The Book of Fires (9 page)

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

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

‘Brother?’

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

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

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

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

‘And?’

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

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

‘I would agree, Brother,’ Buckholt murmured.

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

‘Brother?’

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

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

‘What did he mean by that?’

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

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

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

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know.

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

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

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

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

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

‘He never mentioned that to me.’

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

‘Brother Athelstan, is there anything else?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘As shall I,’ Lady Anne declared sharply.

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

Lady Anne blushed and lowered her head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sir Henry nodded in agreement.

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