‘What is the truth?’ Sir John asked.
‘We are officers of the King of France,’ Vamier declared. ‘We are prisoners here but we fear for our lives. Sir Walter’s hatred for our nation is well known.’
‘And good reason for it!’ Sir Walter burst out.
‘Hush now!’ Athelstan held his hands up.
‘But it’s true,’ Vamier continued. ‘Why!’ He caught the look of puzzlement in Athelstan’s eyes. ‘Hasn’t he told you? It was the St Denis which attacked Winchelsea when his wife and sons died.’ The Frenchman lifted his shoulders and spread his hands placatingly. ‘Of course, it was a different crew, different men. No man here would agree to the wanton slaying of a woman and her sons. But, Sir John, you have fought in France?’
Sir John nodded; Athelstan recalled himself and his brother Francis entering a French town which had been sacked by English archers. Women lay dead in the streets, their throats cut, their dresses pushed back and, beside them, young children. The glory of war had died at such sights. Athelstan glanced at Sir Walter. The knight’s face had grown pale, his lips were moving soundlessly, beads of sweat ran down his cheeks.
‘I’m no assassin,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Aye, I hate you. If I had my way, I’d see you all hang on the gallows for the pirates you are!’
A fight would have broken out but Sir John banged the table with his fists.
‘When did you take this oath?’ he asked. ‘What did it signify?’
‘When we came here,’ Routier said, ‘and we realised we were in the charge of Sir Walter.’ He gestured at the platter. ‘Sir Walter himself will tell you: we only eat from the same dish and drink from the same jug.’
‘And last night?’ Athelstan asked.
‘The same. We dined here on what was supposed to be some fish, drank the same putrid wine and ate the same mouldy bread.’
His companions lowered their heads to hide their amusement. Sir Walter would have retorted angrily but Athelstan caught his wrist.
‘They are only baiting you,’ he whispered.
‘If we met him on the field of battle,’ Gresnay declared, ‘we’d do more than that, Brother!’
‘One day you might!’ Sir Walter shouted, his lips flecked with spittle.
‘But there’s another reason, isn’t there?’ Athelstan asked.
The change in the French knights was remarkable. They dropped their lazy, insulting demeanour. Vamier shuffled back on his chair, Routier pulled across the wine jug and refilled his cup.
‘Come! Come!’ Athelstan insisted. ‘You are hardly a band of brothers, are you? After all, once you were cocks of the walk, masters of the Narrow Seas, and then one day your two ships are trapped between English men-of-war and the port of Calais.’
Taken in a fair fight!’ Routier protested. ‘Fortune’s fickle wheel and fortune is blind. Perhaps next time we meet, Sir Maurice will know what it’s like to be taken prisoner?’
‘Oh, answer the question!’ Sir John snapped. ‘Two French ships taken in one day! That smacks of treachery! You were expecting fat-bellied cargo ships full of wine from Bordeaux. Aye. The best claret, rich and red, the only good thing that comes out of France.’ The coroner grinned. ‘That’s not true, but we can sit here all day like little boys in a street insulting each other.’
‘We were betrayed.’ Vamier rapped the table-top with his fingers.
‘And the traitor could be among you now?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Possibly.’
‘It could have been anyone.’ Gresnay waved his hands.
Sir John smiled beatifically across at him.
‘Young man, I’m in London yet I know that, in French ports, men-of-war are being prepared. I know that. The seagulls know that, the rats on board ship know that.’ His face straightened. ‘But how many men know what’s contained in sealed orders? Come on, how many?’ He pointed at Routier. ‘I ask you a question, sir, how many people on the St Sulpice and the St Denis knew where you were to sail, when, and what your destination was?’
‘There were six of us,’ Routier admitted. ‘We four, Serriem and Dumanier. He was killed in the fight.’
‘So, if there was a traitor,’ Sir John continued sweetly, ‘it could have been Dumanier, although the Judas kind usually ensure that they are safe, it might have been Serriem or, gentlemen, one of you.’
The consequent silence was abruptly shattered by two of the great house cats which had trapped a rat further down the hall and were busy in its noisy destruction. Sir Walter drew his sword and went down. One of the cats, the rat dangling from his mouth, hurried off hotly pursued by his companion.
‘Death is all around us,’ Maneil observed.
‘And it may strike again,’ Athelstan replied. ‘We are not here, sirs, to play a part and walk away. The Regent himself has intervened. If there is a traitor among you, he may want you all dead. Or, there again, you may know who the traitor is? Was it Serriem? Did you carry out lawful execution of him? After all, you have just assured us that none of you eat or drink anything one of your companions does not partake of. Nevertheless, Serriem was poisoned.’
‘Are you saying we forced something between Serriem’s lips?’ Maneil asked.
‘It’s possible.’
‘But we dined together last night, Sir Walter’s guards all about us. We talked, we played chess, there was no feeling of resentment. Serriem was a good companion, a born sailor. If there is a traitor it certainly wasn’t him.’
Athelstan took out his ink horn, a sharpened quill and a square of parchment. He used a pumice stone to ensure it was smooth then he quickly wrote down their names and a short description and what he had learned. When he glanced up, the coroner was now sitting slouched in his chair, head back, mouth open, sleeping peacefully. Athelstan could tell the French were not impressed.
‘Sir John does not regard Serriem’s death as important,’ Gresnay quipped.
‘My lord coroner,’ Athelstan replied, putting his quill down, ‘is a hard working, very tired man who should be back in his own court, not listening to a pack of lies.’
‘Lies!’ Routier yelled.
‘Yes, sir, lies! Someone is lying here.’
‘Then why not ask him?’ Routier pointed at Sir Walter. ‘Brother Athelstan, we have no poisons. Our noble gaoler has already searched our possessions.’
‘Is that true?’ Athelstan asked.
Sir Walter nodded. ‘I found nothing,’ he confirmed. ‘Nothing at all.’
‘What about the garden?’ Sir John opened his eyes, smacking his lips.
Routier gasped, open-mouthed. Athelstan hid his amusement. Sir John seemed to have the ability to sleep and listen at the same time.
‘What about the garden?’ The coroner rubbed his face. ‘There are plants growing there.’
‘Why not test us?’ Routier retorted. ‘We are sailors, my lord coroner, not gardeners. I speak for the rest: unless someone told us to the contrary, I wouldn’t know one herb from another.’
This drew murmurs of agreement from his companions. Athelstan stared down at the square of parchment. Nothing, he thought, we are learning nothing here.
‘One last question. Serriem was with you all the time?’
‘I’ve told you that,’ Routier replied wearily. ‘We supped here. We walked in the garden. We played chess, dice, other games. Nobody saw Guillaum drink or eat anything after he had left the table.’
‘You are sure of that?’
‘When the guards came to take us to our chambers, Serriem was alive and well. He took his wine cup up but it contained nothing we, too, hadn’t drunk.’
A short while later Sir John, Sir Maurice and Athelstan left Hawkmere Manor.
‘I’m glad we are out of there!’ Sir John exclaimed as soon as they were out of earshot. ‘A godforsaken place!’ He paused for a drink from his wineskin.
‘What do you make of it?’ Sir Maurice asked.
Athelstan stared back at the high, grey curtain wall and repressed a shiver. Many of the deaths he and the
