the purple seals of the regent.
'Your commission,' Fortescue said drily, 'warrants, and permission for you to pursue this matter.'
The Chief Justice rose as a sign that the meeting was over.
'Of course, all expenses are to be handed over to the clerk of the Exchequer.' He rubbed his hands together dryly. 'Though the Barons will question any over-indulgence in food or drink.'
Cranston rose.
'My bills will be fair, as they always are, and I will be taking constant refreshment. After all, My Lord, when you listen to some men, their lies stick in your throat and give you a terrible thirst.'
He picked up his cloak; Athelstan, clutching his leather bag of writing materials, followed Cranston's lumbering gait towards the door. The friar did not dare look up and fought to keep his face straight.
'Sir John!'
The coroner stopped.
'The Sons of Dives?' Fortescue asked. 'Do you know of them?'
Cranston shook his head. 'No, why should I?'
'They are a secret group,' Fortescue testily replied. 'Their nature and purpose a mystery. But Sir Thomas's name, so my spies relate, was linked to them. Dives means nothing to you?'
'He was a judge in the gospels, was he not? Rich and corrupt who let the poor starve outside his gates.'
Fortescue smiled and looked at Brother Athelstan.
'Is it true, Friar,' he said abruptly, 'that you atone for your brother's death? Is that why your Order has put you in St Erconwald's church and made you clerk to Sir John Cranston here?' The Chief Justice's grin widened. 'You should sit at his feet, Brother. Sir John will instruct you in the law. He will tell you all he knows. I am sure it will not take long!'
Cranston turned. His steel grey mop of hair seemed to bristle with anger, and his dark eyes held the ghost of malicious mockery as he stroked his beard and moustache.
'I will do that, My Lord,' he said slowly. 'I will instruct Brother Athelstan in what I know about the law and I am sure it will not take long. Then, of course, I will instruct him in what you and I both know, and I am sure it will not take any longer!'
Cranston spun on his heel and, with Athelstan scurrying behind him, choking on his laughter, swept out of Alphen House into Castle Yard and back to Holborn.
'Bastard! Varlet! Lecher! Arse pimple!' Cranston indulged in a succinct summary of what he thought of the Chief Justice. Athelstan just shook his head, caught between admiration of Cranston's honesty and a desire to burst into laughter at the way he'd dealt with the Chief Justice. They paused on the corner of Holborn thoroughfare to let an execution cart rattle by, its iron wheels crashing on the cobbles. Inside a black-masked hangman and a parson, his sallow face covered in sweat, were standing over a pirate caught, so the notice pinned to the cart said, two days ago off the mouth of the Thames. Despite the placard around his neck, the fellow was laughing and joking with the small crowd which followed on either side, chanting a song popular on execution days: 'Put on your smocks on Monday.' The condemned man did not seem to give a fig for his impending death. He was more determined to cut up his scarlet cloak and taffeta jerkin and distribute the pieces amongst the spectators. Every so often he would look up and grin at the executioner.
'You will take no share of my clothes!' he bawled. 'I came naked into the world and I will go out naked. And all the more merrily for knowing you got nothing from me!'
The crowd roared with laughter at this sally and, as the cart trundled up to the great three-branched scaffold at the Elms, broke into fresh chants and songs.
'More like a wedding than an execution!' Cranston muttered. 'The hangman will slip the knot. This fellow will dance for a long time before he dies.'
They crossed the rutted track leading to the shady side of the street for the sun now shone much stronger, beating fiercely down on them. Cranston mopped his sweating face and pushed Athelstan into the welcoming shadows of the Bishop's Pig tavern. The tap room inside was dark and cool with a high, black-timbered ceiling letting the air circulate as it poured through the great open windows at the far end. Cranston and Athelstan sat there, the friar silently wondering to himself about Sir John's constant need for refreshment; the coroner seemed to eat and drink as if there was no tomorrow. As usual Sir John did full justice to himself, ordering two large tankards of frothy dark ale, an eel pie and a dish of vegetables. All disappeared down his yawning throat as the coroner continued to berate Fortescue. At last, the rancour drained from him, Sir John wiped his lips, leaned back against the wall and glanced across at the friar. Athelstan, looking up from his own thoughts about his church, realised Sir John's good humour had returned and now they would concentrate on the matter in hand.
'Was the Chief Justice right?'
'About what?' Athelstan asked.
'About you and your brother?'
Athelstan made a face.
'To a certain extent he spoke the truth, but I do not think the Chief Justice was concerned with that. More with the malicious desire to hurt.'
Cranston nodded and looked away. Now, he did not like priests. He did not like monks. He certainly did not like friars, but Athelstan was different. He looked at the friar's dark face, the black hair cut neatly in a tonsure. More like a soldier, he thought, than a monk. He sighed, wiping the sweat from his throat; every man had his secrets, and Cranston had his own.
'This matter,' he said. 'Springall's death. Do you think there is a mystery?'
Athelstan leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
'There is something strange,' he muttered. 'A merchant is murdered by his servant who then commits suicide. A very neat death, orderly. All the ends tied up like a parcel, a package, a gift for Twelfth Night. Surely two mysteries? The first one is the neatness of the deaths, the second my Lord of Gaunt's interest in them. Yes, Sir John, I think there is a mystery but only the good Lord knows whether we will solve it!'
'There is more, isn't there?' Cranston said, pleased to have confirmation of his own thoughts.
'Oh, yes,' Athelstan replied, sitting up and stretching. 'Gaunt seems frightened that Springall has died, as if the death poses a personal threat. It must be so otherwise why would he get the Chief Justice of the Courts to interview us? To impress upon us the importance of the task? To test our loyalty and give us a special commission?'
He got up. 'If you are refreshed, Sir John, perhaps it is time we found out.'
Cranston rose, picked up his cloak and threw it across his arm. He adjusted his great sword belt round his girth. From it hung a long thin Welsh dagger shoved into a battered leather sheath and the broadest sword Athelstan had ever seen. Once again he tightened his lips to hide his smile. Cranston waddled through the tavern, shouting goodbye to the landlord and his wife who were busy amongst the barrels at the far end of the room. The coroner's good spirits were restored and Athelstan braced himself for an exciting day.
They walked back up Cheapside. It was now early afternoon and the traders were busy.
'A fine hat for the French block!' one called. 'Pins! Points! Garters! Spanish gloves! Silk ribbons!' shouted] another.
'Come,' a woman cackled from a doorway, 'have your ruffs starched, fine cobweb lawn!'
The cries rose like a demonic chorus. Carts rumbled by, now empty after a morning's trade, their owners desirous of getting clear of the city gates before the curfew tolled. A group of aldermen attired in long, richly furred robes; were rudely mocked by a troupe of gallants resplendent in gold, satin garments and cheap jewellery, the air thick with their even cheaper perfume. A party of horsemen trotted in: from the fields, hawks on their wrists. The fierce birds, their blood hunger satisfied, sat quietly under their hoods. Cranston stopped by a barber's shop, fingering his beard and moustache, but one look at the steaming blood in the bowls beside the chair changed his mind. They continued back up Cheapside.
'You know the house, Sir John?'
Cranston nodded and pointed. 'It is there, the Springall mansion.'
Athelstan paused and took Cranston by the elbow. 'Sir John, wait awhile.' He pulled the bemused coroner into a darkened doorway.
'What is it, Monk?'
'I am a friar, Sir John. Please remember that. A member of the preaching order founded by St Dominic to work
