PART FIVE

‘Take petroleum, black petroleum, liquid pitch and oil of sulphur. Put all these in a pottery jar buried in horse manure for fifteen days.’

Mark the Greek’s ‘The Book of Fires’

‘Days of darkness and the deepest gloom. A day of blackest clouds and thick shadows like some sombre dawn. These spread across the horizon as if some vast and mighty host approaches such as has never been seen before. All the power of Hell has swept up to confront the wickedness of man …’

Athelstan stood outside the grim, gloomy portals of Newgate and stared at the preacher perched on an overturned barrel surrounded by blazing bonfires. Their light made the ragged, bony itinerant preacher even more eerie and grotesque. The friar drew a deep breath. He was glad to be out of the prison now, waiting for Sir John, who was arranging for Rosamund Clifford to be taken back to Firecrest Manor as well as greasing the palms of Tweng, the turnkey, Master Binny, Scrimshaw and the rest. The great fleshing markets, the butchers’ stalls outside Newgate, had ceased trading. Night had fallen. It was now the hour for others. Fishmongers from Billingsgate wheeled their barrows crammed with silvery salmon, white-bellied turbot, scarlet lobsters, dun-coloured crabs and mackerels with their gleaming green backs. Here to greet them clustered the real poor, the shirtless, shoeless, breadless and homeless. They would buy the stinking fish and take over this busy part of the city. They gathered like a tribe, their blue, bootless feet ulcerous from the cold, to feast on whatever globules of meat or fish they could filch or buy. Bonfires of the day’s rubbish had been torched to provide some light and warmth in the freezing night. The air stank with the odour of the rancid food now being toasted. The grisly-faced fripperers gathered, their barrows full of rags, discarded clothing and half-putrid hare-skins. Costermongers offered pickled herring in a slimy sauce, or salted whelks which looked like huge snails floating in a sea of brine. Athelstan looked pityingly at this horde of beggars and recalled Garman’s revolutionary fervour. Was the prison chaplain right? he wondered. Would the great revolt sweep all this squalid poverty away, burn it up like a fire sweeping through stubble? Athelstan felt a hand on his shoulder. Cranston, leading a group of bailiffs, had come quietly up behind him.

‘Little friar,’ he remarked, ‘the day is done and we are for the dark.’

‘Sir John, we have no choice, for the darkness seeks us …’

Athelstan recalled the events of the day as he sat at table in the kitchen of his priest’s house. Outside the faded hubbub of noise of the pilgrims still intent on the vigil echoed faintly. Matters, however, were now more orderly in the parish of St Erconwald’s. Admission to the church, as well as supervision of the stalls offering food, drink or relics of the Great Miracle, was now in the iron grip of the parish council led by Watkin and Pike. Queues were now more orderly and, at the agreed time, an hour before midnight, the church would be closed. Athelstan smiled to himself. His parishioners had been most insistent that matters be left to them. ‘Hadn’t Father,’ they asked, ‘had a truly busy day? Hadn’t that strange creature the Ignifer, so rumour had it, struck again?’ On his return the privy council had been most solicitous. They had pointed out how the priest’s house had been thoroughly cleaned, the braziers lit, the hearth fire built up and banked. Merrylegs’ best venison pie was waiting in the oven, whilst a jug of the Piebald’s finest ale stood covered in the buttery.

Athelstan took their hint to leave the flow of pilgrims to them, though he remained deeply suspicious. He’d retired to the house along with Bonaventure, who now sprawled like a well-fed emperor across the hearth. Athelstan drummed his fingers on the tabletop. He picked up the letter that Lady Anne had sent with Turgot, where she recounted what she had said when they met at the Minoresses earlier that day. Athelstan re-read the finely etched script which described what the beggar Didymus had seen on the night the Ignifer had attacked them. How Didymus was sure their would-be assassin was garbed in heavy robes and reeked of a woman’s fragrant perfume. According to Crim the altar boy, who was in the house at the time, the heavily cowled and cloaked Turgot had knocked at the door, entrusted the letter to Crim and promptly disappeared. Athelstan stared up at the ceiling beams. He knew where Turgot and Lady Anne had been when the Ignifer struck that morning but what about the rest, including that sly-faced maid? Sir Henry, Buckholt, Garman or even Falke or Vanner? Had those he’d met been busy in Cheapside? As for Vanner, Athelstan believed Beaumont’s clerk was dead, yet he might be wrong. Athelstan decided to busy himself. He drew out a large piece of parchment from the leather case in his personal coffer. He quickly smoothed it with a pumice stone, putting small weights on each corner. Once ready, however, Athelstan rose and paced backwards and forwards, watched by a now bemused Bonaventure. ‘So, master cat, let us move to the arrow point. Primo, Sir Walter. Very wealthy, sickly but entertaining grave doubts about his second wife, the lovely Isolda. An old man with a very guilty conscience, which he richly deserved. Black Beaumont, as he was then called, served abroad. The climax of his career was the theft of “The Book of Fires” from the Greeks.

‘Allegedly he deserted one set of companions and may have murdered the group who left with him. Bloodthirsty and ruthless, Sir Walter returns home, where he amasses a fortune manufacturing machines of war for the likes of Gaunt. He keeps “The Book of Fires” close to his heart, a great secret. He does not reveal all its mysteries, perhaps he dare not for fear of the Greeks or is he waiting for the right occasion to sell the manuscript to the highest bidder? Undoubtedly he uses some of the formulas recorded in that book to manufacture more deadly weapons of war. In the meantime, he hides the book’s whereabouts with foolish references to it being a revelation or safe on the island of Patmos. Eventually Black Beaumont grows old and sickly. Remember that, master cat. Rumours abound that he is being slowly poisoned so he takes great care over what he eats or drinks. He is certainly sick in soul and that proves a fertile breeding ground for further evil. The lechery of his youth comes back to haunt him. He wonders whether his new wife could be the daughter of one of his cast-off mistresses. If Garman knew this, others would. His brother, Sir Henry, probably did little to disabuse him of such a notion. Oh, yes, Henry and Rohesia are like scavenging cats, horrified at Sir Walter’s marriage and the prospect of Isolda producing an heir. They must have been delighted at the turn of events. Parson Garman also plays his part. He views Sir Walter’s guilty conscience and nagging scruples as a fertile furrow to till. He hates Beaumont for a number of reasons: the merchant’s appalling reputation abroad, his betrayal, his desertions, his greed, everything Garman has come to hate.’ Athelstan paused in his pacing. ‘Bonaventure, this was all in the past and we must keep it that way. So, Garman wanted the return of “The Book of Fires”, or at least the ability to plunder its secrets, which he could either sell to raise money or assist the cause of the Upright Men. Garman also delighted in darkening Beaumont’s soul. The parson baited his old leader, bringing him those almond-coated figs from Beaumont’s green and salad days. He knew Sir Walter couldn’t or wouldn’t eat them. He certainly brought such a delicacy early on the day Beaumont died and, if Sir Walter did not eat the delicacy, who did – a member of his household?’ Athelstan paused, fingers flying to his lips. ‘Oh, my goodness!’ he exclaimed. ‘Oh my goodness, Bonaventure, is that possible?’ He leaned down and scratched the tomcat’s scarred ears. ‘For the moment, let’s keep to the path we are following. We have Sir Walter, “The Book of Fires” and then Sir Walter’s plan to have his marriage annulled. Of course, “by their fruits ye shall know them”. Sir Walter was not keen on his wife but he took a fancy to the doe-eyed Rosamund, who could perform certain lecherous tasks for him with her soft, light fingers. She certainly visited him on the day he died but then she mysteriously fell ill, a sickness which confined her to her chamber whilst the tragedy which engulfed her mistress was played out.

‘Secondo, Bonaventure, the actual poisoning. Rumour has it that Beaumont may have been the victim of slow poisoning for some time before his death, hence the ailments of both belly and bowel. Brother Philippe says that is possible – he also mentioned that members of the Beaumont household suffered similar conditions. There is no firm evidence of this. Nevertheless, Sir Walter probably became more prudent about what he ate and drank. He’d also be wary of Isolda and his clerk, Vanner. After all, Sir Walter must have heard the rumours of how friendly his estranged wife and clerk had become. Of course, there is the faithful Buckholt, or was he as faithful as he should have been? Buckholt’s father had been in the Luciferi – did his son bear a grudge? Did Sir Walter employ Buckholt as an act of gratitude and reparation to the memory of his steward’s father? A strange man, Buckholt, a paradox, he serves as a rich merchant’s steward yet espouses the cause of the Upright Men.’ Athelstan paused and chuckled. ‘Could the Great Community of the Realm be the real reason for Buckholt’s service? Oh, Bonaventure, at last the threads of this tapestry are beginning to loosen. Nor must we forget how Buckholt nourished a passion for the fair Rosamund. He certainly resented Isolda and he would fiercely resent Rosamund’s ministrations for his master. In the end, however, one thing is certain: Buckholt was instrumental in the successful conviction of Isolda.’ Athelstan walked over to the table. He sifted through the leaves of parchment Cranston had sent across to him, a transcript of the trial proceedings, but they were little more than a summary and could provide no new information.

