The Book of Fires Read online

  Athelstan walked back to stand over Lady Anne, who glared fiercely back. I have you, the friar thought. I have flushed you out of the undergrowth and you are running.

  ‘You knew I might.’ Athelstan voiced his thoughts as he read the challenge in her eyes. ‘You did, didn’t you? You feared the confrontation which is now taking place. That’s why you tried to kill me and Sir John. You are a high-ranking city lady. Sir John knows about you – you must have heard of our reputation. You wanted to end our interfering.’

  ‘Brother Athelstan,’ she smiled, ‘you should have been a minstrel, a songster, a troubadour. What a tale. A dark ballad.’ Her smile faded. ‘Isolda would never have kept such a secret.’

  ‘As the mother, so the daughter,’ Athelstan responded blithely. ‘It was very much in her interest to keep silent because,’ he leaned over the table, ‘your snake-like mind, curling as dangerously as any viper, had decided to have justice. Your husband died. You and he had no children but your secret daughter had matured into a beautiful young woman and the very wealthy Black Beaumont was a bachelor. Everyone respects Lady Anne Lesures. Beaumont saw you for what he thought, a silly widow woman with too much time and money on her hands, full of fanciful ideas about helping the poor and dispossessed. Oh, what a hideous mistake he made! As you danced between Firecrest Manor and the Minoresses, you began weaving your web. You plotted to get your Isolda into Beaumont’s arms, his bed, his household and his wealth. You succeeded, but it truly was a May–December marriage and, worse, one fashioned in Hell rather than Heaven. Beaumont made a mistake about you but when it came to his own he was as cunning as any old fox. He did not concede anything to Isolda, be it wealth or, more importantly, the secrets of Mark the Greek’s “The Book of Fires”. Isolda, frustrated, turned back to you, her mother and patroness, to advise her. She secretly met you in the city. You provided her with money, even presents, such as a stoppered jar of precious perfume which exudes the odour of crushed lilies.’

  ‘Evidence!’ Lady Anne snapped. ‘Friar, you tell a tittle-tattle tale with no proof.’

  ‘In a while, in a while,’ Athelstan replied. ‘But back to my tittle-tattle tale. The marriage worsened. Beaumont, full of idle recriminations, recalled the sins of his youth. He was a great sinner, Sir Walter, a lecher with many paramours. He began to wonder if he was Isolda’s father, one of those blind acts of fate. Did he ever raise the issue with you? Perhaps he did, but you would assure him that she was not.’

  For a moment, Lady Anne let the mask slip and she smirked as if savouring some secret joke.

  ‘Others, however,’ Athelstan continued, ‘hotly encouraged him in such fanciful thoughts for their own secret reasons. Sir Henry, Parson Garman.’

  The smirk faded abruptly.

  ‘Beaumont, black of name and black of heart, decided to seek an annulment, which would have been disastrous for Isolda, who would be publicly rejected as soiled goods. You and your daughter met. You advised her to patronize and cherish Vanner the clerk, who would keep you informed about what Sir Walter wrote. Isolda also had an ally in Rosamund Clifford, another novice from the Minoresses, who was totally smitten with her and probably with you. She did not know the full truth – she probably didn’t care. Both you and your daughter simply used her as you did anyone to achieve your own ends. Rosamund was introduced to the Beaumont household as Isolda’s maid. In truth, she was there to act as your spy, Isolda’s ally, as well as a distraction for the faithful Buckholt and, as matters turned out, for Sir Walter himself.’ Athelstan paused. ‘As I’ve said, I do not think Rosamund knew the full truth: Turgot was your minion, your familiar; Rosamund was Lady Isolda’s. She would do anything for her mistress.’

  ‘Continue,’ Lady Anne taunted.

  ‘At the same time, you and your daughter plotted Beaumont’s destruction. After five years of marriage, Isolda had provided you with a clear understanding of matters at Firecrest Manor. Sir Henry Beaumont just wished his brother would die, so that his marriage to Isolda would be dissolved. Sir Henry and his wife lusted for wealth. Vanner was fully compliant with Isolda. Buckholt, a secret and ardent supporter of the Upright Men, longed to seize “The Book of Fires” to assist the Great Community of the Realm. Rosamund would humour Sir Walter to discover the whereabouts of that same manuscript.’ Athelstan leaned forward, jabbing his finger. ‘Of course, matters began to crumble fast. Sir Walter would get his annulment so it’s time he died. You are an apothecary skilled in powders.’

  ‘No, I was married to one.’

