Текст книги "The Nightingale Gallery"

Автор книги: Paul Doherty

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Cranston pointed out John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, his face cruel under blond hair, skin burnt dark from his campaigns in Castille. On either side of him stood his brothers and a collection of young lords. In the centre of the group, with one of John of Gaunt's hands on his shoulder, stood a young boy, his face white as snow under a mop of golden hair, a silver chaplet on his head. Cranston nudged and pointed again: beside the royal party Athelstan glimpsed Chief Justice Fortescue in scarlet, lined with pure white lamb's wool, Sir Richard, Lady Isabella, the priest Crispin, Master Buckingham, Dame Ermengilde, and others of their household. Athelstan was sure that they all looked his way but again came the shrill bray of the trumpets. Gaunt raised his hand as if welcoming the plaudits of the crowd. There was clapping from the claque of young courtiers around him but the London mob was silent and Athelstan remembered Cranston's mutterings about how the expensive tastes of the court, coupled with the military defeats against the French, had brought Gaunt and his party into disrepute.

'Our quarry's in sight!' Cranston whispered to the friar, though his voice carried for yards around them. Athelstan looked sideways at Benedicta and his heart lurched. She had turned slightly, staring coolly back at a young, dark-faced gallant, resplendent in red and white silks, who lounged in his seat with eyes for no one but Athelstan's fair companion. Cranston, sharp enough under his bluff, drunken exterior, caught the friar's pained glance. He leaned over and tapped Athelstan on the arm.

'The tournament is about to begin, Brother,' he said. 'Watch carefully. You may learn something about combat.'

Another shrill blast of the trumpets. Banners were lowered, and behind the pavilions came a procession led by pages in tight quilted jackets, multi-coloured hose and gaudy feathered hats. They carried huge canvas paintings depicting scenes from the Bible and classical times. Hercules fighting with the python; the slaying of Hector; the Siege of Troy; Samson amongst the Philistines; and the serpent entering Eden. Such a tableau always preceded tournaments. It was followed by musicians with tambour, fife and viol. Behind them came squires and further pages and, finally, the knights themselves, not yet armoured, their colours carried before them. The procession wound around the whole tournament area, knights and men-at-arms acknowledging the cheers and cries of the crowd.

Athelstan looked more closely at one of the paintings, a scene from the Book of Genesis, remembered something he had glimpsed in the Springall house, and he gasped. The sounds around him died away. All he could see was that crude canvas painting being carried by two pages. Of course! His stomach churned with excitement. He turned to Cranston, grabbing him by the arm.

'The paintings! The canvas paintings!' he whispered hoarsely.

Cranston looked at him blearily.

'The paintings, Sir John, in the Springall house? The canvas ones on the walls. When we first went there, they were covered in black drapes because of the mourning. Don't you remember? Genesis Chapter Three, Verse One, the serpent entering Eden! There was a painting like that in one of the galleries in SpringalPs house. Maybe that is what Sir Thomas was referring to?'

Cranston blinked. Making sure his wife did not see him, he pulled a wineskin from underneath his cloak and took a generous swig.

'I am here to enjoy myself, man,' he said hoarsely. As he put the stopper back, Athelstan's words sank in. 'My God, of course, you're right! The paintings, the three riddles. They may hold the secret!'

Athelstan dare not tell him that he had already resolved one of them.

'What shall we do?' murmured Cranston.

'Go now!' Athelstan said.

'But we are here as the guests of John of Gaunt. I know the duke. If we leave, he will send some busybody squire or serjeant-at-arms after us.'

'Now is the best time,' Athelstan replied, drawing closer, whispering into Sir John's ear, conscious that Lady Maude was totally absorbed in the pageant before her whilst Benedicta, distracted, was still staring back at the admiring gallant.

'Sir John, the Springall house is empty now. Let us strike whilst the iron is hot!'

Cranston looked as if he was going to refuse but thought again. 'Follow me,' he said.

