The Book of Fires Page 8

  ‘True, Brother. Sir Walter once said he could raise the fires of Hell here on earth yet he seemed frightened, cautious of doing that.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know.

  ‘Where did he get the manuscript from?’ Athelstan asked.

  Buckholt just shook his head. Athelstan went over and stared down at the coffer at the foot of the bed.

  ‘Mark the Greek’s “The Book of Fires”.’ He spoke half to himself. ‘A rare manuscript. Nobody would sell such a great secret. Therefore I deduce that Walter Beaumont stole it from someone. When would he do that? During his journeys in the east? Now,’ Athelstan wagged a finger, ‘if he had stolen such a precious manuscript, those who owned it would be very angry and pursue him as a thief. I wonder if Sir Walter could not exploit the full secrets of that book lest he attract the attention of its original owners? Was he wary of revealing all its secrets lest he incurred the vengeance of those who still might pursue him, and who would that be? Well, I would wager the Greeks from their great city of Constantinople. After all, Sir Walter was threatened, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, Brother but, if Sir Walter had stolen the book, why didn’t his pursuers just kill him?’

  ‘Oh, for a number of reasons; this is London not Constantinople. Sir Walter was a close friend of the Regent. More importantly, they didn’t want Sir Walter’s death, they just wanted their book back. Indeed, if they’d killed him that might never happen. No, they would try bribes. I just wonder if Sir Walter was busy raising the price?’

  ‘He never mentioned that to me.’

  ‘No, no, he wouldn’t. As you and others have informed me, “The Book of Fires” was something Sir Walter kept to himself.’

  ‘Brother Athelstan, is there anything else?’

  The friar raised his hand in blessing. ‘I am sure there is, Master Buckholt, but you will only answer what I ask and that will take time.’

  The steward left and Athelstan walked around the chamber, pausing before a gilt-edged painting. The scrolled sign beneath proclaimed ‘Lady Isolda Beaumont’ followed by the name of the artist. Athelstan peered closer. Like many a wealthy burgess, Sir Walter had hired one of those many Italian painters now flocking to London to seek a patron amongst the rich and powerful. Such craftsmen brought not only a fresh array of colours and settings, but a keenness for accurate depiction. If this was so, Lady Isolda had been a truly beautiful woman. She had an oval face and perfectly formed features, arching brows over the lightest blue eyes, a laughing, full mouth and, beneath the white gauze veil, the richest golden hair braided with bejewelled silver twine. She conveyed a deep certainty, a serenity about herself, though there was something mocking in that look of pure innocence. Athelstan marvelled at her beauty, yet he recalled the old proverb of someone being too sweet to be wholesome.

  ‘You can see why Sir Walter and others were smitten, Brother Athelstan.’

  Athelstan whirled around. Lady Anne, with Turgot beside her, stood in the doorway to the bedchamber.

  ‘Good morning, Brother.’ She came forward, clasped his hand and kissed him on each cheek. ‘I had to come and see how you were. What happened last night,’ she let go of his hands, ‘was truly dreadful. I have sent money to the torch-bearer’s family. I have also arranged his requiem and provided payment for a chantry priest at St Nicholas in the Shambles to sing Masses for him until the Octave of Pentecost. Truly murderous!’ she exclaimed. ‘I asked Turgot here what he saw.’ She raised her hands. ‘Turgot and I have mastered the sign language of the Cistercians. Now, he was trailing about ten yards behind us. His task was to make sure no one followed. Everything, however, remained serene until that figure emerged. At first, Turgot thought it was a beggar. Only when the flames caught did he realize what was happening.’ She paused. ‘I believe I was the intended victim. In future, if I make such a journey again, I will have an armed guard. Brother, I urge you to be equally prudent.’ She pointed at the painting. ‘Such a tragedy! At first everybody admired her. Now, this Great Miracle?’

  Athelstan grasped her proffered hand and they left the bedchamber, going down to the buttery, where Sir John was in deep conversation with Sir Henry and Lady Rohesia. They welcomed Athelstan and Lady Anne, who joined them around the well-polished oval table. Morning ale, cuts of chicken and pancakes were served. The conversation was desultory after expressions of shock at the attack the previous evening. Lady Anne pointed out, and they all agreed, how this part of the city was ideal for such an assault with its twisting runnels and narrow lanes. The discussion then moved to the growing crisis in the city: the plotting of the Great Community of the Realm. On this, Sir Henry proved obdurate, denouncing the rebels, insisting that Gaunt would ruthlessly crush all insurgents in the city and the surrounding shires. Athelstan gently guided the conversation on to the threats Sir Walter had received a year ago and asked to see the actual messages. Sir Henry hurried off to his chancery chamber and brought back a clutch of parchments. They were dark and ragged, the ink rather faded but the letters were well formed. The message was the same time and again. The specific warning clear and stark: ‘As I and ours did burn, so shall ye and yours.’

