by Paul Doherty
Athelstan chewed his lower lip. He could see Sir John’s problem but not even the glimmer of a solution.
‘It will all depend,’ he said slowly, ‘on what Lady Maude decides, Sir John.’ He held back the laughter. ‘If you are lucky, she’ll just put the two dogs out of doors. If she’s angry, you may go with them!’
Cranston belched. The two dogs turned and looked towards him.
‘Hell’s teeth, boys!’ Cranston growled at them. ‘What shall I call you? Do you know, that snivelling bastard Mountjoy, God rot him, didn’t even bother to give you names? Well, I have thought of two: the one with the blue collar will be called Gog and the one with the red, Magog.’
The two dogs must have thought it was time once again to thank their new master for they came hurtling back towards him. Athelstan felt his heart lurch with fear but Cranston lifted his hand and the two dogs stopped and lay panting before him, their eyes never leaving his fat, florid face.
‘Where did you get this gift with dogs? They’d eat out of your hands,’ Athelstan asked, carefully putting his feet under the bench.
‘Ever since I was knee-high to a buttercup I’ve got on with dogs,’ Cranston replied. ‘My father was a hard man. When I did wrong, he put me out in the kennels.’ Ever reluctant to discuss his youth, he pointed to the writing implements on the table in front of Athelstan. ‘But it’s not as difficult as this problem, eh?’
Athelstan picked up his crude drawing of the Guildhall garden. ‘How?’ he muttered, conscious of Cranston breathing noisily in his ear. ‘How could such a murder occur?’
‘Never mind that,’ growled the Coroner. ‘Let’s think about who? Hell’s tits!’ he muttered, answering his own question. ‘The possibilities are legion, and amongst them that group of whoreson codpieces who richly deserve a hempen necklace round their necks!’
Athelstan stared at the Coroner. ‘I didn’t know you cared so much, Sir John?’
‘They are,’ Cranston continued, getting into his stride, ‘a group of foul, wrinkled, double-speaking, painted turds!’ He knocked Athelstan’s piece of parchment aside and crumbled the remnants of the piece of bread he had been nibbling. ‘At the Guildhall this afternoon, my dear monk…’
‘Friar, Sir John!’
‘Same thing!’ he mumbled. ‘This afternoon we met the finest collection of rogues who ever graced this kingdom.’ Cranston placed one lump of bread on the table. ‘We have the Guild masters, the devil’s own henchmen. So full of oily grease, if you set a torch to them they’d burn for ever. They hate each other, and resent the Crown whilst each and all would love to control London. Any one of these or all together could have murdered Mountjoy.
‘Second,’ another lump of bread appeared on the table, ‘we have Gaunt’s party. God knows what that subtle prince is up to. He may desire the Crown or at least to be its master. He wants to control the London mob and needs the Guildmasters’ gold to achieve this. Next,’ a third piece of crust appeared, ‘we have the King’s party. Now our young prince is not yet of age, but followers like Hussey would love to break the power of the Regent and replace him with their good selves. Then we have the Great Community of the Realm, the peasant leaders with their secret council and mysterious leader named Ira Dei. Finally, we have the unknown. Was Mountjoy killed for personal rather than political reasons?’
Cranston lowered his voice. ‘Who knows? It could have been Boscombe or, indeed, anyone in London. I wager if you called a meeting of those who hated the Sheriff, there wouldn’t even be standing room in St Paul’s Cathedral and the line of those waiting to get in would stretch all the way down to the Thames.’
‘But, Sir John, the knife bore the name Ira Dei?’
‘Oh, come, come, clever friar,’ Sir John boomed.
‘Don’t play the innocent with me. I am sure some assassin turned up when all those notables were gathered in the Guildhall and asked for directions so he could kill the Sheriff! It’s obvious,’ Cranston stated, drawing himself up, his white whiskers quivering. ‘I only speak aloud what that double-faced group of bastards secretly know. The assassin was already in the Guildhall. Neither the Regent nor that fat slob Goodman reported any stranger being seen in or around their blessed Guildhall.’
Athelstan grinned. ‘ Concedo, O most perceptive of Coroners. So this matter becomes more tangled?’
‘Of course.’ Cranston picked up the morsels of bread.
‘And what if,’ he speculated, ‘there’s an alliance between all these groups? An unholy conjunction, as between Pilate and Herod?’
