The Book of Fires

PART TWO

On the south side of the Thames, though well beyond London Bridge, stretched a wasteland, marshy and treacherous. Even in the full light of day this moorland of coarse grass, wild straggling bushes and twisted, stunted trees did not lose its air of dank threatening menace. A haunt of ghosts, the dwelling place of earthbound malevolent spirits, or so the local peasants gossiped. Its sense of dread was deepened by those who prowled the heathland: smugglers, outlaws, river pirates, as well as the warlocks and wizards who sheltered in the grass-filled dells to perform their own macabre rites. Successive sheriffs had vainly tried to exorcize the evil aura of such a place by sweeping it with mounted archers and erecting soaring gallows against the sky, four-branched scaffolds, each decorated by a rotting corpse, all to no avail. One outlaw gang led by a defrocked priest who rejoiced in the name of Friar Foxtail now ruled the heathland, though only with the permission of the Upright Men, whose Earthworms also patrolled that sombre place. On that particular evening, long after the bells had marked the last verses of the ‘Salve Regina’, the curfew being tolled and beacon-fires lit in steeples, Friar Foxtail had been given strict instructions about what to do. He was to clear the heath of all trespassers and build a fire close to the Devil’s Stump, a massive, ancient oak split by lightning during a fearsome storm. He was to leave, close to the fire, a freshly skinned coney basted with oil and herbs, as well as a wineskin and a few drinking cups. On no account, Friar Foxtail was warned, should he or anyone else approach the solitary stranger who entered the wasteland. This stranger would come hooded, masked and carrying a lanthorn. Friar Foxtail accepted that he had no choice in the matter; instead, he and his coven had decided to leave the heathland and plunder newly built warehouses further along the riverside. As the Upright Men had predicted, the stranger appeared, drawn on by the flare of the campfire. At one point he paused, crouched and only rose at three piercing whistle calls from the Upright Men grouped around the fire. Eventually he walked forward. The Upright Men, faces hidden behind masks carved in the form of different birds, just sat staring at the stranger who squatted down opposite.

‘Welcome.’ The Raven, Captain of the Upright Men, leaned forward. ‘Welcome, Brother. You have heard the news from the city? Well,’ he laughed throatily, ‘of course you have. The assassin, now called the “Ignifer”, the Fire Bringer, has appeared. Three royal officials burnt to death. Whatever the killer’s reason we welcome such slaughter. Sutler has seen to the hanging of some of our comrades, whilst the justices relish their harsh and cruel sentences against the Sons of the Soil.’ He paused. ‘Eat, drink! Please do. You are our honoured guest.’ Another Upright Man scurried forward, knife flashing in the firelight. He cut strips from the coney and put these on an earthenware platter along with a deep bowled cup of rich red wine. The stranger ate swiftly, as did the Upright Men. Once they were finished, the Raven, wiping his fingers on his jerkin, leaned forward again.

‘Please accept our condolences on your sad loss.’ His guest nodded. ‘You received,’ the Raven continued, ‘the same information we did?’

‘Yes. Where did you get it?’ the stranger asked. ‘That was always regarded as a great secret.’

‘It still is.’ The Raven laughed. ‘But not to us. More importantly, did you understand it?’

‘Yes.’

‘And did you make it?’

‘I have brought some. I will show you.’ The stranger rose. ‘You must come with me,’ he insisted. ‘Stand well away from the fire and bring everything you have.’ The Upright Men obeyed. Rising to their feet, they followed the stranger into the dark. He leaned down and picked up an earthenware pot where he had left it on his approach. The pot was no bigger than the palm of his hand. The stranger unstoppered the lid then, like a child playing skittles, weighed the pot in his hand as if it was a ball, gauging the distance between himself and the now dying fire. The Earthworms watched intently. Satisfied, the stranger hurled the pot. It shattered against the smouldering embers and the campfire surged up with a roar as fierce as any furnace. The Upright Men clapped their hands exclaiming in surprise.

‘We have our fire!’ the Raven exclaimed. ‘Fire from heaven or, as Gaunt will experience, fire from Hell …’

Cranston and Athelstan, huddled in their cloaks, followed Turgot, his face and head hidden by a deep capuchin, out of the Holy Lamb and along Cheapside turning into Poultry, the richest trading area of the city. Its name was ancient but its purpose had changed. No longer were ducks and capons up for sale; Poultry had become the heart of London’s wealth. The day’s trading was finished. Merchants were now clearing stalls and boarding up shop fronts. Bailiffs and hired mercenaries, drawn blades glittering in the dancing torchlight, patrolled the streets vigilant for any felon lurking in the shadows. Such a close guard was necessary. The goods being stored away were costly cloths from Douai, Bruges, Ypres and elsewhere. There were silks from Lucca, linen and flax from Flanders and wool from the Midlands. Even in the fading light the red, vermilion, rose and scarlet cloths shimmered invitingly. The air was rich with the smell of pepper, saffron and salt, sugar from Syria and the purest wax from Morocco. Barrels of cinnamon were being sealed, a precious spice imported from beyond Outremer, whilst the fragrance of cassia reminded Athelstan how the trees which carried it were allegedly guarded by ferocious winged animals. The friar could only marvel at the wealth being taken out, heaped and checked before being moved to the great arca, or strong boxes, deep in the cellars of the palatial houses either side of Poultry. These were gilded mansions boasting highly decorated and embossed gables, gleaming plaster and, in many cases, windows of the purest glass. Athelstan glimpsed a pile of rubies, lapis lazuli, diamonds, pearls and ivory rings all gathered in the dish of a set of scales guarded by two mercenaries with weapons bristling. Cranston and Athelstan were inspected but never troubled. They turned into Old Jewry, dominated by the dark mass of St Olave’s Church. The houses here were truly magnificent, four storeys high and divided from each other by an alley either side. Turgot stopped at a door and knocked. A servant opened it, introduced himself as Picquart the steward and beckoned them into a stone-paved entrance hall.

