young King, together with his tutor, Sir Nicholas Hussey, attended a Mass there this morning. This afternoon Gaunt took counsel with the Sheriff, Sir Gerard Mountjoy, on measures against the conspiracy amongst the peasants as well as those in the city who favour their cause.’ Cranston wiped his white moustache and beard. ‘And for my sins,’ he breathed in a gust of wine fumes, ‘I am to attend this evening’s banquet where Gaunt will entertain his new allies.’ He made a rude sound with his lips. ‘As if I haven’t enough problems.’
‘Such as, Sir John?’
‘Well, besides the death of Oliver, the Regent and Corporation are furious at some rogue who is removing the limbs and remains of executed traitors from London Bridge and elsewhere. After all, my good Brother, what’s the use of executing people if you can’t display their hacked, bloody limbs as a warning to other would-be traitors?’ He linked his arm through the friar’s as they went out of the tavern. ‘Now, in my treatise on the governance of this city…’ He smacked his lips as Athelstan closed his eyes and prayed for patience. Cranston’s great work on the Government of London was nearly finished and he never missed an opportunity of lecturing everyone and anybody on his theories on how law and order could be administered in the capital.
‘In my treatise I will advise against such practices. Criminals should be executed within the prison walls and the Crown should veto such barbaric practices. In ancient Sumeria…’ Cranston pulled an unwilling Athelstan across Cheapside. ‘Now in ancient Sumeria…’ he repeated.
‘My Lord Coroner! Brother Athelstan!’
They both turned. A sweaty-faced servitor, wearing the livery of the city, stood leaning against an empty stall, trying to catch his breath.
‘What is it, man?’
‘Sir John, you must come quickly. And you too, Brother. The Regent… His Grace the King…’
‘What is it?’ Cranston snapped.
‘Murder, Sir John. Sir Gerard Mountjoy, the Sheriff, has been murdered at the Guildhall!’
CHAPTER 2
Cranston and Athelstan found the Guildhall strangely silent. Armed men lined the passageways and corridors, guarding the entrances and exits to the different courtyards. The servitor led them through these, shaking his head at Cranston’s nagging questions. He brought them into the garden, one of the most attractive parts of the Guildhall with its herb plots, fountain and channel, wooden and stone benches, tunnel arbour and soft green lawns. A group of men stood round the fountain talking amongst themselves. They stopped and turned as Cranston and Athelstan came out.
‘My Lord Coroner, we have been waiting.’
‘Your Grace,’ Cranston replied, staring at the swarthy, gold-bearded face of the Regent, John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster. ‘We came as soon as the messenger found us.’
Cranston stared quickly round as Gaunt introduced the rest. He recognized them all: Sir Christopher Goodman, the Mayor, red-faced and pop-eyed, then the brilliantly dressed, proud-faced Guildmasters: Thomas Fitzroy of the Fishmongers who always reminded Cranston of a carp with his jutting lips and glassy eyes; Philip Sudbury of the Ironmongers, red-faced and red-haired, a born toper; Alexander Bremmer of the Drapers, thin and mean-faced, an avaricious grasping man; Hugo Marshall of the Spicers, his head bald as a pigeon’s egg; and fleshy- featured Sir James Denny of the Haberdashers, dressed like a court fop in his tight hose and quilted jacket open at the neck.
Cranston nodded at these as well as at Sir Nicholas Hussey, the King’s tutor, young-looking despite his silver hair and beard. Finally Lord Adam Clifford, Gaunt’s principal henchman, fresh-faced and dressed in a tawny gown which suited the man’s clean-shaven, sunburnt face and neatly coiffed black head. Gaunt finished the introductions.
‘My Lord?’ Cranston declared, angry at the Regent’s insulting behaviour in not even acknowledging Athelstan. ‘My Lord, I think you know my secretarius and clerk, Brother Athelstan, parish priest of St Erconwald’s in Southwark?’
Gaunt smiled patronizingly and nodded. Cranston darted an angry glance at a sniggering Denny.