Cranston whispered to his wife, then waddled off with Athelstan in tow, pushing through the crowd towards the royal enclosure. Knight bannerets of the king's household stopped them but Cranston muttered a few words and they let him by. Athelstan, however, had to stand outside the protective ring of steel watching Cranston bow at the foot of the steps and fall to one knee. Athelstan looked behind him. The procession was still circling the arena. John of Gaunt came down the steps, laughing. He tapped Cranston on the shoulder and raised him up, whispering in his ear. The coroner replied. Behind Gaunt, Chief Justice Fortescue glowered like some angry hawk. John of Gaunt looked up abruptly and stared like a hungry cat at Athelstan, his eyes yellow, hard and unblinking. He nodded and muttered something over his shoulder to Fortescue, then to Cranston. The coroner bowed and backed away. Athelstan looked to his left to where the Springall household sat. Surprisingly, no one seemed interested in Sir John's meeting with the regent.

Cranston himself said nothing until they had walked away from the royal enclosure.

'Brother,' he whispered, 'we have the Regent's permission to go down to the Springall house now, to examine and take anything we wish. The regent has said, even if it takes all day, we are not to appear at the royal palace or the Savoy until we have something more to tell him!'

Athelstan's heart sank. On the one hand he wished to examine those paintings and resolve the mystery. But on the other, he wished to be with Benedicta. He looked up. Fitful clouds were beginning to obscure the sun. He glanced across to where the women sat. Cranston's wife was making herself comfortable on the bench whilst the gallant who had been eyeing Benedicta had now moved closer and was talking quietly with her. He was teasing her but Benedicta did not seem to mind. She seemed absorbed in the young man's conversation. Athelstan barely listened to Cranston's muttering. He fought to control a sense of panic and reminded himself that he was a priest, a man ordained, sworn to God. Had he not taken a vow of celibacy? Although he might have a woman as a friend, he could not lust, he could not desire or covet any woman, whether she be free or not. Athelstan steeled himself. Benedicta was courteous to everyone, whether it be Hob's wife, Ranulf the rat-catcher, or now a court gallant. Nevertheless, Athelstan felt a growing rage at his condition; a sense of jealous hurt that Benedicta could find someone else so attractive and entertaining, even though he dismissed the emotion itself as both childish and dangerous.

CHAPTER 9

They left Smithfield, taking a different route back into the city, past the ditch which smelt so rank and fetid that even Cranston, filled to his gills with wine, stopped to gag and cover his nose. The coroner made a mental note to include in his treatise a special chapter on the cleaning of the ditch. They hurried past Cock Lane. The mouth of the street was thronged with whores in scarlet, red or violet dresses; one of them, swaying her hips and making her breasts dance, shouted: 'Sir John! Sir John! See us now!'

Cranston turned, a broad smile on his expansive face, not caring about Athelstan standing beside him, writhing in embarrassment.

'All my girls!' he muttered. 'All my lovely girls!'

Then, urged on by Athelstan, they continued past Newgate into the Shambles and Westchepe. The city was fairly silent, quieter than usual due to the great tournament at Smithfield. The city authorities had taken care to use the day to process certain cases in the court. A number of whores caught and convicted at their second offence were being taken, their heads shaved, a white wand in their hands, down towards the Tun near Cornhill, the open gaol where they stood to be reviled by any passerby. They did not seem to mind, each patting her head and calling out that her hair would soon grow, which was more than could be said for the balding bailiffs escorting them. A liar or perjurer stood in the docks, a great whetstone round his neck, a placard proclaiming that he was a false perjurer and breaker of oaths; beside him a hapless youth who had stolen a leg of mutton and was standing there with the piece of meat, now well decaying and buzzing with flies, slung round his neck. Athelstan watched the scene around him and tried to keep his mind free of Benedicta and the petty jealousies which nagged him.

They found the Springall house deserted except for a few servants. By the looks of them, they had been playing whilst the cat was away. Most of them were well gone in their cups and offered no objection when Cranston knocked at the door and demanded entrance. The old retainer who had received them on their first visit tried to help but Cranston pushed him gently away, saying it was a holiday and besides he was here at Sir Richard's request to pursue his inquiries privately. Naturally, the fragrant smell of wine reminded Cranston of how long it had been since he had refreshed himself so he ordered a large jug and the deepest goblet to be found in the kitchen.

He followed Athelstan as the friar went from one canvas painting to the next. Cranston showed himself surprisingly knowledgeable on the subject of the paintings they examined. He claimed that some were the work of Edward Prince, an artist who lived in the north of the city. Athelstan half listened to Cranston's chatter, trying to remember where he had seen the painting of Eve in the garden enchanted by the serpent. At last he recalled it was not in the Nightingale Gallery but in the one running to the left.