The house was comfortably warm. Candles glowed in spigots fastened above linen panelling, whilst soft rope-matting washed in herbs and spices covered the floor. On the left, a half-open door revealed a rich furnished chamber, an arras hanging on the wall and finely polished oak furniture, tables, chairs, chests and cushioned stools. They passed a great open kitchen where servants scurried about. A yawning hearth built into the wall dividing it from the hall gave off gusts of sweet warmth. Picquart led them into the solar, where others were waiting seated around an oval table which glittered in the light of a myriad candles placed along the rims of three lowered Catherine wheels. The hall was furnished with gleaming dark oak panelling but the lights, the candelabra and the flames from the roaring fire in the bell-like hearth made it a place of merry cheer and relaxing comfort. A woman rose from the top of the table and walked gracefully towards them. She was dressed like a Cistercian nun in a light-grey gown and veil: her patrician face, framed by a starched white wimple, emphasized the authority of her commanding dark eyes, and her nose was sharp above a firm mouth and chin. Athelstan reckoned she was a woman past her fortieth summer.

‘Good evening,’ she murmured. ‘Welcome to my house. I am Lady Anne Lesures.’ She smiled at Athelstan and winked quickly at Cranston. She then clasped the friar’s hand and bowed her head for his blessing. Athelstan delivered this and was almost knocked aside by Sir John as he scooped Lady Anne up in his arms, half raising her to kiss her lips and forehead before lowering her gently down.

‘Oh, if I was a bachelor!’ Cranston breathed. ‘Lady Anne, it is so good to see you. Come.’ They exchanged the full kiss of peace followed by Cranston’s spate of questions which Lady Anne, her face beaming with pleasure, said she would answer some other time as they had to meet the others. She led the coroner and friar around the table. Each of her guests rose, scraping back their chairs to clasp hands and receive Athelstan’s hasty blessing. The first was Sir Henry Beaumont, the late Sir Walter’s brother: he was fat-faced and rather corpulent, his thinning hair combed forward to cover a balding pate. Sir Henry was dressed in a costly blood-red jerkin with hose to match; his cambric shirt was snow-white, the collar open. Athelstan glimpsed the precious bejewelled crucifix on its silver chain. Sir Henry struck the friar as most eager to please, highly nervous and rather apprehensive. Rohesia, Sir Henry’s wife, was pretty in a severe sort of way: auburn haired, eyes constantly narrowed, head slightly tilted back, lower lip jutting out as if judging all who came under her scrutiny. She was dressed rather soberly in a brown veil and an old-fashioned gown of the same hue with white bands at the cuff and neck. Edward Garman, prison chaplain of Newgate, was of medium stature; bald, his clean-shaven, oval face burnt a deep brown by the sun of Outremer. He was light and swift in movement; his large eyes looked troubled, his fleshy lower lip slightly quivering as if he was preparing to protest. Garman was dressed simply in a mud-coloured robe, stout sandals on his feet, a set of small Ave beads circling his left wrist, a white-rolled cincture around his waist. Nicholas Falke the lawyer was blond-haired and earnest-faced; his small eyes screwed up against the light, a snub nose above rather pretty, womanish lips which constantly twitched. Falke was dressed in a dark-blue jerkin and hose, the high stiffened collar of his undershirt jutting up just under his chin. Buckholt, Sir Walter’s steward, looked what he was: the stolid, stout, reliable house retainer who let nothing pass him by. He was square-faced with a strong mouth and jaw of a stubborn man, an impression heightened by deep-set, guarded eyes. He dressed demurely in a long old-fashioned houppelande which fell beneath the knees of his dark woollen hose. Rosamund Clifford, now apparently Lady Rohesia’s personal maid, was garbed in a Lincoln-green gown, her dark hair hidden by a tightly clamped veil. She was petite and pretty with ever-darting eyes and puckered lips. Athelstan could not decide whether she was fey-witted or just acting the part.

Once the introductions were finished, chilled white wine and small bowls of marzipan were served to each guest. Cranston sat at the head of the table with Lady Anne on his right and Athelstan on his left. The friar immediately laid out his writing implements as the coroner, who had eaten all his sweetmeats, now turned on the friar’s. Athelstan leaned closer and whispered on the whereabouts of the miraculous wineskin.

‘Left it at the Guildhall,’ Cranston murmured, ‘silly fool, but I know my precious is waiting for me there.’

‘Sir John,’ Falke intoned as if ready to plead, ‘we have come, we have waited and we still wait.’

‘Was she innocent?’ Cranston barked, his voice ringing through the solar. ‘I repeat, was Lady Isolda innocent of murder? Let me assure you, someone certainly believes that. You must have heard about an assassin, the common tongue now calls him the Ignifer – the Fire Bringer. He has thrown what I suppose is Greek fire over two judges as well as the prosecutor who sent Lady Isolda to the stake. They died as horribly as she did. In my view, the Ignifer believes he is carrying out well-plotted vengeance for the gruesome death of an innocent victim.’ Cranston jabbed a finger at Falke. ‘That is why we are here. I asked Lady Anne to be our hostess, to gather all those who were involved in the prosecution of Lady Isolda to this meeting.’

‘Are we all in danger?’ Lady Rohesia snapped. ‘Are we all to be turned into living tongues of flame? Surely this Ignifer can be caught?’

‘You may not be marked down.’ Buckholt’s voice carried sombrely. ‘But I certainly am. You asked a question, Sir John. Was Lady Isolda innocent? She was not. I know what I saw. She was the last to feed her husband that tainted posset. The goblet she used was discarded. She hid it and replaced it with another.’ Buckholt stared around. ‘In God’s name, what more can I say but what I have sworn on oath?’

‘Yet we don’t really know,’ Falke cried, ‘that Sir Walter was poisoned. We have nothing but the opinion of a physician.’

‘We also have further evidence,’ Cranston retorted. ‘Firstly, there is the goblet that Reginald Vanner specially bought. Secondly, Vanner diverted Buckholt, who is so distracted he hands the posset to Lady Isolda, who takes it to her husband and makes him drink. Thirdly, she apparently gave Buckholt a different goblet in return. Fourthly, the goblet Buckholt first brought from the buttery ended up in the cesspit, and apparently such a change took place in a very short time. Sutler simply argued how the posset was poured into a second goblet, which was poisoned, fed to Sir Walter and later discarded.’

