He led Athelstan out of the abbey precincts, along quiet side streets and through the deep arched gateway into a large courtyard which fronted the Gargoyle. It was a long, spacious tavern, three storeys high, its frontage smartly painted, the plaster gleaming white between black polished beams. The roof was tiled and the elegantly boxed windows were full of leaden glass. The courtyard was a hive of activity: ostlers and grooms took horses in and out, a farrier covered in sweat hammered at an anvil. Geese and chickens thronged about the stable doors, scrabbling for bits of grain. Dogs yapped and huge, fat-bellied pigs, ears flapping, snouted at the base of a large, black-soiled midden-heap.
They entered the tavern hallway. The paving stones were scrubbed, the walls lime-washed, the air fragrant with the smell of sweet herbs and savoury cooking. The taproom was large and airy: there were vents in the ceiling between the blackened beams, and large, open windows at the far end looked out over a garden and one of the largest stewponds Athelstan had ever seen. A few customers sat about, mainly boatmen from the river though, even here, the lawyers thronged, sitting in small alcoves, manuscripts on the tables before them as they whispered pretentiously to each other.
‘You wouldn’t think the corpses of two murdered men lay here, would you?’ Athelstan whispered at Cranston, who was smacking his lips and looking around. ‘No drinking,’ Athelstan warned. ‘We have business with the “House of Crows”, remember?’
‘And what’s your custom, sirs?’ a tall, thickset man asked.
‘None at the moment,’ Cranston replied, ‘except a word with the landlord.’
The man spread his hands. ‘You are talking to him,’ he replied. ‘I am the tavern-master, Cuthbert Banyard, born and bred within the sound of Bow Bells.’
Athelstan stared at the fellow. He had a strong, arrogant face, burnt brown by the sun, with a thick bush of black hair. The eyes were deep-set, the nose curved slightly; his chin, close-shaven face and thin lips gave him a stubborn look. A man with a sharp eye to profit, Athelstan thought.
The taverner gestured at his stained cote-de-hardie which fell down to just below the knee. ‘It’s a fleshing day,’ he explained. ‘Meat has to be cut and blood spurts.’
‘As it does in murder,’ Cranston retorted.
Banyard drew his head back.
‘I am Sir John Cranston, Coroner of the city. This is Brother Athelstan, my secretanus, parish priest of St Erconwald’s in Southwark.’
Banyard smiled deferentially. ‘My lord Coroner, how can I help?’
‘First,’ Cranston replied, ignoring Athelstan’s groan, ‘a blackjack of ale. Your best, mind you, not the scrapings of some open cask. And whatever smells so fragrant in your kitchen?’
‘Capon cooked in mushrooms and onions.’
‘One dish.’ Cranston looked at Athelstan. ‘No, two dishes of that, and a drink, Brother?’
‘Some ale,’ Athelstan replied resignedly.
Cranston swept by the landlord to a table under the window: ignoring Athelstan’s warning glances, he began to point out the different herbs growing in the garden.
‘Now that’s motherwort,’ Cranston explained. ‘You can tell by its hard, brownish stalk: it makes mothers joyful and settles the womb, provokes urine, cleanses the chest of phlegm and kills worms in the belly.’
Cranston turned, rubbing his hands, as the tapster laid down two pewter dishes with delicate strips of capon covered in rich sauce followed by two pots of ale. Cranston and Athelstan took out their horn spoons. Athelstan nibbled, for he had little appetite. Sir John finished his, then attacked his companion’s with equal relish. Once he had finished, Cranston beckoned over Banyard, who had been standing in an alcove watching them closely.
‘Sit down, man. Where are the corpses?’
‘Upstairs, each in their chamber,’ the landlord replied, wiping his hands carefully on a napkin. ‘It’s good that you ate, my lord Coroner, before you viewed them.’
Cranston turned on his stool and leaned against the wall.’ ‘Corpses don’t upset my humours, man. Human wickedness does. Sir Henry was killed when?’
