A Feast of Poisons by Paul Doherty (as C. L. Grace)

Author:Paul Doherty (as C. L. Grace) [Doherty, Paul]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780755395675
Publisher: Headline
Published: 2013-06-05T21:00:00+00:00

Chapter 6

He yafnat of that text a pulled hen. That seith that hunters bennathooly men.

—Chaucer, General Prologue,

The Canterbury Tales

A maid had wheeled a capped brazier into their chamber, its glowing charcoal, strewn with herbs, gave off a deliciously fresh smell. For a while Kathryn sat on the edge of the bed and studied a bestiary that Lord Henry had placed there as a courtesy gift from his library. She leafed through the coloured parchment, looking at the dark reds and greens. She stopped at a strange-looking creature the artist had depicted in a blueish purple.

The Irishman was now stripping, ready to wash. Kathryn tapped the page. ‘Did you know, Colum, the wild ass lives in Africa, and one male will dominate an entire herd of females.’ She smiled. ‘According to this, the male is so jealous of any newborn colt, he will bite off its testicles. On the eve of twenty-fifth March, the Feast of the Conception of Christ, the wild ass will bray twelve times during the night and twelve times during the day. Yet at the same time, it represents the devil, because the wild ass doesn’t know the difference between day and night.’ She turned the pages and stared at the strangely sketched camel. She pointed at the picture. ‘I saw one of these when my father took me to the Tower of London. According to the writer, it chews the cud like an ox and can cover hundreds of miles in one day.’ She closed the book and placed it on the bed.

The Irishman was now dipping a napkin into the bowl, washing his body. Kathryn noticed the crisscross scars on his side and back.

‘How many wounds do you have, Irishman?’

‘More than I care to count. Some are from battles, others from fights in dark streets and stinking alleyways. Do they repel you?’

‘Nothing about you repels me, Irishman.’ Kathryn would have continued the teasing but abruptly, on the evening breeze, came the sound of a tolling bell.

‘Simon the Sexton,’ she explained. ‘I wonder what’s wrong now.’ Then she remembered the three corpses. ‘They must be blessing them,’ she remarked quietly, ‘Elias, Isabella, and Adam. They’ll be incensed just before dark. Father Clement will sing the Requiem Mass tomorrow. By the end of the day they’ll lie buried in the God’s Acre. Isn’t it strange, Colum, how swift life can be?’ She opened the book and pointed to a picture of a lion. ‘That’s what death’s like, a devourer, a beast striking from the grass or a hawk winging from the sky.’

Colum put on a clean shirt, came over and touched her under her chin. ‘In which case, my little philosopher, we should enjoy the day while it lasts. Are you happy, Kathryn?’ He sat down on the bed beside her. ‘Or does your mind still dwell in the past?’

‘If it dwells in the past, Irishman’—she put her arms around his waist and leaned her head on his chest—‘it’s because I’m so happy, such a contrast, yet,

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