‘There, Master Falke,’ Athelstan declared softly, ‘Sir John describes a grim logic of events with a life of their own and what can be said in reply?’

‘Vanner,’ Falke retorted, ‘he has fled or has he not, Sir Henry?’

‘Yes, yes.’ The merchant knight couldn’t disguise the slur in his voice. ‘So it would appear.’

‘Lady Isolda,’ Falke declared, lips twitching, ‘swore how Sir Walter told her Vanner had fed him a strange-tasting wine earlier in the day. Some poisons take time for their malignancy to become apparent. That’s possible, isn’t it?’ He turned and gestured at Buckholt.

‘Of course,’ the steward replied, ‘anything is possible, but Sir Walter suffered no ill effects.’

‘Parson Garman also visited him early in the morning and brought the usual figs in almond sauce,’ Falke declared. ‘My point is others offered Sir Walter food and drink.’

‘Is that true?’ Athelstan asked. ‘Parson Garman, you knew Beaumont of old? You served in his free company of the Luciferi? Yes?’

Garman nodded.

‘These figs in their almond sauce?’ Cranston asked.

‘A true delicacy.’ Garman replied quietly. ‘Sir Walter, when he served in Outremer, could not resist them. I bought them as a reminder, a comfort.’

‘Did he eat them?’ Athelstan interjected. ‘Sir Walter, I understand, had a delicate stomach?’

‘I brought them.’ Garman shrugged. ‘I left them. What happened to them afterwards I cannot say.’

‘Sir Henry?’ Cranston turned to the merchant knight. He pulled a face and gestured at Buckholt.

‘They disappeared,’ the steward declared. ‘I never saw them. Sir Walter may have eaten them. He certainly was particular to that delicacy. He may have given them away. Or,’ he smiled thinly, ‘they too may have been thrown down the garderobe.’

‘Apart from the past and his love for figs in an almond sauce,’ Athelstan nodded at Garman, ‘was there any other reason for your visit to Sir Walter?’

‘Of course there was, Brother,’ Lady Anne retorted, ‘I visited Sir Walter to beg for alms for my good causes. Parson Garman did the same.’

‘I seek aid from many people,’ the prison chaplain declared.

‘And was Sir Walter generous?’

‘Sometimes, like all wealthy men, shrewdness was more important than charity.’ Garman half smiled at the hiss from Sir Henry.

‘And the pewter goblets,’ Athelstan asked Falke, ‘the one Vanner bought and the other found at the bottom of the garderobe? What was Isolda’s response?’

‘She had no knowledge about any of that,’ Falke replied. ‘She only used the one brought by Buckholt. She maintained that the goblet found in the garderobe might have been accidently dropped there by Sir Walter himself.’ Falke ignored Buckholt’s sharp laugh. ‘Sir Walter did like his posset. It wasn’t unknown for him to carry a goblet into the garderobe to sip as he eased himself.’

‘And the goblet Vanner bought?’

‘Lady Isolda maintained he probably did it on Sir Walter’s order,’ Falke answered. ‘That would be logical. A goblet was lost and its owner asked his clerk to replace it.’

‘Nonsense!’ Buckholt sneered. ‘Firstly, why did Vanner buy twelve and get rid of the other eleven? I wager they lie somewhere in the gardens of Firecrest Manor, probably at the bottom of the mere. Sutler made the same point in court.’

‘And secondly?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Again,’ Buckholt retorted, ‘I pointed out in court that the purchase of cups, goblets and platters was not Vanner’s responsibility but either mine or the buttery clerk, Mortice.’

Falke shrugged and lapsed into silence.

‘And what else can be said in Lady Isolda’s defence?’ Athelstan asked.

‘She was innocent.’ Garman, hands down on the tabletop, head bowed as if praying, abruptly sat up. ‘I shrived her. I cannot say what Isolda actually confessed but she loved her husband, yes?’ No one gainsaid him. ‘No acrimony or argument before his mysterious death, yes? Sir Henry, you were his brother. I speak the truth?’

‘Yes, yes, you do.’ Sir Henry blinked. ‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan, we were not truly part of this. The Lady Isolda was gracious enough. True.’ He half smiled. ‘There appeared to be no hostility between herself and my late brother. Yet I sensed an unhappiness, perhaps a disappointment.’ He shrugged. ‘But that’s common enough in a May-December marriage.’

‘You talk of unhappiness?’

‘Brother, that is just suspicion. I don’t have a shred of proof.’

‘And now you are Sir Walter’s heir?’

‘Yes, I am. My brother died without begetting a child and,’ Sir Henry waved a hand, ‘Lady Isolda has gone to God.’

‘I believe they were happy enough.’ Garman was determined in his defence. ‘Lady Isolda declared herself innocent. I prayed with her, as did you, Lady Anne. She was particularly devoted to St Joachim, the father of the Virgin Mary.’

‘Yes, yes, she was.’ Lady Anne sighed. ‘I visited her very day. Well, at least until just before the end. Sir Jack, Brother Athelstan,’ she beat her fingers against the tabletop, ‘I am a widow, childless.’ She glanced over her shoulder at Turgot standing like a shadow close behind her. ‘Except for Turgot here, an orphan, a foundling, the son I never had,’ she turned back, smiling, ‘a graduate of the chapel school at Westminster no less, a true scholar, Brother Athelstan. Now,’ her smile faded, ‘my husband died a most wealthy man.’ Again she glanced over her shoulder at Turgot. ‘I have my household and my work. I am the Abbess of St Dismas, a lay organization, men and women like myself, who visit our filthy prisons,’ her voice turned harsh, ‘at the Fleet, Marshalsea and Newgate, even that pit of Hell, the Bocardo in Southwark. Now, as regards this matter. I felt a double duty towards Lady Isolda.’

‘Why?’ Athelstan asked.

