Sir Stephen Chandler didn’t know he was going to die. After his return from St Erconwald, he had decided to bathe in a tub of hot water, and sip a deep-bowled cup of claret. Chandler liked to bathe; his wife and retainers laughed at him. Most men of his station only bathed on the eve of the great feast days of the Church. Sir Stephen, however, had fought in Outremer, he had swum in the cool fountains and ponds of the Caliph of Egypt’s palaces. He had never forgotten that. Once the palaces had been taken, their treasures ransacked, the men slaughtered, the women raped, to swim in the ornamental pools and to smell the exquisite scent of the lotus flowers floating there was pleasure indeed. He was a man who liked his comforts, Sir Stephen, a great landowner in the shire of Kent, owner of Dovecote Manor on the road to Canterbury, a fine red-bricked building with its pastures, meadows, hunting rights, streams and well-stocked carp ponds.
Sir Stephen sat in the leather-backed chair and sniffed appreciatively at the steam curling from the scented hot water the slatterns had poured in. He had insisted on crushed rose juice being added; it always made him relax, and Sir Stephen, if the truth were known, was deeply agitated. He hated these journeys to London every autumn, the gathering, the Masses and, above all, the memories. Sir Stephen picked up the wine cup and sipped carefully. He didn’t like that priest, the dark-faced Dominican; wasn’t he clerk to Cranston the coroner? Chandler knew Cranston personally – they had fought together on the borders of Gascony. Chandler pulled off his boots, undid his jerkin and stripped himself naked. He stared down at his podgy white body, the red scars and purple welts of ancient wounds, the way his forearms and the lower parts of his legs were still burned dark by that fierce sun.
Sir Stephen waddled across to make sure the bolts on the door were pushed across and the lock turned. He absent-mindedly patted the coffer on the table just within the door and crossed to the bath tub. He would have liked two of the maids to bathe him, but he had to be careful, especially of that self-righteous monk Malachi. He had to hide his secret pleasures. Sir Stephen moved his wine cup to a small table near the tub and stepped gingerly in. He flinched at the heat but lowered himself carefully into the water. He had been quite explicit – the bath tub had to be sturdy and take his size, the finest oak, bound by hoops of iron. Master Rolles, as usual, could not do enough for him and his other companions. No wonder, Sir Stephen reflected, they’d paid the greasy taverner generously enough over the years. He stared appreciatively around the chamber. Master Rolles did look after them! These chambers were luxurious, whilst they dined not in that filthy tap room, but in the comfortable solar at the rear of the tavern. No dirty rushes covered that floor; instead, the oaken boards had been polished to shine like a mirror whilst carpets of soft turkey had been carefully nailed down to deaden the sound and keep in the warmth. The walls were hung with exquisite tapestries of blue and gold depicting scenes from the legends of King Arthur. Each chamber had its own theme, and Sir Stephen had been given the Excalibur chamber. Accordingly, all the blue and gold tapestries described incidents relating to the famous sword, from its discovery in a stone to its return to the Lady of the Lake.
Sir Stephen leaned back, gazing up at the black rafters and the Catherine wheel of candles which could be lowered, lit and hoisted up again. In each corner of the chamber were capped metal braziers, the charcoal now red and spluttering, exuding not only warmth but also the fragrance of the herb pack-ets placed carefully amongst the coals. Sir Stephen smacked his lips; he would bathe, dress, perhaps sleep, before joining the rest for his midday meal. Master Rolles had promised them fresh pheasant, served in the tavern’s special oyster sauce, with newly baked white loaves. Sir Stephen sighed. These pilgrimages to London might be difficult but at least they were comfortable. He stared across at the coffer with its three locks. He always checked to ensure it was secure. He bathed his face in water, and even as he did so, the memories came flooding back. He must not forget that he was a soldier of the Faith. He had borne the Cross against the infidel; surely that was reparation enough? How many men had fought in the hot sands around the Middle Sea, the sun beating down, harsh and cruel as any war club? The excruciating thirst, when the tongue became swollen, and the mouth was dry as the sand you trudged through! The foul food aboard the war cogs, the salt of the sea stinging your eyes and worsening your thirst. The long marches during the day, watching your comrades die! The freezing cold of desert nights, and above all, the enemy, dressed in white, astride nimble horses, appearing out of nowhere with ululating war cries, so swift a man had hardly time to arm. The patter-patter of arrows, the sudden surprise of a night attack, the hideous embrace of hand-to-hand combat as you fought for your life and tried to silence the enemy gasping beneath you.
Sir Stephen moved uneasily in the bath, his feet feeling strangely cold. And the sieges! The long ladders against the wall, the dizzying climb, rocks being hurled down, the splash of boiling oil, worsened by fire arrows which turned comrades into living, screaming human torches. Oh yes, Sir Stephen told himself, he had done his duty, he had received the blessings of popes and bishops, so now he should comfort himself and forget past sins. He moved his legs, becoming alarmed. The feeling of coldness was creeping up his body. He wanted to get up but his legs felt paralysed, as if encased in the heaviest steel armour. He stretched out for the wine cup and took a deep draught, not realising he was swallowing his own death.