  ‘And you continued his trade after your husband’s death. You supplied Isolda with poison. You informed her how it should be administered, drop by drop, here and there and especially in those figs coated in their almond cream which Parson Garman brought. You know Parson Garman very well, don’t you? I do wonder about him and your visits to Newgate but,’ Athelstan spread his hands and returned to his stool, ‘that part of the past does not concern us for now. Garman was one of those who did not disabuse Sir Walter that Isolda might be his daughter. He also nourished deep grievances against Black Beaumont from his days as a member of the Luciferi. A fact you might know from your late husband.’ Lady Anne’s flinty eyes never flinched in their gaze of deep antipathy. ‘The figs were poisoned, just a tint to inconvenience and discommode. Sir Walter truly loved them, but of course the poison made itself felt. It disturbed the humours in his belly. Sometimes he ate them, sometimes he did not. Sometimes they were discarded or given to different members of his household with varying effects such as a passing stomach ailment but nothing serious. If the poison was ever discovered, Garman would be blamed. However, on the day Sir Walter was actually murdered, Isolda and Vanner hastened on. I am sure your daughter did not consult you. I have no proof of this, as Isolda burnt any incriminating documents, but I suspect Sir Walter was about to issue his letter for an annulment. The almond figs, heavily coated in poison, were given to Rosamund, who almost died. No one could doubt a murderer was loose in Firecrest Manor. Isolda then decided to follow a plot, probably devised by you, to exploit Sir Walter’s love for his nightly goblet of posset. Isolda and Vanner had prepared for this, purchasing an almost identical goblet, and we know the outcome of that. They would have certainly succeeded but for Buckholt and Mortice. You and Turgot intended to make these two retainers suffer the most, didn’t you? Let them live, let them wonder for days, weeks, even months, when the Ignifer would strike against them?’

  ‘Isolda Beaumont died a cruel death.’ Lady Anne spoke as if to herself, her voice scarcely above a whisper.

  ‘If I had any compassion for you and yours,’ Athelstan replied, ‘it would be for that. You, a mother, saw your daughter condemned to a most barbaric death. And what could you do to stop it? Reveal your true relationship with Isolda? Plead for a pardon or amnesty? Beg for a commutation for a swifter death? Gaunt and the judges were implacable. Escape was out of the question. I suspect on your visits to Isolda here at Newgate you did vow vengeance against all of them as well as providing Isolda with some comfort.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You gave her a set of beads. Eleven in number, one bead for the Our Father, the other ten for the Hail Mary. You then pretended that a fierce dispute broke out between yourself and Isolda. This was a sham to cover what was really a passionate farewell. Both of you had reached the very end of what was tolerable. You left one gift, those Ave beads.’

  ‘Isolda snapped them and threw them away. Parson Garman returned them to me.’

  ‘The truth: Isolda snapped them to take the relief they offered. Some of those beads were really like nutshells – they contained a powder, an opiate, possibly the strongest dried juice of the poppy. Lady Anne, you are an apothecary. You distilled such a potion. It was your last gift to your daughter. Isolda could have taken them immediately but she didn’t. Perhaps she desperately hoped for a last-minute reprieve. Of course, that never came. On the day of her execution, Isolda chewed the beads she had secreted away. By the time she was lashed
to the stake, she had sunk into a deep stupor, probably deadly in its effect.’

  Lady Anne simply bowed her head. Athelstan thought she was crying but when she looked up she was hard-faced and dry-eyed, her mouth twisted in a smirk.

  ‘You then performed one last office,’ Athelstan declared. ‘You had Turgot dig a plot in front of the statue of St Anne which stands at the heart of your garden. A beautiful, well-tended plot with a lovely winter rosebush as part of the memor-ial. Moreover, both the statue and that small garden have been formally consecrated, I suspect by Parson Garman. It’s the last resting place of the mortal remains of your daughter, Isolda.’

  ‘She died at Smithfield.’

  ‘Who, your daughter?’

  ‘Isolda!’ Lady Anne’s eyes blazed with fury.

  ‘And her remains,’ Cranston broke in, ‘should have stayed there. Holy Mother Church and the Crown insist on that or,’ he pulled a face, ‘at some crossroads, but not in consecrated ground.’

  ‘You had these remains,’ Athelstan persisted, ‘collected by a man calling himself Vanner who came to Smithfield after dark and poked about the execution stake for whatever he could find. He was certainly not Vanner; as you know, at that time, Vanner’s corpse lay weed-tangled at the bottom of the mere in Firecrest Manor. I do wonder,’ Athelstan pointed a finger at his opponent, ‘did Isolda murder him at your behest, to rid herself of a clacking tongue, a weak man who might turn King’s Approver against her? In the end it was best if Vanner and any incriminating documents disappeared, be it at the bottom of that mere or a burning pit at Firecrest Manor.’

  ‘What has all this got to do with me?’

  ‘Everything, Lady Anne. The man claiming to be Vanner was in fact Wickham, your ostler, a loyal, faithful retainer totally devoted to you. A simple-minded young man, easy to manipulate. You ordered Wickham to collect the remains at Smithfield and, if possible, let it be known he was Vanner. On the one hand, you obtained what you wanted and, on the other, you deepened the mystery further by creating the illusion that Vanner was still alive and might well be the Ignifer. Wickham could see no harm or crime in what he was doing. He knew you had visited Isolda but would be totally unaware of any complex plot. Wickham was simply helping his kind-hearted mistress, to whom he was totally devoted. Even if he was challenged and it was proved you had sent him, you could easily disguise everything as a further act of charity for a poor dead woman for whom you felt sorry. The proof of what I say lies in your garden. I could have that plot dug up. I would certainly discover a funeral urn.’ Athelstan flinched at the look Lady Anne threw him. He prayed to keep calm and not give way to the anger curdling within him. ‘I have more evidence about Wickham. You used him on another occasion to create an even greater illusion, but I’ll come to that when I turn to certain sworn testimony Sir John here has taken from your steward, Picquart.’

  For the first time Lady Anne showed surprise, her mouth slack, her eyes blinking before she swiftly recovered. ‘And there is the testimony of the Carnifex’s scrivener, Scrimshaw. According to him, the man at Smithfield collecting Isolda’s remains and claiming to be Vanner reeked of the stable. Picquart,’ Athelstan blithely declared to hide the fact that he was bluffing, ‘declared Wickham also smelt constantly of horses. Indeed, it was a common joke in your household. Totally different from Turgot, who sprinkled himself with the same perfume Isolda wore – crushed lilies – in order to complicate matters further.’

  Lady Anne’s gaze faltered. She pressed the white cloth against her dry lips. Cranston caught her deepening unease.

  ‘Continue, Brother,’ he murmured.

  ‘Now we come to circumstance, coincidence and their cause – Sir Walter’s arrogance and total disdain for anyone else, especially women. Black Beaumont stole “The Book of Fires” in Constantinople. He brought it to London, had it copied then sold the original back to the Greeks. He kept that copy very secret. I suspect the clerk who created it did not live long afterwards. Beaumont was a professional, seasoned killer. He would murder without qualm anyone who might pose a threat. The years passed. Beaumont dipped into his copy to discover more secrets. Of course, life never stands still. Time passes. People age and, more dangerously for Beaumont, new threats emerge. The Upright Men made their presence felt. They hated Gaunt and his coven, including Sir Walter. More importantly, Beaumont had to face threats from the past. About a year ago, and you must have learnt this, Beaumont received threats, a stark, brutal message repeated time and again, “As I and ours burnt, so shall ye and yours”. We now know its source, a hideous secret from Black Beaumont’s blood-soaked past. So, Lady Anne, think of Sir Walter as he grows old, still cherishing his precious secrets. The Upright Men want to seize them – so does his pretty young wife, his brother, his servants and his rivals, not to mention Gaunt.’ Athelstan paused at a blood-chilling shriek of pain which rang through the gloomy passageway outside. ‘Indeed,’ he continued, ‘the list is endless, yes? And what can Beaumont do with his secret copy of “The Book of Fires”? Hide it in the ground? It’s not gold and parchment soon rots. Lock it in an arca, a strong chest? Then everyone would know where it is. The same is true if he handed it over to the goldsmiths and bankers along Cheapside. My lord of Gaunt would certainly keep it safe but never hand it back. No,’ Athelstan pointed at Lady Anne, ‘he gave it to you.’

  ‘Nonsense.’ Lady Anne quivered with anger but Athelstan could see it was pretence.

  ‘Listen, now,’ he insisted. ‘Beaumont was very devious. “The Book of Fires” was not copied on fresh vellum but in a specially purchased copy of the Novum Testamentum – the New Testament. Beaumont had the copyist turn to the last book of the Testament which, as we know, is the Apocalypse or Book of Revelation, written by St John the Apostle when he was in exile on the island of Patmos. In Beaumont’s Novum Testamentum the lines were specially spaced. It was simply a matter of copying “The Book of Fires” into those spaces as well as using the generous margins on all four sides of each page and the blank pages found at the back of any book. Naturally, written in Latin by a clerkly hand with the usual chancery abbreviations, it would look like what it was meant to be—’

  ‘A commentary,’ Cranston broke in. ‘Scholars do that in Bibles, books of hours, a psalter, a missal.’

  ‘And Beaumont entrusted that with me?’ Lady Anne jibed. ‘So I could read it …’