‘Did Isolda kill her husband?’ Athelstan returned to his pacing. ‘Sir Walter was hated by many people for many reasons. He received warnings a year ago which stopped as suddenly as they began. How did they go? Yes, “As I and ours burnt, so shall ye and yours.” The writer of those warnings was hinting that Sir Walter’s ability to provide fire as a weapon of war had injured the writer and his kin, but if that was the case, Bonaventure, there must be a legion of such victims.’ Athelstan sat down on his chair, resisting the creeping but weakening tiredness which dimmed his mind and made his body feel heavy and full of aches. ‘Others may have had a motive to murder Sir Walter, yet the case against Isolda,’ he allowed Bonaventure to jump on his lap and sat absentmindedly stroking the cat, ‘yes, the case weighs heavily against her. Her relationship, illicit or not, with Vanner; the latter’s deliberate distraction of Buckholt; Isolda feeding that posset to her husband; the disappearance of the original goblet and its replacement from a set specially purchased by Vanner. Finally, there’s the despatch of the goblet down the privy and the buttery clerk’s sworn testimony that the goblet he prepared was not the one which came down.’ Athelstan gently lowered Bonaventure to the floor. ‘But why, master cat, did she strike on that particular day? What prompted her and Vanner?’ Athelstan smiled to himself. ‘I may have an answer for that when I begin my writing. What real defence did she and Falke make? References to Vanner feeding Sir Walter something poisonous; a plot by Buckholt and Sir Henry to seize “The Book of Fires”? Every lie, Bonaventure, contains a scrap of truth. Vanner could not answer for himself because Vanner has disappeared and so have his manuscripts. Who could have destroyed them? Was it really Vanner at the execution stake collecting Isolda’s pathetic remains?’ Athelstan rose to his feet in a surge of excitement. ‘Of course, I suspect where Vanner is, I truly do. He did not collect Isolda’s ashes at Smithfield – that’s a pretence.’

Elated by what he had concluded, Athelstan sat down and, grasping a quill pen, swiftly wrote out his different hypotheses and the proof which supported them. His eyes grew heavy so he slept for a while. When he awoke the fire had burnt low. He shook himself and, leaving the murder of Sir Walter, turned to the vexed question of ‘The Book of Fires’. Undoubtedly Beaumont had hidden it and many others wanted to find it. Garman, Sir Henry, perhaps even Buckholt – certainly the Greeks who had been so instrumental in protecting Sir John and himself the previous morning. The book’s whereabouts were a mystery but so was a second problem. Sir Walter had stolen it, used its secrets but, Athelstan suspected, had kept some of the specialist knowledge to himself – why? This in turn led to the identity of the Ignifer because, whoever he was, he was also very knowledgeable about what ‘The Book of Fires’ contained and was using it to devastating effect. The only conclusion Athelstan could reach was that the Ignifer had stolen the book; someone who also passionately believed that those responsible for Lady Isolda’s conviction and cruel death should be barbarously punished by being burnt alive. But who was this person? The only people who believed in Lady Isolda’s innocence were Garman and Falke – were one of these, or both, the Ignifer? Or could it be someone else? Cranston had wondered if a former member of the Luciferi had returned to London. Could such a person be responsible? Or again, did Isolda have some secret admirer or kinsman? After all, she was accustomed to going into the city by herself. She may have met the Greeks, but Athelstan was convinced that she also met someone else – a paramour, perhaps? Was that soul, now demented beyond reason, carrying out these atrocious attacks? Had Isolda in fact discovered the secret of Greek fire and passed it on to this mysterious person, man or woman? According to the beggar Didymus, the assailant had reeked of expensive perfume like that of crushed lilies, the same perfume Isolda had used. Did the graffiti on the wall of Isolda’s prison cell, ‘SFSM’, conceal the identity of this sinister figure now prowling the streets with pots of deadly fire? Athelstan dozed for a while. When he awoke he decided a good night’s sleep would have to wait. He stripped, washed, shaved, donned fresh robes and, sitting at the kitchen table, began to write out his conclusions. The more he wrote, his quill pen skimming the soft, smooth surface of the parchment, the more Athelstan realized he was close to resolving some of the truth to these mysteries.

oOoOo

Sir John Cranston was also troubled by various imaginings. He was finding it difficult to get back to sleep in his great four poster-bed in the opulent chamber he and Lady Maude had decorated over the years. The coroner threw himself back against the bolsters, Ave beads slipping from his fingers. He missed his family and household more than he could say; Lady Maude should be chattering: the two poppets chasing each other; the great Irish wolfhounds Gog and Magog sprawled at the foot of the bed. Outside the maids should be hurrying, whispering and giggling along the wooden-panelled galleries, yet there was nothing but a hollow constant silence. Cranston rolled over on to his back, staring up at the tester. He was certain he had done the right thing despatching his wife, family and household to a moated manor deep in the countryside. Kinsmen and retainers would mount vigilant watch over them. The revolt would come, yet his family would be safe. There would be violence, but, in the end, the rebels would be crushed with all the savagery the great lords of the soil could muster. In the meantime, Cranston rolled over to one side, staring at the sliver of grey dawn-light peeking through the shutters, his mind returning to the mystery of the Greek fire.

Cranston had personally witnessed the devastating effects of boiling oil cascading down castle walls in France, a rushing, bubbling torrent of Hell’s blackness, scolding, burning and searing the flesh. Even worse was when that oil was lighted. The coroner was still shaken by the vicious attacks on both himself and Athelstan. If the friar could only find a way through, yet Athelstan seemed as perplexed as he was. Somebody prowling the city was definitely using Greek fire and not just in these murderous attacks. One of Cranston’s spies had reported a mysterious meeting out on the heathland beyond London Bridge, of a fire being abruptly caused, of flames leaping up against the blackness. Was this a coincidence? At the same time other spies reported that the Upright Men, who had been quiet for weeks, were once again beginning to muster. Did the Upright Men now possess Greek fire? If so, how? Where was that damned ‘Book of Fires’ and who was this Ignifer? Cranston narrowed his eyes at a sound below but then dismissed it. Was the Ignifer someone they had never met, a former member of the Luciferi? Someone who had left Dover under his baptismal name but in France changed that to something more fanciful as he sold his sword or bow to the highest bidder? Once military service was over, he would arrive back in an English port under his baptismal name. It was a way of sealing the past, of forgetting what had happened as veterans settle down to become some parish worthy or city dignitary. Was that the case here? A member of the Luciferi now turned respectable like Falke or Garman? Or was the Ignifer hidden deeper in the shadows, someone they had never met?

Cranston pulled himself up to lean against the bolsters. He snatched the miraculous wineskin from the table beside him, took his morning sip and wondered how Athelstan was coping with the Great Miracle at St Erconwald’s. Cranston was truly perplexed by this wondrous occurrence. As Lord High Coroner of London, he had earned a reputation, second to none, for exposing counterfeits, cranks and cunning men. He had broken through the most elaborate deceits, disguises and deceptions, yet the miracle at St Erconwald’s was not one of these. According to all the evidence, Fulchard of Richmond had entered that church a cripple; he had not left as one. He had been healed and proclaimed himself as such. Cranston’s spies had swept the city; if one such as the crippled Fulchard had emerged, he would have been observed. Sooner or later anyone who hid in this bustling city had to crawl out to be invariably noticed by someone, but not here. Cranston gnawed on his lip. He took some comfort from the fact that his spies had stumbled on other juicy morsels of information. The Upright Men were becoming very active; their captains had been glimpsed in both the city and Southwark. One spy, who rejoiced in the sobriquet ‘the Eye of God’, had reported how the great miracle at St Erconwald’s seemed to have attracted a goodly number of young, rather well-armed men amongst the pilgrims flocking there. Now this did concern the coroner. He was about to seize the miraculous wineskin for a second time when he heard that sound again, a clattering in the scullery which separated the kitchen and buttery from the garden. The outside door was made of thick, heavy oak and studded with metal bosses, its latch stout and noisy. Was someone trying to get in? Cranston slid off the bed. He pushed his feet into tight-fitting buskins and drew both sword and dagger from his warbelt hanging on a hook against the wall.

The coroner slipped silently out of his bedchamber, along the gallery and down the polished oaken staircase. Night candles glowed in their capped glass holders, emitting pools of golden light. Sir John paused on the bottom step wondering who the intruder might be. The Upright Men? Usually they were not so silent. Those Greeks? Cranston paused to control his breathing. The Greeks were allies rather than enemies. The Ignifer? He crept through the buttery and into the great kitchen beyond. He raced swiftly across and opened the door to the scullery; the latch on the garden door at the far end rattled. He stepped inside. He sniffed a perfume, one he knew, the light fragrance of crushed lilies. The floor was greasy. The shutters to his right rattled. Cranston abruptly realized what was about to happen. Sliding and slithering, the coroner hurled himself across the chamber. He ignored the door but crashed into the shutters, even as he felt the intruder press heavily against them. The Ignifer was here! Cranston realized this heavy shutter had been prised open from outside. The Ignifer had entered and the floor was covered in highly flammable oil, waiting to be fired. The assassin had plotted to lure a half-sleeping Cranston across the slippery floor towards the door whilst he pulled open the shutters and threw in a flame. If he had stepped into the trap the scullery would have been turned into an inferno. He pressed his bulk against the shutters. Again he smelt the faint traces of that perfume, of crushed lilies. Lady Maude had once worn it, a gift from the court. Cranston was now calm. Eventually he could feel no pressure. He kept a wary eye on the door and opened the shutter slightly, his sword piercing the gap, its broad, sharp blade jabbing forward before swinging to the left and right. He closed the shutters, refastening the inside hook and opened the garden door. Dawn was about to break. The garden stretched frozen white, bleak and empty. The Ignifer had escaped.