‘First, she was a noble woman …’

‘Of noble birth?’ Cranston asked.

‘I am coming to that, Jack.’ She smiled faintly. ‘Isolda was a noble woman, condemned to a gruesome death. Execution by burning is truly horrific. However, let me return to the beginning. As some of you know, I was instrumental in Isolda meeting Sir Walter.’ She sipped delicately at her wine and pinched Cranston’s hand playfully. ‘Jack, don’t go to sleep on me! Now,’ she continued, ‘the abbey of St Mary and St Francis just south of St Botolph’s houses Franciscan nuns commonly called the Minoresses. One of their great services is that they take in foundlings, baby girls either abandoned by their mothers, Lord save them, or handed over to the good sisters,’ she shrugged, ‘to avoid scandal. God’s work.’ She paused. ‘Many a girl child is saved from a miscarriage, planned or otherwise. Isolda was one of these, a mere babe in arms, or so I understand, when she was left in the manger before the statue of the Virgin just outside the nunnery. The Minoresses provide an excellent school. Isolda attended it, following the rule of a novice. As for me, I am also a member of the Guild of St Martha. I and other ladies of noble birth take these young women under our wing. Isolda was one such: a maiden learned, schooled, of courtly manner and good repute.’ She smiled sadly. ‘Isolda, as many of you know, was truly beautiful. Now, the Guild would invite these young novices, suitably attired, to attend convivial – festivities and banquets, particularly at Westminster. Our set purpose was to introduce these young ladies to bachelors of good name and standing. In such company, supervised by the Guild, only men with honest intentions and of the proper status can approach our young ladies. Sir Walter was taken with Isolda and, to cut a long story short, love ran its course. They became betrothed, hand-fast at the door of St Michael and All Angels. That was five years ago. I thought all things were well until her arrest, and I walked into that cell at Newgate.’

‘You talked to her?’ Athelstan asked.

‘We talked, we prayed. Sometimes I would take needlecraft with me and encourage her to help.’

‘Did she talk about her crime?’

‘No, Brother, we are very strict on that. We are there to pray, comfort and offer spiritual guidance,’ Lady Anne fluttered her long, white bejewelled fingers, ‘and, to be honest, to distract. I brought her news from the city, of the fighting in the Narrow Seas. Understandably,’ Lady Anne sighed, ‘our rules were broken. Isolda hotly protested her innocence. I tried to lead her back to some other matter, then,’ she nodded at Garman, ‘it happened.’

‘Father?’ Cranston asked.

‘Two days before her execution,’ the chaplain declared, ‘I came to visit Lady Isolda. Due to her wealth and status she was able to rent a prison chamber.’ He paused, wrinkling his nose. Athelstan sensed the chaplain was trying to hide his contempt for the rich; just the tone of his voice, the flick of his eyes, that slight thrill to his face and voice. He was a secretive man, Athelstan concluded, who hid his feelings well. The friar recalled gossip he had heard in his own parish – how Garman had close ties with the Upright Men and the Great Community of the Realm.

‘Anyway,’ the chaplain ran a finger around the rim of his goblet, ‘I heard Isolda screaming. When the turnkey admitted me, I found Lady Anne huddled close to the door.’

‘Very frightened, I admit.’

‘And the cause of this quarrel?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Once again, Isolda tried to protest her innocence. She realized there would be no pardon, that she faced a horrid death. I made the mistake of telling her that I understood but of course I didn’t. Isolda grew very angry, screaming that I understood nothing. That I was to blame for her meeting Sir Walter. That she would not have married him if were not for me.’ Lady Anne dabbed at her eyes. Behind her Turgot grew restless and moved forward but she glanced over her shoulder and he stepped back. ‘I left her a set of Ave beads. I understand she threw them away.’

‘That reminds me.’ Garman pushed back his chair, opened his wallet and handed Lady Anne an Ave ring, but the chain was snapped and most of the beads missing. ‘I picked this up from the floor after you left.’ He handed it over.

‘That was the last time I saw Isolda,’ Lady Anne whispered. ‘I didn’t attend her death. I couldn’t.’

‘Who visited her in the condemned cell?’ Cranston asked.

‘I’m afraid only three people,’ Garman replied, ‘Master Falke, Lady Anne and me.’

‘We did not think it was appropriate,’ Lord Henry spoke up. ‘None of the household wanted to. Rosamund was still ill.’

‘And who attended her execution?’ Athelstan asked.

Garman slightly raised his hand. ‘It is my duty,’ he murmured, ‘one of the most hateful parts. I sat in the execution cart opposite her reciting the Dirige psalms.’

‘And Isolda?’

‘Brother, it was if all life had been crushed in her. She just sat listless.’

‘Had she received any potion?’

‘No.’ Garman shook his head. ‘Keeper Tweng was under strict orders from the Regent on the day before her execution – anything she ate or drank had to be tested. I recall doing so myself on more than one occasion. Isolda, understandably, had little appetite for food or drink.’

‘And at Smithfield?’ Athelstan asked, aware of the silence. Everyone in this chamber recognized the sheer blasphemy of a public burning: the screams, the stench, the noise of the crowd and all the gruesome paraphernalia which festooned such a death.

‘Isolda was carried in dead-faint to the execution stake.’ Garman’s voice was hardly above a whisper. ‘She was bound to the pillar. The Carnifex fired the straw and the smoke plumed up.’

‘And the Carnifex showed her no mercy?’

‘None,’ Garman agreed. ‘He was forbidden to go through the smoke to deliver a swift death.’ Garman crossed himself. ‘Isolda was very beautiful. Such a soul could not be capable of murder. She confessed her innocence to me and I believed her.’

‘And your mistress?’ Athelstan smiled at Rosamund, who turned in her chair, doe eyes blinking furiously.

She gestured at Lady Rohesia. ‘On the same day that Lady Isolda allegedly murdered her husband, I was discommoded, confined to my chamber with a severe bout of the sweating sickness. Ask anyone …’

‘That’s true,’ Buckholt declared kindly. ‘The poor girl became as wet as anything, the sweat fair shimmering on her.’

