Whilst speaker after speaker had gone to the lectern, Sir Maurice had been more concerned that he would not disgrace himself. At last the chapter-house bell had begun to ring and the Speaker had declared the session adjourned.
The representatives streamed out along the vestibule, past St Faith’s Chapel and into the cloisters leading to the yards and gardens. Sir Maurice hurriedly made his excuses and went out through the east cloisters to where the latrines were. These were usually for the monks but, during their meeting of Parliament, they had been set aside for use by the Commons. A row of cubicles, each with its own door, built along an outside wall in one of the small gardens; these latrines were much admired, being washed clean by water taken through elm-wood pipes from the abbey kitchens. Sir Maurice smiled to himself as he lowered his breeches and eased his bowels. He sat there, eyes closed in relief. How luxurious these latrines were! The good lay brothers tended them every day; on the small stone plinth beside him was a clean supply of fine linen cloths. Sir Maurice rubbed his stomach.
‘I’ll be glad when it’s all over,’ he muttered to himself.
He doubted if these gripes were due to anything he had eaten either at the Gargoyle or the cookshops round the abbey. He was just feeling the strain of being forced to stay in Westminster, even though a killer was silently stalking himself and others. Sir Maurice closed his eyes. He recalled Shrewsbury, its guildhall, the marketplace; his own manor, fresh streams and fields and his mistress: a young, obliging widow who had become his heart’s delight.
Sir Maurice tasted the dryness in his mouth. In Shrewsbury he would be able to order his own wines and foods and take his pleasure in a more leisurely way. He opened his eyes. Sir Edmund Malmesbury had warned them to stay close but, there again, he was not a child. He could hardly ask others to come whilst he squatted upon the latrine as if he was some little boy or frightened maid. Moreover, he could hear the doors further down opening and shutting; others were here. He’d perhaps take a little sugared mead to tighten his bowels and rejoin the rest.
Sir Maurice picked up a linen cloth. As he did so, he became aware of the growing silence outside. A spasm of fear jarred his stomach. Sir Maurice grimaced and decided to stay on the latrine. He heard a soft footfall outside and relaxed. Others were still around, the doors opened and shut. Sir Maurice straightened up. What was happening? Was someone checking to ensure each of the cubicles was empty?
Sir Maurice leaned forward and pushed on the door, suddenly deciding that flight was preferable to being attacked. He pushed the door but it wouldn’t open. Sir Maurice sprang to his feet, pushing at the door with all his might, but someone outside had either jammed a log against it or were pressing their weight against it.
Goldingham hammered on the door. ‘What’s the matter?’ he demanded. ‘Is this a joke?’
He heard a sound and his stomach curdled so much he sat back on the latrine just as the candle, arrowhead and a scrap of parchment was pushed under the door.
‘Oh day of wrath! Oh day of mourning!’ the voice outside hissed. ‘See fulfilled the prophet’s warning! Heaven and earth in ashes burning!’
Sir Maurice opened his mouth to scream but his throat was dry. He stared at the door, recalling the corpses of Bouchon, Swynford, Harnett and, above all those other dreadful cadavers hanging by their necks.
‘Oh, help me!’ Sir Maurice whispered. ‘Oh, Lord God, help me!’ He wetted his lips and opened his mouth to scream. The door of the latrine was abruptly flung open. Goldingham saw the shadowy figure standing there, glimpsed the arbalest and, even as he rose, the crossbow bolt took him straight beneath the heart.
Athelstan and Cranston were just about to return to their chambers after their guests had left, when the door to the tavern was flung open and Banyard rushed in.
‘Sir John! Sir John!’ he cried, wiping the sweat from his face. ‘There’s been another murder at the chapter- house.’ The landlord sat on a stool. ‘A messenger has just come, a boy!’ he gasped. ‘I sent him back and told him that you would be there in a while.’
‘Who’s been murdered?’ Athelstan asked.
The landlord shook his head. ‘I don’t know. God have mercy on him, but I don’t know.’
