The Book of Fires

PART THREE

The ‘other matters’ Athelstan referred to preoccupied him long after the compline bell had tolled. He sat in the well-scrubbed kitchen of his little priest house and stared down at the elegantly written memorandum drawn up by Master Tuddenham. The Bishop’s envoy had been most thorough. He had questioned Fulchard and Richmond, his companion Fitzosbert and all relevant witnesses. He had summoned others he needed to question, whilst one of his clerks, skilled in detecting forged seals and letters, had scrutinized all the documents Fulchard carried with him. Tuddenham had carefully sifted the evidence and reached stark conclusions.

Item: Fulchard the cripple and Fulchard the healed man are one and the same person. Philippe the physician journeyed across the Thames in order to inspect the patient. He recognized the same man, albeit cured, who had visited the House of Mercy at St Bartholomew’s Hospital only a few days earlier. Philippe had noted the same height, looks, hair, eyes and distinguishing marks. The physician had added two codicils. Firstly, the man he had originally inspected was not only grievously injured and scarred but, because of his hideous wounds and the exertions of his journey south, also very weak. Secondly, if there were any differences noted, these could be explained by the cure itself.

Item: on the night of the Great Miracle, witnesses had seen Fulchard, cowled and cloaked, hobble on his crutch into St Erconwald’s and lie down in the nave close to the saint’s chantry chapel. He had lain there all night: those close by noticed him twitching and moaning but nothing remarkable. On one occasion Fulchard had sat up to drink from a waterskin then lain down again. He did not leave his place until the end of the Mass and the cure was proclaimed.

Item: Master Tuddenham and his clerks had scrutinized Fulchard’s letters, licences and warrants: they listened to Philippe the physician’s account and closely interrogated relevant witnesses. Tuddenham emphasized that, apart from Fitzosbert, these were strangers from different shires. Consequently, the only logical conclusion was that a miracle had, thanks be to God, occurred. Tuddenham added how the Bishop of London’s searchers, as well as those of the Archdeacon’s court, had made careful scrutiny throughout Southwark and the city to ensure there was ‘no other’, as Tuddenham tactfully put it, ‘Fulchard of Richmond’. Nothing had been discovered. The same searchers had questioned the boatmen along Southwark quay as well as Master Robert Burdon, keeper of the gates on London Bridge. They too had nothing to report.

‘And,’ Athelstan picked up a parchment from the table, ‘neither have Sir John’s searchers and he hires the very best – greyhounds in human form.’ Athelstan leaned back in his chair and stared around. All was in order here. Master Tuddenham had used this small house to conduct his investigations and left with his entourage. Benedicta, with the help of some of the parish council, had then swept through the house, cleaning, scrubbing, changing and preparing for his return. A pie and a bowl of pottage stood in the oven next to the hearth, and there was fresh ale, bread and milk in the buttery. Athelstan had checked his three-locked chancery chest and personal coffer. Woda the washer woman had cleaned his two robes and changed the blankets on his bed. Crim the altar boy had ensured that Bonaventure had feasted like a prince so the great tomcat now lay sprawled by the hearth lost to the world. ‘Yet everything is not in order,’ Athelstan whispered. He peered down the table. Merrylegs senior had slipped into death tended by a Crutched Friar who was visiting the church because of the Great Miracle. The friar had administered the last rites and Athelstan intended to celebrate the requiem Mass the following morning and commit the body to the grave. The family plot in God’s Acre had been dug and prepared. ‘Which brings me to that other small mystery,’ Athelstan murmured. Apparently, the night before, Godbless the beggar, keeper of God’s Acre, had been visited in his cottage, the old parish death house, by some pilgrims eager for news. They had shared a tun of ale with him and celebrated until both Godbless and his nefarious goat Thaddeus had become hopelessly drunk. According to Benedicta, long after the chimes of midnight, Godbless was found riding a staggering Thaddeus around the tombstones singing at the top of his voice how he had been visited by his kinsman, Oberon, Prince of the Fairies. Pike and Watkin eventually put both man and beast to bed. Athelstan had paid a visit but Godbless was still ‘full of the drink’, as he put it, whilst Athelstan had never seen Thaddeus so quiet. He had left them to sleep it off and returned to his home to have supper and study Tuddenham’s report.

Athelstan rose to his feet and began to pace the kitchen. He crossed himself and intoned the ‘Veni Creator Spiritus’ for guidance. The Great Miracle could pose serious problems. The Bishop of London had made his decision and the case would be referred to synod of English bishops and then on to the Pope. If Rome agreed, St Erconwald’s would become an official place of pilgrimage, but what then? Athelstan tried to control his disquiet: his faith was a faith of miracles, yet he felt deeply uneasy about what was happening. If Sir John was suspicious, he was even more so. The same unease disturbed his mind about the grisly murders carried out after the execution of Lady Isolda. Why had they happened? Was the Ignifer someone who passionately believed the dead woman was innocent? Yet the burden of proof, Athelstan conceded, lay heavily against Lady Isolda. She was certainly no innocent lamb despatched to the slaughter. Of course, there was the mysterious Vanner, but Athelstan was almost convinced the clerk was dead and not in hiding. Undoubtedly, the Ignifer knew about Greek fire and might even possess ‘The Book of Fires’. From the little Athelstan had learnt, once the secret formulas were known it was easy to manufacture that liquid death. Nevertheless, murders of Sutler, Gavelkind and Tressilian were beyond him, brief moments in time leaving very little, if any, evidence to study. But the attack on Lady Anne? He and Cranston had been with her and Turgot when that shadowy assassin had slipped out of the darkness. Who could move so swiftly? Athelstan pulled a face. Virtually everyone he’d questioned. Some of these regarded Lady Isolda as guilty but two men passionately believed in her innocence, Garman and Falke. One of these, or both, could be the Ignifer. And what about others, were they telling the truth? Sir Henry, Buckholt, even that pretty-faced maid, Rosamund? Athelstan crouched next to his great tomcat. ‘It’s possible, Bonaventure, that any one of these might be a murderer. As for why, it’s in the past,’ he murmured. ‘Somewhere deep in this tangle of human souls sprouted a root which has waxed strong and poisonous. I am the gardener, Bonaventure, me and Sir John, heaven help us. This tangle is thick and thorny – it will take time to uproot and that means more deaths.’ Athelstan straightened up. ‘Ah, well, it’s time to see what is happening in my church.’

Athelstan fastened his sandals, donned his cloak, pulled up its deep hood and slipped out into the night. The cemetery and the great enclosure before the church were busy. Cresset torches glowed on the end of poles or were stuck into wall crevices. Makeshift braziers crackled their heat. Bonfires fed with rubbish flamed the darkness. The pilgrims and visitors gathered close to these to warm themselves or to cook scraps of meat pushed on to ready-made skillets, pans or prongs. The air bubbled with the stench of sweaty bodies, roasting meat and wood smoke. The noise was constant. A babble of voices broken by the occasional hymn, shouted psalms as well as noisy salutations, laugher, curses and oaths. People swarmed in and out of the church under the watchful eye of Bladdersmith and his comitatus of bailiffs. Benedicta and other women of the parish assisted. Imelda, Pike’s wife, a true virago, stood on the top step of the church directing people as well as collecting pennies in a sealed wooden box with a slit on top. All the denizens of Southwark and beyond had crawled out of their rookeries and mumpers’ castles, or what Cranston called ‘the Dungeons of Darkness and the Halls of Hell’. They’d all assembled to make a profit: apple-women, watercress-sellers, onion pickers with their produce slung on ropes around their necks; vendors of sheep and pig’s trotters pushed and shoved by milk and water men. Poachers from the fields around, garbed in hare and rabbit skins, offered the pink, glistening flesh of their quarry hanging from poles over their shoulders. Boners and grubbers who scoured the midden heaps and simplers who foraged for herbs, mushrooms, snails and grubs offered their potions along with chunks of cat meat. Despite the late hour, this ragged, motley garbed mob surged backwards and forwards, desperate to sell to the pilgrims pushing their way up and down the church steps. Jongleurs, troubadours, firedrakes, puppet masters along with street musicians tried to entertain the crowd. Men-at-arms from the Tower and the gatehouse at the Bridge swaggered around trying to catch the eye of the orange-wigged whores who, under the pretence of prayer and pilgrimage, solicited ever so quietly for custom.

Athelstan walked through God’s Acre. He stopped to check on Godbless and Thaddeus. Both were fast asleep, so he made his way carefully out into the enclosure, past bothies and tents set up by the pilgrims. He entered the church. More people thronged there, going up and down the transepts or queuing for entrance to St Erconwald’s chapel. Everyone paused to admire Fulchard’s crutch, now discarded but given pride of place, hanging above the saintly bishop’s tomb. Fulchard, flanked by an ever-so-demure Cecily the courtesan on one side, her sister Clarissa on the other, sat in a throne-like chair before the rood screen so pilgrims could touch and talk to him in return for an offering placed in a sealed box at his feet. Athelstan sketched a blessing in the air and passed quietly on, praying for guidance as he wondered how long this feast of miracles would last. He left the church and took a vantage point on the top step, staring over the concourse and the people milling there. The friar studied the crowd carefully and felt a chill of apprehension as he noted the large number of young, able-bodied men who moved amongst it. Intrigued, he went back into the church and stared around. Crim and the ladies of the parish were busy arguing, assisting and organizing, but Athelstan couldn’t glimpse Watkin, Pike, Ranulf and the rest of that coven of mischief. He left the church, pushing his way through the crowd. He strode swiftly down the lane, past Merrylegs’ darkened pie shop and stopped beneath the garish sign of the Piebald. He was about to knock on the door when a man stepped out of the darkness; the meagre light from a lanthorn hanging on its hook glittered in the blade of a half-drawn dagger.

‘Who are you and what do you want?’ The guard slid between Athelstan and the door.

‘The Archangel Gabriel,’ Athelstan snapped. He pushed the man aside and rapped on the obviously locked door. The guard came back just as the door swung open and Watkin stepped into the pool of light.

‘Why, Father?’

‘Why, Watkin?’ Athelstan mimicked back. ‘Please tell this gentleman to leave your priest alone.’ The guard hastily withdrew. Athelstan stepped into the warm mustiness of the taproom. The chamber lay in darkness except for the ghostly pool of light cast around the great common table on which Merrylegs senior, garbed in his funeral clothes, lay stretched out, his bare feet sticking up, his grizzled head and thin-lined face almost hidden by the corpse wimple wound tightly about. The corpse’s closed eyes were sealed by two coins, whilst a small wafer of bread rested between his bloodless lips. Votive candles, about sixty in number, ringed the corpse. Along each side of the table sat the men of the parish with Watkin at the top and Pike seated at the other end. They all clutched tankards of Joscelyn’s choice ale and used the blackjacks to hide their faces as Athelstan walked across to greet them with a blessing.

‘Father,’ Pike started to rise and the others followed suit, ‘we are having a funeral vigil.’

‘I am sure you are.’ Athelstan smiled. He glanced around. They were all there, even the hangman, along with a number of hard-faced, solemn-eyed strangers. Athelstan decided not to stay. He realized this was no funeral vigil. This was a meeting of the Upright Men from this ward and probably every other in Southwark. He talked quickly about the arrangements for the requiem Mass tomorrow, blessed the gathering and left. Once outside, Athelstan walked halfway along the lane and stared up at the slit of starry sky.

‘I wonder, Lord,’ he whispered, ‘do forgive me yet I truly do, if this Great Miracle has anything to do with the mischief being plotted back there …’

Thomas Pynchon, linen draper par excellence, or so he styled himself, spent his last night alive feeding and rewarding those fleshy appetites so roundly condemned by the preachers whom Pynchon half-listened to during Sunday Mass as he leaned against the wall of St Mildred’s in Bread Street. The church stood close to his three-storey town house: a fair dwelling of pink and cream plaster, gleaming black timbers and glazed windows though the top ones were covered in oil-thickened linen. On that particular night, his last one on earth, Thomas Pynchon had been trying to stifle the terrors which dogged his soul during previous evenings. He waked sweat-soaked, fearful that some boneless wraith might be rising like a plume of black smoke in the corner of his bedchamber. He sat in terror wondering if the wraith had a gripping hunger, a feverish thirst for his immortal soul. During the day, busy amongst his apprentices, Pynchon would glimpse some blonde-haired, bright-eyed girl and all his fears would blossom afresh. Once again he’d wonder if some demon, some life-thief, was stalking him. Pynchon stopped on the corner of Bread Street and gazed back at the three stout mercenaries hired to guard him. He glimpsed the tavern door under which a glow of light beckoned invitingly.

‘I will take a stoup of ale,’ he called out, ‘then I will return.’ The mercenaries grunted their agreement. Pynchon slipped into the comfortable sweet-smelling taproom and made his way over to a window seat. A slattern fetched his order, a tankard of the strongest frothy ale. Pynchon took a deep sip, leaned back and sighed. Despite his terrors this had been a most enjoyable evening. He had dined sumptuously at the Full Delight, a discreet tavern for the well-to-do bachelor about town, and Pynchon was indeed a very wealthy bachelor. He had feasted on minced chicken in almond and rosemary sauce, venison steaks broiled in vinegar, red wine, ginger and a little cinnamon, followed by quiche of fish with a green topping. Delicious sweet wafers in a hippocras sauce had finished the meal before Pynchon had climbed the tavern stairs to sample the pleasures of a generously endowed, buxom chambermaid with olive skin and hair as dark as the night. Pynchon had insisted on that. He wanted no golden-haired woman with fair skin and ice-blue eyes. Such a sight would only thresh his soul with a flail of fresh terrors. It would remind him of Isolda Beaumont standing erect and proud at the bar before the King’s Bench, glaring furiously as Thomas Pynchon, foreman of the jury, solemnly pronounced the guilty verdict. Looking back, that proud face, those arrogant eyes had invoked a curse through which all the ghastly horsemen of the Apocalypse had stormed – at least in Pynchon’s mind. At the time he had been proud of what he had done. He had boasted how he’d argued with others of the jury that a unanimous guilty verdict was the only one they could reach. Afterwards he had regaled colleagues in the Guild as well as his many customers about what he had achieved. How he had been resolute as an iron gate against any plea for mercy. Indeed, as foreman of the jury, Pynchon had attended Isolda’s execution, determined that the Carnifex show no mercy and that the crowd did not hurl blocks of wood or stone to render the victim senseless. Justice had been done and that should have been the end of the matter, but not now. The mysterious Ignifer had appeared in the city dealing out terror and death to all involved in Isolda’s execution. Two of the judges and prosecutor Sutler had perished by fire, burnt to death as easily as some rubbish heap on a sweltering hot day. More recently a similar murderous attack had been mounted against Lady Anne Lesures, with whom Isolda Beaumont had publicly quarrelled. The terror was spreading. Justice Danyel and six other members of the jury had fled to the fastness of the Tower. Three others had taken sanctuary at St Paul’s. Pynchon, however, could not leave his trade nor, after his recent pronouncements, did he want to be a laughing stock dismissed as a coward. Consequently he had hired those three stout fellows and taken careful precautions in the cellar of his town house. He had proclaimed as much, openly mocking the Ignifer.

Pynchon’s eyes grew heavy. He was sleepy from all he’d eaten and drunk, not to mention his recent bed-wrestling with that spirited wench. Pynchon drained his tankard, lurched to his feet and staggered out of the tavern, helped by his retainers, as he called them.

