amongst hostelries: the plaster walls were freshly painted, the rushes underfoot were green and crisp and, when he pressed his sandal down, he could smell the rosemary sprinkled there. The tables were of oak and finely made. There were stools, proper benches, and even a few high-backed chairs. Glass and pewter plates stood on shelves. Above them on the mantelpiece was a colourful depiction of a gargoyle fighting a knight which curled and writhed around its opponent’s sword. The food was well-cooked and, from Cranston’s murmurs of pleasure, the ale was undoubtedly London’s finest.
‘You do a fine trade here, Master Banyard,’ Athelstan commented.
‘Oh, most comfortable, Brother. Most comfortable indeed.’
‘Do you know most of the people who come here?’
Banyard’s eyes moved quickly. ‘Yes I do, Brother. And, if they are strangers, they always come back. I can tell from the cut of a man’s cloth what he is: a boatman, a serjeant-at-law, a courier, a bailiff, or one of the royal officials from the Exchequer or Chancery. But, before you ask, I saw no strangers, nothing out of the ordinary.’
‘And Sir Oliver’s body?’ Cranston asked.
‘It was found downriver,’ Banyard replied. ‘Some fishermen found it amongst the weeds near Horseferry.’
‘Oh, of course.’ Cranston leaned back. ‘I remember playing there as a boy.’ He declared. ‘The weeds grow long, lovely and thick.’ He smiled over at Athelstan. ‘Just near Tothill Fields.’
‘How did they know it was Sir Oliver?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Oh, he had some documents in his wallet, water-stained but still legible, so the fishermen called a clerk. He could tell from the cut of the corpse’s clothes that he was a man of importance: the body was brought back into Westminster Yard, where Sir Miles Coverdale, who is responsible for guarding the precincts of the palace, recognised the corpse and sent it back here.’
‘And was a physician called?’ Cranston asked.
‘The man was dead and smelt of fish, Sir John. But no,’ Banyard added hurriedly, seeing the coroner frown. ‘He was taken upstairs. In the afternoon his companions came from the chapter-house. I hired an old woman from Chancery Lane. She stripped the body and laid it out in a shift.’ Banyard glanced at the timbered ceiling. ‘But I’ll be glad when they move it and the other to the death-house at St Dunstan’s in the West.’
‘Quite so,’ the coroner nodded. He waved his empty tankard in front of Banyard’s nose, hoping the taverner would refill it, but Banyard, used to such tricks, refused even to notice it.
‘There was no mark on the corpse?’ Athelstan asked.
‘So the old woman said.’
‘And Sir Henry?’
‘Well, he seemed the most upset of Bouchon’s companions. I offered to send for a chantry priest to come and conduct the death-watch. He agreed. Now Father Benedict, he’s a Benedictine monk,’ Banyard explained, ‘and chaplain to the Commons. But he’s so busy that I sent for a chantry priest from St Bride’s in Fleet Street. You can go there and ask. But as for last night — well, you’d best ask the wench. Christina!’
The slattern whom Athelstan had noticed earlier came across, her milk-white face slightly coloured from the heat of the kitchen, her rich blonde hair now firmly tied back by a ribbon. A pretty, lively lass with merry blue eyes and lips which Athelstan quietly thought, God must have made for kissing. She wore a thin stained smock pulled tightly over an ample bosom, girdled at her slim waist by a red woollen cord. She grinned at Sir John and blinked nervously at Athelstan, but the friar could tell by the way she answered Banyard’s call how the landlord must be the love of her life.
‘Sit down, girl.’ Cranston pointed to a stool at the next table. ‘It’s good to rest from your labours. Perhaps, Master Banyard, some ale for all of us, eh?’
Banyard just sat on his stool, staring at him; eventually Cranston sighed and dipped into his purse. ‘And don’t worry about the cost,’ he snapped.
Banyard called to one of the potboys, then turned to Christina. ‘Don’t be nervous, lass. This is the famous Sir Jack Cranston.’ He glanced slyly at the coroner. ‘And Brother Athelstan, his secretarius.’
Christina blinked prettily. ‘I have heard of you, sir.’
Cranston preened like a peacock whilst Athelstan quietly prayed that the girl would keep the flattery to a minimum.
‘Last night,’ he asked abruptly, ‘when Sir Henry was killed. .?’
‘Choked he was,’ the girl replied swiftly, taking the ale from the tapster and supping at it greedily. She licked the froth from her upper lip. ‘Just like a chicken. The string was tied round his neck as tightly as a cord round a purse.’
‘Tell Sir John about the priest,’ Banyard insisted.
‘We were busy last night,’ Christina replied. ‘Master Banyard here was in the cellar.’ She turned and smiled beatifically at the taverner. ‘A priest came in.’ The girl cradled the tankard then raised it to press against her flushed cheek. ‘He was cloaked and cowled, the hood pulled well across his face. I was very busy. I saw the rosary beads in his hands. I asked him if he was the chantry priest. He nodded.’ She shrugged. ‘I told him where the chamber was but he was already going upstairs. The tap-room was thronged,’ she continued. ‘I never gave him a second thought. Later on, I took a tankard up to Sir Henry Swynford. He was just sitting in his room, staring into the darkness. Only one candle was lit on his table. I asked him if he was well and he muttered some reply.’ Christina sipped from the tankard.
‘Tell Sir John what happened next.’
‘Well-’
‘Excuse me,’ Athelstan intervened. He’d studied the lass carefully and quietly wondered if she was a little simple: she chattered like a child without any reflection or fear.
‘Did you see the priest’s face?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Pull up your cowl, Father,’ Christina replied.
Athelstan shrugged and pulled his hood up to conceal his face.
‘Oh no, Father,’ Christina said. ‘It was like this: put your face down.’
Athelstan obeyed and Christina pulled the hood closer across his head, then lifted the front part of the mantle to cover his mouth.
‘You see, Father, he looked like that.’
Athelstan pulled back the hood, and a little embarrassed, tugged the black mantle down, away from his mouth and chin. In the dark even he, dressed like that, would not be recognised by many of his parishioners. Indeed, only recently the master-general of his Order had issued an instruction to all Dominicans to be careful about their use of the hood and cowl lest people mistake them for an outlaw or footpad. ‘Continue,’ he told her.
‘Well, a little later,’ Christina chattered, ‘I went up the stairs. I heard a sound from Sir Oliver’s room, chanting, a prayer.’ She closed her eyes. ‘Something about, something. .’ Her voice faltered. ‘Yes, that’s it.’ She opened her eyes. ‘About a day of wrath.’
‘A day of wrath?’ Cranston asked.
‘You recognised the voice?’ Athelstan interrupted.
‘No, it was deep, muffled, as if the speaker had something across his mouth. But, there again,’ Christina’s eyes moved quickly, and Athelstan wondered whether she was sharper than he judged, ‘I thought the priest, perhaps with his head bowed, was praying.’ The girl shivered. ‘It was eerie. The passageway was lit by one torch and the shadows were dancing. I was frightened: I knew about the corpse and wondered about ghosts and that voice talking about wrath, God’s anger and the earth burning.’
‘The
‘Oh no, this was different, deep, muffled.’
‘What does it mean, Brother?’ Cranston asked.
Athelstan rubbed his face with his hands. Despite the warmth and cheer of the taproom, he felt cold and frightened. Most assassins killed quickly and quietly.
He replied slowly. ‘What it means, my lord Coroner, is that the chantry priest, and I do not think he was the
