Book of Shadows Read online

  Father Cuthbert was waiting in the entrance to the hospital. He grasped Kathryn’s hand and peered shortsightedly at her.

  ‘So good of you to come. I am sorry to trouble you but . . .’

  ‘There’s no problem.’ Thomasina bustled forward and grasped the old priest’s hand.

  Father Cuthbert blushed with embarrassment.

  ‘We’d best go upstairs.’

  He led them up into a long, well-lit chamber, smelling of soap, polish and crushed herbs. Three candle wheels hung from a great black beam, which spanned the length of a room that was divided by curtains hanging from brass rails. Each of these contained a pallet bed, stool and a small table. Most of the incumbents were elderly priests, sent there by the archdiocese so that they could die in some degree of comfort and dignity. Servitors dressed in brown robes padded quietly about with trays or jars. Most of these were poor priests, unable to obtain a benefice, who lived in the hospital and served the sick. Kathryn caught Father Cuthbert by the sleeve of his dusty black gown.

  ‘Father, is it a priest who is dying?’

  ‘Oh no.’ Father Cuthbert stopped so suddenly, Thomasina almost collided with him. He rubbed the tip of his sharp nose, his eyes wide in surprise. ‘No, it’s not a priest, Mistress! But a Frenchman, he’s walked all the way from Dover. Come, see for yourself.’

  They reached the end of the room. Cuthbert pulled aside the dividing curtain. Kathryn took one look at the man lying against the crisp, white bolster, the blanket sheet tucked up to his chin, and recognised he was dying. A grey, cadaverous face, long and drawn under an untidy mop of white hair. The man kept fingering the blankets. Every so often he would cough and a trickle of blood-tinged spittle drooled from the corner of his mouth.

  Kathryn sat on a stool next to the bed and felt the man’s skin. It was hot and dry. He started forward, coughing and spluttering, a terrible sound wrenched from his chest. The man lay back on the pillow, his yellow-stained tongue licking dry lips. Kathryn stared helplessly at Father Cuthbert.

  ‘He is feverish?’

  ‘Sometimes,’ the priest replied. ‘Kathryn, can you help?’

  The physician pulled back the bed sheets. The patient was dressed in a simple linen nightshirt buttoned to the neck. She undid this and pressed her ear against his chest, as her father had trained her, to detect the evil humours filling his lungs. She listened carefully as the man gasped for breath, fighting against the constricting rottenness in his lungs.

  ‘I cannot do much.’ Kathryn sat up. ‘Father, this man needs a priest rather than a physician.’ She studied the saliva frothing between the man’s lips, the blood had turned a dark red. ‘He will die. Probably within the day. All I can do is make him comfortable.’

  She asked Thomasina to pass the basket. Father Cuthbert brought a small pewter cup; Kathryn prepared an infusion of sage mixed with water and balm and forced it between the man’s lips. The patient, lying listlessly, opened his mouth as Kathryn poured this down his throat. Kathryn laid his head back on the pillow. She was preparing an opiate to help him sleep when the man’s eyes suddenly opened. Kathryn was surprised at the vivacity and intelligence of his look.

  ‘I can speak English,’ he whispered.

  ‘What is your name?’ Kathryn said.

  ‘I have many names. I was baptised Matthias. In my foolishness I took the name of the demon, Azrael.’

  Father Cuthbert gasped, and the patient turned to stare full at the priest.

  ‘God forgive me, Father. In my time I was a sorcerer, a dabbler in the black arts. You must shrive me of my sins: they are as many and as red as gleaming coals.’ The man stared round the room as if an invisible presence thronged about his bed. ‘The demons gather,’ he croaked. ‘They have come for my soul. Ah, Jesus Miserere!’

  Father Cuthbert grasped the man’s hand.

  ‘No soul can be lost,’ the priest said, ‘who wishes to be saved. But what are you doing in Canterbury?’

  ‘I came on pilgrimage to Saint Thomas’ tomb. No, no,’ the man rasped. He paused, turning his head sideways, as his whole body was convulsed by a wracking cough. ‘Many years ago in Paris I was a master necromancer. I owned a grimoire and used it for great evil, but lost it to another magician, a man with a black heart and no soul, called Tenebrae.’ He paused to wet his lips. ‘I came to take it back and burn it.’

  Father Cuthbert’s old, tired face became a mask of fear and concern.

