of my flock, I bid goodnight. To those who are not, may God bless you all on the strict understanding that I do not look on your faces ever again …’

  oOoOo

  Athelstan woke with a start. The pounding on the door brought him tumbling down from his bed-loft. Tiptoft stood outside with the four Tower archers.

  ‘What is it?’ the friar demanded. ‘What the time?’

  ‘Dawn is about an hour away,’ Tiptoft cheerily replied, ‘but the devil never sleeps, or so Sir John says. He needs you now in Poultry at Lady Anne Lesures’ house. Another assault, a hideous burning, Turgot her manservant lies foully slain.’

  Athelstan hastily dressed. He snatched his chancery satchel and followed his escort out down towards the quayside, where
a barge displaying the city pennant waited. They clambered in, took their seats and the barge pushed away. A swift, turbulent crossing with the clouds breaking and an icy breeze whispering like a ghost across the water. They disembarked at Queenhithe and moved through the tangle of streets towards Poultry. Athelstan didn’t know if he was dreaming or awake; his abrupt arousing and frenetic journey were unsteadying, his mind tumbled with the sights, sounds and smells that closed in around him. A beggar, garbed in black but with the white outlines of a skeleton painted on his gown, danced like a mad man in front of them before disappearing into the shadows. Beggars crept out of the mouths of alleyways, their clacking dishes rattling in the frosty air. Mounted archers rode by in a hot gust of sweat, leather and horse dung. A funeral procession preparing for the morning suffered an accident at the crossroads and the lily-white corpse of the deceased tumbled out from beneath its scarlet mort cloth to lie sprawled over the cobbles. Windows and doors opened and shut. Different voices trailed: a snatch of a song, the cries of lovers, a baby wailing, whilst a choir which had taken refuge in a tavern chorused the psalm: ‘I lift my eyes to the hills from which my Saviour comes’. A self-proclaimed exorcist, a placard hanging around his neck, swinging a battered thurible, billowing incense into the morning air, crying out that he was defending the living from the ghosts of the malignant dead. Outlaw-hunters from the wastes of Moorfields, admitted through the city gates before the market horn, led their pack ponies down to the Guildhall, the corpses of those they’d killed slung across the ponies’ backs. A macabre sight. The cadavers, stripped to the skin, displayed gruesome death wounds to the throat, belly or chest. Behind this sinister procession trailed a woman loudly lamenting, ‘Those slain on the plains of Megiddo’, whatever that meant. A group of moon-watchers huddled together, so close they seem to have one massive body and many heads. They gazed fiercely, their painted white faces straining madly as they watched the winter moon slide from cloud to cloud. Prisoners clamped in the cage on the Tun or the nearby stocks wailed against the bitter cold. A moveable gibbet on its clattering wheels moved backwards and forwards, the corpse hanging in its sheet of hardened canvas loudly creaking.

  ‘This is truly a land of deep shadow,’ Athelstan murmured as they turned up the street towards Lady Anne’s house. Lanterns glowed. Dark figures stood holding flaring sconce torches. Cranston was waiting for him in the entrance parlour. Even from there Athelstan could hear the wailing of Lady Anne, a soul keening like the wind for its loss. The friar glanced around at the opulent surroundings. The paintings and triptychs all proclaimed the same message – St Anne with her Holy Child the Virgin Mary. Cranston sat on a cushioned stool, head in his hands. He glanced up as Athelstan entered.

  ‘He’s struck again, Brother. Lady Anne, as you can hear, is deeply distressed. Let me show you.’ Cranston led Athelstan out along the hollow stone-paved passageway, through the kitchen, buttery and scullery into the great rear garden. Flaxwith and his bailiffs were busy there. The air was thick with smoke billowing out of a stone-built building which reminded Athelstan of the nave of a primitive church. It stood in the centre of the garden. In its prime it must have been pleasing to the eye but now its shutters, blackened and tattered, hung from their scorched leather hinges, whilst the door had buckled and crumbled under the heat.

