straw.’
‘But Sir Miles,’ Father Athelstan prompted him, ‘you remember Lilleshall surely?’
The captain’s head came up sharply. ‘I was only a child,’ he stuttered.
‘But your father held land in Shropshire, outside Market Drayton, between there and Woodcote Hall.’
Sir Miles blushed slightly, his hand falling away from his sword. Athelstan couldn’t decide whether he was just embarrassed or had something to hide.
‘Was your father a Knight of the Swan?’ Cranston asked.
‘No, he wasn’t.’ Coverdale’s face became hard-set, no longer youthful; his grim, pinched mouth gave him the look of a sour old man.
‘I meant to give no slight,’ Cranston continued softly.
‘And none taken, Sir John. My father’s manor was little more than a bam: he died when I was young. My mother was sickly. We had no time for junketing and tourneys. I left Shropshire as a squire. I served in Lord Montague’s retinue at sea against the Spanish.’ Coverdale moved his swordbelt and sat down on a stool. ‘The Knights of the Swan mean nothing to me.’
‘Did you know Sir Oliver or Sir Henry?’ Athelstan asked.
‘By name only. But, there again, I know the same could be true of knights from Norfolk or Suffolk.’ He held his gaze. ‘I am John of Gaunt’s man in peace and war. I wear his livery, I feed in his household.’
‘You had no liking for these knights?’ Cranston insisted.
‘I hear them like a gaggle of geese cackling in the chapter-house.’ Coverdale snapped. ‘They criticise the regent for the war against France and yet will not vote a penny to help him. They talk of bad harvests, poor crops and falling profits, but they keep their tenants tied to the land by force and the use of the courts. No, I do not like them, Sir John.’
‘And if you were the regent?’
‘I would levy the taxes not on the peasants but on the prosperous knights and fat merchants: those who refused to pay, I’d call traitors.’
Athelstan looked at Father Benedict but the monk sat like a statue, though his eyes looked troubled, frightened by Sir Miles’s threats.
‘Are you there to guard the Commons?’ Cranston asked, now enjoying himself. ‘Or are you the regent’s spy?’
Coverdale’s hand fell to the pommel of his sword. Cranston, despite his girth, suddenly lurched forward with a speed which belied his bulk.
‘Don’t be stupid,’ he murmured, standing over the young knight. ‘I didn’t mean to give offence but wanted merely to describe things as they are.’
‘And I have answered you truthfully, Sir John,’ Coverdale replied. ‘I am there with men-at-arms and archers to ensure the Commons can sit in peace and security. I do not have to like what I hear but I have no personal grudge against them.’
‘And you have been with the Commons from the start?’ Athelstan intervened quickly.
‘Yes. The chapter-house and its approaches have been sealed off. I and my men guard them. Before the session began I was also responsible for hiring barges to take the representatives upriver to see the king’s menageries in the Tower.’ Coverdale now relaxed. ‘They were like children,’ he added. ‘Many of them had never seen a lion or a panther or the great brown bear which the regent has brought there.’ He glanced at Cranston. ‘And, yes, Sir John, I guard their soft flesh and listen to their chatter. Some of them should be more careful with their mouths: what they say I report back to the regent. Just as you will, after this business is all finished.’
‘Did you have any conversation with Sir Oliver Bouchon or Sir Henry Swynford? Or any of their party?’ Athelstan asked.
‘None,’ Coverdale replied.
‘And is this the first time you have ever been to the Gargoyle tavern?’
‘Of course. My task is to keep the cloisters secure whilst the Commons are in session. I have as little to do with Sir Oliver and his ilk as possible.’
‘And you, Father Benedict?’ Cranston asked.
The monk pulled a wry expression. ‘I offer Mass in the abbey at the beginning of each day. I am also available for those who wish to be shriven.’ He smiled sourly. ‘And, before you ask, Sir John, that is not taxing work. Many of the Commons have drunk deeply the night before, not to mention their other pleasures.’
‘I find it strange,’ Athelstan commented, ‘that whilst the Commons meeting is in full session in the chapter- house at Westminster, two knights from Shropshire are brutally murdered.’
‘What’s so strange?’ Coverdale interrupted harshly.
‘That the captain of the guard comes from Shropshire, whilst the chaplain had a close friend who also served in Lilleshall Abbey, not far from Shrewsbury and in the same county.’
‘There’s nothing strange in that,’ the Benedictine answered quickly. ‘When you go to the chapter-house, Brother, you’ll find it guarded by a company of Cheshire archers. Sir Miles was born in Shropshire, but so were many in my Lord of Gaunt’s retinue. As you know, the regent holds lands there and highly favours men from those parts. As for myself, if you ask Father Abbot, he will tell you that I am not the only monk who has connections with our community at Lilleshall. I am a trained librarian and archivist; I have similar ties with our houses in Norfolk, Yorkshire and Somerset. More importantly, when Father Abbot asked for a volunteer to serve as chaplain to the Commons, I was the only one: I offered my services because the chapter-house is near the library and under my jurisdiction.’
Athelstan stared at him coolly. ‘Did you speak to either of the dead men?’
‘No.’ The monk’s eyes shifted too quickly. He licked his lips and swallowed hard.
You are lying, Athelstan thought: you have got something to hide. Why should an old monk, ill with rheumatism and arthritis, come to a tavern to say prayers over corpses of two men he hardly knew? Such prayers would be equally effective in some oratory or chantry chapel in the abbey.
Father Benedict glanced at Sir Miles. ‘Time is passing,’ he murmured. ‘I still have my duties here.’
Cranston got to his feet and slurped noisily from his wineskin then beamed around. ‘Ah, that’s better. Father Benedict, it was a pleasure meeting you, though I regret the circumstances.’ The coroner would’ve liked to add that never had he heard of two murder victims receiving the attention of so many priests but, like Athelstan, he realised lies had been told. There would be other opportunities to probe further.
Sir Miles also rose, swinging his great military cloak round his shoulders.
‘We’d best hurry,’ Cranston muttered. ‘Come, Brother.’
And, making their farewells, they and the captain left the monk and went downstairs to the taproom.
‘Give our thanks to Master Banyard,’ Athelstan whispered to Christina as Cranston and Coverdale swept out of the door before him.
The young girl smiled but Athelstan glimpsed the fear in her eyes. He grasped her hand. ‘What’s the matter, child?’
‘Nothing, Father. It’s just that terrible voice. Will he come back?’
Athelstan shook his head. ‘I doubt it. But, if you remember anything else, send a message to Sir John at the Guildhall.’
The girl promised she would, and Athelstan hurried off after his companions. They walked down the narrow alleyways and into the grounds of Westminster Abbey. As they did so, the man waiting just inside the gate, under the shadow of a great oak tree, watched them go: the friar, the soldier and the ponderously girthed coroner.
‘O Day of Wrath, O Day of Mourning,’ the watcher whispered. ‘See Fulfilled the Prophet’s Warning!’
CHAPTER 4
As Athelstan and Cranston left the Gargoyle tavern, Ranulf the rat-catcher made his way to a large, deserted house which stood on the corner of Reeking Alley in Southwark. The rat-catcher closed the door, locking it carefully with the key the merchant had given him. He placed his two cages on the floor and sat down with his back to the door. He mopped his face with a rag tied to the broad leather belt from which hung all the implements of his trade:
