The Book of Fires

PART SIX

Athelstan stood at the top of the long common table in the taproom of the Piebald tavern. He stared at the men grouped either side – Joscelyn, Watkin, Pike, Merrylegs, Ranulf, Giles of Sempringham also known as the Hangman of Rochester, Fulchard of Richmond, Fitzosbert and all the other members of the canting merry crew. Parson Garman had also joined them, summoned by Athelstan, ‘on a matter of life or the cruellest death’. Night had fallen. Curfew lamps glowed in church steeples, for darkness had wrapped everything in its shroud. The parish church had been closed. Athelstan had insisted that all approaches to the Piebald be strictly guarded. Everything was now ready. Joscelyn had served the ale and fired the torches and candles as well as the corner braziers. All doors and windows were firmly bolted. The assembled men, now cleansed of their masks, painted faces and other disguises used in the previous night’s assault, did not know where to look – at Fulchard, Athelstan or that crutch lying down the centre of the table. Athelstan dramatically intoned the ‘Gloria’, blessed them and sat down.

‘If Sir John Cranston were here,’ he began, ‘you would need every prayer I could utter because all of you would undoubtedly hang. No, Pike,’ he slapped the table with the palm of his hand, ‘you would hang and it would not be swift. Now, Fulchard of Richmond, or so you call yourself, what do the following mean: “arete”, “doulos”, “agathos”, “kakos”, “kalos”?’

The man gazed blankly back.

‘They are Greek words,’ Athelstan explained, ‘from Koine, the lingua franca used commonly around the Middle Sea. They mean “virtue”, “servant”, “good”, “bad” and “beautiful”. Fulchard of Richmond was allegedly injured whilst working at a tavern in Athens. If he worked there he must have known such common, simple words. To continue,’ Athelstan leaned over and touched the crutch, ‘Fulchard of Richmond was damaged on his right side. Crutches for the perennial cripple are fashioned uniquely. Fulchard’s crutch was made to be held under the right armpit. However, this one, which Fulchard allegedly used, is for the left. Of course, it would not matter for that very brief journey into the church before this farce took place. All the false cripple had to do was shuffle up the steps and along the nave and lie down near the chantry chapel. When the so-called miracle occurred, the crutch was only needed as a relic and nothing else. You also carried a small phial of perfume to exude something akin to the odour of sanctity, a fragrance which could indicate the intervention of heaven. It was all a sham. The real Fulchard of Richmond never entered that church – you did.’ Athelstan pointed down the table at the imposter. ‘Darkness was falling, the nave was gloomy. All you needed was to disguise the right side of your face with make-believe burns. Southwark houses a legion of counterfeit cranks and cunning men and, if that wasn’t the case, you may have even worn a mask. Who would remember a hooded, visored cripple, the crutch under the wrong arm, face down, stumbling up towards the shrine?’

‘The witnesses?’ Pike spluttered.

‘Oh, shut up!’ Athelstan roared. ‘Do not depict me as a complete fool. The witnesses, including you, Fitzosbert, were all hand-picked, fervent supporters of the Upright Men.’ Heads were bowed, booted feet shuffled. ‘Now,’ Athelstan continued, ‘the real Fulchard of Richmond was indeed very ill. Brother Philippe, an eminent physician, testified to that. It was a shrewd move to take Fulchard to St Bartholomew’s, where Philippe would adjudge him both as a cripple and a very sick man.’ Athelstan snapped his fingers at Pike. ‘You also brought the real Fulchard to see me: you wanted me to personally witness how ill he truly was.’

The ditcher kept his head down.

‘So,’ Athelstan declared, ‘on the night of the so-called miracle, the real Fulchard remained hidden, either here at the Piebald or in a garret at Merrylegs’ shop. He would keep his crutch as he still needed it. The so-called miracle occurred, but Fulchard, truly ill, quietly died, and his corpse was kept hidden. I was, thankfully for you, distracted by other business. I am sure you planned Fulchard’s secret burial in my cemetery but then Merrylegs senior also died around the same time. This provided you with an excellent opportunity for honourable interment. Watkin and Pike dug the grave deep and on the night before the funeral Mass for Merrylegs senior, you arranged Fulchard’s secret burial. Some of you miscreants, under the guise of gaping pilgrims, visited Godbless and his goat.’ Athelstan ignored the snort of laughter from the shadows. ‘There was great excitement in the church and the parish. Godbless was only too willing to be swept up in the festivities. Thanks to you, both he and Thaddeus became helplessly drunk. Godbless did not watch the cemetery – he did not see the secret burial of Fulchard whose funeral rites were conducted by you, Fitzosbert, a defrocked priest but still an ordained minister with the God-given power to conduct such a ceremony.’

Athelstan banged the table. ‘I can easily prove this if needed. Once dawn breaks I’ll have Cranston’s bailiffs open that grave and dig until they find what I am looking for.’ He noticed Fitzosbert’s hand drop beneath the tabletop. Ranulf the rat-catcher, sitting beside him, jabbed the defrocked priest with his elbow and Fitzosbert’s hand reappeared.

‘Good.’ Athelstan stared round. ‘I beg you in Christ’s name, as well as for the amity and respect you should owe me, do not think of doing anything stupid. I admit, the story you gave about Fulchard’s early history contains some grains of truth. Fulchard of Richmond did go abroad. He served as a mercenary in Black Beaumont’s free company, the Luciferi. He assumed another name, Rievaulx, a reference to the great Benedictine abbey in Yorkshire where he and you, my friend,’ Athelstan pointed at the imposter, ‘were educated as boys. Black Beaumont and his troop arrived in Constantinople. During unrest there, they stole Mark the Greek’s “The Book of Fires” and fled the city. Black Beaumont decided not to share the secrets of that manuscript and the wealth they would bring with anyone else. He deserted one set of comrades in the desert outside Izmir and fled with a group of henchmen to Patmos in the Middle Seas where he committed further treachery, carrying out a horrid atrocity. Black Beaumont drugged and burnt alive his remaining companions, except,’ Athelstan pointed down at the imposter, ‘the man known as Rievaulx. He was grievously injured but, God knows how, he managed to escape. He eventually returned to England, crippled and worn. He hid for a while, then Fulchard of Richmond emerged as a professional beggar who suffered a hideous accident abroad. Of course,’ Athelstan smiled thinly, ‘you know all this, don’t you?’

The imposter just stared coolly back. ‘I examined all the possibilities, including a miracle. However, given all that I have said, I have reached a much stronger possibility, in fact the strongest, that it was probable that you, sir, and the real Fulchard of Richmond are identical twins.’ Athelstan sat back in the chair. He moved his tankard slightly forward. ‘I cannot tell you about your life – why should I? But you and your twin eventually became reconciled. Fulchard did not tell you the full truth immediately. He peddled the tongue-smooth tale of a dire accident in some Greek tavern. Time passed and the truth eventually emerged. You were horrified. Black Beaumont was now a well-known, leading merchant in this kingdom. You wanted revenge. You sent Beaumont threatening messages, “As I and ours burnt, so shall ye and yours”. But then others intervened.’ Athelstan’s gesture took in the entire company. ‘The Upright Men are strong in both Yorkshire and Lincolnshire. Like the ancient Saxon hero, Hereward the Wake, the Upright Men are fortifying hiding places in the dark, damp fens of East Anglia. Gaunt vowed to burn them out and his flotilla of flat-bottomed barges would be crucial in achieving this. It’s no idle threat. The royal dockyards along Southwark were busy and the barges would soon be deployed. The Upright Men decided to destroy them. They held council and a very subtle plot was concocted. You and Fulchard would meet others here at St Erconwald’s for the novena vigil to our saint. The miracle would take place assisted by witnesses who are also Upright Men from different shires, ably assisted by your coven in this parish led by you, Ranulf. Once the so-called miracle had occurred, your brother would be hidden and later secretly whisked away. The miraculous occurrence would attract the crowds and wealth, a good source of revenue for some of our parishioners.’ Athelstan glared at Pike and Watkin. ‘As well as a source of great profit to the Upright Men in more ways than one. Visitors streamed into Southwark. Pilgrims thronged this ward and my church. Carts, sumpter ponies and barrows arrived with goods for sale. The crowd surged in and set up camp. Gaunt’s spies were overwhelmed – they found it impossible to survey such a multitude. God had worked a great wonder and, according to canon law, pilgrims and shrines were specially blessed and protected by Holy Mother Church. Moreover, this was not some sham – both the Bishop of London’s curia and one of this city’s eminent physicians have tendered the only logical conclusion on the evidence they have scrupulously examined, that a genuine miracle has occurred. The Upright Men now had an ideal way to smuggle in both men and arms in preparation for the great assault on Gaunt’s fleet of barges. You needed one more thing.’ Athelstan pointed at Parson Garman. ‘You too served with Black Beaumont. You were an ignifer, skilled in the casting of fire. You were also searching for “The Book of Fires”. You must have found it to create that inferno amongst the barges.’ Athelstan paused. He strove to remain passive even as the sweat started and his stomach lurched. These were desperate men. If he published abroad what he’d whispered in this close, dark room, all those grouped here would die a hideous death. Garman, cleric though he was, would feel the full fury of Gaunt’s rage. The justices of oyer and terminer, the Regent’s creatures, would be instructed to charge each and every one of them with high treason as they had committed arson in the royal dockyards. Punishment would be dire: drawn to the scaffold, half hanged, their bodies split open, heart and entrails plucked out, their limbs quartered, their heads severed.

‘What I have said is the truth,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘I want none of you to hang. I do not hunt the Upright Men but the Ignifer who has tried to murder me and my good friend, Sir John Cranston.’ Athelstan stared at Garman. In his soul he felt the prison chaplain was the most obdurate and probably the moving spirit behind this subtle plot. A highly intelligent officer with great experience of war, Garman also nursed a deep hatred against the lords of the soil. Athelstan decided to press the point. ‘Parson Garman, you always suspected that a hideous massacre took place on Patmos. Perhaps you also suspected that the mercenary Rievaulx escaped. Did you know his real name? Fulchard of Richmond?’

The chaplain did not answer.

‘You certainly learnt from gossip at Firecrest Manor about the threats issued a year ago. You must have deduced such threats were connected with the Luciferi, how someone did escape that massacre and was now back in England. The Upright Men have covens and conventicles from here to the Scottish border. You made enquiries and your plot at St Erconwald’s was concocted and hatched. Strange,’ Athelstan mused, ‘that you expressed little interest in the miracle, nor did you ever come here because you knew the truth. So, I ask you formally, do you have Mark the Greek’s “The Book of Fires”?’

Garman made to rise but the imposter restrained him, one hand on the chaplain’s wrist as he pointed at Athelstan.

‘Brother, we in turn wish you no harm. No!’ he shouted to still the muttering of Fitzosbert and the other strangers. ‘For the love of God,’ he hissed, ‘Athelstan has all the proof he needs. It lies in his graveyard. Let us tell the truth, or as much as we can.’ No one dissented. Athelstan was comforted to see his parishioners, the majority around the table, would also stoutly resist any assault on their priest. He beckoned at the imposter to continue.

‘My true name is John of Richmond.’ The hubbub in the taproom died. ‘I am the identical twin of Fulchard, alike in all ways except upbringing. My father was a yeoman farmer, prosperous enough to be a herbalist and an apothecary. At first, the birth of identical twin boys delivered safely was a source of great joy and blessing. Fulchard and I were not only very similar in looks but even on a spiritual level. If he was hurt I also felt injury in that place. Anyway, my father’s wealth and good fortune provoked envy and malice, whispering and gossip, talk of witchcraft and other evil nonsense. In the end my father decided to send us out of the locality to be raised separately. Fulchard went to Rievaulx whilst I was educated at Fountains Abbey. We remained separate. Fulchard matured differently. He found obedience difficult. He resisted all the strictures of the good brothers and expressed this in a love of fire. Nothing serious or malicious – Fulchard was simply fascinated by creating fires with different mixtures.’ John of Richmond spread his hands. ‘The night draws on. I will be brief. Fulchard fled Rievaulx. He served as a squire in a troop of mounted archers but his true love was for culverins, cannon and, above all, fire in all its forms. Like many restless young men, he arrived in London and left for Dover as a member of Beaumont’s Luciferi, assuming his mercenary name of Rievaulx, a joke at the expense of the good brothers who had tried to educate him. The Luciferi campaigned all over Europe until they arrived in Constantinople.’

‘By then Fulchard,’ Parson Garman broke in, ‘though I only knew him as Rievaulx, was an ignifer like me, skilled in casting fire, a good, faithful companion, trusted by all and trusting in us until that fateful night on Patmos.’

‘So Black Beaumont did massacre his henchmen.’ Athelstan nodded at the prison chaplain. ‘You could have told us this earlier!’

‘Brother, it’s not my tale to tell, nor could I without betraying others!’

The friar turned back. ‘So, my question. Beaumont was an assassin?’

‘Yes, Brother.’ John of Richmond took up the story. ‘He first led them away from the group in the desert outside Izmir, claiming that the likes of Parson Garman, or Saint-Croix as he was then called, were traitors intending to betray everyone to the Greeks. Beaumont gave this select group of henchmen a choice: to stay or to accompany him.’

‘Why didn’t he leave all of them?’ Athelstan asked, then he smiled. ‘A truly selfish soul,’ he murmured. ‘Beaumont needed protection, an escort across the desert.’

‘At the time my brother Fulchard and the others reluctantly agreed, yet the seeds of mistrust were sown. Black Beaumont realized that. They eventually arrived at Patmos. Beaumont led them up into the mountains, claiming they would hide there until the pursuit lessened and he plotted a swift journey to Rome, other cities and then on to England. Quarrels and disputes broke out. As a gesture of trust, Black Beaumont declared they would share the mysteries of Greek fire. He journeyed to the villages and bought certain materials; Greek fire is not difficult, nor too costly to make. This was only occasion that Beaumont produced “The Book of Fires”, using it to create a concoction which burst into flames almost impossible to extinguish. Black Beaumont claimed they would make their fortunes by selling “The Book of Fires” to the highest bidder amongst the wealthy warlords of northern Italy, be it the Sforzas of Milan or the Medici of Florence. He insisted again that he had left the others because they wished to seize such secrets for themselves or sell them back to the pursuing Greeks. One night Black Beaumont, ostensibly to restore harmony and celebrate their success, declared they would feast on lamb, herbs, pitta bread and a fiery Greek drink, metaxa, which was heavily drugged. My brother only drank a little – his belly was disturbed. The others, however, collapsed as if dead. Fulchard woke to find Beaumont emptying wineskins full of Greek fire all over them, followed by flaming brands from the campfire. A dire scene, Brother Athelstan! The drugged men were aroused but by a raging inferno. Fulchard stumbled away into the dark, Hell’s fires burning behind him, the night riven by the most soul-chilling screams. He staggered into a pit of dust which probably saved him as the right side of his body was scorched by strange blue and gold flames. He fainted from the pain. When he woke he found himself in a goatherd’s hut being tended by a man and his daughter. They had found and hidden him as Black Beaumont, like some demon from Hell, sword in one hand, dagger in the other, prowled those lonely outcrops hunting for the one who had escaped. Beaumont eventually left. The goatherd was extremely skilled, whilst the flames on my brother’s body had been almost immediately doused by falling into the dust pit. The injuries were washed and treated with poultices soaked in dried moss and stale milk. My brother recuperated from his injuries, though it took years. He told me that during his stay his soul changed, seared by the murderous treachery of Beaumont yet healed by a compassion he had never experienced before.’ John of Richmond paused to sip from his tankard. ‘My brother stayed with that goatherd and his daughter for a number of years. They truly cared for him.’ He shrugged. ‘You are correct. Fulchard became fluent in Greek. Time passed. The remains of his companions were collected and interred. Memories faded. The goatherd died and so did his daughter. Fulchard, grief stricken, also grew homesick. He’d secured a little wealth and so began his pilgrim journey to England. He arrived back in Yorkshire with letters of accreditation from the Hospitallers in Rhodes, where he had stayed on his travels. He became a hermit, a recluse who begged for alms.’

‘And he approached you?’

‘Eventually, about four years ago. I had moved to Lincolnshire. I had a son.’ He fought to keep his voice steady. ‘My son was murdered for objecting to a market tax imposed by Lord Scales. I had prospered. I was a wealthy farmer and, like my father, an apothecary and herbalist. Lord Scales treated me and mine as if we were shit on his shoe. The King’s justices in Eyre were as corrupt, their souls bought, their justice twisted. Lord Scales was no better than a robber, an assassin. I became, for what it’s worth, a leading captain amongst the Upright Men in Lincolnshire. About the same time Fulchard sent messages which I eventually received. I journeyed to meet him. I arranged for secret lodgings. Fulchard was a veteran, proud of even his horrible burns. The story I told you about the tavern in Athens is what he first told me. Like all seasoned mercenaries, he was most reluctant to talk about his past. During his long years on Patmos, Fulchard had changed – become more humble, more loving. He wished to make atonement. He saw his sufferings as just punishment for his sins. What sins, he only began to tell me about two years ago. Reluctantly, slowly, he confessed to what truly happened on Patmos. I was horrified.’

‘You wanted revenge?’

‘I thirsted for it.’ John of Richmond paused as if listening to the sound of a dog howling at the moon: the squeak of rats and other vermin pierced the stillness of the night.

‘You sent those threatening messages?’ Athelstan demanded.

‘Yes, I knew about Sir Walter Beaumont, his power, his wealth, his close friendship with the demon Gaunt. I was set on revenge. Then the Upright Men of Lincoln received reports from Parson Garman about the construction of a flotilla of flat-bottomed barges in the royal dockyards on Southwark side.’

‘Do you know, Brother, what Gaunt intended?’ Fitzosbert the defrocked priest banged the table with the hilt of his dagger. ‘He plotted to bring Flemish mercenaries, killers who would be at home in the wet fens. They would thread the marshes on those barges. Oh, I know,’ the defrocked priest sneered, ‘outlaws, outcasts, wolfsheads and wastrels, men like me shelter in the Fens. But so do women and children, as well as peasants who’ve fled from cruel lords and taken their families with them. Can you imagine, Friar, what would happen? The black waters of the Fens would turn red with innocent blood.’

‘I travelled into Lincolnshire,’ Garman spoke up, leaning forward so Athelstan could see his face in the candlelight. ‘I met my comrades and our response was discussed. John wished to help, so did his brother Fulchard. It took us days to weave the different strands of our plot. We realized the vigil novena at St Erconwald’s provided us with a skilful and subtle way to prepare and mount our assault. The rest was as you say. Of course, we made mistakes, about the crutch, about how weak Fulchard had become. Nevertheless, we were successful. The barges have been destroyed.’

‘My brother wanted that,’ John of Richmond exclaimed. ‘He hoped Black Beaumont would realize he could no longer control Greek fire but, of course, Beaumont was sent to Hell’s eternal flame. All we needed,’ he spread his hands, ‘and God is good, was a brief period so that men and weapons could flow into this ward without Gaunt’s spies being alerted. Our envoys from the Great Community could come and go without hindrance. Comrades could fill every tavern and lodging house. Others camped out, all thronged into Southwark and learnt about its alleyways and runnels, whilst our spies inspected and reported on Gaunt’s defences. Now we are finished. Soon we will be gone, unless you …’ His voice trailed off.

‘What price did your brother ask for all this?’ Athelstan demanded.

‘To strike at Gaunt, to protect our comrades, to prepare for the great revolt and, when it came, to ensure that Firecrest Manor was burnt to the ground. Not one stone was to be left upon another, its soil sown with salt and its masters executed as traitors to the common good. And before you ask, Brother Athelstan, yes, we have sympathizers in the Beaumont household, though we do not yet fully trust them. They knew nothing about this. So, Brother, what do you want?’

‘The truth.’

‘You have had that.’

‘About the Ignifer, the assassin?’

‘We know nothing,’ Garman retorted. ‘I – we – can tell you no more.’

‘Oh, yes, you can. How you obtained Greek fire, its deadliest variety. You, Parson Garman, must have it. You must have met the leaders of the Upright Men to demonstrate its true power?’

‘No,’ John of Richmond intervened, ‘I did that. Oh, for the love of God, Garman, tell him! What does it matter now?’

‘We were given the formula,’ the prison chaplain admitted. ‘Brother, I swear to this. Every day I stand outside Newgate jail just before the vespers bell. I do that deliberately to receive petitions from the families of prisoners, scraps of parchment with a scrawled message for their loved ones confined inside. About a week ago I was standing there when a beggar pushed a small leather pouch into my hand. He was making signs to someone I could not see. I thought he was moonstruck. However, when I opened the message in the prison chapel, I found the writing was clerkly. The letter greeted me in the name of the Great Community of the Realm. Beneath this salutation was a formula, very precise and exact, giving the different constituents and elements of Greek fire. Anyone who had served as an officer in the Luciferi would recognize it for what it was.’

‘You mixed these?’

‘No, I did,’ John of Richmond retorted. ‘I am an apothecary, skilled in measurement.’

‘Yes, yes, you are,’ Athelstan agreed, slightly distracted. He would certainly remember that when he came to analysing all he had learnt here.

‘The Upright Men of Essex and Southwark wanted my assurances,’ John of Richmond continued, ‘that this truly was Greek fire. They trusted in my skill as an apothecary. They also believed Fulchard must have also instructed me. To a certain extent he did before he died. He could remember, albeit not precisely, the different combustibles Beaumont had bought and mixed on Patmos. I took a clay bowl out to meet them. They were soon convinced.’

‘Parson Garman,’ Athelstan asked, ‘do you know the source of the message delivered to you?’

‘The beggar came and went. He was constantly gesturing, as if there was someone with him.’

Athelstan held the prison chaplain’s gaze, wondering if the zealot was lying. Whatever the truth, the friar sensed he’d obtained all that he could, so it was time to be gone. He rose abruptly to his feet, surprising them all.

‘Father!’ Pike exclaimed.

‘What I learnt here, Pike, I swear, remains with me. Now,’ Athelstan gestured around, ‘all of you who are not members of my parish must be gone from St Erconwald’s by curfew time tomorrow night. John of Richmond, before you leave, sometime around the angelus bell, I insist that you go on to the top step of my church. Pike and Watkin will create a makeshift pulpit for you and other members of the parish will help. You will proclaim to all and sundry that tonight you had a vision of St Erconwald. How our great saint instructed you that the proper place for pilgrims’ devotion is not St Erconwald’s but the saintly bishop’s own tomb in St Paul’s. Let us be honest, let us be frank,’ Athelstan added wryly, ‘that’s the truth. Gentlemen,’ the friar raised his hand in blessing, ‘to those of my flock, I bid goodnight. To those who are not, may God bless you all on the strict understanding that I do not look on your faces ever again …’

Athelstan woke with a start. The pounding on the door brought him tumbling down from his bed-loft. Tiptoft stood outside with the four Tower archers.

‘What is it?’ the friar demanded. ‘What the time?’

‘Dawn is about an hour away,’ Tiptoft cheerily replied, ‘but the devil never sleeps, or so Sir John says. He needs you now in Poultry at Lady Anne Lesures’ house. Another assault, a hideous burning, Turgot her manservant lies foully slain.’

Athelstan hastily dressed. He snatched his chancery satchel and followed his escort out down towards the quayside, where a barge displaying the city pennant waited. They clambered in, took their seats and the barge pushed away. A swift, turbulent crossing with the clouds breaking and an icy breeze whispering like a ghost across the water. They disembarked at Queenhithe and moved through the tangle of streets towards Poultry. Athelstan didn’t know if he was dreaming or awake; his abrupt arousing and frenetic journey were unsteadying, his mind tumbled with the sights, sounds and smells that closed in around him. A beggar, garbed in black but with the white outlines of a skeleton painted on his gown, danced like a mad man in front of them before disappearing into the shadows. Beggars crept out of the mouths of alleyways, their clacking dishes rattling in the frosty air. Mounted archers rode by in a hot gust of sweat, leather and horse dung. A funeral procession preparing for the morning suffered an accident at the crossroads and the lily-white corpse of the deceased tumbled out from beneath its scarlet mort cloth to lie sprawled over the cobbles. Windows and doors opened and shut. Different voices trailed: a snatch of a song, the cries of lovers, a baby wailing, whilst a choir which had taken refuge in a tavern chorused the psalm: ‘I lift my eyes to the hills from which my Saviour comes’. A self-proclaimed exorcist, a placard hanging around his neck, swinging a battered thurible, billowing incense into the morning air, crying out that he was defending the living from the ghosts of the malignant dead. Outlaw-hunters from the wastes of Moorfields, admitted through the city gates before the market horn, led their pack ponies down to the Guildhall, the corpses of those they’d killed slung across the ponies’ backs. A macabre sight. The cadavers, stripped to the skin, displayed gruesome death wounds to the throat, belly or chest. Behind this sinister procession trailed a woman loudly lamenting, ‘Those slain on the plains of Megiddo’, whatever that meant. A group of moon-watchers huddled together, so close they seem to have one massive body and many heads. They gazed fiercely, their painted white faces straining madly as they watched the winter moon slide from cloud to cloud. Prisoners clamped in the cage on the Tun or the nearby stocks wailed against the bitter cold. A moveable gibbet on its clattering wheels moved backwards and forwards, the corpse hanging in its sheet of hardened canvas loudly creaking.

‘This is truly a land of deep shadow,’ Athelstan murmured as they turned up the street towards Lady Anne’s house. Lanterns glowed. Dark figures stood holding flaring sconce torches. Cranston was waiting for him in the entrance parlour. Even from there Athelstan could hear the wailing of Lady Anne, a soul keening like the wind for its loss. The friar glanced around at the opulent surroundings. The paintings and triptychs all proclaimed the same message – St Anne with her Holy Child the Virgin Mary. Cranston sat on a cushioned stool, head in his hands. He glanced up as Athelstan entered.

‘He’s struck again, Brother. Lady Anne, as you can hear, is deeply distressed. Let me show you.’ Cranston led Athelstan out along the hollow stone-paved passageway, through the kitchen, buttery and scullery into the great rear garden. Flaxwith and his bailiffs were busy there. The air was thick with smoke billowing out of a stone-built building which reminded Athelstan of the nave of a primitive church. It stood in the centre of the garden. In its prime it must have been pleasing to the eye but now its shutters, blackened and tattered, hung from their scorched leather hinges, whilst the door had buckled and crumbled under the heat.

Athelstan went inside the long, barn-like structure. All internal woodwork had been burnt to a feathery blackness, leaving smoke-blackened walls open to the sky. Clouds of ash and smoke still curled and swirled. Covering his mouth with the scented cloth Flaxwith gave him, Athelstan walked up the long chamber. He stared around, pressing the pomander firmly against his face. However, the smoke was too thick to stay, so he returned to the parlour. Athelstan sat down on the stool, gratefully accepting a mouthful of rich Bordeaux from Cranston’s miraculous wineskin.

‘What happened, Sir John?’ he asked, handing the wineskin back. ‘What was that building?’

‘A hermitage, a refuge built by Lady Anne’s late husband. A number of apothecaries have them, where they can safely concoct their remedies and elixirs. According to all the evidence, Turgot went in there to do the same last night. As usual he shuttered and bolted both windows and the door.’

‘Why? What did he fear?’

‘Like Lady Anne’s late husband he worked late at night. Lady Anne was most concerned about the Ignifer and other acts of violence against members of her household – but more of that later. Turgot was in there last night. Nobody gave it a second thought until a scullion heard the roaring flames. He roused the household. They went out but there was nothing they could do. By then the entire building seemed to be bulging with the heat, shutters and door buckling out, most of the red tile roof collapsing, flames shooting up.’ Cranston shrugged. ‘They let the fire burn. Once the conflagration had died they tried to enter. All that is left of Turgot are his blackened bones and the steel and iron from his warbelt.’ Cranston paused as Lady Anne’s steward, Picquart, bustled into the parlour.

‘Lady Anne cannot see anyone,’ he declared, laying a tray of food and pots of ale on the small table. ‘One tragedy follows another.’ He sighed. ‘I was the last to see Turgot alive, you know? Oh, yes,’ he babbled on, ‘the curfew bell was tolling. I went out to the Keep, that’s what the building is called, always has been, built by Lady Anne’s late husband when he was a bachelor in hot pursuit of the beautiful Lady Anne Lasido. A strong building, rather primitive inside but there were braziers to keep it warm and some rugs on the floor. Turgot was an apprentice here, a good one. I always thought he was the son Lady Anne yearned for …’

‘What happened,’ Athelstan asked sharply, ‘with Turgot last night?’

‘Nothing. I knocked on the door. He unlocked and unbolted it, I remember that. He looked content enough. I made signs asking him if he needed anything to eat or drink. He assured me, in his own unique way, that he did not. I remember he held a pot of lavender in his hand. He was mixing this with something else and he invited me to smell it. I did. I bade him goodnight and returned to the house.’

‘So Turgot was in the Keep mixing potions and powders?’

‘Yes. As I have said, he was very good at it. Lady Anne was most respected by the Guild.’

‘Did anything untoward happen?’ Athelstan demanded.

‘Lady Anne, after the tragedy occurred, was distraught, but she told us that she believed someone was in the garden last night. She was in her chamber when she heard sounds but she didn’t give it a second thought. Well, until that happened.’

‘So,’ Athelstan replied slowly, ‘the household retires for the night. Turgot is working in the Keep. The first signs of the tragedy are the flames roaring and the roof collapsing, yes?’

Picquart nodded in agreement.

‘All you could do was watch,’ Athelstan continued. ‘Turgot was inside?’

‘We found his remains, God assoil him. They were pathetic, nothing but blackened bones. They’ve now been sheeted. Lady Anne will see to the burial. She has also visited the devastation. She kept repeating that Turgot used the Keep to distil herbal concoctions. He liked to work alone. He would only open the door to admit someone he knew and trusted.’

‘Were the door and window shutters locked fast?’

‘I think so, Sir John. They buckled and sprang loose under the blazing heat.’

‘So,’ Athelstan supped at his ale, ‘Turgot was working late. Someone may have entered the garden, scaling the curtain wall. He raps on the door. Turgot would challenge this but lets him in. Once he has gained entry, the intruder, the Ignifer if that’s who it is, strikes Turgot down, casts the fire and hurriedly leaves. But whatever you say, Master Picquart, if that is the case the door must have been left open by the assassin as he left.’ Athelstan rose. ‘Let us return to the Keep.’

Athelstan walked out of the house and into the garden. Flaxwith and his bailiffs still patrolled there, searching the ground around the Keep, but he could he tell from their expressions that they had discovered nothing. As usual, Flaxwith’s mastiff, Samson, was sniffing about. Athelstan noticed the mastiff had a fairly large piece of parchment between its jaws which must have floated out of a window or door. He gently prised this loose and put it in the pocket of his robe. He heard Cranston and Picquart talking behind him and turned.

‘Master steward,’ he asked, ‘earlier you mentioned one trouble following another. What did you mean?’

‘I was just questioning him about that,’ the coroner replied.

‘Well?’ Athelstan asked. The fat-faced, gimlet-eyed steward shrugged.

‘Brother Athelstan, I am not too sure if it is of relevance here but Lady Anne’s household has already suffered a grievous loss. One of her retainers, Wickham the ostler, left the house two nights ago. He was slain in a violent street robbery only a few streets away, his corpse thrown into a laystall.’ Picquart shook his head. ‘Poor Wickham – a simple-minded young man, totally devoted to Lady Anne and her horses.’

‘So a member of the household was slain two nights ago. A possible intruder in the garden last night and now the murder of Turgot and the burning of the Keep.’ Athelstan paused. ‘Are they all connected?’

‘Violent street robberies,’ Cranston remarked mournfully, ‘are increasing. The ostler’s death might be the Ignifer’s doing.’

‘No.’ Athelstan shook his head. ‘Our assassin likes to burn. Moreover, the ostler had no involvement in Lady Isolda’s arrest and execution and neither did Turgot.’

‘Of course not,’ Picquart snapped, ‘though Turgot supported Lady Anne through that mournful time.’

Athelstan thanked him. He could make little sense of what he had seen and heard. Had Turgot and the Keep been destroyed by Greek fire from within? Had the Ignifer coaxed his way in, struck Turgot down and set both the corpse and Keep alight? Or, as with Sir John, did the assassin prise open a window or door and cast in one of those damnable clay pots followed by a flame? Yet if that was the case, Turgot would have noticed and hastened to protect himself. Athelstan took a deep breath. According to the evidence the most probable explanation was that the Ignifer had persuaded Turgot to admit him. He then struck and fled, which must mean that either the door or one of the windows had been left open, whatever Picquart claimed.

Athelstan turned and walked across the garden. Dawn had broken and the strengthening light made it easier to see. Inside the Keep the air had turned fresher, the smoke thinning but the entire chamber and all within it had been truly devastated. Athelstan picked up a stick and sifted amongst the ashes. He unearthed scraps of scorched leather and stiffened blackened ash. The dust swirled up to make him cough and splutter. Athelstan wiped his hands. There was nothing here for him. He left and decided to walk the garden to cleanse his throat and breathe in the morning air. He followed the pebbled path which twisted between herbers, flowerbeds, shrubs and bushes, flower arbours with turfed seats, neatly cropped grass plots and raised soil beds all glistening white and frozen hard, waiting for spring. At the very centre of the garden, on a gorgeous red and gold plinth, stood a statue of St Anne with the Virgin Mary as a young girl standing beside her. The soil around the skilfully sculptured statue and exquisitely painted plinth was rich, black and recently turned. The winter rosebush, planted just before the statue, was in full flower despite the harsh weather. Athelstan crossed himself, put his hand in his robe searching for a set of Ave beads and felt the piece of parchment he had rescued from Samson’s jaws. Curious, he held it up to the light: the carefully calligraphed writing proclaimed a verse from the scriptures: ‘Worthy is the lamb who was slain to receive power, riches, glory and blessing.’ Athelstan peered closer. He stared and gaped, catching his breath as his heart skipped a beat. He sat on a turf seat before the statue, reading that scrap of parchment time and again. Had it been dropped by the Ignifer? Samson had apparently picked it up from outside. Athelstan stared at the winter rosebush. He rose, walked across and crouched down. Stretching out his hand, he touched the six-sided cross, like that of a Hospitaller, carved on the plinth, the symbol used whenever a church or statue was formally consecrated. He returned to his seat, staring at both the winter rosebush and the statue as he swiftly constructed one hypothesis after another. He sifted through all the possibilities until he reached the most compelling, which transformed into a strong probability. To prove it, Athelstan recalled different individuals, their conversations and whereabouts at certain times. The friar, hunched in his cloak, brooded deeply, lost in thought, impervious to the cold and Cranston shouting. Eventually the coroner had to come and shake him by the shoulder.

‘Athelstan, for the sake of Satan’s tits, little friar, you are freezing to death.’

‘Sir John,’ Athelstan gripped his chancery satchel tighter, ‘I need your assistance to let me think There are certain tasks to be done.’ He got to his feet. ‘It’s time we left. We will give our condolences and adjourn to Blackfriars. Our refectorium, Brother Wilfred, brews a tangy ale. They say it’s the best in London, whilst our cook, Brother Geoffrey, creates a meat stew pie second to none.’

‘Brother, you have bought me body and soul!’

‘Sir John, be my guest. Whilst you eat I will be busy in our library and scriptorium, then I must hasten back to St Erconwald’s to ensure that calm has returned. I also need to talk to my little altar boy, Crim. Yes, that’s very important.’

Mystified, the coroner agreed. They left Lady Anne’s house, out through the noisy streets of Poultry and down to the city now cloaked in one of those thick river fogs. Cranston made sure their escort kept close. Athelstan, however, was not concerned about this, his mind tumbling like dice in a cup. They reached Blackfriars and entered the hallowed serenity of its cloisters. Athelstan relaxed. He ensured Sir John was safely ensconced in the prior’s parlour where the cook and refectoriam were eager to serve the coroner their tastiest achievements and listen once again to Sir John’s amazing exploits in France.

Athelstan excused himself and retreated into the comfortable darkness of the library and scriptorium. On a polished oaken desk lighted by candles he laid out his writing materials, weighed down a neatly cut square of vellum, and sat staring into the darkness. His gaze was caught by the lectern, carved in the shape of a soaring eagle, on which rested the priory’s principal Bible – a work of art copied out by the Benedictines of Glastonbury and presented to the Dominicans when they first set up house in London. Athelstan rose and walked over to it. He opened the Bible and turned to the place where he had read that extract from the scorched piece of parchment. He went back to his desk, grasped his sharpest quill pen and began to itemize certain salient points in a series of questions to himself. Item: the attacks by the Ignifer on himself and others were easy enough – all his victims had been taken by surprise. Who had been where and when? Item: apparently the Ignifer had also communicated his secrets to Parson Garman and the Upright Men. Why? Item: those letters, ‘SFSM’, scrawled on the walls of Isolda’s death cell – what did they mean? Item: what did Isolda have when she died apart from food and drink? Item: why did Isolda have that heated dispute with Lady Anne, who was doing nothing but trying to comfort her? Item: who had been a member of the Luciferi? Item: why had Sir Walter constantly boasted that the secrets of ‘The Book of Fires’ would be a revelation to anyone who ever found them and that they were safe on Patmos? Item: the Ignifer was someone passionately devoted to Isolda. At the same time this assassin was apparently the holder of the secret of Greek fire, so why didn’t the Ignifer try to trade such secrets for a pardon for Isolda? Item: a man claiming to be Vanner came to Smithfield to collect the charred remains of Lady Isolda. Who was this? Why did he call himself Vanner when that clerk lay murdered, his corpse deep in the mere at Firecrest Manor? Item: why did the Ignifer give off the fragrance of a rather costly perfume, the scent of crushed lilies? Item: what was the true source of the poison given to Sir Walter used first in those figs coated with an almond sauce and later in that fateful cup of posset? Item: Isolda went into the city to meet Nicephorus but also someone else. Who was this? Why the secrecy? Item: on the night he, Cranston and Lady Anne had been attacked, Turgot had been trailing behind them. Why had Turgot now been killed? Was there a connection between Turgot’s death and that of Lady Anne’s ostler? Item: the Ignifer certainly had a relationship with the Upright Men. Who favoured them – Buckholt, Sir Henry? Did Master Falke? Item: why was it so important for the Ignifer that Gaunt’s barges be burnt? Why was the Ignifer so determined to remove both Cranston and himself from this investigation?

Athelstan paused in his writing. He closed his eyes, recalling different images and occasions. Walking the streets of Poultry after that meeting at Lady Anne’s house, the attack on them near Aldgate. He opened his eyes and studied the list he’d made, emphasizing each point in his mind like a preacher memorizing a sermon. ‘There are still gaps,’ he whispered. ‘I don’t have enough … too many gaps.’ He took a fresh square of parchment and hastily wrote out a number of requests for the coroner. Once finished, he studied both manuscripts. He was still lacking one vital piece of evidence and Crim would supply that. A floorboard creaked behind him. Athelstan whirled around. Cranston had tiptoed through the door.

‘Brother, are you finished?’

‘For the moment, Sir John.’ The friar picked up the second piece of parchment and held it out for the coroner to take. ‘We must go our separate ways, but I need answers to these questions before the vespers bell rings.’

‘And what then, little friar?’

‘Oh, we shall meet. Yes, perhaps the most appropriate place would be Newgate Prison. I need to have words with certain individuals there. But first,’ Athelstan rose to his feet, ‘my quarry is Crim …’

Athelstan stared around the cell where Lady Isolda Beaumont had spent her last days. He had re-examined the graffiti on the wall and paced that sombre chamber, measuring his footsteps and half-listening to the sounds from outside. He had spent the previous day, once he had left Blackfriars, in the priest’s house at St Erconwald’s as he gently questioned Crim and Benedicta and received Cranston’s replies through his messenger, Tiptoft. The coroner had simply confirmed what Athelstan had suspected, turning a strong probability into a virtual certainty. Athelstan believed he had trapped the killer; now he prepared for that fateful confrontation. He stopped his pacing as Cranston, swathed in his cloak, strode into the cell. He took off his beaver hat, stamping his booted feet against the cold.

‘Have you set up court, little friar? Those questions you sent me …?’

‘And you will soon learn the answers, Sir John. I ask for your patience-’ Athelstan broke off at a knock at the door. He strode across, opened it and ushered Parson Garman into the death cell. Almost immediately there was a second knock and the Carnifex swaggered in, breathing noisily, bowing and bobbing to both coroner and friar.

‘You asked to see me,’ the prison chaplain began. ‘I thought our business was finished.’

‘Parson Garman, we still have words – perhaps not here, not now. I want to repeat questions I have put to both of you earlier. First, Lady Isolda and Lady Anne Lesures quarrelled here in this cell about two days before her execution?’

‘Yes,’ both men chorused.

‘And before her death everything Lady Isolda ate or drank was examined carefully, so no philtre or potion was given to her?’

Again both men agreed.

‘And Lady Anne gave Isolda a set of Ave beads, which she later discarded. You, Parson Garman, returned the broken set to Lady Anne.’

‘That is the truth,’ the chaplain declared. ‘Why, Brother Athelstan?’

‘Hush, now.’ Athelstan nodded at the coroner. ‘Have you brought her with you, Sir John?’

‘Lady Anne is waiting below.’

‘Parson Garman, Master Carnifex,’ Athelstan gestured at the door, ‘we will speak again and there will be fresh business to do.’ Both men left. A short while later Lady Anne, dressed in widows’ weeds, a black gauze veil hiding her patrician face, was ushered into the cell.

‘Brother Athelstan.’ Lady Anne took the proffered seat by the table, pushing back more firmly her veil of black mourning crepe. Her face was thin and pallid; eyes black and rather sunken though still bright with what the friar considered to be a malicious light. ‘Brother Athelstan,’ she repeated, ‘why am I here? You said it was a matter of life or death. I am in deep mourning for Turgot, my apprentice, my godson, my-’

‘Your helpmate in murder,’ Athelstan intervened, gesturing at Cranston, sitting on a stool nearby, to remain seated and stay quiet. Athelstan glanced quickly over his shoulder at the door. The turnkey had locked it as Athelstan ordered. This chamber would become his tournament field, where he would challenge and confront this most malicious of souls.

‘Brother?’ The coroner’s voice was a hoarse whisper.

‘Mourning, grieving,’ Athelstan declared. ‘Who are you, Anne Lesures, Anne Lasido? The widow and the do-gooder but, in all things, the murderess? I cannot for the life of me understand souls such as you.’

‘I am leaving.’ She made to rise.

‘And I will have you arrested. Sit down!’ Athelstan shouted. ‘Sit down and listen.’ Lady Anne composed herself on the chair, joining her hands on the tabletop. ‘As I said,’ Athelstan continued, ‘I cannot understand souls such as you. Your devotion to St Anne, your constant do-gooding, yet deep inside you,’ Athelstan beat his breast, ‘in the marrow of your soul, at the centre of your heart stands a temple devoted to your one and only real God – yourself. You are determined on having your own will and way whatever the cost to others, whilst you wage the most horrid revenge against anyone who opposes, objects or frustrates you. Turgot was your demon, your familiar, your accomplice. He was not murdered. He accidently killed himself whilst mixing Greek fire. He went into the Keep, locking and barring both windows and door. He carried with him a copy of Mark the Greek’s “The Book of Fires”. He had, in that death chamber, everything he needed. He had all the time in the world to prepare more deadly pots and missiles. Who for, Lady Anne? Whom had you marked down for death? Buckholt, Mortice, Sir Henry Beaumont? Rosamund Clifford, or perhaps another assault on me and Sir John?’

‘Brother Athelstan, you are witless. You have lost your mind. You do not know what you are saying. Sir John, I beg you …’

She turned to the coroner, who just gazed bleakly back at her. Cranston knew Athelstan; ‘Friar Ferret’ was how he described him to his confederates. Once Athelstan began a prosecution, he was very rarely wrong. Moreover, Cranston could sense an atmosphere. Athelstan was incandescent with suppressed fury, whilst the coroner was becoming deeply suspicious about Lady Anne as he recalled what he knew of her but, more importantly, the way she acted now. Athelstan was pursuing the truth of it and they would not leave this cell until he achieved it.

‘Continue, Brother,’ Cranston murmured.

‘There is an English proverb, Lady Anne. Nicephorus the Greek, you know who he is, quoted it quite recently. “Do not play with fire”. Both Sir John and I have served at sieges. We have seen the most dire accidents as trebuchets are loaded, oil boiled and carried, fire missiles prepared. Turgot, to his eternal cost, also discovered this, though I think it was also an answer to my prayer. I very rarely pray for vengeance, Lady Anne, but on the night we were attacked I prayed then and the following morning in the chapel of Firecrest Manor for God’s justice, for God’s vengeance after the death of that poor, innocent torch-bearer.’

‘I also did the same.’ Lady Anne rested against the table, a small white cloth in her hand, which she used to dab her mouth.

‘Hush, now,’ Athelstan warned her. ‘Enough lies, protests of innocence. Do you know, Sir John,’ he turned to the coroner, ‘St Anselm said that we were two people in one – who we are and who we really are – and only God knows the difference. Lady Anne,’ he turned back, ‘I shall tell you with God’s help who you truly are and as much as I can about your real life. I shall produce evidence for what I say. I will press the case hard.’ Athelstan paused. Newgate had fallen silent, as if all the distressed spirits which haunted its clammy, ill-lit galleries and prowled those foul, filth-strewn tunnels had stopped, hands to ears, listening to what was happening here, where a greater demon than any of them was being arraigned before God’s bar of judgement.

‘The ghosts are gathering,’ Athelstan murmured. He held Lady Anne’s gaze. ‘All the souls have come to witness. Evil is like a snake,’ he smiled thinly, ‘or Greek fire. Eventually it turns and strikes back.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘So we begin. You were born Anne Lasido, daughter of a London merchant who strove to secure a good marriage for you. However, you were headstrong and wilful, indeed, very much like your daughter, Isolda.’

Lady Anne started, clenched white fists coming up to her mouth.

‘You became,’ Athelstan continued, ‘involved with a young man. Now for the moment, indeed for the matter in hand, his name and status do not concern us. One thing I am certain of, it was not Walter Beaumont. Anyway, you had a romance, an affair, with this bachelor, and became pregnant.’ Athelstan gestured at the coroner. ‘Sir John here has provided a few details about your family life: after all, you consider him an old friend whom you’ve known for many years. Of course, that did not matter when our noble coroner became an obstacle to your plans. You truly are a Judas woman. In brief, your father was horrified. He did what many do in such circumstances. He hid you away until the girl child was born. Your father managed to secure a cloth bearing the Fitzalan arms to cover the baby in its swaddling clothes and the child was handed over to the Franciscan Minoresses at Aldgate. You fiercely protested. You truly loved that child with a passion as strong as, if not stronger than, any mother’s for her newborn child. You confronted your father. You insisted on having your way, naming the little girl Isolda, an anagram of your own family name, Lasido.’ Athelstan shrugged. ‘It was just a matter of playing with the letters of a word. Time passed. You matured into a ruthless, strong-willed woman who never forgot what had happened. You became betrothed to Adam Lesures and eventually exchanged vows with him at the church door and settled down to married life. Your husband was an apothecary, skilled in powders and potions, a worthy member of the Guild – but he also had a past. Adam Lesures had once served with Black Beaumont’s Luciferi. Adam was probably an officer, an ignifer, skilled in casting fires. At first he did not talk about his years abroad. This was common enough amongst seasoned veterans. The past was the past. Yet, Lady Anne, you are most persuasive and the truth would dribble out, a little here, a little there, whenever Sir Adam was in his cups and, I am sure, that was quite often.’ Athelstan stared at this ‘ferrea virago’, a woman undoubtedly of iron will and inflexible purpose. ‘Slowly,’ he continued, ‘your late husband divulged secrets about Beaumont. How he deserted his comrades and, above all, his monopoly of the secrets contained in Mark the Greek’s “The Book of Fires”. It would explain how Beaumont’s wealth was mainly rooted in that but, if Sir John here is to be believed, Adam Lesures was no match for Beaumont. He was fearful of him, wasn’t he? Too frightened to take arms against him. Too in awe of a man who had led an attack on the Imperial chancery in Constantinople. Your late husband would also whisper about much darker secrets. How some of those Black Beaumont had led had mysteriously disappeared. He may have even given you chapter and verse about those dreadful events on the island of Patmos. But what could he do? I suspect your husband was exhausted, weakened by his years abroad. If challenged, Black Beaumont would prove to be a most resolute foe and Sir Adam Lesures simply accepted things for what they were. You were different. Sir Adam was wealthy in himself and you acted as his lady, the wife of a powerful, rich burgess. Your husband undoubtedly drew a good profit as an apothecary, his experience abroad, his knowledge of strange powders and potions, the mixture of certain elements. You used your status under the guise of good work to return to the house of the Minoresses in Aldgate. Of course, your real task was to keep a close and solicitous eye on Isolda. You would single her out as your favourite good work. In truth, you watched her grow and mature. You noted her beauty. In your eyes Isolda was unique, very special, hence your devotion to your holy namesake, St Anne, mother of the Virgin. In your twisted soul, in that mind of yours which teems like a box of worms, you drew a comparison between St Anne and her child with yourself and Isolda. Your house is decorated with paintings and triptychs which proclaim this devotion. You are much taken with the verse “Sicut mater, sic filia” – “As the mother, so the daughter”. You taught that to Isolda, who learned at a very early age that you were her mother and that she must keep this secret. “Sicut mater, sic filia” in Isolda’s eyes became “Sicut filia, sic mater”, “As the daughter, so the mother”, which,’ he got to his feet and walked over to the graffiti etched on the wall, ‘would explain this last carving by Isolda – SFSM.’

Athelstan walked back to stand over Lady Anne, who glared fiercely back. I have you, the friar thought. I have flushed you out of the undergrowth and you are running.

‘You knew I might.’ Athelstan voiced his thoughts as he read the challenge in her eyes. ‘You did, didn’t you? You feared the confrontation which is now taking place. That’s why you tried to kill me and Sir John. You are a high-ranking city lady. Sir John knows about you – you must have heard of our reputation. You wanted to end our interfering.’

‘Brother Athelstan,’ she smiled, ‘you should have been a minstrel, a songster, a troubadour. What a tale. A dark ballad.’ Her smile faded. ‘Isolda would never have kept such a secret.’

‘As the mother, so the daughter,’ Athelstan responded blithely. ‘It was very much in her interest to keep silent because,’ he leaned over the table, ‘your snake-like mind, curling as dangerously as any viper, had decided to have justice. Your husband died. You and he had no children but your secret daughter had matured into a beautiful young woman and the very wealthy Black Beaumont was a bachelor. Everyone respects Lady Anne Lesures. Beaumont saw you for what he thought, a silly widow woman with too much time and money on her hands, full of fanciful ideas about helping the poor and dispossessed. Oh, what a hideous mistake he made! As you danced between Firecrest Manor and the Minoresses, you began weaving your web. You plotted to get your Isolda into Beaumont’s arms, his bed, his household and his wealth. You succeeded, but it truly was a May-December marriage and, worse, one fashioned in Hell rather than Heaven. Beaumont made a mistake about you but when it came to his own he was as cunning as any old fox. He did not concede anything to Isolda, be it wealth or, more importantly, the secrets of Mark the Greek’s “The Book of Fires”. Isolda, frustrated, turned back to you, her mother and patroness, to advise her. She secretly met you in the city. You provided her with money, even presents, such as a stoppered jar of precious perfume which exudes the odour of crushed lilies.’

‘Evidence!’ Lady Anne snapped. ‘Friar, you tell a tittle-tattle tale with no proof.’

‘In a while, in a while,’ Athelstan replied. ‘But back to my tittle-tattle tale. The marriage worsened. Beaumont, full of idle recriminations, recalled the sins of his youth. He was a great sinner, Sir Walter, a lecher with many paramours. He began to wonder if he was Isolda’s father, one of those blind acts of fate. Did he ever raise the issue with you? Perhaps he did, but you would assure him that she was not.’

For a moment, Lady Anne let the mask slip and she smirked as if savouring some secret joke.

‘Others, however,’ Athelstan continued, ‘hotly encouraged him in such fanciful thoughts for their own secret reasons. Sir Henry, Parson Garman.’

The smirk faded abruptly.

‘Beaumont, black of name and black of heart, decided to seek an annulment, which would have been disastrous for Isolda, who would be publicly rejected as soiled goods. You and your daughter met. You advised her to patronize and cherish Vanner the clerk, who would keep you informed about what Sir Walter wrote. Isolda also had an ally in Rosamund Clifford, another novice from the Minoresses, who was totally smitten with her and probably with you. She did not know the full truth – she probably didn’t care. Both you and your daughter simply used her as you did anyone to achieve your own ends. Rosamund was introduced to the Beaumont household as Isolda’s maid. In truth, she was there to act as your spy, Isolda’s ally, as well as a distraction for the faithful Buckholt and, as matters turned out, for Sir Walter himself.’ Athelstan paused. ‘As I’ve said, I do not think Rosamund knew the full truth: Turgot was your minion, your familiar; Rosamund was Lady Isolda’s. She would do anything for her mistress.’

‘Continue,’ Lady Anne taunted.

‘At the same time, you and your daughter plotted Beaumont’s destruction. After five years of marriage, Isolda had provided you with a clear understanding of matters at Firecrest Manor. Sir Henry Beaumont just wished his brother would die, so that his marriage to Isolda would be dissolved. Sir Henry and his wife lusted for wealth. Vanner was fully compliant with Isolda. Buckholt, a secret and ardent supporter of the Upright Men, longed to seize “The Book of Fires” to assist the Great Community of the Realm. Rosamund would humour Sir Walter to discover the whereabouts of that same manuscript.’ Athelstan leaned forward, jabbing his finger. ‘Of course, matters began to crumble fast. Sir Walter would get his annulment so it’s time he died. You are an apothecary skilled in powders.’

‘No, I was married to one.’

‘And you continued his trade after your husband’s death. You supplied Isolda with poison. You informed her how it should be administered, drop by drop, here and there and especially in those figs coated in their almond cream which Parson Garman brought. You know Parson Garman very well, don’t you? I do wonder about him and your visits to Newgate but,’ Athelstan spread his hands and returned to his stool, ‘that part of the past does not concern us for now. Garman was one of those who did not disabuse Sir Walter that Isolda might be his daughter. He also nourished deep grievances against Black Beaumont from his days as a member of the Luciferi. A fact you might know from your late husband.’ Lady Anne’s flinty eyes never flinched in their gaze of deep antipathy. ‘The figs were poisoned, just a tint to inconvenience and discommode. Sir Walter truly loved them, but of course the poison made itself felt. It disturbed the humours in his belly. Sometimes he ate them, sometimes he did not. Sometimes they were discarded or given to different members of his household with varying effects such as a passing stomach ailment but nothing serious. If the poison was ever discovered, Garman would be blamed. However, on the day Sir Walter was actually murdered, Isolda and Vanner hastened on. I am sure your daughter did not consult you. I have no proof of this, as Isolda burnt any incriminating documents, but I suspect Sir Walter was about to issue his letter for an annulment. The almond figs, heavily coated in poison, were given to Rosamund, who almost died. No one could doubt a murderer was loose in Firecrest Manor. Isolda then decided to follow a plot, probably devised by you, to exploit Sir Walter’s love for his nightly goblet of posset. Isolda and Vanner had prepared for this, purchasing an almost identical goblet, and we know the outcome of that. They would have certainly succeeded but for Buckholt and Mortice. You and Turgot intended to make these two retainers suffer the most, didn’t you? Let them live, let them wonder for days, weeks, even months, when the Ignifer would strike against them?’

‘Isolda Beaumont died a cruel death.’ Lady Anne spoke as if to herself, her voice scarcely above a whisper.

‘If I had any compassion for you and yours,’ Athelstan replied, ‘it would be for that. You, a mother, saw your daughter condemned to a most barbaric death. And what could you do to stop it? Reveal your true relationship with Isolda? Plead for a pardon or amnesty? Beg for a commutation for a swifter death? Gaunt and the judges were implacable. Escape was out of the question. I suspect on your visits to Isolda here at Newgate you did vow vengeance against all of them as well as providing Isolda with some comfort.’

‘What?’

‘You gave her a set of beads. Eleven in number, one bead for the Our Father, the other ten for the Hail Mary. You then pretended that a fierce dispute broke out between yourself and Isolda. This was a sham to cover what was really a passionate farewell. Both of you had reached the very end of what was tolerable. You left one gift, those Ave beads.’

‘Isolda snapped them and threw them away. Parson Garman returned them to me.’

‘The truth: Isolda snapped them to take the relief they offered. Some of those beads were really like nutshells – they contained a powder, an opiate, possibly the strongest dried juice of the poppy. Lady Anne, you are an apothecary. You distilled such a potion. It was your last gift to your daughter. Isolda could have taken them immediately but she didn’t. Perhaps she desperately hoped for a last-minute reprieve. Of course, that never came. On the day of her execution, Isolda chewed the beads she had secreted away. By the time she was lashed to the stake, she had sunk into a deep stupor, probably deadly in its effect.’

Lady Anne simply bowed her head. Athelstan thought she was crying but when she looked up she was hard-faced and dry-eyed, her mouth twisted in a smirk.

‘You then performed one last office,’ Athelstan declared. ‘You had Turgot dig a plot in front of the statue of St Anne which stands at the heart of your garden. A beautiful, well-tended plot with a lovely winter rosebush as part of the memor-ial. Moreover, both the statue and that small garden have been formally consecrated, I suspect by Parson Garman. It’s the last resting place of the mortal remains of your daughter, Isolda.’

‘She died at Smithfield.’

‘Who, your daughter?’

‘Isolda!’ Lady Anne’s eyes blazed with fury.

‘And her remains,’ Cranston broke in, ‘should have stayed there. Holy Mother Church and the Crown insist on that or,’ he pulled a face, ‘at some crossroads, but not in consecrated ground.’

‘You had these remains,’ Athelstan persisted, ‘collected by a man calling himself Vanner who came to Smithfield after dark and poked about the execution stake for whatever he could find. He was certainly not Vanner; as you know, at that time, Vanner’s corpse lay weed-tangled at the bottom of the mere in Firecrest Manor. I do wonder,’ Athelstan pointed a finger at his opponent, ‘did Isolda murder him at your behest, to rid herself of a clacking tongue, a weak man who might turn King’s Approver against her? In the end it was best if Vanner and any incriminating documents disappeared, be it at the bottom of that mere or a burning pit at Firecrest Manor.’

‘What has all this got to do with me?’

‘Everything, Lady Anne. The man claiming to be Vanner was in fact Wickham, your ostler, a loyal, faithful retainer totally devoted to you. A simple-minded young man, easy to manipulate. You ordered Wickham to collect the remains at Smithfield and, if possible, let it be known he was Vanner. On the one hand, you obtained what you wanted and, on the other, you deepened the mystery further by creating the illusion that Vanner was still alive and might well be the Ignifer. Wickham could see no harm or crime in what he was doing. He knew you had visited Isolda but would be totally unaware of any complex plot. Wickham was simply helping his kind-hearted mistress, to whom he was totally devoted. Even if he was challenged and it was proved you had sent him, you could easily disguise everything as a further act of charity for a poor dead woman for whom you felt sorry. The proof of what I say lies in your garden. I could have that plot dug up. I would certainly discover a funeral urn.’ Athelstan flinched at the look Lady Anne threw him. He prayed to keep calm and not give way to the anger curdling within him. ‘I have more evidence about Wickham. You used him on another occasion to create an even greater illusion, but I’ll come to that when I turn to certain sworn testimony Sir John here has taken from your steward, Picquart.’

