‘It’s not just the treasure, Sir John, it’s something else.’
‘And what about the excitement here?’
Cranston sat at the table mopping his brow, helping himself to a bowl of oatmeal mixed with honey. He stopped eating and listened with surprise as Athelstan informed him about the Misericord’s disappearance.
‘I’ll tell that Judas Man to keep his hands—’
The coroner was interrupted by a furious pounding at the door. Athelstan answered it, and one of Master Rolles’ tap boys burst into the room, red-faced, hair clammy with sweat.
‘Sir John,’ he gasped, fighting for breath, ‘you’ve got to come. I’ve been across to Cheapside but couldn’t find you. Sir Laurence Broomhill has been horribly wounded, he lies dying at the Night in Jerusalem.’
Athelstan made the boy calm down, giving him a small cup of buttermilk. With a little bit of coaxing, the boy described how, late last night, the tavern had been roused by a hideous screaming. How Master Rolles had gone into the cellar and found Sir Laurence Broomhill, awash with blood, his leg held fast in a mantrap which Rolles had kept in the cellar.
‘Master Rolles sometimes uses them,’ the boy explained. ‘Places them in his garden against those who poach from the carp pond, or break into his stables or outhouses.’
Sir John nodded understandingly, though in truth he hated such devices, which were increasingly used by the powerful and wealthy to protect their gardens and orchards, and were so sharp and powerful they could sever a man’s leg.
‘Was it an accident?’ Athelstan asked.
The boy shrugged.
‘Master Rolles doesn’t know. He thinks Sir Laurence went down to the cellar for some wine; a jug was found nearby.’
‘Why didn’t they send for me immediately?’ Cranston asked.
‘Oh, Sir John,’ the boy blustered, ‘it was all dreadful, they had to free his leg, bind it and take him to his chamber. Master Stapleton the physician was sent for but there was nothing he could do. Sir Laurence now lies all sweaty and bloody. I saw him.’ The boy imitated the dying knight’s jerky movements.
‘Yes, yes,’ Cranston soothed, ‘I know what happens. Brother Athelstan,’ he pointed to the door, ‘another day, another hunt.’
Chapter 7
They found the Night in Jerusalem eerily quiet. Rolles had kept the door shut, refusing to allow customers inside the stable yard. Ostlers and grooms lounged about, whispering amongst themselves. The passageways and tap room lay silent. Sir Maurice Clinton and the rest were already waiting in the solar. Cranston and Athelstan greeted them and were halfway up the stairs when they met Rolles.
‘You are too late, sir.’ Rolles pointed back at the chamber. ‘Broomhill’s dead. Stapleton the physician has just left – there was nothing we could do.’
The taverner looked strangely agitated. Athelstan regarded him as a man with a soul as hard as flint, which not even the most dire of circumstances could weaken; now his fleshy face was pale and unshaven, eyes red-rimmed.
‘I am not a well man, Brother.’ The taverner gestured at his clothes, which were soaked in blood. ‘I am losing custom. I do not want these knights here ever again.’
He paused as Brother Malachi came up the stairs, a stole round his neck, in his right hand a phial of holy oils, in his left a beeswax candle.
‘I must anoint him,’ murmured the Benedictine.
They let him by. Rolles continued on his way down; Athelstan and Cranston went up on to the gallery and waited outside the Morte D’Arthur Chamber.
‘You may come in.’
Brother Malachi was standing by the bed, the candle snuffed, the holy oil replaced in its small leather bag.
Cranston whistled as he looked round. ‘It’s like a battlefield!’
The bed drapes, linen, coverlets and rugs were drenched in blood. Bandages, linen pads, as well as the poultices Stapleton had used to try and staunch the bleeding lay everywhere. The corpse, its skin as white as a leper’s, sprawled on the bed, naked from the waist down. Athelstan went across whilst Cranston, grasping his miraculous wine skin, turned away in disgust. Broomhill’s right leg was shattered midway between knee and heel. The wound exposed raw flesh, muscle and vein, and, peering down, Athelstan could see even the bone beneath was gashed. The smell was offensive; infection had already set in.
‘He must have been in agony,’ Athelstan remarked, staring at the dead man’s face, contorted by his last convulsions.
‘Stapleton gave him an opiate,’ Malachi replied.
‘There was nothing we could do.’ Rolles stood in the doorway like a prophet of doom. ‘Nothing at all.’
‘Did he say anything before he died?’ Athelstan asked.
‘He babbled about the past.’ Rolles came into the chamber. ‘He talked of a great river beast which could swoop up and gulp a man’s body. He was feverish, he didn’t know what he was saying.’
‘What was he doing in the cellar?’
‘He went down in the evening. I found a jug nearby; perhaps he was going to fill it from one of the vats?’
‘Aren’t there servants, scullions, tap boys?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Of course,’ Rolles snapped, ‘but sometimes the galleries are deserted, and I do not object to favoured customers helping themselves. The knights always pay well.’
‘Pay well.’ Athelstan echoed the words. ‘Brother Malachi, what is the source of these knights’ wealth?’
‘Estates, some of the most fertile land in Kent, flocks of sheep, fishing rights. You could fill a charter with the sources of their profit.’
‘But once they were poor.’
‘Poor men become rich when their fathers die. Moreover, the knights brought plunder back from Egypt. They stormed palaces and treasures. Sir Maurice Clinton seized a box