  ‘Tenebrae,’ the dying man insisted. ‘You have heard of him?’

  ‘I warn my patients against him,’ Kathryn replied slowly. ‘He is a man of, reputedly, great powers. No one dares move against him.’

  The patient grasped her hand.

  ‘Because he has secrets,’ he said. ‘Tenebrae harrows the human soul. He gleans what he wants, then uses it for blackmail or protection.’

  He began to cough so wrackingly Kathryn and Father Cuthbert had to help him up against the bolsters. The spasm left the man exhausted. He rested, then lifted his head.

  ‘I came to Canterbury,’ he gasped. ‘But I felt so ill, a good woman brought me here.’ He smiled thinly. ‘May God bless her! I did not see Tenebrae or demand the return of my book.’

  ‘What book?’ Kathryn asked.

  ‘The Book of Shadows. The grimoire of Honorius: it contains secret incantations and magic spells. The pathway for demons to enter our world.’ His face became more flushed, his eyes glittering with an inner frenzy. ‘It must be destroyed!’

  ‘Hush!’ Kathryn stroked his face and turned towards Thomasina, who handed over the opiate. Kathryn raised this to the man’s lips. He shook his head.

  ‘No! No!’ he pleaded with Father Cuthbert. ‘In a little while I will drink it. First, you must shrive me, Father. Put the sacrament on my tongue and anoint me with the holy oils.’ He forced a weak smile. ‘Then, Mistress, I will drink your potion.’

  Kathryn had no choice but to agree. She handed the small cup to Father Cuthbert. Thomasina packed up the basket of medicines and herbs. They all left the cubicle and walked down the hospital room to the top of the stairs. Father Cuthbert’s gentle face was now surprisingly hard.

  ‘I now remember Tenebrae,’ he remarked. ‘A sinister magus. I must write to the Archbishop’s court. It is a scandal that such evil is tolerated.’

  ‘But why?’ Thomasina asked, eager to bring herself to the old man’s attention.

  ‘He has patients,’ the priest replied. ‘Both at court and in this city and, God forgive them, even in the church itself.’

  Father Cuthbert grasped Kathryn by the arm.

  ‘But you have done what you can, Mistress Swinbrooke. I thank you. I must hear the man’s confession.’

  Kathryn made her farewells and went down the stairs. Thomasina lingered. She caught the priest by his warm, soft hands. Cuthbert looked at her, his eyes child-like in their innocence.

  ‘Thomasina, what is the matter?’

  ‘You are well?’

  ‘As fine as can be expected, God be thanked!’

  ‘Well,’ Thomasina stuttered, ‘I’d best be gone.’ She turned and walked down the stairs.

  ‘Thomasina!’

  The old nurse turned and stared up at Father Cuthbert.

  ‘I, too, think of you every day.’

  Thomasina smiled, then continued more slowly down the stairs, brushing at the tears pricking her eyes. She joined Kathryn outside in the street. Lost in their own thoughts, they walked back down Hethenman Lane until Kathryn decided she wished to buy some sweetmeats for Wuf, so they went up towards Jewry.

  ‘The lad deserves it,’ Kathryn declared, hoping her chatter would soothe the distress Thomasina felt whenever she met Father Cuthbert. ‘Wuf has been a good boy and . . .’ She stopped as they turned the corner of Jewry where a huge crowd had gathered. Kathryn glimpsed the tabards and livery of the city bailiffs. They had an old woman, cords wrapped round her arms, her hands securely tied; they were shouting at the crowd, waving their staffs to make way. How
ever, the crowd was turning ugly. Stones and clods of mud were thrown and the old woman, her dirty, grey hair hanging over her face, cowered against the wall of a house.

  ‘She’s a bloody murderess and a witch!’ someone shouted. ‘She should hang now!’

  ‘Burn the bitch!’

  ‘Who is it?’ Kathryn asked a bystander.

  The woman leaned closer and grinned maliciously in a display of rotting teeth, her breath so rank, Kathryn found it hard not to flinch.

  ‘Why it’s Mistress Sempler. Haven’t you heard the news? She cursed Peter Talbot, sent him flying through the air she did, till he broke his neck at the foot of the stairs.’

  Kathryn sighed. She and Thomasina knew Mistress Sempler as a loudmouthed, smelly and rather dirty old woman who lived by herself. Yet, beneath the roughness, she had a heart of gold and had often instructed Kathryn in her secret lore of herbs and potions.

