Athelstan walked back to stand over Lady Anne, who glared fiercely back. I have you, the friar thought. I have flushed you out of the undergrowth and you are running.
‘You knew I might.’ Athelstan voiced his thoughts as he read the challenge in her eyes. ‘You did, didn’t you? You feared the confrontation which is now taking place. That’s why you tried to kill me and Sir John. You are a high-ranking city lady. Sir John knows about you – you must have heard of our reputation. You wanted to end our interfering.’
‘Brother Athelstan,’ she smiled, ‘you should have been a minstrel, a songster, a troubadour. What a tale. A dark ballad.’ Her smile faded. ‘Isolda would never have kept such a secret.’
‘As the mother, so the daughter,’ Athelstan responded blithely. ‘It was very much in her interest to keep silent because,’ he leaned over the table, ‘your snake-like mind, curling as dangerously as any viper, had decided to have justice. Your husband died. You and he had no children but your secret daughter had matured into a beautiful young woman and the very wealthy Black Beaumont was a bachelor. Everyone respects Lady Anne Lesures. Beaumont saw you for what he thought, a silly widow woman with too much time and money on her hands, full of fanciful ideas about helping the poor and dispossessed. Oh, what a hideous mistake he made! As you danced between Firecrest Manor and the Minoresses, you began weaving your web. You plotted to get your Isolda into Beaumont’s arms, his bed, his household and his wealth. You succeeded, but it truly was a May-December marriage and, worse, one fashioned in Hell rather than Heaven. Beaumont made a mistake about you but when it came to his own he was as cunning as any old fox. He did not concede anything to Isolda, be it wealth or, more importantly, the secrets of Mark the Greek’s “The Book of Fires”. Isolda, frustrated, turned back to you, her mother and patroness, to advise her. She secretly met you in the city. You provided her with money, even presents, such as a stoppered jar of precious perfume which exudes the odour of crushed lilies.’
‘Evidence!’ Lady Anne snapped. ‘Friar, you tell a tittle-tattle tale with no proof.’
‘In a while, in a while,’ Athelstan replied. ‘But back to my tittle-tattle tale. The marriage worsened. Beaumont, full of idle recriminations, recalled the sins of his youth. He was a great sinner, Sir Walter, a lecher with many paramours. He began to wonder if he was Isolda’s father, one of those blind acts of fate. Did he ever raise the issue with you? Perhaps he did, but you would assure him that she was not.’
For a moment, Lady Anne let the mask slip and she smirked as if savouring some secret joke.
‘Others, however,’ Athelstan continued, ‘hotly encouraged him in such fanciful thoughts for their own secret reasons. Sir Henry, Parson Garman.’
The smirk faded abruptly.
‘Beaumont, black of name and black of heart, decided to seek an annulment, which would have been disastrous for Isolda, who would be publicly rejected as soiled goods. You and your daughter met. You advised her to patronize and cherish Vanner the clerk, who would keep you informed about what Sir Walter wrote. Isolda also had an ally in Rosamund Clifford, another novice from the Minoresses, who was totally smitten with her and probably with you. She did not know the full truth – she probably didn’t care. Both you and your daughter simply used her as you did anyone to achieve your own ends. Rosamund was introduced to the Beaumont household as Isolda’s maid. In truth, she was there to act as your spy, Isolda’s ally, as well as a distraction for the faithful Buckholt and, as matters turned out, for Sir Walter himself.’ Athelstan paused. ‘As I’ve said, I do not think Rosamund knew the full truth: Turgot was your minion, your familiar; Rosamund was Lady Isolda’s. She would do anything for her mistress.’
‘Continue,’ Lady Anne taunted.
‘At the same time, you and your daughter plotted Beaumont’s destruction. After five years of marriage, Isolda had provided you with a clear understanding of matters at Firecrest Manor. Sir Henry Beaumont just wished his brother would die, so that his marriage to Isolda would be dissolved. Sir Henry and his wife lusted for wealth. Vanner was fully compliant with Isolda. Buckholt, a secret and ardent supporter of the Upright Men, longed to seize “The Book of Fires” to assist the Great Community of the Realm. Rosamund would humour Sir Walter to discover the whereabouts of that same manuscript.’ Athelstan leaned forward, jabbing his finger. ‘Of course, matters began to crumble fast. Sir Walter would get his annulment so it’s time he died. You are an apothecary skilled in powders.’
‘No, I was married to one.’
‘And you continued his trade after your husband’s death. You supplied Isolda with poison. You informed her how it should be administered, drop by drop, here and there and especially in those figs coated in their almond cream which Parson Garman brought. You know Parson Garman very well, don’t you? I do wonder about him and your visits to Newgate but,’ Athelstan spread his hands and returned to his stool, ‘that part of the past does not concern us for now. Garman was one of those who did not disabuse Sir Walter that Isolda might be his daughter. He also nourished deep grievances against Black Beaumont from his days as a member of the Luciferi. A fact you might know from your late husband.’ Lady Anne’s flinty eyes never flinched in their gaze of deep antipathy. ‘The figs were poisoned, just a tint to inconvenience and discommode. Sir Walter truly loved them, but of course the poison made itself felt. It disturbed the humours in his belly. Sometimes he ate them, sometimes he did not. Sometimes they were discarded or given to different members of his household with varying effects such as a passing stomach ailment but nothing serious. If the poison was ever discovered, Garman would be blamed. However, on the day Sir Walter was actually murdered, Isolda and Vanner hastened on. I am sure your daughter did not consult you. I have no proof of this, as Isolda burnt any incriminating documents, but I suspect Sir Walter was about to issue his letter for an annulment. The almond figs, heavily coated in poison, were given to Rosamund, who almost died. No one could doubt a murderer was loose in Firecrest Manor. Isolda then decided to follow a plot, probably devised by you, to exploit Sir Walter’s love for his nightly goblet of posset. Isolda and Vanner had prepared for this, purchasing an almost identical goblet, and we know the outcome of that. They would have certainly succeeded but for Buckholt and Mortice. You and Turgot intended to make these two retainers suffer the most, didn’t you? Let them live, let them wonder for days, weeks, even months, when the Ignifer would strike against them?’