CHAPTER 4
Cranston sat in his seat in the Hall of Roses and lovingly cradled a jeweled wine goblet.
‘First time I’ve been here,’ he muttered to Athelstan.
The friar studied his fat friend anxiously; Cranston, deep in his cups, was frighteningly unpredictable. He might either go to sleep or else start lecturing these powerful men. However, the Coroner seemed quiet enough for the moment and Athelstan, who had eaten and drunk sparingly, gazed appreciatively round the Hall of Roses.
A perfect circle, the chamber reminded him of a painting of a Greek temple he had once seen in a Book of Hours. The roof was a cupola of cleverly ornate, polished hammer beams which swooped across the ceiling to meet a huge central red rose, carved in wood and painted in gold leaf. The walls and dark embrasures were of dressed stone and the supporting pillars of porphyry linked by banners of cloth of gold, bearing either the Royal Arms or the insignia of the House of Lancaster. The marble floor was overlaid by a carpet which, from a red rose in the centre, radiated out in strips of purple and white, each ending in the name of one of the knights of Arthur’s Round Table. Over each name sat a guest at his own separate table, a small oaken trestle covered with a silver-white cloth. At the top, on King Arthur’s seat, was the young Richard, his golden hair elaborately dressed, a silver chaplet round his white brow; the young King was attired from head to toe in purple damask.
Athelstan, ignoring the hubbub of conversation around him, studied Richard who sat gazing unwinkingly across the hall. Then he caught the friar’s glance, smiled and winked mischievously. Athelstan grinned, embarrassed, and looked away, He was not frightened of Gaunt, who sat in scarlet robes on the King’s right, but Athelstan knew how jealous the Regent was of the King’s open affection for Sir John Cranston, as well as his secretarius, Brother Athelstan. The young King turned and talked to Hussey on his left, grasping his tutor’s wrist in a gesture of friendship. Cranston, though on his eighth cup of claret, turned and pulled a face at Athelstan; for the King to touch anyone at a formal banquet was a breach of etiquette and the highest mark of royal favour.
Athelstan glanced at Gaunt. He was astute enough to see the flicker of annoyance cross the Regent’s saturnine face even though Gaunt tried to hide it by stroking his neatly clipped gold moustache and beard.
‘As I have said,’ Cranston whispered rather too loudly in Athelstan’s ear, ‘no love lost there. Hussey is now the King’s favourite as well as his tutor. A university man,’ Sir John continued. ‘I wonder what Hussey and the King think of Gaunt’s friendship with the Guildmasters? Just look at the turd worms!’
Athelstan squeezed Cranston’s arm. ‘Sir John, keep your voice down. You have eaten well?’
Cranston smiled. ‘As I would wish to in Paradise! For God’s sake, Brother, just look at the wealth!’
Athelstan stared at his own cup, plate and knives all fashioned from pure gold and silver, whilst his goblet, hardly touched throughout the meal, was encrusted with a King’s ransom in jewels, part of the loot Gaunt had brought back from his wars in France.
‘What have we eaten so far, Brother?’
Lamprey, salmon, venison, boar’s meat, swan and peacock.’ Athelstan grinned. ‘And dessert is still to come!’
He was about to tease Sir John further when suddenly Fitzroy, Guildmaster of the Fishmongers, rose to his feet, scrabbling at his fur-lined collar, his habitually red face purple now as he coughed and choked. The rest of the guests watched, astounded. No one moved as Fitzroy staggered against his table, turned slightly and crashed to the floor.
Despite his laden stomach, Cranston sprang to his feet, Athelstan behind him, and hurried across. Fitzroy lay sprawled on his side, eyes and mouth still open, but Athelstan could feel no life beat in the puce-coloured throat. He stuck his finger into the man’s mouth, ensuring the tongue was free, thinking Fitzroy might have choked. He hid his distaste, working his fingers downwards, but found no blockage in the man’s throat. Cranston felt Fitzroy’s wrist and then his heart.
‘He’s gone!’ he growled. ‘Dead as one of his bloody fish, God rest him!’
The others hurried across in a hubbub of shouts and exclamations, the young King included. Despite his tender years, Richard shouldered his way forward.
‘Is the fellow dead, Sir John?’
‘God rest him, yes, Sire.’
‘And the cause?’
Athelstan shrugged. ‘I am no physician, Your Grace. Apoplexy, perhaps?’
‘Nephew, you should not be here.’ Gaunt edged his way forward and clapped a beringed hand on young Richard’s shoulder.
‘We will stay, Uncle, until the cause of death is established. You, man.’ The King nodded at one of the royal archers guarding the door. ‘You will go for Master de Troyes!’
Gaunt bit back his anger and, nodding at the archer, confirmed his nephew’s order. Meanwhile Athelstan stared down at the corpse.
‘This is no apoplexy, Sir John,’ he whispered, I believe Fitzroy’s death is not a natural one.’
The rest protested noisily but Sir John, crouching beside Athelstan, lifted a finger to his lips as a signal for silence.
Athelstan leaned down and sniffed at the man’s mouth. He smelt wine, roast meat and the bitter-sweet smell of something else, like that of a decaying rose with the wormwood strong within it.
‘Did Fitzroy complain of any illness before the meal?’ Sir John suddenly asked.
Bremmer, Sudbury, Marshall, Denny and Goodman, all clustered together, shook their heads.
‘He was in the best of health,’ Denny squeaked.
‘Any family?’ Sir John asked, still crouched beside the corpse.
‘A wife and two married sons. But they are absent from the city.’
Cranston nodded. Like Lady Maude, many of the wives of leading city officials and merchants left the city during the warm summer for cool manor houses in the country. Athelstan glanced up and carefully watched these clever, subtle men. In his judgement, one of them was a poisoner. He got to his feet and, stepping over the body, sat down at Fitzroy’s table. The silver plate still bore portions of meat and other remnants from the banquet. Two cups of wine stood there, each about one-third full with either red or white wine. Athelstan picked up the gold- edged napkin, studied this carefully, sniffing at it, then the cups and the food. The hall grew silent and he looked up to find the rest studying him curiously.
‘What is the matter, Brother?’ Gaunt’s voice was full of suspicion.
‘I believe,’ Athelstan declared, ignoring Cranston’s warning look, ‘that Master Fitzroy did not die of a seizure but was poisoned.’
‘Murdered?’ Goodman snapped.
‘Impossible!’ Marshall snorted. ‘What are you implying, Brother?’
‘My clerk is implying nothing!’ Cranston retorted, getting to his feet.
Athelstan carefully laid the napkin over the table, covering the plate and cups.
‘If my secretarius,’ Cranston continued defiantly, ‘says a man is poisoned, then he’s been poisoned.’
‘Now, now, what is this?’ the young King intervened. ‘If Sir Thomas were murdered here, his assassin would still be in the room.’
Athelstan got up and walked across to a servitor who stood holding a jug of rose water and a bowl, with a small towel over his wrist. Athelstan smiled at the fellow, extended his fingers and carefully washed away the sugary-sweet substance from Fitzroy’s mouth. He dried his hands carefully on the towel and walked back to the group.
I believe Master Fitzroy was murdered,’ he declared. ‘I have seen seizures before, but not like this one. Death was too sudden and I detect a strange smell on his lips.’
The powerful Guildmasters stared at Athelstan: they believed him now and their arrogant looks were tinged by fear and suspicion.
‘Who sat on either side of him?’ Cranston asked the unspoken question.
‘I did,’ Goodman declared. ‘I sat to his right.’
‘And I to his left,’ Sudbury added. ‘Why, what are you implying?’
