‘My lord coroner, Brother Athelstan. We meet again.’ He gestured round the yard. ‘According to the rules of war, Sir John, prisoners are supposed to be protected and well guarded. I will protest most resolutely to my Lord of Gaunt.’
‘It is not my fault,’ Sir Walter came up, his puce-coloured face covered in sweat, ‘that the prisoner has escaped!’
‘How do we know that?’ Sir John countered. ‘How do we know the poor fellow isn’t dead and his body hidden somewhere in this benighted place?’
‘Philippe Routier has escaped,’ Sir Walter insisted, not even bothering to glance at de Fontanel.
‘Show me!’ Sir John ordered.
Sir Walter led them through the manor and into the small garden behind the main house. He pointed to the far wall.
‘If you notice, Sir John, there are footholds there. Two soldiers were in the garden. A quarrel broke out among the prisoners. Routier used this to climb the garden wall.’
He led them through the garden gate and into the dusty yard beyond where he pointed to an outhouse.
‘He went through there, unobserved by the sentries, climbed through, loosened a shutter and escaped across the heath.’
‘Wouldn’t the soldiers on the wall have noticed?’ Athelstan asked.
‘No, they wouldn’t,’ Sir John replied, feeling rather sorry for Sir Walter, who was so agitated. ‘Sentries tend to look in: their job was to ensure that no one left the castle rather than broke in.’
‘Thank you, Sir John. They were also lazy. In fact, they were sitting on the parapet, Routier must have known that. Once you’re out, the land dips and falls and there are gorse bushes to hide behind.’ He shrugged. ‘But we are wasting time.’
They returned to the main manor yard. The three visitors, together with de Fontanel, joined Sir Walter and his men as they fanned out over the hot heathland. Ahead of them the grooms released the mastiffs which now ran about trying to detect the scent. Eventually one did and, followed by the rest, bounded over the sun-scorched grass towards a copse of trees in the far distance. The hounds stopped for a while where the land dipped. When Sir John reached the place, he squatted down, Sir Maurice with him. The grass here was scuffed, bread crumbs lay scattered about.
‘He paused here for a while,’ the coroner murmured. ‘But then pressed on. He ate…’
A loud howling cut him short. The soldiers were now running towards the copse of trees where the mastiffs were bounding about. A sound of a horn rose above the shouts and yelps.
By the time they reached the copse the dogs had been whipped in, leashes attached. Sir Walter was kneeling beside the corpse sprawled on the grass beneath the tree.
‘He’s dead. The poor bastard’s dead as a nail!’
The others grouped round. Athelstan knelt down. One look at Routier’s corpse was enough. The man’s skin was now a dirty white, the eyes rolled back, the open mouth stained, the tongue slightly swollen. Athelstan undid the leather jacket then the tattered shirt beneath. Purplish stains blotched the stomach and chest. The hands were cold and waxen to the touch. Beside the corpse was a water bottle and a linen cloth containing some bread and a little dried meat. Athelstan leaned across and picked them up and sniffed at them: he could find nothing amiss.
‘He could have died of apoplexy,’ Sir Walter said hopefully.
De Fontanel shook his head. ‘Routier was an accomplished sailor. A man of good physique.’
‘I am afraid I must agree with Monsieur de Fontanel,’ Athelstan said, getting to his feet. He sketched a blessing over the corpse. ‘Routier was poisoned before he left the manor.’ He pointed back over the heathland. ‘He would feel weak, perhaps the first early symptoms, so he paused where the land dips, and took some sustenance. But, by the time he reached the trees, the full effect of the poison made itself known. The poor man collapsed here and died.’
‘It’s disgraceful,’ de Fontanel said. ‘These are citizens of the French Crown. Prisoners of war, they honourably surrendered, they should be honourably treated.’
‘They are pirates,’ Sir Maurice broke in, pushing his way forward to confront the Frenchman. ‘Pirates,’ he repeated. ‘They should have been hanged out of hand. You have no proof, Monsieur de Fontanel, that Routier here was not poisoned by one of his companions.’
A quarrel would have broken out but Sir John intervened.
‘Enough!’ he bellowed. ‘Sir Walter, have the corpse removed. Monsieur de Fontanel, you are welcome to join us in our enquiries. I suggest these begin as soon as we return to Hawkmere.’
A short while later Sir John, Athelstan and Sir Maurice sat behind the table on a dais in the hall at Hawkmere Manor. Sir Walter had served some watered wine and pieces of freshly cooked chicken. Athelstan was grateful for the food and the refreshments as well as for the chance to wash his hands and face in a bowl of rose-scented water. The keeper also ushered in Aspinall the physician who had arrived just as they returned to Hawkmere. The physician had made a superficial survey of the corpse and agreed with Athelstan’s verdict.
‘No apoplexy,’ he announced. ‘Routier was murdered, the same death as poor Serriem.’
De Fontanel sat at one end of the table. He ostentatiously refused to eat or drink anything, as did the other three prisoners after the guards brought them in. Sir John ordered the doors to be locked and guarded, took one gulp of the wine and gazed darkly around. He had already taken advice from Athelstan and Sir Maurice both of whom had agreed that honesty was the best way forward.
‘There is an assassin loose at Hawkmere,’ he growled. ‘Whatever these men were, whatever they did, they are prisoners of the English Crown and deserve honourable treatment. Two have been murdered. Serriem here and Routier out on that dry heathland. The questions are how and who is responsible? Sir Walter, when Serriem’s corpse was discovered, nothing untoward was found in his chamber?’
‘Nothing, Sir John. As I said, Serriem’s corpse was found on the floor.’
Sir John turned to the three French prisoners.
‘And, to the best of your knowledge, Serriem only ate and drank what you did?’
‘Yes,’ Gresnay lisped, looking rather bored by the proceedings.
‘And the same goes for Routier!’ Maneil snarled. ‘This morning we came down to this damnable place.’ He gestured round the hall. ‘We had the usual mangy bread, smelly meat and foul drink.’
‘And Routier ate all his?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Of course he did. He was planning to escape. He needed all the sustenance he could to keep his strength up.’
‘But that’s not true,’ Athelstan replied. ‘When we found his corpse he carried a water bottle, scraps of bread and meat.’
‘I gave those to him.’ Gresnay languidly lifted a hand.
‘Why?’
‘Because he was going to escape. He told us last night.’
‘And that’s why you agreed to quarrel in the garden to divert the attention of the guards?’
‘Very perceptive,’ Gresnay drawled.
‘And why did he wish to escape?’ Athelstan continued, ignoring the jibe.
‘Because he fell in love with Sir Walter’s daughter,’ Gresnay grinned. ‘They were going to elope, just like Sir Maurice here with the Lady Angelica.’
Both Sir Walter and Sir Maurice sprang to their feet but Sir John roared at them to sit down.