He began to panic. Pains fired in his lower stomach, and he felt as if he was slipping away, as if the bath water was turning cold and rising to swallow him. He thrashed about, but in vain. His throat felt strangely dry, the chamber seemed to be moving, the tapestries on the wall rippling as though shaken by some unseen hand. He caught one scene, the arm of the Lady of the Lake coming up to grasp Excalibur. The water was turning black and swollen, like the water on the river so many years ago. He made one last effort to rise, only to slip back, his head hitting the side of the wooden tub. Sir Stephen Chandler, Knight of the Golden Falcon, landowner of Kent, knight of the shire, and former Crusader, slipped quietly to his death . . .
Cranston was holding court in the outhouse. Athelstan had made himself comfortable on a stool. The leader of the knights, Sir Maurice Clinton, had joined them. He had come looking for the taverner and stayed out of curiosity. The Judas Man was at first reluctant to answer Cranston’s questions.
‘You can, sir . . .’ Cranston took a swig from the miraculous wine skin and popped it back beneath his cloak. ‘You can, sir, either answer my questions here or at the Guildhall. You arrived at Master Rolles’ tavern yesterday and three murders occured.’
‘Two murders,’ the Judas Man answered. He pointed to Toadflax’s corpse. ‘I killed him in self-defence.’
‘Right.’ Cranston went across and sat down on a bale of straw. ‘Master Rolles, do the same for yourself and for him.’ He pointed at the Judas Man.
‘Is he always like this?’ Brother Malachi whispered to Athelstan.
‘Sir Jack has his own way,’ the Dominican murmured. ‘Like the Holy Spirit,’ he smiled, ‘he works secretly, his wonders to behold.’
‘I heard that, Brother.’
Cranston took off his beaver hat and threw it down between his feet. Loosening his sword belt, he made himself comfortable. Once the Judas Man was seated on the bale of straw, the questioning was resumed.
‘You were hired to capture the Misericord. By whom?’
‘I don’t know. Look.’ The Judas Man held up a hand. ‘Whilst working in Essex I received a letter along with a purse of silver. I was given the Misericord’s name and a slight description. I was told to be in London at this tavern by the eve of the Feast of St Wulfnoth.’
‘Why were you hired? To capture the Misericord or kill him?’
‘The Misericord is an outlaw – he is wanted dead or alive. I would have given him the chance to surrender.’
‘Why were you hired?’
There was a pause as Sir Maurice Clinton went over and secured the outhouse door, which was banging in the cold breeze.
‘I’ve told you,’ the Judas Man retorted. ‘The Misericord is a villain, he is wanted dead or alive. He has probably offended someone who is tired of dealing with sheriffs and coroners and wants to see him hanged at Smithfleld.’
‘So you came here. Oh, by the way,’ Cranston jabbed a finger, ‘I would be grateful if you would treat the office of coroner with more respect.’ He jabbed his finger again. ‘You lodged at this tavern?’
The Judas Man shrugged in agreement.
‘How did you know the Misericord was in the tap room?’
‘I received a message, left outside my chamber along with another purse of coins.’
‘Who brought it?’
‘I don’t know. I went downstairs – I met Sir Maurice and his comrades. I went into the tap room looking for a red-haired man with a misericord dangling around his neck. I thought I had found him. I questioned him. I gave him the chance to surrender. He attacked me, so I killed him.’
‘I can vouch for that.’ Master Rolles undid the top clasp of his boiled leather jerkin. ‘My bailiffs saw what happened.’
‘Did they now?’ Cranston took another slurp from his wine skin but didn’t offer it to the others, a sign of his growing annoyance. ‘Master Rolles, you will have to vouch for many things. These corpses were found in your tavern. Two beautiful women, one killed by a crossbow bolt, the other by a dagger. I understand they were found in the hay barn?’
‘Yes, it is just across the yard.’
‘What were they doing there? Come on,’ Cranston barked. ‘Who hired this Judas Man’s chamber, who brought the message to his chamber? Who told these two girls to leave the tavern and go to a hay barn in the dead of night?’
The taverner wiped his sweat-soaked palms on his woollen hose.
‘Sir John . . .’
‘Don’t Sir John me. I am not Sir John or Sir Jack to you, but the Lord Coroner of London. In your eyes you must regard me as God Almighty on horseback. Answer my questions.’
‘We all have visitors at night,’ the taverner murmured. ‘About two weeks ago, on the Feast of St Hedwig, a customer brought me a message, told me I had a visitor outside—’
‘Of course,’ Cranston interrupted. ‘I am sure, Master Rolles, knowing what I do of you, you have many visitors at night: the cask of Bordeaux brought in without paying customs, the cloth from Bruges, farmers prepared to sell their meat without paying London tolls, fishermen who sell their catch without handing over any of their profits to the Guild.’
