one hired by our good host, was the assassin. As Sir Henry knelt before his companion’s coffin, this assassin quickly garrotted him but, as he killed him, the assassin chanted those words, not in prayer but as a terrible cry of vengeance.’
CHAPTER 3
The taverner, shaking his head, led them up to the first-floor gallery. He stopped on the stairwell, his dark face framed by the mullioned glass window behind him. Athelstan smelt the fragrant pots of herbs on the small sill and, from the yard below, heard the strident crowing of a cock. For some strange reason Athelstan recalled the words of the Gospel, about Peter’s betrayal of Christ before the cock crowed thrice. He steeled himself: he and Cranston were about to enter a dark, tangled maze of murder and intrigue amongst the wealthy lords of the soil. Swynford’s and Bouchon’s deaths were certainly no accidents, nor were they the victims of unhappy coincidence.
‘Well, what are we waiting for?’ Cranston snapped.
Banyard lifted a finger. ‘Listen, Father.’
Athelstan strained his ears and heard the faint mumbling.
‘It’s Father Gregory,’ the taverner explained. ‘He came this morning to anoint the corpses. After that,’ he continued cheerfully, ‘they’ll be taken down to the local corpse-dresser, an old woman on the far side of the palace. She will remove the bowels and stuff the bodies with spices. I understand Sir Edmund Malmesbury is hiring a small retinue to escort them back to Shrewsbury.’
Cranston made to go on, but Banyard put his arm across next flight of stairs. ‘I think we should wait,’ the taverner declared.
‘And I think we shouldn’t,’ Cranston growled.
Up he went. Athelstan shrugged apologetically and followed. He glanced down the stairs where Christina was staring up at them, her mouth in a round ‘O’.
‘Don’t worry, child,’ Athelstan called back. ‘We’ll all be safe with Sir John.’
They went along the gallery and into a chamber. Even though the windows were open and the shutters thrown back, the air reeked of death and decay. The two corpses lay in their coffins on a specially erected trestle- table at the foot of the four-poster bed. The priest kneeling on a cushion crossed himself and got up hastily. Grey- skinned, grey-haired, with a long, tired face, watery eyes and slobbery mouth, Athelstan took an instant dislike to Father Gregory. He looked a born toper; Athelstan, feeling guilty at his harsh judgement, walked forward, hands extended.
‘Father Gregory, we apologise for interrupting your orisons. I am Brother Athelstan from St Erconwald’s, this is my lord Coroner, Sir John Cranston.’
The priest forced a weak smile and limply shook Athelstan’s hand, then winced at Cranston’s powerful, vice- like grip.
‘God have mercy on them!’ the priest wailed, his hands fluttering down at the corpses. ‘Terrible deaths! Terrible deaths! Here today and gone tomorrow, eh, Brother?’
He swayed slightly on his feet, and Athelstan wondered if he had fortified himself with more than prayer.
‘Why didn’t you come last night?’ Cranston asked, squatting down on the stool and mopping his face with the hem of his cloak.
‘I was away you see. Every. .’ The man was gabbling. ‘Every week I visit my mother for a day. I came back this morning and found Master Banyard’s note. Terrible, terrible.’ He babbled on. ‘To think that a priest could garrotte a man so.’
‘If you wait downstairs,’ Banyard said kindly, ‘Christina will give you some food, Father. My lord Coroner here needs to inspect the corpses.’
The priest threw a fearful look at Sir John, then scuttled from the room.
‘And you can join him,’ Cranston smiled at the taverner. ‘We no longer need you here.’
Banyard pulled a face but walked out, slamming the door behind him. Wheezing and grumbling, Cranston got to his feet and stared down at the corpses.
‘It happens to us all, Brother, but death is a terrible thing.’
Athelstan sketched a blessing in the air and squatted down beside the corpse on the left. A yellowing scrap of parchment at the top of the coffin proclaimed it was Sir Oliver Bouchon: a thin beanpole of a man, his harsh, seamed face made all the more dreadful by the slimy water of the Thames. The skin had turned a bluish-white, the lips were slack. Someone had pressed two coins on the eyes; Athelstan noted also the small red crosses dug into the forehead and each cheek. The corpse had been stripped of its clothes and dressed in a simple shift. Athelstan pushed this back and, swallowing hard, felt the cold, clammy flesh. Bouchon’s cold corpse was covered with scars and welts which Cranston identified as sword and dagger cuts: others were the marks of tight-fitting belts or boots.
‘An old soldier,’ Cranston declared. ‘He must have seen service abroad. Hell’s teeth, I need a drink!’
‘In a short while, Sir John, but please help me.’
Cranston obliged and they turned the corpse over. Athelstan stared at the flabby buttocks, muscular thighs and hairy legs: he felt a strange sadness. Here lay a world in itself: what hopes, what joys, what fears, what nightmares permeated this man’s life? Was he loved? Did he have ideals? Would people mourn that he had died? Athelstan ran his fingers through the still wet, thick black hair at the back of the man’s head.
‘Ah!’ he exclaimed.
‘What is it, Brother?’
‘Feel for yourself.’
Cranston’s stubby fingers searched the back of the skull but stopped as he felt a huge, hard welt.
‘Bring me a candle,’ Athelstan said.
Sir John handed him one of those Father Gregory had lit, and Athelstan held this down close to the hair. The hot oil from the tallow candle sizzled and spluttered as it slipped on to the still damp hair, yet it provided enough light for Athelstan to make out the huge, angry contusion.
‘If anyone says,’ Athelstan declared, ‘that Sir Oliver Bouchon slipped and fell into the Thames, then he’s a liar or ignorant. Someone gave this poor man a powerful whack on the back of his head.’
‘Why didn’t anyone else notice it?’
‘Because no one was looking for it, Sir John.’
Athelstan got up and handed the candle back. ‘Sir Oliver here was knocked senseless and then thrown into the Thames. It’s a pity the corpse is undressed; I would have liked to have established that he was knocked unconscious whilst he was walking along the river bank.’
‘What makes you think that?’
Athelstan turned the corpse over and gently grasped each hand, pointing at the dirty fingernails and the muddy marks on the palm of each hand.
‘If he was knocked unconscious elsewhere,’ Athelstan explained, ‘I would expect to see bruises where Sir Oliver’s body was either dragged along the cobbles or thrown into some cart. However, as you can see, apart from the bruise on the back of his head, there are no others. But there are the dirt marks under his nails and on the palms of his hands. Bouchon must have been near the river edge. His assailant knocked him unconscious and Sir Oliver fell face down, probably in some mud. His body was then lifted up and rolled into the river.’
‘But wouldn’t the water wash the stains off his hands and nails?’
Athelstan shook his head. ‘It might from the clothes, even from the face.’ He knelt down and examined Sir Oliver’s stubby features. ‘Though even here, apart from these small red crosses, there’s no mark or contusion, which is strange. Whatever, to answer your question directly, Sir John, the river water would remove any superficial mud stains from the face and clothing. But tell me, my lord Coroner, have you ever seen a corpse, the victim of some brutal assault, where the hands are open and the fingers splayed?’
Sir John smiled and shook his head.
‘Sir Oliver was no different,’ Athelstan continued. He held his own hands up, curling the fingers. ‘Next time
