‘By then Fulchard,’ Parson Garman broke in, ‘though I only knew him as Rievaulx, was an ignifer like me, skilled in casting fire, a good, faithful companion, trusted by all and trusting in us until that fateful night on Patmos.’
‘So Black Beaumont did massacre his henchmen.’ Athelstan nodded at the prison chaplain. ‘You could have told us this earlier!’
‘Brother, it’s not my tale to tell, nor could I without betraying others!’
The friar turned back. ‘So, my question. Beaumont was an assassin?’
‘Yes, Brother.’ John of Richmond took up the story. ‘He first led them away from the group in the desert outside Izmir, claiming that the likes of Parson Garman, or Saint-Croix as he was then called, were traitors intending to betray everyone to the Greeks. Beaumont gave this select group of henchmen a choice: to stay or to accompany him.’
‘Why didn’t he leave all of them?’ Athelstan asked, then he smiled. ‘A truly selfish soul,’ he murmured. ‘Beaumont needed protection, an escort across the desert.’
‘At the time my brother Fulchard and the others reluctantly agreed, yet the seeds of mistrust were sown. Black Beaumont realized that. They eventually arrived at Patmos. Beaumont led them up into the mountains, claiming they would hide there until the pursuit lessened and he plotted a swift journey to Rome, other cities and then on to England. Quarrels and disputes broke out. As a gesture of trust, Black Beaumont declared they would share the mysteries of Greek fire. He journeyed to the villages and bought certain materials; Greek fire is not difficult, nor too costly to make. This was only occasion that Beaumont produced “The Book of Fires”, using it to create a concoction which burst into flames almost impossible to extinguish. Black Beaumont claimed they would make their fortunes by selling “The Book of Fires” to the highest bidder amongst the wealthy warlords of northern Italy, be it the Sforzas of Milan or the Medici of Florence. He insisted again that he had left the others because they wished to seize such secrets for themselves or sell them back to the pursuing Greeks. One night Black Beaumont, ostensibly to restore harmony and celebrate their success, declared they would feast on lamb, herbs, pitta bread and a fiery Greek drink, metaxa, which was heavily drugged. My brother only drank a little – his belly was disturbed. The others, however, collapsed as if dead. Fulchard woke to find Beaumont emptying wineskins full of Greek fire all over them, followed by flaming brands from the campfire. A dire scene, Brother Athelstan! The drugged men were aroused but by a raging inferno. Fulchard stumbled away into the dark, Hell’s fires burning behind him, the night riven by the most soul-chilling screams. He staggered into a pit of dust which probably saved him as the right side of his body was scorched by strange blue and gold flames. He fainted from the pain. When he woke he found himself in a goatherd’s hut being tended by a man and his daughter. They had found and hidden him as Black Beaumont, like some demon from Hell, sword in one hand, dagger in the other, prowled those lonely outcrops hunting for the one who had escaped. Beaumont eventually left. The goatherd was extremely skilled, whilst the flames on my brother’s body had been almost immediately doused by falling into the dust pit. The injuries were washed and treated with poultices soaked in dried moss and stale milk. My brother recuperated from his injuries, though it took years. He told me that during his stay his soul changed, seared by the murderous treachery of Beaumont yet healed by a compassion he had never experienced before.’ John of Richmond paused to sip from his tankard. ‘My brother stayed with that goatherd and his daughter for a number of years. They truly cared for him.’ He shrugged. ‘You are correct. Fulchard became fluent in Greek. Time passed. The remains of his companions were collected and interred. Memories faded. The goatherd died and so did his daughter. Fulchard, grief stricken, also grew homesick. He’d secured a little wealth and so began his pilgrim journey to England. He arrived back in Yorkshire with letters of accreditation from the Hospitallers in Rhodes, where he had stayed on his travels. He became a hermit, a recluse who begged for alms.’
‘And he approached you?’
‘Eventually, about four years ago. I had moved to Lincolnshire. I had a son.’ He fought to keep his voice steady. ‘My son was murdered for objecting to a market tax imposed by Lord Scales. I had prospered. I was a wealthy farmer and, like my father, an apothecary and herbalist. Lord Scales treated me and mine as if we were shit on his shoe. The King’s justices in Eyre were as corrupt, their souls bought, their justice twisted. Lord Scales was no better than a robber, an assassin. I became, for what it’s worth, a leading captain amongst the Upright Men in Lincolnshire. About the same time Fulchard sent messages which I eventually received. I journeyed to meet him. I arranged for secret lodgings. Fulchard was a veteran, proud of even his horrible burns. The story I told you about the tavern in Athens is what he first told me. Like all seasoned mercenaries, he was most reluctant to talk about his past. During his long years on Patmos, Fulchard had changed – become more humble, more loving. He wished to make atonement. He saw his sufferings as just punishment for his sins. What sins, he only began to tell me about two years ago. Reluctantly, slowly, he confessed to what truly happened on Patmos. I was horrified.’
‘You wanted revenge?’
‘I thirsted for it.’ John of Richmond paused as if listening to the sound of a dog howling at the moon: the squeak of rats and other vermin pierced the stillness of the night.
‘You sent those threatening messages?’ Athelstan demanded.
‘Yes, I knew about Sir Walter Beaumont, his power, his wealth, his close friendship with the demon Gaunt. I was set on revenge. Then the Upright Men of Lincoln received reports from Parson Garman about the construction of a flotilla of flat-bottomed barges in the royal dockyards on Southwark side.’
‘Do you know, Brother, what Gaunt intended?’ Fitzosbert the defrocked priest banged the table with the hilt of his dagger. ‘He plotted to bring Flemish mercenaries, killers who would be at home in the wet fens. They would thread the marshes on those barges. Oh, I know,’ the defrocked priest sneered, ‘outlaws, outcasts, wolfsheads and wastrels, men like me shelter in the Fens. But so do women and children, as well as peasants who’ve fled from cruel lords and taken their families with them. Can you imagine, Friar, what would happen? The black waters of the Fens would turn red with innocent blood.’
‘I travelled into Lincolnshire,’ Garman spoke up, leaning forward so Athelstan could see his face in the candlelight. ‘I met my comrades and our response was discussed. John wished to help, so did his brother Fulchard. It took us days to weave the different strands of our plot. We realized the vigil novena at St Erconwald’s provided us with a skilful and subtle way to prepare and mount our assault. The rest was as you say. Of course, we made mistakes, about the crutch, about how weak Fulchard had become. Nevertheless, we were successful. The barges have been destroyed.’
‘My brother wanted that,’ John of Richmond exclaimed. ‘He hoped Black Beaumont would realize he could no longer control Greek fire but, of course, Beaumont was sent to Hell’s eternal flame. All we needed,’ he spread his hands, ‘and God is good, was a brief period so that men and weapons could flow into this ward without Gaunt’s spies being alerted. Our envoys from the Great Community could come and go without hindrance. Comrades could fill every tavern and lodging house. Others camped out, all thronged into Southwark and learnt about its alleyways and runnels, whilst our spies inspected and reported on Gaunt’s defences. Now we are finished. Soon we will be gone, unless you …’ His voice trailed off.