Athelstan, cloaked and hooded against the cutting wind, stood in the copse of ancient trees which lay at the heart of the great garden at Firecrest Manor. Sir Henry had arranged for open braziers to be stoked and fired. The crackling charcoal glowed fiercely, exuding gusts of scented heat and smoke. Beside Athelstan was a taciturn Sir John, his beaver hat pulled fully down, the muffler of his thick cloak raised as high as it could be. Athelstan stretched out his mittened fingers towards the blaze. Those he had summoned had almost arrived, complaining under their breath. They fell silent at the sight of this little friar standing so ominously quiet, in this haunted glade close to the edge of the green-slimed mere; a ghostly place, away from the pleasantries of the rest of the garden. The trees here rose like stark black figures, their outstretched branches frozen solid, bereft of all greenery. No birdsong or rustling in the undergrowth, just a brooding stillness, as if the copse hid a dreadful secret. Athelstan knew it did, but he would wait to uncover it and so would everybody else. Athelstan was furious at the turn of events. He had slept very little and been roused by Tiptoft, who informed him about the attack on the coroner. The messenger had reassured Athelstan that Sir John was safe and well. The friar had given thanks to this but hid his anger in swift preparations to leave. He and Tiptoft had hurried down to the Southwark quayside where Moleskin lay fast asleep in his barge. Athelstan had roused him and they had braved the swollen, mist-hung river to cross to Blackfriars wharf. Tiptoft had hurried away on other errands including messages for Sir John, whilst Athelstan entered the Dominican mother house. After he’d greeted the different brothers, Brother Caradoc the sacristan arranged for Athelstan to say his dawn Mass at a side altar in the main church. Cranston had arrived just in time for the Eucharist. Afterwards both coroner and friar had broken their fast in the great refectory dominated by a huge crucifix with a banner displaying the Five Holy Wounds hanging from the hammer-beam roof. Cranston had described the assault on him, Athelstan listened with deepening disquiet.

‘Three times, Sir John,’ he declared. ‘Three attacks on us. The first was not on Lady Anne but on thee and me as was the second and the third. It’s time we cleared the board of distractions and diversions, fascinating though they may be. Now listen …’

Athelstan had informed Cranston of what he wanted and now they waited in the gloomy, wooded glade with a winter wind rippling the icy surface of the mere. Sir Henry and Rohesia, Buckholt, Rosamund, Falke, Parson Garman, Lady Anne and Turgot, as well as Cranston’s posse of bailiffs and six royal archers from the Tower. The ‘guests’, as Athelstan called his array of suspects, were all protesting. The friar did not care. Some of these were liars and deceivers and one of them could be a hideous assassin secretly plotting the destruction of both himself and Sir John. He would now show them, to quote the scriptures, that ‘God did still raise prophets in the cities of the earth’.

‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan,’ Flaxwith called, ‘they are here.’ Both friar and coroner turned to greet the strange torchlight procession making its way through the trees led by the Fisher of Men. This eerie official of the city council had left his ‘Mortuary of the Sea’, which stood on a deserted quayside just beyond La Reole. A figure of mystery with a highly colourful past as a knight of St Lazarus, the Fisher of Men’s principal task was to harvest the Thames of corpses, the victims of suicide, accident or murder. The Fisher gathered his grisly finds in his Chapel of the Drowned Men: the bloated, river-slimed corpses would be stretched out, washed and covered with a shroud drenched in pine juice whilst they waited inspection and collection. The Fisher was assisted by a coven of rejects and outcasts who rejoiced in such names as Maggot, Brick-Face and Hackum. Leader of these was Icthus, the Fisher’s henchman, garbed as always in black. He had assumed the Greek name for fish, Icthus, a fitting title. He was a young man who had no hair even on his brows or eyelids, whilst his oval-shaped face, jutting cod mouth and webbed fingers and toes made him even more fishlike. He was in truth a superb swimmer. Fast and as slippery as any porpoise, Icthus could thread the waters of the Thames night or day, in high summer or midwinter.

Athelstan ignored the swelling murmurs and protests as he greeted the Fisher and his entourage; they immediately sank to one knee and chorused their salutation to which Athelstan responded with a solemn blessing. They all stood and, like some well-trained choir, burst into the hymn ‘Ave Maris Stella’ – ‘Hail, Star of the Sea’, a paean of praise to the Virgin. Afterwards the Fisher of Men, his bald head and skeletal features shrouded by a black leather hood fringed with the purest lambswool, his body hidden beneath a thick military cloak which hung down to the ankles of costly leather walking boots, raised gauntleted hands.

‘We have come,’ he proclaimed. ‘The waters of this earth are no mystery to us. Brother Athelstan, Sir John, we have brought ropes! We are ready to do God’s will and that of the King. Sir John, if we find what you are looking for … we will double the price?’

‘And a little more.’ Cranston took a slurp of the miraculous wineskin and handed it to the Fisher, who took a most generous mouthful before passing it back.

‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan,’ Sir Henry bustled forward, ‘this is my property, demesne …’

‘And I am on the King’s business,’ Cranston snarled. ‘My guests have come by barge. I ordered your porter at the watergate to let them through. Sir Henry, you get on with your own business and let me get on with mine. Brother?’

Athelstan took Icthus by the hand, led him to the pool and whispered what he wanted. The henchman replied in a high-pitched voice, his colourless eyes studying Athelstan carefully.

‘The water must be freezing cold,’ Athelstan warned. Icthus gave a strange lop-sided smile. He took the friar’s hand and pressed it firmly against his own arm so Athelstan could feel the thick grease smearing his skin. Icthus shrugged off his gown and, to the cries and exclamations of the others, and garbed only in a tight-fitting loincloth, waded into the mere and slipped beneath the surface. He reminded Athelstan of an otter he’d once studied as a boy at a gurgling brook on his father’s farm. Icthus was long and sinuous, merging with the water as if that was his true home. Bubbles appeared on the surface. Icthus broke from the water, breathing noisily before disappearing once again. This time he was longer, but when he surfaced he wiped the slime from his face and grinned. The Fisher and his coven served out a long coil of rope. Icthus grabbed one end and sank into the depths. The rope hung slack, then it shook tight and taut. Icthus rose to take a further breath and, impervious to the biting cold, dived again. The rope was tugged. The Fisher and his companions, intoning the hymn ‘Salve Regina Marum’ – ‘Hail, Queen of the Seas’, began to draw in what Icthus had found: a corpse, encrusted with the dirt and sludge of the mere, broke the surface, its belly bloated and its face masked by a mesh of weeds. Athelstan ignored the exclamations of surprise as the swollen, disfigured cadaver was dragged free of the water.

‘Vanner!’ Buckholt exclaimed. ‘Reginald Vanner!’

Athelstan knelt by the corpse. He sketched a cross on the bulging forehead and stared into the empty open eyes sunk deep into their sockets.

‘May Christ have mercy on your soul, Reginald Vanner,’ Athelstan breathed. He pressed his hand against the dead flesh, bloated until buttons and points had burst. He felt the hilt of a dagger, its blade thrust so deep into the left side that only the ornamental handle could be detected. Others gathered close. Athelstan cleared the dirt in the area around the fatal thrust. He pulled the dagger, its blade popping out with a loud sucking sound.

‘Vanner.’ Sir Henry grew closer as Icthus and his coven stepped away. The Fisher dried off his henchman, handing back the thick, heavy gown.

‘And the dagger?’ Cranston asked.

‘Isolda’s!’ Sir Henry exclaimed. ‘She always kept it in an embroidered sheath.’

‘Is that so?’ Cranston beckoned Rosamund forward. The maid, shivering with cold, approached and nodded.

‘Lady Isolda’s,’ she agreed.

Falke and Parson Garman could only stare. Lady Anne shook her head wordlessly.

Athelstan walked around the mere and returned. ‘Sir Henry,’ he asked, ‘you have bonfires where you burn the rubbish?’

‘Of course, Brother. There are fire-pits deep in the trees. Why?’

‘I believe Isolda, on the Thursday before she was arrested,’ Athelstan explained, ‘invited Vanner here. She insisted it was important for him to come with any manuscript injurious to her. Sutler was pressing his case heavily. It was time to remove any evidence, including Vanner. The clerk arrived, standing on the edge of this mere. Isolda came through the trees, took the manuscripts and then she struck. Vanner was standing on the edge. Notice how the land dips slightly to the water. Isolda closed swiftly. Perhaps Vanner thought she was going to kiss him. Instead, she thrust her dagger in. She meant to withdraw it, but she was no sword fighter. The violence of the blow sent Vanner reeling back into the freezing water. Both shocks would render the dying man unconscious. He collapsed, thrashed out in agony, turned and floated further out. Isolda watched him sink deep into the tangle of weeds at the bottom of the mere. Once he had gone, she hurried to one of the burning pits and made sure that all the manuscripts that he had given her were burnt to ash.’ Athelstan crossed himself. ‘God have mercy on them both. Now, Sir John, pay the Fisher what is due. Ask him to take Vanner’s corpse back to the Mortuary of Souls and, if unclaimed after further proclamation, have him buried in some poor man’s plot in one of the city churches. Sir Henry, I need to see you and the others in a much warmer place.’

