‘I am not!’ Athelstan snapped back. ‘I am merely trying to establish the truth. Sir Maurice apparently came here, as did others. They all left, and when the latrines were empty, the assassin struck.’
‘And it was empty when I came here,’ Aylebore answered. ‘The first session lasts only an hour. Most men’s bowels aren’t as loose as Sir Maurice’s.’
‘Did he complain of any ailment before?’ Cranston asked.
‘Well,’ Malmesbury came forward, ‘Goldingham had a weak stomach. He contracted dysentery in France, as he constantly reminded us whenever he could.’
‘Stomach, bowels!’ Aylebore snarled, slamming shut the latrine door. ‘What does it matter?’ He glared at Coverdale. ‘Who let the assassin through? How could a crossbow be brought to the cloisters?’
‘Who said my soldiers let anyone through?’ Coverdale retorted heatedly. ‘The only people we let through were the representatives, the clerks: anyone who carried the lawful seal. I have already made inquiries amongst my men. Nothing untoward was noticed this morning. No arms were carried.’ He advanced threateningly on Sir Humphrey, jabbing the air with a finger. ‘Which means, sir, that the killer was already here. One of these good, gentle knights!’
‘Peace, peace!’ Athelstan came between Aylebore and Coverdale. ‘Sir Maurice Goldingham is dead,’ he continued quietly. ‘Shouting abuse at each other will not bring him back, or trap his killer.’
‘And when is he going to be trapped?’ Malmesbury sneered. ‘When we are all dead, bundled up in our winding sheets, thrown on a cart to be taken back to Shrewsbury?’
‘If you had told the truth,’ Athelstan replied. ‘If Sir Edmund, you, or your companions had been honest with Sir John and myself, some of these deaths might not have happened. You could still prevent any more!’
‘Oh, singing the same old song!’ Aylebore sneered.
‘Yes, I am singing the same old song!’ Athelstan retorted. He went back to the latrine, pulled open the door and, bending down, picked up the small candle, arrowhead and scrap of parchment which he’d glimpsed lying there. Athelstan went and pressed these into Malmesbury’s hand.
‘“Remember” what, Sir Edmund?’ he whispered hoarsely. Then, raising his voice, ‘What are you all frightened of? What terrible crime haunts you from the past?’ He stared round but the knights gazed blankly back. ‘Let’s leave, Sir John,’ Athelstan said coldly. ‘We’ll find no truth here!’
They walked back through the cloisters and out in front of the abbey church. Sir John pointed to a bench beneath the tree where they had sat the previous day. Once they were settled, Athelstan glanced at the strangely silent, rather subdued coroner.
‘What’s the matter, Sir John?’
‘I wish I hadn’t lost my temper,’ the coroner replied. ‘I shouldn’t have drawn my sword and challenged those men. They will not let such an insult pass.’ He played with the ring on his finger. ‘We have to trap this murderer, Athelstan,’ he added. ‘If we don’t, I am sure that, before the Commons disperse, its Speaker will petition the king for my removal.’
‘Nonsense!’ Athelstan replied. ‘How could we have prevented Goldingham’s murder? He went to the latrines and the assassin struck. Oh, Malmesbury may splutter and protest, but his companions refuse to tell the truth. Come on, Sir John.’ Athelstan patted the coroner’s fat thigh. ‘What you need is one of Master Banyard’s pies and a blackjack of ale.’
Cranston rose mournfully to his feet and they made their way back to the Gargoyle. Athelstan took Sir John out to the small garden, but even the smell of a succulent beef pie and a frothing tankard of ale could not lighten the coroner’s mood. He sat picking at his food, looking utterly woebegone.
They were almost finished when the potboy announced there was someone to see them. Athelstan followed him back into the tavern. He hoped it would be Sir Edmund or one of his companions, and was rather surprised to see the black cowled figure standing just within the doorway. A vein-streaked hand came out and pulled back the hood. Aelfric the archivist gazed shamefacedly at him.