‘You can’t prove that,’ Rolles retorted.
‘Oh, one day I will! Sooner than you think, if you don’t answer my questions. This visitor . . .’
‘I went out to the yard,’ Rolles confessed. ‘There were three of them, all cloaked and cowled. I told them my time cost money. A silver coin was tossed at my feet. I asked them what they wanted. One man stepped forward, he was hooded and visored. I couldn’t recognise his voice or make out any emblem or sign. He asked me when the Great Ratting would take place. I told him. He said he wished to hire a chamber for a thief-taker, known as the Judas Man. He gave me a description and said he would arrive here, as he did, the afternoon before the Great Ratting. I was to give him safe lodgings, food and drink.’ The taverner spread his hands. ‘Why should I refuse good custom? I was paid in advance and given every assurance that more would be paid. After all, the Judas Man is a law officer. He is hardly likely to steal away in the dead of night. He arrived, and that’s all I know.’
‘You don’t know who brought the message?’ Athelstan asked.
The taverner twisted round. ‘Brother Athelstan, isn’t it? I know all about you.’
‘Do you now?’ the Dominican replied. ‘Then you are a better man than I. The message?’
‘Do you know everyone who comes to your church?’ Rolles taunted. ‘People come in and out of my tavern, every sort and ilk on a night like the Great Ratting.’ He pulled a face. ‘I cannot say.’
Rolles turned back to the coroner.
‘I’ve answered your questions.’ He gestured at Sir Maurice. ‘I have meals to prepare.’
Cranston lifted his foot, and pressed so firmly down on the toe of the taverner’s boot that the man winced in pain.
‘Master Rolles,’ Cranston shook his head, ‘you are only halfway through your story. I knew those beautiful girls.’ He gestured at the corpses. ‘Two sisters, Beatrice and Clarice, hair like the sun, eyes as blue as the summer sky, impudent and mischievous; now they lie cold, two of the most accomplished courtesans in Southwark. What were they doing in your hay barn?’
‘They came for the Great Ratting. They were looking for custom. Ouch!’ The taverner yelped, as Cranston pressed his foot back down.
‘They didn’t have to look for custom,’ Cranston declared. ‘Custom went looking for them, men greedy for their soft flesh and expert ways. Why were they in your hay barn?’
‘The stranger,’ Rolles gasped. Cranston took his boot away. ‘The stranger who hired the Judas Man paid me very well, silver coins, this year’s batch, freshly minted at the Tower. He told me that, on the night of the Great Ratting, I was to hire two accomplished whores, Beatrice and Clarice. Of course I knew their names. I told them they would be my guests.’
‘And?’ Cranston asked.
‘The stranger said that when the Great Ratting was over the whores were to meet him in the hay barn. I was simply told to tell them that they would be lavishly paid. I did what he asked. I sent the usual message to their keeper, Mother Veritable.’ Rolles forced a smile. ‘I put the message to be collected in the Castle of Love; it’s a pocket on a tapestry in the solar, the usual way I tell Mother Veritable to send her girls for customers who have a need. Mother Veritable—’
‘Oh, that cruel-hearted hag,’ Cranston broke in. ‘You haven’t met her yet, Brother Athelstan? Mother Veritable, with a face as sweet as honey and a soul of sour vinegar. I will be paying her a visit soon. Well, continue, Master Rolles.’ He lifted his boot.
‘The two whores turned up,’ Rolles gabbled on, ‘dressed in all their finery.’
Cranston stretched out his hand. ‘I noticed their jewellery was missing.’
‘I have it in safe keeping.’
‘I’m sure you have,’ Cranston grinned, ‘and I’ll take it before we leave. Brother Athelstan can sell it for the poor. But, Master Troubadour, do continue with your tale.’
‘After the Great Ratting was over, I told the girls to go to the hay barn. I’d lit a lantern horn. They would be safe, warm and dry. That’s all I know, Lord Coroner. I had forgotten all about them until early this morning, when an ostler discovered their corpses.’
‘And I suppose nobody saw anything?’
‘We didn’t,’ exclaimed Sir Maurice, who was leaning against the door. ‘We always stay at the Night in Jerusalem. We have never known such excitement! The Great Ratting, the fight in the tap room, the whores being cut down in the hay barn. Like the old days, Sir Jack.’
Cranston looked sharply at him.
‘I have been standing here watching you,’ the knight explained. ‘I remember Master Rolles from the war years, but now I recall you. You were in Sir Walter Manny’s expedition out of Calais. Do you remember?’
Cranston smiled and brushed back his mass of grey hair.
‘Of course, days of glory, eh? I was freshly knighted. I was handsome then, slim as a whippet, fast as a falling hawk, but I don’t recall you, sir.’
‘I was a lowly squire,’ Clinton replied.
‘So many different memories,’ Cranston mused.
He got to his feet, walked over and, crouching down, pulled back the sheet covering the corpses of the two women.
‘I knew these two girls,’ he smiled over his shoulder, ‘though not in the carnal sense. I also knew their mother, a very famous whore! A woman of mystery. She was famous throughout Southwark. One night . . .’ Cranston paused, ‘Satan’s tits,’ he whispered, ‘one night she disappeared.’
Athelstan felt a prickle of cold on his back. The coroner had recalled something significant.
‘Guinevere the Golden,’ Cranston murmured.
His remark brought a gasp of surprise from Brother Malachi, who was sitting beside Athelstan. The Benedictine sprang to his feet, fingers going to his lips, his agitation so obvious Athelstan became alarmed.
‘What is it, Brother?’ Cranston re-covered the corpses and got to his feet. The Benedictine looked as if he was about to faint. Athelstan put down his writing satchel.
‘I don’t know.’ Malachi scratched his forehead. ‘I don’t really know.’ He glanced quickly at Athelstan. ‘I don’t want to talk here.’
‘You can use the solar,’ Rolles offered. ‘I’ll take you there myself.’
‘And me?’ the Judas Man asked. ‘Are you finished with me, Sir John?’
‘No, I am not finished with you, but you can return to your post. On no account leave Southwark without my permission.’
‘The corpses.’ The taverner stopped at the door. ‘They’ll begin to ripen.’
‘Flaxwith,’ Cranston roared.
The bailiff, followed by his two dogs, came hurrying across the yard.
‘Have these corpses removed. They are to be taken across the river and buried in the strangers’ plot outside Charterhouse. The Corporation will bear the cost.’
Athelstan and Cranston left the outhouse with the others and crossed the muck-strewn yard. A faint drizzle had begun to fall, so the passageway into the tavern seemed even more warm and sweet-smelling. They passed the tap room, still being vigorously cleaned after the previous night, and into the more comfortable part of the tavern, the solar, a large chamber which overlooked a well-laid-out garden.
‘I grow my own herbs and vegetables,’ Rolles explained. ‘So visitors don’t come at the dead of night,’ he continued sharply, ‘to offer me leeks and shallots for sale.’
Cranston laughed and patted him on the shoulder. The taverner shrugged this off and pointed to the polished wooden table which ran down the centre of the room.
Cranston sat at the top, Athelstan on his right, with Malachi and Sir Maurice on his left. Athelstan placed his writing satchel on the floor. What he learned today he would write up later. Brother Malachi still looked pale. The taverner’s offer of a jug of Rhenish wine and a plate of comfits was eagerly accepted by Cranston. Athelstan believed the taverner wished to eavesdrop, so he nudged Sir John under the table. The coroner took the hint and loudly began to praise the solar’s furnishings, pointing at the mantled hearth, where a log fire spluttered, the coloured drapes above the wooden panelling, the glass in the windows. Despite the taverner’s obvious annoyance, the coroner heaped praise upon praise and continued to do so until Rolles had served the wine and the silver dish of marchpane, and left the room. Even then Cranston got to his feet, still talking, opened the door and slammed it firmly shut.
‘Well done, Brother, well done.’ He smiled, tapping the side of his nose.
Malachi’s colour had returned, and he drank greedily at the wine but refused to eat anything. Athelstan wondered what had so alarmed the Benedictine. He was, Athelstan reflected, a youngish man, yet he appeared to have aged. His usual cheeriness had crumpled, the furrows around his mouth were more obvious, his skin was pasty, his eyes tired, his mouth slack.
‘Brother Malachi need not tell you. I shall,’ Sir Maurice offered, patting the Benedictine gently on the arm. ‘Twenty years ago the French signed the peace treaty of Bretigny, and the war with France ended, at least for a while. I and my companions . . . well, Sir Jack, you know how it was, young knights with little land and no wealth? We all came from Kent, we’d fought across the Narrow Seas, but none of us had taken any plunder or ransoms. We became mercenaries. The Crusader, Peter of Cyprus, organised an expedition against the Turks in North Africa. He hoped to seize Alexandria and free the trade routes in the Middle Sea.’
‘I remember it,’ Cranston nodded. ‘An army assembled in London. The King loaned ships, a squadron, berthed here in the Thames, cogs and merchantmen.’ He dropped his voice. ‘Sir Maurice, I think I know what you are going to talk about. The treasure, the Crusaders’ war chest?’
‘The Lombard treasure,’ Sir Maurice agreed. ‘Peter of Cyprus raised a huge loan from the Bardi in Lombard Street. Now the Crusader fleet lay at anchor in the Thames, taking on men and supplies. It became common knowledge that the Lombard treasure was to be taken aboard. It was decided the treasure should be moved by night, and as few people as possible would be told when and how it was to be transported to the flagship, The Glory of Westminster. The leader of the English force, Lord Belvers, a Kentish man, apparently arranged for two of our company, two knights, Richard Culpepper and Edward Mortimer, to receive the Lombard treasure and transport it by barge to the flagship.’ He coughed. ‘We learned all this later.’