The linen draper made his way down Bread Street past the grim huddled figures crouching there rattling clacking dishes and whining for alms. Pynchon, as always, ignored them. He found the key to his house, opened the door and stumbled in. His swaggering bullies swept through the building. They reported all was well and retreated into the warm kitchen. Pynchon opened the door to the cellar. One of the guards came up behind him and made sure his master went carefully down the steps into the passageway. Sconce torches were lit. Pynchon reached the strong room, unlocked the door and took the lanthorn the guard had hastily prepared. Pynchon slurred his goodnights then locked and bolted the door from inside. He stood and ensured the heavy lock was turned and all four bolts were pulled firmly across. He staggered across to the table, put the lantern down and sat on a stool. He wrinkled his nose at the slight smell but gazed proudly at the comfortable cot bed, its mattress and bolster stuffed with the softest flock and covered with a gold, red-spangled counterpane. He leaned across and patted the arca, the heavy iron strongbox with its three locks. All was secure here. The cellar was of good brick and hard stone; even the timbers in the ceiling had been hidden under a thick coat of cement. A grille high in the wall let in air. He sniffed and shook his head. Perhaps he should air the room better and get rid of that strange smell. Then the draper rose and undressed, staggered on to the bed and drifted off to sleep. He awoke abruptly at what sounded like a footfall in the far corner, a sound of dripping as if there was a leak. He gazed into the darkness, mouth gaping at what looked like fireflies, one after the other, falling through the darkness. He staggered from the bed, his legs becoming tangled with the blankets. There was a sound like a rushing wind and Pynchon stared in horror at the flames which seemed to leap up from the floor. He grabbed a blanket and rushed to smother the fire. He slipped on the grease-covered floor and struggled wildly to get up even as the first searing flame licked his body. Screaming, Pynchon clambered to his feet. He stumbled towards the door but he had taken the key out and the bolts were drawn fully across. Screeching in pain, Pynchon collapsed to his knees as a sheet of fire engulfed him.

Athelstan joined Cranston in Bread Street as the angelus bell rang its message. The friar had risen early to clear St Erconwald’s and ensure Merrylegs senior was laid to rest according to the rites of the Holy Mother Church. The corpse had been removed to the parish death house suitably draped with black serge. Just after dawn, the women of the family gathered to wash the cadaver with perfumed water. Afterwards they anointed it with a little balsam, placed it in a linen shroud, sheathed it in a fresh deerskin and carefully stowed it in the parish coffin draped in a black pall with a silver cross sewn in the centre. The coffin was solemnly conveyed to rest on trestles in the sanctuary. The requiem Mass was celebrated. The coffin was blessed before being carried out in solemn procession to the far corner of God’s Acre. Athelstan committed the corpse of Merrylegs senior to the ground. ‘Dust to dust, ashes to ashes, in joyful hope of the Resurrection.’ Athelstan performed the rites amidst gusts of incense. He was surprised at how many attended, including Fulchard of Richmond, as well as how serenely matters proceeded. Parish funerals were usually a time of chaos, the wrong grave being dug or, as the last time, Watkin had become so drunk he’d followed the coffin into the ground and had to be hauled out with ropes.

Cranston’s messenger, Tiptoft, had arrived just as they were leaving the cemetery, begging the friar to join Sir John in Bread Street, where ‘Another horrid murder has occurred.’ Athelstan now waited outside Thomas Pynchon’s house as bailiffs cleared the cellar strong room as well as purging the pungent smoke fumes. Athelstan, threading Ave beads through his fingers, stared down this prosperous street. He was always fascinated at the contrasts in human life. Two houses away maids and slatterns were waging their ceaseless war against fleas and bedbugs. On windowsills, tranchers of stale bread, covered with turpentine and birdlime with a lighted tallow candle in the middle, were being laid out to attract and kill such irritants. Chamber pots and jakes jugs were being emptied into the sewer. The different smells of houses, being opened to the day, mingled with those more savoury odours from nearby pie shops and pastry stalls. Athelstan sighed – such commonplace things, yet in Pynchon’s house gruesome murder had been perpetrated.

‘Brother, we can go in now.’ Cranston pulled down the muffler of his cloak and they followed Flaxwith into the house. The place reeked of fire and smoke. Athelstan and Cranston used rags soaked in vinegar to cover nose and mouth as they made their way carefully down to the cellar strong room.

‘Look at it!’ Athelstan gasped. ‘Apart from the furniture, everything is fashioned out of stone. Wooden beams and pillars are hidden under thick layers of cement, yet it would prove no defence for Pynchon. In fact, it became a trap where he was burnt to death.’ Athelstan looked around. The chamber was like a spent furnace. All the contents, except for the great iron arca, had been reduced to crumbling shards or feathery ash which floated through the air, carried by the still-curling tendrils of smoke. The whitewashed walls were blackened as was the crumbling cement over the roof beams. The friar walked back to the door, badly damaged by the fire. He noted the stout lock and heavy bolts. The stench was still intense. Cranston and Flaxwith were coughing so Athelstan insisted they leave, going up into the kitchen where the pathetic remains of the draper were laid out on a canvas sheet. The fire had been merciless. Pynchon was nothing but a blackened, twisted lump of charred flesh and bone. The face was unrecognizable; the bone grey with hardening nodules of fat. Athelstan swiftly recited the last rites, overcoming his feeling of nausea. He anointed what remained of the head, hands and feet with holy oil. He then pulled back the heavy horse blanket to cover the remains and followed Cranston and Flaxwith into the comfortable well-furnished solar.

‘What and how?’ Athelstan abruptly asked, accepting Sir John’s offer of the miraculous wineskin. He took a deep gulp, swilling the rich wine around his mouth to get rid of the taste of smoke and burning.

‘Pynchon,’ Cranston replied, taking back the wineskin, ‘was foreman of the jury which convicted Lady Isolda. He was very proud of what he had done and made no attempt to hide his glee at the verdict he and the others brought in. Once the murders started, he hired guards and moved to this strong room.’

‘They are now very common,’ Flaxwith declared, glancing down to where Samson crouched, tethered to a table leg. The mastiff held a piece of parchment between his jaws, something he always did. ‘All along Cheapside, Poultry and the rest,’ Flaxwith declared, ‘they are buying swords, hiring dogs and, when the revolt comes, they will hide in their strong rooms.’

‘And Pynchon died in his,’ Athelstan declared. ‘So what actually happened?’

‘He returned home last night deep in his cups,’ Flaxwith replied. ‘His guards saw him safely down to the cellar. They heard him lock the door, withdraw the key and pull across the four heavy bolts.’

‘And the grille high in the wall?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Fashioned by a master mason out of a hard rock, or so I am informed. It has square gaps for the air to seep through.’

‘Let’s examine that.’

Flaxwith led them out into the garden ringed by a red curtain wall. The garden lay frozen and bleak in the vice-like grip of a winter’s morning. Herb plots, flower beds and the patches of grass were all crusted white. The smell of burning hung heavy here. Flaxwith took them over to the grille just above the level of the hard, packed soil. Athelstan crouched down to examine it. The air holes were small, no more than an inch square. Satisfied, Athelstan returned to the strong room. Flaxwith fetched a ladder and Athelstan climbed up to inspect the grille from the inside. He came down shaking his head.

‘How did it all occur?’ Cranston asked. ‘Surely the Ignifer would create noise, I mean, the entire chamber set alight?’

Athelstan stood, fingers to his lips, staring up at the grille before making his way into the darkened far corner beneath it. He closed his eyes and thought of the grille. How could a liquid be poured through it? He opened his eyes and smiled as he recalled a tapster draining a cask of wine by inserting a tube and sucking on the end to draw up the dregs. Or a boy with a set of bellows, and the games he and the other urchins used to play with each other. They would fill the bellows with water then squeeze out a hard spurt through the metal tube on the end.