‘If that’s the case,’ Athelstan replied, ‘we have a list of complexities which defies logical analysis. The Guildmasters may not be united. They may be divided or even treacherous, paying court to both Gaunt and the peasant faction.’
‘Or worse still,’ Cranston intervened, ‘the Guildmasters could be courting Gaunt, the King and the peasant leaders.’ He waved one podgy hand. ‘Perhaps only one of the Guildmasters is a traitor? Or did Gaunt have Mountjoy killed because he was the one worm in their rose?’ Athelstan put up both hands ‘I agree, Sir John. How Sir Gerard was murdered is a mystery. Who murdered him… well, it could be anyone? So, we are left with one question: why?’
‘And we have already answered that.’ Cranston got up, patted his stomach and beamed down at his clerk. ‘Perhaps Sir Gerard was too much trouble for Gaunt? One thing we do know.’ He drummed his fat fingers on the table top. ‘The object of this game is power and the prize is to be king of the castle and watch the destruction of your enemies. All I can say is, we must trust no one.’
‘My own belief,’ Athelstan replied, ‘is that as this murder occurred on the very day Gaunt cemented his alliance with the city of London, I must conclude Sir Gerard’s death was not the result of a personal feud but a bid to wreck that alliance and sow the seeds of dissension and mistrust. In which case…’
‘In which case, what?’ Cranston snapped.
‘In which case, my dear Coroner, before either of us is much older, there will be another murder.’
Cranston, cursing softly, swept the bread from the table and watched as Gog and Magog lumbered over to discover what their master was offering them. The bells of St Mary Le Bow began to chime. Sir John looked up at the darkening sky.
‘Come on, Friar, we are invited to the Regent’s banquet at the Guildhall.’
‘Sir John, I should return to my parish.’
Cranston grinned. ‘The devil’s tits! The Regent has invited you, you have to go!’
Cranston strode back to the house, bellowing for Boscombe. Whilst Athelstan washed and cleaned himself in a bowl of water in the scullery, Sir John went up to his own chamber and dressed in a gown of murrey sarcanet, edged with gold, changing his boots for a more courtly, ornate pair. He came back to the kitchen, red face gleaming, smelling as fragrant as any rose from the ointment he had rubbed into his hands and cheeks.
‘Sir John, you look every inch the Lord Coroner. I am afraid,’ Athelstan looked down at his dusty gown, ‘I have no fresh robe.’
‘You look what you are,’ Cranston retorted, patting him gently on the shoulder. ‘A poor priest, a man of God, Christ’s servant. Believe me, Athelstan, you can wrap a dog’s turd in a cloth of gold but it remains a dog’s turd.’
And, with that pithy piece of homespun wisdom, Cranston roared to the maids, whispered instructions to Boscombe about the dogs, collected his miraculous wineskin and marched down the passageway, Athelstan hurrying behind. Sir John opened the door.
‘Oh, bugger off!’ he roared at red-haired, one-legged Leif the beggar who leaned against the door lintel, his shabby tray slung round his neck. Leif looked as if he was on the verge of collapsing from fatigue and hunger but Athelstan knew he was a consummate actor who ate and drank as heartily as Sir John.
‘Oh,’ whined Leif, ‘my belly’s empty.’
‘Then it suits your head!’
‘Sir John, a crumb of bread, a cup of water?’
‘Pigskins
!’ Cranston bellowed. ‘You’ve already eaten my supper! You are a hungry, lean-faced villain, Leif.’
‘Sir John, I am a poor man.’
‘Oh, get in,’ muttered Cranston. ‘See Boscombe, he’s my new steward. No, on second thoughts — Boscombe!’ he roared.
The little fellow appeared, as silent as a shadow.
‘This is Leif,’ Cranston bellowed. ‘He’ll eat me out of house and home. Give him some wine but not my claret. There’s bread, soup, and Lady Maude has left a pie in the larder.’
‘Oh, thank you, Sir John.’ Leif hopped down the passageway as nimbly as any squirrel.
‘Oh, by the way.’ Cranston smiled evilly. ‘Leif, my friend, go into the garden. I have two new guests who would love to meet you.’ Then, slamming the door behind him, he went down Cheapside laughing softly.
‘Sir John, was that wise?’
