by Paul Doherty
‘And Banyard?’ Cranston asked.
‘What do you think, Sir John?’
The coroner rubbed his chin. ‘We can’t hang one without the other,’ he replied slowly, ‘so I don’t think Banyard will hang at Tyburn or Smithfield. Gaunt will seize his chattels and goods and become the proud owner of a very prosperous tavern. Banyard will be forced to abjure the realm and wander Europe, a penniless beggar.’ Cranston smiled grimly. ‘Do you know, Brother, I glimpsed so much hate in that man. If I were Sir Edmund Malmesbury, I would not sleep easily in my bed.’
Cranston lumbered to his feet. ‘Nothing really ends, does it, Brother? We are just like dung-collectors. We clean the refuse and take it away from the eyes and noses of those who live around us.’ The coroner groaned loudly then nudged his companion. ‘One thing you didn’t explain. Why weren’t the red crosses etched on Harnett’s and Goldingham’s faces?’
Athelstan shrugged. ‘Banyard had made his mark in both senses of the word. He probably didn’t have time.’
‘Such dreadful acts,’ Cranston declared mournfully.
Athelstan got to his feet. ‘Sir John, you are becoming melancholic. Let us celebrate in the Holy Lamb of God. We have done what we can: that’s all the Lord asks, and that’s all the good Lord wants!’ He thrust the axe he’d found into Cranston’s hand. ‘Now, come, let’s be Jolly Jack again and, if you are,’ Athelstan stepped back and held his hand up, ‘I swear I’ll never again mention a Barbary ape!’
John of Gaunt sat in his private chamber, high in the Savoy Palace. He stared out through the open window at the evening star, and secretly smiled at the success of his own subtlety. He played absentmindedly with the amethyst ring on his finger.
‘Only one snag,’ the regent murmured to himself. He glanced to where his cowled scrivener sat by a small writing desk. Gaunt had listened very carefully to Coverdale, secretly marvelling at Athelstan’s sharp perception of the tangled web Gaunt had woven. The regent straightened in his chair. Cranston he could take care of, the coroner was a royal officer. But Athelstan? Gaunt glanced at his scrivener.
‘Draft a letter,’ he murmured, ‘to Prior Anselm at Blackfriars. Tell him I am grateful for the good services of Brother Athelstan, yet now I do fear for him in the sea of troubles which now confronts us. Tell him. .’ Gaunt lifted up a finger. ‘Tell him I would like to see Athelstan removed: his talents can be better used in the halls of Oxford.’ Gaunt sat back in his chair and, closing his eyes, dreamed his dark dreams of power.
FB2 document info
Document ID: fbd-a81116-3f14-f348-198f-1909-efce-32e379
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 31.12.2013
Created using: calibre 1.17.0, Fiction Book Designer, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software
Document authors :
Paul Doherty
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