The Book of Fires

PART ONE

Brother Athelstan, Dominican priest of St Erconwald’s in Southwark, pulled his thick serge cloak about him. He scrutinized the sky, watching the night fade and the first streaks of dawn lighten the dark. He was fascinated by the way stars faded and disappeared. Did they simply diminish, he wondered, beneath the growing power of the sun even though it was still winter? The friar chewed the corner of his lip and wondered what the authorities such as Friar Bacon and Bartholomew the Englishman wrote about the phenomenon of dawn and dusk. Athelstan crouched and scratched the scarred head of his constant companion, the great battle-worn one-eyed cat Bonaventure.

‘You will get your warm milk soon enough, brother cat. Until then we will watch the first red streaks of dawn streaming like Christ’s blood through the firmament.’ Athelstan once more looked up at the sky and sighed. He grasped the rusting bar which stretched between the moss-eaten crenellations of his ancient church tower and pulled himself up. Once steady, he looked over the side, turning his head slightly against the brisk, freezing breeze. He murmured a prayer as he looked down, for the church tower soared to a dizzying height. He brushed aside his unease as he glimpsed the pinpoints of moving lights, the torches held by his parish council: these were supervising the arrival of the sick, the lame and the cripples eagerly wending their way into St Erconwald’s for the last stage of the night-time vigil which would end with the Jesus Mass at dawn. He squatted down with his back to the stone wall, absentmindedly stroking Bonaventure, who slid on to his lap. In a week’s time Athelstan and his parish would celebrate the great feast of St Erconwald with a solemn High Mass, ale tasting, cake savouring, dancing and carols ending with a special masque staged by Judith, Mistress of the Parish Mummers.

‘God bless you, Judith,’ Athelstan whispered. ‘You will need all the patience our great and saintly patron can bestow.’ In the nine days preceding the feast the nave would be open all night so the infirm and crippled could shelter close to the chantry chapel.

‘The chapel contains a tomb, Bonaventure,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘But the tomb does not contain St Erconwald. He lies buried in St Paul’s. No, our tomb houses powerful relics of that famous and saintly bishop.’ Athelstan screwed his eyes up as he tried to recall the list. ‘Ah, yes, that’s it! Part of his cloak, a rod from his horse litter, the belt around his hair shirt and,’ Athelstan smiled, ‘a piece of the handbell used to summon his parishioners.’ Athelstan returned to his thoughts. St Erconwald’s vigil was an ancient custom which, according to the bell clerk and parish archivist Mauger, dated from the murky, misty past long before William the Norman crushed the Saxons at Senlac Hill. According to both tradition and legend, miraculous cures had occurred here during the novena night vigil. ‘But none since I have been parish priest, Bonaventure.’ Athelstan sighed, getting to his feet. ‘I just thank God for the constant miracle of sunrise and,’ he crossed and pulled back the trapdoor, ‘a peaceful vigil.’

Athelstan, followed by a very hungry cat, made his way carefully down the winding spiral staircase and into the church. Watkin the dung collector and Pike the ditcher, leading henchmen of the parish council, had organized things well. The nave was lighted by flaring torches placed in their sconces on each rounded drum-like pillar along either transept. Charcoal braziers crackled merrily supervised by the pretty, dark-eyed widow woman Benedicta, whilst Cecily the courtesan, assisted by Crispin the carpenter, ensured that the straw palliasses for the pilgrims remained clean and soft. The smoky cinder-centred warmth of the nave was a welcome relief to the friar’s own icy vigil on top of the church tower. Athelstan had meant to take a chafing dish of burning coal to keep his mittened fingers warm, but he had forgotten this. He went across to a brazier to warm his hands and stared around at the pilgrims shrouded in their blankets on palliasses arranged as close as possible to St Erconwald’s chantry chapel where Athelstan would celebrate the Jesus Mass. In the transept, Imelda, Pike’s wife, and Joscelyn, the one-armed former river pirate and owner of the Piebald tavern, gathered with Merrylegs the pie-man and his brood of little Merrylegs to organize bread, cheese, dishes of dried vegetables, strips of pork and tankards of light ale for the pilgrims. Athelstan was touched by the kindness and compassion of his parishioners, who, though certainly not wealthy, were prepared to share their food with strangers. He smiled to himself. Of course, there was profit to be made. Many parishioners had set up stalls and booths along the enclosure outside. They offered a range of petty goods and geegaws. Athelstan never asked for their origin, whilst Beadle Bladdersmith just looked the other way.

Athelstan peeled off his mittens and walked up the nave. The Hangman of Rochester had left his anker-hold in the transept and already unlocked the door to the rood screen. Athelstan went through this and stared around the sanctuary – all was in order. Athelstan genuflected towards the pyx, a roundel of sparkling gold hanging from a thin silver-filigreed chain next to the fluttering sanctuary lamp in its red alabaster jar.

‘Father?’ Athelstan turned. The Hangman of Rochester, garbed in his usual night-black jerkin, hose and cloak, stood rather nervously, Athelstan thought, shuffling from foot to foot.

‘Giles of Sempringham.’ Athelstan used the hangman’s proper name, which he had set aside after outlaws had murdered his wife and child. A talented fresco painter, Giles had given up his chosen calling to assume the name and reputation of London’s most skilled hangman, his first victims being the wolfsheads who had slaughtered his family. Athelstan walked closer. The hangman’s long snow-white face, his hair matted and yellow as a tangle of straw, appeared tragic. Nevertheless, Athelstan recognized that the hangman had found peace here in St Erconwald’s. A disused chantry chapel had been converted into a comfortable anker-hold. Occasionally the hangman would leave the cell to carry out his duties as an executioner, but his real task was a series of brilliantly executed frescoes on the walls of the church which stirred the envy of other parish priests. ‘Giles,’ Athelstan repeated. ‘You seem lost in thought.’ He felt a mild panic. Were his parishioners plotting something? ‘Giles, what is it?’

‘Father, I wonder if we have the purveyance to feed all these?’ The hangman spread his hands. ‘Some of the infirm are very weak and a good few are filthy. They need to be washed.’

‘I thought the Fraternity of Free Love …’ Athelstan referred to an eccentric group of parishioners who openly espoused the idea that love could solve all problems. Athelstan allowed the brotherhood or fraternity to meet here on the strict understanding that their philosophy did not include sexual licence. They had assured him it did not, though Athelstan entertained his own deep suspicions.

‘The Brotherhood,’ Athelstan repeated, ‘remember, Giles, they promised to set up a great lavarium in God’s Acre next to the old death house. Godbless the keeper said he would assist.’

‘People are frightened of Thaddeus,’ the hangman grumbled. ‘Despite Godbless’ efforts, that goat will devour everything, including a wash cloth. Perhaps we can use the new death house? Praise the Lord we have no corpses.’