Followed by Cranston, who was now staggering, Athelstan went upstairs and removed the huge canvas painting from the wall. He cursed. It was apparent that someone else had realised the painting might hold the key to Sir Thomas's mystery. The wood at the back of the painting was deeply scored with a dagger as if someone had been searching for some secret crevice or compartment. Yet there was nothing.

'It is useless, Brother!' Cranston murmured, pouring himself another cup of claret. 'It is absolutely bloody useless! There is nothing here. And the other two? The reference to Death on a pale horse in the Apocalypse, and the shoemaker? We're wasting our time.'

Athelstan made him sit on the floor with his back to the wall and, crouching down beside him, told him quietly what he had learnt: how the wood carving being made for the coronation pageant might hold a clue to the killer's identity. Cranston, despite his befuddled wits, heard him out then bellowed in righteous indignation.

'Why didn't you tell me before? It makes sense. It's possible. But why didn't you tell me?'

Athelstan found nothing more amusing than Cranston portraying virtue outraged and let the coroner ramble on until he had exhausted his litany of complaint. Athelstan heaved the painting back on the wall. After that he went from chamber to chamber, from corridor to corridor, looking for other canvases which might fit the verse from the Apocalypse. Cranston staggered behind him, holding a wine cup in one hand and the jug in the other. They found nothing. Of course, certain chambers were locked: Sir Richard's and Lady Isabella's, for instance. With Cranston bouncing along the Nightingale Gallery, the whole house seemed to sing with noise. Sir Thomas's chamber, deserted except for a bed, table, and other sticks of furniture was, surprisingly, open. Cranston stared round. There was no painting here either. The walls were bare. Athelstan went over to the window and stared down at the chess table.

'You know, Sir John, if we find nothing this afternoon then I agree, we should record verdicts of suicide and murder and leave this matter alone for we are making little progress.'

He heard a loud crash behind him. Cranston had placed the wine cup and jug beside the bed, collapsed on to the mattress and was smiling beatifically at the ceiling, fast asleep. Athelstan sighed, went over, and with great difficulty arranged Sir John's huge body more comfortably on the bed. Then he sat beside him. He had not brought his writing tray or materials but mentally he went through each of the deaths he had investigated, trying to fix a pattern, with little success. Cranston snored gently like a child, muttering now and again and smacking his lips. Athelstan grinned as he heard the words 'Refreshment' and 'Some cups of sack!' Sir John burped noisily, rolled on one side and, if Athelstan had not been there, would have fallen completely off the bed. Athelstan let the coroner sleep. Why not? After all, there was only one painting which fitted the texts and that held nothing. His thoughts strayed to Benedicta. Was she missing him? Why had she talked so easily to that nobleman? Were all women like that? Had he done wrong in inviting her in the first place?

He picked up the wine cup and sipped from it and then sat on the bed next to Sir John, staring down at the great wooden bed posters. He dozed and was about to fall asleep when suddenly he woke with a start. The carvings! Especially the one on the right… He got off the bed and went around. Whoever had constructed the bed post had created a vivid scene. The serpent carved there seemed to writhe, its tongue darting, whilst its intended victim, Eve, stood like the personification of innocence with one hand covering her groin, the other raised to hold back her long flowing hair. In between them was the drooping branch of an apple tree. Even in wood the fruit seemed full and lush. Athelstan stood for a moment in disbelief, then he moved over to the other bed post: there, in the centre, the artist had etched a life-like horse. The dark brown of the wood made the creature seem real, one leg raised, head arched, and on its back a frightening, ghostly figure with a hood. Peeping out from beneath it was the skeletal face of Death itself. Athelstan gasped with excitement and went round to rouse the coroner.

'Sir John! Wake up!'

The coroner moved, snored and smacked his lips.

'Sir John!' Athelstan slapped him gently on the face. The coroner's eyes opened.

'My dear Maude…"

'I am not Maude!' Athelstan replied sharply. 'Sir John, I have discovered something.'

'A cup of sack?'

Athelstan refilled the goblet and held it to the coroner's lips. 'For God's sake, Sir John, wake up!'

The coroner sat up, shaking the sleep from his eyes, and stared blearily round.

'For God's sake, Friar, what has happened now?'

Athelstan showed him. At first, his mind dulled with sleep and wine, Cranston stared blankly but the significance of the friar's discovery gradually dawned on him. Without more ado, the coroner began to finger the carving of the figure of Death, probing and pressing it.

