Athelstan took napkins from the lavarium and used them as a kneeler beside the corpse. Removing the small wooden cross he wore around his neck, he performed the rites of the dead, blessing the man’s brow, eyes, nose and bloodied mouth, sketching with his thumb as he quickly recited the words of absolution and invited the powers of heaven to go out and meet this soul, to protect him against the hands of the enemy. Athelstan secretly wondered if it was too late. Perhaps the soul had already left the body, its fate resting with the mercy of God. Once finished, he turned the corpse over and, using both hands, pulled out the pricket, an ugly-looking weapon with its broad base, the point as sharp and deadly as any slitting knife. It came out with a gentle plop, and more blood dripped. Athelstan handed the pricket to Cranston and carefully scrutinised the corpse. The flesh was cold and clammy, the muscles hard. He noticed how most of the blood stained the stomach and the lap of the gown. He could detect no other bruise or mark, and when he sniffed the goblet of wine standing on the table, as well as the plate of sweetmeats beside it, no malevolent odour. He picked up a solace stone and felt how it fitted snugly into the palm of his hand.
‘Sir Thomas often used that.’ Clinton stood in the doorway, Branson behind him. ‘He would often use that stone, flexing his fingers to comfort himself.’
‘Did he need comforting?’ Athelstan asked.
Sir Maurice shrugged.
‘And you, sir,’ Cranston pointed to Sir Reginald Branson, ‘do you know anything about this man’s death?’
‘Only what you see,’ Branson retorted tersely, ‘and all I can add, Lord Coroner, is that good men, knights of the Crown, are being foully murdered, but no one is brought to justice. He was murdered.’ Branson advanced into the room. ‘Look, Sir John, at the corpse, search this chamber. Sir Thomas liked life and all its comforts. He brought up a goblet of wine, a dish of sweetmeats. He had invited a young lady to share his company; that was all cut short! Someone came into this chamber and stabbed him to the heart.’
Athelstan, still kneeling down, picked up Davenport’s right hand, slightly blood-splashed, the skin clean and smooth, the nails neatly cut. He sighed and got to his feet and, ignoring Clinton’s protests, began to search the chamber with Cranston’s assistance. He found nothing significant: personal treasures, a prayer book, clothing, documents, purses of silver. Everything was neat and tidy. The bed curtains of the tester bed had already been folded back, as if Sir Thomas was preparing for his visitor. Athelstan could find nothing of significance, no sign of a struggle.
‘Is this how the room was?’ he asked.
Sir Maurice nodded.
‘But how,’ Athelstan asked, ‘can a man be stabbed to the heart when the door is locked and bolted, the windows shuttered, with no other entrance? There isn’t one, Master Rolles, is there?’
The taverner shook his head.
‘Yet someone came in here,’ Athelstan insisted, ‘a friend who was allowed to get very close, snatch up that pricket and stab Sir Thomas through the heart. Had he drunk much claret today?’
‘A fair bit,’ Sir Maurice replied. ‘He was sitting out in the garden for most of the morning, enjoying the sunlight, watching the carp in the pond.’
‘He then came in.’ Rolles picked up the story. ‘He was in excellent humour. He demanded a goblet and a plate of sweetmeats to be sent up to his chamber and asked me to send for Rosamund.’
‘So he didn’t use the Castle of Love? The pocket in the tapestry.’
‘Oh yes, Brother, but I’d failed to check it. What with all these troubles, and so early in the day… When I did look I found the small roll of parchment. Sir Thomas was very eager. I asked if he wanted Rosamund to come after dark. He replied no. When the wench arrived, that’s how we found him, dead.’
Athelstan asked Cranston to clear the room. The coroner politely told Rolles and the two knights to wait downstairs. Athelstan went to the high wooden settle. He sat, arms crossed, staring down at the corpse and the blood pools all about it.
‘Sir John,’ he whispered, ‘in God’s good name, what is happening here? Here is a man hale and hearty, more interested in his claret and his wench than anything else, but he is found stabbed to death in a locked chamber.’
‘He had drunk heavily, Brother. Perhaps more deeply than we thought, which would make him weak and vulnerable.’
‘To whom?’ Athelstan lifted his head. ‘There’s only one explanation, Sir John; the only logical explanation is that the assassin crept in here, stabbed Sir Thomas, and hid until the door was broken down, but even then…’ He got to his feet. ‘I must see this fair Rosamund.’
They went down the stairs. Athelstan told Sir Maurice he could see to the corpse of his comrade. Rolles took him out into the garden, where Rosamund, wrapped in her cloak, was sitting in a flower arbour, cradling a cup of posset and chewing rather noisily from a bowl of grapes.
Athelstan introduced himself and Cranston and sat down beside the young woman. Despite her fiery red hair, laughing mouth and merry eyes, Rosamund reminded Athelstan of Cecily the courtesan. For a while, he just sat staring out across the garden, admiring the small lawns, the raised herbers, the