For the first time Lady Anne showed surprise, her mouth slack, her eyes blinking before she swiftly recovered. ‘And there is the testimony of the Carnifex’s scrivener, Scrimshaw. According to him, the man at Smithfield collecting Isolda’s remains and claiming to be Vanner reeked of the stable. Picquart,’ Athelstan blithely declared to hide the fact that he was bluffing, ‘declared Wickham also smelt constantly of horses. Indeed, it was a common joke in your household. Totally different from Turgot, who sprinkled himself with the same perfume Isolda wore – crushed lilies – in order to complicate matters further.’

Lady Anne’s gaze faltered. She pressed the white cloth against her dry lips. Cranston caught her deepening unease.

‘Continue, Brother,’ he murmured.

‘Now we come to circumstance, coincidence and their cause – Sir Walter’s arrogance and total disdain for anyone else, especially women. Black Beaumont stole “The Book of Fires” in Constantinople. He brought it to London, had it copied then sold the original back to the Greeks. He kept that copy very secret. I suspect the clerk who created it did not live long afterwards. Beaumont was a professional, seasoned killer. He would murder without qualm anyone who might pose a threat. The years passed. Beaumont dipped into his copy to discover more secrets. Of course, life never stands still. Time passes. People age and, more dangerously for Beaumont, new threats emerge. The Upright Men made their presence felt. They hated Gaunt and his coven, including Sir Walter. More importantly, Beaumont had to face threats from the past. About a year ago, and you must have learnt this, Beaumont received threats, a stark, brutal message repeated time and again, “As I and ours burnt, so shall ye and yours”. We now know its source, a hideous secret from Black Beaumont’s blood-soaked past. So, Lady Anne, think of Sir Walter as he grows old, still cherishing his precious secrets. The Upright Men want to seize them – so does his pretty young wife, his brother, his servants and his rivals, not to mention Gaunt.’ Athelstan paused at a blood-chilling shriek of pain which rang through the gloomy passageway outside. ‘Indeed,’ he continued, ‘the list is endless, yes? And what can Beaumont do with his secret copy of “The Book of Fires”? Hide it in the ground? It’s not gold and parchment soon rots. Lock it in an arca, a strong chest? Then everyone would know where it is. The same is true if he handed it over to the goldsmiths and bankers along Cheapside. My lord of Gaunt would certainly keep it safe but never hand it back. No,’ Athelstan pointed at Lady Anne, ‘he gave it to you.’

‘Nonsense.’ Lady Anne quivered with anger but Athelstan could see it was pretence.

‘Listen, now,’ he insisted. ‘Beaumont was very devious. “The Book of Fires” was not copied on fresh vellum but in a specially purchased copy of the Novum Testamentum - the New Testament. Beaumont had the copyist turn to the last book of the Testament which, as we know, is the Apocalypse or Book of Revelation, written by St John the Apostle when he was in exile on the island of Patmos. In Beaumont’s Novum Testamentum the lines were specially spaced. It was simply a matter of copying “The Book of Fires” into those spaces as well as using the generous margins on all four sides of each page and the blank pages found at the back of any book. Naturally, written in Latin by a clerkly hand with the usual chancery abbreviations, it would look like what it was meant to be-’

‘A commentary,’ Cranston broke in. ‘Scholars do that in Bibles, books of hours, a psalter, a missal.’

‘And Beaumont entrusted that with me?’ Lady Anne jibed. ‘So I could read it …’

‘Hush, now,’ Athelstan soothed. ‘Beaumont was arrogant, with the most disdainful attitude towards women. He probably thought you couldn’t even read, certainly not Latin or the clever abbreviations of the scriptorium and chancery. And if you did read it, what comprehension would you have?’ He turned to the coroner. ‘Think, Sir John.’ He urged. ‘What better place to hide “The Book of Fires” than amongst the lines of the New Testament? Especially the Apocalypse or Book of Revelation written by the Apostle John on the island of Patmos, which describes the end of creation when Christ comes again with fire and sword? Beaumont would see the humour in it. He thought he was very clever that no one would discover the secret which explains his sly illusions of the whereabouts of “The Book of Fires” being a “revelation”, “safe on the island of Patmos”.’

Cranston was now beside himself with excitement. He snapped his fingers, now and again gesturing at Lady Anne.

‘Beaumont,’ the coroner declared. ‘Yes, didn’t he say that Lady Anne’s house was the safest place in London? It would be a sanctuary of peace when the revolt comes because of her good work in Newgate and elsewhere? The Upright Men would not place her house under the ban.’ Cranston whistled softly, shaking his head.

‘A shrewd move,’ Athelstan agreed. ‘When the revolt does come, Firecrest Manor will be high on the list of mansions to be pillaged and burnt. It would be foolish to hide “The Book of Fires” there. Now,’ he paused to collect his thoughts, ‘Lady Anne, you are, despite what Beaumont thought, an educated, highly intelligent guild woman. You mix potions and powders. You consult leech books, medical treatises and works of physic. You are acquainted with the works of Galen and Bartholomew the Englishman. You are both literate and numerate, just as skilled and experienced as any Cheapside mercer, and so was Turgot, your familiar. Remember, you told me how you had him educated in the chapel school at Westminster Abbey?’

‘If I had “The Book of Fires”, why did I not use it to negotiate Isolda’s life?’

‘Sharp, very sharp,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Sharp as a serpent’s tooth! A very good question. So I return to circumstance and coincidence. It’s a matter of logic, isn’t it?’

Lady Anne just glared back.

‘Some people are in the right place at the right time or,’ Athelstan shrugged, ‘some people are in the wrong place at the right time and so on. To be brief, you never discovered the secret until after Isolda’s execution. God knows why and how. Was it mere chance? Did you sit brooding and realize all you had left from your complex plotting was Sir Walter’s copy of the New Testament? Did you wonder what to do with it? Take it out and leaf through the pages, or did you reflect on all you knew about Black Beaumont? The years abroad, his sly illusions to the book’s whereabouts being a revelation safe on the island of Patmos? I cannot say, but you certainly discovered the secret and used it to deadly effect.’ Athelstan cleared his throat. ‘At the same time you continued the pretence of condemning Isolda. You had no choice but to mask your true intentions.’

‘You will produce proof for all this?’ Lady Anne asked. ‘You can evidence what you say?’

‘You and your familiar Turgot became very busy,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘You are an apothecary – you can easily buy the different components and constituents. You also had the Keep in which to distil them. Turgot was young, skilled and able. Once ready, you strike. First, Turgot attacks Sutler and Gavelkind. An easy enough task. Go out on to any London street and you will find someone carrying a pot, a pail, a pan and sometimes a lantern or candle. Turgot acted this out. A pot of Greek fire in one hand, a flame in the other. Vengeance was inflicted on Sutler, Gavelkind and Pynchon, foreman of the jury. The latter was not caught out on a London street. He made it easy for you, a bachelor locked in his strong room in the cellars. All Turgot had to do, using a pair of bellows, was pump Greek fire through that grille, followed by a flame. Pynchon was drunk, clumsy on his feet and, of course, he had sealed himself in. Even for someone with a fresh mind, unlocking and unbarring a heavy door could be frustrating. You also turned on us. You knew our reputation. You feared discovery and you wished to deepen the mystery. Twice you attacked Sir John and me and, on a separate occasion, the coroner in his own house.’

‘Turgot and I were with you when you were attacked on our way to Firecrest Manor!’

‘Oh, you were.’ Athelstan emphasized his words. ‘You were with us and Turgot was allegedly following to protect us. It was all a pretence. You wished to create an illusion.’ He paused. ‘On reflection, there was no need for you to accompany us so late in the evening. You did give us your judgement on Isolda, but you could have said that in the privacy of your own house. You simply wanted to take us out into the dark, wasting time so Turgot could prepare himself. On that night Turgot did not leave the house behind us, Wickham the ostler did. All we saw was a cloaked, cowled figure following us. Wickham was given strict instructions on what to do, whilst Turgot sped ahead. He launched his assault and then disappeared, fleeing through the maze of streets. Remember what you told us, how Turgot knew that warren of alleyways? Your accomplice hurled the missile then slipped back to act his part. Wickham was dismissed. The ostler was simple-minded, yet even the most sharp-witted might not have suspected. To all intents and purposes, Turgot had apparently caught up with him and assumed his usual duty of protecting his mistress. Wickham was instructed to keep silent. You, Lady Anne, clearly used that assault to show the Ignifer had nothing to do with you or yours. You played the same game when we were attacked in Aldgate. We left Pynchon’s house. Turgot followed us. He waited for his opportunity and perpetrated that assault. An easy enough task, you realized we’d be summoned there and be vulnerable afterwards. You created the pretence that Turgot was busy on your affairs in Southwark. He was not. You sent a mute, cowled and cloaked, that strange creature who suffers the same as Turgot, Didymus. Remember him? The twin who constantly makes signs to a so-called brother invisible to everyone else? We human beings, Lady Anne, as you well know, treat cripples and the maimed as if they don’t exist. You sent a mute to St Erconwald’s with a letter. Didymus, not Turgot, was your emissary, but who would care about a mute beggar’s individual characteristics? I did, only because of a boy.’

‘Evidence!’ Lady Anne beat her fists on the table.

‘Children are different. Crim, my altar boy, was fascinated by the way Didymus, after he delivered the letter to my house, wandered off busy with his sign language, as if someone else was present. That wasn’t Turgot but Didymus.’

‘I would agree,’ Cranston murmured.