‘We have come at your behest, My Lord Regent. We were told Sir Gerard Mountjoy has been murdered. Where, when and how?’
Gaunt waved a hand towards the small arbour which stood in the far corner of the garden sheltered from Cranston’s gaze by the open door of the Guildhall as well as a high trellis covered in ivy.
‘There?’ Cranston asked.
‘Yes, Sir Gerard is there!’
Gaunt’s reply was angry but tinged with sardonic amusement. The Regent waved them across.
‘I hope you have better luck than we did.’
Mystified, Cranston and Athelstan walked past the fence and looked over a small gate into the arbour. Both jumped as a pair of huge wolf hounds threw themselves against the gate, snarling and barking, lips curled, yellow teeth eager to rend and gash. Cranston and Athelstan stepped back.
The arbour was cleverly contrived, a garden within a garden: a turf seat against the trellised fence, a narrow pavement of coloured stones with a table which also served as a bird bath, and raised banks of fragrant herbs. A peaceful, pleasant place on a late summer’s day had it not been for the man sprawled against the fence, a thin dagger thrust deep in his chest. A grotesque sight: mouth gaping, eyes open and slightly crooked as if the corpse was staring down in amazement at the bloody wound staining his russet gown.
Cranston studied the snub, brutish, dead features of one of London’s most feared Sheriffs and walked back to the group.
‘When did this happen, My Lord?’
Gaunt shrugged his shoulders elegantly as he wiped his hands on his blue samite gown.
‘We had Mass this morning followed by a meeting in the Council Chamber. We were all preparing for the banquet tonight. Sir Gerard was apparently taking the air and a cup of claret in his own private arbour when a guard found him like that.’ He pulled a face. ‘Those damned dogs won’t allow us anywhere near him.’
‘If they won’t allow you,’ Gaunt nodded down the garden, where a group of crossbow men wearing the livery of Lancaster were patiently waiting, ‘they will have to be killed.’
Athelstan, standing at Cranston’s elbow, stared at these powerful, rich men. They, together with Gaunt, controlled not only London but the kingdom: their silver fuelled the King’s armies, provisioned the fleet and controlled Parliament. He sensed they were shocked by Mountjoy’s death but quietly pleased to see the demise of a powerful rival, for Mountjoy, a merchant in his own right, had been as power-hungry as any of them. The Regent, however, a man of marble face and steely heart, was fighting hard to curb fury, for his attempt to control these powerful merchants had been rudely checked by Mountjoy’s death.
‘Well?’ Goodman snapped. ‘Sir John, you are the King’s Coroner in the city. Sir Gerard has been murdered and foully so. We know who did it, so get rid of those dogs!’
‘Oh?’ Sir John smiled wryly. ‘You have caught the assassin red-handed?’
‘For God’s sake, man!’ Goodman snarled. ‘Look at the arbour. On two sides is the garden fence, the far side is the wall of the Guildhall and the fourth is protected by the pentice.’
Cranston and Athelstan stared at the long narrow lean-to structure built against the buttress of the Guildhall; roofed with old shingles, this covered passageway connected the kitchens to the Guildhall proper.
‘How could anyone,’ Goodman continued slowly, as if Cranston and Athelstan were dim-witted, ‘enter that garden, stab Sir Gerard and walk quietly away without being torn to pieces by those dogs?’
‘What My Lord Mayor is saying,’ Clifford spoke up, ‘is that the two dogs were Sir Gerard’s constant companions. Mountjoy was a bachelor. They were his wife, children, family and kinsfolk. The only man who could approach the Sheriff without disturbing the dogs is his retainer and steward, Philip Boscombe.’
Cranston nodded and looked back at the arbour.
‘Sir Gerard,’ Clifford continued, ‘was always fearful of assassination. No one here — no official, no alderman, no burgess — could approach him unless the Sheriff had instructed his dogs to be friendly. Boscombe was the only exception. It must have been him. Servants didn’t even hear the dogs bark.’