'There must be a secret compartment. I have heard of such in the Italian mode, built into chairs, tables and desks. I have even heard of hiding places in beds but never seen one.'

Their search was fruitless so they moved to the other bed post. They pushed different parts of the carving but nothing moved. Suddenly Cranston looked up and nudged Athelstan.

'Look, Brother!'

Athelstan stared across at the bed post where a small block of wood on which the carving had rested had now opened outwards like a door.

'The mechanism must be in this bed post, with a spring that runs here under the boarding and up into the other.'

Again they pressed, watching the small door close when Athelstan pushed the apple between the serpent and Eve. He pushed and it re-opened. Slowly they approached the cavity, each trying to control his excitement. Athelstan put his hand gingerly into the small, dark space and brought out two rolls of parchment. He ignored Cranston's excited pleas to hurry and went over to the window, unrolling them carefully. The first was a love poem written in a rough hand in Norman French. At first Athelstan thought it was addressed to a woman but realised it was written to a young man. He handed it over to Cranston.

'Make of that what you wish!'

The second was a small indenture or agreement. The top was perforated, so someone else must have a copy. Athelstan read and knew why John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, was so indebted to Sir Thomas Springall, and why the merchant had possessed secrets which could have brought him even greater wealth. Cranston had already dismissed the poem, but when he read the indenture he sat at the foot of the bed stupefied, the parchment held loosely between his fingers.

'This was written fourteen months ago,' he said quietly. 'As the Black Prince, father of the present king, lay dying. If the Lord Edward had known this, he would have had John of Gaunt's head on a pole on London Bridge. If it was revealed now there would be a public outcry.'

'So we know the reasons for SpringalPs death,' Athelstan said, 'but not the hows, the wherefores, and above all the culprit or culprits. Look, Sir John, let's follow the method of the Schools at Oxford. You sit on the bed, I'll sit beside you. You will recite everything you know about each of the four murders, beginning with Sir Thomas Springall's. Though in fact there was another killing, making five in all.' He pointed to the parchment poem. 'The young boy who died here must also be regarded as a victim.'

And so they began, Cranston occasionally pausing for refreshment as he recited in an almost sing-song voice what they knew about Springall's death, and then Brampton's, Vechey's and Allingham's. Athelstan would correct him and make Cranston repeat the list of facts time and again until the coroner, not famous for his patience, shouted: 'Hell's teeth! What are you doing, Brother? We are wasting time! All we are doing is repeating what we already know.'

'Be patient, Sir John,' Athelstan replied, 'Remember, we are looking for a pattern. In logic when you have a problem, the very words of the puzzle contain the answer. There must be a pattern in each of the murders.' He saw Sir John set his mouth and glare from beneath bushy grey eyebrows. 'Look, there is one murder we know very little about – Vechey's. But three, Allingham's, Brampton's and SpringalPs, we do. There must be common factors, things which link all three. We have already established one: poison. I also suspect Vechey and Brampton were drugged. They would not have allowed people to pluck them up, take them prisoner, tie a noose around their necks and kill them. So we have some matching strands. Let us see if there are more.'

Once again Sir John grudgingly recited the facts they knew. Outside the day drew to a close. Athelstan, now listening with half an ear to Sir John's recitation, looked out of the window and wondered what had happened to Benedicta and Lady Maude. Should they return to escort the ladies? He broke Sir John's concentration by asking but the coroner just glowered.

'The Ladies Benedicta and Maude are well able to look after themselves,' he said. 'You started this, Brother, so we'll see it through to the bitter end. Moreover,' he smiled, 'I asked the young gallant who was sitting by Benedicta to take care of both ladies. I am sure he will.'

Athelstan ground his teeth and glared at the coroner but Sir John smiled sweetly back as if innocent of any devious stratagem. Athelstan again made him repeat all they knew, though this time excluding Sir Thomas Springall's murder. Then he walked over to the window and stared down at the chess board. Absentmindedly he began to count the squares, and his heart quickened.

'There is a pattern, Sir John,' he said softly. 'Yes!' He turned, his lean face bright with excitement. 'There is a pattern!'

'You know who the murderer is, don't you? Come on, you bloody friar!' Cranston roared. 'Tell me! I haven't sat here on this bed like a boy in a schoolroom reciting lists of facts for nothing!'

