‘No, no, Sir John. This was not the work of an angel or demon.’ Athelstan led the coroner out of the cellar. ‘Trust me, all of this is down to sheer human wickedness.’ He paused. ‘We’ll resolve this as we always do, by careful examination, logic and evidence. To do that we have to talk. We are in the city, so I think it’s time we visited the Minoresses in their convent.’
They left Bread Street, making their way towards the Tower. A freezing cold day though the sun was welcoming enough. They tramped through the icy sludge, keeping a wary eye on what was underfoot as well as the low-hanging signs and the upper casement windows from which chambermaids threw all kinds of filth. A relic-seller, garbed completely in horse skin, his antlered head covered by a scarlet cloth, offered the teeth of Goliath from his tomb in a miraculous cave overlooking the Dead Sea. Cranston told him to shove off, but the macabre sight made Athelstan reflect on the miracle at St Erconwald’s. He ruefully conceded that neither he nor Master Tuddenham had found anything to create even a reasonable doubt. The Ignifer was a different matter, bereft of any proof or evidence. So far that assassin had struck at least four times with deadly effect. Three of his victims were simply caught out in the street, an easy enough task. Athelstan glimpsed a maid carrying a bucket towards him, on a nearby doorpost a lantern still glowed. How swift would it be, the friar asked himself, for the maid to throw the contents of her bucket over someone, grasp the candle from the lantern and hurl it at her victim? Trudging slightly behind the wine-swigging coroner, Athelstan estimated it would take no more time than to recite an Ave or a paternoster. The Ignifer’s first three attacks had counted on surprise but the assault on Pynchon had been more cleverly planned. Apparently the draper had confidently proclaimed how he was securely protected; that had now been exposed as an empty boast. Pynchon lay dead, one further horror following the execution of the Lady Isolda. The Ignifer was proving to be very cunning. He might not strike at all of those involved in Isolda’s condemnation and execution, nevertheless he had created a world of deep dread for anyone who had anything to fear. Athelstan thumbed his Ave beads. He could not enter the soul of the killer. He suspected that like some hungry wolf sloping through the undergrowth, the Ignifer would lie low for a while, let peace descend and strike again. Lifting his head, Athelstan glimpsed a courier hastening through the streets carrying his white wand of office, garbed in the splendid tabard of the House of Lancaster. John of Gaunt, Athelstan reflected, was also deeply involved in Isolda’s burning. Would the Ignifer strike at him? But how and when? In the meantime, the assassin would spread his miasma of fear, a veritable mist provoking all forms of dire threats and menaces.
Athelstan broke from his reverie. Cranston was bellowing at two apprentices from a nearby smithy who were hurling pieces of charcoal at each other. His shouts and the ugly muttering of others drove the sooty-faced imps back into the smithy. They walked on. Athelstan’s attention was caught by an itinerant preacher garbed like St Christopher, or so he proclaimed, as he warned about the ‘foul, bubbling stew of corruption of the city, rich with murderous misdeeds and all forms of wickedness’. Athelstan quietly agreed with the words. He felt uneasy, as if they were being watched and shadowed, though he could not detect anything amiss. They reached St Andrew’s Cornhill, a veritable haven for felons, a dark den of thieves, apple squires, nips and foists. Cranston was immediately recognized. Insults were hurled, followed by clods of icy filth. Cranston drew both sword and dagger and the danger receded. They went up Aldgate towards the imposing entrance to the Minoresses. Just before the great double-barred gate, Cranston plucked at Athelstan’s sleeve and pointed to a large life-like statue of the Virgin half-stooped over an empty cradle. Beside the statue hung a bell under its coping, a red tug rope dangled down to lie curled in the empty cradle.
‘If a mother,’ Cranston explained, ‘does not want her baby, she places it in the cradle and pulls the rope.’ He turned and pointed back down the street. ‘The mother would probably hide there to watch and wait until one of the good sisters appeared.’ He approached the gate and pounded on the wood. A hatch high up in the door opened and a face peered out.
‘Jack Cranston,’ the coroner declared, ‘and Brother Athelstan, parish priest of St Erconwald’s.’
‘Oh, the miracle!’ a voice exclaimed.
‘Yes, we are.’ Cranston laughed. ‘Now come on, Sister, open up. Our legs are freezing and I do not want the cold to rise any further.’ The portress giggled, the postern door swung open and both the coroner and friar stepped inside. They followed their blue-garbed guide across the cobbles, through the great cloisters and into the parlour of the guesthouse. A warm sweet-smelling chamber, its white walls were dominated by the cross of San Damiano and painted scenes from the lives of St Francis and St Clare. The rushes on the floor were green, supple and fragrant with powdered herbs. The portress ushered them to chairs placed around a square table and wheeled in two capped braziers to provide greater warmth. She explained that Mother Superior would be with them soon – in the meantime, would they like refreshment? Blackjacks of ale and dishes of soft herb cheese on strips of manchet bread were just being served when Mother Clare bustled into the guestroom. A cheery-faced woman, the Mother Superior gave a scream of delight at seeing ‘Old Jack’. She then embraced both him and Athelstan in a warm, tight hug of welcome.
‘Well,’ she indicated that they retake their seats, ‘eat and drink. Remember what St Francis said, and this even includes Dominicans.’ She winked at Athelstan. ‘The first rule of a Christian is to be hospitable. Good, you are eating. Now, why are you here? Oh, no,’ her fat fingers flew to her chubby face, ‘of course, Lady Anne Lesures is already here.’ Her voice fell to a whisper. ‘Poor Isolda Beaumont.’
‘She was left here as a foundling?’
‘Yes, Brother, we took Isolda. I was novice mistress at the time,’ she shook her head, ‘just over twenty years ago. We called her Isolda Fitzalan because she was left in the gate cradle, wrapped in a cloth boasting the arms of the Fitzalans …’
‘Azure and Or, a branch of oak, vert and fructed or …’
‘Precisely, Sir John – correct to the last detail.’
‘The Fitzalans.’ Athelstan glanced swiftly at Cranston. ‘Surely Thomas Fitzalan, the present Earl of Arundel, is powerful? Feared even by Gaunt?’
‘Don’t let your imagination run away with you, Brother.’ Mother Clare smiled. ‘The Fitzalans are legion in number. I suspect that one of their young women from a minor branch of the family became pregnant out of wedlock and decided she must give the child away.’ Mother Clare sighed and helped herself to a strip of toasted cheese. ‘The swaddling blanket is no real indication of birth, it could be used by some maid or servant to show the child was noble born.’
‘Why Isolda?’ Athelstan asked. ‘A rather unusual name?’
‘Very simple, Brother. We found a scrap of parchment pushed into a fold of the blanket on which the name Isolda was written.’
‘Are many such children left here?’
‘A few, always girls, and remember, Brother, many mothers often change their mind and return for their child.’
‘But not in Isolda’s case?’
‘Never.’
‘What was she like?’
Mother Clare touched her starched white wimple. ‘She was, even as a little girl, extraordinarily beautiful, graceful in all her ways.’ Mother Clare put her face to her hands then took them away. ‘God forgive me, Isolda was also avaricious, wilful, obdurate and selfish.’ The nun crossed herself swiftly. ‘There. I have said it, God forgive me but it’s the truth. Isolda was greedy for wealth and power.’