Athelstan agreed and walked across the sanctuary. He knelt before the pyx, trying to cleanse his mind and heart of all sin, asking for God’s guidance to celebrate the Mass and Eucharist in a worthy fashion. He rose and entered the sacristy. He took off his cloak, washed his hands and face at the lavarium then vested swiftly assisted by Crim the altar boy, who scampered in and out as busy as a squirrel along a branch. Candles were lit in the chantry chapel. Cruets set out along with the wine and sacring bread. Athelstan unlocked the parish chest and took out the missal, the Book of the Gospels and a small pyx for the viaticum as he hoped to take the Eucharist to Merrylegs’ father, who lay mortally ill in a narrow chamber above his son’s pie shop. Mauger tolled the bell. Crim rang the Sanctus chimes in the chapel then returned to the sacristy. He grasped the candleholder and, at a nod from Athelstan, led the friar out across the sanctuary and down through the rood screen into the chantry chapel. Athelstan began his Mass, consecrating the bread and wine, exchanging the kiss of peace and distributing the Eucharist, moving amongst the dark shapes of the infirm as well as his own flock of parishioners. The friar was aware of flitting shadows, the smell of incense and candle grease mingling with the smoky odours of the braziers and the stale, heavy stench of unwashed bodies. Eyes glittered out of rugged faces, tongues jutted out between decaying teeth to receive Christ’s body under the appearance of bread. Athelstan became acutely aware of the human flesh in all its frailties; the dumb, deaf and blind. Hobbling cripples and wound-scarred former soldiers. He returned to the altar built against the wall, St Erconwald’s statue to his left. The press of bodies warmed the chapel and the constant ejaculatory prayers were an unending refrain. Athelstan kissed the altar stone and turned to deliver the ‘Ita, Missa est’ – the Mass has finished, the final blessing, when a voice called out.

‘Praise to the Lord Jesus, a miracle! I am cured! Brothers and sisters, I am cured. I am cured. A miracle! God be praised! St Erconwald be thanked. I am cured …’

The statement caused uproar in the church. Figures shoved and pushed. Candles and torches were moved, flames streaking in the draught as doors were flung open. Athelstan finished the Mass and shouted for silence as Watkin, Pike and others of the parish council tried to subdue the outburst. Athelstan returned to the sacristy where he divested swiftly, telling Ranulf the rat-catcher to bring the entire parish council into the sanctuary, whilst Beadle Bladdersmith imposed order. Athelstan needed to see this miracle, whatever it was. He went back into the sanctuary and sat down on the priest’s chair. The hubbub beyond the rood screen was growing, with shouts of ‘Alleluia!’ and ‘Glory to Christ!’ ringing through the cavernous nave. Athelstan ignored this. Watkin, Pike and Crispin brought cresset torches close about the sanctuary chair and a tall, dark figure stepped into the light. He pulled back his deep hood, loosened the heavy ragged cloak and let it fall to the ground. He undid his belt and handed it to Ranulf. Athelstan leaned forward and stared in utter disbelief at the smooth unshaven face, the deep-set eyes, snub nose and firm mouth and chin of the man before him. He continued to scrutinize the stranger, ignoring the whispers around him, his black tangled hair streaked with iron grey, the now un-mittened hands, their skin and flesh unmarked.

‘Fulchard of Richmond!’ Athelstan gasped. ‘I met you when you first arrived here. Pike introduced you. I gazed at the left side of your face and body, but your right side …’ Athelstan shook his head. ‘You were a cripple leaning on a crutch. I remember the right side of your face, down the length of your body, horrifying burns …’

The man unclasped his dirt-stained chemise and drew it off, followed by a grimy linen undershirt. Athelstan repressed a shiver. He rose to his feet and walked slowly forward. Fulchard stood, hands hanging down. Ranulf crept near and touched the man’s shoulder.

‘I saw them too,’ Ranulf rasped, ‘your horrible burns.’

‘Twenty years I have suffered.’ Fulchard’s broad Yorkshire voice carried around the sanctuary. ‘Twenty years of scalding burns inflicted when I was a mere stripling in Outremer.’ He touched the side of his face, his fingers turning down. ‘From head to toe, the entire right side, the flesh erupted, corrupted, an open, weeping sore.’ Fulchard had everyone’s attention now. Athelstan walked slowly around the man, studying him intently. The friar was certain this was the same Fulchard that he’d met the previous day. He had seen that horrible open wound, the way the man hobbled, his looks, his gestures. Athelstan was certain this was no counterfeit or crank. Fulchard had hobbled in and out on his crutch, his scarred burns open for everyone to see: now, the flesh was white and unmarked. Athelstan could detect nothing amiss. He recalled the man’s voice – it was the same although a little stronger. He stepped close so his face was only inches from Fulchard’s. He recognized the mole, high on the left cheek, the shape of the good eye. Athelstan crossed himself, took off his own cloak and wrapped it around Fulchard.

‘What happened?’ he whispered close to Fulchard’s ear and, as he did, Athelstan smelt a lovely fragrance like that of some exquisite perfume. Athelstan was agitated. At the same time he mentally beat his breast. He preached about a Risen Christ. How all things were possible with God including a miracle. So why did he have these doubts?

‘What happened?’ he repeated, gesturing at Watkin to bring a sanctuary stool for Fulchard to sit on whilst he returned to the celebrant’s chair. Silence now reigned, even the turbulent noise from the nave had subsided. ‘You are in the presence of God,’ Athelstan intoned. ‘Master Fulchard of Richmond, tell me what truly happened, from the beginning.’

‘I was born in Knaresborough in the shire of York, the son of Ralph and Elizabeth Spicer. My father was a leech, and I became his apprentice. Of course, in the wild years of youth, the blood runs hot and the heart is a merciless hunter for things fresh and new. I was placed in the care of the Benedictines at Rievaulx Abbey but I tired of the brothers. I journeyed abroad, serving in a cog out of Whitby. I then began my travels. I have seen the icy-massed forests of the north where huge white bears prowl and where Leviathan plays in the sea close by. I have visited Outremer. I have kissed the Sacred Stones in the Holy Sepulchre and stood on the demon-swept shores of the Dead Sea. I have wandered here and I have wandered there. Eventually I journeyed to Athens to earn more coin. I worked in the kitchen of a tavern. I was put in charge of the turnspit. One night, the eve of the feast of St George, the tavern master was preparing a sumptuous feast. Oilskins were brought down into the great kitchen, I carried one here.’ Fulchard tapped his right shoulder. ‘God knows what happened. I admit, I had been drinking heavily and I staggered. The bulging oilskin abruptly split, drenching the right side of my body. At that very moment, I was passing the great hearth where a fire danced as merrily as the tongues of Hell, and so it proved to be. The flames seemed to leap out at me as if drawn by the oil.’

‘I have seen that happen,’ Merrylegs spoke up. ‘I am always wary of my oven. I keep oil well away from it.’

‘True,’ Joscelyn the taverner added, ‘if you are drenched in oil the fire races to embrace you as eager as any lover for his sweetheart. Oh, sorry, Father,’ Joscelyn coughed, ‘I shouldn’t have said that, should I?’

‘But it’s true.’ Athelstan smiled. ‘In my youth I served in the king’s array in France.’

‘Did you, Father?’ Watkin and the rest chorused. They were as greedy as a host of hungry sparrows for any tittle-tattle about their priest’s former life.

‘I served in France,’ Athelstan repeated, ‘at a siege where the defenders poured down oil followed by fiery brands. Some of them missed but the oil had a life of its own. I saw fire move as swiftly as the wind. Master Fulchard, continue.’

‘I was burnt, roasted from my head down the entire length of the right side of my body. I was only saved by an old soldier. He knew what to do. He wrapped me in a cloak soaked in vinegar. He saved my life, an English mercenary but one with a good heart. He later took what money I had and used some of his own to help me. I was shipped to the Hospitallers in Rhodes. From there I travelled back to England. My life was saved but I was scarred, a hard, open wound, the pain a dull constant ache. I moved to Richmond in Yorkshire and from there journeyed around the northern shires.’ Fulchard pointed to the heavy, thick wallet on his belt still held by the rat-catcher. ‘Read the letters I hold from the Hospital in Rhodes, licences from the Mayor of York and others. Indeed, I have a more recent one. When I journeyed to Southwark for the vigil, I suffered great pain. I attended the House of Mercy in the hospital at the Priory of St Bartholomew, Smithfield. I was seen by Philippe the physician.’

‘Philippe,’ Athelstan intervened, ‘I know him well. A most skilled doctor, merciful but thorough.’

