Banyard and saw the fear in the man’s eyes. ‘Poor old Harnett,’ Athelstan declared. ‘But he did not die in vain. Only when I reflected on what was missing from his possessions did the tangle begin to unravel: the lack of parchment, his personal seal, his desire to buy an ape stolen from the Tower. All this, together with the fact that he returned to collect his sword the night he left for Southwark, made me begin to suspect Master Banyard. I took what I’d learnt and applied it to the deaths of the other knights: Bouchon not wearing his sword; the dirt under his fingernails. The evidence still pointed to Banyard. The same is true of Swynford being garrotted in his chamber at the tavern.’
‘And Goldingham?’ Malmesbury asked.
‘Well, once I knew how Banyard had passed through the guards, that was easy. Goldingham had a weak stomach. He was always talking about it. .?’
Malmesbury nodded.
‘And no doubt he approached mine host to ask for this or that special delicacy?’
‘Yes, yes, he did,’ Malmesbury replied. ‘Sops soaked in milk. Goldingham always fussed about what he ate and drank.’
‘And the morning he died?’ Athelstan asked
‘He ate what we did. Porridge made of oatmeal, some bread.’
‘Aye,’ Athelstan nodded. ‘He also ate something which was not in yours; a slight purgative, courtesy of mine host, to loosen the bowels and send him hurrying to the jakes. Banyard knew all about the Commons and its sessions, either by making inquiries or listening to your conversations. All he had to do was enter the cloisters and stand by those latrines, probably hiding in a cubicle holding the crossbow and bolt which he had taken from its hiding place. After that it was easy. He knew Goldingham would come, either during the session or after. It was just a matter of waiting. Once the latrines were empty he struck: a crossbow bolt into Goldingham’s heart. The arbalest was hidden again and, in the confusion before anyone knew what had happened, Banyard was out of Westminster, hastening back towards his tavern.’
Athelstan spread his hands. ‘We must also remember that, if anything went wrong, Banyard could easily explain his presence and wait for another opportunity either here or in Shrewsbury. Westminster, however, was an ideal place.’
‘No one would miss him,’ Cranston intervened. ‘After all, mine host here owns the tavern. Where he goes and what he does is his own business. The Gargoyle is simply a walk away and, because he lives near the abbey buildings, no one would ever remark on his presence.’ Cranston rose and stood over the taverner. ‘Master Banyard.’
The taverner lifted his face, pallid and sweat-covered.
‘Master Banyard, do you have anything to say?’ Cranston asked. ‘In answer to these accusations?’
Banyard half smiled, as if savouring a joke.
‘The axe is behind the altar, Brother,’ he declared, ignoring Cranston. ‘You’ll find it there.’ He blinked and wetted his lips. ‘I’d like a pot of ale,’ he said quietly. ‘The best my tavern can provide.’ He laughed. ‘But that’s all over now, isn’t it?’ He sat up, breathing deeply. ‘I was born Walter Polam in the parish of St Dunstan’s, Oswestry, Shropshire. When I was fifteen these men killed my father, as they had murdered others. I left Shropshire and invested all I had in a tavern near Cripplegate. I thought I would forget the past.’
He stared up at the ceiling. ‘I changed my name. I married, but Edith died of the sweating sickness, so I sold the house and bought the Gargoyle tavern. Have you ever looked at the sign, Brother? It depicts a knight with a twisted, leering face.’ He nodded, rocking himself backwards and forwards. ‘Oh, of course, I dreamed of vengeance. After Edith’s death these dreams began to plague me. I took a vow that I would return to Shropshire and seek vengeance on my father’s assassins!’ Banyard smirked at Malmesbury. ‘And then you arrived at the Gargoyle, a knight of the shire, a representative of the Commons. Others came with you.
‘I began to plan your deaths. I prayed that one day I would have all of you under my roof — and so it happened. That pompous steward of yours, Faversham, comes bustling along and, of course, I had rooms for you.’ He glanced at Athelstan. ‘Not all of them came, you know. There are at least another two in Shrewsbury with whom I have unfinished business. But,’ he shrugged, ‘what happened is as you described it. Bouchon, Swynford.’ Banyard jabbed his finger towards Malmesbury. ‘You I was leaving till last! I wanted to wait until you returned to Shropshire, so I could hang you from the same tree as you did my father-’
‘Banyard,’ Sir John broke in, ‘I arrest you for the horrible crime of murder.’