  Athelstan went inside the long, barn-like structure. All internal woodwork had been burnt to a feathery blackness, leaving smoke-blackened walls open to the sky. Clouds of ash and smoke still curled and swirled. Covering his mouth with the scented cloth Flaxwith gave him, Athelstan walked up the long chamber. He stared around, pressing the pomander firmly against his face. However, the smoke was too thick to stay, so he returned to the parlour. Athelstan sat down on the stool, gratefully accepting a mouthful of rich Bordeaux from Cranston’s miraculous wineskin.

  ‘What happened, Sir John?’ he asked, handing the wineskin back. ‘What was that building?’

  ‘A hermitage, a refuge built by Lady Anne’s late husband. A number of apothecaries have them, where they can safely concoct their remedies and elixirs. According to all the evidence, Turgot went in there to do the same last night. As usual he shuttered and bolted both windows and the door.’

  ‘Why? What did he fear?’

  ‘Like Lady Anne’s late husband he worked late at night. Lady Anne was most concerned about the Ignifer and other acts of violence against members of her household – but more of that later. Turgot was in there last night. Nobody gave it a second thought until a scullion heard the roaring flames. He roused the household. They went out but there was nothing they could do. By then the entire building seemed to be bulging with the heat, shutters and door buckling out, most of the red tile roof collapsing, flames shooting up.’ Cranston shrugged. ‘They let the fire burn. Once the conflagration had died they tried to enter. All that is left of Turgot are his blackened bones and the steel and iron from his warbelt.’ Cranston paused as Lady Anne’s steward, Picquart, bustled into the parlour.

  ‘Lady Anne cannot see anyone,’ he declared, laying a tray of food and pots of ale on the small table. ‘One tragedy follows another.’ He sighed. ‘I was the last to see Turgot alive, you know? Oh, yes,’ he babbled on, ‘the curfew bell was tolling. I went out to the Keep, that’s what the building is called, always has been, built by Lady Anne’s late husband when he was a bachelor in hot pursuit of the beautiful Lady Anne Lasido. A strong building, rather primitive inside but there were braziers to keep it warm and some rugs on the floor. Turgot was an apprentice here, a good one. I always thought he was the son Lady Anne yearned for …’

  ‘What happened,’ Athelstan asked sharply, ‘with Turgot last night?’

  ‘Nothing. I knocked on the door. He unlocked and unbolted it, I remember that. He looked content enough. I made signs asking him if he needed anything to eat or drink. He assured me, in his own unique way, that he did not. I remember he held a pot of lavender in his hand. He was mixing this with something else and he invited me to smell it. I did. I bade him goodnight and returned to the house.’

  ‘So Turgot was in the Keep mixing potions and powders?’

  ‘Yes. As I have said, he was very good at it. Lady Anne was most respected by the Guild.’

  ‘Did anything untoward happen?’ Athelstan demanded.

  ‘Lady Anne, after the tragedy occurred, was distraught, but she told us that she believed someone was in the garden last night. She was in her chamber when she heard sounds but she didn’t give it a second thought. Well, until that happened.’

  ‘So,’ Athelstan replied slowly, ‘the household retires for the night. Turgot is working in the Keep. The first signs of the tragedy are the flames roaring and the roof collapsing, yes?’

  Picquart nodded in agreement.

  ‘All you could do was watch,’ Athelstan continued. ‘Turgot was inside?’

  ‘We found his remains, God assoil him. They were pathetic, nothing but blackened bones. They’ve now been sheeted. Lady Anne will see to the burial. She has also visited the devastation. She kept repeating that Turgot used the Keep to distil herbal concoctions. He liked to work alone. He would only open the door to admit someone he knew and trusted.’

  ‘Were the door and window shutters locked fast?’

  ‘I think so, Sir John. They buckled and sprang loose under the blazing heat.’

  ‘So,’ Athelstan supped at his ale, ‘Turgot was working late. Someone may have entered the garden, scaling the curtain wall. He raps on the door. Turgot would challenge this but lets him in. Once he has gained entry, the intruder, the Ignifer if that’s who it is, strikes Turgot down, casts the fire and hurriedly leaves. But whatever you say, Master Picquart, if that is the case the door must have been left open by the assassin as he left.’ Athelstan rose. ‘Let us return to the Keep.’