Текст книги "The Anger of God"

Автор книги: Paul Doherty

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‘Sir John! Sir John! How are you?’

Cranston started and looked up. Athelstan was standing over him, his olive face sweat-stained, his black and white gown with its black cord round the waist covered in dust.

‘By the devil’s tits!’ Cranston breathed. ‘What are you doing here, monk?’

‘Friar, Sir John.’ Athelstan grinned as he pulled up a stool and sat down. ‘I walked across London Bridge to visit Father Prior at Blackfriars. He’s letting me transcribe certain parts of Roger Bacon’s work on astronomy. I called at your house and the maid said you were absent. Oh, by the way, Leif the beggar is eating your dinner.’

Cranston stared at the friar. You are lying, he thought. I wager you came over here looking for me. I know the Lady Maude left you secret instructions. Nevertheless, he was warmed by Athelstan’s concern.

‘I suppose you want me to buy a drink?’

The taverner’s wife came bustling up.

‘I have already bought them,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Claret for My Lord Coroner and a blackjack of the coolest ale for me.’ Athelstan sipped at the froth and smiled. ‘You are right, Sir John. There’ll have to be taverns in heaven.’

‘How are those rogues in your parish?’ Cranston asked.

‘Sinners like all of us, Sir John,’ he replied. ‘Bonaventure’s catching rats by the dozen. Benedicta is organizing a harvest festival. I offered to bake some bread before I remembered what a hopeless cook I am. Watkin the dung-collector is still at odds with Pike the ditcher.’ Athelstan grinned. ‘Watkin’s wife shoved Pike over in the porch. She claims he was drunk and tripped. What they don’t know is that one of Watkin’s daughters wants to marry Pike’s eldest son.’

‘Do their families know?’

‘Not yet. But when they do you will be able to hear the screams in Cheapside. Cecily the courtesan has a new beau and consequently a new dress every day. Huddle is now painting the new sanctuary.’ Athelstan put down his tankard, his face becoming serious. ‘There are two other matters,’ he added softly, but then fell infuriatingly silent.

Oh, no, Cranston thought, you’re not leaving that rat hole of a parish you love so much? You haven’t been relieved of your duties as my clerk?

Cranston stared at the dreamy-eyed friar. Athelstan had been appointed parish priest of St Erconwald’s in Southwark and Cranston’s secretarius because of past follies. As a novice Athelstan had left Blackfriars and run off with his hero-worshipping brother to the wars in France. The boy had been killed and Athelstan had returned home to witness the grief of his parents and bear the furious reprimands of his monastic superiors.

‘Well, what is it?’ Cranston asked testily.

‘Do you believe in Satan, Sir John?’

‘Yes, I do, and the bugger’s sitting over there.’ Cranston nodded across at the relic-seller deep in conversation with another rogue in a corner of the tavern. Athelstan smiled and shook his head.

‘No, Sir John, I mean the real Satan.’ His words came in a rush. ‘Do you believe he can possess someone?’

Sir John sat up straight. ‘Yes, Father, I do. I believe there’s a spirit world where beings rage against Christ and his saints. However, I also believe the average demon sits upon his rock in Hell and weeps at the wickedness he sees man get up to. Why do you ask?’

Athelstan toyed with his tankard. ‘Satan may have come to Southwark. A woman approached me after Mass this morning and claimed her step-daughter is possessed. Every night she raises the devil to accuse her father of murdering his first wife, her mother.’ Athelstan blinked and looked at his tankard. ‘The woman has asked me to perform an exorcism.’

Sir John looked at him strangely. ‘But, Athelstan, you deal with such matters every day.’

‘Oh, I know,’ the friar replied, and grinned. ‘Pernell the Fleming says there are demons no bigger than her thumb who lurk in the shadowy corners of her house to giggle and talk about her. Two years ago, Watkin the dung-collector and his wife suddenly thought the world was coming to an end: they sat on the roof of their house, the whole family with them, each holding a cross against the demon. The only thing to occur was that the roof fell in. Watkin hurt his ankle and injured his pride.’ Athelstan wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘No Sir John, this is different. Just looking at this woman, I sensed something evil is happening in that family.’

