Saintly Murders Page 6

  ‘And if I find him dead?’

  ‘Then God rest him.’

  ‘And if alive?’

  ‘Then God help me!’

  ‘Shall I kill him, Mistress Kathryn?’

  Kathryn went cold. Monksbane’s face didn’t change a whit; his voice was matter-of-fact, as if he were discussing some errand to the market place.

  ‘Why not?’ he whispered. ‘From what you say, earth doesn’t want him, but God does.’

  ‘Are you asking me to pay for my husband’s murder?’

  ‘Execution, Kathryn.’

  She shook her head. ‘No, I’ll not have his blood on my hands or his soul on my conscience.’

  Monksbane smiled. ‘I thought you’d say that, Mistress.’

  She caught the shift in his eyes and, leaning over, grasped his wrist. ‘Please!’ she insisted. ‘You must not do it. You must not take the law into your own hands. If Alexander Wyville is alive, then let the law take its course.’

  ‘And what happens if he’s an outlaw, Mistress?’

  Monksbane released her hand and placed it gently on the table.

  ‘Utlegatum, wolfshead, beyond the law?’

  ‘What makes you ask that?’

  ‘He’s a violent man, Mistress, a drinker.’ Monksbane ticked the points off on thin, slender fingers. ‘He may have gone into hiding; that is, if he’s still alive.’

  ‘What would he be hiding from?’

  ‘He may have killed a man. According to the law, a wolfshead guilty of homicide, rape, or robbery can be slain on sight.’

  ‘Not Alexander Wyville,’ Kathryn said. ‘He must face justice, don’t forget!’ Kathryn drank from the tankard; the ale was good and strong. ‘He may have married again and be hiding from Church law rather than the King’s.’

  Monksbane pulled a face.

  ‘I want you to swear,’ Kathryn persisted, ‘on the souls of your dead wife and children that if Alexander Wyville’s alive, you will bring him in alive.’

  Monksbane pursed his lips. ‘I agree. Mistress, you wish another tankard?’ He pushed back his stool.

  ‘No, I have drunk and spoken enough.’

  ‘I have one favour to ask you,’ he continued. ‘You are a physician?’

  ‘Yes, and you should have your own.’

  ‘Quacks and leeches!’ he jibed. He pushed back the stool, put one foot up on the table, and tapped his ankle. ‘I get cramps here and along the back of my leg; it feels tight.’

  Kathryn rose and went round to take a look. Using the edge of the table, Monksbane eased off his boot; the hose beneath was clean. Kathryn felt the toes, foot, and ankle. She could find no swelling, but then when she felt the muscles at the back of the leg, they were tight and taut, like a knot being pulled fast.

  ‘Do you suffer from this often?’

  Monksbane lowered his foot and put his boot back on. ‘Sometimes, particularly when I sit.’

  ‘Show me how you sit.’

  Monksbane did so, but Kathryn realised he was simply acting. She recalled the bounty-hunter sitting in the Archbishop’s palace; the right leg had been constantly still, rigid.

  ‘When you drink, the pain goes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And when you rise?’

  ‘Again, no discomfort.’

  Kathryn studied his pale face. His complexion was clean, but she noticed the nervous gestures, the way Monksbane kept rubbing his stomach.

  ‘You are anxious.’ She smiled. ‘Agitated, yes?’

  Monksbane glanced away.

  ‘But you hide it well. After all, you are a hunter of men, and you must wear your mask. Yet I would wager a silver florin that you sleep badly. Do you find the hair at the back of your head tangled when you awake?’

  Monksbane grinned in embarrassment. ‘I toss and turn.’

  ‘And your stomach is agitated. You will pay for the ale you have just drunk?’

  ‘Mistress, you should tell fortunes.’ Monksbane eased on his boots to hide his embarrassment.

  ‘You suffer from cramps and pains elsewhere, yes?’

  ‘I think you know the answer to that.’

  ‘There is nothing wrong with your leg,’ Kathryn declared, ‘except the way you sit. Your humours are nervous and agitated. Next time you sit in a tavern, particularly when the meeting is unpleasant or danger threatens, reflect on how you sit. You will find you are pushing your foot into the ground, tensing your leg. The sinews tighten; cramps ensue. You should bathe your leg in hot water with soothing herbs. Exercise gently; walk with a stick.’

  Monksbane gazed in admiration. ‘Which schools did you attend, Mistress?’