‘Did you believe in your mistress’ innocence?’ Athelstan persisted.

‘Father, I …’ she stammered, ‘I was surprised, shocked. I was ill. I couldn’t visit her in prison.’

‘Poor girl,’ Lady Anne intervened. ‘It was I who visited her. She was only strong enough for a walk in the garden.’

‘Continue.’ Athelstan turned back to Rosamund.

‘Brother, what happened to my master and mistress was tragic. All I could recall were the warnings.’

‘What warnings!’ Athelstan and Cranston spoke together.

‘About a year ago,’ Sir Henry replied, ‘yes, Buckholt?’

The steward nodded.

‘Sir Walter received messages, scraps of parchment thrust into the hands of servants entering the manor or left outside the porter’s lodge.’

‘How many?’

‘At least six.’

‘And the message?’

‘“As I and ours did burn,”’ Sir Henry replied, ‘“so shall ye and yours.” The writing was scrawled, the parchment dirty and wrinkled.’

‘Who would threaten Sir Walter like that and why?’ Cranston asked.

‘Sir John, my brother, did not know, and neither did I. The messages stopped as abruptly as they began.’

‘And “The Book of Fires” by Mark the Greek?’ Athelstan stared across at Lady Anne, now lost in her own sad thoughts.

‘“The Book of Fires,”’ Sir Henry’s voice fell to a whisper, ‘is a great secret. They say it is passed on from one Emperor of Constantinople to another …’

‘I know its history,’ Athelstan interjected, ‘as I know your brother owned a copy. It’s now gone, so where was it kept?’

‘In a bound leather casket in his bedchamber, the key always around his neck, or so we were led to believe.’ Sir Henry rubbed his face. ‘On the morning Walter was found dead, the key was still there and the casket locked. However, when I opened it, the book was gone. Who stole it, how and when?’ Sir Henry shook his head. ‘No one knows.’

‘What did it look like?’

‘I saw it many years ago, just after my brother returned from Outremer. Small yet thick, tightly bound in an embossed calf-skin cover. Only my brother knew its contents.’

Athelstan stared around the chamber. This is a desert of emotions, he thought. Lady Isolda is gone and everyone seems to want to bury her memory deep. It was understandable: Sir Henry and his wife were prosperous merchants. Falke had lost his case and could do nothing. Buckholt had been vindicated. Parson Garman and Lady Anne had performed their duties as diligently as they could. Rosamund seemed lost in her own world. Nevertheless, Isolda’s execution had left a devastating legacy.

‘The Ignifer!’ Athelstan exclaimed. ‘The assassin who has murdered three people and who could kill and kill again.’

The assembled guests moved in their seats, hands going out to their goblets or the sweetmeats, anything to distract their nervousness.

‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan,’ Falke declared, ‘we sit here and talk about Lady Isolda but Reginald Vanner should be your real quarry.’ The lawyer, face all determined, leaned forward, ticking the points off on his fingers. ‘Firstly, Vanner could have been involved in Sir Walter’s murder. Secondly, Vanner was Sir Walter’s clerk. He had access to “The Book of Fires”. Thirdly, he must know something about Greek fire. Fourthly, he has disappeared. Fifthly, he has a motive. He is now a proclaimed outlaw, a wolfshead to be killed on sight. Consequently he has nothing to lose in waging war against those who were responsible for the death of a woman who might have been his lover.’

‘I would agree,’ Sir Henry murmured. ‘Vanner could be the Ignifer.’

‘Sir Henry,’ Athelstan asked, ‘how easy is it to make Greek fire?’

‘Not too difficult,’ Sir Henry declared. ‘There are different types, ranging from,’ he spread his hands, ‘simple kitchen oil to a substance which is quite unique. “The Book of Fires”, I suppose, would describe all these categories and list the correct proportions and right elements for each.’

‘Sir John,’ Lady Anne spoke up, ‘Jack, my friend, I am tired. Surely you have finished here?’

Cranston looked at Athelstan and nodded.

‘In which case, Sir Henry,’ the coroner stretched, ‘I would ask you a great favour: lodgings for Brother Athelstan and me at Firecrest Manor. At the moment St Erconwald’s is rather busy.’

‘I heard,’ Lady Anne exclaimed. ‘Some story about a miracle? I must visit your parish.’

‘The Bishop of London’s people are there,’ Athelstan answered, staring down at the tabletop. Cranston’s request had taken him by surprise, though he swiftly conceded the wisdom of it. Tuddenham and the parish council would keep the miracle-seekers at bay, whilst a visit to Firecrest Manor might prove useful.

‘As for myself, of course,’ Cranston pushed back his chair, ‘at the moment I am living like a bachelor, so fresh lodgings …’

‘Of course,’ Sir Henry declared, getting to his feet. ‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan, we shall be pleased to escort you there.’

‘I will do that,’ Lady Anne intervened, grasping Cranston’s arm. ‘I need to have a few words with my old friend Jack and discover more about the miracle at St Erconwald’s.’

The meeting broke up. Sir Henry assured Cranston and Athelstan that two comfortable chambers would be ready and both of them would be his honoured guests. Chaplain Garman wandered over to invite Athelstan into his chapel at Newgate. Rosamund Clifford sat lost in her own thoughts until Lady Rohesia called her away. Cranston became deep in conversation with Lady Anne, so Athelstan crossed to study the paintings hanging on the walls above the linen panelling. He found them fascinating. The paintings, from the new schools in northern Italy, were held in gold-scrolled frames and glowed brilliantly both in colour and depiction. Athelstan noticed how Lady Anne had a special devotion to her holy namesake St Anne, mother of the Virgin Mary. At least four of the paintings celebrated this holy relationship, with others describing events from the Virgin Mary’s youth. Now and again the artist had scrolled the tribute in the corner of the painting, ‘Sicut mater, sicut filia’ – ‘As the mother, so the daughter.’

‘My patron saint.’

Athelstan turned. Lady Anne stood smiling at him, behind her the ever faithful Turgot.