‘He examined me,’ Fulchard continued. ‘He gave me a tincture to dull the pain. I was to sprinkle it on anything I drank or ate.’

‘Who accompanied you here?’ Athelstan asked. ‘You must have had help?’

‘I did.’ A voice came from behind the clustered parish council. A man pushed his way through and came to genuflect beside Athelstan. The stranger had a square, thick-set face slightly yellowing in the poor light, though his eyes were sharp and bright. He looked harsh and forbidding with unshaven skin and balding head yet his voice was low and cultured.

‘And you are?’

‘Fitzosbert. Former priest, former soldier, former clerk, former this and former that.’ He answered Athelstan’s smile with his own and held up the stump of his left hand. ‘Once a priest, Father, until I became involved in this and that. Hazard was my downfall. The roll of the dice, be it cogged or not. Defrocked by Despenser Bishop of Norwich, the sheriff of the same county eventually took my left hand. I met Fulchard in Richmond on my tour of the shire. He told me a curious tale.’

Athelstan glanced at Fulchard.

‘I told Fitzosbert, Father, how I was sheltering in a hospice near Richmond, also dedicated to St Erconwald. I had a vision, a dream: a man in a long robe appeared to me. He had long hair, a beard and carried a crozier. He said he was Erconwald, formerly Bishop of London and now a Lord of Heaven. He told me to go to St Erconwald’s in Southwark and experience God’s mercy. So I did. The journey was hard and difficult but, unlike Fitzosbert here, I have full licence to beg. In return for a little payment, Fitzosbert helped me. I arrived here at the beginning of the vigil …’

‘And what actually happened during the night?’ Athelstan blessed Fitzosbert and indicated he should stand with the rest.

‘I fell asleep close to the door of the chantry chapel. I was warm and comfortable. You began your Mass. I did not know if I was dreaming or not. I glanced at the chantry chapel door, my eye drawn by the glow of candlelight. This began to grow stronger and move like a mist across the floor. I could not tell if I was asleep or awake but, as the light crept closer, it ran like liquid gold, snaking across the floor, curling past other pilgrims until it reached me. I felt as if I was back in that tavern so many years ago in Athens. I was kneeling, my whole body was swept by a sweetness I could never imagine. Then it left. I wondered what had happened and realized there was no pain. I roused myself and stared down. I thought it was a sham, some trickery. My body was healed. I didn’t know what to say or do. I wanted to wake up and yet at the same time stay in that most pleasant dream. But then as the Mass ended, I fully realized what had happened, that I wasn’t dreaming.’ His voice faltered.

‘And you did not leave the church during the night-time vigil?’

‘No, Father, ask those around me. When I was crippled, I needed help to get up, grasp my crutch. I have to clear people out of my way. Father, I will leave my crutch here …’

Athelstan held up a hand.

‘Mauger,’ he ordered, ‘Watkin and you, Benedicta, go back into the nave. Bring all those who were close to Master Fulchard. Do so now.’

‘I was, Father,’ Fitzosbert spoke up with a lopsided grin. ‘But I suppose you need stronger witnesses?’

‘I suppose I do,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘Now, let’s wait a while.’ He heard the raised voices of members of his parish council calling for witnesses. A short while later six pilgrims stumbled and staggered into the great pool of light, gnarled, twisted and suffering. All clad in rags, they displayed hideous wounds, raw scars and fearful injuries. Athelstan rose, blessed them and walked forward to exchange the kiss of peace. As he did so, he opened his purse on the cord around his waist and pushed a coin into each of their hands feeling their cold skin, their coarse, twisted fingers.

‘Watkin,’ Athelstan murmured, going back to his chair, ‘make sure these six eat well this morning. Now,’ he raised his voice, ‘what did you see?’

The friar listened as the witnesses, some thick with accent, describe how Master Fulchard of Richmond had hobbled into the church the previous evening. They had been close around him as they prayed and slept. Two of the pilgrims said they would go on solemn oath how, in the early hours, Fulchard began to stir and chatter, talking in his sleep. They all agreed he had not left the church, nor had anyone approached him. They witnessed no disturbance whatsoever apart from a certain restlessness just before he woke. Once the pilgrims were finished, Watkin, Pike and others from the parish council chorused how they had witnessed the same. Athelstan could only sit dumbfounded by what he had seen and heard.

‘Look,’ he stammered, ‘I need to think and pray. Master Fulchard will join me in the priest’s house. Afterwards, Joscelyn, he will lodge at the Piebald, yes?’

The taverner swiftly agreed. The watchful silence was now broken as Athelstan’s obvious acceptance of what had happened dawned on the rest. The friar instructed Mauger and Benedicta to look after the sacristy and sanctuary. He rose, nodded at Fulchard and left through the rood-screen door. The nave was packed with people all agog with news at what had happened. The story of the ‘Great Miracle’ had spread wide and fast. Athelstan had to shoulder his way across the nave, through the Devil’s Door and into God’s Acre. Even Godbless, the beggar man who had turned the old death house into a comfortable cottage for himself, and the omnivorous Thaddeus were waiting for news amongst the decaying tombstones and battered crosses.

‘I have seen angels flying!’ Godbless shouted.

‘In which case,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘you have certainly seen more than I have. Now look, Godbless, keep a vigilant eye on God’s Acre, because the angels you see are causing all this excitement.’ Athelstan strode on, Godbless’ praises ringing in his ears. He reached his house, unlocked the door and entered the warm, well-scrubbed flagstone kitchen which served as his chancery, store room and, as he joked, solar and dining hall. Everything was in place. The fire banked. The charcoal braziers glowing. The air sweet with the oatmeal mixed with honey and spice bubbling in the black pot-bellied cauldron on its tripod above the fire. Athelstan quickly scrutinized everything, his communion chest, the lectern, his chancery coffer and well-ordered bed-loft. He opened the door in response to Bonaventure’s constant scratching and served the tomcat his morning drink of warm milk. Once Bonaventure was satisfied, Athelstan prepared the table ladling out the oatmeal and filling two blackjacks with light ale. Fulchard arrived escorted by members of the parish council. Athelstan thanked them but insisted that he and Fulchard would eat alone. Once he was at table, Athelstan closely inspected the miracle as Fulchard hungrily ate the oatmeal. The friar recalled meeting the pilgrim the previous day and marvelled at the change. He could detect no physical scars and yet, in the better light of his house, would go on oath that this was the same man: the voice, the mannerisms and certain marks he’d noticed on the good side of the pilgrim’s face. Once Fulchard had finished, Athelstan demanded to see the letters and licences he carried. The pilgrim opened his wallet, spilling its contents out on to the table. Athelstan sifted through them, studying each very carefully. Fulchard, by his own admission, possessed a host of letters and licences allowing him to beg in a wide variety of places, as well as describing his disabilities. Athelstan scrupulously examined both the writing and the appropriate seal on each document. After all, the consummate skill of cunning men who forged licences and could change appearances as deftly as any conjuror was well known. Athelstan studied both Fulchard and his documents. He was sure this was not the case here. The friar sighed and rose to his feet.