  Kathryn laughed and drained her tankard. ‘I have my licence from the City Council, but my tutor was my father. He suffered the same ailment. It’s quite common in men of your condition. Now, Master Monksbane, I have a favour to ask of you. You were a rat-catcher in Farringdon Ward. You’ve heard of the infestation here in the city? Do you know the cause?’

  ‘It could be due to anything,’ Monksbane replied, choosing his words carefully. ‘Rats live in nests, colonies. Sometimes they swarm. They can be driven out, as we can be, by persecution, fire, and sword. They swim, clamber on board barges which sail along the river Stour. Or there’re the ruins outside Canterbury. God knows why they come, how, or from where. You mentioned fire. That’s the best cure: to burn their nests, harry them day and night. One remarkable thing, Mistress. I’ve been round the city and sat in the taverns and listened to the chatter and gossip. In Farringdon infestations occurred, but not like this. Usually you see one or two at first. People ignore them as nothing serious. “Ah yes,” they’ll say, “I saw the first on the Feast of St. Matthew the Apostle, and then I left it for a month.” However, our Canterbury rats seem to have appeared suddenly, outside Westgate and then to the north of the city.’ He spread his hands. ‘More than that I cannot say.’

  Kathryn was about to pick up her cloak when they heard a scratching at the door; a small, greasy-haired pot-boy came running in. He ignored Kathryn and plucked Monksbane by the sleeve. ‘A man downstairs, a man downstairs, wishes to see you! The taverner wouldn’t let him come up.’

  ‘For me?’

  ‘No, no.’ The boy stuttered. ‘For the fish, fish . . .’

  ‘The physician,’ Kathryn interjected.

  The boy gave her a beaming, gap-toothed smile. ‘Yes, the woman, fish . . .’

  Kathryn laughed.

  Monksbane went downstairs and came hurrying back; the man who followed was cloaked and cowled. When he pulled back the hood, Kathryn started in surprise.

  ‘Why, Master Venables!’

  She introduced Monksbane; Venables nodded at him.

  ‘Do you have the gift of sight?’ Kathryn smiled. ‘How did you know we were here?’

  ‘You followed us, didn’t you?’ Monksbane accused him. ‘I thought that after we left the Archbishop’s palace.’

  Venables was about to turn away, but Monksbane abruptly drew a dagger; in one swift movement it pricked Venables’s chin.

  ‘No!’ Kathryn raised her hand as Venables’s hand fell to his war-belt.

  ‘I hired this chamber, Master Venables, because I wished to talk to Mistress Kathryn. I don’t like being followed. And I don’t like being ignored, especially by uninvited guests.’

  Venables gently pushed away Monksbane’s hand. He stepped back and bowed. ‘In which case, sir, you have my apologies. I need to speak to Mistress Swinbrooke on a matter of urgency. True, I did follow you from the palace. I waited outside thinking you were simply supping a tankard; but as time drew on, I became impatient. I would appreciate a word alone with Mistress Swinbrooke.’ He smiled at Kathryn. ‘It is the King’s business.’

  ‘I told His Eminence I would see Mistress Swinbrooke safely home,’ Monksbane retorted. ‘Do you wish to speak to him, Kathryn?’

  Kathryn nodded. Monksbane picked up his cloak. ‘In which case I shall wait for you downstairs.’

  And taking
the pot-boy’s hand, Monksbane left the chamber.

  Venables sat on the stool on the other side of the table. He took off his cloak and loosened his war-belt, his close-set eyes studying Kathryn. ‘You’ve had a busy day, Mistress.’

  ‘And it gets busier,’ she remarked drily. ‘Master Venables, what do you want?’

  ‘You are the Advocatus Diaboli in the case of Roger Atworth?’

  ‘I know who I am, Master Venables.’

  ‘Atworth was Duchess Cecily’s confessor.’

  ‘I know that, too.’

  ‘He was hale and hearty.’ Venables ignored Kathryn’s brusqueness. ‘Duchess Cecily is deeply affected by Master Atworth’s death. He was a member of her husband’s household in France, a good soldier, a skilled man-at-arms. On at least two occasions he protected the Duchess from enemies, and believe me, Mistress, she has many. He gave up the pleasures of this world’ – Venables’s voice was precise, clear, his eyes never leaving Kathryn’s – ‘and became a friar. Duchess Cecily continued their relationship and chose him as her confessor. Now you know, Mistress, how her husband, Richard of York, was barbarously slain at Wakefield some twelve years ago at the beginning of the bloody feud between York and Lancaster. Duchess Cecily was not only York’s wife but his closest confidante and counsellor.’

