‘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.