  ‘God help the poor woman,’ Thomasina whispered.

  Kathryn wondered whether to intervene. She wished Colum or the city clerk Luberon was with her. However, three more bailiffs led by their burly captain whom Kathryn faintly recognised, strode up the street, swords drawn. Their arrival was greeted by more catcalls, but the sight of naked steel and the determined expression on the captain’s face forced the crowd to disperse. Kathryn approached one of the escort.

  ‘Is it true?’ she asked.

  The fellow turned, his face podgy and water coloured. He had a fresh cut just beneath his eye and glared in pig-eyed fury at the physician.

  ‘Piss off and mind your own business!’

  Thomasina pushed her way between them. ‘That’s no way to talk to a lady, fathead!’ She thrust her face only a few inches from his. ‘This, my dear maggot, is Kathryn Swinbrooke, physician of the city, friend of Master Luberon as well as Colum Murtagh the King’s Commissioner.’

  The bailiff paled and stepped away as the captain intervened. He doffed his hat of squirrel fur and fairly danced from foot to foot as he tried to adopt a more tactful approach.

  ‘My apologies, Mistress,’ he gabbled. ‘But the news is all over the city.’

  Kathryn looked round at the cowering, old woman.

  ‘So, Peter Talbot is dead?’

  ‘Aye, as cold as carrion meat. He fell downstairs this morning. His wife and kinsfolk think it’s magic.’ He nodded at Sempler. ‘She has confessed to casting a spell and placing it under his door.’

  ‘May I speak to her?’

  The captain agreed and stood aside.

  Kathryn approached Mathilda, crinkling her nose at the sour smell from the old woman’s dirt-stained gown.

  ‘Mathilda.’ She put her hands on the old crone’s shoulder. ‘Mathilda, it’s me, Kathryn Swinbrooke.’

  The old woman parted the veil of her greasy grey hair: one eye was bloodshot and her lower lip was beginning to swell.

  ‘Oh, don’t hurt me,’ Sempler whimpered.

  ‘Did you do it?’ Kathryn asked.

  ‘I cast a spell,’ the woman whined, failing to recognise Kathryn. ‘But he thrust me out of my cottage. He left me like a dog to wander the alley-ways.’

  Kathryn squeezed the woman’s bony shoulder. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  She stepped back and the bailiffs gathered round. One of them gave a tug at the rope and Mathilda was dragged further up the street. The captain came back.

  ‘Mistress, there’s nothing we can do. The Talbots are powerful. She has confessed her guilt.’ He lowered his voice. ‘She’ll burn. The King’s Justices of Assize are due in the city. She’ll find no mercy with them.’ And, spinning on his heel, he walked away.

  Kathryn forgot about the marchpane or the sweet comfits for Wuf and walked back towards Ottemelle Lane. Thomasina tried to draw her into conversation but Kathryn felt a deep despair. Mathilda Sempler was a crazy old woman, but would she be burnt to death because of a silly curse? Kathryn recalled the patient at the Poor Priests Hospital and the spring day lost some of its freshness. Her father had always warned her about this. How, when the winter died and the roads and lanes were opened, the juices began to run through nature and people gave free rein to the strange phantasms which lurked in their souls: sorcery, magic and the fear of hell’s legions. Canterbury seemed to attract such bizarre mummery. Kathryn glimpsed a huge mastiff being led by its wealthy owner up a street. The dog was securely muzzled and on its back rode a dwarf, a yellow bell cap upon his head and a white wand in his hand. Between the stalls, outside a row of houses, a man shouted that he could chew burning charcoal in his mouth. Further down an old woman declaimed how she could drink a gallon of beer yet vomit more than she had drunk. Strangely dressed chanters offered to recite poems or tell stories about mythical lands in the East. At the mouth of an alley-way, two blind men, strapped back to back, did a strange dance over burning brands, the hungry flames narrowly missing their skin, much to the delight of the small crowd that had gathered to watch them burn. She recalled Colum’s words.

  ‘On earth,’ the Irishman had remarked, ‘angels walk and so do demons. Unfortunately it’s the demons who make their presence felt.’

  They turned into Ottemelle Lane and almost bumped into Colum and Luberon.

  ‘We were coming to look for you.’ The Irishman gripped Kathryn by the arm and smiled down at her, then his face became grave.

  ‘Why?’ Kathryn asked.

