‘I haven’t broken my fast yet. I’ve been to Mass and I’ve just had to witness the stupidity of man. I need some ale and a juicy meat pie.’
‘So, it’s the Holy Lamb of God, Sir John?’
He brought his great paw on the scrivener’s skinny shoulder.
‘It’s the Holy Lamb of God for you and me, Simon and, until then, the city of London can wait.’
Thankfully Sir John was just finishing his pie and ale when Crim, who’d already disturbed the Lady Maude, wandered into the tavern screaming for him.
‘Over here, boy!’ Sir John waved him over.
Crim tottered across, his mouth half-full of the freshly baked manchet loaf Lady Maude had given him. The honey she had smeared on it now covered the boy’s face.
‘It’s Brother Athelstan.’ Crim swallowed hard.
‘What is it, boy?’ Sir John got to his feet and towered over him.
‘Brother Athelstan.’ Crim closed his eyes, his hand on his crotch. ‘Oh, Sir John, I want to pee!’
‘Out in the garden!’
Crim dashed off then returned smiling with relief, still gnawing at the remains of the loaf.
‘Brother Athelstan.’ Crim closed his eyes. ‘He has gone to the nuns at Syon. He says it’s very important that you join him there. You’ll find him at the tavern called the Jerusalem…’
‘The Jerusalem Tree,’ Sir John finished.
‘That’s right, Sir John.’
He dug into his purse and gave the boy a halfpenny.
‘I’ll go there. Simon.’ He beamed at his scrivener. ‘Go back to the Guildhall, write up my verdict on Elias Ethmol and sift through what’s awaiting us. Deaths I deal with. The rest… Use your noddle-pate!’
‘Very good, Sir John.’
Simon followed Crim out of the tavern. Sir John picked up his war belt where he had thrown it and strapped it on. He gave the taverner’s wife a juicy kiss and, full of the joys of life, stepped out into Cheapside.
Philippe Routier was running for his life. He clasped the makeshift knife thrust in his belt and ran across the wasteland towards the copse of trees. He had some bread and a small water bottle wrapped in the bag he carried. He glanced up at the sky. The day was proving to be a fine one, the sun was growing hot and, if everything went according to plan, he’d be able to lose himself in the wasteland north of the city. And afterwards? Perhaps go back to the river? Or to the coast? Certainly, he could remain no longer at Hawkmere. Those grey, oppressive walls, the surly Sir Walter and the constant suspicion and tension among his companions. Routier stopped and threw himself behind a bush. He stared back the way he had come. He could make out the grey walls of Hawkmere and even catch a glimpse of the sentries on duty. Much good they were doing!
Routier had planned his escape well. They had gathered in the Great Hall to break fast and then, as usual, had been allowed to wander in the garden, ‘taking the morning air’ as Sir Walter sardonically put it.
Of all the prisoners Routier hated captivity the most. He was born and raised in the port of Brest. He was used to the open heathland and the sea: the feel of a ship beneath him; the wind on his face; the creak and groan of the canvas and the excitement of battle. A man who had never married because he could not be tied to one place, Routier had grown to hate Hawkmere, Sir Walter and even his own companions. He had no doubt there was a traitor among them. They had discussed it many a time: the St Sulpice and St Denis had been taken by treachery, so it must have been one of them. But who? Routier opened the water bottle and took a gulp. And Sir Walter? Was he the slayer?
Routier had discussed his plans with the others. He had even invited them to accompany him. Routier laughed quietly to himself. They, of course, had refused, believing it was impossible. Routier, however, had noted the garden wall could easily be scaled. Once into the yard beyond, it was a matter of just hiding in one of the outhouses and climbing through that unshuttered window.