Within the hour Cranston and Athelstan met the rest in the retainers’ refectory, just off the great kitchen. It was a warm, spacious chamber where the savoury smells of cooking sweetened the air. They gathered around the long trestle table, Cranston with Athelstan on his right, the others ranged down either side. Cups of mulled wine along with bowls of mortress, a cream soup of pork and chicken, were served. Athelstan blessed the food and they ate in silence till Cranston asked the scullions to clear the table. Once the doors were closed behind them Athelstan began.

‘I thank you for coming here so that I can share some of my conclusions with you. Five years ago Sir Walter Beaumont married Isolda Fitzalan, as she was then known, a spring–winter marriage. Sir Walter had an extremely colourful past as Black Beaumont, leader of a free company of mercenaries known as the Luciferi. During his travels abroad Black Beaumont acquired a veritable treasure trove of secrets regarding cannon, powder and all kinds of fiery missiles. The culmination of his career was the acquisition of Mark the Greek’s “The Book of Fires”, a manuscript set to play a major part in the tragedy which unfurled. Now we know his marriage wasn’t a happy one. I will not spare your blushes. Sir Walter was cunning, powerful and ruthless. He soon realized his fairy-queen wife had the soul of a selfish, equally ruthless harridan beneath a mask of beauty. In her turn, Isolda soon learnt that Sir Walter had no intention of endowing her with the wealth, freedom and power she craved. Isolda led a secret life. I’m sure Sir Walter suspected but I don’t think he really cared. He had plans of his own. Isolda certainly fostered a relationship with Vanner in order to keep a strict eye on her husband, and how better than through his chancery clerk?’ Athelstan paused to let the others reflect on his words. He noticed there were no protests. ‘Part of this secret life is that Isolda would often disappear into the city. Yes, Rosamund?’

‘Brother Athelstan,’ the maid quavered, ‘I have mentioned that. She undoubtedly met the Greeks but there were other times … I do not know where she went, why or whom she met.’

‘Does anyone?’ Athelstan asked.

No one replied.

‘Neither do I. Undoubtedly she met the Greeks, who wanted their manuscript returned. They approached her as they did others. But,’ Athelstan continued swiftly to hinder any comment, ‘more grave matters intervened. Your brother, Sir Henry, grew old and weak. I believe guilt for past sins weighed heavily on him but whether that sorrow was genuine or not, I cannot say. He certainly reflected on his marriage and the possibility that Isolda might be his daughter, the offspring of one his paramours when he was a lusty bachelor. Some people here,’ Athelstan emphasized his words, ‘played on such wild imaginings.’ He glanced around. Parson Garman had leaned back staring up at the ceiling. Sir Henry and Lady Rohesia kept their heads down. Rosamund was examining her fingernails.

‘Sir Walter,’ Athelstan continued, ‘decided to apply for an annulment. Undoubtedly he would have used Vanner to write a submission to the Bishop’s curia and the Archdeacon’s court asking for this annulment on the very strong grounds of consanguinity. Vanner, of course, informed Isolda, who became desperate. She encouraged Vanner to keep her informed as she maintained all the appearances of a cordial marriage. In truth, she and her husband were deeply alienated. He maintained the pretence as effectively as did she. Isolda still thought she would get “The Book of Fires”, sell it for a fortune and be free. When that door firmly closed, Isolda wanted revenge. She was keen to seize her husband’s wealth. She had failed to secure “The Book of Fires”, so the riches of this manor should really come to her. She realized that if the annulment went forward she would be depicted as Sir Walter’s cast off, disgraced in the eyes of society and once again dependent on the likes of you, Lady Anne, and the Minoresses. Isolda was so desperate she even allowed you, Rosamund,’ Athelstan chose his words carefully, ‘to keep Sir Walter company and provide whatever comfort you could.’ The maid coloured and stared down at the empty platter before her. ‘Rosamund,’ Athelstan continued softly. ‘You loved your mistress so much you would do anything for her, and yet she almost poisoned you.’

Rosamund’s head came up, her mouth gaping.

‘What do you mean?’ Falke shouted.

‘Ask Parson Garman,’ Athelstan declared, ‘a former comrade of Sir Walter during his years abroad when Black Beaumont loved figs baked in a creamy almond sauce. Yes, parson?’

‘I have told you that.’

‘Yes, you have, and how you specially purchased this delicacy to remind Sir Walter of those stirring days in Outremer.’

‘The figs!’ Lady Anne exclaimed. ‘Brother Athelstan, are you alleging they were poisoned?’

‘Not by me,’ Garman declared.

‘No, by Isolda, probably assisted by Vanner – some delicate poison which would increase in strength, the likes of white or red arsenic. Sir Walter loved his figs. He grew sick. He tried to eat them but then—’

‘But then what?’ Falke interrupted.

‘On the day Sir Walter was murdered I believe his intention to seek an annulment was on the verge of becoming public. He was about to serve his case to the Bishop for inspection by the Archdeacon’s court. Isolda and Vanner realized they had little time left and became agitated. On that memorable morning, you, Parson Garman, brought the usual delicacy – figs in a cream almond sauce, yes?’ The priest nodded. ‘You conversed with Sir Walter, the usual parry and thrust, after which you left?’ Again the chaplain agreed. ‘You, Rosamund,’ Athelstan pointed at the now pallid maid, fingers to her lips, ‘visited Sir Walter later on. He gave you the figs left by Parson Garman?’

‘How?’ Rosamund spluttered. ‘How could she poison them? I mean …’

‘I suspect Isolda also visited Sir Walter shortly after you left Parson Garman. She either exchanged the dish or poured some poison over it which would sink into that creamy almond sauce. Oh, they’d been poisoned before but very lightly; if they were eaten by a healthy person, the potion would have little effect, but this time the dosage was deadly.’ Athelstan paused. ‘Brother Philippe, your own physician, treated Sir Walter for these minor stomach ailments; he could not detect poison. He also treated others in this household suffering from a similar condition. I suspect those who shared these figs out …’ He let his words hang in the air.

‘True, true.’ Buckholt turned to Sir Henry. ‘On one occasion I had ill-humours of the belly – so did others. I am sure I had eaten some of those figs.’

‘And if you reflect,’ Athelstan declared, ‘neither Isolda nor Vanner suffered such ailments. Brother Philippe declared he had no dealings with either of them. I am certain Brother Philippe would corroborate what I’ve just said.’

‘You are correct,’ Sir Henry declared. ‘Isolda and Vanner – I cannot recall either of them having to be treated. Others certainly were …’

‘But why should they poison the figs,’ Falke interrupted, ‘if they knew Sir Walter was not eating them? I could understand them doing that at the beginning to disable Sir Walter, but as he grew more sickly the figs were left. Moreover, why coat them with a truly malignant dose if they were to be eaten by others?’

‘Oh, I shall explain that!’ Athelstan replied.

‘No, no,’ Rosamund wailed, ‘this cannot be.’

‘Oh, but it was,’ Athelstan insisted. ‘At the same time Isolda and Vanner planned to poison Sir Walter’s posset. She was furiously plotting not to be caught. If it hadn’t been for Buckholt and Mortice, she would have escaped.’ Athelstan allowed his words to hang in the air.

‘Sweet God,’ Sir Henry breathed, ‘now I understand. There would have been two deaths in this manor, both by poison: Walter Beaumont and Rosamund Clifford.’

‘I visited Sir Walter,’ Rosamund gabbled. ‘He was comfortable. He said he wanted the figs but they were too much for him. He called them a temptation. He insisted that I accept them as a gift. I took them to my own chamber and ate them. I felt …’

‘You became very ill,’ Athelstan agreed, ‘but you are a young, healthy woman. Your body would resist, even as you manifested symptoms of the sweating sickness, yes?’

Rosamund simply stared back in horror.

‘Even better,’ Athelstan continued, ‘on your return to your chamber, you violently vomited? You had to visit the latrines?’

‘I ate the figs,’ she replied, ‘and I vomited time and again through the following night until my belly ached. Later I felt a terrible thirst, and my skin burning up. Physician Philippe visited me after he had been summoned to attend Sir Walter. He examined my symptoms …’

‘By then, Rosamund, the poison was purged but your body had to recover, your humours be restored. The bile in your belly calmed, yet, remember this, your mistress almost murdered you whilst Parson Garman, whose relationship with Sir Walter was not the most cordial, would have fallen under deep suspicion.’

The friar pointed at Falke. ‘Now I shall answer your question. At first Sir Walter ate the figs and became subject to stomach complaints. Eventually he stopped eating them, or at least all of them; others tasted this delicacy and suffered similar symptoms of the belly.’

‘Of course,’ Lady Rohesia murmured, ‘it served as a cover for what they were doing. Sir Walter suffered stomach cramps but so did others; it would lessen suspicion, create the impression that this was some household sickness.’

‘And a fatal dose,’ Athelstan declared, ‘would help deepen suspicion that a poisoner was waging war on Sir Walter and his entire household. Let me explain. If Isolda and Vanner had not been detected by Mortice and Buckholt, if Rosamund had also died of suspected poisoning,’ he gestured at the prison chaplain, ‘against whom would the finger of suspicion be pointed? And you, Rosamund, were chosen by mere chance. It could have been Buckholt or anyone who ate those figs. It didn’t really matter as long as someone else in the household died of poisoning.’ Athelstan paused to let his words reverberate through minds and hearts. Garman and Rosamund were deeply shocked as their awareness deepened of how close Isolda had brought them to destruction. Sir Henry and his wife looked cowed, lost in their own thoughts. Falke stared unbelieving, his eyes blinking and lips moving wordlessly as if searching for words. Buckholt sat grinning to himself. Only Lady Anne, the mute Turgot behind her, seemed alert. She rolled back the voluminous cuffs of her cloak and leaned forward, tapping the table.

