join the gangs. Priests like Garman should be warned.’
‘And he has been,’ Cranston replied. ‘But Garman is a cleric, subject to Church law, and we must have proof of conspiracy to treason.’ He spread his hands. ‘The worst we can do is remove him, but on what grounds? He has proven to be a devoted pastor. The Bishop of London could replace him but not many priests, if any, would want such a benefice, whilst a replacement could be worse in every way …’
Lord Henry began to question Cranston about city politics. Athelstan sat silent. He knew the coroner was correct. Many village priests, as well as those who worked amongst the poor, were openly espousing the Upright Men as the only possible cure for the kingdom’s ills, yet that wasn’t relevant now.
‘Vanner!’ Athelstan’s exclamation silenced the discussion. ‘Vanner has apparently fled, for whatever reason. If he is alive, he is a fugitive, a man sliding through the shadows fearful of capture. Let us say Vanner is the Ignifer – could he fashion and prepare Greek fire?’
‘He may have stolen “The Book of Fires”,’ Sir Henry countered, ‘but …’
‘I wager Vanner was not involved in the manufacture of cannon, culverins and powder?’ Athelstan asked.
Sir Henry nodded in agreement.
‘Even if he had “The Book of Fires”,’ Athelstan continued, ‘how can he, a clerk, slip through the streets of London dealing out death whenever, wherever he wishes? Sir Henry, I understand there is a hierarchy of strengths when it comes to Greek fire?’
‘Yes, Brother. It’s like any other weapon with a range of power and force. You can have a small hand-held crossbow or the powerful Brabantine, which can bring down a mailed knight.’
‘Very good.’ Athelstan rubbed his hands together. ‘So, if Vanner was the Ignifer he would need to buy certain commodities, but how could he do that as a fugitive? Where would he get the money from? He is a soft-handed clerk fleeing for his life. He will need a place to shelter, to sleep and feed. More importantly, as I have said, he has to buy certain items, deal with merchants who could well recognize him. Then there is the problem of storage, of manufacture, and all this brings me to one logical conclusion.’ Athelstan paused as he reflected on what he just said. ‘Impossible,’ he breathed.
‘Brother?’ Lady Anne asked. ‘What is impossible?’
‘I suspect, indeed I am sure that Vanner is not the Ignifer. In fact, he is dead, and has been for many days, even before Lady Isolda was executed.’
‘Dead?’ Sir Henry queried.
‘To be more precise murdered but where, how and by whom I cannot say. Sir Henry, where are Vanner’s papers, his manuscripts?’
‘Like Lady Isolda’s, they were destroyed. Sutler never established who did that.’
‘But he suspected Lady Isolda?’
‘I think so.’
‘And I will need to examine Sir Walter’s papers.’
‘Of course, Brother. Do you want to do that now?’
‘No,’ Athelstan shook his head, ‘only when I am ready.’
‘I will arrange that,’ Sir Henry declared. ‘Now, Sir John, Brother Athelstan, you would like to see the gardens?’
Both agreed and got to their feet. Lady Anne sidled up beside Athelstan with a spate of questions about the ‘Great Miracle’. Thankfully she fell silent as Sir Henry led them out through a postern door into the spacious gardens which ran down to the curtain wall and the majestic Watergate fronting the Thames. Athelstan could only marvel at their extent, which was as great as any demesne around a shire manor. There were orchards of apple, pear and other fruit trees, and an impressive falcon fountain, the great bird of prey cast in bronze, perpetually hovering over a broad, lead-lined pool. There were grassy areas, herb plots, flower beds and tunnelled arbours fashioned out of coppiced poles lashed together with willow cords. Over these grew vines and climbing roses, a tangle of greenery awaiting the sun.
‘And he has been,’ Cranston replied. ‘But Garman is a cleric, subject to Church law, and we must have proof of conspiracy to treason.’ He spread his hands. ‘The worst we can do is remove him, but on what grounds? He has proven to be a devoted pastor. The Bishop of London could replace him but not many priests, if any, would want such a benefice, whilst a replacement could be worse in every way …’
Lord Henry began to question Cranston about city politics. Athelstan sat silent. He knew the coroner was correct. Many village priests, as well as those who worked amongst the poor, were openly espousing the Upright Men as the only possible cure for the kingdom’s ills, yet that wasn’t relevant now.
‘Vanner!’ Athelstan’s exclamation silenced the discussion. ‘Vanner has apparently fled, for whatever reason. If he is alive, he is a fugitive, a man sliding through the shadows fearful of capture. Let us say Vanner is the Ignifer – could he fashion and prepare Greek fire?’
‘He may have stolen “The Book of Fires”,’ Sir Henry countered, ‘but …’
‘I wager Vanner was not involved in the manufacture of cannon, culverins and powder?’ Athelstan asked.
Sir Henry nodded in agreement.
‘Even if he had “The Book of Fires”,’ Athelstan continued, ‘how can he, a clerk, slip through the streets of London dealing out death whenever, wherever he wishes? Sir Henry, I understand there is a hierarchy of strengths when it comes to Greek fire?’
‘Yes, Brother. It’s like any other weapon with a range of power and force. You can have a small hand-held crossbow or the powerful Brabantine, which can bring down a mailed knight.’
‘Very good.’ Athelstan rubbed his hands together. ‘So, if Vanner was the Ignifer he would need to buy certain commodities, but how could he do that as a fugitive? Where would he get the money from? He is a soft-handed clerk fleeing for his life. He will need a place to shelter, to sleep and feed. More importantly, as I have said, he has to buy certain items, deal with merchants who could well recognize him. Then there is the problem of storage, of manufacture, and all this brings me to one logical conclusion.’ Athelstan paused as he reflected on what he just said. ‘Impossible,’ he breathed.
‘Brother?’ Lady Anne asked. ‘What is impossible?’
‘I suspect, indeed I am sure that Vanner is not the Ignifer. In fact, he is dead, and has been for many days, even before Lady Isolda was executed.’
‘Dead?’ Sir Henry queried.
‘To be more precise murdered but where, how and by whom I cannot say. Sir Henry, where are Vanner’s papers, his manuscripts?’
‘Like Lady Isolda’s, they were destroyed. Sutler never established who did that.’
‘But he suspected Lady Isolda?’
‘I think so.’
‘And I will need to examine Sir Walter’s papers.’
‘Of course, Brother. Do you want to do that now?’
‘No,’ Athelstan shook his head, ‘only when I am ready.’
‘I will arrange that,’ Sir Henry declared. ‘Now, Sir John, Brother Athelstan, you would like to see the gardens?’
Both agreed and got to their feet. Lady Anne sidled up beside Athelstan with a spate of questions about the ‘Great Miracle’. Thankfully she fell silent as Sir Henry led them out through a postern door into the spacious gardens which ran down to the curtain wall and the majestic Watergate fronting the Thames. Athelstan could only marvel at their extent, which was as great as any demesne around a shire manor. There were orchards of apple, pear and other fruit trees, and an impressive falcon fountain, the great bird of prey cast in bronze, perpetually hovering over a broad, lead-lined pool. There were grassy areas, herb plots, flower beds and tunnelled arbours fashioned out of coppiced poles lashed together with willow cords. Over these grew vines and climbing roses, a tangle of greenery awaiting the sun.
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