‘Late last night. He went into Sir Oliver’s chamber.’ He pointed to a slattern, a jolly, bouncing girl with long blonde hair. She was at the far side of the tavern, busily serving a number of boatmen and laughing at their banter. ‘Christina saw the door open and went in. You could have heard, the screams at Whitefriars. I ran upstairs. Sir Oliver was in his coffin, Sir Henry dead as a doornail upon the floor.’
‘And where were his companions, the other knights?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Most of them were in their chambers,’ Banyard replied.
‘Most of them?’ Athelstan queried.
Banyard smiled deprecatingly. ‘Brother, I have my hands full managing a tavern. I cannot tell you where each of my guests goes in the evening.’ Banyard grinned. ‘Though it would be interesting to speculate.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ Cranston demanded.
‘My lord Coroner, it’s best if you ask them.’
‘And so all the knights and representatives from Shrewsbury stay here?’ Athelstan asked. ‘Is that customary?’
‘Yes, it is,’ Cranston intervened. ‘Members of Parliament tend to sit according to their counties or lordships. The chancellor issues a writ, convoking a Parliament, to every sheriff in the kingdom. He then organises a meeting of the freeholders of the shire who elect their representatives.’ Cranston grasped his chin. ‘There have been Parliaments at Westminster for the last hundred years, and the Commons are becoming more organised.’
‘You know a lot, my lord Coroner.’ Banyard’s admiration was obvious.
‘Ahem, yes.’ Cranston cleared his throat. ‘I am writing a treatise.’
Athelstan closed his eyes and just hoped Cranston wouldn’t wander off on some interminable lecture. The coroner must have caught his look because he grinned.
‘Suffice to say I’ve studied the whole question of Parliaments. However, as I have said, they are becoming more organised. They have a speaker, they meet in their own chamber, and they have learnt not to grant taxes until certain demands are met.’ He blew his cheeks out. ‘Accordingly, many members know a Parliament is to be summoned months in advance.’
‘And that is what happened here,’ Banyard added. ‘Weeks ago the knights sent a courier asking me to set chambers aside. We have all the representatives from Shrewsbury here.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Cranston snapped, ‘but when did they arrive?’
‘Oh, nine days ago,’ Banyard replied. ‘Five days before the opening of Parliament.’
‘And before these deaths, nothing amiss happened?’
‘Nothing.’ The landlord shook his head. ‘Very little, my lord Coroner, except talking. They’re all very good at talking. They’d break their fast talking and return from Westminster to sit in the taproom here and gossip until even the dogs droop with exhaustion.’
‘And Bouchon’s death?’
Banyard pointed across the room. ‘He and his companions were over there feasting and drinking. Oh, they were all full of themselves, though I noticed Bouchon looked quiet and withdrawn. They drank deep.’ Banyard pulled a face. ‘But why should I object? Well, on that particular evening, the gentlemen were discussing business of a different sort, the pleasures of the flesh.’
‘You mean a bawdy house?’
‘Yes.’ Banyard looked uncomfortable. ‘Now, there’s nothing of that sort here, sirs. I keep a respectable house, though I confess I turn a blind eye to whomever they bring back.’
‘This bawdy house?’ Cranston demanded.
‘Dame Mathilda Kirtles conducts a discreet establishment,’ Banyard replied. ‘In Cottemore Lane, a little further down the riverside.’
‘And did Sir Oliver leave with them?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Oh no. Towards the end of the meal, Sir Oliver rose, put his cloak on, pulled his hood up and left the tavern. The others called after him but the man was lost in his own thoughts. He was gone in the twinkling of an eye.’
‘And you don’t know where?’
‘My lord Coroner, I was busy that night. Ask any of the servants here. I never left the tavern. We closed well after curfew. We have a licence to do so,’ he added hastily.
Athelstan sipped from his blackjack and stared round the tavern. It was, he thought, a veritable palace
