The Book of Fires by Paul Doherty

stretched, ‘I would ask you a great favour: lodgings for Brother Athelstan and me at Firecrest Manor. At the moment St Erconwald’s is rather busy.’
    ‘I heard,’ Lady Anne exclaimed. ‘Some story about a miracle? I must visit your parish.’
    ‘The Bishop of London’s people are there,’ Athelstan answered, staring down at the tabletop. Cranston’s request had taken him by surprise, though he swiftly conceded the wisdom of it. Tuddenham and the parish council would keep the miracle-seekers at bay, whilst a visit to Firecrest Manor might prove useful.
    ‘As for myself, of course,’ Cranston pushed back his chair, ‘at the moment I am living like a bachelor, so fresh lodgings …’
    ‘Of course,’ Sir Henry declared, getting to his feet. ‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan, we shall be pleased to escort you there.’
    ‘I will do that,’ Lady Anne intervened, grasping Cranston’s arm. ‘I need to have a few words with my old friend Jack and discover more about the miracle at St Erconwald’s.’
    The meeting broke up. Sir Henry assured Cranston and Athelstan that two comfortable chambers would be ready and both of them would be his honoured guests. Chaplain Garman wandered over to invite Athelstan into his chapel at Newgate. Rosamund Clifford sat lost in her own thoughts until Lady Rohesia called her away. Cranston became deep in conversation with Lady Anne, so Athelstan crossed to study the paintings hanging on the walls above the linen panelling. He found them fascinating. The paintings, from the new schools in northern Italy, were held in gold-scrolled frames and glowed brilliantly both in colour and depiction. Athelstan noticed how Lady Anne had a special devotion to her holy namesake St Anne, mother of the Virgin Mary. At least four of the paintings celebrated this holy relationship, with others describing events from the Virgin Mary’s youth. Now and again the artist had scrolled the tribute in the corner of the painting, ‘
Sicut mater, sicut filia
’ – ‘As the mother, so the daughter.’
    ‘My patron saint.’
    Athelstan turned. Lady Anne stood smiling at him, behind her the ever faithful Turgot.
    ‘I think Sir John wishes to go,’ she added.
    Cloaks were collected and, with a hired torch-bearer going ahead of them, Lady Anne led Cranston and Athelstan out into the cold, bleak street. All trading was now done. The call of the bellman could be clearly heard. Lanthorns glowed from the doorposts of the houses casting pools of light around which the shadows danced. Rats squeaked – black darting shapes followed by the blurred outline of hunting cats. Dogs howled up at the full winter moon. Here and there from some cranny or corner a beggar, licensed to plead in that part of the city, shook his clacking bowl for alms. Cranston drew his sword as Lady Anne led them briskly on.
    ‘Don’t worry,’ she called over her shoulder, ‘Turgot will be our guard.’ Athelstan turned and glimpsed a cowled figure with a drawn blade of a sword glinting like a flame of warning. A soothsayer shuffled out of the dark, asking if they wished their fortune described, only to scuttle away as Cranston bawled at him to ‘Go back to the Halls of Hell!’ Once they had cleared the street Lady Anne stopped. Further back their escort also paused whilst Lady Anne shooed the torch-bearer out of earshot. She beckoned Athelstan and Cranston closer and pulled down her muffler. ‘I did not wish to appear vindictive, harsh of tongue or hard of heart, but Lady Isolda was a veritable virago, beautiful with blonde hair and lustrous blue eyes. She was a most attractive lady: in her soul, however, she was selfish, spoilt and arrogant.’
    ‘And capable of murder?’ Athelstan asked.
    ‘Yes,’ Lady Anne nodded, ‘yes, Isolda was capable of murder. I believe she killed her husband for no other reason than she had grown tired of him. She would have used Vanner for her own evil, selfish purposes.’ Lady Anne crossed herself.