‘I promised her the world and everything in it,’ Edith replied quietly, ‘and the old bitch preened herself as if she was Queen of the Night. I kept her for as long as I could, Brother. I tolerated her smell, her presence. This woman who, I knew, had a hand in my brother’s death, who certainly was responsible for hunting him like a dog the length and breadth of this City. She assured me of a fine time, of beautiful clothing, jewellery, the favour of the great and good.’ She leaned her head back against the wall. ‘I could tolerate her no more and said she should rejoin her companions. We left my chamber and reached the top of the stairs. Then she tripped.’ Edith turned her head, her sea-grey eyes all innocent. ‘The Lord works in wondrous ways, Brother, his wonders to behold! That’s my confession and all I will ever say. Eye for eye, Brother, tooth for tooth, life for life.’
Edith sat for a while, eyes half closed as if praying.
‘Whatever you think, Brother,’ she whispered, ‘whatever you say, I truly believe that God had decided to call that wicked woman to Him.’
Athelstan patted her on the shoulder.
‘What will be, shall be,’ he murmured, ‘so come, let’s join the rest.’
They found Sir John in fine fettle, seated at the high table in the refectory, a goblet of claret in one hand, a small manchet loaf in the other. He was busy regaling Benedicta, Cecily and what appeared to be the entire convent with his exploits at Najera in northern Spain. He hardly broke off to greet Athelstan and Edith, but ceremoniously waved them to a seat further down the table. Cranston knew what had truly happened to Mother Veritable but he decided to leave that with Athelstan. As he refilled his goblet, he wryly reflected, before continuing his description of the battle, that the deaths of Rolles and Mother Veritable had saved the City the expense of a hanging. He winked at the friar and continued his graphic description of how the English archers had deployed in a series of wedges to defend themselves. The nuns hung on his every word. Cranston grew suspicious. Athelstan, too, listened attentively, as if he had decided to stay the entire day in the convent. The coroner was about to bring his story to a close when the sound of horses and the jingle of harness echoed through the cavernous, low-beamed refectory, followed shortly by an old porter hobbling in, cane rapping on the paving stones. He breathlessly announced that His Grace, John of Gaunt had arrived!
Athelstan rose swiftly to his feet and Cranston quietly cursed. Now he realised why Athelstan had been waiting, even as he recalled the head ostler riding so swiftly from the tavern in Southwark. He and the friar courteously excused themselves and walked out of the refectory. Cranston stopped on the top step. The convent yard milled with armed men, all wearing gorgeous livery displaying the arms of England, France and Castile. Banners and pennants fluttered in the breeze. Knights of the royal household gathered round Mother Superior and other officials of the convent, placating them and offering the Regent’s excuses for this sudden visit.
‘Satan’s buttocks!’ Cranston whispered. ‘I wonder what the royal serpent wants.’
Athelstan felt a chill as he noticed that each gateway and entrance was guarded by archers, bows unslung, quivers hanging by their sides. A knight banneret, in half armour, his ruddy face gleaming with sweat under a mop of close-cropped blond hair, broke away from the group around Mother Superior and came striding across.
‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan, His Grace waits for you.’
He led them across to the guest house, opened the door and ushered them in. John of Gaunt, dressed in a simple leather jerkin, open at the neck to reveal the golden double S collar of Lancaster, had already made himself comfortable, war belt slung on the floor, his long legs and booted feet up on the table, gauntlets stripped off. He was enjoying a small jug of beer at the far end of the table. Signor Tonnelli and Matthias of Evesham did not look so relaxed as their master.
‘My Lord Coroner, Brother Athelstan, come here!’
The Regent gestured at the stools on the other side of the table. Cranston and Athelstan went over, bowed and took their seats. The coroner stared pointedly at the Regent’s boots. Gaunt smiled apologetically, swung his feet off the table, and leaned across, hand extended so that Cranston and Athelstan could kiss the ring on his middle finger.
‘Now we have dispensed with ceremony, let us get to the heart of the matter.’
‘The heart of the matter?’ Athelstan retorted. ‘You mean the truth, your Grace. Well, I shall tell you the truth. No Lombard treasure was ever put on that barge. Oh, it may have arrived in the Tower, but it was never sent downriver.’
Cranston gasped and put his hands to his face, peering through his fingers. Gaunt seemed unperturbed, playing with the ring, watching Athelstan as he would a fellow gambler reach for the next throw. Tonnelli and Matthias of Evesham went to protest, but Gaunt waved his hand.
‘An interesting theory, Brother.’
‘The truth usually is, your Grace. You took the treasure, and concocted that farrago of nonsense about outlaws and river pirates. Oh, it was true enough, but it only served as the spice for the meal you cooked. Edward Mortimer was your man, body and soul, a knight who would have gone down to hell for you. He brought Richard Culpepper into your plot. You took the treasure, opened the chest, removed the precious hoard and filled it with bricks and stones, or whatever came to hand. It was then locked and resealed, the keys sent to the Admiral of the Fleet. Mortimer and Culpepper were to take possession of it and, in midstream, would tip it overboard, where it would sink to the bottom of the
