‘I think the Archangel Gabriel is outside the door, don’t you?’
‘I think you’re right, Sir John,’ Athelstan replied dreamily.
‘Brother, you are not listening to a word I am saying.’
‘I would like to go to the Night in Jerusalem.’
Athelstan put his tankard down and, like a sleepwalker, left the inn, leaving Cranston to drain his blackjack.
They made their way through the streets and into the tavern yard. Athelstan looked into the hay barn, then visited the stables, asking the ostlers which was the Judas Man’s horse. He patted this distractedly on the flanks and left, walking across the yard, stopping now and again, trying to memorise every detail before following Sir John into the tavern. Being mid-afternoon, the tap room was busy with all the traders and pedlars chewing on roasted pork from tranchers at the communal table and warming their fingers over the chafing dishes. There was no sign of the knights or Brother Malachi. Master Rolles came bustling up.
‘You’ve a visitor!’ He pointed to the far corner.
‘Oh yes.’
Athelstan went across and stared down at Ranulf the rat-catcher, the ferrets scratching in the box by his feet.
‘Ranulf?’
‘Brother, I have come as a messenger from the parish council.’
‘What’s the matter?’ Cranston asked, coming up behind.
‘Hush now,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Ranulf,’ he warned, ‘I’m busy. I’ll take no nonsense.’
‘Oh no, peace has been made.’
‘Deo gratias.’
‘Oh no, Brother, not that!’ Ranulf had misunderstood the Latin. ‘We all put it to the vote,’ he smiled triumphantly, ‘on one condition: that everybody agreed to abide by the majority decision. Cecily the courtesan will be the Virgin Mary.’
‘Good.’ Athelstan sat down on the stool opposite. ‘Can I buy you a pot of ale?’
‘No, no.’ Ranulf seized his precious box and kissed the small bars through which the ferrets pushed their pink snouts. ‘We’re all going to celebrate at the Piebald tavern. Oh, Brother, by the way,’ Ranulf sat down again, ‘Benedicta decided to clean the church. She found this.’ Ranulf undid his leather jerkin, took out a piece of rolled cloth, put it on the table and left, eager to join the celebrations at the Piebald tavern. Cranston took his seat whilst Athelstan unrolled the cloth. He stared down at the thin, wicked-looking dagger.
‘One of those used against Malachi.’ Athelstan quickly put it into his leather writing satchel.
‘I’ve seen that before.’ Cranston leaned across the table. ‘It belonged to the Judas Man.’
Athelstan was about to reply when the tap room fell strangely silent. He glanced across; mailed men-at-arms wearing the royal livery thronged in the doorway behind a dark cowled figure.
‘Sir John Cranston, Brother Athelstan?’
The cowled figure came forward. Master Rolles pointed to the corner and Matthias of Evesham strolled across, a beaming smile on his face.
‘Well, Sir Jack,’ he gave a mocking bow, ‘Brother Athelstan. As Scripture says, you have appealed to Caesar, and to Caesar you will go. His Grace, the Regent, awaits you at his Palace of the Savoy.’
Chapter 12
The journey to the Savoy Palace was solemn and silent. Matthias of Evesham led the way as men-at-arms garbed in the royal livery grouped around Athelstan and Cranston under standards and pennants displaying the lions of England and the fleur-de-lys of France: thirty soldiers in all, the sight of their drawn swords clearing the streets as they marched down to the quayside and the awaiting royal barge. They clambered in, Matthias in the prow, Cranston and Athelstan sitting under an awning in the stern. The order was given to cast off. The barge drifted away, the rowers lowered their oars, cutting through the icy, misty river. They had hardly reached mid-stream when other boats grouped around them; these were full of royal archers in their brown and green padded jerkins, across their chests the personal escutcheon of John of Gaunt — displaying the arms of France, and Castile. Athelstan pulled his cloak around him, took out his Ave beads and tried to calm his mind by reciting the Ave Maria.
Cranston sat strangely silent. Usually he would take a swig from the sacred wine skin, or engage in friendly banter with those about him. The coroner did not like His Grace the Regent and had often clashed with him. Despite his bonhomie, Sir John refused to sell his soul; he obeyed the law and pursued justice without fear or favour. Now Cranston sat like some great surly bear, cape close about him, his beaver hat low on his head, glowering at the various craft, quietly muttering under his breath. The day was dying, the river freezing cold. Occasionally the bank of mist shifted to reveal the spires of St Paul or the crenellated walls of mansions along the north bank of the Thames. Now and again a herald on the prow gave a long, shrill blast on the trumpet, a warning to other craft to pull away. The barge swept past the Fleet river and down towards the quayside of the Savoy Palace. It slipped easily alongside, servants hurrying up to catch the mooring ropes. Cranston and Athelstan were helped ashore; their escort ringed them and led them into the palace proper.
Athelstan was aware of crossing cobbled yards where the stink of horse muck mingled with more savoury smells from bakehouses and kitchens. On one occasion he glimpsed two pages carrying across a peacock on a platter which had been de-feathered, roasted and then feathered again, its claws and beak being gilded in gold, so lifelike that Athelstan expected it to rise and give its flesh-tingling scream. A gate opened; they were walking through gardens, their beauty hidden by the mist and cold frost, along a colonnaded walk and into the corridors of the palace. The opulent beauty of this place was famous. Athelstan felt that he was entering a world far different from the poverty and grime of his own parish. The floors were a shiny mosaic of black, white and red lozenge-shaped tiles, rich oaken wainscoting gleamed in the light of countless beeswax candles. Above these glowed tapestries, the work of the best craftsmen in Europe, displaying scenes from the classics, the Bible and Arthurian legend. One in particular caught Athelstan’s eye and made him smile: the ‘Great Beast of Time’, part wolf, which devoured the past, part lion, displaying courage to face the present, part dog, faithful enough to accept the future. Inscriptions carved in gold gleamed above doorways. The Latin poet Terence’s famous quote ‘Without wine and food, Love dies,’ symbolised the life of the palace. The courtiers they passed were dressed in the latest attire from France, the men in doublets and elaborately pointed shoes, the ladies in the finest gowns with lacy bodices, low-slung girdles, their fashionable cloaks inlaid with embroidered silk. They reminded Athelstan of lovely butterflies in a gorgeous garden.
Matthias of Evesham first took them to a buttery in one of the main halls, a comfortable chamber with polished walnut furniture and tiled floors, linen panelling covering most of the walls. Edible bread platters of delicate red rose, tinged with the green of parsley, were placed before them, on which a scullion served a ladle of spicy lamb, accompanied by the finest wastel bread and goblets of cool white wine. The coroner regained his good humour and did not take long to finish the bread and wine. Matthias had to hurry his own food before leading them into the gorgeous meeting chamber, its walls decorated with resplendent samite cloths, each displaying the six principal colours of heraldry. They were told to sit together on a cushioned settle, to the right of the mantled hearth; they had hardly done so when the far door opened and two men entered. The first, John of Gaunt, the Regent, was easily recognisable in his gold and red silk and soft boots. His narrow, intelligent face with its sharp nose and flinty blue eyes was a sharp contrast to his soft silver-blond hair and neatly clipped moustache and beard.