‘Master Fulchard, I insist you remain in my parish as I, according to canon law, must pass all this on to the curia, the council of the Bishop of London.’ Athelstan grasped his chancery satchel, laid out his writing implements and hastily drafted a letter to Master Henry Tuddenham, clerk to the Bishop of London’s council, detailing what had happened in his parish. He re-read this and, satisfied, swiftly sealed it, telling Fulchard to eat more oatmeal and drink another blackjack of ale. Athelstan left the priest’s house and re-entered the church. St Erconwald’s had been transformed. Usually at this hour the nave lay silent but now it was busy and frenetic as a Smithfield fair. Athelstan drew up his hood and pushed his way through the throng. His parishioners, true to form, were self-appointed keepers of the shrine and first-hand witnesses to what Watkin claimed to be ‘Southwark’s one and only Great Miracle’. All the sharp-witted denizens of the ward had swarmed in: the foists, the nips, the cunning men, conjurors, strumpets, pimps and their prostitutes along with tinkers, traders and relic-sellers. They rubbed shoulders and, in some cases, felt the pockets and purses of the ordinary gaping visitors. The noise was constant. The stench of packed, sweaty bodies in dirty clothes wafted everywhere. Someone intoned a hymn to St Erconwald only to be drowned by a coster shouting, ‘Mussels, fresh mussels blessed by St Erconwald himself!’ The trader bawled even louder over the laughter his remark provoked. Further down the nave, a travelling puppet show, a box with an opening at the top perched on a barrow, told the story of St Erconwald as Athelstan had never heard it before. The friar tried to remain tolerant but when he glimpsed an itinerant cook with heavily salted pork chops slung on a dirty cord around his neck, his good humour faded. He told the cook he could not fire his stove in church and strode off angrily towards the sanctuary. The Hangman of Rochester, on guard at the rood screen, took one look at Athelstan’s face and hastily opened the door. Athelstan swept into the sanctuary, beckoning the hangman to follow.

‘Giles, I want the entire parish council here, and I mean now before I finish reciting ten Aves or there will be no fair.’

The hangman hurried off and, one by one, the parish council trooped into where their priest stood on the top step of the high altar.

‘Right, my beloveds, my little flock.’

‘The nave belongs to the people,’ Pike protested, ‘the sanctuary to the priest, if we …’ Pike swallowed the rest of his sentence as Benedicta brought the heel of her boot down on his toes whilst Athelstan took a step down, face white with anger.

‘Whatever you say, Father,’ Pike stammered.

‘Good, Pike. This is our parish, not the council of the Upright Men, and I am your priest. Mauger, I have a letter for you to take to Master Tuddenham. Joscelyn, collect Fulchard from my house and lodge him at the Piebald. Benedicta and Crim,’ he winked at the altar boy, ‘you and Giles will scour the sanctuary and sacristy to ensure all is well. The rest of my beloveds, including Pike, will clear the church. Pilgrims are most welcome – the rest can use the enclosure outside. Merrylegs,’ he beckoned at the pie-man, ‘I am going to take the Sacrament to your sick elderly father.’

‘The Ancient One of Days will be most pleased,’ Merrylegs lugubriously replied.

‘Which is more than I am,’ Athelstan snapped. ‘So, let us begin …’

Sir John Cranston, Lord High Coroner of London, rose from his judgement chair and walked over to the horn-filled window of his courtroom at the Guildhall. He opened the window and stared moodily down at the broad, cobbled bailey which stretched to the soaring, battlemented gatehouse leading into Cheapside. He had just finished reading the indictment against Ralph Tailor of Cripplegate: ‘That he did feloniously rape Alice Beggar of Queenhithe, and did carnally lie with her in her own house from day to day and night to night. The same said Ralph continued to indulge publicly in the shameful and abominable sin of debauchery …’

‘Satan’s tits!’ Cranston growled. ‘From one stew pot of wickedness to the next.’ He gazed round the judgement chamber; everything had been removed from the walls: crucifixes, triptychs, painted cloths, tapestries and other ornaments. All these, together with court rolls and other manuscripts, had been taken down to the steel-bound arca, the massive security chest in the Guildhall cellars.

‘Everything which can be stored away has been,’ Cranston murmured to himself. This included his own buxom wife, the Lady Maude, his poppets Stephen and Francis the twins, his wolfhounds Gog and Magog, together with his household retainers. Cranston had sent them deep into the countryside and the protection of a moated, fortified manor house. He’d also arranged for the families of Oswald and Simon, his scrivener and clerk, to join them. Brother Athelstan, however, was a different matter. The little Dominican priest was obdurate. He would not flee when the Great Revolt broke out, even though he conceded that London would be sacked. Cranston certainly agreed with that. He had clashed openly with the Regent, John of Gaunt, and others of the Royal Council who believed the mailed might of royal troops would prevail. How they would fortify the Tower and crush all dissent from there …

‘Nonsense,’ Cranston whispered to himself. ‘The Tower will fall. The Upright Men have their own agents deep in that gloomy fortress.’ He stared down at the bailey, watching people slither and slide on the frost-encrusted cobbles. A sumpter pony skittered, provoking the destrier of a knight banneret guarding the Guildhall to rear, whinnying noisily, its sharpened metal hooves slicing the air. Oh, yes, Cranston reflected, when the Day of the Great Slaughter occurred, the citadels would certainly fall and it would take more than mounted knights to crush the bloody eruption. Cranston knew the city underworld, the mummers’ halls and castles which housed the London mob, that demon with ten thousand heads. They were waiting, and when the sign was given they would rise. The masters of misrule, the captains of the canting crews, the rulers of the rifflers would sound their horns and unfurl their ragged banners. Their followers would swarm like rats from a burning hayrick, stream from their damp, mildewed, rotting tenements to feast on the fat of the city. Hordes of other rebels would pour in from the north, south and west. They would certainly seize London Bridge and cut the city into two. Cranston narrowed his eyes and chewed the corner of his lip. Gaunt would not compromise. The hated poll tax continued to be levied and the Commons sitting at Westminster provided very little relief for the poor. Not only London was threatened but the surrounding shires and, more importantly, even further north in the eastern counties. The Upright Men were busy fortifying the Fens in Lincolnshire, drawing in the dispossessed, the runaways and rebels as well as the outlaws, sharp as any hawk’s beak at the prospect of plunder. At least Gaunt recognized the real threat the Fens posed, with their marshes, morasses and narrow-snaking shallows hidden by reeds that sprouted in thick clusters. The Fens were fast becoming a fortress, a mustering place for all those ready to wage war against the Crown. Gaunt had ordered the construction of a vast flotilla of punts – flat-bottomed, easily assembled barges which could thread the needle-thin waterways of the Fens. The barges were being built on the Southwark side and would soon be transported by land and sea in time for a great chevauchee once spring broke.

Meanwhile, the harsh mills of justice had to grind on. Gaunt had asked the coroner to investigate the bloody, tangled mystery surrounding the execution of the city beauty, Lady Isolda Beaumont. Cranston had met her on a number of occasions and he knew something about the woman’s hideous death and its equally horrific aftermath. The coroner glanced at the hour candle on its copper stand. The flame was approaching the ninth ring – time for him to be gone! Cranston hurriedly strapped on his warbelt and seized his cloak and beaver hat before bellowing instructions and farewells to Simon and Oswald, who were crouched over their chancery desks in the adjoining chamber. The coroner stamped down the stairs and out into the freezing cold of the grey day. The business of the Guildhall had now begun, its dungeons and cells being swiftly emptied. A long line of city bailiffs garbed in the red and murrey livery of the city led by Flaxwith, Cranston’s chief bailiff, with his constant companion, the ugly-faced mastiff Samson, were herding out a gaggle of prisoners for punishment. The felons would be taken down to the different stocks, pillories and thews to be exhibited and mocked until their sentences were complete. The prisoners, manacled and dazed, staggered about. To drown their cries, a few of the bailiffs carried drums, trumpets, cymbals and three sets of bagpipes. Cranston walked down the line of hapless miscreants, reading the placards slung around their necks which proclaimed their offences. A woman had created a vile nuisance by constructing a pipe from her own privy chamber to her neighbour’s garden and ignored a court writ to remove it. The justices had ruled that she was to carry part of that pipe for a half a day in the thews of Poultry. A counterfeit physician had fed a patient a nostrum so noxious the poor man had found it almost impossible to urinate for a week. The counterfeit physician was being mounted on the back of a bony street nag. He would face the rear with the horse’s tail in his hand for a bridle. Around his neck hung two dirty urine flasks and a pisspot. Behind him a vintner would be compelled to drink, wry-mouthed, the corrupt wines he had attempted to palm off on others. There was a fisherman who had freshened a stale catch with blood; a milk-seller found guilty of mixing chalk with his drink; four strumpets caught drunk and soliciting beyond Cock Lane; and finally two wrestlers who had decided to engage naked in a raucous fight on the steps of a London church. Cranston walked down the line. He had a swift word with Flaxwith and strode off to the gateway just as the bagpipes began to screech and the punishment procession moved off.