He paused as Brother Malachi lifted a hand.
‘My monastic name is Malachi, a famous Celtic saint, but I am Thomas Culpepper by birth. Sir Richard was my brother.’ He sipped his wine. ‘We all came up to London, excited by the prospect of war, glory and plunder. The Pope had promised a plenary indulgence for all those who took the Cross. We called ourselves the Company of the Golden Falcon – that was our emblem – eight of us in all, led by Sir Maurice here, whilst I was their chaplain. We all hoped to achieve great things, to win glory for God and Holy Mother Church. Only afterwards did we discover that two of our company, my brother included, had been chosen for a special task.
‘We all lodged here, not so luxuriously as we do now.’ He smiled weakly. ‘Master Rolles had just bought the tavern from his profits. You, Sir John, were not coroner, and there was no priest at St Erconwald’s. Richard was young and vigorous. He loved to dance, he thrilled to the sound of music. While we waited for the army to assemble and the fleet to sail, he and the rest caroused in the fleshpots of London. We stayed here for some time. Richard became infatuated with a whore, a courtesan.’
‘Guinevere the Golden?’ Athelstan asked.
Malachi nodded. ‘He had known her for months. Lord Belvers had often sent him to London on this errand or that. Guinevere became pregnant, twin daughters. Richard suspected . . .’ Malachi’s voice trailed off.
‘God in Heaven!’ Athelstan whispered. ‘Are you saying those two corpses were your brother’s daughters, your nieces?’
‘Possibly.’ Malachi spat the word out. ‘But there again, Guinevere had many admirers; those children could have been anybody’s. Now the Lombard treasure arrived, it was taken from the Tower by barge and apparently handed over to my brother. He was to transport it by boat to the flagship.’ Malachi fell silent.
‘But neither the barge nor the Lombard treasure ever reached the flagship,’ Sir Maurice explained.
‘Impossible,’ Athelstan said.
Sir Maurice shook his head. ‘Believe me, both the river and the city were searched. Of the boatmen who brought the barge, or the two knights, not a trace was found, nor of the treasure they were transporting. They all vanished off the face of the earth.’
‘I remember this.’ Cranston refilled his wine cup. ‘I was in Calais at the time and returned to London just before Christmas. A thorough search was organised.’
‘And nothing was found?’ Athelstan queried.
‘Nothing.’ Malachi shook his head. ‘My brother and Edward Mortimer . . . well, it seemed as though they’d never existed. For twenty years I have searched. What is worse is that both were proclaimed as thieves. On the same night the Lombard treasure disappeared, Guinevere the Golden also vanished. Every year we come up to London, every year I make enquiries, but nothing.’
Athelstan rose to his feet, seemingly fascinated by the tapestry mentioned by Rolles, which hung just within the doorway. Costly and heavy, the stitching was exquisite, its red, green and blue thread streaked with gold. The tapestry described the famous fable, the storming of the Castle of Love. Armed knights, displaying the device of a heart, were preparing to swarm into the castle, their catapults and trebuchets full of roses with which to shower the lady custodians, who were ready to defend themselves with baskets of brilliantly coloured flowers. Athelstan ran his hand down it and found the heavily concealed pocket in the bottom right-hand corner of the tapestry.
‘I have seen that device before,’ Sir John called out. ‘In the well-to-do taverns and hostelries of France, a place where favourite customers can, anonymously, leave a letter asking for the services of a courtesan.’ Sir John smacked his lips. ‘Or whatever their heart desires.’
Athelstan dug his hand deep into the pocket. It was empty. He returned to the table.
‘Has any trace of the Lombard treasure ever been found?’
Sir Maurice shook his head. ‘Everything disappeared. Our two comrades, the treasure, not to mention the whore Guinevere.’
‘No, that’s wrong.’ Malachi spoke up. ‘I discovered many years later that the barge had been found in the mud and slime further downriver.’
‘How did you discover that?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Two bargemen had been hired; both were married, both left widows, who petitioned the Exchequer for compensation. Of course the barons of the Exchequer replied that the men could still be alive, so the widows’ kinsmen organised a search. You see,’ Malachi spread his hands, ‘the fleet sailed three days after the robbery. We had to leave. So the search for the treasure and the others was left to the City authorities. Only many years later did I hear about the barge.’
‘That’s true,’ Sir Maurice murmured.
Athelstan was about to continue his questioning when there was a knock on the door. Master Rolles entered carrying a tray of herbs, bowls of saffron, mace, nutmeg, cloves and cinnamon. Athelstan breathed in the refreshing smells.
‘I’ve brought these to sweeten the room,’ the taverner explained. ‘If you are finished, sirs . . .’
He paused at a loud hammering and knocking from the gallery above, followed by shouts.