  ‘Do you think that’s the Upright Men?’ Sir Henry asked plaintively.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Athelstan replied, handing them back. ‘They certainly have the ring of a proclamation about them. Of course, you supply Gaunt with powder for his culverins and cannon. The Upright Men would resent that.’

  ‘So when the great revolt comes,’ Sir Cranston asked, ‘have you, Sir Henry, like other merchants, contributed secretly to the coffers of the Upright Men, a sort of tribute so that when the Day of Slaughter dawns you and yours will be safe?’

  ‘Never!’ Sir Henry’s reply was almost a shout. ‘Oh, I know about the Great Community of the Realm, their leaders and their chants. God knows what my brother truly thought! He was, in all things, secretive, but you are correct – few mansions will be safe.’ Sir Henry rose and closed the buttery door. ‘Buckholt,’ he continued, returning to his seat, ‘is a most loyal steward – well, he was to Sir Walter. I am not sure whether I will retain him, and one of my reasons for that is Buckholt’s support for the Great Community of the Realm, his open admiration for the Upright Men. I know that from the chatter of the servants, who,’ he took a deep breath, ‘sing his doggerel chants. So, to answer your question, Sir John, when and if such a treasonous revolt occurs, I shall hire mercenaries – the very best – to defend Firecrest Manor.’

  ‘As shall I,’ Lady Anne declared sharply.

  ‘Nonsense!’ Sir Henry blustered. ‘My brother always maintained, and he had his informers, that you, Lady Anne, your house and your retainers would be regarded as sacrosanct by the rebel leaders, Jack Straw and Wat Tyler. You do such good work in the prisons. You have helped the families of those whom Gaunt has arrested and executed. Sir Walter believed that when the revolt breaks out your house will be safer than the Tower or Westminster Abbey.’

  Lady Anne blushed and lowered her head.

  ‘Our situation is different,’ Sir Henry continued. ‘I find it difficult to sift friend from foe. Last night,’ he glanced quickly at the closed door, ‘Edward Garman, prison chaplain at Newgate during Lady Isolda’s imprisonment there? We have heard rumours that Garman is very close to the Upright Men. Tongues wag and gossips chatter how Garman may have even been involved in the escape of rebels from Newgate.’

  ‘True.’ Sir John, who had been strangely quiet, broke from his own reverie. ‘Very true,’ he repeated. ‘I studied Garman last night – he certainly stirred memories. Garman has acquired a certain reputation delivering sermons and homilies very similar to those of the hedge priest John Ball. Garman talks of a Commonwealth, of a “Bonum Commune” – a “Common Good”. He has shown great partiality to any Upright Men seized and imprisoned by Gaunt’s agents.’ Cranston grinned at Athelstan. ‘But I’ve heard other priests preach the same and, in the end, is that so wrong? To want to live in peace and justice?�
�� Sir John blinked, staring down the table. ‘Remember that quotation from the Book of Micah, how does it go? “Three things I have asked of thee, says the Lord: to love tenderly, to act justly and to walk humbly with your God.”’ Cranston’s words created an uncomfortable silence.

  ‘It’s one thing to preach Christ,’ Lady Anne murmured, ‘but,’ she gestured at Turgot standing behind her, ‘when we visit Newgate we also hear rumours. Garman just doesn’t preach, he plots and, Sir John, the revolt is coming. Newgate will be stormed. I am sure the royal council realize that. The prison will be seized and all its malefactors allowed to join the gangs. Priests like Garman should be warned.’

  ‘And he has been,’ Cranston replied. ‘But Garman is a cleric, subject to Church law, and we must have proof of conspiracy to treason.’ He spread his hands. ‘The worst we can do is remove him, but on what grounds? He has proven to be a devoted pastor. The Bishop of London could replace him but not many priests, if any, would want such a benefice, whilst a replacement could be worse in every way …’

  Lord Henry began to question Cranston about city politics. Athelstan sat silent. He knew the coroner was correct. Many village priests, as well as those who worked amongst the poor, were openly espousing the Upright Men as the only possible cure for the kingdom’s ills, yet that wasn’t relevant now.