Once in Cheapside, Cranston walked purposefully, one hand on the hilt of his sword, the other close to the purse beneath his cloak. Cheapside was busying for another day’s frenetic trading. War might come. Revolt might threaten but trade was London’s blood. Shop shutters rattled up and sheets were removed from the great broad stalls that ranged in long lines down the mercantile thoroughfare. Church bells chimed the hour of divine office as market horns brayed to commence business. Apprentices scurried as swift and nimble as monkeys to set out wares, all quick-eyed, searching out passers-by for any potential customer. A songster had already set up his pitch on a broken barrow and trilled loudly about a maiden with ‘skin white as snow on ice’. Shop signs, a bush for the vintner, three gilded quills for the apothecary, a unicorn for the goldsmith and a horse’s head for the saddler, creaked noisily in the brisk breeze. The food purveyors were out, offering fat capons and plump rabbits. Geese tied to the stalls honked. Chickens and ducks, trussed tightly by the legs, floundered in a welter of feathery wings. Pastry shops offered sweet wafers and even sweeter wines. Milk-sellers, with pails slopping either end of their yolks, bawled a price which would gradually decrease as the day progressed and the milk staled. Market beadles were arguing with a cheese-seller who allegedly had made his product richer by soaking it in broth. The discussion had provoked a quarrel upturning a spice stall so the spilled powder of sage, fennel, basil and coriander was being crushed under foot to sweeten the air now turning rather rancid from the pack of unwashed bodies. Odour from a nearby soap-maker, busy mixing soda and wood and animal fat, thickened the stench. Cranston surveyed the crowds in all its varying colours and glimpses of city life: the priest, garbed only in his shirt, walking barefoot, a white wand in one hand, an incense bowl in the other, public punishment for his sin of lechery. A blacksmith, his open-fronted shed next to a tavern, supervised sweaty-faced apprentices serving a table-high furnace. A tanner collected warm dog dung to soften scraped hides. A wine crier, standing in the entrance to an alehouse, readied himself for a proclamation. Itinerant coal-sellers, hay merchants, barbers and dish-menders touted noisily for business. A market beadle proclaimed what must be: bead makers must use perfectly round beads; butchers should not mix tallow with their lard or sell the flesh of dog, cat or horse. Makers of bone handles must not trim their products with silver to make them look like ivory. Candles must be what they are, pure beeswax or tallow and not adulterated with cooking fat or any other base substances. Schoolboys, their hair cropped close, horn-books under their arms, stopped to listen to these market heralds before hurrying on to the aisle schools of St Paul’s and elsewhere. Funeral processions wound their way through the crowd, the thuribles of the altar-servers fragrancing the air. Wedding parties, cymbals clashing and flower petals fluttering, processed to the place of festivity. Gong cart gangs tried to clear the filthy refuse heaped in laystalls and elsewhere. A wonder-worker, or so he called himself, ‘From Nicaea and other cities of the east’, offered in a ringing voice a marvellous cure for impotence, namely the head of a ram which had never meddled with a ewe, its horns knocked off and boiled in holy water from the Jordan.

Cranston grinned at the sheer effrontery of such a claim as he continued to inspect the crowd he pushed through. The legion of pickpockets and petty thieves had already seen the coroner and slunk away. Cranston had a habit of recognizing the likes of Fairy Fingers, Robber Red Breast and Peter the Pilferer and bellowing a warning about them to all and sundry. Cranston was equally vigilant over a more sinister enemy, the Upright Men, whose assassins were known to seek out Crown officials and strike with sword or dagger. Cranston drew comfort that his friendship with Brother Athelstan tempered resentment against him. Nevertheless, the coroner was wary. The Upright Men were plotting furiously, though Cranston was growing mystified as he sensed an unexpected abeyance in the dread creeping through the city. The Earthworms, the fantastically garbed horsemen despatched by the Upright Men into Cheapside or elsewhere to cause chaos and mock the power of the Regent, had abruptly ceased their attacks. Cranston’s spies had also reported a lack of activity by the Upright Men in those bastions of the city underworld around Whitefriars and elsewhere.

Cranston wondered why as he turned into Parsnip Lane, where Justice Gavelkind had his town house squeezed between a tavern, the Hoop in Splendour, and the St Mary Magdalene, the workshop of one of London’s leading perfumers. Cranston had agreed to meet Gavelkind outside the latter and strode down the long, narrow lane. He glimpsed the justice leave his house then the coroner stopped in astonishment. A figure, shrouded in black like a Benedictine monk, stepped out of an alley mouth holding a bucket. Gavelkind paused and turned as if greeted by this mysterious figure, who then hurled the contents of the bucket over him. Gavelkind staggered back. The black-garbed figure followed; dropping the bucket, he opened a lanthorn hanging on a door post, took out the flaming tallow candle and hurled it at the justice. For a few heartbeats nothing happened. Gavelkind was beating at the mess covering him until blue-gold sparks appeared. These flickered momentarily before erupting into tongues of flame which overwhelmed him. Cranston raced forward but it was too late. The lane was deserted. Gavelkind, engulfed in the raging fire, staggered to the right and left blocking the path. The fire-thrower had disappeared. Cranston could only stare in disbelief as Gavelkind, no more than a mass of flame, stumbled screaming towards him. Customers from the tavern hurried out to view the horror as Cranston took off his cloak and tried to douse the blazing inferno …

The market horn was sounding the end of trading and the bells of the city churches clanged for vespers when Athelstan, summoned by Cranston’s messenger, the green-garbed Tiptoft, slipped into the Holy Lamb of God in Cheapside. This was, in the coroner’s own words, Cranston’s ‘private chantry chapel’. Sir John was determined to bring Athelstan into the gruesome mysteries confronting him. The coroner had already seen off the two beggars lurking as usual near the door: Leif the one-legged and Leif’s constant companion, Rawbum. Now he rose to exchange the kiss of peace with Athelstan before asking the buxom Mine Hostess to serve fresh pots of ale and a dish of cold meat for both himself and, as he joked, ‘his Father Confessor’. For a while, Athelstan and Cranston ate and drank in silence. Once finished, the coroner sat back, polishing his horn-spoon on a snow-white napkin.

‘Thank you for coming, Brother.’ He turned to face the friar, who had become such an important part of his life.

‘Sir John, you have a tale for me; I certainly have one for you.’

‘Fire!’ Cranston replied. ‘A tangled tale about fire and how it can be used. First let me regale you with what you will define as the facts.’ He took a sip from his tankard and made himself more comfortable in the deep window seat of the tavern. ‘Listen, Brother, and listen well. Walter Beaumont was born in York, the son of a mercer. He left the family home and served as a soldier beyond the Narrow Seas. He travelled to Florence, ostensibly involved in the wool trade; secretly he wanted to become a peritus, an expert in the use of cannon and culverins. More importantly, he strove to learn the secrets of the different powders which fire these machines of war. He became a captain of one of those mercenary companies, they called themselves the “Luciferi”, or the “Light Bearers”. Beaumont’s free company was different from the rest, they brought cannon fire to the battlefield.’

