The Book of Fires Read Free Page B

Fulchard had hobbled in and out on his crutch, his scarred burns open for everyone to see: now, the flesh was white and unmarked. Athelstan could detect nothing amiss. He recalled the man’s voice – it was the same although a little stronger. He stepped close so his face was only inches from Fulchard’s. He recognized the mole, high on the left cheek, the shape of the good eye. Athelstan crossed himself, took off his own cloak and wrapped it around Fulchard.
    ‘What happened?’ he whispered close to Fulchard’s ear and, as he did, Athelstan smelt a lovely fragrance like that of some exquisite perfume. Athelstan was agitated. At the same time he mentally beat his breast. He preached about a Risen Christ. How all things were possible with God including a miracle. So why did he have these doubts?
    ‘What happened?’ he repeated, gesturing at Watkin to bring a sanctuary stool for Fulchard to sit on whilst he returned to the celebrant’s chair. Silence now reigned, even the turbulent noise from the nave had subsided. ‘You are in the presence of God,’ Athelstan intoned. ‘Master Fulchard of Richmond, tell me what truly happened, from the beginning.’
    ‘I was born in Knaresborough in the shire of York, the son of Ralph and Elizabeth Spicer. My father was a leech, and I became his apprentice. Of course, in the wild years of youth, the blood runs hot and the heart is a merciless hunter for things fresh and new. I was placed in the care of the Benedictines at Rievaulx Abbey but I tired of the brothers. I journeyed abroad, serving in a cog out of Whitby. I then began my travels. I have seen the icy-massed forests of the north where huge white bears prowl and where Leviathan plays in the sea close by. I have visited Outremer. I have kissed the Sacred Stones in the Holy Sepulchre and stood on the demon-swept shores of the Dead Sea. I have wandered here and I have wandered there. Eventually I journeyed to Athens to earn more coin. I worked in the kitchen of a tavern. I was put in charge of the turnspit. One night, the eve of the feast of St George, the tavern master was preparing a sumptuous feast. Oilskins were brought down into the great kitchen, I carried one here.’ Fulchard tapped his right shoulder. ‘God knows what happened. I admit, I had been drinking heavily and I staggered. The bulging oilskin abruptly split, drenching the right side of my body. At that very moment, I was passing the great hearth where a fire danced as merrily as the tongues of Hell, and so it proved to be. The flames seemed to leap out at me as if drawn by the oil.’
    ‘I have seen that happen,’ Merrylegs spoke up. ‘I am always wary of my oven. I keep oil well away from it.’
    ‘True,’ Joscelyn the taverner added, ‘if you are drenched in oil the fire races to embrace you as eager as any lover for his sweetheart. Oh, sorry, Father,’ Joscelyn coughed, ‘I shouldn’t have said that, should I?’
    ‘But it’s true.’ Athelstan smiled. ‘In my youth I served in the king’s array in France.’
    ‘Did you, Father?’ Watkin and the rest chorused. They were as greedy as a host of hungry sparrows for any tittle-tattle about their priest’s former life.
    ‘I served in France,’ Athelstan repeated, ‘at a siege where the defenders poured down oil followed by fiery brands. Some of them missed but the oil had a life of its own. I saw fire move as swiftly as the wind. Master Fulchard, continue.’
    ‘I was burnt, roasted from my head down the entire length of the right side of my body. I was only saved by an old soldier. He knew what to do. He wrapped me in a cloak soaked in vinegar. He saved my life, an English mercenary but one with a good heart. He later took what money I had and used some of his own to help me. I was shipped to the Hospitallers in Rhodes. From there I travelled back to England. My life was saved but I was scarred, a hard, open wound, the pain a dull constant ache. I moved to Richmond in Yorkshire and from