cell with a metal grille high in the door. Cranston peered through this. The dungeon was lit by an oil lamp standing on a battered table and the prisoner lay huddled on a small cot bed. The guards opened the door. Cranston and Athelstan slipped through. The man on the bed moaned and sat up.
In the poor light of the oil lamp he looked as wretched and as miserable as any man could be. Small and fat, with eyes hidden in rolls of fat, he was heavy-eyed with weeping and his hair was thick with dungeon-dirt.
Athelstan squatted down beside him and stared into the soft, pampered face of the dead Sheriff’s steward. The fellow crossed his arms and began rocking to and fro.
‘What is it now? What is it now?’ he muttered, the tears rolling down his cheeks. ‘Am I to be tortured? Am I to hang? Sirs, you are not to hurt me.’ He whimpered like a child and Athelstan saw the bruise on the side of his head. He touched the man gently on the hand and glanced back at Sir John. Cranston could tell by the look in Athelstan’s eyes that the friar had already concluded that this squat, little man with his doughy skin and plump hands was no murderer.
‘We are here to help,’ Athelstan whispered. He got up and leaned against the table whilst Cranston stood with his back to the door. ‘Just tell us the truth.’
The man looked down, still blubbering, shoulders shaking.
‘Sir Gerard’s dead,’ he moaned. ‘And I am to hang. Sirs, I am innocent — and, oh, the day began so well!’
‘Then start from the beginning,’ Athelstan urged. ‘Boscombe, Sir John Cranston has the ear of the Regent. If you tell the truth and prove your innocence, you could be out of this cell by nightfall.’
The prisoner looked up and Athelstan saw the hope flare in the steward’s dark, tear-filled eyes.
‘The day began so well,’ the fellow repeated, then coughed and his voice became firmer. ‘Sir Gerard was pleased with what was going to happen: how the Regent and he were to seal a bond of friendship between the Guilds. His Grace the King, the Regent and the others arrived mid-morning for the Mass in the Guildhall chapel. Sir Gerard was in attendance. I and the other retainers stood at the back. Mass began: the Guild-masters, the Regent and Sir Gerard shared the kiss of peace; they received the sacrament followed by the blessing of the keys.’
‘What was that?’ Cranston interrupted.
‘As a guarantee of their good intentions,’ Boscombe replied, ‘the leading Guilds deposited an ingot of gold, as did the Regent, in a specially constructed chest reinforced with iron bars and six separate locks. One key is held by the Regent, the other five by the Guild masters.’ Boscombe rubbed the side of his face. ‘After that, we had marchpanes and sweet wines in the porch of the church then the Regent, together with the Mayor, Sheriff and the five Guild master, took secret counsel in the Sheriff’s private chamber.’ Boscombe ran his fingers through his hair, now thick and matted as a wolf-lock. ‘The meeting broke up and my master said he would take his pleasure in his private garden.’
‘Did you go there?’
‘Yes, I took him a stoup of wine. He was sunning himself. He said the morning had gone well and I was not to disturb him again.’ Boscombe started to cry. ‘Masters, I was in my own chamber when I heard the shouting and the soldiers came for me. I was hustled down to the garden and saw poor Sir Gerard there. And now,’ he wailed, ‘I am to hang!’
Athelstan touched him lightly on the shoulder.
‘Be of good comfort, friend. You are no murderer. Sir John here will see that justice is done. One further question. Sir Gerard, your master, did he have any enemies?’
Now Boscombe smiled slightly. ‘Enemies?’ he retorted. I served my master well but to him I was another dog, to be kicked when I did wrong or thrown a bone when I did well. It would be better to wonder, Father, who was not Sir Gerard’s enemy for he had no friends. My Lord of Gaunt tolerated him. Sir Christopher Goodman the Mayor could hardly abide being in the same chamber as he, whilst the five Guildmasters…’ Boscombe sneered. ‘They are powerful, dangerous men. They could not abide Sir Gerard, not only for his wealth but for gaining high office in the city.’
Athelstan got to his feet. ‘Stand up!’ he ordered.
Boscombe pulled himself to his feet.
‘Are you wearing the same clothes as you were this morning?’
‘Why, yes, of course, though this morning, Brother, they were finery.’ Boscombe tugged at his cream coloured jerkin and tapped the soft, brown, woolen hose, all grimed and stained with dirt.