‘And will you do the exorcism?’

‘Canon law says that every diocese has an officially appointed exorcist but he can only act on behalf of the bishop and deals with very serious and public matters. It can take months to secure his services.’ Athelstan sipped from his tankard. ‘I did ask Father Prior’s advice: he reminded me it was my duty to offer what comfort I can.’ The friar pulled a face. ‘Sir John, I suppose I’m frightened. As that woman talked, I had a bone-chilling feeling of evil.’

Cranston patted him with a bear-like paw. ‘I’m sure all will be well,’ he muttered. ‘And don’t forget, Brother, there’s very little that will frighten old Jack Cranston. Bollocks!’ he suddenly roared and, grasping Athelstan’s half-filled tankard, slung it across the room at the large-tailed, heavy-bellied rat which had slipped out from beneath a cask. The tankard missed and the rat scurried away.

‘Sir John, I was enjoying that.’

Cranston mumbled an apology and shouted for another tankard.

‘I am sorry, Brother, but the city’s infested with bloody vermin. I’d like to have words with one of your parishioners.’

‘Ranulf the rat-catcher?’

Athelstan smiled and turned to thank the taverner’s wife as she brought another tankard; Sir John mumbled his apologies to her.

‘You have your choice of ratters,’ Athelstan continued. ‘Ranulf is forming a Guild of Rat-Catchers. They have asked for St Erconwald’s to be their Guild church. In a few days’ time they will all meet there for Mass and fraternal celebrations. You are right,’ he added. ‘The hot weather has brought your furry friends out in a teeming, voracious horde.’ He drank and lowered his tankard. ‘But why the temper, Sir John? It’s rare to see you throw good drink away on a rat.’

Cranston drained his wine cup, roared for another, leaned forward and began to tell Athelstan about the mysterious death of his comrade, Oliver Ingham. Athelstan studied the Coroner closely. He could see the usually genial man was deeply hurt and aggrieved by his comrade’s death. At first Sir John spoke haltingly but grew furiously eloquent as he described what he had witnessed at Ingham’s house. Finishing, he breathed noisily through his nose, drumming his stubby fingers on his broad girth.

‘You are sure it’s murder, Sir John?’

‘As sure as I have an arse!’

Athelstan chewed his lip and stared round the now crowded tavern. ‘If I can help?’ he offered.

‘Just think,’ Sir John said. ‘I know you, Athelstan. You’ll wander off, sit and look at the bloody stars, and some idea will occur to you. When it does, come back and tell me.’ Cranston slurped noisily from his goblet and smacked his lips. ‘You said there was a second matter, Brother?’

Athelstan pulled his stool closer. ‘Sir John, you must have heard the news about the growing unrest in the countryside around London? How the peasant leaders are forming themselves into a Great Community and swear to march on London. They say they will burn the city to the ground, kill all bishops and lords, and put Gaunt’s head on a pole.’

Cranston leaned closer for what they were talking about was treason.

‘I know, Brother,’ he muttered. ‘Taxes are heavy, the harvest not yet in, the gaols are full and the gallows laden. Every week news pours into the city of unrest in the villages, and attacks on royal officials increase. One tax collector in Hertford was beaten to death and hung on a gallows alongside a dead cat dressed like a bishop with its head shorn.’ He sniffed. ‘But why should this concern you, Brother?’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, Sir John! Walk the streets of Southwark and you’ll see an army waiting for a sign: the oppressed, the villains, the cutthroats and thieves. The slightest provocation and they’ll come pouring across London Bridge and the city will burn for weeks.’ Athelstan lowered his voice even further as he played with a splinter of wood on the table. ‘Some of my parishioners are involved. Pike the ditcher, Tab the tinker… they spend most of their time creeping like stoats out into the countryside for this meeting or that.’

‘If they are caught,’ Cranston muttered, ‘they will hang.’

‘I know, I know, and that’s what worries me. There will be a revolt, there’ll be death, murder and cruel repression.’ Athelstan paused. ‘Sir John, have you heard of a man who calls himself Ira Dei, the Anger of God?’