Athelstan and Cranston hurried out of the tavern and up into the grounds of the abbey. The news of the murder had already made itself felt. Men stood in groups gossiping. A royal messenger was running down towards the quayside, undoubtedly taking the news downriver to Gaunt’s palace at the Savoy. Athelstan and Cranston hurried through the abbey. A captain of archers stopped them at the entrance to the cloisters, but Cranston barked at him furiously, threatening to report him directly to the regent. The man’s face paled. He scratched his head and, muttering apologies, agreed to escort Sir John and Athelstan through the cloisters and into the yard where the latrines stood. Members of the Commons milled about there as Sir Miles Coverdale, helmet off, a drawn sword in his hand, tried to impose order. Athelstan glimpsed the door of a latrine flung open. Malmesbury, Aylebore and Elontius stood round a prostrate figure, faces fearful, as they whispered to Sir Peter de la Mare, Speaker of the Commons. Athelstan followed Cranston as the coroner shouldered his way through. He ignored the knights and immediately crouched by the fallen man.
‘God have mercy!’ he breathed, staring at Goldingham’s terror-stricken face, eyes staring sightlessly up; the trickle of blood seeping out of one corner of his mouth and the cruel crossbow bolt embedded deeply in the man’s chest. Athelstan caught the foul smell from the privy and slammed the door shut. He, too, knelt down beside the cadaver.
‘It happened so quickly,’ Malmesbury explained. He pointed to Goldingham’s hose, pulled only half-way up his thighs. ‘We tried to make him decent but. .’
‘Coverdale!’ Cranston roared.
Gaunt’s captain came hurrying up. Athelstan studied his face closely. The soldier was pale, eyes frantic, but was he so upset, Athelstan wondered, by yet another killing?
‘Sir John?’
‘I want this yard cleared!’ Cranston snapped, getting to his feet. ‘Do you understand me?’ He shouted. ‘Apart from Sir Maurice’s companions and Sir Miles Coverdale, I want everyone back in the cloisters.’ Cranston held up his right hand with the huge signet ring bearing the arms of the city. He glared round at these arrogant men, so reluctant to move.
‘I am Sir John Cranston, Coroner!’ he bellowed. ‘You must, and you will, move now!’
‘If you are the coroner,’ a voice shouted back, ‘why don’t you apprehend the person responsible?’
Cranston walked into the crowd, shoulders back, and bellowed; ‘If the man who made that remark has the courage to step forward, then perhaps I can explain a few truths about the situation. If he doesn’t, then I call him a caitiff, a coward and a knave!’
Cranston suddenly drew his sword with a speed which surprised even Athelstan. The coroner held it up, gripping the huge pommel, the long steel blade winking in the sunlight: a knight’s gesture when challenging an opponent to combat. The anonymous detractor, however, and the other representatives, had the sense to keep silent. Cranston, legs apart, white hair bristling, eyes furious, was a fearsome figure, and even more so with that huge broadsword flashing in the sun. The crowd began to stream back towards the cloisters. Coverdale ordered the captain of archers to seal off all approaches, whilst Malmesbury and his companions stood in a little huddle by themselves.
Athelstan pulled up the dead man’s hose. He grasped the cross which hung round his own neck and whispered the prayer for the dead. Once he had finished, he leaned down even closer: he recited an act of contrition on the dead man’s behalf, and whispered the words of absolution into his ear. Cranston, his sword now sheathed, watched and waited until Athelstan made the final benediction.
‘It’s the least I could do,’ Athelstan explained, getting to his feet. ‘Sir Miles,’ he called, ‘where was the corpse found?’
Coverdale pointed to a latrine. Athelstan walked in, pinching his nose against the stench.
‘He was found thrown against the wall,’ Coverdale shouted. ‘The crossbow bolt must have been fired at close range. He looked ridiculous,’ the captain added, walking closer. ‘Half sprawled on the latrine seat, his hose down about his ankles.’
‘Who found him?’ Cranston asked.
‘I did.’ Sir Humphrey Aylebore came forward, trying to hide his fear beneath a show of defiance. ‘When we were in the chapter-house, I saw Sir Maurice gripping his stomach,’ he explained. ‘When the session ended, he hurried off.’
‘So, you knew he had gone to the latrines?’ Athelstan asked.
Aylebore’s lip curled. ‘Don’t insinuate, Father.’