‘That’s what happened here,’ he declared.

‘What did, Brother?’

‘Oh, there’s only one way the Greek fire entered this room, and that’s through the grille. Think of a set of bellows, Sir John, with a tip which could fit through one of those gaps, its bags full of oil. The Ignifer simply stuck the metal end into a hole in the grille and gently squeezed the oil so it ran down the wall on to the floor. Pynchon made a most grievous mistake. I am sure he boasted about his strong room and so drew attention to it. The Ignifer would climb the garden wall, observe the grille and plan accordingly. He would keep Pynchon under strict observation and await his opportunity. Our linen-draper left his house last night deserted and returned deep in his cups.’ Athelstan indicated with his head. ‘The Ignifer gained entrance to the garden under the cover of night and squeezed in the oil. Pynchon returns, he is tired, drunk, and the far corner of this chamber is shrouded in darkness. He is unaware of what is happening. Perhaps he smells the oil or, if it was odourless, the reek from its container, but that does not alert him. Outside the assassin waits, quietly watching that grille. He sees the glow of lantern-light, hears the lock being turned, the bolts pulled, all the sounds of his drunken victim preparing for the night. The Ignifer then returns to his task: more Greek fire is poured through the grille. Pynchon may have heard it but it’s too late, he is trapped. One or more slender, lighted tapers, small glowing pieces of wax, are pushed through the gaps. Think of a needle with a fire on the end. Pynchon is alerted but the sparks fall. The oil is ignited. Greek fire blazes swiftly and greedily up. Remember the recent attack on us, Sir John, how speedily those flames leapt as if they had a life of their own?’

‘But the smell?’

‘Sir John, this is true Greek fire. I suspect it is both colourless and odourless. Again, after the attack on us, I knelt down to pray for that poor man. I also picked up a shard of the pot the killer had used which was not caught up in the fire. I smelt it. I could detect virtually nothing. As I’ve said, the only odour might come from the container it was kept in. Anyway, Sir John, I suspect that’s what happened to poor Pynchon.’

‘Rumour flies faster than a sparrow,’ Cranston observed. ‘The gossips maintain the fire comes from Hell. God’s judgement on those responsible for sending an innocent woman to her death. Already there are grumblings in the Commons about the justice of this, how the entire case should be reviewed.’

‘No, no, Sir John. This was not the work of an angel or demon.’ Athelstan led the coroner out of the cellar. ‘Trust me, all of this is down to sheer human wickedness.’ He paused. ‘We’ll resolve this as we always do, by careful examination, logic and evidence. To do that we have to talk. We are in the city, so I think it’s time we visited the Minoresses in their convent.’

They left Bread Street, making their way towards the Tower. A freezing cold day though the sun was welcoming enough. They tramped through the icy sludge, keeping a wary eye on what was underfoot as well as the low-hanging signs and the upper casement windows from which chambermaids threw all kinds of filth. A relic-seller, garbed completely in horse skin, his antlered head covered by a scarlet cloth, offered the teeth of Goliath from his tomb in a miraculous cave overlooking the Dead Sea. Cranston told him to shove off, but the macabre sight made Athelstan reflect on the miracle at St Erconwald’s. He ruefully conceded that neither he nor Master Tuddenham had found anything to create even a reasonable doubt. The Ignifer was a different matter, bereft of any proof or evidence. So far that assassin had struck at least four times with deadly effect. Three of his victims were simply caught out in the street, an easy enough task. Athelstan glimpsed a maid carrying a bucket towards him, on a nearby doorpost a lantern still glowed. How swift would it be, the friar asked himself, for the maid to throw the contents of her bucket over someone, grasp the candle from the lantern and hurl it at her victim? Trudging slightly behind the wine-swigging coroner, Athelstan estimated it would take no more time than to recite an Ave or a paternoster. The Ignifer’s first three attacks had counted on surprise but the assault on Pynchon had been more cleverly planned. Apparently the draper had confidently proclaimed how he was securely protected; that had now been exposed as an empty boast. Pynchon lay dead, one further horror following the execution of the Lady Isolda. The Ignifer was proving to be very cunning. He might not strike at all of those involved in Isolda’s condemnation and execution, nevertheless he had created a world of deep dread for anyone who had anything to fear. Athelstan thumbed his Ave beads. He could not enter the soul of the killer. He suspected that like some hungry wolf sloping through the undergrowth, the Ignifer would lie low for a while, let peace descend and strike again. Lifting his head, Athelstan glimpsed a courier hastening through the streets carrying his white wand of office, garbed in the splendid tabard of the House of Lancaster. John of Gaunt, Athelstan reflected, was also deeply involved in Isolda’s burning. Would the Ignifer strike at him? But how and when? In the meantime, the assassin would spread his miasma of fear, a veritable mist provoking all forms of dire threats and menaces.

Athelstan broke from his reverie. Cranston was bellowing at two apprentices from a nearby smithy who were hurling pieces of charcoal at each other. His shouts and the ugly muttering of others drove the sooty-faced imps back into the smithy. They walked on. Athelstan’s attention was caught by an itinerant preacher garbed like St Christopher, or so he proclaimed, as he warned about the ‘foul, bubbling stew of corruption of the city, rich with murderous misdeeds and all forms of wickedness’. Athelstan quietly agreed with the words. He felt uneasy, as if they were being watched and shadowed, though he could not detect anything amiss. They reached St Andrew’s Cornhill, a veritable haven for felons, a dark den of thieves, apple squires, nips and foists. Cranston was immediately recognized. Insults were hurled, followed by clods of icy filth. Cranston drew both sword and dagger and the danger receded. They went up Aldgate towards the imposing entrance to the Minoresses. Just before the great double-barred gate, Cranston plucked at Athelstan’s sleeve and pointed to a large life-like statue of the Virgin half-stooped over an empty cradle. Beside the statue hung a bell under its coping, a red tug rope dangled down to lie curled in the empty cradle.

‘If a mother,’ Cranston explained, ‘does not want her baby, she places it in the cradle and pulls the rope.’ He turned and pointed back down the street. ‘The mother would probably hide there to watch and wait until one of the good sisters appeared.’ He approached the gate and pounded on the wood. A hatch high up in the door opened and a face peered out.

‘Jack Cranston,’ the coroner declared, ‘and Brother Athelstan, parish priest of St Erconwald’s.’

‘Oh, the miracle!’ a voice exclaimed.

‘Yes, we are.’ Cranston laughed. ‘Now come on, Sister, open up. Our legs are freezing and I do not want the cold to rise any further.’ The portress giggled, the postern door swung open and both the coroner and friar stepped inside. They followed their blue-garbed guide across the cobbles, through the great cloisters and into the parlour of the guesthouse. A warm sweet-smelling chamber, its white walls were dominated by the cross of San Damiano and painted scenes from the lives of St Francis and St Clare. The rushes on the floor were green, supple and fragrant with powdered herbs. The portress ushered them to chairs placed around a square table and wheeled in two capped braziers to provide greater warmth. She explained that Mother Superior would be with them soon – in the meantime, would they like refreshment? Blackjacks of ale and dishes of soft herb cheese on strips of manchet bread were just being served when Mother Clare bustled into the guestroom. A cheery-faced woman, the Mother Superior gave a scream of delight at seeing ‘Old Jack’. She then embraced both him and Athelstan in a warm, tight hug of welcome.

‘Well,’ she indicated that they retake their seats, ‘eat and drink. Remember what St Francis said, and this even includes Dominicans.’ She winked at Athelstan. ‘The first rule of a Christian is to be hospitable. Good, you are eating. Now, why are you here? Oh, no,’ her fat fingers flew to her chubby face, ‘of course, Lady Anne Lesures is already here.’ Her voice fell to a whisper. ‘Poor Isolda Beaumont.’

‘She was left here as a foundling?’

‘Yes, Brother, we took Isolda. I was novice mistress at the time,’ she shook her head, ‘just over twenty years ago. We called her Isolda Fitzalan because she was left in the gate cradle, wrapped in a cloth boasting the arms of the Fitzalans …’

‘Azure and Or, a branch of oak, vert and fructed or …’

‘Precisely, Sir John – correct to the last detail.’

‘The Fitzalans.’ Athelstan glanced swiftly at Cranston. ‘Surely Thomas Fitzalan, the present Earl of Arundel, is powerful? Feared even by Gaunt?’

‘Don’t let your imagination run away with you, Brother.’ Mother Clare smiled. ‘The Fitzalans are legion in number. I suspect that one of their young women from a minor branch of the family became pregnant out of wedlock and decided she must give the child away.’ Mother Clare sighed and helped herself to a strip of toasted cheese. ‘The swaddling blanket is no real indication of birth, it could be used by some maid or servant to show the child was noble born.’

‘Why Isolda?’ Athelstan asked. ‘A rather unusual name?’

‘Very simple, Brother. We found a scrap of parchment pushed into a fold of the blanket on which the name Isolda was written.’

‘Are many such children left here?’

‘A few, always girls, and remember, Brother, many mothers often change their mind and return for their child.’

‘But not in Isolda’s case?’

‘Never.’

‘What was she like?’

Mother Clare touched her starched white wimple. ‘She was, even as a little girl, extraordinarily beautiful, graceful in all her ways.’ Mother Clare put her face to her hands then took them away. ‘God forgive me, Isolda was also avaricious, wilful, obdurate and selfish.’ The nun crossed herself swiftly. ‘There. I have said it, God forgive me but it’s the truth. Isolda was greedy for wealth and power.’

‘And did she get that through her marriage to Sir Walter?’

‘No.’ Mother Clare blew her cheeks out in a long sigh. ‘Isolda often returned here after her marriage, ostensibly to help Lady Anne and others with our novices.’

‘And?’

‘Isolda always had a bitter litany of recriminations against her husband. He was wealthy, his purse bulged with coins, but the purse strings rested very firmly in his hands.’

‘Are you sure?’ Cranston asked.

‘Jack, would I lie to you?’ Mother Clare blew him a mock kiss.

‘So,’ Cranston shook his head, ‘Isolda had little or no money for herself?’

Mother Clare nodded in agreement.

‘Nicholas Falke, God bless him,’ Cranston breathed, ‘is a very experienced serjeant-at-law. He is also expensive.’

‘So who paid him to represent Lady Isolda?’ Athelstan asked. ‘It could have been “pro bono” or, in this case, “pro amore” – love. Falke was, and still is, much smitten with Lady Isolda.’ The friar turned to Mother Clare. ‘Do you know?’ She pulled a face and shook her head.

‘So in your view, the marriage was a failure?’

‘Brother,’ she replied, ‘after her marriage Isolda often came here. At first she acted the great lady, being feasted and feted. Time passed. She was married to Sir Walter for five years, but we noticed the change. She became deeply unhappy but, there again, I wasted little time on that. Isolda was rarely satisfied. I think she resented her husband for many reasons.’

‘Did Vanner ever come with her?’

‘Oh, yes, an obsequiously faithful shadow, a man of keen wit but few words. I suspect Isolda liked to see him dance attendance.’

‘And Rosamund Clifford, her maid – she too was a foundling here?’

‘Yes, she was.’

‘Rumour claims her father was Buckholt, Sir Walter’s steward?’

‘Rumour, Brother, can go hang itself,’ Mother Clare retorted. ‘That is nonsense. All I can tell you is that after Sir Walter married Isolda, Lady Anne Lesures secured Rosamund a place in the Beaumont household.’

‘And the relationship between the two women?’

‘Rosamund was as different from Isolda as chalk is from cheese. Pretty, very demure, very much in awe of Isolda.’ She paused, scratching her chin. ‘Indeed, both came back here. I suppose they regarded this house as the only home they truly had.’

‘Do you know if Isolda met anyone else in the city?’

‘Brother, I am immured here. I cannot say where Lady Isolda went.’

‘And the murder of Sir Walter came as a shock?’

‘God save us, Brother. It chilled our souls. At first I couldn’t believe what had happened. I thought it was a mistake. In the weeks before Sir Walter died, neither Isolda nor Rosamund came here. We only learnt what happened …’ Her voice faltered, and Athelstan leaned over and squeezed her hand.

‘Mother Clare,’ he said softly, ‘all we want is the truth.’ He withdrew his hand.

‘After Sir Walter died we had visitors enough: Lady Anne Lesures, Sir Henry, Buckholt, Garman and of course Master Nicholas Falke, the lawyer. The household of Firecrest Manor were always welcome here. The Beaumonts have always been generous patrons of this nunnery.’ She blinked. ‘Sometimes I wonder why. I mean, you men are so eager to make reparation for the sins of the flesh, especially those of hot-blooded youth.’

‘I can’t comment on that,’ Cranston retorted. ‘There is only one woman in my life, the Lady Maude, God bless her. Anyway, since the murder?’

‘Sir Henry still visits us. He has made it very clear that the murder of his brother was Isolda’s doing and hers alone, no reflection on the Minoresses or our good work here.’

‘But Sir Walter came here after his marriage?’

‘Yes, until he fell sick and weak. Sometimes he would send Buckholt, his steward.’

‘And Parson Garman?’

‘Edward Garman is a former Hospitaller, now a priest, chaplain at Newgate and,’ her smile widened, ‘my very distant kinsman. Oh, yes, like all men he was much smitten by Isolda and, as with Master Falke, came here after the murder to discover more about her past, her childhood, anything that could be used in her defence. Falke and Garman passionately believed in Isolda’s total innocence. However,’ she added flatly, ‘Buckholt told me about me about the posset cup. God forgive her but that was damning evidence.’

‘And Lady Anne Lesures?’

‘Oh, Anne, like many a young woman, married a man much older than her, a powerful city merchant, a patron of this house. He introduced Lady Anne to us. Good Lord, I have known her for so many years. Adam Lesures was an apothecary, a spicer and a very good one despite his deep love for rich red wine. Lady Anne has inherited his place in the Guild. Adam was also, so I understand,’ Mother Clare lowered her voice, ‘a member of Sir Walter’s free company, though after he returned, Adam ploughed his own furrow and left Sir Walter to his own devices. Adam became a patron of our house and, as I say, introduced us to Lady Anne – Anne Lasido as she was then known, the daughter of a London wool merchant.’ Mother Clare touched the wooden tau cross hanging on a cord around her neck. ‘Lady Anne proved to be of great assistance to us, introducing our novices to noble and genteel society according to a particular young woman’s talents and inclinations. Lady Anne had a great admiration for Isolda but, like me, she was not fooled by Isolda’s air of cloying sweetness. We thought marriage to Sir Walter would answer her needs and change her.’

‘And Isolda continued to come back here, I mean before the murder?’

‘Of course.’

‘Did she,’ Athelstan asked, ‘ever refer to “The Book of Fires”?’

‘I have heard of that,’ Mother Clare replied. ‘Of course, Sir Walter was the King’s Master of Ordnance. Rumours abounded that the Beaumonts possessed secret formulas. Isolda sarcastically referred to how her husband’s wealth came from fire.’

‘And did she discuss her marriage to Sir Walter?’

‘Not so much discuss as pronounce. As I have said, she resented his control. Isolda really wanted to be by herself and do what she wanted. You could see the marriage was not one made in heaven and on that,’ Mother Clare rapped the tabletop with her fingers, ‘let me explain. On a number of occasions, just weeks before the murder, Isolda visited our small library. She was as learned in her horn-book as any scholar at St Paul’s, though her real interest, or so I thought, was the tales of Arthur and Avalon. You can imagine my surprise when I decided to follow her into the library. I hid in the shadows – you see, her visits had made me curious. Anyway, something happened and she had to leave quickly. Once she had gone, I crossed to the book she had placed on the lectern. To my surprise it was the Codex Juris Canonici – the Code of Canon Law. When I opened the book, the marker, a red ribbon, lay across the chapter on seeking an annulment to a marriage.’