  ‘Vanner!’ Athelstan’s exclamation silenced the discussion. ‘Vanner has apparently fled, for whatever reason. If he is alive, he is a fugitive, a man sliding through the shadows fearful of capture. Let us say Vanner is the Ignifer – could he fashion and prepare Greek fire?’

  ‘He may have stolen “The Book of Fires”,’ Sir Henry countered, ‘but …’

  ‘I wager Vanner was not involved in the manufacture of cannon, culverins and powder?’ Athelstan asked.

  Sir Henry nodded in agreement.

  ‘Even if he had “The Book of Fires”,’ Athelstan continued, ‘how can he, a clerk, slip through the streets of London dealing out death whenever, wherever he wishes? Sir Henry, I understand there is a hierarchy of strengths when it comes to Greek fire?’

  ‘Yes, Brother. It’s like any other weapon with a range of power and force. You can have a small hand-held crossbow or the powerful Brabantine, which can bring down a mailed knight.’

  ‘Very good.’ Athelstan rubbed his hands together. ‘So, if Vanner was the Ignifer he would need to buy certain commodities, but how could he do that as a fugitive? Where would he get the money from? He is a soft-handed clerk fleeing for his life. He will need a place to shelter, to sleep and feed. More importantly, as I have said, he has to buy certain items, deal with merchants who could well recognize him. Then there is the problem of storage, of manufacture, and all this brings me to one logical conclusion.’ Athelstan paused as he reflected on what he just said. ‘Impossible,’ he breathed.

  ‘Brother?’ Lady Anne asked. ‘What is impossible?’

  ‘I suspect, indeed I am sure that Vanner is not the Ignifer. In fact, he is dead, and has been for many days, even before Lady Isolda was executed.’

  ‘Dead?’ Sir Henry queried.

  ‘To be more precise murdered but where, how and by whom I cannot say. Sir Henry, where are Vanner’s papers, his manuscripts?’

  ‘Like Lady Isolda’s, they were destroyed. Sutler never established who did that.’

  ‘But he suspected Lady Isolda?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘And I will need to examine Sir Walter’s papers.’

  ‘Of course, Brother. Do you want to do that now?’

  ‘No,’ Athelstan shook his head, ‘only when I am ready.’

  ‘I will arrange that,’ Sir Henry declared. ‘Now, Sir John, Brother Athelstan, you would like to see the gardens?’

  Both agreed and got to their feet. Lady Anne sidled up beside Athelstan with a spate of questions about the ‘Great Miracle’. Thankfully she fell silent as Sir Henry led them out through a postern door into the spacious gardens which ran down to the curtain wall and the majestic Watergate fronting the Thames. Athelstan could only marvel at their extent, which was as great as any demesne around a shire manor. There were orchards of apple, pear and other fruit trees, and an impressive falcon fountain, the great bird of prey cast in bronze, perpetually hovering over a broad, lead-lined pool. There were grassy areas, herb plots, flower beds and tunnelled arbours fashioned out of coppiced poles lashed together with willow cords. Over these grew vines and climbing roses, a tangle of greenery awaiting the sun. Athelstan was particularly taken by the arbours, trellised pentices furnished with turf seats and benches of Purbeck limestone positioned to provide the best view over the gardens. Sir Henry, full of pride, showed them the carp pond, broad, reed-ringed and well stocked, before leading them into an ancient copse of oak and beech which provided a dark woodland aspect. At its centre stretched a broad glade around a deep green-covered stagnant pool. Athelstan walked through it all and smiled as he recalled his own small garden often savaged by Thaddeus the goat or Ursula the pig-woman’s gigantic sow. He wondered if Hubert, their resident hedgehog, was sheltering in the hermitage, a small wooden dwelling fashioned especially for their garden-dweller by Crispin the carpenter. Lady Anne returned to question him about the miracle. Athelstan finally excused himself and went back to Sir John, who stood on the edge of the mere staring sadly down at the thick green slime lacing the water.

