‘Oh, bugger off!’ he roared at red-haired, one-legged Leif the beggar who leaned against the door lintel, his shabby tray slung round his neck. Leif looked as if he was on the verge of collapsing from fatigue and hunger but Athelstan knew he was a consummate actor who ate and drank as heartily as Sir John.
‘Oh,’ whined Leif, ‘my belly’s empty.’
‘Then it suits your head!’
‘Sir John, a crumb of bread, a cup of water?’
‘Pigskins!’ Cranston bellowed. ‘You’ve already eaten my supper! You are a hungry, lean-faced villain, Leif.’
‘Sir John, I am a poor man.’
‘Oh, get in,’ muttered Cranston. ‘See Boscombe, he’s my new steward. No, on second thoughts — Boscombe!’ he roared.
The little fellow appeared, as silent as a shadow.
‘This is Leif,’ Cranston bellowed. ‘He’ll eat me out of house and home. Give him some wine but not my claret. There’s bread, soup, and Lady Maude has left a pie in the larder.’
‘Oh, thank you, Sir John.’ Leif hopped down the passageway as nimbly as any squirrel.
‘Oh, by the way.’ Cranston smiled evilly. ‘Leif, my friend, go into the garden. I have two new guests who would love to meet you.’ Then, slamming the door behind him, he went down Cheapside laughing softly.
‘Sir John, was that wise?’
‘Oh, don’t worry about Leif, Athelstan,’ Cranston shouted over his shoulder. ‘He’s nimble as a flea, can move faster than you or I. And often has!’ he added.
Cheapside was deserted now except for the dung carts, the makers, and the occasional whore dressed in saffron or yellow, hanging round the doors of taverns. Once darkness fell, they and the other city riff-raff, the roisterers, the apple squires and what Cranston termed ‘the other beasts of the night’, would soon make their presence felt.
They arrived at the Guildhall to find the entire building surrounded by royal archers and men-at-arms. Cranston bellowed his name at them and shouldered his way through, up the steps and into the audience chamber where Lord Adam Clifford was waiting for them.
The young courtier’s face creased into a genuine smile. ‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan.’ He clasped their hands warmly. ‘You are most welcome!’
Cranston looked at the young nobleman’s simple leather jacket, woollen hose and high-heeled leather riding boots.
‘But, My Lord, you are not joining us for the banquet?’
The young man pulled a face. ‘The Lord Regent has other business for me.’
Athelstan could tell by Clifford’s eyes that the young man was displeased to be sent away.
‘You are the last guest, Sir John,’ he whispered hurriedly. ‘The King will arrive soon and the banquet begin. You had best hurry!’
Clifford handed them over to a liveried servant who led them upstairs and along passageways, all lit by flickering torches. Nevertheless, Athelstan could sense uneasiness in the place; archers wearing either the White Hart, the King’s own personal emblem, or the Lion Rampant of Gaunt, were everywhere.
‘Lord Adam seems a wise-headed fellow,’ Athelstan observed.
‘One good apple in a rotten barrel,’ Cranston whispered out of the corner of his mouth. ‘He’s a northerner who has attached his fortunes to Giant’s star. I hope he’s wise. If the Regent falls, so will he.’
At last they reached the Hall of Roses, the sumptuous though small private banqueting chamber of the Guildhall. The servant ushered them in, Athelstan and Cranston blinking at the brilliant light from hundreds of candles fixed round the room. The other guests were already seated; they paid little heed to the new arrivals and whispered amongst themselves as a cup-bearer took Cranston and Athelstan to their seats.
‘A most noble place,’ the friar whispered.
‘Don’t forget, Brother,’ Cranston murmured as they sat down, ‘tonight we dine with a murderer!’
CHAPTER 4
Cranston sat in his seat in the Hall of Roses and lovingly cradled a jeweled wine goblet.
‘First time I’ve been here,’ he muttered to Athelstan.
The friar studied his fat friend anxiously; Cranston, deep in his cups, was frighteningly unpredictable. He might either go to sleep or else start lecturing these powerful men. However, the Coroner seemed quiet enough for the moment and Athelstan, who had eaten and drunk sparingly, gazed appreciatively round the Hall of Roses.
A perfect circle, the chamber reminded him of a painting of a Greek temple he had once seen in a Book of Hours. The roof was a cupola of cleverly ornate, polished hammer beams which swooped across the ceiling to meet a huge central red rose, carved in wood and painted in gold leaf. The walls and dark embrasures were of dressed stone and the supporting pillars of porphyry linked by banners of cloth of gold, bearing either the Royal Arms or the insignia of the House of Lancaster. The marble floor was overlaid by a carpet which, from a red rose in the centre, radiated out in strips of purple and white, each ending in the name of one of the knights of Arthur’s Round Table. Over each name sat a guest at his own separate table, a small oaken trestle covered with a silver-white cloth. At the top, on King Arthur’s seat, was the young Richard, his golden hair elaborately dressed, a silver chaplet round his white brow; the young King was attired from head to toe in purple damask.
Athelstan, ignoring the hubbub of conversation around him, studied Richard who sat gazing unwinkingly across the hall. Then he caught the friar’s glance, smiled and winked mischievously. Athelstan grinned, embarrassed, and looked away, He was not frightened of Gaunt, who sat in scarlet robes on the King’s right, but Athelstan knew how jealous the Regent was of the King’s open affection for Sir John Cranston, as well as his secretarius, Brother Athelstan. The young King turned and talked to Hussey on his left, grasping his tutor’s wrist in a gesture of friendship. Cranston, though on his eighth cup of claret, turned and pulled a face at Athelstan; for the King to touch anyone at a formal banquet was a breach of etiquette and the highest mark of royal favour.
Athelstan glanced at Gaunt. He was astute enough to see the flicker of annoyance cross the Regent’s saturnine face even though Gaunt tried to hide it by stroking his neatly clipped gold moustache and beard.
‘As I have said,’ Cranston whispered rather too loudly in Athelstan’s ear, ‘no love lost there. Hussey is now the King’s favourite as well as his tutor. A university man,’ Sir John continued. ‘I wonder what Hussey and the King think of Gaunt’s friendship with the Guildmasters? Just look at the turd worms!’
Athelstan squeezed Cranston’s arm. ‘Sir John, keep your voice down. You have eaten well?’
Cranston smiled. ‘As I would wish to in Paradise! For God’s sake, Brother, just look at the wealth!’
Athelstan stared at his own cup, plate and knives all fashioned from pure gold and silver, whilst his goblet, hardly touched throughout the meal, was encrusted with a King’s ransom in jewels, part of the loot Gaunt had brought back from his wars in France.
‘What have we eaten so far, Brother?’
Lamprey, salmon, venison, boar’s meat, swan and peacock.’ Athelstan grinned. ‘And dessert is still to come!’
He was about to tease Sir John further when suddenly Fitzroy, Guildmaster of the Fishmongers, rose to his feet, scrabbling at his fur-lined collar, his habitually red face purple now as he coughed and choked. The rest of the guests watched, astounded. No one moved as Fitzroy staggered against his table, turned slightly and crashed to the floor.
Despite his laden stomach, Cranston sprang to his feet, Athelstan behind him, and hurried across. Fitzroy lay sprawled on his side, eyes and mouth still open, but Athelstan could feel no life beat in the puce-coloured throat. He stuck his finger into the man’s mouth, ensuring the tongue was free, thinking Fitzroy might have choked. He hid his distaste, working his fingers downwards, but found no blockage in the man’s throat. Cranston felt Fitzroy’s wrist and then his heart.