‘Oh, don’t worry about Leif, Athelstan,’ Cranston shouted over his shoulder. ‘He’s nimble as a flea, can move faster than you or I. And often has!’ he added.
Cheapside was deserted now except for the dung carts, the makers, and the occasional whore dressed in saffron or yellow, hanging round the doors of taverns. Once darkness fell, they and the other city riff-raff, the roisterers, the apple squires and what Cranston termed ‘the other beasts of the night’, would soon make their presence felt.
They arrived at the Guildhall to find the entire building surrounded by royal archers and men-at-arms. Cranston bellowed his name at them and shouldered his way through, up the steps and into the audience chamber where Lord Adam Clifford was waiting for them.
The young courtier’s face creased into a genuine smile. ‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan.’ He clasped their hands warmly. ‘You are most welcome!’
Cranston looked at the young nobleman’s simple leather jacket, woollen hose and high-heeled leather riding boots.
‘But, My Lord, you are not joining us for the banquet?’
The young man pulled a face. ‘The Lord Regent has other business for me.’
Athelstan could tell by Clifford’s eyes that the young man was displeased to be sent away.
‘You are the last guest, Sir John,’ he whispered hurriedly. ‘The King will arrive soon and the banquet begin. You had best hurry!’
Clifford handed them over to a liveried servant who led them upstairs and along passageways, all lit by flickering torches. Nevertheless, Athelstan could sense uneasiness in the place; archers wearing either the White Hart, the King’s own personal emblem, or the Lion Rampant of Gaunt, were everywhere.
‘Lord Adam seems a wise-headed fellow,’ Athelstan observed.
‘One good apple in a rotten barrel,’ Cranston whispered out of the corner of his mouth. ‘He’s a northerner who has attached his fortunes to Giant’s star. I hope he’s wise. If the Regent falls, so will he.’
At last they reached the Hall of Roses, the sumptuous though small private banqueting chamber of the Guildhall. The servant ushered them in, Athelstan and Cranston blinking at the brilliant light from hundreds of candles fixed round the room. The other guests were already seated; they paid little heed to the new arrivals and whispered amongst themselves as a cup-bearer took Cranston and Athelstan to their seats.
‘A most noble place,’ the friar whispered.
‘Don’t forget, Brother,’ Cranston murmured as they sat down, ‘tonight we dine with a murderer!’
CHAPTER 4
Cranston sat in his seat in the Hall of Roses and lovingly cradled a jeweled wine goblet.
‘First time I’ve been here,’ he muttered to Athelstan.
The friar studied his fat friend anxiously; Cranston, deep in his cups, was frighteningly unpredictable. He might either go to sleep or else start lecturing these powerful men. However, the Coroner seemed quiet enough for the moment and Athelstan, who had eaten and drunk sparingly, gazed appreciatively round the Hall of Roses.
A perfect circle, the chamber reminded him of a painting of a Greek temple he had once seen in a Book of Hours. The roof was a cupola of cleverly ornate, polished hammer beams which swooped across the ceiling to meet a huge central red rose, carved in wood and painted in gold leaf. The walls and dark embrasures were of dressed stone and the supporting pillars of porphyry linked by banners of cloth of gold, bearing either the Royal Arms or the insignia of the House of Lancaster. The marble floor was overlaid by a carpet which, from a red rose in the centre, radiated out in strips of purple and white, each ending in the name of one of the knights of Arthur’s Round Table. Over each name sat a guest at his own separate table, a small oaken trestle covered with a silver-white cloth. At the top, on King Arthur’s seat, was the young Richard, his golden hair elaborately dressed, a silver chaplet round his white brow; the young King was attired from head to toe in purple damask.
Athelstan, ignoring the hubbub of conversation around him, studied Richard who sat gazing unwinkingly across the hall. Then he caught the friar’s glance, smiled and winked mischievously. Athelstan grinned, embarrassed, and looked away, He was not frightened of Gaunt, who sat in scarlet robes on the King’s right, but Athelstan knew how jealous the Regent was of the King’s open affection for Sir John Cranston, as well as his secretarius, Brother Athelstan. The young King turned and talked to Hussey on his left, grasping his tutor’s wrist in a gesture of friendship. Cranston, though on his eighth cup of claret, turned and pulled a face at Athelstan; for the King to touch anyone at a formal banquet was a breach of etiquette and the highest mark of royal favour.