Cranston nodded. ‘Everyone has,’ he whispered. ‘John of Gaunt has sworn a terrible oath that he’ll see the man hung, drawn and quartered. You see, Athelstan, the peasants are justified in their grievances and, God knows, some relief must be sought for them. Their leaders are wild men – Jack Straw, the priest John Ball – but behind them all lurks the leader of the secret council of the Great Community, this shadowy figure who calls himself Ira Dei. His arm is long and very strong. Have you heard what happened in Aldersgate?’

Athelstan shook his head.

‘In a shabby house there a sepulchral voice was heard issuing from the walls. A mob of hundreds of citizens crowded to hear what they thought was the voice of an angel. When they shouted, “God save our Regent, Duke John,” there was no answer from the entombed supernatural being. When another shouted, “God save our young King Richard!”, the voice answered, “So be it.” When asked: “What is Duke John’s future?” the voice mockingly replied “Death and destruction”. The Serjeants were sent to investigate and found a young woman within the walls pretending to be the angel. She had to sit in the pillory for days with her head shaved. But,’ Cranston tapped his finger on the table, ‘Gaunt believes Ira Dei was behind it. It shows his power and influence, my good friar.’

‘And what will my Lord of Gaunt do?’

Cranston cocked his head as the bells of nearby St Mary Le Bow began to toll for evening prayer. ‘Oh, Gaunt is worried. He cannot call a parliament for the Commons are hostile. But tonight he holds a great banquet at the Guildhall and I am to be there.’ Cranston took a deep breath. ‘Gaunt hopes to bring peace to the warring factions amongst the Guilds. He has become the friend of the merchant princes of London and their leaders; Thomas Fitzroy, Philip Sudbury, Alexander Bremmer, Hugo Marshall, Christopher Goodman and James Denny. They will celebrate their newfound amity in an orgy of food, wine and false goodwill.’

He cleared his throat. ‘You see, my good friar, one of Gaunt’s most able lieutenants, the Lord Adam Clifford, has acted for his master in these matters. Each of the Guildmasters has placed a large ingot of gold in a chest kept in the Guildhall chapel as surety for their goodwill and support of the Regent.’ Cranston drained his tankard and got up. ‘And I, my dear Brother, have to be there to witness this farce!’

Athelstan looked up anxiously. ‘So there’ll be peace, Sir John?’

‘Peace!’ Cranston bent over him. ‘My good friar,’ he whispered hoarsely, ‘tell your parishioners to be careful. Gaunt intends to raise troops and, believe me, the streets of London will soon run with blood as thick, deep and as scarlet as wine from the grape presses!’

Athelstan put down his own tankard and stood up. ‘You really think so, Sir John?’

‘I know so! At this very moment, as I have said, Gaunt is meeting our merchant princes at the Guildhall. The young King, together with his tutor, Sir Nicholas Hussey, attended a Mass there this morning. This afternoon Gaunt took counsel with the Sheriff, Sir Gerard Mountjoy, on measures against the conspiracy amongst the peasants as well as those in the city who favour their cause.’ Cranston wiped his white moustache and beard. ‘And for my sins,’ he breathed in a gust of wine fumes, ‘I am to attend this evening’s banquet where Gaunt will entertain his new allies.’ He made a rude sound with his lips. ‘As if I haven’t enough problems.’

‘Such as, Sir John?’

‘Well, besides the death of Oliver, the Regent and Corporation are furious at some rogue who is removing the limbs and remains of executed traitors from London Bridge and elsewhere. After all, my good Brother, what’s the use of executing people if you can’t display their hacked, bloody limbs as a warning to other would-be traitors?’ He linked his arm through the friar’s as they went out of the tavern. ‘Now, in my treatise on the governance of this city…’ He smacked his lips as Athelstan closed his eyes and prayed for patience. Cranston’s great work on the Government of London was nearly finished and he never missed an opportunity of lecturing everyone and anybody on his theories on how law and order could be administered in the capital.

‘In my treatise I will advise against such practices. Criminals should be executed within the prison walls and the Crown should veto such barbaric practices. In ancient Sumeria…’ Cranston pulled an unwilling Athelstan across Cheapside. ‘Now in ancient Sumeria…’ he repeated.