‘And what about these?’ the taverner sneered back. ‘Aren’t they assassins as well?’ He smiled. ‘I’d like to hang from the same gibbet as they do.’
‘You cannot touch us!’ Malmesbury shouted back. ‘The regent has offered us pardons for all crimes committed.’
He looked more fearful as Coverdale rose and unrolled a piece of parchment from his wallet. The captain of guards tapped each of the three knights on their shoulders.
‘Sir Edmund Malmesbury, Sir Humphrey Aylebore, Sir Thomas Elontius, I arrest you for murder.’
‘This is hypocrisy!’ Aylebore shouted, springing to his feet. ‘The regent promised pardons. By what authority do you do this?’
Sir Miles lifted up the piece of parchment with Gaunt’s seal affixed to it.
‘All your names are written here, sir. The regent gave it to me this morning. I was not to execute it until after the king had visited his Commons.’
‘But the regent offered us a pardon,’ Malmesbury insisted, tears in his eyes.
Sir Miles smiled. ‘Only His Grace the King can do that, sir.’
He deftly plucked the daggers from each of the three men’s belts and, going to the door, shouted for the guards. For a while the chapel was plunged into chaos. Malmesbury and his companions shrieking their innocence, cursing the regent’s treachery. Banyard laughed hysterically, shouting abuse, almost dancing with joy at what had happened. Eventually the chapel was cleared, the prisoners being led off, escorted by archers. Coverdale bowed mockingly at Cranston and Athelstan, then left them alone in the silent chapel.
The coroner sat down, mopping his brow. Athelstan went up behind the altar and, moving some benches, found a sharp-edged axe lying against the wall. He brought it back and sat where Banyard had, placing the axe gently on the floor beside him.
‘At least he cleaned it,’ he murmured. He glanced up as Cranston took a generous swig from the ever-present wineskin. ‘We’ll have to tell Father Abbot so this chapel can be blessed and reconsecrated.’
Cranston put the stopper back in the wineskin and gazed sadly at Athelstan.
‘I can read your mind, Sir John,’ Athelstan declared softly. ‘Why didn’t I tell you, eh?’
‘You did it all yourself,’ Cranston answered.
‘No, I didn’t, Sir John. You are as clear as the purest water on a summer’s day. If I had told you it was Banyard, you would have betrayed it all with a look or a sign.’ Athelstan jabbed a finger at the chapel floor. ‘I needed to trap Banyard here. Now it’s all finished.’ Athelstan smiled bleakly. ‘The regent is a cunning fox.’ Athelstan stared up at the crucifix. For a few seconds he desperately wondered if the death of Christ, the love of God, or the service of religion had anything to do with a world where the likes of John of Gaunt ruled supreme.
‘Gaunt was very clever,’ Cranston declared. ‘He forced those knights to come here. He blackmailed them, then turned his opponents into his most ardent supporters, only to close the trap and have them arrested for the secret crimes he had been threatening them with.’ Cranston sighed noisily. ‘How on earth will it end?’
‘Oh, Gaunt will be merciful,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘Malmesbury and the likes will have to make a very full confession, pay a very heavy fine, and take a vow to go on pilgrimage. Oh yes, Gaunt will end up the richer. He’ll hang them by the purse and have the likes of Malmesbury at his beck and call.’
‘And Banyard?’ Cranston asked.
‘What do you think, Sir John?’
The coroner rubbed his chin. ‘We can’t hang one without the other,’ he replied slowly, ‘so I don’t think Banyard will hang at Tyburn or Smithfield. Gaunt will seize his chattels and goods and become the proud owner of a very prosperous tavern. Banyard will be forced to abjure the realm and wander Europe, a penniless beggar.’ Cranston smiled grimly. ‘Do you know, Brother, I glimpsed so much hate in that man. If I were Sir Edmund Malmesbury, I would not sleep easily in my bed.’
Cranston lumbered to his feet. ‘Nothing really ends, does it, Brother? We are just like dung-collectors. We clean the refuse and take it away from the eyes and noses of those who live around us.’ The coroner groaned loudly then nudged his companion. ‘One thing you didn’t explain. Why weren’t the red crosses etched on Harnett’s and