‘Didymus did as you instructed. He gave the letter over, marvelled at what was happening around him and became busy with his invisible twin. Of course, you never frequented St Erconwald’s, did you? You said you would like to visit the Great Miracle but Turgot would have followed and that could be dangerous – he might be recognized. You deliberately deployed others where Turgot should have been whilst secretly assisting your familiar to carry out hideous murder.’ Athelstan rose and walked up and down the cell, grateful for the exercise, before returning to his seat. ‘Strange, Lady Anne, that you do not protest your innocence but demand evidence. Very well.’ He leaned forward, emphasizing his points on his fingers. ‘Firstly, where’s Beaumont’s New Testament? He lent it to you, that is a matter of record. Where is it? Tell Sir John. He will despatch a messenger to your house and find it.’ Lady Anne just glared back. ‘Secondly, I will produce part of a page of that New Testament. An extract from the Book of Revelation, scorched but still legible. A relic of that mysterious fire which killed Turgot and devastated the Keep. The extract clearly spells out a formula from “The Book of Fires” written above and below the scriptural text. Thirdly,’ Athelstan steeled himself; some of what he was about to say was only a bluff, hoodman’s wink, ‘Wickham is dead. Strangely enough, so is Didymus, found sprawled in a lay stall, his throat slashed from ear to ear. The poor man had been dead for some time.’ Athelstan stared down at the floor; that was the truth. Sir John had organized a careful search for the eccentric beggar man. Flaxwith had discovered his cadaver in the Hall of Deep Shadows where the Harrower of the Dead brought the corpses of those he’d found in the streets. Athelstan prayed silently. What he was going to say next was not the proven truth. ‘However, Wickham,’ he glanced up, ‘did make statements to Picquart about the strange events which occurred on the night we were attacked. Did he not, Sir John?’ He glanced quickly at the coroner and winked.

‘Strange tales, Lady Anne,’ Cranston murmured. ‘Strange indeed.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Then there is Crim, our altar boy.’ Athelstan ignored her question. ‘And his description of the mute who visited St Erconwald’s,’ he tapped the table, ‘and of course Parson Garman. You used Didymus to give the chaplain that formula from “The Book of Fires”.’

‘What formula?’

‘The one used to create such devastation amongst Gaunt’s flotilla of barges along Southwark quayside.’

‘Why? What are you saying?’ Lady Anne’s voice faltered.

‘Garman talked about a beggar man making swift, silent signs to an invisible personage – that was Didymus – on another errand from his so-called friend and ally, Turgot. You gave it to Garman because, well, there is the past, isn’t there, and, of course, the present? Garman is a fervent ally of the Upright Men. He is also a former ignifer, a high-ranking officer in the Luciferi. He would have recognized what you gave him and only be too eager to pass such a coveted prize on to the Upright Men.’

‘And why should I support them?’

‘You don’t. You hate Gaunt. You fiercely resent him. He insisted that Isolda be shown no mercy over her sentence. You did it out of revenge. It’s as simple as that.’ Athelstan sat head down, letting the silence deepen. Newgate remained quiet. Only the occasional scream or the slamming of a door shattered the stillness.

‘The case presses hard against you,’ Cranston declared. ‘Lady Anne, think about what the Crown lawyers will make of all this. They will dig deep into your past. They will note the similarity between your maiden title and the name given to that little girl-child so many years ago. They will ask you how Turgot truly died, locked and shuttered in the Keep. No one entered your garden that night. No one broke into that building. Your grief, however, was genuine because Turgot suffered a hideous accident caused by himself. There’s more. The piece of parchment Athelstan found. The whereabouts of Beaumont’s New Testament. The involvement of Wickham and Didymus. Descriptions of certain individuals will be drawn up and compared. People will wonder at the strange coincidence of both Wickham and Didymus being mysteriously murdered in street assaults within the same brief period of time. I shall move on. There’s your skill as an apothecary. A thorough search will be made of all the items you have recently bought. Your house will be ransacked, your records scrupulously studied. Gaunt will be furious and so will his familiar, Thibault, his Master of Secrets. He will drag you to the dark, sombre caverns of the Tower, where his minions will put you to rack and rope.’

‘You are guilty,’ Athelstan intervened. ‘You slaughtered innocent men. You will burn like Isolda did, but of course,’ he pointed to the white cloth Lady Anne was pressing to her mouth, ‘I know what you are doing. No, Sir John,’ he put his hand out as Cranston made to rise, ‘let her go to judgement.’ The friar rose and stood over her. ‘You have swallowed some malignancy, haven’t you?’

The white cloth still clutched to her mouth, Lady Anne smiled at Athelstan with those eerie, night-black eyes, even as she coughed, tensed then relaxed.

‘Clever little friar.’ She took the cloth from her mouth, where a slight creamy froth bubbled. ‘So accurate, so exact in so many details.’ She moved, her hands still clutching the cloth, and wagged a finger at Athelstan. ‘Cranston is right. You are a ferret in human flesh. I warned Turgot about you, I really did. There’re a few errors, some gaps, but what does it matter, eh? Why should I wait? Isolda has gone. Turgot has gone. What is left for me?’ She coughed throatily. Athelstan glimpsed blood bubbling in the froth staining her thin, pale lips. ‘At least we sent Black Beaumont to judgement before us. He was the cause of it all.’ She coughed, a sobbing sound which twisted her body. ‘He stole from us and I nearly stole it back.’ She sat rocking in her chair, her face twisted, her eyes fluttering. She gave a deep sigh and tilted sideways, sprawling on to the floor, her body convulsing, then she lay still.

Athelstan knelt down and pressed his hand against the side of her neck, but he could detect no pulse of life. He twisted her face towards him. She stared back, an empty, glassy gaze as blood trickled between her lips.

‘God knows what she swallowed.’ The friar rose and gingerly shook the blood-stained cloth. He gently sifted the small yellow pellets out on to the tabletop.

‘You knew she would do that?’ Cranston demanded.

‘Yes, I did. Whatever her crimes, Sir John, the tortures Gaunt would have inflicted should not be imposed on any human being. I prayed for judgement and we have received it. She and Turgot have gone to God to answer for their crimes.’

‘You will give her the last rites, Brother?’

‘Not me, Sir John.’ Athelstan walked to the door. ‘Stay with her until I return.’ He rapped on the door and the turnkey unlocked it. He glimpsed Lady Anne’s corpse sprawled on the floor. Athelstan calmed him, whispering that the coroner had matters in hand. The gaoler took him down to the shadow-filled chapel where Parson Garman was kneeling on a prie-dieu before the small Lady altar, lit by a halo of taper-light. The chaplain did not move as Athelstan walked slowly up behind him.

‘You must have suspected why we brought her here,’ the friar declared. Parson Garman remained kneeling, glancing over his shoulder as the turnkey left, closing the chapel door.

‘She’s dead,’ Athelstan continued. ‘She took her own life. You should give Lady Anne what spiritual solace you can.’

‘Why?’ Garman whispered.

‘You know who she really was,’ Athelstan continued. ‘You recognized what Anne Lasido was capable of. You and her, Parson Garman, are well suited. Sir Walter returned decades ago from Outremer – you followed shortly afterwards. You, Adam Lesures and Anne Lasido became firm friends. I suspect that you and she had a passionate affair. Did she become pregnant with your child?’

‘You are correct.’ Garman’s voice was calm. ‘There were three of us – me, Anne and Adam Lesures. Anne was a wild, free spirit, flattered by our passion for her. She held love trysts with both of us and became pregnant. Adam Lesures did not wish to acknowledge the child, and neither could I. I had applied to the Bishop’s curia to be ordained.’ The parson rose from the prie-dieu and walked through the dancing shadows towards Athelstan. ‘We thought it best if Anne withdrew, had her child and then married Adam Lesures. Whatever you may think of her, Brother Athelstan, Adam truly loved her.’

‘And the child?’

‘You know full well, Brother Athelstan, that she was handed over to the Minoresses. Adam Lesures swore that if that happened, and we both kept silent, he would marry Anne.’

‘Isolda could have been your daughter?’

‘Could have been, might have been.’ The chaplain mimicked Athelstan’s words. ‘There are more important matters than a love child, a baby girl. I had a vocation to be a priest, to spread the message amongst the poor.’

‘You approved of Isolda’s marriage to Beaumont?’

‘I neither approved nor disapproved.’

‘Yes, you did. You and Lady Anne saw the marriage as a way of bringing Sir Walter down, of seizing his secrets and sharing his wealth. Beaumont, however, was a match for all of you – cunning as a snake. Isolda did not get what she wanted. Sir Walter began to raise doubts about his marriage. You, because of your deep hatred for him, were only too willing to feed his anxieties, to taunt him. You brought those almond-coated figs. Did you suspect Isolda was poisoning him? Given Sir Walter’s grumbling sickness, the thought must have crossed your mind, but you did not really care, did you, as long as Beaumont died. Revenge sweet enough for you.’

Garman just stood, Ave beads wrapped around his right hand as he rubbed his mouth with his left. Athelstan was immediately struck by the similarity between this priest and Lady Anne: that same hard, unfaltering gaze of a zealot, of a soul totally locked in its own purposes.

‘Your daughter …?’

‘If she was my daughter.’

‘Isolda was condemned to a brutal death.’

‘I could do nothing.’

‘Except allow Lady Anne to give her Ave beads?’ Athelstan pointed at those wrapped around Garman’s finger. ‘Though Isolda’s beads were not for prayer.’ The chaplain did not reply.

‘And afterwards,’ Athelstan stepped closer, ‘did you suspect who the Ignifer was? You knew Anne Lesures. You were once close to her as she was to you – that’s one of the reasons she visited this prison, to sustain a relationship begun decades earlier.’

‘I hear what you say, Brother, but,’ he shrugged, ‘what are suspicions? Anne Lesures and Isolda never confided in me. I was a mere spectator. Moreover, I am dedicated to causes more noble, more important than the wicked doings of this person or that. I pray, I strive for a better world. The building of a New Jerusalem, God’s Commonwealth here on earth.’

‘Parson Garman, you frighten me, you truly do.’

‘Why, Brother?’

Athelstan shrugged and turned away. ‘You still have duties, Parson Garman. You should see to Anne Lesures’ corpse and soul. I must meet Nicephorus.’

‘Brother Athelstan, I asked you a question. Why do I frighten you?’

‘Oh, because you make me wonder. Do we priests, who claim to love everybody, do we, in the end, really love anybody?’ Athelstan raised a hand. ‘Good day, Parson Garman.’