‘My Lord Coroner! Brother Athelstan!’

They both turned. A sweaty-faced servitor, wearing the livery of the city, stood leaning against an empty stall, trying to catch his breath.

‘What is it, man?’

‘Sir John, you must come quickly. And you too, Brother. The Regent… His Grace the King…’

‘What is it?’ Cranston snapped.

‘Murder, Sir John. Sir Gerard Mountjoy, the Sheriff, has been murdered at the Guildhall!’

CHAPTER 2

Cranston and Athelstan found the Guildhall strangely silent. Armed men lined the passageways and corridors, guarding the entrances and exits to the different courtyards. The servitor led them through these, shaking his head at Cranston’s nagging questions. He brought them into the garden, one of the most attractive parts of the Guildhall with its herb plots, fountain and channel, wooden and stone benches, tunnel arbour and soft green lawns. A group of men stood round the fountain talking amongst themselves. They stopped and turned as Cranston and Athelstan came out.

‘My Lord Coroner, we have been waiting.’

‘Your Grace,’ Cranston replied, staring at the swarthy, gold-bearded face of the Regent, John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster. ‘We came as soon as the messenger found us.’

Cranston stared quickly round as Gaunt introduced the rest. He recognized them all: Sir Christopher Goodman, the Mayor, red-faced and pop-eyed, then the brilliantly dressed, proud-faced Guildmasters: Thomas Fitzroy of the Fishmongers who always reminded Cranston of a carp with his jutting lips and glassy eyes; Philip Sudbury of the Ironmongers, red-faced and red-haired, a born toper; Alexander Bremmer of the Drapers, thin and mean-faced, an avaricious grasping man; Hugo Marshall of the Spicers, his head bald as a pigeon’s egg; and fleshy-featured Sir James Denny of the Haberdashers, dressed like a court fop in his tight hose and quilted jacket open at the neck.

Cranston nodded at these as well as at Sir Nicholas Hussey, the King’s tutor, young-looking despite his silver hair and beard. Finally Lord Adam Clifford, Gaunt’s principal henchman, fresh-faced and dressed in a tawny gown which suited the man’s clean-shaven, sunburnt face and neatly coiffed black head. Gaunt finished the introductions.

‘My Lord?’ Cranston declared, angry at the Regent’s insulting behaviour in not even acknowledging Athelstan. ‘My Lord, I think you know my secretarius and clerk, Brother Athelstan, parish priest of St Erconwald’s in Southwark?’

Gaunt smiled patronizingly and nodded. Cranston darted an angry glance at a sniggering Denny.

‘We have come at your behest, My Lord Regent. We were told Sir Gerard Mountjoy has been murdered. Where, when and how?’

Gaunt waved a hand towards the small arbour which stood in the far corner of the garden sheltered from Cranston’s gaze by the open door of the Guildhall as well as a high trellis covered in ivy.

‘There?’ Cranston asked.

‘Yes, Sir Gerard is there!’

Gaunt’s reply was angry but tinged with sardonic amusement. The Regent waved them across.

‘I hope you have better luck than we did.’

Mystified, Cranston and Athelstan walked past the fence and looked over a small gate into the arbour. Both jumped as a pair of huge wolf hounds threw themselves against the gate, snarling and barking, lips curled, yellow teeth eager to rend and gash. Cranston and Athelstan stepped back.

The arbour was cleverly contrived, a garden within a garden: a turf seat against the trellised fence, a narrow pavement of coloured stones with a table which also served as a bird bath, and raised banks of fragrant herbs. A peaceful, pleasant place on a late summer’s day had it not been for the man sprawled against the fence, a thin dagger thrust deep in his chest. A grotesque sight: mouth gaping, eyes open and slightly crooked as if the corpse was staring down in amazement at the bloody wound staining his russet gown.

Cranston studied the snub, brutish, dead features of one of London’s most feared Sheriffs and walked back to the group.

‘When did this happen, My Lord?’

Gaunt shrugged his shoulders elegantly as he wiped his hands on his blue samite gown.

