‘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.
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?