  ‘The magician, Tenebrae,’ Luberon declared. ‘He’s been foully murdered!’

  Chapter 2

  Kathryn took Colum and Luberon back to the house. Whilst Thomasina prepared some beef and mushroom stew and sliced the freshly baked bread, Colum explained his abrupt return from Kingsmead.

  ‘Master Luberon arrived.’ He gestured at his companion. ‘And told me Tenebrae was dead.’

  ‘How?’ Kathryn asked.

  ‘A crossbow bolt, embedded firmly in his throat.’

  ‘Only this morning,’ Kathryn offered, ‘I visited a patient at the Poor Priests Hospital who was travelling to see Tenebrae.’ She then explained briefly her visit to Father Cuthbert and Luberon’s face grew graver. ‘What is so important about this man?’

  Luberon sipped the wine and smiled shyly at Thomasina, who blushed and simpered back.

  ‘When you are ready?’ Kathryn teased.

  Luberon put the cup down. ‘In our lives, Kathryn,’ he said, ‘everything is simple. I am Simon Luberon, clerk to His Grace the Archbishop of Canterbury. I have my own little house, my daily routine, my friends.’ He glanced archly at Thomasina. ‘And those whom I always think about. I attend Mass on Sundays, sometimes, even during the working week. I pay my tithes and taxes. I do my best to follow the law of God and uphold the rule of the King’s writ.’ He paused, breathing in noisily through his fleshy nostrils, his merry eyes now sombre. ‘That is the world I live in, as do you. But Tenebrae was a magus. His world was thronged by spells, curses, incantations, waxen effigies, blood sacrifices and blasphemous rituals.’

  ‘So, why didn’t the Church arrest him?’ Kathryn interrupted, slightly impatient at Luberon’s lugubrious tone.

  ‘Ah, Tenebrae is no village warlock dealing in petty spells,’ Luberon replied. ‘He really did believe in, and practise, the black arts. His customers were wealthy. More important, Tenebrae was a professional blackmailer. He acquired knowledge about the mighty of this land, which should best be left secret. That’s why I went out to Kingsmead to bring back Colum Murtagh, the King’s Commissioner. Believe me, as soon as Tenebrae’s death is known in London, the King will make his power felt.’

  ‘I can’t see why,’ Kathryn said. ‘Surely the Church will be full of people thanking God he is dead.’ She glanced across at Colum who sat, chin in hand, listening intently to the conversation.

  Luberon brushed the crumbs from his velvet jerkin, his fleshy jowls quivering in righteous anger.

  ‘Of course, Tenebrae’s death won’t worry them but he had a book, a folio of spells, the grimoire of Honorius.’

  �
��The Book of Shadows,’ Kathryn breathed. ‘That’s how the man dying in the Poor Priests Hospital described it.’

  Luberon nodded. ‘Yes, the Book of Shadows. It not only contained spells and magical formulae, Tenebrae also listed his secrets there: that book is now missing. Whether you like it or not, Kathryn, Colum will be ordered to investigate the death and recover the book whilst you, as city physician hired specially by the Royal Council, will also have a role to play.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ Colum intervened. ‘There’s no need for Kathryn’s involvement in this business: it’s murder straight and simple.’

  Luberon coughed and glanced sideways at the dark-faced Irishman. The clerk was always wary of Colum. Oh, he liked Murtagh with his unruly shock of hair, swarthy features and dry sense of humour. However, like Kathryn, Luberon sensed his ruthlessness, whilst he was only a man of the chancery, skilled in the use of parchment and quill not the sword, dagger and mace.

  ‘Oh, wisest of clerks,’ Colum murmured, ‘if I hold my breath any longer I’ll expire.’

  Luberon rubbed his chin. ‘First, Master Murtagh, no offence, but Kathryn’s sharp eye and skilful scrutiny is now well known to the court. Second, Kathryn holds an indenture with the city council. As you may remember, that council was dissolved because of Canterbury’s adherence to the House of Lancaster. Its rights and privileges have now been renewed. The city council wants to please the King in this matter. They will insist on Kathryn’s involvement. And, finally.’ Luberon paused, scratching his cheek nervously.

  ‘Oh, come, Simon!’ Colum snapped, winking at Kathryn.

  ‘Mistress Swinbrooke,’ the clerk hastily added, ‘knows a great deal about potions.’ He smiled apologetically. ‘Don’t take offence, but the line between medicine and magic is very thin.’