‘We had Mass this morning followed by a meeting in the Council Chamber. We were all preparing for the banquet tonight. Sir Gerard was apparently taking the air and a cup of claret in his own private arbour when a guard found him like that.’ He pulled a face. ‘Those damned dogs won’t allow us anywhere near him.’

‘If they won’t allow you,’ Gaunt nodded down the garden, where a group of crossbow men wearing the livery of Lancaster were patiently waiting, ‘they will have to be killed.’

Athelstan, standing at Cranston’s elbow, stared at these powerful, rich men. They, together with Gaunt, controlled not only London but the kingdom: their silver fuelled the King’s armies, provisioned the fleet and controlled Parliament. He sensed they were shocked by Mountjoy’s death but quietly pleased to see the demise of a powerful rival, for Mountjoy, a merchant in his own right, had been as power-hungry as any of them. The Regent, however, a man of marble face and steely heart, was fighting hard to curb fury, for his attempt to control these powerful merchants had been rudely checked by Mountjoy’s death.

‘Well?’ Goodman snapped. ‘Sir John, you are the King’s Coroner in the city. Sir Gerard has been murdered and foully so. We know who did it, so get rid of those dogs!’

‘Oh?’ Sir John smiled wryly. ‘You have caught the assassin red-handed?’

‘For God’s sake, man!’ Goodman snarled. ‘Look at the arbour. On two sides is the garden fence, the far side is the wall of the Guildhall and the fourth is protected by the pentice.’

Cranston and Athelstan stared at the long narrow lean-to structure built against the buttress of the Guildhall; roofed with old shingles, this covered passageway connected the kitchens to the Guildhall proper.

‘How could anyone,’ Goodman continued slowly, as if Cranston and Athelstan were dim-witted, ‘enter that garden, stab Sir Gerard and walk quietly away without being torn to pieces by those dogs?’

‘What My Lord Mayor is saying,’ Clifford spoke up, ‘is that the two dogs were Sir Gerard’s constant companions. Mountjoy was a bachelor. They were his wife, children, family and kinsfolk. The only man who could approach the Sheriff without disturbing the dogs is his retainer and steward, Philip Boscombe.’

Cranston nodded and looked back at the arbour.

‘Sir Gerard,’ Clifford continued, ‘was always fearful of assassination. No one here – no official, no alderman, no burgess – could approach him unless the Sheriff had instructed his dogs to be friendly. Boscombe was the only exception. It must have been him. Servants didn’t even hear the dogs bark.’

Cranston walked back. Standing well out of harm’s way, he peered into that blood-soaked arbour. The two great hounds lay at their master’s feet, now and again looking up as if expecting him to waken and call them. They could sense something was wrong and the smell of blood only made them more aggressive; they turned and growled towards the gate.

‘Clifford must be right,’ Athelstan whispered, coming up beside Cranston. ‘The knife couldn’t be thrown. There’s no vantage point for that. And see how deeply it’s embedded, Sir John.’

Cranston agreed. ‘Where is Boscombe now?’ he asked.

‘Protesting his innocence,’ Goodman replied. ‘In the dungeons beneath the Guildhall. Sir John, we are waiting! Are you fearful of the dogs?’

‘Bring me two hunks of red meat!’ Cranston shouted back. He enjoyed keeping these pompous men waiting. ‘And a pannikin of water!’

Goodman went into the Guildhall and they stood waiting, listening to his shouted orders. In a short while a servant appeared, bearing a trencher with two bloody steaks and a pannikin of water. He thrust these into Cranston’s hands, looked fearfully at the arbour and ran back into the Guildhall.

‘Stay where you are!’ the Coroner commanded. ‘John Cranston fears no one. And those dogs are too noble to be killed.’ He walked to the gate and started talking quietly, greeted by the snarling of the dogs. They raised their huge paws and lifted themselves up, their great shaggy heads well above the gate. Cranston stepped back and kept talking softly to them. The dogs continued to bark raucously but then grew silent. They lay down at the gate, looking up at this soft-spoken man holding the delicious-smelling meat and pannikin of water. Athelstan drew closer. Sir John was whispering to the great beasts as if they were old friends.