‘Brother Athelstan, what you say is logical. God be my witness.’ She stared around, hands outstretched. ‘We’ve seen Vanner’s corpse. What else can we believe except that Isolda was an assassin? Yet surely Sir Walter must have entertained his own suspicions? Why didn’t he voice them?’

‘Oh, he did, but he was very wary. In fact, he trusted none of you. That’s the problem with men like Sir Walter – everyone is suspect. And he was right, wasn’t he? Sir Henry, your brother realized you were waiting for him to die, praying that he would do so without an heir. No, no,’ Athelstan waved a hand, ‘now is not the time for protests of false innocence. Parson Garman, you know I speak the truth about your relationship with Black Beaumont. You hated him. You wanted revenge. Good enough motives for murder? Rosamund, you only graced Sir Walter with your company at your mistress’ behest. She used you to distract her husband, perhaps to discover the whereabouts of “The Book of Fires”. Sir Walter must have realized that. Lady Anne, Sir Walter may have respected you but never enough to confide in you. Moreover, like his wife, he may have come to resent you for introducing Isolda to him. Who knows, he may have suspected you of some nefarious, deeply laid scheme to discover his secrets …’

‘Nonsense!’ she snapped. ‘What would I want with them?’

‘Lady Anne, I am not describing the truth in all its glory but what may have been and, more importantly, what Sir Walter might have thought.’

‘And me?’ Buckholt asked.

‘Ah, the faithful steward whose father fought alongside Sir Walter in the Luciferi.’ Athelstan held Buckholt’s gaze. ‘A son who might have learnt about the ruthless treachery of Black Beaumont in all his doings. A man who could use his position to spy and, in time, betray his master to a greater cause – the Upright Men and their dream of building a new Jerusalem along the banks of the Thames. A steward who remained tight-lipped and taciturn, biding his time as he carefully searched for Sir Walter’s secret knowledge.’

Buckholt simply smiled with his eyes.

‘A frustrated lover who hated Isolda for what she was and what she did,’ Athelstan continued, ‘but also because of the real danger she posed – a ruthless, selfish woman who had her own secret plans for Sir Walter.’

‘And me?’ Falke asked. ‘My part in this?’

‘You know the answer to that, master lawyer. You were just another man caught up in the tempestuous passions of Lady Isolda. Sutler, God rest him, discovered the truth and if it hadn’t been for him, Lady Isolda would have enjoyed the fruits of her sin. She was guilty; her defence was a lie but, like all great lies, contained fragments of truth. How there were others at Firecrest Manor who wished to discover Sir Walter’s secrets. How members of this household secretly espoused the cause of the Great Community of the Realm. How Vanner may have fed Sir Walter poison earlier in the day. Rosamund, you would have been sacrificed. Isolda certainly turned on Vanner. Fearful that he might become a King’s Approver, she killed him down near the mere and burnt any incriminating manuscripts. In the end, however, Sutler proved to be her match.’

‘Are you finished?’ Athelstan caught a note of jealousy in the lawyer’s voice.

‘No,’ Athelstan smiled thinly, ‘I am certainly not.’ He emphasized the points on his fingers. ‘Where is “The Book of Fires”?’ Besides the Greeks, whom did Isolda secretly meet in the city? She sometimes went there by herself, yet no one knows where and why? What do the letters “SFSM” scrawled on the wall of her death cell mean? Is this a reference to the person she secretly met?’ Athelstan chewed the corner of his lip. ‘Is that the same individual who came to the execution ground to collect her remains and pretended to be Vanner?’

‘I didn’t know that happened!’ Sir Henry exclaimed. ‘Was it you, Falke?’

The lawyer just looked away.

‘And the Ignifer?’ Lady Anne asked.

‘Oh, yes, the Ignifer. If Lady Isolda is one root of this wickedness, he certainly is the other. We are hunting him but he may go quiet. He has certainly created a world of terror for anyone involved in Isolda’s destruction. He will let this play on your minds, bide his time, lull you into false comfort.’ He held a hand up and blessed them. ‘I am finished but be careful. Remain very vigilant.’

The meeting broke up, the household silent as they went their different ways. Athelstan suspected they would reflect on what was said and, in the weeks ahead, changes would be made, but that was not his business.

‘Do you think,’ Cranston asked, filling their tankards, ‘the likes of Rosamund or Sir Henry could tell us more?’

‘I doubt it, Sir John. Only three people know the truth about this and two of them are dead – Vanner and Isolda. The other is the Ignifer.’

‘But why has he turned on us?’ the coroner asked.

‘Because, my fine friend,’ Athelstan put his hand on the coroner’s arm, ‘the Ignifer, as I call him, though it could be she or they, whatever guise that demon assumes, certainly knows us by reputation. Yes,’ Athelstan scratched his lip, ‘now that’s a thought, Sir John. The Ignifer is hunting us as ruthlessly as we are him. We must keep ourselves safe.’

‘And so we shall. I have Flaxwith’s bully boys, whilst those four lazy buggers from the Tower will look after you. What now, Brother?’

‘Sir John, let us scrupulously study Sir Walter’s manuscripts, though I’d be very surprised if we discover anything interesting.’

Athelstan’s prophecy proved correct. They sat in the intricately panelled chancery chamber at the heart of Firecrest Manor with all its dockets, coffers, cabinets and cupboards containing narrow small drawers. Household accounts, memoranda, letters, bills and indentures were filed within as neatly as in any royal chancery or exchequer. Cranston, in his gilded youth, or so he confessed, when his hair had been blond and his body all svelte, had trained to be the most sharp-eyed and nimble-fingered clerk, and the coroner brought such expertise to bear on separating the wheat from the chaff. The personal papers of Sir Walter described his life in both the city and the court. Nevertheless, the more they read the more Athelstan’s conviction deepened that they were fencing with shadows or, as Cranston claimed, ‘It was all sizzle and no sausage.’ Sir Walter was a most astute businessman who kept his past and all its secrets very close to his chest. The only noteworthy items were his generous donations to the Minoresses at Aldgate, certain sums paid to the chaplain of Newgate and gifts to Lady Anne Lesures, including the loan of his ‘Novum Testamentum’ – his New Testament.

‘Nothing remarkable,’ Athelstan concluded, ‘except for what these accounts don’t tell us.’

‘Which is, little friar?’

‘Look at the allowances paid to Isolda.’

‘Paltry sums.’

‘Precisely, Sir John. So how could she afford costly gowns and expensive perfume which smells like crushed lilies?’

‘What was the source of such monies?’ Cranston asked. ‘Brother Athelstan, are you sure Rosamund couldn’t tell us more?’

‘Oh, we are finished here. Rosamund, I am sure, knows very little else. Isolda would not render herself vulnerable to a maid. Let us leave it at that. Look, Sir John, darkness is falling. Outside the bats will squeak, dogs will howl and all good souls prepare for the night. So should we.’

Athelstan and Cranston gathered their cloaks, said goodbye to Sir Henry and left. Once outside Athelstan assured Cranston that the four Tower archers would be protection enough. He blessed the coroner, bade him goodnight and swiftly strode down the narrow alleyways, slivers of blackness reeking of corruption. Athelstan and his escort reached the quay where, due to the turbulent waters of the Thames, they had to wait for a barge. An enterprising storyteller, with mummers to act his tale, caught Athelstan’s attention. The masque was about two merchants who had insulted a local sorceress. She visited them in their tavern chamber. She used her powers so the hinges of the door to their room sank out of their sockets, the bolts shot away from their clasps and the bolts on the crossbar sprang free. Once inside, the sorceress, hair all grizzled, torn and sprinkled with ash, her feet unshod, face pale as boxwood, carried out her murders. She cut the merchants’ throats, pretending to catch their blood in a dog’s bladder. Athelstan stood fascinated both by the story and the clever mimicry of the mummers, who performed their drama in a great pool of light thrown by torches lashed to poles.

Athelstan was still absorbed by what he had seen as he took his seat in a high-sterned barge. The oarsmen cast off and the boat turned to make its way carefully across the choppy Thames. Gulls screamed above them, flashes of white in the gathering blackness broken only by the lamps on other craft. Athelstan sat back and wondered about the masque he had just seen. Was this also true of the mystery confronting him? Was the Ignifer a storyteller, a master mummer directing his minions to play their parts? If that were true, what would be the next dramatic development? A night-bird shrieked. Athelstan glanced up at the glowering sky. The clouds had broken and patches of weak light appeared, a phenomenon which fascinated him. Kites and buzzards hovered, dark shapes as they hunted over the moving sludge of the riverside. The friar abruptly recalled a battlefield just south of Bordeaux. He remembered the feather-winged scavengers flocking to feast, hovering like angels of death over the fallen. Suddenly, in a long dash of dying sunlight, a great eagle appeared, shimmering like pure gold in that last burst of day. Athelstan had always thought it was a symbol: Christ was God’s golden eagle appearing over the darkness of man. The kites and buzzards had disappeared as the majestic bird, its wings fully extended, floated so dramatically over the chaos and destruction below. Athelstan, steadying himself against the choppy waters of the Thames, prayed that Christ, heaven’s own eagle, would help him break through the brooding, malevolent darkness confronting him.

oOoOo

‘Where the body lies, there will the vultures gather.’ The verse from scripture was hoarsely whispered by the hedge priest John Ball as he and his confederates watched their cohorts muster on the great wasteland south of London Bridge. The local outlaws, Friar Foxtail and his coven, had quietly fled, leaving that haunted, bleak stretch of common land to the Great Community of the Realm. An attack was imminent. The captains of the Upright Men, the Raven, Crow, Hawk, Falcon and so on, swiftly marshalled their ranks along the barren heathland stretching down to the Southwark quay and the great boat yard where Gaunt was preparing his flotilla of barges. The carriers of the pots were also ready, as well those armed with torches and flint. They had all assembled around the Devil’s Oak, their armour and weapons hidden with no flame or fire to betray the glint of steel.

