A Burnable Book: A Novel Part 9

Braybrooke sat on his heels, prompting the gardener to step forward hopefully. The bishop waved him off. 'Thus shall die the first of thirteen English kings.' Braybrooke wiped his brow. 'Let me correct myself: thus did die the first of thirteen English kings, this one at the great battle at Mantes, of which we read in our chronicles.'

'Of which this Lollius read in our chronicles, unless I'm an utter fool,' I muttered, unswayed by the bishop's lofty tone.

He glared at me. 'If you're sceptical, Gower, keep listening.' He nodded to the friar, who began a second series of lines.

'With seven of swords to swing at their will, To chasten with chattel, and chase their king down.

In Gloucester will he goeth, to be gutted by goodmen With rod straight of iron, in a.r.s.ebone to run.

With pallet of pullet, his breath out to press, And sovereign unsound for Sodom be sundered.'

My hand went to my gut. 'The second King Edward.'

'And his disgusting execution,' Braybrooke said. 'Lying on a feather pallet, a poker shoved up his a.r.s.e. A fitting death for a Ganymede king. And finally the more peaceful death of good King Edward.'

The friar spoke a third time. I could not hide my surprise at his opening words.

'Full long shall he lead us, full rich shall he rule, Through pain of pestilence, through wounds of long war.

Yet morire is matter all sovereigns must suffer.

This long-lived leader, beloved of all, At three of thistles shall suffer his fall; Gold bile shall him bite, with bitter wound wide, At Sheen will be shent, last shrift there to render.'

Braybrooke scrutinized my face as I remembered where I had heard these lines before. At Holbourne cross, shouted into the drizzle by that deranged-looked preacher. The man had spoken this very verse.

'Some say the gomoria took him,' the bishop said, turning away with a smile, 'though I believe the old fellow had a simple stroke.' With the rocks removed and the ground cleared, he knelt to address the large rose bush before him. The gardener was trying not to weep.

'The prophecies, if that's what they are, are full of enigmas, Lord Bishop,' I said, wondering how Braybrooke could be swayed so easily. 'What are the "three of thistles", the "seven of swords" in the account of Edward, or the "sovereign of swords" in William's case? These sorts of symbols don't appear in the chronicles, not in the ones I've read.'

The bishop p.r.i.c.ked a finger, brought it to his mouth. 'The thistle is important to the Scots, I'm told,' he said with a smack of his lips. 'Perhaps some new Robert de Bruce is on the rise.' His voice sounded almost jocular now, as if he were putting me on.

I looked at his rounded back. 'With respect, your lordship, the work your friar just recited is written in a modern fashion its style, its rhythm. It sounds like the story of King Horne, or that vision of Piers the Ploughman that was so much in favour around the Rising. I have to say, I'm surprised so much is being made of an obvious forgery.'

He turned to look at me. 'The thing could have been written by anyone schooled in our nation's chronicles. Is that what you are thinking, Gower?'

Finally some sense. 'The church is familiar with false prophets, my lord.'

With an audible crack of his long spine, Braybrooke stood, flicking dirt off his hands. 'Your scepticism is admirable, Gower, and matches my own.' An attendant stepped forward with a bowl. Braybrooke dipped his hands and wiped them on a cloth. He turned to the friars and canon, who robed and capped him. He waved off his mitre like a cat refusing tack.

'We are men of the law, Gower,' he continued as we walked to the river. 'I serve the church now, but I still have faith in our earthly inst.i.tutions. The crown, Parliament, even the courts. You know all too well how my trust was once challenged in this regard, John, and I'm still grateful for the compa.s.sion you showed.'

It was a rare moment of candour from Braybrooke, whose ambition often outstripped his memory. I murmured my thanks.

He puffed his cheeks, blew air. 'My contempt for Lancaster is no secret.'

'I've witnessed it.'

'Heresy and war arrange us in peculiar alliances.' He said nothing of Oxford, though I a.s.sumed he was thinking of the earl. 'If the reports I have received are accurate, the thirteenth prophecy is known only to a few.'

'The thirteenth prophecy?'

'England has had thirteen kings since the conquest.' He waited a moment, then said, 'Thirteen, including William.'

'Yet if William-' I stopped walking, finally understanding, and feeling like a fool.