‘You see, Brother,’ he muttered out of the corner of his mouth, ‘no being, except a human, can ignore kindness.’

He carefully opened the gate. The two great hounds stood still, tails wagging. Cranston whistled softly through his teeth and, taking the meat and water, led both dogs out into the garden. He put the meat down. Whilst the dogs wolfed it, they let Cranston gently stroke their huge heads and fondle their ears.

‘Good lads!’ he whispered. ‘Be good lads for old Jack!’

One of the dogs even stopped eating to nuzzle him. Cranston walked back into the arbour. The dogs stirred.

‘Sit!’

The two hounds obeyed and Cranston, followed by a smiling Athelstan, walked into the arbour.

‘Close your eyes, Brother.’

Athelstan did so and heard the unmistakable yielding sound as Cranston pulled the dagger out of the dead man’s body. Athelstan opened his eyes and stared around.

The corpse had keeled over, lying face down on the turfed seat. A wine cup nestled under the ivy growing up the Guildhall wall and, as Cranston wiped the dagger on the grass, Athelstan realized how mysterious this murder was. Directly opposite where Mountjoy had been sitting was the lean-to pentice or covered walk; the fencing was wooden planks with gaps between, though certainly not wide enough for anyone to throw a knife with such force. The Guildhall wall was an impenetrable barrier and, if the knife had been thrown from the garden, someone would have had to stand at the gate. Athelstan shook his head. Sir Gerard or his dogs would not have allowed someone to stand wielding a wicked-looking knife, and made no protest or resistance.

Athelstan looked down the pebbled path. How it crunched under his sandalled feet. No soft-footed assassin could have stolen along such a path and stood at the gate without sending the dogs into a barking frenzy. He looked up at the buttress of the Guildhall against which the pentice had been built. The only windows there were mere arrow slits and too high and narrow for anyone to throw a knife through them with any force or accuracy. He looked at Cranston who was studying the blade of the knife carefully.

‘It must have been Boscombe,’ Athelstan muttered. ‘That knife was not thrown. See.’ He pointed to the trellis against which Mountjoy had been leaning. The dagger went right through his chest and scored the fence.’

‘Perhaps someone climbed the fence behind Sir Gerard?’ Clifford approached them to suggest.

Athelstan shook his head.

‘I doubt it, My Lord. Sir Gerard was apparently sitting down when he was killed. Such an assailant would have to climb the fence, swing down with the dagger and take his victim in the chest. Can you imagine the Sheriff or his dogs allowing that?’

The Guildmasters, led by Clifford and Gaunt, gingerly entered the small arbour, looking apprehensively over their shoulders at the two great wolf hounds who now lay, sad-eyed, on the grass.

‘Are those dogs safe?’ Gaunt muttered.

‘Oh, yes,’ Cranston replied absentmindedly. ‘They know something’s wrong but they do not see us as hostile.’ He snorted with laughter. ‘Though perhaps we are. One person here definitely is.’ Cranston stared around. ‘I am Sir John Cranston, King’s Coroner in the city,’ he declared. ‘This is my verdict: I find Sir Gerard Mountjoy murdered by person or persons unknown.’

‘What about Boscombe?’ Gaunt intervened.

‘It may well be he. But have you seen this dagger, My Lord?’ Cranston held it up.

At first Athelstan thought it an ordinary Welsh stabbing dirk with its thin, long, evil blade and small grip and hilt. But beneath the smeared marks of Cranston’s cleaning, he saw something etched on the blade. Athelstan took it from Cranston’s hand and peered down.

‘Ira Dei,’ he murmured, reading aloud the rudely scrawled letters.

Gaunt kicked angrily at the grass and beat his fists against his side. ‘By the Mass.’ He glared at the others. ‘These peasant bastards threaten us here in our own city, in our own palaces!’

‘Ira Dei?’ Hussey the royal tutor shoved his way forward. ‘The Anger of God. My Lord of Gaunt, what does this mean? The King must be informed!’

‘My nephew,’ Gaunt replied testily, ‘will be told in due course.’

Athelstan caught the deep dislike in the Regent’s voice and recalled the whispers about the growing rivalry between the Regent and the royal tutor.