‘I think Sir John wishes to go,’ she added.

Cloaks were collected and, with a hired torch-bearer going ahead of them, Lady Anne led Cranston and Athelstan out into the cold, bleak street. All trading was now done. The call of the bellman could be clearly heard. Lanthorns glowed from the doorposts of the houses casting pools of light around which the shadows danced. Rats squeaked – black darting shapes followed by the blurred outline of hunting cats. Dogs howled up at the full winter moon. Here and there from some cranny or corner a beggar, licensed to plead in that part of the city, shook his clacking bowl for alms. Cranston drew his sword as Lady Anne led them briskly on.

‘Don’t worry,’ she called over her shoulder, ‘Turgot will be our guard.’ Athelstan turned and glimpsed a cowled figure with a drawn blade of a sword glinting like a flame of warning. A soothsayer shuffled out of the dark, asking if they wished their fortune described, only to scuttle away as Cranston bawled at him to ‘Go back to the Halls of Hell!’ Once they had cleared the street Lady Anne stopped. Further back their escort also paused whilst Lady Anne shooed the torch-bearer out of earshot. She beckoned Athelstan and Cranston closer and pulled down her muffler. ‘I did not wish to appear vindictive, harsh of tongue or hard of heart, but Lady Isolda was a veritable virago, beautiful with blonde hair and lustrous blue eyes. She was a most attractive lady: in her soul, however, she was selfish, spoilt and arrogant.’

‘And capable of murder?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Yes,’ Lady Anne nodded, ‘yes, Isolda was capable of murder. I believe she killed her husband for no other reason than she had grown tired of him. She would have used Vanner for her own evil, selfish purposes.’ Lady Anne crossed herself. ‘She would have escaped justice if not for that sharp-eyed buttery clerk Buckholt’s suspicions and Sutler’s logic and persistence. Lady Isolda was a murderess and one who could – and did – dupe the likes of Falke, Garman and Sir Henry.’

‘Why do you tell us this now?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Because it is the truth and because I believe Vanner was just as wicked. He may well be the Ignifer – but come, Sir Henry will be waiting.’

They entered an area well known to Athelstan as it lay close to his mother house at Blackfriars. Athelstan, lost in his own thoughts about what he had seen and heard, was faintly aware of the noises of the night. He heard a sound and glanced up. A cloaked figure had stepped out of an alleyway. At first, Athelstan thought he was dreaming. The figure seemed to swoop towards them then hurled something which smashed at the feet of the torch-bearer. For a few breaths nothing happened until the flame of the lowered torch dipped towards the liquid lapping around its holder’s boots and the ground erupted, a fierce fire which sped up the torch-bearer’s body, leaping to devour him. The torch-bearer, screaming in agony, fell to his knees, which only made matters worse. The raging fire also screened their attacker, who disappeared as Cranston took off his cloak and tried to beat out the flames. Athelstan hastened to help. Lady Anne raised the hue and cry with screams of ‘Harrow! Harrow!’ Doors and shutters flew open. People in their nightshirts hurried out. The silence of the night was brutally shattered with screams and shouts. People bustled out then crept back at the horror blazing in their street. Turgot came running up waving his hands at his mistress to keep away. Cranston was trying to beat the flames but the fiery pool of liquid was trickling closer. Athelstan leapt forward and dragged the coroner away.

‘Stay back, Sir John, for God’s sake,’ he exclaimed, ‘there is nothing to be done!’

Athelstan could only stand terror-stricken at this heinous murder of a truly innocent man. The fire was now dying, its victim a twisted, blackened corpse over which the flames ran like deadly caresses, as if seeking any part not yet burnt. Bailiffs and wardsmen arrived. An enterprising merchant brought out a canvas sheet soaked in bitter, pungent vinegar, as well as a tun of sand. Both were used to douse the flames and cover the puddle which had caused it. Athelstan knelt on the ground. He felt his knee scrape something sharp. He moved back, picked up a shard of the broken pot and sniffed at the glistening, odourless oil. He rubbed it between his fingers and felt how thick the substance was. He dropped it, then closed his eyes and intoned the prayers for the dead. A deep revulsion at such a sickening death gave way to a violent rage which cut across the psalms he was murmuring. He paused and in his heart uttered a powerful curse against the assassin, a passionate prayer demanding justice and punishment for this most atrocious sin. The torch-bearer had died in agony, an innocent working man, one of the poorest, earning paltry pennies and for what? To die like this?

‘Come.’ Athelstan crossed himself and rose. He took a deep breath.

‘Lady Anne.’ His hostess, face all pale and juddering in the torchlight, now rested on Turgot’s arm. ‘Mistress, go back home. Sir John and I will find our own way. And be careful, for this truly is a place of deadly sin …’

Athelstan knelt on the prie-dieu before the altar in the small but delicately furnished chapel of Firecrest Manor. The chapel was a perfect jewel, a beautifully decorated chamber of prayer which, like the rest of the house, exuded an air of exquisite opulence. Sir Walter, Athelstan reflected, had amassed a great deal of wealth from war and his other business activities. Athelstan had risen before dawn, shaved and washed before donning his robes and sandals. Afterwards he’d walked the gleaming, oak-panelled galleries of the manor, visited the butteries, kitchens and refectory where servants were already kindling fires, laying out chafing dishes and moving sealed, sweet-smelling braziers to crackle and glow. Tapestries of many hues decorated shiny plaster walls, the oaken staircases were polished to a gleam. Thick Turkey rugs and soft white rope matting covered most of the floors. Cabinets, side cupboards and open aumbries displayed precious gold and silver plates. The manor boasted a long hall with an elaborately carved minstrel gallery; a cavernous hearth, leather-back chairs and a long polished elmwood table with a gorgeous golden nef, a model of a war cog in all its splendour at the centre.