‘If you are finished,’ Rolles repeated, choosing to ignore the clamour, ‘I would like to prepare for the midday meal.’
‘Certainly, sir.’ Sir John rubbed his stomach. ‘And what are you offering, Master Rolles?’
‘Frumenty soup, sprinkled with venison and saffron, Tuscany broth with rabbit and almond milk, garnished with nutmeg and galingale, followed by pike stuffed with lampreys and eels. Pheasant . . .’
Sir John groaned in pleasure.
The taverner placed the tray on the table. As he did so, Sir Laurence Broomhill hurried in.
‘Sir Maurice, Master Rolles, you must come.’ He paused to catch his breath. ‘After we returned from Mass this morning, Sir Stephen asked for a jug of wine and a goblet. He said he wished to bathe . . .’
‘I remember.’ Rolles wiped his fingers on a napkin and stuffed it into the belt round his waist. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘We cannot rouse him. We’ve knocked and shouted, but there is no reply.’
‘The door?’
‘It’s bolted and locked.’ Broomhill clawed at his beard. ‘He may have had a seizure.’
Sir Maurice sprang to his feet and, followed by Brother Malachi and the taverner, hurried from the solar. Cranston and Athelstan glancing sharply at each other quickly followed. They went out along the passageway and up the broad corner staircase. On the gallery above, a throng of people had gathered outside the third door along. Athelstan noticed the muddy boots outside the door placed in a reed basket. He grabbed Rolles’ arm and pointed at these.
‘A tap boy was meant to clean them.’
The taverner pushed Athelstan’s hand away and, shoving a path through the throng, pounded at the door.
‘Sir Stephen Chandler,’ he bellowed. ‘I beg you, sir, open up.’
The clamour brought more servants and grooms up the stairs. Cranston ordered one of these to fetch a bench from the passageway below and asked the knights to step away. At first there was confusion, but under Sir John’s direction, the bench was used as a battering ram, swinging hard against the door until it buckled on its leather hinges, the locks and bolts at the top and bottom snapping back.
The room inside was warm. Athelstan noticed how the windows were shuttered, and peering round the rest, he glimpsed the pale body sprawled in the iron-hooped bathtub. Cranston, roaring at everyone to stand back, pushed his way through, almost dragging Athelstan with him. Once inside, he kept everyone else back, insisting no one should enter the room or touch anything. Athelstan quickly examined the body. Sir Stephen was beyond all help. The Dominican quickly recited the requiem and, pressing his hand against the dead man’s neck, once again made sure there was no blood beat. He crouched down and murmured the words of absolution in the hope that the soul hadn’t immediately left the body, trying not to concentrate on those half-open, staring dead eyes, the slack jaw, the bloodless lips and liverish face. The water was ice cold. Athelstan glimpsed the small overturned stool and the fallen wine cup which had stained one of the turkey carpets. He plucked a napkin from the lavarium, picked up the cup and carefully sniffed. It had a heavy, unpleasant odour, rank and foul, like rotting weeds, though when he tested the wine in the jug it smelt wholesome.
‘God rest him,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘He is dead, murdered, poisoned.’
Sir Maurice, standing next to Cranston, tried to push forward but the coroner restrained him.
‘It can’t be!’ Sir Maurice shouted. ‘Who would poison poor Stephen?’
‘I don’t know, but poisoned he is. The jug of wine is wholesome, but the cup is tainted. Was Sir Stephen taking any potions or powders?’ Athelstan asked.
‘None, none.’ Sir Maurice’s agitation was obvious. ‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan, can’t this room be cleared?’ He gestured at the corpse. ‘Must he be left sprawled like that?’
‘A murder has been committed.’ Cranston stood, legs apart, his enormous girth blocking any further entry into the room. ‘A murder has been committed and I am the Lord Coroner. Master Rolles, take your guests away – oh, and send for a physician.’
Cranston shooed them all back into the gallery, blocking the view by pulling across the unhinged door. Then he turned, mopping his face with the hem of his cloak.
‘Athelstan, you’re sure it’s murder?’
‘Poison, Sir Jack. I would wager a year’s collection, and by the coldness of the water, he has been dead at least an hour.’
Whilst they waited for the physician, Cranston and Athelstan surveyed the room. The Dominican noticed the small coffer with its three locks and started to search for the keys. Cranston, however, was much taken with the luxury of the chamber: its glowing tapestries, the dark blue gold-fringed hangings around the four-poster bed, and the carved oak and walnut furnishings. Athelstan half listened as Sir John described the scene on one of the tapestries, Excalibur being taken down to the Lady of the Lake.
‘Ah, I’ve found them!’ Athelstan moved a candle on the small table beside the bed to reveal a thick silver key ring. He was about to try the keys in the small coffer when there was a tapping and Master Stapleton the physician edged his way round the broken door and came into the room.
