‘Clifford was your murderer?’
‘Yes.’
‘And there are those at court and at the Guildhall who are in your pay?’
‘You said you had only one question.’
Athelstan shrugged. ‘You have a captive audience.’
‘Turn round, Brother.’
Athelstan was about to refuse but could see little point, so did so.
‘To answer your question, Brother, treason is like a vine. It has many branches.’
Athelstan stood still, tensing his shoulders. When he did look round, the alleyway was empty.
The friar continued down to Wool Quay, hired a skiff and leaned back in the stern as a grizzled, toothless boatman with arms like steel vigorously rowed him to the far shore. Athelstan paid him and walked through the dusk, back to St Erconwald’s. The house and stable were quiet. Someone had filled Philomel’s bin and the old war horse was munching away as if it was his first and last meal. Athelstan walked round to the front of the church and noticed with alarm that the door was unlatched. He pushed it open and tip-toed gently inside. He peered through the darkness.
‘Who is there?’ he called.
His words rang hollow and empty. Athelstan, gripping his staff, walked through the shadowy nave towards the rood screen.
‘Who’s there?’ he called. ‘This is God’s house!’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, monk, you gave me a fright!’
Athelstan whirled round and dimly made out the portly figure of Sir John as he sat resting against the base of a pillar, the miraculous wineskin cradled in his hands.
‘Sir John, you’ll send my hair grey!’
‘Then lose it all, Brother, and like me you won’t give a damn!’ Cranston patted the ground beside him. ‘Come on, sit down. Where have you been?’
Athelstan crouched beside his plump friend.
‘Do you want some wine?’
‘Sir John, this is a church.’
‘I’ve had a word with the good Lord, he won’t mind.’
‘In which case, Sir John.’ Athelstan lifted the wineskin and poured a generous gulp into his mouth. ‘True,’ he murmured, ‘wine does gladden the heart of man.’ He handed the wineskin back. ‘Sir John, I have been to see Elizabeth Hobden at the Minoresses. She’s happy and contented.’
‘Her father and step-mother are in the Marshalsea prison,’ Cranston muttered. ‘God knows what will become of them. However, until such matters are settled, the girl will remain a ward of court. And where else?’ he asked.
‘I’ve been to Hell, Sir John. Or, more precisely, the dungeons in the White Tower. Tomorrow Adam Clifford will lose his head at dawn. He asked me to hear his last confession.’
‘You!’
‘Yes, Sir John. He said he could confess only to me.’
‘And what did he say?’
Athelstan shook his head. ‘You can’t ask me that, Sir John. Not even the Pope can break the seal of confession.’
‘But we did arrest the right man?’ Cranston demanded anxiously.
‘Yes, Sir John, we did.’
‘And is he sorry?’
‘He is sorry he is going to die, but he saw it as a game very much like a tourney — a matter of luck and skill.’
‘And Ira Dei?’
Athelstan breathed in deeply, deciding it would be best if he didn’t tell Sir John about his meeting near the Wool Quay.
‘Come on, Brother,’ Cranston urged. ‘You must have asked Clifford that question? Surely it’s not covered by the seal of confession?’
‘Yes, I did.’ Athelstan gripped his friend’s fat wrist. ‘Sir John,’ he whispered, ‘before God I will only tell if you swear, give me your word, that you will not reveal it to anyone!’
‘You have my word, that’s good enough.’
‘Well, I did ask Clifford about Ira Dei. He immediately denied any knowledge then said that since his arrest he had reflected on many things. He was not sure about Ira Dei: he was making his final confession and was about to meet God so did not wish to worsen the situation by false allegations, but…’
‘Well?’
‘On the few occasions Clifford actually met Ira Dei, the man was hooded, cloaked, his voice disguised and muffled. Nevertheless, by the intonation of certain words, the way the man spoke, Clifford believed Ira Dei was no less a person than Sir Nicholas Hussey.’
‘Hussey!’ Cranston exclaimed.
‘Well, Sir John, Clifford only voiced his suspicions. However, he is about to die and there’s no personal profit for him, so why should he lie?’
Sir John sat back and whistled under his breath.
‘If Hussey’s our man,’ Cranston answered, ‘that means the young King is involved. What game are they playing at? I mean its one thing to ally yourself with the Regent’s enemies, but actually to control them?’
‘I thought that, Sir John, but it seems to add up.’
Athelstan ticked the points off on his fingers. ‘First, there will be a revolt. Second, the revolt will strike at the seat of power, in other words the Regent. Third, Sir John, if you want to control a wild horse, what do you do? Hang on to its reins or try to stay seated in the saddle?’
Cranston nodded. ‘Of course, Hussey is in the saddle. Yes, yes,’ he continued excitedly. ‘The Regent hasn’t caused the problems but, when the revolt comes, Hussey will make sure Gaunt is the one held responsible. Richard, on the other hand, will play the role of the innocent young King, innocent of any crime, unable to control his wicked uncle.’
‘Precisely, My Lord Coroner. The revolt will end, Gaunt may go, and rebel leaders disappear. But the Crown will survive.’
Cranston took another swig from his wineskin and laughed sourly. ‘From the lies of princes,’ he whispered, ‘Lord deliver us. I’ll tell no one, Brother. But I’ll keep a sharp, wary eye on Sir Nicholas Hussey!’
‘Well, it’s over, Sir John.’ Athelstan turned, feeling the cold pillar against his hot cheek.
‘It’s never over, Brother. Do you remember Rosamund Ingham? Well, she’s committed suicide in the Fleet. Somehow or other some of the powder she denied to poor Oliver was smuggled in to help her escape the hangman’s noose. And it was all for nothing. I attended the reading of Ingham’s will.’
‘And?’
‘He left every penny to me. A mere pittance for his wife. His house, movables, gold and silver plate, all to poor Jack.’ Cranston wiped the tears from his eyes. ‘Before God, I’d give it all back just to see Oliver’s face once more!’
‘And what will you do with the money, Sir John?’
‘Well, brighten up this Godforsaken place for one thing.’ He nudged Athelstan. ‘A nice piece of stained glass, eh? A fitting memorial to old Oliver!’
‘Sir John, that would be a splendid gift.’
Cranston staggered to his feet and stretched. ‘And you, Brother, what will you do? Mind you,’ he blew out his cheeks, ‘we’ve got more murders: a taverner supposedly drowned in a vat of malmsey in a tavern in Carter Lane. A young wife in Shoe Lane, Farringdon found floating in a carp pond. And even worse…’
Yes, Sir John?’
‘My brother-in-law Ralph is about to descend on us next week. Lord, the ticklebrain will chatter like a garrulous squirrel!’
Athelstan smiled. ‘In which case, you’ll be by yourself, Sir John. My parishioners and I are going on a pilgrimage to the tomb of the Blessed St Swithun at Winchester.’
Cranston scratched his head. ‘Brother, you jest?’
‘Coroner, I don’t!’
Cranston helped Athelstan to his feet. ‘Come on,
Brother, let’s go and toast old Oliver, just once more, and tease that thieving bugger who owns The Piebald.’
Cranston listed rather dangerously so Athelstan slipped his arm through that of the Coroner and walked him slowly down the nave. Cranston stopped suddenly.
‘Did I ever tell you, Brother?’
‘What, Sir John?’
‘I have always had the deepest devotion to St Swithun…’