‘I saw the same in France,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘such machines are becoming more numerous …’

‘And more deadly, Brother. Three years ago, at the siege of St Malo, Gaunt mustered more than four hundred cannon; some, weighing over a hundredweight, could cast heavy stone balls, quarrels or even lead bullets. The old king and the Black Prince,’ Cranston sniffed, ‘loved these machines of war. They held a dreadful fascination for our royal princes.’

‘They were used at the battle of Crecy?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Yes, yes they were. Now, from a very early age, Walter Beaumont recognized the value of such terrible machines and steeped himself in their use. He acquired the name of “Black Beaumont” for his love, knowledge and skill of gunpowder. On his return to England, he imported great supplies of saltpetre, sulphur, colophony, amber powder and turpentine. He established foundries to manufacture cannon and create the powder and missiles they would need. Beaumont became Master of the King’s Cannon, Master of the Royal Ordnance at the Tower and elsewhere. He served with great distinction in the royal array. The Black Prince himself knighted Beaumont outside Calais.’ Cranston waved a hand. ‘You can guess how such a life story unfolds. Beaumont married, his wife died in childbirth. A childless widower, Sir Walter married again, a great beauty, the Lady Isolda. I suppose Sir Walter thought he lived in some romance; wealthy, well patronized with a beautiful wife. Sir Walter, as you may know, owned an extensive and well-endowed manor – a veritable mansion.’

‘Ah, yes,’ Athelstan intervened. ‘Firecrest Manor, lying between the city and Westminster. It possesses spacious meadows, gardens and orchards which front the river. I have seen its majestic water gate with its own wharf and quay.’

‘The same,’ Cranston agreed. ‘A veritable Eden, a seeming paradise.’

‘And the serpent?’

‘Sir Walter fell ill. He was a goodly age. Nothing serious. A flux in the bowels, bile in the stomach. He had no children: his brother, Sir Henry, also a merchant, together with Henry’s young wife, Rohesia, live with him.’

‘And there are others?’

‘Thomas Buckholt, Sir Walter’s steward, a man devoted to his master. Reginald Vanner, mark that name, Sir Walter’s chancery clerk, of the same age, or thereabouts, as Lady Isolda. Oh, yes, and Rosamund Clifford, Lady Isolda’s waiting maid. Now, suspicion began to hint, whisper, even gossip that Sir Walter was being poisoned.’ Cranston paused, staring round the warm taproom savouring the mouth-watering odours seeping out of the kitchens where Mine Hostess was preparing strips of ham glazed with mustard. ‘Lovely place.’ Cranston smacked his lips just as a cohort of corpse-bearers bustled in, doffing their dark worsted cloaks and peeling off white face masks decorated with small black crosses.

‘Sir John?’

‘Ah, yes. On the twenty-first of February past, the eve of the feast of the Chair of St Peter, Sir Walter was in his bedchamber. He slept alone in a very comfortable room with its own hearth and garderobe. Buckholt the steward believed Sir Walter was resting for the night and brought up the usual goblet of highly spiced hot posset. He reached the top of the stairs leading to the gallery where Sir Walter’s chamber stood. Lady Isolda swept out of her room. At the same time the clerk, Vanner, came pounding up the stairs saying he needed to talk to Buckholt urgently. Lady Isolda offered to take the goblet in to her husband. Flustered, Buckholt agreed. He handed the goblet over and went downstairs with Vanner. Now let me hasten to add that Buckholt, by his own admission, was deeply suspicious of both Isolda and Vanner.’

‘Why?’

‘Lady Isolda had been married for five years. Sir Walter had fallen ill. According to Buckholt, she and Vanner were playing the two-backed beast, enjoying a deeply adulterous relationship. Buckholt believed, and still does, that Lady Isolda was a demon incarnate, a succubus who fastened on any man she wished to use.’

‘And the posset?’

‘Well, Buckholt went downstairs with Vanner but found that the issue about certain indentures waiting to be sealed and signed by Sir Walter could have easily waited for the following day. Alarmed, Buckholt hurried back up to his master’s chamber, where he found Lady Isolda feeding her husband the posset from the goblet but also taking sips herself. Buckholt did not like the way she was looking at him. Embarrassed and confused by his own suspicions, Buckholt waited until his master was asleep. He then insisted on taking the goblet back to the buttery.’

‘Where he also sipped what remained of the spiced wine?’

‘Yes, Brother, and suffered no ill effect. He drained the goblet completely and examined the goblet but could find nothing untoward.’ Cranston paused to glare across at the noisy corpse-bearers. Matters took a different turn when Mine Hostess swept in from the kitchen yard, screaming at them. Apparently they had not finished their task but had left the cadaver destined for St Michael and All Angels in an outhouse in the tavern. The mort cloth had slipped from the cadaver’s face and terrified the wits out of one of the maids. Cranston chuckled as the corpse-bearers hastily drained their tankards, grabbed their possessions and fled the taproom.

‘The next morning,’ Cranston continued, ‘Sir Walter was found dead in his bed. A local physician, Milemete, was summoned. He concluded that Sir Walter’s weak heart had given out. He could not say whether Sir Walter’s death was malignant. Buckholt was not convinced and neither was Sir Henry. They sent to St Bartholomew’s for the family physician, Brother Philippe. He also examined the corpse. He could detect possible malignancy though he could not determine what noxious herbs might have been in the posset. He certainly alerted suspicion that death was sudden, swift and unexpected. Naturally the finger of suspicion pointed at Lady Isolda, who had fed Sir Walter his last drink. She, of course, angrily denied it. She might have won the day. However,’ Cranston sipped from his tankard, ‘the finger of God intervened. The buttery clerk maintains the goblet Buckholt brought down from Sir Walter’s chamber – he was going to wash it and store it away with the rest-’

‘Was not the same cup?’

‘Yes. The buttery clerk had both prepared the posset, a veritable rich mixture, and poured it into a goblet. He then placed it on a silver tray with a napkin when he noticed a chip on the goblet stand. He decided not to change the cups but to deal with that later. However, the goblet Buckholt brought down did not have that mark.’

‘In other words, Lady Isolda changed cups?’

‘Yes. The buttery clerk informed Buckholt, who scoured his master’s chamber, indeed the entire house, especially the bushes and plants below the window of his master’s chamber.’

‘Nothing was found?’

‘Nothing. But Buckholt was persistent. He petitioned the Regent, John of Gaunt.’

‘Who was a close friend of Sir Walter’s?’

‘If Gaunt could be close to anyone, it was Sir Walter, a bosom friend of the House of Lancaster.’

‘And the supplier of powerful culverins and cannon to it?’

‘Of course, my dear friar.’ Cranston sniffed. ‘Gaunt would have turned to thee and me but we had just finished the business at the Candle-Flame and I was out of the city. So Gaunt summoned a Crown prosecutor, Richard Sutler, serjeant-at-law, a graduate, a very brilliant one from the Inns of Court, a most wily and seasoned prosecutor. Sutler swept into Firecrest Manor and began his investigation. He examined the pewter goblets, a set of twelve with a matching jug. Sutler took them out into the sunlight. He scrupulously studied each one. Firstly, he could not discover any splinter, crack or mark on any of the twelve goblets. Secondly, he noticed each goblet had a shiny finish but one of these looked more recent than the others. According to Mortice the buttery clerk, the goblets had been bought decades ago. Eleven of them would justify their age but one seemed much more recent. All the goblets bore the same potter’s mark but one of them was finely etched. Sutler consulted the Guild and they declared that the goblets were the work of one of their members, the Ramyer family. Sutler searched them out. The father had died but the son recognized the mark and, more importantly …’

‘Maintained one of them was a more recent product?’