'Tush, Sir John, patience,' Athelstan replied. 'Let me work it into a pattern. Let me get the proper sequence of events, then I shall tell you what I know and the problem will be resolved. But for now you stay here, examine the indenture, reflect on what you have said. I won't be long!'

Before a bemused Cranston could reply, Athelstan had slipped out of the room, walking gingerly across the noisy Nightingale Gallery, down the stairs and out into Cheap– side. Just in case he met any of the Springall household he went down Friday Street, turning into Bread Street and back up St Mary Le Bow. The church was open. Athelstan went into the nave and sat at the base of a pillar, legs crossed, whilst he stared up at the high altar behind the rood screen. He looked round the cool, beautiful church, at the frescoes on the wall, lectern, and pulpit of exquisitely carved oak. From the stalls in the sanctuary he heard the master assembling the choir, rehearsing the hymns and canticles for the feast of Corpus Christi. Athelstan leaned back, letting his head rest against the coldness of the pillar whilst he stared into the darkness, trying to rearrange what he knew, to make the pattern complete and trap the murderer. This was one occasion when the sons of Cain, the killers, would not turn round and claim with mocking innocence, 'Are we our brother's keepers? We are not responsible because we are innocent,' while the blood of five human beings stained their hands and darkened their souls.

The choir began the beautiful hymn 'Pange Lingua'. Athelstan let his mind and soul be calmed, moved by the rhythmical chanting. At one point the youngest boys, the choir's sopranos, took up the refrain, pure and lucid, filling the entire church with angelic sound.

'Respice. Respice Domine. Look back, oh Lord, look back on us! '

Athelstan muttered the words under his breath. 'Look back, oh Lord,' he prayed. 'Give me wisdom and light. Let me plumb the darkness, root out the wickedness. Let those things that were done in the dark of night be revealed for your justice and that of the king in the full light of day.'

Athelstan meditated for an hour. He saw the irony that here he was in a church, the house of God and gate to heaven, thinking about murder. But gradually the pattern was resolved. The culprits were identified, their motives revealed, and he reluctantly admired their deviousness, the sheer wickedness of their plan. He built his own traps, hedging them about, and, when he was ready, returned to the Springall house.

He found Cranston still resting on Sir Thomas's bed, a cup of claret in his hand, softly singing a lullaby. Athelstan could have sworn he was acting as if there was someone else there. As if he was singing to someone he loved. The friar noticed the coroner's eyes were brimming with tears. He looked away, pretending to stare out of the window as he began to summarise his conclusions. Behind him, Cranston regained control of himself. He listened to the friar describe the motive and the identity of the murderers. At first, the coroner rejected everything his assistant said.

'Too ingenious!' he cried. 'Too clever! Too diabolic!'

Athelstan turned.

'Diabolic, yes. But these murders were crafted in the human soul and decided upon by the human mind even if carried out for malicious, devilish purposes. I think I speak the truth, Sir John.'

Cranston stared moodily down at the floorboards, scuffing his boots over the polished surface. Suddenly the Nightingale Gallery outside creaked and sang. Cranston's hand went towards his dagger and Athelstan rapidly approached the door. It was only the old servant, deeper in his cups than Cranston. He staggered and leaned on the door post.

'You have been here a long time, masters. Are you staying? Waiting for Sir Richard?'

'No,' Cranston replied, 'I have told you already. We are here on the regent's orders!' He lifted the wine cup and drained it. 'But I do thank you for your hospitality, sir. I shall remember it.'

'Oh,' Athelstan added, 'is it possible that I could speak to one of the laundresses?'

The servant looked surprised. He blinked but agreed, and some time later ushered a scared girl into the room. She became even more frightened as Athelstan outlined his request and asked her to bring the napkin as soon as possible. When she did Athelstan poured the dregs of the wine over it, cleaned a dusty part of the room and put it beneath his cloak. The maid servant quickly left. Sir John looked bemused.

'What I have done is vital, Sir John,' Athelstan assured him. 'It may well trap the murderers.'