He stepped down on to the Fulham quay. 'Now you know why a man in my position would be anxious to root out this book before the thirteenth prophecy becomes known, let alone realized. My friar, Brother Thomas back there, has heard only whisperings of its content, but apparently it implicates someone quite close to the king. Who that might be we don't yet know, though one can guess. So you see it hardly matters whether the De Mortibus is a genuine work of prophecy or a clever forgery. If word of the last prophecy were to get out ...' He looked at me.

'Yes, my lord.' A missing book, a girl murdered in the Moorfields, and now this. 'The thirteenth prophecy, then, concerns-'

'The death of King Richard. Still a boy, really, but with all the world on his shoulders.' He gazed across to the far bank. 'Whatever Chaucer is paying you to find this book, I will give you double if you bring it to me instead, Gower. Triple.' With that the Bishop of London turned from me, walked up the embankment, and was gone.

FOURTEEN.

Cutter Lane, Southwark Hook out the belly, knot up the guts, snip out the a.n.u.s all that was fine, but Gerald still had trouble with the hiding. How to keep it one piece when it wants to split apart at the shoulders, that was the thing. As Grimes liked to remind him, a split hide wasn't worth half a whole, and you'll get the hole, boy, get it right through your pate 'f you split another vellum on me.

This time it worked. Gerald grunted happily as he felt the spine, pared to the haunch, begin to loosen against the gored skin. Spines had their own smell, too, that chalky air of fresh bone. He pulled it free. Hard part of this calf was done. He felt his arms loosen, the knife working its magic as he sliced and split with the ease of a stronger, bigger man.

Gerald loved butchery, felt he was born to cut up these beasts. Only bad part was Grimes. His master was inside now, prattling with that priest. He'd first shown up two weeks ago. This was his third visit. Gerald could hear them all the way from the cutting floor, their voices raised in an argument of some kind. Same as last time.

The priest's comings and goings were putting Grimes in a bad state, even worse than usual. More blows to the cheek, more boxes to the ear, more threats of worse to come. Part of him knew his brother was right well, his sister his broster, his sither, whichever way in G.o.d's name EdgarEleanor was swerving these days, it was true that Grimes's shop wasn't a safe place for a boy Gerald's age. Better to be back in London, with its laws. But what could he do about it? What could Edgar do, for that matter let alone Eleanor? He shook his head, trying to put it all out of his mind and concentrate on the carca.s.s swinging in his face.

Tom Nayler came in, wiping his hands. 'I'm off, then,' he said, tossing his chin in the direction of the high street. 'Got a coney to slit up the market. This'll wait, yeah?'

'Suit yourself,' Gerald said, wondering who the lucky girl was this time. Tom had a way with the daughters of oystermongers and maudlyns. 'I'll finish this one up. Not a lot left.'

Tom ambled off. Gerald sliced and cut contentedly for a while longer. Flanks, legs, heart, with the offal for the dogs. The master's shop had grown quiet, though he hadn't seen the priest leave. He stepped off the floor and glanced up the alley. Tom Nayler was long gone. After a look in the other direction he wiped his blade, set it down on a board, and stared at the shop, his thoughts churning.

What was it with Grimes and this priest? Wasn't a parson of the parish, that was sure. Gerald knew the local parson, just like he'd known the parson at St Nicholas Shambles in his younger days. No, this one wasn't a Southwark man. Not even a Londoner. A northerner, maybe. Or a Welshman. Talked with a gummy tw.a.n.g, like his words were tangled up in brambles and couldn't get out.

The only window on this side of the shop was shuttered, as usual when important visitors came to talk to Grimes. The butcher liked to keep his inquisitive apprentices at bay. Taking his time, Gerald walked over to the shop, found the right spot, and pressed his ear to the gap between the boards. More than once he'd saved his hide this way, catching s.n.a.t.c.hes of the master's complaints about his apprentices and correcting himself accordingly.

He heard the priest, speaking low. At first none of it made sense. A lot of talk about how Grimes had to listen, had to do this and that, think about his future. Then, a stream of verse. 'Listen to it, Nathan Grimes. It's you this prophecy is talking about, you and your cutters over here.

By bank of a bishop shall butchers abide, To nest, by G.o.d's name, with knives in hand, Then springen in service at spiritus sung.