‘True, learned friar. Even better for Sutler, Ramyer declared how his family only made these goblets in batches of twelve. More damning, Ramyer described a recent sale of twelve such goblets to a man whom Ramyer later identified as the clerk, Reginald Vanner. Sutler returned to the hunt. He failed to discover any extra new goblets nor could he discover the whereabouts of the alleged goblet Mortice the buttery clerk had identified. All he really had were Buckholt’s allegations that a goblet was substituted whilst he was distracted and that the poisoned goblet his master must have drunk from had disappeared.’

‘The garderobe,’ Athelstan spoke up. ‘The murderer had secreted a second goblet. When Buckholt went down stairs to deal with Vanner, a second goblet was produced. Some of the posset was poured into it and put aside. The original goblet was sprinkled with poison and administered to Sir Walter. Once the old knight had drunk what was needed, the original goblet was hurled down the privy sinking into the filthy cesspit beneath that part of the house.’

‘Excellent, my little friar. Sutler reasoned the same. He brought out dung-collectors from Cheapside, the clearers of the laystalls and dung hills. He also employed masons to open the garderobe and the cesspit beneath.’

‘And they found the goblet?’

‘They certainly did.’

Cranston was about to continue when Mine Hostess, still flustered and red-faced from her affray with the corpse-bearers, served the piping hot platter of ham, dishes of vegetables, bread and a pot of butter. Cranston ordered two cups of the best Bordeaux. Once the friar had blessed the meal Cranston fell on his food, determined to satisfy a hunger which, according to him, ‘still raged like a wolf inside his belly’. They ate in silence. Athelstan could only clear so much of his platter and the coroner devoured the rest. Once he had finished, Cranston leaned back, a cup in one hand and a piece of bread in the other.

‘So you can imagine the case, Brother?’

‘Yes, I certainly can.’ Athelstan used his fingers to emphasize the points. ‘Firstly, there is the altercation at the top of the stairs. Buckholt is distracted. Lady Isolda takes the cup. Buckholt finds the diversion was deliberately of no consequence. Secondly, by his testimony, Lady Isolda was the last person to give her husband any drink or food. Thirdly, why was the goblet thrown down the garderobe? The only explanation must be that Isolda wished to get rid of certain evidence and to create a pretence that all was well, hence her drinking from the same cup. Fourthly, the testimony of the buttery clerk that the cups were changed – the only person who could have done that was Lady Isolda. Fifthly, Sutler’s discovery that Vanner had bought a new set of goblets. Why did he do that? Why did he only keep one and why was that disguised as part of the old batch? Yes, yes,’ Athelstan nodded, ‘the case against Lady Isolda was most compelling.’

‘Sutler argued the same. Lady Isolda, because of her status, was committed to trial before the King’s Bench and a jury of citizens from Westminster hastily assembled. Sutler prosecuted the case before justices Tressilian, Gavelkind and Danyel. Believe me, Brother, three of the harshest and most grim judges, an unholy Trinity who have little love for their fellow men, and women in particular, high-born ladies especially. They regarded Isolda Beaumont as hawks would a coney. Little mercy was to be expected. The case against her was compelling. She was the last to hold the goblet, the last to feed her husband. Then there was the disappearance of the goblet, the purchase of a new one and the discovery of the old one in the cesspit. On these five issues, Sutler built his case then developed it with further evidence.’

‘And Lady Isolda’s motive?’

‘Freedom, liberty and the opportunity to seize her husband’s great wealth, not to mention her involvement with Vanner.’

‘Was he indicted?’

‘Certainly. Lady Isolda was arrested on a Friday but Vanner abruptly disappeared on the Thursday beforehand. He has been put to the horn with a price on his head, dead or alive. Every skull-cap, outlaw-hunter to you, Brother, in London is searching for him.’

‘And Lady Isolda’s defence?’

‘She was advised by one of the best attorneys this side of Hell, Nicholas Falke. If rumour be true, Master Falke was deeply taken, as most men were, by Lady Isolda, but to no effect. He could protest and argue but both judge and jury thought different.’

‘And her maid?’

‘Rosamund Clifford, although very loyal to her mistress, appears to have no dealings with her in this matter. I understand she was grievously sick, confined to her bed when Sir Walter was poisoned. She was not called to give evidence by either party.’ Cranston sighed noisily. ‘In the end Lady Isolda was found guilty by a jury of her peers. I suspect those three justices delighted in passing harsh sentence on her.’

‘And the ancient punishment for a wife murdering her husband,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘is death by burning.’

‘Sine misericordia,’ Cranston agreed, ‘without mercy. All three justices insisted no gunpowder pouch be hung around her neck to hasten death. Nor could the Carnifex, the Smithfield executioner, go through the smoke to strangle her or slit her throat.’

‘There is more?’

‘Oh, yes, my good friend, much more, a veritable maze of mystery. Lady Isolda was lodged in Newgate for almost a month before her execution. She met death bravely enough. I learnt this from Lady Anne Lesures. Lady Anne is the widow of a former comrade I stood shoulder to shoulder with in France. He used the ransoms gathered there to amass wealth as an apothecary and a spicer. Adam Lesures also served with the Luciferi and returned here with Sir Walter. He died some time ago. Since then Lady Anne has devoted herself to noble causes. She is Abbess of the Order of St Dismas, a secular order which visits the city prisons and ministers to those condemned to die – she and her mute servant, Turgot, who follows her everywhere like Samson does Flaxwith. Anyway, she visited Isolda virtually every day to give her comfort.’

‘Did she believe Isolda was innocent?’

‘No.’ Cranston paused. ‘Not really. Lady Anne is shrewd – she keeps her own counsel. I do respect her. Others, however, believe Lady Isolda to be a true innocent, such as Edward Garman, who also served in the Luciferi, a former Hospitaller and now prison chaplain, appointed to Newgate by the Bishop of London. Garman may have shriven Isolda. He certainly accompanied her to execution and always believed she was innocent. Like her lawyer, Falke, he worked desperately to obtain a pardon or some form of commutation but he was crying into the dark. Gaunt was obdurate. No pardon, no mercy.’ Cranston turned in his seat and lowered his voice, ‘Brother, have you ever heard of “The Book of Fires”, or to be more precise, “The Book of Fires attributed to Mark the Greek”?’

‘Yes,’ Athelstan replied slowly. ‘Our library at Blackfriars possesses a few extracts, though not very clear ones. A greatly prized manuscript?’

‘It certainly is! That book, together with the writings of the Franciscan Roger Bacon, provides a treasury of information about gunpowder and other such combustibles. Mark the Greek in particular describes what is known as Greek, sea or water fire, supposedly invented centuries ago by Kallinikos of Heliopolis.’

‘Sir John,’ Athelstan exclaimed, ‘you have been very busy!’

‘Yes, and I will tell you why. I visited the great library in Westminster Abbey. Dominus Matthew the archivist was a treasure of information about secret manuscripts.’

‘Sir John, what were you pursuing?’

‘Beaumont had a copy of “The Book of Fires”, which went missing from his chamber either just before or after his death. He had promised to allow Gaunt’s chancery clerks to copy it for our noble Regent. We all know why Gaunt would want such information.’

‘As would others?’

‘Yes, Brother, so we come to Lady Isolda’s defence. She maintained she knew nothing about Vanner buying new cups. She could not understand why a goblet was found in the privy and believed it was placed there. She maintained that if her husband was poisoned it could have been administered by Vanner earlier in the day without her knowledge. More significantly, she maintained that her brother-in-law, Sir Henry, or Buckholt, or both, allegedly stole “The Book of Fires”, as they were secret adherents of the Great Community of the Realm and its leaders the Upright Men. She depicted Buckholt as a fervent adherent of the rebels, and Sir Henry as a rich merchant eager to appease them.’