‘Ira Dei,’ Gaunt replied slowly, ‘is a self-styled leader, cloaked in mystery.’

‘Leader of what?’

‘The Great Community!’ Gaunt snarled. ‘The name the peasants give to their secret council of leaders who are plotting treason and rebellion, both in and around London. Sir, you should be better informed!’

‘My Lord,’ Hussey silkily replied, ‘like His Grace the King, I only know what I have been told.’

Gaunt looked away in annoyance. ‘Mountjoy’s dead,’ he whispered. ‘Stabbed by his servant who must be in the pay or service of these rebels. Sir John, Brother Athelstan, do you agree?’

Cranston was peering at the dagger whilst Athelstan was attempting to lay the bulky corpse of the dead Sheriff out along the turf seat. The man’s gown was thickly clotted with blood. Athelstan whispered the requiem and at the same time inspected the wound in the man’s chest, the nick on the fence against which he had been leaning, as well as the blood on the hands of the corpse.

‘My Lords,’ the friar declared, breathing heavily as he crossed the dead Sheriff’s hands over each other, ‘I am sure Sir John will agree with me that Sir Roger was murdered by a thrust from that dagger. It cannot have been thrown, the arbour is virtually sealed, and if the assassin stood at the gate, Sir Gerard, not to mention his dogs, would have seen him.’

‘All three of them could have been asleep,’ Fitzroy boomed stupidly. ‘Sir Gerard liked his wine.’

‘The dogs didn’t,’ Denny smirked.

‘I doubt it,’ Athelstan continued calmly. ‘Such hounds would have protected their master from any approach and Sir Gerard knew, at least for a few seconds, that he was dying. See his hands? They are blood-stained.’

‘My clerk,’ Cranston interrupted grandly, ‘is following my train of thought.’ He winked at Athelstan and walked back to the gate. ‘The dagger was not thrown. The assassin walked through the gate, perhaps with the dagger concealed. After all, it’s long and thin with no real hilt. Sir Gerard is sitting drinking his wine. He looks up and the assassin strikes, driving the dagger deep into the Sheriff’s heart, piercing his body. In his death throes Sir Gerard scrabbles at the dagger, his hands fall away, he dies.’ Cranston beamed round, I think the next step, My Lords, is that my clerk and I should interrogate the prisoner.’

Gaunt agreed, an archer was summoned, and both Cranston and Athelstan went back into the Guildhall and down into the dank, musty-smelling cellars. The passageways were torch-lit; two archers stood on guard outside a cell with a metal grille high in the door. Cranston peered through this. The dungeon was lit by an oil lamp standing on a battered table and the prisoner lay huddled on a small cot bed. The guards opened the door. Cranston and Athelstan slipped through. The man on the bed moaned and sat up.

In the poor light of the oil lamp he looked as wretched and as miserable as any man could be. Small and fat, with eyes hidden in rolls of fat, he was heavy-eyed with weeping and his hair was thick with dungeon-dirt.

Athelstan squatted down beside him and stared into the soft, pampered face of the dead Sheriff’s steward. The fellow crossed his arms and began rocking to and fro.

‘What is it now? What is it now?’ he muttered, the tears rolling down his cheeks. ‘Am I to be tortured? Am I to hang? Sirs, you are not to hurt me.’ He whimpered like a child and Athelstan saw the bruise on the side of his head. He touched the man gently on the hand and glanced back at Sir John. Cranston could tell by the look in Athelstan’s eyes that the friar had already concluded that this squat, little man with his doughy skin and plump hands was no murderer.

‘We are here to help,’ Athelstan whispered. He got up and leaned against the table whilst Cranston stood with his back to the door. ‘Just tell us the truth.’

The man looked down, still blubbering, shoulders shaking.

‘Sir Gerard’s dead,’ he moaned. ‘And I am to hang. Sirs, I am innocent – and, oh, the day began so well!’

‘Then start from the beginning,’ Athelstan urged. ‘Boscombe, Sir John Cranston has the ear of the Regent. If you tell the truth and prove your innocence, you could be out of this cell by nightfall.’