  ‘And Atworth became the keeper of her conscience and the treasure-chest of her secrets?’

  ‘In a word, yes.’

  ‘But Atworth has gone to God. I understand the Duchess’s grief so . . .’

  ‘Duchess Cecily does not believe Atworth’s death was by natural causes.’

  ‘That could just be a woman’s grief, a refusal to accept the inevitable.’

  ‘No, it isn’t. You see, the Duchess and Brother Roger often corresponded.’

  ‘I hope the Duchess was prudent in what she wrote?’

  ‘Oh, she was,’ Venables confirmed. ‘Just letters between two old friends.’

  ‘But Roger Atworth was her confidant? Her letters have been returned?’ Kathryn asked.

  ‘No, they have gone missing. Atworth kept them upon his person’ – Venables tapped his war-belt – ‘in a large wallet which he wore on the cord of his gown. When Atworth’s corpse was discovered, the wallet had gone.’

  ‘And did these letters contain anything delicate?’

  Venables pulled a face. ‘Mistress, I cannot say; the Duchess will not tell me.’

  ‘But there is more?’

  ‘Yes. Brother Roger Atworth was found dead on the morning of the Annunciation, on the twenty-fifth of March. According to Prior Anselm, he had felt sickly the day before and kept to his chamber. Now Brother Roger had written to the Duchess at the beginning of March, the Feast of St. David of Wales. He promised he would write again later in the month, on the feast day of St. Joseph, the nineteenth of March, and despatch it to her at Islip. No such letter came.’

  Kathryn rested her arms on the table and stared down at a wine stain in the shape of a wolf’s head.

  ‘But Brother Roger’s corpse bore no marks of violence? You’ve heard the stories?’ Kathryn asked. ‘Stigmata, a beautiful fragrance? Are you sure the Duchess is not just saying this out of grief? The Friars of the Sack have their own physician, and he discovered nothing untoward.’

  Kathryn glanced up and continued. ‘That’s why Duchess Cecily is so keen on this beatification process. She wants Atworth’s corpse exhumed, doesn’t she, examined by an independent physician? The King knows of Colum Murtagh, and he also knows me. Dame Cecily would press this matter with her son.’

  Venables nodded.

  ‘So, tell me, sir, why should someone want to kill Roger Atworth, an old friar immured behind monastery walls?’

  ‘Atworth led a very interesting life,’ Venables replied. ‘During his campaigns in France, when the Dauphin’s forces, commanded by “La Pucelle,” began to re-take Normandy, Atworth was captured by a rather sinister French nobleman, the Vicomte de Sanglier. Sanglier kept Atworth in his dungeons and treated him barbarously. He was tortured in hideous ways, his flesh plucked with irons or kept in freezing water.’

  ‘Why?’ Kathryn asked.

  ‘Well, Atworth led one of the Free Companies: The French had issued an edict proclaiming all English soldiers captured under the red-and-gold banners of such companies would face torture and summary execution. For some reason Sanglier kept Atworth alive. After a while he released him and began to treat him as an honourable guest.’

  ‘Why the change?’

  ‘Duchess Cecily never got to know. The story is that Atworth feigned sickness and managed to escape. Duchess Cecily believes his imprisonment began the change in Atworth’s life.’

  ‘But when Atworth was captured, he was a soldier, not a friar or confessor to the Queen Mother?’

  Venables ran his finger through a pool of spilt ale. ‘Mistress Kathryn, have you ever heard of “the Ecouters”?’

  ‘It’s French, isn’t it?’ Kathryn translated. ‘To listen?’

  Venables smiled. ‘Skilled in tongues?’

  ‘No,’ Kathryn replied. ‘But we do have French exiles in Canterbury; I was a good student with my horn-book.’

  ‘“The Ecouters,”’ Venables explained, ‘are Louis XI’s spies; they are, literally, his listeners. Louis has more spies, “Ecouters,” in England than there are rats in Canterbury. And, by strange coincidence, they are controlled by the Vicomte de Sanglier, now a leading member of Louis’s council. Three months ago, Duchess Cecily found one of her servants, a groom of the chamber, a Gascon, going through her private documents. I had to question him. He was eventually tried before the Marshal of the King’s household, found guilty as a spy, and hanged from the common gallows. He was a redoubtable man, difficult to break; but one thing we did discover: He was searching for correspondence between the Queen Mother and Roger Atworth.’