Cranston and Athelstan had done business before with this cadaverous-faced leech: his ever-watery eyes and constantly dripping nose always tempted Athelstan to whisper the words ‘Physician heal thyself, but Master Stapleton had no sense of humour. He came shrouded in his customary food-stained robe, sniffing and spluttering as he stood staring disdainfully down at the corpse. He pressed his hand against the neck, felt the stomach, peered into the mouth and pulled up an eyelid.
‘Good morrow, Master Stapleton.’ Cranston leaned down as if trying to catch the physician’s glare. ‘You do know who we are?’
‘Of course I do, Sir John; in your case, once seen, never forgotten. Good morrow to you too, Brother Athelstan,’ he declared and poked a finger at the corpse. ‘This man’s dead. My examination will cost you five shillings.’
He picked up the wine goblet and sniffed at it.
‘Oh, he has been poisoned, so that’ll be seven shillings.’
‘I know he’s dead,’ Cranston roared. ‘What of?’
‘Now, now, Sir John, do not disturb your humours. You know how the black bile of anger warms the blood.’
‘Shut up!’ Cranston snapped.
‘Very well.’ Stapleton clasped his cloak with both hands, head going back like a judge about to pass sentence. ‘I suspect he died of water hemlock, probably mixed with henbane. I can tell that by the offensive smell, and before you ask, Brother, the wine would hide both taste and smell, at least for a while. Now henbane flowers in late July, so the poison was probably a dried powder, very potent. The cup’s polluted but the wine jug is free of any noxious smell. So,’ Stapleton held out a hand, ‘either he, or someone else, put poison in that cup. He drank and climbed into the bath. Death would follow fairly swiftly. The victim is fat, like you, Sir John; perhaps his heartbeat was not too strong.’
‘And the symptoms?’ Athelstan asked.
‘A stiffening of the limbs.’
‘You mean paralysis?’
‘That’s right, Brother, feet and hands first. It’s the same poison Socrates drank. So,’ Stapleton wiped his nose with the back of his hand, ‘for coming here, four shillings, one shilling for inspecting the corpse, and two for discovering a murder.’
Cranston pulled the door aside.
‘Master Stapleton,’ he smiled sweetly, ‘put your bill into the Guildhall, no more than five shillings, mind you. It was Brother Athelstan who discovered the murder.’
The physician sighed heavily and, hitching his robe, went out into the gallery to continue his argument with Master Rolles, loudly demanding he be given food and drink for his trouble.
‘I doubt if it was suicide,’ Athelstan mused. ‘Sir John, pull back that door. I want Master Rolles and the rest in here now.’
Cranston pushed the door to one side, and strode out bellowing names. Athelstan went and sat on the great chest at the foot of the bed. Rolles and Sir Maurice led the knights back in. Cranston sat down on the heavy oaken chair against the far wall, taking a generous slurp from his miraculous wine skin.
‘Can’t the corpse be removed?’ Sir Maurice protested. ‘It seems as if Sir Stephen is lying there staring at us.’
A short discussion followed. Athelstan agreed to the request and Rolles organised some of his bully boys, who stripped the bed of a sheet, lifted the corpse out, wrapped it up and removed it.
‘Put it with the others,’ Cranston shouted, ignoring the gasps of the knights.
‘I object,’ Sir Maurice declared.
‘Don’t object, sir,’ Athelstan replied. ‘You’ve read your Scripture: leave the dead to bury the dead. Sir Stephen’s body will be given an honourable burial wherever you choose, but his soul has been dispatched to God before its time, and God, not to mention the Crown and our Lord Coroner, would like to know the reason why.’
Rolles stood near the doorway, whilst the knights resigned themselves to Athelstan’s questioning. Some sat on stools and chairs. Sir Maurice stood by the door, his hand on the small coffer. Brother Malachi, having accompanied the corpse downstairs, returned with an ale pot in his hand.
‘I believe Sir Stephen was murdered,’ Athelstan began. ‘The poison was offensive and strong. It wasn’t in the wine jug but in the cup. Who brought that up?’
‘I did,’ Rolles declared. ‘And before you mention it, I had nothing to do with that man’s death. Ask my servants in the kitchen. Sir Stephen came back from Mass, he was complaining he felt hot, he had the rheums, and a slight fever.’
‘Sir Stephen often suffered from them.’ Sir Laurence Broomhill, a narrow-faced man clearly agitated by his comrade’s death, played with the Ave beads wrapped round his fingers.
‘So he had a fever?’ Athelstan confirmed. ‘His nose was full of mucus?’
‘He was coughing,’ Sir Maurice agreed.
‘So,’ Athelstan chose his words carefully, ‘Sir Stephen comes back to the tavern, orders a hot bath and a jug of claret. The tub is brought up and filled with hot water. You, Master Rolles, brought a tray with a jug of wine and a cup?’
‘Yes.’ The taverner nodded.
‘And when you came in here?’