‘Brother, I am sorry about yesterday. As the psalmist says; “I am a worm and no man”. The regent has already taken the evidence you seek,’ he whispered hoarsely. Aelfric withdrew a roll of parchment tied with a scarlet ribbon from the voluminous sleeve of his gown and handed it to Athelstan. ‘He forgot to take this,’ Aelfric continued. ‘I heard about the murder this morning. Ask Sir John to forgive his old master.’
And he left, like a shadow, through the doorway. Athelstan walked back into the garden, undoing the scroll even as he shouted at Banyard to fill their tankards.
‘What was it?’ Cranston asked nervously.
‘Your old teacher,’ Athelstan replied, unrolling the vellum. ‘And he brought us something to study.’
Athelstan stared at the cramped writing, running his eye quickly down the roll which was made up of sheets of vellum stitched together. He put it down as Banyard brought the stoups of ale. Athelstan ignored the landlord’s look of curiosity.
‘What is it?’ Cranston asked impatiently.
Athelstan just shook his head as he began to translate the Norman French and dog Latin of some obscure clerk.
‘Oh, Athelstan, for the love of God!’
Cranston went to snatch the parchment, but the friar moved away.
‘A door is beginning to open,’ Athelstan declared. He tapped the parchment and stared across the garden.
‘Well?’ Cranston asked.
‘These are petitions,’ Athelstan replied slowly. ‘They are divided into two, but all of them are about twenty years old. They come from the county of Shropshire. The first is a collection of petitions bearing the seals of men like Sir Edmund Malmesbury, Sir Francis Harnett and Sir Maurice Goldingham, vehemently protesting at the secret covens being organised in the shire by certain peasant leaders. Now, Sir John, you must remember that in 1359 and 1360, Edward III levied taxes to raise a great army to take to France.’
‘Yes, that’s true.’ Cranston narrowed his eyes. ‘There was a great deal of unrest, not only along the Welsh march but in Kent, Essex and elsewhere. Everyone complained, as they always do about taxes.’
‘Ah!’ Athelstan pointed to the parchment. ‘Apparently the peasants in Shropshire did something about it. They actually organised themselves and resisted the tax-collectors. More importantly, they opposed the demands of their masters to work harder for less wages.’
Cranston sipped from the tankard. ‘Ah!’ he sighed, ‘I understand. The burden of the tax levy would have fallen on the wealthy. They, in turn, would try to pass those demands on to their own tenants by making them produce more, or by cutting their wages. But what has that got to do with these murders?’
‘Well listen, Sir John.’ Athelstan glanced further down the parchment. ‘About three years later, another set of petitions appeared; not from the knights or, indeed, from their peasant leaders, but from widows.’ Athelstan pointed to one petition. ‘Such as this from Isolda Massingham. She maintains that a gang of outlaws, cut-throats, wolfs-heads and felons were waging war on isolated farms. She talks of men masked, hooded and cowled, who burst into her house and dragged her husband Walter out. He was later found hanging from the branch of an oak tree some three miles outside the village.’ He glanced up. ‘They disfigured her husband’s corpse by etching red crosses on his face.’
‘So…’ Cranston drank from his tankard. ‘Two of our corpses were similarly disfigured but — ’
‘Ah!’ Athelstan held his hand up. ‘Now Isolda makes no allegations. She points no finger of accusation, but demands that the king’s justices be sent into the shire to discover the perpetrators of this outrage. Isolda, I suspect, was no base-born peasant villein: her husband was of peasant stock but rather prosperous, hence the petition.’
‘True, true,’ Cranston interjected. ‘After the Great Pestilence, labour was in short supply. Properties were left vacant, and the labourers and peasants, particularly the more prosperous, had more ground to till so could demand higher wages. They were also able to sell their own produce in the markets.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s the same thing as today: the prosperous peasants want more freedom to work their own land and sell their produce, but the great lords are determined to keep them tied to the soil. But, Athelstan, what has this got to do with the murders at Westminster?’
‘As I said,’ Athelstan continued, ‘Isolda was a fairly wealthy widow. She probably went to some clerk who drew up this petition and organised its despatch to the king’s council at Westminster.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Cranston answered testily, ‘I understand all that.’