  ‘This garden is very beautiful, Brother, but I wish spring would come. On my father’s farm I used to go out and worship the first daisies of the year. I would sit and listen to a thrush sing its first sweet song of spring. I’d study the apples growing fat, the hazelnuts branching fresh and green. I would walk and watch the brown gorse move under the breeze or glimpse a fox, a trail of red, sloping through ripening corn. I’d lean against old garden posts covered in holes where a host of hot-eyed sparrows would peck for grains. I love spring.’ Sir John glanced up, tears in his eyes. ‘But not this year, Brother! This year will be different! I know that! No maypole dancing but murder and mayhem.’ He waved around and beat his breast. ‘Brother, I think these murders are linked to the coming revolt.’ Cranston ground his teeth. ‘Nothing, my good friar, is what it appears to be. There is something very wrong here. I feel it in my water, in the beating of my heart and the flowing of my humours.’

  Athelstan stepped closer. ‘Sir John, you are poetical, even mystical.’

  Cranston grabbed him by the shoulders. ‘Little monk.’

  ‘Friar, Sir John.’

  ‘What’s the difference? Listen.’ Cranston drew him even closer. ‘I have been lost in thought about what has been happening here but also about your great miracle. I have sent our green-garbed Tiptoft throughout the city, alerting all the weird and wonderful in our underworld to be vigilant about a man burnt down the entire right side of his body. Believe me, Brother, if any change was made it would be discovered. I did the same for Vanner. I’ve posted proclamations on the Standard at Cheapside, St Paul’s and the great gibbets at Tyburn and Smithfield, but there’s nothing.’ He withdrew his hands. ‘I suspect you are correct. Vanner is dead. He wasn’t responsible for last night when that poor bastard died. The Ignifer passionately believes Lady Isolda was innocent and so he, or she, is intent on dealing out a grisly death to all who connived in Isolda’s condemnation. Yet who could that be? Sir Henry and Lady Rohesia wax prosperous on Sir Walter’s death? Buckholt is glad to see her gone. Rosamund the maid is a noddle-pate, surely? Lady Anne Lesures doesn’t have the means – I cannot see her scuttling through the streets. More importantly, Lady Anne believes Lady Isolda was as guilty as the Lord Satan himself. Finally, she and Turgot were with us last night. So we come to other possibilities. Falke, who passionately believed in her innocence? Parson Garman or,’ Cranston shrugged, ‘is it someone else with their own motivation?’

  ‘Sir John,’ Athelstan replied, ‘I accept what you say but I would add that these are not murders of the heart but the will. They are, I suspect, rooted firmly in the past. So mu
ch is.’ He breathed. ‘Look at me, Sir John, a farmer’s boy, a son who broke his parents’ hearts by running away to join the royal array, coaxing my younger brother to accompany me only for him to die outside Moyaux.’ Athelstan lapsed into silence; he did not wish to go down that well-trodden path. ‘That experience,’ he whispered, ‘shaped me. So, what dark forces from the past breathe life into all this murderous hate?’ He felt Cranston’s hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Miracles, Brother?’

  ‘We certainly need one here, Sir John.’

  ‘No, the charade at St Erconwald’s?’

  ‘You suspect it is trickery?’

  ‘I know it is. I accept what you say, Brother. We believe a crucified Jew rose from the dead, that during the Mass bread and wine become his glorified body and blood. But St Erconwald’s? Let’s be honest, Brother, that little parish entertains more mischief than a hedgerow of sparrows. All my couriers and searchers, Tiptoft, Muckworm and the Sanctus man, are on the alert. They are not only hunting Vanner but also a cripple, not a Londoner but a Yorkshireman burnt down the entire right-hand side of his body.’ Cranston paused. ‘I believe there is mischief afoot, Brother, but, so far, I can’t detect a thing. I have spies all over this city, yet nobody has reported anything.’

  ‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan.’ They turned as Buckholt hurried towards them. ‘Master Falke is here and wishes to have words with you.’ The steward led them to where Falke was waiting in the small buttery. The lawyer was pacing up and down, his blond hair wet with sweat, his face all flushed. Athelstan could smell the wine even before the lawyer stopped his restless pacing, his face only a few inches from the friar’s.

  ‘Master Falke, you have been drinking?’

  ‘Most of the night,’ the lawyer slurred. ‘I heard what was said last night.’ Froth bubbled from his lips. ‘Now, you listen,’ he hissed, ‘to what I know. Sir Henry and Lady Rohesia are no more than scavengers. They were eager, desperate for Sir Walter to die without an heir. They quietly rejoiced at Isolda’s arrest. Sir Henry was his brother’s henchman. I don’t care what he says, I am sure he pays more than lip service to the Upright Men.’