‘Sir Stephen had begun to strip. He had complained about his boots being muddy. I told him to leave them in the basket outside, one of my pot boys would clean them.’ Rolles spread his hands and blinked. ‘Brother Athelstan, Sir John, I swear the cup was clean. The wine was the best Bordeaux. If I meant to poison Sir Stephen I would hardly have brought it up myself, would I?’
Athelstan agreed, but his searching stare disconcerted the taverner, now fearful of this quiet friar with his sharp eyes and pointed questions.
‘Did that cup of wine leave your care?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Never, I took the cup from the shelf, I rinsed it out with clean water, dried it with a napkin, put it on a tray and brought it up. I placed the tray on the table, talked to Sir Stephen about his boots and left. I heard him draw the bolts and turn the key behind me.’
He paused as Cranston gave a loud snore. The coroner’s head was going down. Athelstan quietly prayed that Sir John was not going into one of his deep slumbers. One of the knights laughed quietly.
‘Did anyone come into this chamber?’ Athelstan asked. ‘After Master Rolles had left?’
Sir Maurice and the rest shook their heads.
‘We wouldn’t,’ one of them declared. ‘If Sir Stephen was having his bath, he was most particular about his comforts.’
‘So, here we have Sir Stephen,’ Athelstan summarised, ‘alone in his chamber. When the cup and wine are left here there is no trace of poison in them. So someone must have come into this room and, whilst Sir Stephen was distracted, poured poison into that goblet. There’s no secret passageway, no one could come through the window and we have no reason to believe that Sir Stephen would take his own life. Now the claret was rich, it has a strong smell.’
‘A fragrance all of its own,’ Cranston abruptly declared, shaking himself and blinking.
‘Sir Stephen also has the rheums,’ Athelstan added, ‘mucus in his nose, so his sense of smell would not be so sharp. He climbs into the tub, drinks the wine and dies.’
‘He must have opened the door again,’ Cranston interposed.
‘Of course.’ Athelstan smiled. ‘Master Rolles, the boots weren’t placed outside when you left?’
The taverner shook his head.
‘So, it must have happened afterwards. There are two chambers, one on either side,’ Athelstan continued. ‘Who occupies them?’
‘One is a storeroom,’ Rolles replied. ‘Sir Maurice occupies the other.’
Athelstan sat staring down at the floor. He could only accept what the taverner had said; Rolles had no obvious grievance or grudge against Sir Stephen, and if he was involved in the poisoning, he certainly would have not brought up the wine himself. He asked Rolles again about the cup and jug never leaving his care. The taverner was adamant. Athelstan was convinced of his innocence, especially as Rolles made no attempt to pass the blame on to anyone else.
‘Was Sir Stephen in good humour? Was he anxious about anything?’
Athelstan’s questions only provoked a chorus of denials.
‘I must search the chamber,’ Athelstan declared. He was surprised by the reaction his statement provoked.
‘Sir Stephen is a lord,’ Sir Thomas Davenport shouted, ‘not a common criminal; his goods are not being distrained.’
‘I must search this chamber,’ Athelstan insisted.
Cranston rose to his feet and was glaring at the knights, challenging them to question his authority. In a moment of taut silence, Athelstan walked across to the coffer with the three locks.
‘What is this for?’
‘Private papers,’ Sir Maurice spluttered. ‘Keepsakes. Brother Athelstan, is this necessary?’
Athelstan patted the wallet which swung at the end of the cord around his waist.
‘Sir Maurice, I have found the keys. I wish you to leave now.’ He smiled thinly. ‘I have kept you long enough from your midday meal. Sir John and I still have business here.’ Athelstan paused. ‘Now, as for this casket, Master Rolles, have two of your men deliver it into the sanctuary of St Erconwald’s Church.’
‘Will it be safe there?’ Sir Maurice demanded.
‘I have the keys,’ Athelstan answered, ‘and not even my parishioners will steal something I place in the sanctuary.’
Sir Maurice and the other knights left, Cranston shouting out that he would not join them at table.
‘What do you think?’ the coroner asked once they were alone.
‘I don’t think anything, Sir John, except that I must search this chamber.’
They went through the dead knight’s possessions, which were stored in the great chest at the foot of the bed, as well as the aumbry built in the far corner, but found nothing remarkable except finely cut clothes, jerkins, hose, boots of cordovan leather, spurs, a sword and two daggers in decorated scabbards attached to an embroidered war belt. Beneath the table, beside the bed, Athelstan found a psalter and leafed through it. The parchment pages were of the finest quality. Athelstan was intrigued that the psalter book was not regularly used except for one page, where Chandler had copied the words of a prayer. This page was well thumbed, the parchment black and shiny due to constant use. Athelstan read the first line aloud.
‘Have pity on me as you had pity on the possessed whom you saved from the power of the Devil.’
He glanced up. ‘I wonder what sin weighed so heavily on Sir Stephen’s soul that he had to recite this prayer time and time again?’ A question he posed to himself as much as Sir John Cranston.