‘Take a look, Sir John,’ Athelstan offered. ‘Did this fellow plunge a dagger into Sir Gerard’s heart?’
‘Of course,’ Cranston murmured, seizing Boscombe’s wrist and looking carefully at the sleeves. ‘No sign of blood here.’ He clapped the servant so heartily on the shoulder, poor Boscombe nearly collapsed back on the bed again. ‘You are no assassin.’ Cranston suddenly smacked his lips and Athelstan realized how long the Coroner had been without a drink. ‘So come on, lad, let’s go upstairs!’
Cranston hammered on the door. The guard opened it but tried to stop Boscombe leaving.
‘Sod off!’ Cranston roared. ‘How dare you interfere with the King’s Coroner?’
The man hastily stepped back, mumbling apologies as the Coroner, almost dragging poor Boscombe by one hand, led them back up the passageway and into the Guildhall. They found the Regent and the others still in the garden, seated on wooden benches in a small grassy enclave. They were sipping cool white wine as if it was a fair summer’s day and all was well. They totally ignored the household men who had sheeted the Sheriff’s body and were now taking it down to lie amongst the wine casks where it would remain cool and not begin to stink.
Cranston and Athelstan stood aside as the servants hurried by, cursing and muttering at their grisly burden.
Over in the far corner of the garden, the two great wolf hounds lay forlornly on the grass as if they knew their privileged life was gone. Sir John swept before the seated men, a wan-faced Boscombe gripped by one hand. Goodman sprang to his feet while the others watched Sir John with narrowed eyes and disapproving faces.
An unwholesome bunch, Athelstan thought, men dedicated to power and the amassing of wealth; dark souls with sinister minds and powerful ambitions. They reminded the friar of hawks in a castle courtyard, straining at their jesses, ready to leave their perch to swoop and kill. Goodman advanced dramatically on Sir John.
‘This man is a city prisoner.’
‘And I am the city Coroner,’ Cranston replied. He had never liked Mountjoy but Goodman he detested as a man who would betray his own mother so long as the price was right.
‘You had no authority to free him!’ Goodman spluttered.
‘What is it, Sir John?’ Lord Adam Clifford, seated beside the Regent, languidly asked. The young man looked up, shielding his eyes against the late-afternoon sun. ‘Good Lord, man, you are not going to hang him now, are you? I haven’t eaten and this garden has seen enough violence for one day.’
Cranston bowed his head to the Regent. ‘My Lord, a little mummer’s play. Would you be so good?’
Without waiting for an answer, Cranston spun on his heel and, winking at Athelstan, hustled poor Boscombe into Mountjoy’s private arbour. The Regent shrugged, placed his wine cup on the floor and followed Cranston. Lord Adam smiled at Athelstan.
‘Some play,’ he murmured. ‘Gentlemen, I think we should follow His Grace.’
In the arbour Boscombe’s nervousness returned; he shook like a jelly as Cranston led him across to the blood-stained turf seat.
‘Right!’ Cranston beamed at Gaunt and the others standing at the gate. ‘Now, Master Boscombe,’ he drew his own long stabbing dirk, ‘I want you to murder me.’ Cranston slumped down on the turf seat, impervious to the blood congealing there, and smiled across at the Mayor. ‘Sir Christopher, of your mercy, a cup of that wine you are drinking?’
The Coroner mopped his brow with his hand and wetted his lips. Goodman was about to protest but Gaunt snapped his fingers. The Mayor hurried away and returned with a cup slopping at the brim which he thrust into the Coroner’s fat paw. Cranston silently toasted the Regent and then gazed at the pathetic Boscombe who stood, gingerly holding the dagger, as if terrified of cutting himself, never mind Sir John.
‘Right!’ Cranston barked, sipping from the cup. ‘Kill me, Boscombe!’
Athelstan stepped forward. ‘Go on, man,’ he murmured. ‘Do it now!’
Boscombe, holding the dagger out, lumbered towards Sir John. Athelstan wasn’t sure what happened next. Cranston continued to sip from the wine goblet, Boscombe struck — but the next minute the Coroner had knocked the dagger from his hand and sent the servant sprawling on to the grass. Cranston drained the cup and got to his