‘A shrewd move.’ Athelstan nodded. ‘Gaunt and his henchman, Thibault, Master of Secrets, would be horrified at that.’

‘Sutler, however, openly ridiculed such an idea, as well as Lady Isolda’s attempt to argue that others, even Vanner, with whom she denied any tryst, could have been involved in her husband’s death. He dismissed her allegation that the story of the goblets was merely a pretence to entrap her.’

‘She actually argued that?’

‘Yes, as she did, time and time again, that Vanner might be the guilty party.’

‘Was any explanation offered about Vanner’s disappearance or flight? Sir John, Vanner has gone into hiding. That is proof of guilt. But of course,’ Athelstan scratched the side of his face, ‘Vanner might be guilty but that doesn’t prove that Lady Isolda was innocent and, I suppose, Sutler argued the same?’ He sipped from his cup. ‘Yes, I can see why Sutler’s prosecution held firm. He could prove everything: the goblet being handed over; Isolda making her husband drink; the goblets being exchanged; Vanner buying new ones. Did Sutler touch on the relationship between Sir Walter and his lovely young wife?’

‘Oh, there were hints but nothing serious. Questions were raised about Sir Walter’s stomach ailments. Of course, that’s a dangerous path to go down, isn’t it, Brother? Sutler could not prove Sir Walter’s belly sickness was caused by poison, whilst the intimate relationship between husband and wife is very difficult to judge. Sutler was very careful as Falke argued how there was great tenderness, friendship and cordiality between Sir Walter and his wife. Sutler replied there was no real proof for that. He let the facts speak for themselves. Lady Isolda had a great deal to gain by becoming a very rich widow, whilst the balance of proof that she murdered her husband indicates a deep malevolence, at least on her part, towards Sir Walter. If Vanner was seized and questioned, perhaps he could have helped Isolda’s case. But let’s say he has fled, Brother, and is deep in hiding; surely a trained clerk such as he would have done something to help his former lover – a letter to the justices or the sheriff?’

‘And “The Book of Fires”, Sir John?’

‘Cannot be found, and Gaunt wants us to find it. I can understand why. Greek fire is highly dangerous – even when thrown on water it will still ignite. Dominus Matthew at Westminster cites authorities such as Leo the Isaurian on its power. Now the classic use of Greek fire is to hurl small pots against an enemy followed by a flame. Swift and sudden destruction ensues. Sometimes Greek fire can be shot from long tubes like a stone from a cannon. Water only makes it worse. They recommend the use of sand, vinegar or human urine to extinguish it. Now,’ Cranston sipped from his goblet, ‘Isolda Beaumont died in the flames at Smithfield. About three weeks later, on the Feast of Saints Perpetua and Felicitas, Richard Sutler was making his way down to his chambers at Westminster. Halfway along an alleyway, according to not the best of witnesses, he was attacked. A pot of liquid was thrown over him, followed by a candle flame. He was soaked and the fire seemed to shoot up from the very ground. He was turned into a living firebrand. All that was left was a blackened, twisted monstrosity. Later the same morning, Justice Tressilian was easing himself in a cubiculum in the latrines of a tavern close to Westminster Hall. Perched on the close stool, his hose about his ankles, he too was attacked. Fire-bearing liquid was poured under the door, soaking his boots and hose. A candle flame was thrown in. Tressilian did what we would all do. He leapt to his feet, beating at the flames and, of course, soaking himself even further in that dangerous liquid. He was burnt to death. This morning, I was supposed to meet Justice Gavelkind in Parsnip Lane. The justice left his house. A cowled figure swiftly approached. What looked like the contents of a small pot were thrown over the justice, a flame was hurled and, within a few heartbeats, Gavelkind became a tongue of fire.’

‘And his assailant?’

‘Shielded by the inferno he created, he fled whilst Gavelkind was reduced to blackened flesh.’

‘So Gaunt has turned to you?’

‘And to you, Brother, I am afraid.’

‘It would seem,’ Athelstan declared, ‘as if someone, perhaps Vanner the fugitive, is punishing by fire all those who destroyed Lady Isolda in a similar way. Acts of cold, horrid revenge. I would also suggest they are using information which might originate from that rare manuscript, Mark the Greek’s “The Book of Fires”. Sir John, from what you know, how difficult would it be to collect all the elements for this fire?’

‘Oh, very easy, Brother. Greek fire, or something similar to it, has been used for centuries. I could go out tomorrow and buy sulphur, pitch, resin, bitumen, saltpetre and quicklime. The secret probably lies in the actual composition. What are the best quantities to use, perhaps there is one element that is special? Once the liquid is ready, very similar to a potion mixed by a physician or apothecary, it’s poured into a small capped pot and can be carried in a sack, bag or satchel. The pot is dropped, mix it with flame and you have a raging inferno difficult to control or extinguish.’

‘So, Sir John, when and where do we begin?’

‘Soon,’ the coroner smiled enigmatically, ‘and we will begin here, Brother. But let’s leave that for a while. Whilst hurrying about the city I received your stark message about a miracle at St Erconwald’s. What’s happened? Is Pike now a devoted man of prayer? Has Watkin vowed never to touch ale?’

‘Seriously, Sir John, listen now.’ And the friar described in short, pithy sentences all the details of the Great Miracle. Once he’d finished, Cranston whistled under his breath.

‘I heard the rumours, Brother. Muckworm and Tiptoft met me in Cheapside. They are this city’s best source for all news and scandal. They were full of it. Do you believe it, Brother?’ Cranston gestured at the tavern door. ‘This city swarms with cranks, conjurors, counterfeit men, the whole canting crew of priggers, prancers and poncers. Certain magicians in Whitefriars are masters of the art of changing and transformation. They could turn both of us into lepers to confuse and confound the most skilled physician. However,’ Cranston paused, ‘it’s another matter to hide gruesome wounds, burns which have stripped the skin and marbled the flesh.’ The coroner blew his cheeks out. ‘I would say it’s nigh impossible.’

‘Fulchard of Richmond appears to be genuine, Sir John. I recognize him as the same man I met when the vigil commenced. I have inspected his warrants, letters and licences. I have talked to those around him in the nave. I have established that he did not leave the church during the night.’

‘And now, little friar?’

‘In such cases the Bishop’s curia takes over. Master Tuddenham, the Archdeacon’s court together with a cohort of scribes, clerks and even physician Philippe have assembled in my house. I issued strict instructions to the parish council. Tuddenham and his retinue will stay in St Erconwald’s until the day after tomorrow. The Piebald is packed to overflowing, especially as Master Fulchard is staying there. So, Sir John, I will be looking for fresh lodgings tonight.’

Cranston sat smiling to himself.

‘Sir John?’

‘I think I might be able to help.’ Cranston paused as the tavern door opened and a youngish man, slim and well proportioned, approached the window seat, pulling back his hood to reveal a rubicund, cheerful face under thinning sandy hair. Athelstan noticed how the well-spaced eyes were expressive even as his lips moved soundlessly. He shook Cranston’s outstretched hand and turned smilingly to clasp Athelstan’s. He then stepped back, indicating with signs that they follow him.

‘Good evening, Master Turgot. Brother Athelstan, may I introduce Lady Anne Lesures’ faithful henchman, who since birth has been a mute but has probably uttered more wisdom than a host of well-tongued scholars. We are to follow him. Lady Anne and the rest have assembled, so it’s time to settle our bill and be gone …’