Matilda was in ecstasy at their favoured position, visible at the top table to all those present, which included some of her women acquaintances. She was too happy even to notice her husband’s glumness and boredom, as she sat next to one of the senior canons, Thomas de Boterellis, who was the Precentor responsible for the music and order of services at the cathedral. He was a fat, waxen-faced priest with very small eyes – and no friend of John’s, having been on the Bishop’s side in his support for Prince John’s rising. Across the table, at the end of the nearest spur, Matilda had the priest from St Olave’s and the Master of the Guild of Cordwainers, so she could combine religious talk with gossip about the latest fashions in shoemaking.
John was isolated from anyone he knew, other than Matilda, and wished he was within speaking distance of Hubert Walter. Instead, he was seated next to a fat little canon who, with wolfish determination, ate everything that was placed within reach and had no time for conversation.
The coroner looked past his wife to where the two bishops were sitting at the centre of the table. Both had changed out of their elaborate vestments, which they had worn during the Mass, and were now in comparatively plain though rich garments. Each wore an embroidered cream surcoat over an alb and their head-gear was a puffed round cap, with a pair of decorated tails hanging from above the ear to the chest.
John stared at Hubert’s strong face, weathered on a dozen battlefields, and compared it with the narrow, long-chinned features of Bishop Henry Marshall, whose face had a curious smooth symmetry as if it was a sculpture. He had no doubt of the Bishop’s genuine devotion to the Church, but wondered if the ambitious politician-Archbishop had a similar passion for religion – or whether he took the office of head of the English Church merely as a means to secular power. Hubert Walter had been a senior court official and a baron of the Exchequer since the days of old King Henry, but had never had high office until Richard the Lionheart first made him Bishop of Salisbury, then his lieutenant at the Third Crusade. Hubert’s efforts to negotiate the King’s release from incarceration in Germany had earned him the twin appointments of Archbishop of Canterbury and Chief Justiciar of England.
John would dearly have liked to talk to him about what happened in the Holy Land when Hubert had remained there in charge of the English army, after John and the King had begun their ill-fated journey home. He hoped there would be time for reminiscing tomorrow, after their meeting to iron out the differences between the sheriff and the coroner over jurisdiction in criminal cases. John looked again around the noisy hall and contrasted the well-dressed and over-fed congregation with most of the population outside, the majority of whom lived in poverty-stricken and squalid conditions, like those in Bretayne – and Bearded Lucy on Exe Island.
The thought of the old crone brought his mind back to the current problems – he still had the nagging feeling that Lucy had been holding something back and he resolved to look into that again in the next day or two. That sent his eyes roving again, to confirm that neither Godfrey Fitzosbern nor his wife Mabel were at the banquet. He presumed that Godfrey was lying low after the events of the last day or two – and presumably Mabel had carried out her threat to leave him.
There had been no sign of Fitzosbern at the cathedral service either, when Hubert Walter celebrated the Mass and then preached a sermon. It must have been a hard decision for the silversmith to shun such an event as this, when he was such a prominent member of the guilds in the city. John had half expected to see him there as an act of defiance against the rumours that beset him.
The evening wore on and John had eaten all he wanted and drunk more than he needed. No one could leave until the Bishop and his chief guest rose from the table, so he was stuck between the strident tones of Matilda and the gargling of the insatiable canon who, deprived of more food, was consuming vast quantities of the Bishop’s best wine.
Suddenly, the coroner caught sight of a familiar figure standing just inside the doorway that led from the palace courtyard. For a second he thought the wine was playing tricks with his sight, but it was undoubtedly their maid Mary standing there, her eyes roving the hall. Their gaze met and she waved vigorously, then beckoned urgently.
John, glad of a diversion as long as it didn’t mean that his house was on fire, pushed back his chair and struggled along the narrow gap between the seated diners and the wall. Pushing aside a servant balancing four large jars of ale, he reached the doorway. Mary, a blanket enveloping her head and shoulders, pointed a finger towards the outside. ‘You’d better come back to Martin’s Lane straight away,’ she said cryptically. John wondered why she didn’t say ‘come home’, then looked back and saw that the eagle-eyed Matilda had noticed his absence. She grimaced across the hall and beckoned to him pointing with a ferocious scowl at his empty chair then gesturing up the table at the bishops. He ignored her and followed his maid servant out into the cold air of the courtyard. ‘What’s going on? Not another ravishment or miscarriage?’
Mary grasped his arm in her firm grip. ‘No, but I think that Godfrey Fitzosbern has been poisoned.’
They hurried across the darkened pathways of the cathedral Close, stumbling over rubbish and heaps of fresh earth from half-dug graves. Gwyn of Polruan and Gabriel, the sergeant-at-arms, were following them. John had known that they had been enjoying the banquet from inside the palace kitchens and had called them out to come with Mary and himself to this new emergency.
As they walked the short distance across to St Martin’s Lane, Mary explained what had happened. ‘I was carrying logs through the passage into the hall when I heard this noise from the street. I thought it might be another fight next door, as it was the other night, so I went outside to look.’
They reached the gate and passed into the lane, where the farrier’s rush lights burned.
‘It was Master Godfrey again, but this time he was crawling on the ground outside his door, making a strange croaking noise.’
Now passing John’s own house, they came in sight of a small group of people clustered around the open door to the silversmith’s shop.
‘I went to him, but he was unable to speak, just grasping my skirt and making these strange noises and holding his throat. I ran to the end of the lane and called a man passing on the High Street. He came with me and we dragged Master Godfrey inside his front door out of the cold. Then I ran for you, I didn’t know what else to do.’
John pushed past the few onlookers and, Gwyn and Gabriel close behind, led Mary into the shop. Only one of the usual tallow dips was burning, but the occupant was easily located by the rasping noises he made as he breathed. Godfrey Fitzosbern was stretched on his side on the floor, his arms and legs twitching slightly. His eyes were open, but John had the impression, even in the poor light, that they were unseeing.
‘What is it, Fitzosbern? What’s wrong?’ he demanded, kneeling alongside the man. There was no answer and the coroner repeated the words much more loudly. This got some reaction, as the victim turned his head, though his eyes failed to focus. He made some noises in his throat, then slumped back again, unresponsive, apart from spasmodic twitching of his fingers.
‘Get me that lamp,’ ordered John, and Gabriel reached for the little dish with a floating wick. John held it close to Godfrey’s face and saw a clammy pallor, with beads of cold perspiration on the features.