by Paul Doherty
Gaunt sauntered out of the hall, slamming the door behind him. Sir Maurice stepped off the dais and clasped Sir John’s hand, then embraced Athelstan, squeezing him tightly.
‘I cannot thank you enough, or you, Sir John.’
‘Nothing to it, my boy.’ Cranston took out the miraculous wineskin. ‘You’ll celebrate with me now?’
Sir Maurice spread his hands. ‘A few pots of ale and a pheasant pie, eh, Brother?’
Athelstan put the coins Gaunt had given him into his wallet. He picked up his writing pouch.
‘I have other duties,’ he said. He turned and clasped Gresnay’s hand. ‘Do not worry, sir, the Regent will keep his word, you will be safe. Have nothing to fear from Sir Walter.’
He, Sir John and Sir Maurice then left the hall. Already it was becoming less of a prison, no sentries on duty, doors and casement windows flung open. They walked out and, as they did so, glimpsed Gaunt and Gervase, surrounded by their retainers, gallop through the gatehouse back towards the city.
‘I knew Gaunt’s father,’ Sir John mused. And his elder brother, Edward the Black Prince, God bless and rest him. Gaunt is a cunning one. I think he plays the game for the sheer enjoyment. Come on!’
They walked down, through the gatehouse and on to the deserted heathland.
‘Are you coming to the city, Brother?’
Athelstan shook his head.
‘We should have made our farewells to Sir Walter.’ The friar paused. ‘Sir John, Sir Maurice, I am tired and not in the mood for rejoicing. You go into the city then, tomorrow, come to Southwark. We’ll celebrate your happiness in the Piebald, perhaps tomorrow evening when the excitement has died down?’
He watched the coroner, arm in arm with the young knight, walk across the heathland towards the old city wall. Then he turned back and walked up to the gloomy entrance of the manor. He found a retainer and, after a short while, the servant brought Sir Walter down to where Athelstan stood just outside the doorway.
‘Why, Brother?’ Sir Walter looked more composed, as if the deaths of the two Frenchmen had purged something from his soul.
‘I simply came to say farewell, Sir Walter, and offer the thanks and good wishes of Sir John.’
‘A good man, the coroner.’ Sir Walter beamed. ‘And you, Brother.’ He shook his head. ‘A spider’s game,’ he added. ‘But I am cleared of any wrong-doing though it’s a pity that my daughter had to pay with her life.’
‘She’s at peace,’ Athelstan replied. ‘And so are you, aren’t you, Sir Walter?’
‘I confess, Brother. I was in the musicians’ gallery. I enjoyed giving the order, watching those two traitorous murderers die.’
‘But you knew, didn’t you?’ Athelstan asked.
‘What do you mean, Brother?’
‘Sir Walter, it’s a question of logic. You sat here guarding those Frenchmen. I wager you watched them day and night. Oh, I am not saying you knew who the assassin was or how the murders were carried out. However, you must have seen Monsieur de Fontanel whispering, talking, perhaps more to Vamier than the rest?’
‘I saw nothing, Brother.’ Sir Walter held his gaze. ‘I simply did my duty.’
‘Oh, come, come, Sir Walter. You hired Master Aspinall the physician. You knew he was above suspicion. You also were aware of your own innocence. I wager you were only too pleased to see the French kill each other, men who slaughtered your own family?’
‘I had no knowledge of who Monsieur de Fontanel really was, or how the murders were carried out.’
‘No, but you had your suspicions and you did not share them with us and that, Sir Walter, is why your daughter died. You hated those men. And perhaps with good reason. You resented their arrogance, their whisperings, their quiet laughter. You knew you were innocent of any foul play. Let them kill each other, you thought; Sir Jack Cranston can resolve it, and the more who die, the better.’
‘I hear what you say, Brother, but…’ Limbright shrugged. ‘That’s why you let Routier escape, wasn’t it? You told your guards to look the other way. I think you knew what he was planning and looked forward to the hunt. A way of releasing some of the bile in your own soul. Show these French who was the master?’