Athelstan glanced at Gaunt. He was astute enough to see the flicker of annoyance cross the Regent’s saturnine face even though Gaunt tried to hide it by stroking his neatly clipped gold moustache and beard.
‘As I have said,’ Cranston whispered rather too loudly in Athelstan’s ear, ‘no love lost there. Hussey is now the King’s favourite as well as his tutor. A university man,’ Sir John continued. ‘I wonder what Hussey and the King think of Gaunt’s friendship with the Guildmasters? Just look at the turd worms!’
Athelstan squeezed Cranston’s arm. ‘Sir John, keep your voice down. You have eaten well?’
Cranston smiled. ‘As I would wish to in Paradise! For God’s sake, Brother, just look at the wealth!’
Athelstan stared at his own cup, plate and knives all fashioned from pure gold and silver, whilst his goblet, hardly touched throughout the meal, was encrusted with a King’s ransom in jewels, part of the loot Gaunt had brought back from his wars in France.
‘What have we eaten so far, Brother?’
Lamprey, salmon, venison, boar’s meat, swan and peacock.’ Athelstan grinned. ‘And dessert is still to come!’
He was about to tease Sir John further when suddenly Fitzroy, Guildmaster of the Fishmongers, rose to his feet, scrabbling at his fur-lined collar, his habitually red face purple now as he coughed and choked. The rest of the guests watched, astounded. No one moved as Fitzroy staggered against his table, turned slightly and crashed to the floor.
Despite his laden stomach, Cranston sprang to his feet, Athelstan behind him, and hurried across. Fitzroy lay sprawled on his side, eyes and mouth still open, but Athelstan could feel no life beat in the puce-coloured throat. He stuck his finger into the man’s mouth, ensuring the tongue was free, thinking Fitzroy might have choked. He hid his distaste, working his fingers downwards, but found no blockage in the man’s throat. Cranston felt Fitzroy’s wrist and then his heart.
‘He’s gone!’ he growled. ‘Dead as one of his bloody fish, God rest him!’
The others hurried across in a hubbub of shouts and exclamations, the young King included. Despite his tender years, Richard shouldered his way forward.
‘Is the fellow dead, Sir John?’
‘God rest him, yes, Sire.’
‘And the cause?’
Athelstan shrugged. ‘I am no physician, Your Grace. Apoplexy, perhaps?’
‘Nephew, you should not be here.’ Gaunt edged his way forward and clapped a beringed hand on young Ri
chard’s shoulder.
‘We will stay, Uncle, until the cause of death is established. You, man.’ The King nodded at one of the royal archers guarding the door. ‘You will go for Master de Troyes!’
Gaunt bit back his anger and, nodding at the archer, confirmed his nephew’s order. Meanwhile Athelstan stared down at the corpse.
‘This is no apoplexy, Sir John,’ he whispered, I believe Fitzroy’s death is not a natural one.’
The rest protested noisily but Sir John, crouching beside Athelstan, lifted a finger to his lips as a signal for silence.
Athelstan leaned down and sniffed at the man’s mouth. He smelt wine, roast meat and the bitter-sweet smell of something else, like that of a decaying rose with the wormwood strong within it.
‘Did Fitzroy complain of any illness before the meal?’ Sir John suddenly asked.
Bremmer, Sudbury, Marshall, Denny and Goodman, all clustered together, shook their heads.
‘He was in the best of health,’ Denny squeaked.
‘Any family?’ Sir John asked, still crouched beside the corpse.
‘A wife and two married sons. But they are absent from the city.’
Cranston nodded. Like Lady Maude, many of the wives of leading city officials and merchants left the city during the warm summer for cool manor houses in the country. Athelstan glanced up and carefully watched these clever, subtle men. In his judgement, one of them was a poisoner. He got to his feet and, stepping over the body, sat down at Fitzroy’s table. The silver plate still bore portions of meat and other remnants from the banquet. Two cups of wine stood there, each about one-third full with either red or white wine. Athelstan picked up the gold-edged napkin, studied this carefully, sniffing at it, then the cups and the food. The hall grew silent and he looked up to find the rest studying him curiously.
‘What is the matter, Brother?’ Gaunt’s voice was full of suspicion.