‘An annulment!’ Athelstan exclaimed. ‘Did she ever say anything about that?’

‘Never, Brother. I don’t know if she was seeking an annulment. Did she hate her marriage so much, resent her husband so deeply? I don’t …’ She broke off at a knock at the door. A young novice entered and whispered a message.

‘Oh, bring her in,’ Mother Clare trumpeted. She glanced around the novice. ‘Come in, Lady Anne. I have no secrets from you.’

Lady Anne Lesures, garbed in robes very similar to the nun, swept in, smiled at Cranston and Athelstan then pecked Mother Clare on the cheek.

‘Brother Athelstan,’ she explained, ‘I have been very busy. I wish I’d known you were coming here.’

‘Why?’

‘Oh, never mind, I shall explain before we leave.’

‘Come,’ Mother Clare beckoned, ‘come in, Anne, and close the door. I was telling Sir John about Isolda reading the code about annulment.’

‘Did she ever discuss it with you?’ Athelstan asked.

‘No.’ Lady Anne’s face sharpened. ‘Never. Isolda was spoilt, wilful and greedy but she had a high opinion of herself and her marriage. I didn’t give it a second thought. Indeed,’ she rubbed the side of her face, ‘I’d forgotten all about that.’

‘And you were friendly with her husband, Sir Walter?’

‘Brother Athelstan, as you can imagine, we walked the same meadow and rested in the same orchard: banquets, celebrations, guild days and festival occasions. I would pester Sir Walter for alms for a number of good causes. Sir Walter was very kind. He entrusted his Novum Testamentum - his New Testament – to me, a great family treasure. However, about a year before he died, Sir Walter grew sickly, tired, reserved and withdrawn, so I had fewer dealings with him.’

‘During the trial,’ Cranston observed, ‘it was alleged that Sir Walter’s sickness could have been due to a slow poisoning. Sutler seemed to believe that, as did Buckholt.’

‘Sir John,’ Lady Anne grasped Mother Clare’s wrist, ‘we know nothing of that.’

‘And Reginald Vanner?’

‘As I said,’ Mother Clare declared, ‘Isolda just used him like she used everyone else. Yes, Lady Anne?’

‘Oh, I agree.’

‘And “The Book of Fires”, Lady Anne? Did Isolda ever discuss that with you?’

‘Brother Athelstan, I know about “The Book of Fires”. Adam, my late husband, fought with Sir Walter and the Luciferi in Outremer.’ She held up a gloved hand. ‘No, Brother, they certainly did not act as comrades in arms. Adam, like many mercenaries who often adopt a new name and identity during their fighting years, was most reluctant to speak about his time in the House of War.’

‘I would agree with that,’ Cranston murmured. ‘But Adam and Sir Walter were enemies?’

‘No,’ Lady Anne retorted. ‘Their relationship was cold, distant but professional. I gathered there was bad blood between them but Adam remained tight-lipped. I, on the other hand, had a most cordial relationship with Sir Walter.’ She fluttered her eyelids flirtatiously. ‘I think Sir Walter liked me.’

‘And my original question about “The Book of Fires”. Did Isolda ever discuss it with you?’

‘Very rarely. When she was imprisoned I did ask her of its whereabouts – had she stolen it? But all she knew was that Sir Walter had said its hiding place would be a revelation to all. How few would even guess it was safe on the island of Patmos – and no, Brother, I don’t know what he meant by that.’

‘And Buckholt?’

‘Forget the rumours, Brother Athelstan, about Buckholt being Rosamund Clifford’s father – that’s nonsense. After Sir Walter was introduced to Isolda he often visited this convent, and Buckholt would accompany him. In a word, Buckholt became very sweet on Rosamund.’ Lady Anne licked her lips. ‘I introduced Rosamund into the Beaumont household with Sir Walter’s permission. We hoped Rosamund and Buckholt would become betrothed, but they certainly did not. Buckholt loved Rosamund but she would have none of it. Some people argued that was another reason for Buckholt’s hatred. He believed Isolda had turned Rosamund against him.’

‘Did Isolda,’ Athelstan asked, ‘have such power and influence over Rosamund?’

‘Oh yes,’ Lady Anne declared. ‘That’s why we introduced Rosamund into Sir Walter’s household, I mean, Rosamund and Isolda being so close. They seemed to be born for their respective roles, Isolda the great lady and Rosamund the trusted maid.’

The conversation petered out. Athelstan rose and walked around the chamber. ‘Garman, Lesures and Beaumont,’ he spoke over his shoulder, ‘served in the Luciferi. Apparently the company broke up and the soldiers went their separate ways. Beaumont held “The Book of Fires” and kept it to himself. Could the manuscript be the cause of the breakup of the Luciferi, Lady Anne? Mother Clare?’

‘I’m not sure,’ Lady Anne replied. ‘Adam refused to talk about his service.’

‘And the same is true of Parson Garman,’ Mother Clare quickly added.

‘I think you are correct, Brother,’ Lady Anne continued. ‘Sir Walter amassed a great deal of information about cannon, powder and, above all, Greek fire, but he refused to share these secrets with others. Knowing Sir Walter’s greed for both money and power, I suspect he cheated them out of it and no man, especially a soldier, likes to proclaim how he was tricked and duped.’

Athelstan nodded and returned to his chair.

‘One further matter,’ Cranston asked, ‘Parson Garman? He also visited you here, Mother Clare. He met Isolda and was much taken by her. What else?’

‘Edward is a distant kinsman in more ways than one,’ the nun replied. ‘In his youth he too served with the Luciferi. Afterwards he lived for a while as a Hospitaller in Outremer. He returned to London to be ordained, was appointed as chaplain and became a spokesman for the poor, especially the wretched prisoners in Newgate. He didn’t just come here to visit Isolda but also to see Lady Anne.’

‘Oh, don’t …’ Lady Anne waved a hand playfully.

‘What?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Lady Anne does good work for us but she also performs sterling service as the Abbess of the Order of St Dismas, which is dedicated to helping prisoners in Newgate. Now,’ Mother Clare’s voice fell to a whisper, ‘Edward Garman, God bless him, knows about the Upright Men – he is passionate about their cause. They have assured him that when the Great Revolt occurs he will be amongst the saved not the damned. When the black and red banners are raised, Newgate will be stormed and any official, be he Crown or Church, will face summary trial and execution.’

‘I understand,’ Cranston murmured, ‘many places will be marked down for destruction, whilst others will be protected, and the same goes for individuals.’

‘We are the same here,’ Mother Clare added. ‘All we do is help the poor. Edward Garman came here to beg Lady Anne’s help for certain prisoners. In return, Garman promised that Lady Anne’s house, her person, possessions and retainers would be protected even if all London burns. Sir Walter, God rest him, always believed that because of Lady Anne’s work amongst the prisoners of Newgate, her house would be the safest in London when the revolt breaks out.’

‘I am sure,’ Lady Anne tried to hide her blush, ‘that Brother Athelstan will also be safe. You are highly regarded.’

‘I’m not too sure,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘What the Upright Men decree now and what will actually happen when the mud is stirred is another matter. But,’ he sketched a blessing in the air, ‘Sir John and I must leave you.’ He paused. ‘Oh, Lady Anne, I just remembered. You said you had something to say to me?’