‘In the name of the Lord’s own commonwealth,’ Ball hissed through the darkness. Orders were issued and the line moved soundlessly off. Men sloped like hunting wolves through the darkness, heading down towards the river. The attackers surged forward, swiftly gathering speed, spreading out, eager to get as close as possible to the barges. John Ball’s scouts, men from Southwark including the parish of St Erconwald’s, had carefully studied Gaunt’s defences. The quayside and boat yard were protected by a ditch or moat with spiked stakes and, on the other side, a fortified palisade with a fighting platform. This arc of defence, half-moon in shape, sealed the quayside from all approaches by land, whilst war barges patrolled the river. The Upright Men had counted on surprise and the possibility of probing a weakened position where the palisade arched down to the quayside. A column of archers and footmen now aimed for that gap like a well-aimed spear. They reached the moat – fascines of bracken and wood were hurled into the ditch, a makeshift platform lowered across it and the attackers surged forward, siege ladders at the ready. The Upright Men, many of them veterans, skilled in siege craft from their years in France, swarmed over the pointed palisade. Only then was the alarm raised. A horn sounded. Trumpets brayed but the attackers, brushing aside the sleep-soaked guard, were now through the defences and the quayside stretched before them. Part of the palisade was swiftly hacked down, pushed out to create a drawbridge across the moat so more attackers could stream over. Gaunt’s forces were now alert. The knights banneret and serjeant-at-arms realized the futility of trying to defend the breached fortifications. They fled their tents and bothies, falling back on to the broad, well-lit quayside, dragging carts to form a barricade between the different buildings. Gaunt’s captains were confident – they may have lost the palisade but they could easily hold this new line of defence. The Upright Men, however, had their own strategy. They pushed their assault as close as they could to the quayside then paused to take care of their own wounded and finish off those of the enemy. The screams and cries of the injured faded. An eerie lull descended. The captains of the Upright Men hissed their instructions. Six small trebuchets or catapults were pushed forward. These easily constructed engines of war, their wheels well oiled, were positioned carefully on the slight rise stretching down to the quayside. Crews skilled in their use calculated distances and prepared. Ropes creaked and tightened as the deep cup at the end of each long throwing beam was pulled back, the cords on either side becoming taut as drawn bow strings. Once ready, sealed clay pots carefully stacked beside each machine were placed in position. All six catapults were primed with two pots to every throwing cup. Tinder was struck. Flaming brands were plucked from the campfires of the defenders. Row upon row of archers took up position, their war bows at the ready.

‘Loose!’ one of the captains screamed. Cords and ropes sang, wood clattered and clashed, wheels creaked. The catapults loosed their burdens into the night sky. The clay pots disappeared into the darkness then fell. Some shattered on the quayside, smashed into buildings or the hastily assembled barricade. At first the defenders were puzzled, shouts and cries echoed, but the captains of the catapults had learnt their lesson: peering through the poor light, they noted that a few of the pots had risen high over the quayside to crash on to the host of barges bobbing on the water. Winches, levers, ropes and cords were adjusted accordingly. The catapults were repositioned. A fresh volley of sealed pots seared the night sky. Orders were rapped out. The line of archers, bows slung, arrows notched, waited as footmen raced down their ranks with flaming torches. The fire arrows glowed. The war bows swung up and, in a fearsome whoosh, the blazing long shafts streaked the night sky before falling on to the quayside and the barges beyond. For a few heartbeats, a strange stillness descended then the fire arrows caught the oil seeping from the pots and both the quayside and the barges erupted in a blazing inferno.

The fire attack on the barges roused all of Southwark and St Erconwald’s in particular. Athelstan was woken by Crim hammering on the door with the startling news of a fire raging along the riverside. Athelstan, braving the cold, immediately hurried across to the church with his escort of archers trailing behind him. The friar forced his way through the throng of pilgrims and visitors, now all agog about the attack along the Thames. Athelstan told the archers to wait and, with Crim trotting behind him, climbed to the top of the tower to see the fires blazing against the lightening sky.

‘They’ll all be there, won’t they, Crim? Watkin, Pike and the rest, up to their necks in devilry. God save them.’ Crim did not reply. Athelstan stretched out and tousled the boy’s greasy hair. ‘Don’t worry, lad, I know you can’t say anything. Just pray that they not be taken or slain.’ Athelstan returned to his house. He could not settle. Dawn would come and the busyness of the day press in with its demands. The friar shaved, washed, donned fresh robes and sat drinking a cup of water, staring into the strengthening flames of the fire he had stoked in the small hearth.

‘My soul is ready, O Lord,’ he prayed. ‘My soul is ready. Awake, my heart, awake, lyre and harp. I will awake the dawn.’ Athelstan said a brief prayer to the Holy Spirit before returning to the mysteries of the Ignifer, Firecrest Manor and ‘The Book of Fires’. ‘A jumble of veritable facts and details,’ he murmured, ‘with no coherence or pattern. Ah, well.’ He rose at the scratching against the door and let in Bonaventure, who streaked to the hearth where he sprawled, washing his paws until Athelstan brought him a bowl of milk and a platter of diced ham.

‘Eat, drink and be merry, my friend.’ Athelstan stroked Bonaventure’s head. ‘For now I must pray.’ He blessed the great tomcat and left for the church. Crim and Benedicta had prepared the sanctuary for Mass. The widow woman tried to question him about the fire but Athelstan pressed a finger against her lips, ‘Silence,’ he whispered, ‘and discretion. Pilgrims and visitors flock here as, undoubtedly, do Gaunt’s spies.’

Athelstan swiftly vested and prepared himself. He decided to preach a homily before intoning the opening rite of the Mass. He also used the occasion to carefully study his congregation. The throng of people had definitely thinned. The attack on the barges must have frightened them but Athelstan immediately noticed, as he had when Crim first roused him and he crossed to the tower, how many of the young men, strangers who had allegedly come to view the Great Miracle, had now disappeared. Members of his parish were also conspicuous in their absence and the list was long. After the attack on the barges, the Upright Men would flee south into the countryside. The group would break up and would drift back towards their homes as if nothing had happened. Athelstan finished his homily and celebrated his Mass. He found this difficult, being distracted by thoughts which whirled through his mind like a flock of noisy sparrows. Once he had received the Eucharist, Athelstan paused and prayed fiercely for divine guidance. He then continued the Mass, reached the final blessing and raised his hand, staring round. Others were absent! Fulchard of Richmond, together with his witnesses and his keeper, the defrocked priest, Fitzosbert! Athelstan finished the blessing, bowed his head and thanked God for guidance. He returned to the sacristy, divested and hurried across to his house. He told the escort of archers to break their fast in a rota, shelter from the cold yet choose a place where they could keep a strict eye on anyone approaching his house.

Once inside, Athelstan locked himself in. He hastily ate some porridge and began pacing up and down the kitchen, sifting through the evidence he’d collected as well as what he’d seen, or rather what he’d not seen, this morning.