  Through the cracks in the shutter Kathryn could hear noises from the street, almost drowned by the singing and shouting below. Someone must have brought a set of bagpipes, and the wailing, eerie sound carried up from the tap-room, interspersed with raucous bursts of singing.

  ‘Why was he looking for letters?’

  ‘We don’t know.’

  Kathryn bit her thumbnail.

  ‘And that’s all he confessed?’

  ‘Yes. We were puzzled. Why had Sanglier singled out Atworth, his former prisoner? The matter was debated in the King’s Council in the Chamber of the Green Cloth at Westminster.’

  Kathryn recognised the name of the room. Colum had often reported how King Edward, his brothers, and their henchmen used that chamber for their most secret discussions.

  ‘It’s curiously shaped,’ Murtagh had claimed. ‘Thick walls and a door which can be guarded; that and the Tower, not to mention the House of Secrets in London, are the only places the King really trusts.’ He’d laughed. ‘If only the walls could talk.’

  ‘And these deliberations?’ Kathryn asked.

  ‘Richard of Gloucester,’ Venables dropped his voice to a whisper, ‘put forward a startling theory that Atworth may have been a cunning man, that his conversion was false.’ Venables pulled a face. ‘Even if it was genuine, Atworth, according to Gloucester, may have been a French spy.’

  ‘But that’s ridiculous,’ Kathryn retorted. ‘If Atworth had been a spy, there would have been no need to go through the Queen Mother’s papers. Atworth would have told the French everything.’

  ‘Duchess Cecily argued the same most passionately. As you know’ – Venables lifted his eyebrows – ‘Richard of Gloucester is not his mother’s favourite: She calls him the whelp of her litter. Gloucester would not be moved. He argued that perhaps Atworth had, because of infirmity or some other reason, stopped sending messages to France, hence the spy in the royal household. The House of Secrets, which controls our spies in France, also reported on two matters. First, the French did have a spy very close indeed, at the heart of the English Court and Royal Council. Secondly, there could also be a Frenc
h spy in the priory of the Friars of the Sack in Canterbury. This spy might either be Atworth himself,’ Venables sighed, ‘or someone else put in to watch him.’

  ‘A Frenchman in an English priory would stand out like a bruise on a pale face!’

  Venables shook his head. ‘Apparently Vicomte de Sanglier was more careful and subtle than that. Look, Mistress, we sit only a short walk from the greatest shrine in Christendom. Everybody and anybody comes to Canterbury. French kings and queens, nobles and merchants, they all congregate here. Some are genuine, some are spies laden with gold and silver to turn the minds and hearts of the King’s loyal subjects.’

  ‘You are claiming this happened at the Friary of the Sack?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘And this same person subtly murdered our holy Roger?’

  ‘Yes, Mistress.’

  ‘A maze of shadows, eh, Master Venables. So Roger Atworth’s death . . .?’

  ‘It hides more, Mistress Swinbrooke, than any of us think.’

  Chapter 3

  ‘For deeth, that taketh of heigh and logh . . .’

  – Chaucer, ‘The Man of Law’s Tale,’

  The Canterbury Tales

  ‘Mistress Swinbrooke, you are much in demand.’

  Monksbane stood in the doorway; behind him was Colum, shrouded in a military cloak and cowl. Kathryn gave a cry of pleasure and sprang to her feet, knocking over the stool in her hurry. Colum pulled back the hood. Kathryn could see he had washed and shaved, his black, curly hair damp against his head; his tanned, weather-beaten face was smooth except for a razor cut high on his cheek. So pleased to see him, Kathryn forgot about Venables and Monksbane and clasped Colum’s hands, kissing him on each cheek.

  ‘You’ve been looking for me?’

  ‘I’ve been looking for you, Kathryn.’ Colum’s eyes crinkled in amusement. ‘We have business,’ he whispered.

  Kathryn stood back.

  ‘Everything is well at home. Thomasina is baking bread but is quietly cursing. Wulf is busy with mortar and pestle. Agnes is laying out the linen sheets in the airing room . . .’

  ‘Master Murtagh.’ Venables came across, hand extended. ‘You remember me? The march to Tewkesbury?’