‘I did not know you were coming here,’ she explained, ‘so I sent Turgot with a letter to you at St Erconwald’s. On the night we were attacked, Turgot returned to the corner of that alleyway. You recall it, a thin slit of blackness from where the Ignifer launched his murderous assault? Turgot knows those runnels, slender as arrow shafts which cut through the lanes and shops. He has formed relationships with the beggars and other outcasts who haunt such dark places. Men and women like himself, mutes and cripples.’ Lady Anne drew in a breath. ‘There is one in particular – Didymus.’

‘Didymus,’ Athelstan intervened. ‘That’s Greek for “twin”?’

‘Ah, yes,’ Lady Anne continued, ‘that’s the mystery. Didymus maintains he is a twin. He claims his brother is always with him, though nobody else can see him.’

‘Not the most reliable witness,’ Cranston joked.

‘Sir John, Didymus sees and smells things we do not.’

‘Smells?’ Athelstan asked.

‘As he did the night we were attacked,’ she replied. ‘Apparently Didymus was in his enclosure discussing matters with his twin brother. Didymus, like Turgot, was educated by the Cistercians. He is skilled in their sign language. On the night of the attack, Didymus saw our assailant creep up the runnel and pause. Didymus informed Turgot how this person was heavily cloaked like a priest,’ she pulled a face, ‘or a woman. He emphasized the latter because he claimed he caught the strong fragrance of a delicate perfume. Turgot questioned Didymus closely. The smell was like that of crushed lilies, very strong and pervasive. The figure did not notice Didymus and passed on. Didymus followed and actually glimpsed the attack taking place at the end of the alleyway. Well, not everything. He glimpsed the flare of flames and heard the hideous screams. Didymus, not the bravest of souls, fled to hide in his enclave. Now,’ she leaned across the table, ‘what is remarkable is Didymus’ description of the perfume. Sir John, Brother Athelstan, Mother Clare will be my witness – that is the same fragrance Lady Isolda always wore.’ She smiled thinly. ‘Anyway, that is the information that Turgot has taken by letter to St Erconwald’s …’

oOoOo

Athelstan and Cranston stood outside the house of the Minoresses and stared down Aldgate.

‘Interesting,’ Cranston murmured. ‘I’ve just remembered Didymus. Despite his apparent folly, he has reputation for being sharp-eyed. On reflection I would say he is a reliable witness. I just wonder who our assailant was, heavily robed and reeking of a woman’s perfume? Anyway, what now, Brother?’

‘I think we should return to Firecrest Manor, Sir John. I have more questions for them all. And that’s the problem,’ he added, ‘many questions, few answers.’ Athelstan stared around. He felt uncomfortable, that chill of apprehension when he suspected he was being watched had returned yet he could not detect the cause, though that would be difficult in this part of the city. The world and its wife processed through here; the good and the great as well as that shifting, constant swarm of London’s underworld, those who lived, lurked and prowled in its shadow. Athelstan stepped aside as a troop of Poor Toms swung by bare-legged and bare-armed, their hair gathered in elf-locks, hollow boots shuffling along the ground. Nearby a line of lunatics, shaking their chains and roaring some madcap song, distracted others making their way to dine at the many cook shops. The colour, noise and stench were intense after the hallowed serenity of the Minoresses. Cranston led him off, Athelstan walking just behind, remained ever-vigilant, searching the crowd for anything suspicious. He was shoved and pushed by emaciated beggars pleading with hands outstretched, waving their clacking dishes under his nose. Gaunt faces glared out of ragged hoods and tattered capuchons. Horses neighed, donkeys brayed and dogs constantly barked. Athelstan glimpsed a slow-moving, lumbering convoy of supply carts with its military escort on its way to the Tower. Shouts, yells and screams pierced the air as two market bailiffs chased a cunning man they had unmasked. The miscreant, his crutch over his shoulder, now leapt like a hare through the crowd. A group of musicians took up residence near a horse trough, but they were so drunk, one of them, wailing on a set of bagpipes, tipped over and fell into the water, provoking raucous laughter from a group of traders bringing their mounts to drink. The toper kept playing his bagpipes provoking the wandering dogs to snarl and bark even more. Horsemen trotted by. Dust clouds swirled in the ice-cold air. Athelstan tried to shake off his unease. He conceded that the true cause might not be so much the noisy crowd but the mysteries they were facing. Truly tangled, probably more than any they had ever confronted. The friar felt many lies had been peddled …

‘Brother, Brother?’ Cranston had walked back. ‘Athelstan, what is the matter? Why are you …?’

The friar just shook his head.

‘Look around, Sir John, we are in the company of rogues. Look at their crafty, gleaming eyes, fingers ready to pick purses. They slide out of their dirty dens like slugs after the rain.’ Athelstan pointed to a cunning man offering the heart of a turtledove wrapped in the skin of a dog to passers-by as a sure remedy against unchaste thoughts.

‘Oh, Brother,’ Cranston followed his direction, ‘and they all come my way. There are many here who’ll be buried in the air at the end of a piece of hempen rope – that’s how these rogues describe a hanging.’

‘But not today,’ Athelstan murmured. He stood, swaying slightly.

‘Athelstan?’ Cranston was now concerned. He knew this little friar sometimes experienced attacks of numbing panic.

‘Sir John, are we in danger? I can feel …’ Athelstan broke off. The convoy of carts to the Tower had now been blocked by a group of Flecti – the Kneelers. These men, their faces hidden behind white masks and garbed in bright yellow robes with a crude red star painted on their backs, were following their own high-backed cart, which displayed a soaring wooden cross in the centre. Such pilgrim groups were becoming increasingly common in London: public penitents doing reparation for their sins through processions, fasting and visiting city churches. Times were hard and fast changing. Plague and Pestilence walked hand in hand. The war in France was lost. Heresy and dissent flourished in the Church. The papacy was still weak, having just returned from its exile in Avignon. Prices were high. Food scarce. Taxes heavy. Trade disrupted. A deeply unwholesome broth was being cooked to bubbling and soon it would spill over. Groups like the Flecti were simply an expression of a deep underlying anxiety. Athelstan watched as the Flecti, about fifty in number, crept behind their cart. The leader would shout, ‘Flectamus Genua’ – ‘Let us bend the knee,’ and all would crouch down, heads bowed.

‘Orate!’ Pray! the leader shouted.

‘Miserere Nobis Domine!’ his followers bellowed back. ‘Lord have mercy on us!’

‘Levate!’ Arise, the leader cried, and the Flecti stood up and continued their rhythmic ritual. Yet something was amiss. The Flecti appeared very organized, moving in a military phalanx. Such groups were notorious for wandering about, breaking up in a crowd. Moreover, the Flecti were now spilling around the Tower carts, coming between them and the military escort. The officers in charge were also alarmed. Abruptly the Flecti surged forward, swords, daggers and clubs appearing from beneath their cloaks.