Athelstan crossed himself and sighed. Such wealth and comfort were a stark contrast to the smoky tenements of his own parishioners. The friar stared up at the figure on the crucifix. Despite his surroundings, he could not forget the abomination he had witnessed the previous night. Cranston had solemnly promised the torch-bearer’s family would be given the most generous assistance. Athelstan had celebrated his daily Mass here in this jewel of a chapel, offering it up for the repose of the soul of that poor, hapless man. The friar had prayed, even as he beat his breast, that God would judge and punish such evil. Athelstan rose genuflecting towards the pyx and left the chapel. The manor had now come to life. Servants and maids hurried about. Savoury odours drifted from the kitchen. Outside echoed the sounds of the stableyard. Athelstan stopped a servant and asked her to bring Buckholt to the bottom of the main staircase. The steward arrived, a brown leather apron about him, and explained how he had been surveying stores of powder, resin, saltpetre and other combustible commodities in the manor’s great warehouse.

‘Will the loss of “The Book of Fires” injure your trade?’ Athelstan asked, grasping the newel post.

‘No.’ Buckholt shook his head. ‘The different powders and their strengths are fairly well known in the trade be it here or across the Narrow Seas. Our most serious rivals are the merchants of the Hanse. “The Book of Fires”,’ he lowered his voice, ‘lists, describes and analyses the different types of fire as well as how it can be strengthened, varied, safely transported and stored. Sir Walter had a phrase for it: “Everything in nature expresses itself in a hierarchy.” Greek fire, the real Greek fire, truly is the Emperor of Flames, a fire which seems to feed on itself and, in some cases, is totally impervious to water.’ He paused. ‘I heard what happened last night. The attack on you and Lady Anne. From what Sir John has said,’ he indicated with his head, ‘he is in the buttery breaking his fast. Believe me, our Lord Coroner is very fortunate to be doing that.’

‘You mean the fire that was thrown at us last night was the finest and the most deadly?’

‘Yes, Brother. Only a small bowl was tossed but, as Sir John describes, it is like the heaviest glue and clings to its victim as close as his own skin.’ Buckholt peered at Athelstan. ‘But why? Why should the Ignifer attack you?’

‘Why indeed?’ Athelstan stared past the steward at a tapestry hanging on the wall depicting St George in combat with a fire-breathing dragon. The previous night’s attack truly puzzled him. The murder of the torch-bearer was a dire act, but what had been the real object of the assault? Himself and Sir John? Or Lady Anne? Bearing in mind what she had told him about her quarrel with Isolda in Newgate, it was probably her. The meeting called last night at her house must have been known and attracted the Ignifer, whoever that was. Perhaps the assassin just waited and watched, seizing any opportunity.

‘Brother?’

Athelstan shook his head. ‘I am sorry. I was just thinking.’

‘Brother, I took the liberty of bringing someone you may wish to talk to.’ Buckholt walked away and returned with Mortice, a fussy little man, the clerk of the buttery who had noticed Sir Walter’s goblet had been exchanged. He simply repeated what Athelstan had already learnt and waddled away to resume, as he put it, ‘A whole list of very important duties.’

‘Very well.’ Athelstan tapped Buckholt on the shoulder. ‘I want to repeat what happened on the night Lady Isolda took the posset into her husband, yes?’

Buckholt pulled a face but agreed. He climbed the staircase and turned right into the gallery. Athelstan followed him up to the top.

Buckholt indicated where he had met Lady Isolda. ‘She took the goblet from me; I went downstairs and she came in here.’ He led Athelstan into a spacious, elaborately furnished bedchamber with a wide window in an enclosure above a cushioned seat. There were chests and coffers, tables, chairs and stools. A great four-poster bed shrouded in deep blue damask curtains dominated the room. At its foot, Athelstan glimpsed a richly polished cedarwood coffer, its lid thrown back. Buckholt confirmed it once contained ‘The Book of Fires’. Athelstan scrutinized it and went across to the garderobe built into the corner of the wall. He opened the door, its exter-ior covered in stiffened, painted leather. The chamber inside was quite spacious. The hole in the lid of the jakes box was large enough to easily drop a goblet – it would have fallen down the chute sinking deep into the messy underground cesspit below.

Athelstan took Buckholt to the top of the stairs and asked him to go down and stay as long as he remembered being distracted by Vanner. The steward agreed. Once he’d left, Athelstan strode back to Sir Walter’s bedchamber. He carefully rehearsed what he’d been told about Isolda. He pretended to take a goblet from his gown; half fill it, sprinkle in powder and pour in some of the posset then feed this to his make-believe victim. Once satisfied, Athelstan hurried across to the garderobe, sustaining the pretence of throwing down the goblet before returning to sit on the edge of the bed, sharing the goblet he’d left as Lady Isolda must have done. Athelstan concluded he had more than enough time to do all this before Buckholt returned. However, one fact puzzled him: he certainly did not have enough time, according to his reckoning, to persuade her husband to hand over the key around his neck, open the casket, take out ‘The Book of Fires’, hide it on her person and return to the bed.

‘Isolda did not have enough time,’ Athelstan murmured to himself. ‘And that’s only the start. Why should Sir Walter surrender so quickly and easily a manuscript he had kept hidden for decades? If Lady Isolda forced him, surely there would be the ugliest confrontation?’ Puzzled by this, Athelstan sat on a stool. Buckholt, who had returned, stirred restlessly, pleading that he should return to his duties.

‘Master Buckholt,’ Athelstan glanced up, ‘I will take you into my confidence and ask you a question. I could not express it yesterday but it troubles me.’

‘Brother?’

‘Why should Lady Isolda go through this ritual of waiting for you to bring up a posset? Surely at any time during the day she could have brought her husband a goblet of wine, milk, water or whatever?’

‘Falke mentioned this during her trial. He also pointed out Parson Garman had brought an almond sweetmeat which had disappeared.’

‘Yes, I remember that.’ Athelstan smiled as Buckholt slightly coloured. ‘Master Buckholt, are you partial to almonds?’