‘What is most possible is probable. So, Bonaventure?’ Athelstan held the fierce gaze of the one-eyed tomcat. ‘What is more possible in this vale of tears, a miracle or a clever deception? Let us concede, for sake of argument, that it’s the latter.’ He sat down on his leather-backed chair. ‘Item: we have Fulchard of Richmond staggering into St Erconwald’s during the vigil. Yes? He claims to have had a vision: how our great saint would help him. He certainly was a cripple, the entire right side of his body being badly burnt. Item: Fulchard of Richmond carried letters of attestation to his injuries. He was officially a cripple and a public beggar. On his arrival in London he was critically examined by Brother Philippe, one of the most eminent physicians of this city. He viewed Fulchard’s terrible wounds. He also asserted that Fulchard was greatly weakened, even ill after his journey south. Item: on that particular morning Fulchard of Richmond leapt up to claim a miracle. He had been completely cured. Item: we have a host of witnesses to this miracle, be it Fitzosbert the defrocked priest as well as our noble physician, Brother Philippe. Item: we have the Great Miracle proclaimed. Strangers by the score flood into our ward and parish, bringing carts, barrows, pack ponies and other conveyances. Item: we have a goodly number of stout young men also interested in the miracle. Item: we have a sudden and very violent attack, or so I understand, against Gaunt’s barges further down the river. Item: this morning most of these young men have disappeared, along with many parishioners, not to mention Fulchard of Richmond and his companion, Fitzosbert. Item: we have a connection between Firecrest Manor and the events of last night. Bonaventure, I am sure Greek fire was used during that assault. What I saw from the tower was a blazing furnace. So, who concocted this Greek fire? Is the Ignifer a member of the Upright Men? Item: let’s return, Bonaventure, to this parish. What other strange events have happened in St Erconwald’s?’ Athelstan held a hand up. ‘Item: Merrylegs, or rather Merrylegs senior. We have that funeral feast around his corpse. Strangers were present, certainly Upright Men who used the occasion to plot, but what? Item: on the night before the burial of Merrylegs senior, Godbless and his goat participate in the festivities until both are so drunk they can hardly stand. Item: the requiem Mass for Merrylegs senior the morning after. Many attended yet it proceeded so serenely and smoothly.’ Athelstan stared at the small statue of St Erconwald standing on a plinth in the corner. He went and knelt before it, praying for guidance. ‘For the children of this world,’ he whispered, ‘are more astute in dealing with their own kind than the children of the light. Lord,’ he continued, ‘my heart is not proud. I do not claim to be a child of the light but I know I am here to serve them.’ He rose and went back to his reflections. The miracle at St Erconwald’s was certainly beginning to dim as the fug of mystery around it cleared. Athelstan ate some bread and drank a little ale. He was about to return to his studies when Cranston hammered on the door, shouting for entrance. Once inside, the coroner shook off his great cloak and beaver hat, moved Bonaventure to one side then squatted down, hands out to the flames.

‘Satan’s tits, Athelstan! Gaunt is furious. The Upright Men used Greek fire – pot after pot catapulted through the air to drench the quayside, its buildings and the barges. This was followed by a veritable hail of fire arrows which kindled a furnace from Hell.’ He rubbed his hands and got up. ‘Gaunt expected an attack but not like that. He and his captains had planned on a sword fight, a clash of arms, not a firestorm loosed from afar. Brother, they even brought catapults. No wonder the Upright Men have been quiet recently – they were busy plotting last night’s outrage.’

‘Rumour has it much damage was done.’

‘Brother, the barges were chained close together. The water afforded little protection. Some of the witnesses talk of the flames scudding across the water as if the Thames itself had caught fire. Two hundred barges were mustered there. I doubt if a score of them will reach the Lincolnshire Fens.’

‘And the attackers?’

‘They never really closed with Gaunt’s troops. They had no need. They forced the palisade, occupied the small rise overlooking the quayside and poured down a rain of fire. Once satisfied, they melted back into the darkness.’

‘And the catapults?’

‘Set them alight and left them burning. Gaunt’s men were cautious; they could see the fires but it was dark, misty and they were not sure about the true strength of the enemy. At daylight mounted archers were despatched but for what? The Upright Men were long gone.’ Cranston came and stood over Athelstan. ‘I am sure,’ he whispered, leaning down, ‘that some of your parishioners were out on the wild heathland last night. But never mind, little friar, I have no desire to see them hang. What disturbs me is that during the attack, Greek fire was used. I am sure Watkin and Pike know how to fire oil, but this was different. A substance which set the river aflame! It could not be doused with water. They had to use dry dirt and leather sheets soaked in vinegar or urine.’

‘So where did they get the fire from?’ Athelstan rose to his feet. ‘It must have been recent otherwise they would have used it before. Who would have experience of such a deadly substance?’

‘Sir Henry Beaumont?’

‘Perhaps. Think again.’

‘Parson Garman?’

‘Precisely, by his own confession he served in the Luciferi. He admitted he was a peritus, skilled in the machinery of war. He is also is an ardent supporter of the Upright Men. However, he’s been searching for “The Book of Fires” for years. So where, when, how and why did he manage to secure at least some of its secrets?’ Athelstan spread his hands. ‘Of course, we have no proof to confront him with. I …’ He paused at a rap on the door. He rose, drew the bolts and opened it. Two of the Tower archers stood there.

‘Brother Athelstan, Sir John, we have stopped these.’ The archer gestured over his shoulder. Athelstan stepped out and saw the four men, hooded and cloaked. One of these came forward, pushing back his cowl to reveal a dark, swarthy face. His long black hair neatly cut, as was his moustache and beard.

‘Master Nicephorus,’ Athelstan called, ‘you are he?’

‘I am.’ The Greek’s English was fluid and clear. ‘I am Nicephorus.’

‘And those are your swordsmen?’ Athelstan replied. ‘Soldiers of the Varangian Guard?’

‘You have been speaking to Master Falke?’

‘Of course, and now you wish to speak to me. Well, sir?’ Athelstan stepped back. ‘You are welcome but your swordsmen stay outside.’

Nicephorus came into the house. He clasped Cranston’s hand and that of Athelstan before bowing his head for the friar’s blessing, then crossed himself and took off his heavy cloak. Athelstan glimpsed the jewels shimmering on the finger rings and the costly gold chain around his neck displaying a miniature gem-studded icon of the Theotokos.

‘I suspect your parishioners,’ Nicephorus took the offered tankard of ale and the chair Athelstan pulled away from the table, ‘were involved in last night’s affray. Over one hundred and fifty barges were destroyed. Such, my friends, is the power of Greek fire.’

‘And you want that secret back?’ Cranston declared. ‘Mark the Greek’s “The Book of Fires”, stolen by Black Beaumont. That’s why you follow me and my secretarius around London,’ Cranston sat down, ‘and saved us on two occasions. For that we are grateful. But, my friend, why were you there?’

‘Because you hunt the Ignifer, and he, Sir John,’ Nicephorus took a sip of ale, neatly wiping the white froth from his moustache, ‘either holds the secret of Greek fire or is close to someone who does. Mark the Greek’s manuscript contains many secrets, different formulas, correct measurements of what elements are needed. The Ignifer must have these.’ He sipped again. ‘Though I solemnly assure you, whoever it is should be most careful. You English have a saying: “It is dangerous to play with fire” – Greek fire in particular. It has a power you sometimes can’t control.’

‘And Black Beaumont never gave it back to you?’

‘Oh, yes, he did.’

‘What?’

‘Black Beaumont sold what he stole to Greek envoys a few years after his return to England.’

Athelstan sat down. ‘So you have it already?’

‘It’s back with my masters in the great city – that’s why we left Black Beaumont alone for a while. However, our spies here kept him under close watch. They reported something rather strange. How occasionally Sir Walter would go on journeys all by himself. He’d leave on horseback with a sumpter pony.’

‘To some deserted wasteland to experiment with different fires?’

‘In a word, yes. Beaumont sold the manuscript back to us and settled down in London to live high on the hog. The Secretissimi in the great city continued to watch him. After all, a man who steals will steal again. We discovered his secret journeys, we saw the flashes of fire and, before you ask, did he steal two copies of “The Book of Fires”? No! Beaumont had the original copied and, knowing Sir Walter as we do, the clerk or scrivener responsible did not live long afterwards.’

‘We’ve learnt,’ Athelstan declared,’ that Beaumont would make sly references to how this secret manuscript’s whereabouts would be a revelation to all, that it was safe on the island of Patmos.’

‘Yes, we discovered the same.’ Nicephorus put his tankard down. ‘We have spied, coaxed and threatened everyone we thought could help us and, believe me my friends, the list is long. Lady Isolda, Falke, Buckholt, Sir Henry; Parson Garman who, as a mercenary, served abroad under the name Saint-Croix: Vanner, whose corpse you have recently discovered, as well as other servants and retainers at Firecrest Manor. We cannot understand Beaumont’s jest except, of course, St John the Evangelist wrote the last book of the Bible, the Apocalypse, the Book of Revelation, whilst in exile on the island of Patmos.’

‘Of course,’ Athelstan breathed. ‘How stupid of me.’

‘Now, the Book of Revelation,’ Nicephorus continued, ‘talks about the Parousia, the Second Coming of Christ, the end of all things when the world will be destroyed by fire. Beaumont might have been referring to the power and possibilities of Greek fire, except,’ he held up a gauntleted hand, ‘Beaumont actually visited Patmos. Once he’d stolen the book, he escaped through Asia. We know he deserted most of his company in the desert outside Izmir. He and a group of henchmen then fled across the Middle Sea. They reached Patmos.’ Nicephorus sketched a cross over his heart. ‘I swear by the Holy Face only Black Beaumont left Patmos alive. The remains of his companions, nothing more than burnt, tangled blackened bone and scraps of flesh, were found high in the mountains. It took weeks before the governor could establish that these were the mortal remains of the English mercenaries who had landed on the island a few months earlier. Scraps of clothing, discarded weapons,’ he shrugged, ‘but, of course, once again, Black Beaumont had slipped away without leaving any evidence that he had anything to with what, murder? A dreadful accident? Attack by some other group?’

‘Satan’s tits!’ Cranston whispered. ‘I suspect it was murder. Black Beaumont was an assassin. He had a night-shrouded soul, a felon who should have been hanged high.’

‘What do you think happened?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Oh, Beaumont drugged his companions and used his skill to concoct Greek fire and burnt their bodies,’ Nicephorus smiled thinly, ‘or at least some of them.’

‘Did one escape?’ Athelstan asked. ‘Could this be our Ignifer?’