They left the deserted house, the old manservant locking the door behind them, and went down into a deserted Cheapside. Black rain clouds were scudding in over the Thames. It was dark and some of the merchants had lit the lantern-horns outside their doors, whilst Athelstan glimpsed the beacon light shining red and full in the steeple of St Mary Le Bow. They made their way down Friday Street, Old Fish Street and into the Vintry, and hired a wherry at Queenshithe Wharf to take them along the choppy river to the Savoy Palace. Viewed from the river bank John of Gaunt's palatial residence looked magnificent, and even more so tonight with the festivities going on. The windows were lit by the flames of thousands of beeswax candles and, as they approached the main entrance, they heard faint strains of music, chatter, and the sounds of merriment. A burly serjeant-of-arms stopped them, asked their business, and grudgingly let them through into the main courtyard where they were halted by a steward who took them up into the main hall.

Athelstan was dumbfounded by the magnificent spectacle awaiting them: the hall was long, the hammer-beam roof high, whilst every piece of woodwork and stone was covered in the most luxurious velvet and samite hangings, gorgeous banners and hangings of every hue. Down the hall on each side were long trestle tables covered in the costliest silk. Every few feet were huge eight-branched candelabra, each with its own beeswax candles. Above them in the loft the musicians played, though their music had to compete with the noise of the revellers sitting at table.

At the far end, on the dais, Athelstan glimpsed John of Gaunt. On the same table he saw the young king, Chief Justice Fortescue, and some of the leading nobility of the realm. At the table just beneath the dais, running parallel with it, they saw Sir Richard Springall, red-faced and deep in his cups. At his side was Lady Isabella who for that day had cast aside her mourning weeds and wore a pure gold dress with matching veil. Father Crispin and Master Buckingham were also visible, while at the other end of the table were Lady Maude and Benedicta, between them the young nobleman who had made his intentions so blatantly obvious earlier in the day. Lady Maude was looking down the hall, obviously looking out for her husband. Benedicta, cooler and more composed, was listening attentively to some story the nobleman was telling her, though now and again moving slightly away from him as if she had come to resent the young gallant's attentions. The steward was about to announce them but Athelstan put a hand on his arm.

'No,' he muttered. 'Not now. The feast is in progress.' He looked down at the tablecloths splattered with grease and wine, the platters now cleared. The servants were bringing in bowls of fruit, junkets of cream, plates of thin pastries, sugar-filled doucettes, and jellies formed in exquisite shapes of castles, swans and horses. Soon the banquet would be over. He looked at Sir John.

'There's no point in joining the festivities. It is best if we have no dealings with Sir Richard and other members of his household.'

The coroner, gazing longingly at the jugs of claret, was about to protest.

'Sir John,' Athelstan reminded him, 'we have important business to attend to.'

Cranston sighed, nodded, and turned to the steward, asking him to take them to one of the duke's private chambers. The man looked askance but Cranston insisted.

'Yes, you will, sir,' he repeated. 'You will take us to one of the duke's private chambers here in the palace. Then you will tell your master and Chief Justice Fortescue that we have important matters to relate, matters affecting the crown. You will ask that Sir Richard and his household also join us as soon as the festivities are over.'

Cranston made the man repeat the message as he reluctantly took them out of the main hall and up the wide, spacious stairs to one of the duke's private chambers. Athelstan gazed around and nodded. Yes, this would do. A small fire had been lit in the hearth. The room, possibly used as a chancery by the duke, was dominated by a long table with chairs down either side and a high-backed, throne-like seat at the top. The steward left Cranston and Athelstan, who stood examining the exquisite hangings on the wall and a small cupboard full of manuscripts bound with the costliest leather and vellum. A servant brought them some wine and sugared pastries which Cranston immediately attacked. Another servant entered, a young page who announced in a high, shrill voice that the duke had received Sir John's message and would be with him as soon as dignity and circumstances would allow.

An hour candle placed on the table under the window had burnt a complete ring before Cranston heard footsteps outside. He and Athelstan rose as Gaunt swept into the room. Beside the duke was the young king, a silver chaplet around his head. Uncle and nephew were dressed identically in purple gowns edged with gold. The young king looked serene though Gaunt seemed angry and troubled, as if he resented Cranston's message. He slumped into the chair at the end of the table and ordered a servant to bring in a similar one for his nephew. Chief Justice Fortescue slid in like a spider, scuttling across to sit next to the Duke. He was followed by Sir Richard Springall and his household. The merchant was flushed with drink; he grinned at Cranston and Athelstan as if they were lifelong friends; Dame Ermengilde, her nose in the air, chose to ignore them. Father Crispin and Buckingham smiled wanly whilst Lady Isabella looked decidedly agitated.