‘Flecti be damned!’ Cranston shouted, drawing both his weapons. ‘Upright Men! And they are after those carts.’ The ambuscade was now sprung. Some of the Upright Men knelt and released crossbow quarrels to empty the saddles of the military escort. Others attacked the line of foot and swarmed over the carts. A broad black banner was abruptly hoisted aloft to ripple ominously in the freezing breeze. The Upright Men were not only intent on seizing Gaunt’s stores but on displaying their power. For a few heartbeats the crowd thronging about fell silent, watching the sharp change of events in shocked surprise. This soon gave way to noisy panic. Many fled the battle now raging around the carts. Women, shrieking with terror, grabbed their children and fled to the nearest church for sanctuary. Others sought shelter in alehouses and taverns yet, even as the crowd scattered, the legion of rogues and rifflers, roaring boys and ruffians surged towards the fierce bloody struggle in the hope of plunder. The fighting was now spreading. A convoy of knights appeared, drawn swords shimmering as they strove to clear the carts of attackers, but more Upright Men streamed out of the mouths of alleys and runnels. Sir John grasped Athelstan and pulled him away, only to be surrounded by a group of Upright Men garbed in white masks and yellow robes. They glimpsed the royal insignia and chain of office around the coroner’s neck and swiftly closed in a clash of whirling steel. Cranston met them sharply. Athelstan picked up a fallen morning star and rushed to help his friend. Swinging the club, the friar beat back one attacker, whilst Sir John, surprisingly light and fast on his feet, closed with the other assailants. Athelstan forgot the freezing cold, only aware of scraping steel, the rasp of sharp breath and the litany of hissed curses. He struck and struck again but his opponent was swift, moving backwards and forwards eyes glittering behind the mask as he searched for an opening. Athelstan lunged, the attacker stepped back and the friar stumbled to one knee. He raised an arm against the expected blow but others had come between him and his assailant. Athelstan staggered to his feet and stumbled back. Sir John was also being protected. Four men, cloaked and hooded, armed with sword and dagger, were driving the Upright Men away in a glittering arc of steel. They were professional swordsmen more interested in forcing their assailants to flee than inflicting bloody wounds. Athelstan glimpsed dark, swarthy faces. He noticed the cloaks of these unexpected angels were of good quality. The same was true of their high-heeled boots, silver spurs clinking at every step. Sir John grabbed Athelstan’s arm, dragging him away from the conflict. The assault on the carts faded, the Upright Men disappearing into the maze of alleyways with what plunder they had seized. More soldiers were streaming into the great enclosure stretching down to Aldgate: archers from the Tower and even a company of Spanish mercenaries camped out at Moorfields. Athelstan stared around. Their mysterious rescuers had disappeared as swiftly and as silently as they had emerged. The friar felt the savage attack had purged his own anxiety as he followed Sir John across Aldgate and on to a thoroughfare leading down to the river. The coroner, having readjusted his warbelt, paused to take a generous slurp from the miraculous wineskin before offering it to Athelstan.

‘We still go to Firecrest Manor, Brother?’

Athelstan took a full mouthful of the rich Bordeaux.

‘Of course we do.’ Athelstan handed the wineskin back. ‘Sir John, I am truly sorry about earlier. I was daydreaming.’

‘You were anxious, highly so?’

‘Yes,’ Athelstan conceded. ‘This business at Firecrest, “The Book of Fires”, the attacks, it’s different from the other mysteries that have challenged us. I feel there is something important we have missed. And, of course, there is the business at St Erconwald’s.’ He smiled up at the coroner. ‘Trust me, Sir John, I would love to experience a miracle.’ Athelstan slumped down on a plinth of stone and stared up the lane. He wasn’t speaking the full truth. He dare not tell Sir John how sometimes, as today, he wished to be free of all this. He would love to escape back to the calm serenity of the cloisters, some hall at Oxford or Cambridge or even a village parish deep in the countryside. He scrutinized the narrow thoroughfare, the filthy sewer choked with filth and sludge, the shuttered windows, lock-fast doors, the crumbling plaster and decaying beams of the houses three or four storeys high, some held up by crutches as they leaned over to block out the sky. The stench was offensive, the cold now tingling the sweat on his body. Athelstan closed his eyes, breathed a prayer and got up.

‘Come, Sir John, enough of my morbid thoughts.’ They walked further down the street. Athelstan saw dust trailing from the scaffolding holding up one of these tottering tenements. He heard a shout behind him and turned. Four men stood at the mouth of the alleyway, dark shapes against the poor light. Athelstan’s heart sank – more grief and trouble!

‘Sir John?’ The coroner had also noticed the strangers and drawn both sword and dagger.

‘Satan’s tits,’ Cranston whispered. ‘Come, Athelstan, flight is better than fight.’ They backed further up the thoroughfare. One of the four men stepped forward, shouting and gesturing at them to return, pointing up at the scaffolding. Cranston and Athelstan, however, continued to retreat. Again the stranger shouted, first in English then in Norman French.

‘Be warned! Be warned! Avisera! Avisera!’

Athelstan recalled the dust falling from the tenements. He whirled around and glimpsed the figure high on the scaffolding, the pots arching like two balls through the air. He grabbed Cranston’s cloak, dragging him back up the street. They collided, staggering and clinging to each other as if drunk. Athelstan heard the pot smash close by, followed by the whoosh of one fire arrow and then another. Both coroner and friar fled as the breadth of the entire alleyway behind them erupted into sheets of flame, the fire following the liquid snaking from the shattered pots as remorselessly and as swiftly as any predator its prey. The conflagration greedily seized and consumed everything in its path, racing over midden heaps, so swift Athelstan heard the rats screaming in alarm and agony. He and the coroner, however, were fortunate: they were now free of the racing fire. Athelstan stared up at the scaffolding but the black, bleak figure had vanished. He glanced over his shoulder; his rescuers had also disappeared. The alarm had been raised. Cries of ‘Harrow! Harrow!’ echoed. Doors and shutters were flung open. Householders spilled into the street. Cranston had the presence of mind to shout at them to bring sand, dirt and vinegar-soaked sheets. Luckily the flames had not spread to the wooden-beamed houses either side, though the occasional blue and orange flame flickered dangerously close here and there.

‘Come, Friar.’ Cranston plucked Athelstan’s sleeve and they went back the way they had come. ‘Shall we eat and drink our fill, Brother?’ Cranston offered his constant remedy to any danger.

‘I don’t think so.’ Athelstan’s fear had given way to anger. ‘I sensed we were being followed and that was true,’ he laughed abruptly, ‘by the Ignifer as well as our angel escort, who have rescued us twice in one morning. I wonder who they are and why they save us? Sir John, this mystery is deep, dangerous and tangled.’ He paused. ‘If I didn’t know better, I would truly wonder whether Lady Isolda didn’t escape the fires of Smithfield and, like some vengeful wraith, now pursues her persecutors.’ Athelstan walked on, vigilant about the sights and sounds around them. ‘And there’s the rub,’ he added. ‘We were not party to her death, so why the attacks on us?’

‘Do you think she was innocent, Brother?’

‘Lady Isolda was spoilt and wilful,’ Athelstan paused as a cripple scuttled across the street in front of him, his wooden hand rests clattering on the frozen ground. Somewhere in a chamber above them a boy’s voice chanted the ‘Kyrie’ from the ‘Lamentations’ of Good Friday. ‘Aye, Lord, have mercy on us.’ Athelstan translated the refrain. ‘And Lord have mercy on Lady Isolda and Sir Walter – their marriage was certainly not made in heaven. I wonder who wanted that annulment? She, Sir Walter or both? Was she looking at that Codex of Canon Law because her husband was threatening her?’ Athelstan scratched the side of his face. ‘And if there was an annulment, I wonder on what grounds? No, Sir John, it’s idle to speculate on that or her innocence. We must get to Firecrest Manor as soon as possible. I want answers to certain questions as well as establish who was absent this morning. Strange, isn’t it, Sir John?’

‘What is?’

‘We are dealing with these mysteries, we suffer attacks by the Ignifer, yet we also face danger from the Upright Men. Violence seems to meet us at every turn.’

‘Because?’ Cranston gripped Athelstan’s shoulder. ‘That is the way of the world. The way things are. Such assaults are common and we have just been caught up in one. A similar ambuscade was sprung three days ago in Farringdon ward. A few days before that, a string of pack ponies were seized in Cripplegate. Clement of Chatham, one of Gaunt’s tax collectors, was kidnapped outside St Michael’s Cornhill. The revolt is imminent, Brother, what – two, three months at the very most? Like fruit come to fullness, it has to burst. All we can do is prepare. Look at the signs, Brother, as you would the weather; the clouds gather, the wind picks up and the storm is ready to burst upon us.’

‘And in the meantime?’ Athelstan gathered his cloak about him. ‘Murder awaits, scuttling before us. We catch its shadow but never the substance. So, let us see what new things Firecrest Manor can tell us.’