‘Ah, the Fire Bearer. You realize that Beaumont’s Luciferi had officers of different ranks. Some of these would have the title of Ignifer, being directly responsible for loosing the cannon or the hollow tubes through which Greek fire or any such flame can be shot. The Ignifer would also be responsible for loading and directing the trebuchets and catapults with fiery missiles. The mercenary Saint-Croix, known to you as Parson Garman, held the post of Ignifer, a high-ranking officer and quite a ruthless one.’

‘So Garman is the Ignifer?’

‘Brother Athelstan, he could well be. He may have played a leading part in the attack on my lord of Gaunt’s barges. I understand the liquid used was of the same genus as Greek fire.’

‘You have met Garman?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Yes. All he’ll say is that the past is the past and he is nothing more than a lowly prison chaplain.’

‘I received the distinct impression,’ Athelstan declared, ‘that Garman did not have “The Book of Fires”, though he could have had extracts and formulas. We do not know what Parson Garman conceals from his past or what he has acquired since his return to England.’

‘Master Nicephorus,’ Cranston intervened, ‘according to you, Beaumont returned to England. He copied “The Book of Fires” and sold some of its secrets to the Crown and perhaps to others abroad. You negotiated the return of the original in return for what?’

‘Treasure, mercantile information, trading concessions and, yes, we suspected he may have made a copy either of the entire book or those sections of value.’

‘How long after his return to England did he agree to sell?’

‘Oh, about five years. My predecessors agreed on a price but insisted we pay in instalments. Payments,’ he added, ‘you will not find in Beaumont’s receipt books but went directly to his trading ventures. Then,’ Nicephorus leaned forward, tapping the table, ‘about a year ago he eventually confessed he did have a copy. He had the impudence to assert that he kept it as a pledge of our good faith. We replied that we also suspected that he had continued to sell its secrets abroad. It’s now common knowledge that the Hanse merchants in the Baltic have recently overhauled their armaments, weaponry and ships – their crews have become more skilled in the use of cannon as well as more powerful powder and fiery missiles. Beaumont, in fact, sold the secrets he kept in a piecemeal fashion, little by little both here and abroad.’ The Greek shrugged. ‘We have traitors in the great city, officers in the Imperial army who sell secrets. All the Secretissimi can do is block the flow and catch the drip for as long as we can.’

‘And what did Beaumont want in return?’ Athelstan asked.

‘We met him in the city. Beaumont agreed to hand over the copy in return for the following: the murders of the Lady Isolda and Parson Garman.’

Cranston whistled under his breath.

‘And one more.’ Nicephorus stirred on his stool. ‘Rievaulx.’

‘Rievaulx?’ Athelstan queried.

‘One of Black Beaumont’s henchmen in the Luciferi,’ Nicephorus replied. ‘We never mentioned what we had discovered on Patmos. Beaumont eventually did. He maintained he left his company to go down to one of the villages to buy supplies. He stayed to roister and wench. On his return he found five of his companions must have been drugged or killed, their corpses burnt. He believed the sixth man, Rievaulx, had fled. Now whether Rievaulx was part of the murderous assault on the other five, Beaumont could not say.’

‘Did Sir Walter know Rievaulx’s birth name?’ Athelstan tried to hide his growing excitement. The line of logic he had been developing before the arrival of Sir John and Nicephorus was beginning to strengthen. ‘Rievaulx’ could finally clear the way forward.

‘No, he did not.’ Nicephorus chose his words carefully. ‘However, a year ago Beaumont believed this Rievaulx had emerged to threaten him.’

‘Of course, of course.’ Athelstan couldn’t hide his excitement.

‘Brother?’ Cranston looked askance at him.

‘Think, Sir John.’ Athelstan tried to divert his own secret joy at making progress. ‘A year ago Beaumont was being threatened. “As I and ours burnt, so shall ye and yours”!’

‘He told us the same,’ Nicephorus agreed. ‘The warnings were public. Rievaulx was hunting him.’

‘So,’ Cranston shook his head, ‘Beaumont needed you to rid him of a wife he no longer wanted, a priest who reminded him of his dark, sinister past and a former member of his company who had now emerged from the shadows. I can see why he chose you. No, do not take offence,’ he held up a hand, ‘Beaumont would be most reluctant to hire some London assassin who might later confess or blackmail him. He therefore chose someone who needed something precious from him, as well as one who would not be a constant reminder, an ever-present threat to his peace of mind. So,’ he raised his eyebrows, ‘what was your response?’

‘Sir John, we realize why he chose us but I am the accredited envoy of His Most Imperial Excellency.’ For a few heartbeats Nicephorus’ tactful demeanour faded. ‘We will kill and we have killed but we are not assassins. For the love of the Holy Face, Beaumont was demanding the murder of an innocent, high-born lady whatever her character, a priest much loved by the commons and a former member of his company whom we desperately wanted to talk to. Naturally we couldn’t tell that to Beaumont.’

‘So you temporized?’

‘Yes, Brother, we temporized. We promised to find Rievaulx. We never did. Naturally we continued to meet Beaumont, assuring him we were trying our very best.’

‘Did you inform Lady Isolda about what her husband wanted or Parson Garman that his former leader wanted him dead?’

‘Of course not.’ Nicephorus got to his feet. ‘The anger of God caught up with Black Beaumont. Oh, we met the Lady Isolda. Trust me, Brother, I’ve learnt what happened at Firecrest Manor – your discovery of Vanner’s corpse and your conviction that Lady Isolda was a murderess; she and Sir Walter richly deserved each other. As for Garman, there is nothing more dangerous than a former sinner who has found religion. He has his own secret cause and even a king’s ransom would not turn him.’ He paused. ‘I have told you what I know because one day I am sure you will discover the truth of all this. Sir John, Brother Athelstan, you enjoy a most formidable reputation. What I ask is a favour but, when you discover the truth, as an act of kindness, inform me, someone who also did his best to help you.’

‘We shall.’ Athelstan spoke before Cranston could intervene.

‘Very well, until then.’ Nicephorus clasped hands with both of them and left.

‘And I must go too.’ Cranston lurched to his feet. He strapped on his warbelt, put on his beaver hat, swung his cloak about him and grasped Athelstan by the shoulder, pulling him close.

‘The hunt has begun, hasn’t it, little friar? You, the human ferret, are in full pursuit of your quarry.’

‘Yes, I am racing down dark and twisting tunnels in search of our killer. In the meantime, I will deal with miracles.’

‘I do wonder about that,’ Cranston replied. He pulled the friar closer and hugged him. ‘Little friar,’ he whispered, ‘I am nurturing my own deep suspicions about what is happening in your parish but I leave that to you. On this we are divided.’ He released Athelstan and stepped back. ‘You, my friend, must look after your flock, and God knows they need looking after. I am the King’s officer – sometimes you must walk your path and I walk mine.’ Cranston put his hand on the latch. ‘My friend, I think we have just reached such a crossroads.’

Athelstan grinned, raised his hand in blessing and stood in the doorway watching Cranston stomp off towards London Bridge. The friar stared across at the concourse before his parish church. Men-at-arms and mounted hobelars, their scarlet and blue tabards proclaiming the royal arms, now mingled with the visitors and pilgrims. Their arrival was a logical result of the previous night’s attack on the barges. A fruitless task. The Upright Men would have long disappeared, separated and merged back into their villages, farms, hamlets or, as here, their wards and parishes. Moreover, the soldiers would have to be most careful. Any overbearing search or scrutiny might provoke a riot.

Athelstan wondered when the miscreants from his own flock would appear. Until then he would pursue the hypothesis he had begun to develop before his visitors arrived. Nicephorus’ information had been most useful but most of it would have to wait for a while. The question of Rievaulx wouldn’t. Athelstan collected his cloak, left the house and hurried into the church. The throng of visitors had thinned. The only parishioners were Crim, Benedicta, Imelda and other women. Athelstan raised his hand in greeting but hurried on up the nave into the chantry chapel. Once there he paused, collecting his thoughts and trying to recall the sequence of events. On the night of the great miracle, Fulchard of Richmond had hobbled into the church, a crutch resting under his right arm. He was cloaked and hooded; he may have had a visor over his face. He lay down and was cured so he did not need the crutch. Pilgrims whose prayers were answered at a shrine, be it a cure or any other type of healing, would leave some token of appreciation: a stick, a cane or, as in this case, a crutch to be hung over the saint’s shrine. ‘Right,’ Athelstan whispered to himself, ‘I will begin with that.’ He went into the chapel and he pushed his way through the worshippers, explaining he needed to clean the crutch. He grasped this, smiled benevolently at everyone and hurried back to his house. Once inside he pulled back his cloak and pushed the crutch under his right armpit. At first he thought the discomfort and unsteadiness were due to him being shorter than Fulchard whilst the crutch, being even-sided, could be used either way. Mystified, he laid the crutch on the floor, examining it carefully, and realized the crutch had been specially fashioned to be used only on the right side of the body. The cushioned rest was slightly angled to accommodate this; the hand clasp further down faced the outside whilst the very thick leather toe, stiffened to hardness, was worn away by the angle of how the crutch rested against the ground. Athelstan turned it over time and again – he could hardly believe his eyes. Then he lifted it up, trying it under his left armpit and then his right. Once finished, he put it across the table and sat down face in his hands. ‘You stupid, stupid, stupid friar,’ he whispered. ‘You pride yourself on your sharp eyes and perception, yet you can’t distinguish your left from your right.’ He took his hands away from his face. ‘Very well, my beloveds. You now have my full attention.’