‘I would have been blamed for Routier’s escape.’
‘Come, come, Sir Walter, a tired, dispirited Frenchman alone in England. You would have enjoyed hunting him down with your dogs.’
‘Even if what you say is the truth, Brother, what is the use now?’
‘The truth always matters,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Good day, Sir Walter.’
St Erconwald’s was very quiet when Athelstan arrived back later that afternoon. Both church and house had been cleaned, Philomel was dozing in his stable. Athelstan took the second key he always carried and opened the church and stepped inside. Huddle had been busy drawing on the far wall with a piece of charcoal. Athelstan went over and crouched down to study what the painter had drawn: a stern Christ in Judgement. On his left, the goats, on his right the lambs. But, this time, Huddle had taken liberties with Holy Scripture: members of the parish stood among the lambs. Pernell, even Godbless holding a little Thaddeus, while others, whom Huddle disliked, such as Pike’s sharp-tongued wife, were placed in the centre so people would wonder if they were a lamb or a goat.
‘That will have to go,’ Athelstan commented. ‘Otherwise civil war will break out on the parish council.’
He crouched down, his back to the wall. Gaunt had said everything was neatly tied up but was it? He thought of all those souls thrust unprepared into eternity: the hapless prostitute hanged at the Golden Cresset, and those Frenchmen who never would see their families or homes again. Did Mercurius have a family? Did anyone grieve for Vulpina? Or those shaven-headed assassins?
‘A long list of dead!’ Athelstan whispered. Tomorrow he would say Mass for all of them, that Christ would have mercy on their souls.
The door swung open and Godbless came in, Thaddeus trotting behind him.
‘God bless you, Father. All is well?’
‘Aye,’ Athelstan replied.
Godbless knelt before him, one arm round Thaddeus.
‘What am I to do, Father?’ he pleaded. ‘I have got no home to go to.’
Athelstan dug into his purse and brought out one of the coins Gaunt had given him. He flicked this at Godbless, who deftly caught it.
‘This is your home, Godbless. By the power given to me by Holy Mother Church,’ he raised his hand in blessing, ‘not to mention the provisions of Canon Law, I forget which clauses, I now make you custos, guardian, of God’s acre, of our cemetery here at St Erconwald’s. Your official residence will be the death house. I’ll get those two reprobates Watkin and Pike to build a new one near the wall.’ Athelstan rubbed his hands. ‘Aye, the dead will be able to sleep in peace now. Your task, Godbless, and Thaddeus, will be to guard that cemetery with your life.’
The beggar chortled with glee, hugged Thaddeus and kissed the goat between its ears. Athelstan glimpsed a furry movement down near the porch, lithe and quick.
‘Oh, and go tell Ranulf,’ he said, I think I know where his ferret is hiding!’
CONCLUSION
The Abrin seed is not a figment of the writer’s imagination. It contains a very toxic protein which causes nausea and very serious, and rapid, damage to vital organs. The seeds have a very hard coating and only become poisonous when they are chewed. This property was used in the past for trial by ordeal, particularly in Venice. The suspected persons were given paternoster peas to swallow: those whom the authorities wanted to escape were secretly warned not to chew them!
FB2 document info
Document ID: fbd-3961cd-57f6-1c4d-aeab-3d84-aa25-2b42f7
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 29.07.2012
Created using: Fiction Book Designer, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software
Document authors :
About
This file was generated by Lord KiRon's FB2EPUB converter v
ersion 1.1.5.0.
(This book might contain copyrighted material, author of the converter bears no responsibility for it's usage)
Этот файл создан при помощи конвертера FB2EPUB версии 1.1.5.0 написанного Lord KiRon.
(Эта книга может содержать материал который защищен авторским правом, автор конвертера не несет ответственности за его использование)
http://www.fb2epub.net
https://code.google.com/p/fb2epub/