Routier felt a slight pain in his stomach and gnawed at some of the meat he had taken. He wished at least one of the others had come with him; they had refused but agreed to quarrel volubly, which had allowed Routier to climb the garden wall and so make his escape. The Frenchman once again stared back. How long would it take before Sir Walter noticed he had escaped? Routier clambered to his feet and hurried at a stoop towards the copse of trees. As he ran his hand went to his stomach, where the pains were growing worse. Was he sickening? Had he eaten something? And then he recalled poor Serriem’s corpse, grey and clammy. Had he, too, been poisoned? At last he reached the line of trees. The pain was now intense so Routier sat down. In the distance he could hear the barking of dogs and knew his escape must have been detected. He tried to pull himself up but he found he was unable to. His legs had lost their strength, the pain had spread from belly to chest and he was finding it difficult to breathe. His tongue seemed thick and swollen in his mouth.
Routier lay down, letting his hot face brush the cool, sweet grass. Above him a bird called and it brought back memories of the port at Brest and the sea birds skimming in. Perhaps he was already back there? There was a terrible pounding, like the crashing of surf against the harbour walls. Routier turned over on his back, his body jerking in spasms of pain. Who had given him the food he had brought with him? Routier tried to think, even as his mind slipped in and out of unconsciousness. He had eaten and drunk the same as the rest but of course the water, the food he carried!
Routier racked his brain. He had eaten nothing, surely? Nothing he had not seen anyone else eat and drink. Routier tried to lick his lips. The water he’d drawn from the butts outside the hall, but the bread? Hadn’t Gresnay slipped him some of his? Routier’s body arched in pain. He could hear the birds calling louder now and the roaring seemed closer. He tried to mutter a prayer, staring up through the branches at the blue sky, but the words wouldn’t come. All he could think of was Gresnay, his girlish face twisted into that funny smile, offering him the bread and he, like a fool, had taken it!
CHAPTER 11
Sir John Cranston took one look at Sir Maurice Maltravers sitting beside Athelstan in the Jerusalem Tree Tavern and roared with laughter. He took his beaver hat off, slapping it against his thighs so the pedlars and tinkers who plied their trade along the waterside wondered if the lord coroner had lost his wits. Athelstan shook his head in mock reproval.
‘Sir John,’ he hissed. ‘This is supposed to be done in secrecy.’
‘I promise you, Brother. But do you think you can fool the hawk-eyed Lady Monica? This.’ He took the tankard Athelstan had ordered and took a deep slurp. ‘This,’ he repeated, ‘I must see. You are?’
‘Brother Norbert of the Order of St Dominic’ Sir Maurice spoke softly, pulling his face into what he thought was a look of piety.
‘Oh, for God’s sake! They’ll think you are from Bedlam if you look at Lady Monica like that. What I suggest, Brother, is Athelstan speaks to Lady Monica and you’d best keep your tongue quiet until we meet Angelica.’
They walked up the steep, winding trackway to where the nunnery, nestling behind its grey curtain wall, overlooked the Thames. A porter led them through the postern gate and across the exquisitely laid-out gardens with herbers, smooth green lawns, flower beds, arbours and raised turf seats. The air was tinged with the heavy perfume of flowers. Sir John stopped to admire a luscious rose which dangled out over the path.
‘The ladies of Syon are not sworn to poverty,’ Athelstan noted.
‘No, no, Brother, this is where the ladies of the court, who wish to retire from the glories of the world, can sit, reflect, meditate and pray.’
The nunnery buildings were made of honey-coloured stone. They passed the jewel of a chapel and entered cool, shady porticoes which wound past quiet cloisters and into the main building. Here the floor was paved and lined with boxes and pots of flowers. Gaily coloured tapestries hung on the wall displaying scenes from the Bible or lovely motifs such as a flaming rose beneath a golden crown. Now and again they passed nuns sitting in corners or in chairs, either reading from books of hours or talking softly among themselves. The porter, a wiry little man, turned a corner and knocked on an iron-studded door. Athelstan breathed a quick prayer. Sir John took one quick slurp from the wineskin and in they swept to meet Lady Monica.