The steward nodded. ‘Brother, I am. Now and again Parson Garman brought such a delicacy. At first Sir Walter used to eat them but then, as he sickened, he gave them away to his ser-vants. Brother, ailments of the belly are common enough here at Firecrest Manor but Sir Walter was most subject to them. In fact, that answers your original question. During the trial, Master Sutler rightly pointed out that Sir Walter’s stomach was very sensitive. He had grown very fussy about what he ate and drank, especially uncut wine. Ask any of the servants or indeed Physician Philippe. However, one thing Sir Walter did like, and looked forward to, was his evening cup of posset.’ He shrugged. ‘It was a daily ritual, well known to the household.’

‘And?’

‘Sutler argued most convincingly that if Lady Isolda, or indeed had anyone else, had tried to coax her husband to drink something tainted during the day, it would be more than obvious. For a start, Sir Walter would protest. Other people would discover it, and if Sir Walter died soon afterwards …’

‘True,’ Athelstan conceded. ‘The Lady Isolda had little choice but to exploit this ritual. Moreover, posset, dark wine laced with herbs, would provide a most effective disguise. If Lady Isolda had brought such a drink out of time that too would have been noticed. So,’ Athelstan sighed, getting to his feet, ‘this brings us to a further point which Master Sutler must have emphasized. Lady Isolda wanted to create an opportunity to poison her husband but do it in such a way that no suspicion could ever fall on her. She must be seen sitting, sipping from the same goblet. She must return that goblet to the buttery where someone else might decide to drain the dregs. Yes, that’s what happens in great households. You have just proved it. Garman brings some sweetmeats, Sir Walter doesn’t want them so he gives them away.’

‘I would agree, Brother,’ Buckholt murmured.

‘So we have it.’ Athelstan moved across to the window, running his finger around the heraldic design on the mullioned glass. ‘Lady Isolda wanted to show that the goblet she held was untainted. According to Sutler, however, she served her husband a poisoned chalice and, if it had not been for the sharp-eyed buttery clerk and your own keen suspicions, Lady Isolda would now be the sole owner of these great riches. She gambled, she should have won but by God’s grace she lost. However, Master Buckholt …’ Athelstan turned, crossing his arms and staring down at the floor.

‘Brother?’

‘My apologies. I have established that Lady Isolda had more than enough time to do what she was accused of, except,’ Athelstan gestured towards the coffer, ‘remove “The Book of Fires”. Would Sir Walter allow her to hold it, to read it?’

‘No,’ Buckholt retorted, ‘never! I never saw “The Book of Fires”. Sir Walter did make reference to it being kept in a very safe place which would be a revelation to everyone. He once muttered about it being held on the island of Patmos.’

‘What did he mean by that?’

‘It made little sense to me. You know, Brother, sometimes I wonder whether “The Book of Fires” really existed.’

‘And yet Sir Walter must have used it to create different combustibles?’

‘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 much 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.’

‘Master Falke, what are you implying?’ Cranston asked. ‘That “The Book of Fires” might have been stolen by Sir Henry as a bargaining counter with the Upright Men? Do you have proof?’

‘No,’ Falke dabbed at his mouth, ‘nor do I have proof that Buckholt is secretly a rebel. Did you know his father served with Sir Walter when our noble merchant was a mercenary? I tell you this,’ Falke swayed on his feet, ‘Buckholt never liked Isolda, nor did Sir Henry. Lady Anne Lesures may act the grand lady, be all compassionate and caring, but she upset Lady Isolda by refusing to listen or accept her plea of innocence. Maybe Lady Anne has forgotten that she was responsible for Isolda’s marriage. I could tell you more. Parson Garman liked to visit Sir Walter and I suspect their relationship lies tangled in the past. He too served in the Luciferi. Oh, yes!’ Falke spread his hands, moving to the left then right. ‘You have seen the splendour of this house. Like the paint on a whore’s face it hides all forms of filth and lewdness.’ Falke put a finger to his lips. ‘Sir Walter was hot, not for Lady Isolda, his God-given wife, but her maid Rosamund, Rosa Mundi,’ he spat out, ‘Rosa of the World. Yes? More like Rosa Munda – Soiled Rose.’

‘Master Falke,’ Cranston retorted, ‘Sir Walter was not fit for turbulent bed sport.’

‘No, he wasn’t. He just wanted to entice that young lady into his bedchamber to administer to him slowly with her hands and mouth.’

‘And did she?’ Athelstan snapped. ‘For heaven’s sake man, make your point!’

‘The fair Isolda was a foundling raised by the Minoresses, but so was Rosamund. The venerable Lady Anne introduced her to this household as Lady Isolda’s maid.’

‘And?’

‘According to household gossip and rumour, Buckholt himself was very sweet on Rosamund. Some people claimed she may have been his daughter. Others maintained he wanted to be betrothed to her.’

‘Proof,’ Athelstan insisted. ‘You are a lawyer, Master Falke. You deal with evidence, not scandalous gossip.’

‘Well, he visited the Minoresses when Sir Walter was courting Lady Isolda, and Buckholt never missed the opportunity to accompany him.’

‘So,’ Cranston poked Falke in the chest, ‘you are insinuating that our noble steward Buckholt nursed deep grievances against Sir Walter? Amongst these, Buckholt’s support for the Upright Men and his tender feelings for Rosamund Clifford? If the latter was true, I agree, he would not have been happy at Rosamund’s rather strange duties in the Beaumont bedroom. Are you implying that Buckholt was the murderer, desperate to cast his guilt on Lady Isolda?’

‘It is possible.’

‘But if Lady Isolda knew about her husband’s lust for her maid, surely she objected?’

‘She did. Sir Walter dismissed her protests. He claimed Rosamund was given to fey fancies.’

‘Why,’ Athelstan asked, ‘was this not argued at the trial?’ He forced a smile. ‘Of course, gossip and tittle-tattle are not evidence, are they, Master Falke? You can gossip away to us in the buttery but repeat this in a court? Moreover, I am sure that Richard Sutler, a veritable lurcher of a man, would have twisted such tittle-tattle back on Lady Isolda, accuse her of lying, of fabricating – but,’ he plucked at Cranston’s sleeve, ‘we shall bear in mind what you have said, Master Falke, now our stay here is done. Sir John and I have other matters to attend to …’