Butchers, Nathan. Butchers bearing knives. They're to be the blood of it, and you the heart.'

Grand words. But what did they mean? Gerald heard Grimes clear his throat. 'Lots of butchers in London, Father, over in the Shambles and such. There's nothing in the verse to say it's to be a Southwark meater, is there?'

'Not exactly, no,' said the priest slowly. 'But "bank of a bishop"? And later it reads "In palace of prelate with pearls all appointed." That's Winchester's palace, my son, you know it as well as I. And who's the closest master butcher to Winchester's palace? Nathan Grimes, that's who.'

'Nathan Grimes,' said the butcher, tasting his name.

'That's right. "By kingmaker's cunning a king to unking." Do you see?'

'Well-'

'It's plain as the shining sun, Nathan Grimes. Look in the gla.s.s. You're to be the kingmaker, sure as I'm standing here.'

'The kingmaker,' Grimes repeated.

'Wouldn't be the first time you've been at the centre of such great events,' said the priest, lowering his voice. 'You were on the bridge with Wat Tyler, Nathan. You walked right behind him. And I saw you myself on Blackheath, standing at Ball's feet. You could have taken out King Richard at Mile End, with a cleaver or a long knife.'

Gerald felt a chill, finally understanding the priest's cryptic talk. It had been four years since the Rising, when the commons of Ess.e.x and Kent, infuriated by the poll taxes and the harshness of their levy, had flooded London by the thousands, burning buildings, beheading bishops and treasurers and chancellors, imprisoning the young King Richard himself in the Tower and nearly executing him at Smithfield.

The butchers of London and Southwark had marched along with the rest, and Gerald could still remember the exuberance on the streets as word spread of John Ball's sermon on Blackheath. When Adam delved and Eve span, who was then the gentleman? Words of hope, and a promise of a better life for England's poor. Though things were now much the way they had been before the Rising, its wounds were still fresh, the city and the realm braced with suspicion of the commons. You could still see it on the faces of the beadles and aldermen, in the tense stance of lords and ladies as they rode through the streets, trading hostile glances with cl.u.s.ters of workers breaking stone, or lame beggars idling by the gates.

Now, it seemed, the talk of treason was back. That priest in with Grimes, he was trying to convince the master butcher to raise arms again, and this time have a real go at the king. He thought of the priest's verses. By bank of a bishop shall butchers abide. Not one butcher, not Nathan Grimes alone, but butchers. So what did that mean for him, Gerald Rykener?

The sc.r.a.pe of a bench. Gerald turned his head so his eye was against the gap. The priest rose and clapped Grimes on the back. 'This is fate, my son. It's prophecy, as sure as the Apocalypse itself. G.o.d sees our futures and our glories in ways we mortals cannot, Nathan. This is yours. Embrace it, my son!'

Grimes sat there, staring at the far wall of his shop, kneading his swarthy chin. Gerald watched him, almost seeing the muddled thoughts in his master's brain, like a rocker churning cream. Then the butcher looked up at the priest, a gleam in his eye. He stood, inhaled deeply, and nodded.

'I'm in, Father.' His nod strengthened as his certainty swelled. The priest stepped in and embraced him.

Gerald felt his stomach heave. He turned away, his eyes cast at the ground as he trudged back to the kill shed. He leaned against the rough board wall, pondering what he'd heard.

The butchers of Southwark. A new Rising. Knives and cleavers and axes and a crowd of meaters, ma.s.sing over the bridge, intent on killing the very King of England. To what end? He shook his head, the answer as clear as his memory. A rain of arrows, the swish of a garrison's swords, and it would all be over. A slaughter in the streets, the blood of the poor running between the pavers. Just like last time.

And who would the hangman come for first, once the king's men discovered who sparked this certain treason? Gerald looked up, the fear clenching at his middle so he could hardly stand straight. Nathan Grimes, that's who and his two apprentices, all of them about as safe as the butchered veal calf hanging there before him.

FIFTEEN.

Broad Street, Ward of Broad Street A rock, hitting the streetside shutters. Millicent did her best to ignore it but then another struck the wood, throwing a hollow crack into the back room where she lay with Agnes. She glanced at her sister, who was still asleep, then threw off the covers and walked to the front room, pushed open a shutter, and leaned out. On the lane stood a young woman in a faded wool dress, hands planted on her narrow hips.

'What is it?' Millicent called down.

She looked up, her hand angled against the sun, tendrils of dark hair circling a moonish face beneath her hood. 'Millicent Fonteyn?'

'Who wants to know?'

'Eleanor Rykener. Searching out your sister. She about?'

Millicent willed herself not to look over her shoulder. 'Agnes hasn't been up Cornhull in five seasons.'

'That right?'

'What do you want with her?'

Eleanor lowered her voice. 'Beadle of Cripplegate's been asking questions, and she's been gone for a while now.' Millicent said nothing. 'Tell her I been by. I'm worried for the poor thing.'

Millicent was about to reply when Denise Haveryng came out of her shop, making clear she'd been listening to the exchange.

'Saw her last at the wharfs, if I remember,' said Millicent quickly, trying to end the conversation before Denise opened her mouth.

'That right?' said Eleanor.

Denise loudly cleared her throat. 'Though you might check up Gropec.u.n.t Lane, or Rose Alley over the bridge,' she called out. 'Those be more her haunts. Millicent's as well, I imagine, before too long.' She looked up at the window with a sweet smile, as if expecting Millicent to thank her for saying nothing about Agnes's presence in her house.

Millicent slammed the shutter, jammed her palms against her eyes, and leaned back against the sill, cursing her sister and her own penury for the tenth time in as many days. Ever since Agnes showed up in her bed with that d.a.m.ned book Millicent had felt frozen, unable to make a decision about anything, even what food to purchase with her few remaining pennies. Nor was Agnes any use, huddled up as she was, afraid to set foot on Cornhull, let alone return to Gropec.u.n.t Lane and earn her skincoin.

They'll be after me, she had sworn up and down. Constables, sheriffs, the man who killed that girl. Don't make me leave, Mil. Let's stay here. I feel safe here, Mil.

She wasn't, of course. For someone wanted this book enough to kill for it and if one man wanted it so badly, surely others did, too. Yet here they were, sitting like harts in a field as the hunters closed around them. Even that Eleanor Rykener had known where to look, and if what she'd just said was true, the authorities in Cheap Ward were now asking after Agnes.

They were in danger. Something had to change. She took a deep breath, and the decision stole demon-like into her mind. She woke Agnes.

'We sell it, Ag.'

'Whah?' Agnes yawned, rubbing her eyes.

'The book. We sell it to the highest payer.'

Agnes shook her head, coming awake. 'Having it here in your house's already a dangerous thing, Mil. Like holding a flaming log. And now you want to sell it, spread the fire when the source be us? Better to toss it in the Thames.'

'Wrong.' She pressed her sister's hand. 'We have to sell it, and sell it soon. It's the only way out of this h.e.l.l, Ag. My debt, your life why, sell it to the right man and we'll have riches to spare.'

'But who would purchase such a thing, Mil?'

Who indeed? Through the morning hours Millicent thought through every interaction she could recall with members of n.o.ble retinues from her years as Sir Humphrey's consort. Since his death these connections had been entirely broken, for a singlewoman without blood, wealth, or station could hardly seek the company of counts, knights, and ladies and expect to meet anything but disdain. It was not the n.o.bles themselves they would approach, she decided. Rather it was the working members of their households: the armourer to the Baron of Yorkshire, the steward to the Duke of Lancaster, the clerk of wardrobe to the Earl of Oxford. The men with the most intimate access to their lords, and the means to persuade them that this book of prophecies would be a most worthy purchase.

Agnes still looked doubtful. 'Suppose they turn us over to the constables, or the beadle?'

'They won't,' Millicent said confidently. 'Who'd believe them, claiming some maudlyns are going around London peddling a book of prophecies?'

'I suppose you're right,' said Agnes. 'Though we don't have to do this, Mil. Our mother, she still might take us in. Even you, even after all these years.'

'A generous soul, that Bess Waller,' Millicent scoffed.

'You're her daughter too, Mil. Could be she'd give us our old rooms to ply the swyve, let us keep more of what we earn. The Bishop wasn't so bad, and we'd be together. Our mother's got, what, another ten years, then the place can be our own.'

Millicent shook her head furiously. 'I'm never going back. Never. And you can't live the life of a maud into your old age. You want to turn out like St Cath, that withered sheath? This book, this is all we've got.'