obstacle?’
Full of fire, he had returned to his wooing though this time it was more difficult. Nevertheless, thanks to Rosamunda, he and Angelica had met, sworn oaths of love and agreed to elope this very night. He had no real plan. They would ride into Berkshire and hire some hedge-priest to marry them and be their witness when they exchanged vows at the church door.
Sir Maurice stepped back into the lane. Further down, cats fought rats among the ordure piled on either side of the open sewer. A mongrel cur came snarling out, but the cats drove it off. In the pool of light thrown by the sconce torches, Sir Maurice stared in pity at the tarred figure swinging from the makeshift gallows: a house-breaker who had been caught red-handed and executed at the scene of his crime. The gibbeters had coated the body in pitch which gleamed eerily in the dancing torchlight.
Sir Maurice returned to the church path. What would happen to him once Gaunt found out? Would he be favoured or punished? The Regent had a vile temper and those who betrayed him received no forgiveness.
The bells of St Mary-Le-Bow now began to chime the hour of Compline. Sir Maurice tensed. Would Angelica keep her word? He heard the sound of horses and stepped out but the figures who came out of the darkness were not what he expected: no Rosamunda, no Angelica. Instead he recognised Sir Thomas Parr’s henchmen led by Ralph Hersham. They left their horses and walked forward, drawing sword and dagger, fanning out in a semi- circle.
‘What do you want?’
He felt his heart would break with disappointment.
‘Don’t be foolish.’ Hersham edged forward. ‘There are five of us and more coming. We do not wish to cross swords with you, Maltravers. We bring you messages. My master says he knows you and rejects you. You are forbidden to see his daughter again. And do not bother,’ Ralph’s sly face broke into a smile, ‘to come and wheedle beneath the windows of his house. Angelica is now with the holy nuns at Syon on Thames. They have strict orders to keep you at the gates!’
CHAPTER 2
Sir John Cranston, coroner of the city, lowered his massive body into the high-backed chair in his small chamber at the Guildhall. Simon, his scrivener, thought Sir John looked in fine fettle. He was dressed in a doublet of burgundy, white cambric shirt, hose and soft leather Spanish riding boots. Sir John’s hair was swept and oiled back, his moustache and beard fair bristling with expectation.
‘Why are we here, Simon?’ Sir John patted his stomach. He unhitched his thick leather war belt and threw it over the corner of the chair. ‘When I leave make sure I put my sword and dagger in my sheaths. The King’s coroner cannot be too careful in this vale of wickedness.’
‘Of course, Sir John.’ Simon dared not raise his eyes. He fought to keep his face straight at what was coming. Sir John Cranston was not a man of easy temper, though kindly and big-hearted, but, as Simon told his wife, when he was surprised, Sir John’s rubicund face was a veritable tapestry of moods and emotions.
‘Well!’ He leaned his elbows on the arms of the chair. ‘Where is Adam Wallace? He said he had something important to tell me. I’ve heard Mass, broken my fast. I’m just in the mood to listen to a lawyer.’
‘I’ll fetch him in now.’ Simon rose and went down the stairs.
Sir John leaned back in his chair and scratched his head. Wallace had sent him a message yesterday afternoon, saying he had something important to tell Sir John and that he was bringing a bequest of old Widow Blanchard who lived in Eel Pie Lane. Sir John had spent the evening wondering what it could be. Blanchard had been a merry old soul; Sir John had often called in to ensure that all was well with her. Blanchard’s husband had fought with Sir John in France. Perhaps she wished to give him some keepsake? Or…? He heard a creaking on the stairs. Simon came back into the chamber at a half-run, hands hanging by his side. Sir John’s light-blue eyes blazed. He could always tell when Simon was laughing at him: the scrivener would become all humble, stoop-shouldered, chin tucked in, face down.
‘What is it, Simon?’
‘You’d best see for yourself, Sir John.’
Wallace waddled into the room, followed by a little goat.
‘In heaven’s name!’ Sir John half-rose out of the chair.
Wallace was a small, self-important man, his hooked nose perpetually dripping, little black eyes ever searching for a fee or a profit. His smile was smug as he hitched his cloak about his shoulders. He held a scroll of parchment in his hand and approached Sir John’s desk.
‘You are Sir John Cranston, coroner of the city?’
‘Of course I am, you bloody idiot! Who do you think I am, the Archangel Gabriel?’
‘Now, now, Sir John. I am only performing my duty in accordance with the law, its customs and usages.’
‘Shut up! What are you doing in my court with that bloody thing?’
He pointed at the goat and glanced dangerously at his scrivener, hunched over his desk, shoulders shaking, pretending to sharpen his quill.
‘I have identified you as Sir John Cranston, coroner of the city,’ Wallace continued lugubriously. ‘I have brought into your court, in accordance with the law, its customs and usages, the will of one Eleanor Blanchard, widow of this parish. I am her legal executor as approved in the Court of Chancery!’
Sir John pointed a podgy finger in Wallace’s face.
‘If you don’t hurry up, I’m going to have you thrown into the Fleet for contempt!’
‘Widow Blanchard’s dead,’ Wallace gabbled. ‘Her will has been approved. She has left this goat as her gift to you. She also asked that the gift be delivered in your court in a formal way according to the law, its customs and…’
‘Shut up!’ Sir John bellowed. ‘Shut up, you little noddle-pate!’
Wallace stood back, head bowed. Sir John could see the smirk on his face. Eleanor Blanchard had a sharp sense of humour. She had often talked of the goat but he had never met it. Now, by having the goat delivered here in court, he had no choice but to accept it.
‘I don’t want a goat!’ The words were out before he could stop them.
‘Sir John, Sir John!’ Wallace’s eyes rounded in mock hurt. ‘It is the last wish of that poor woman. If you refuse such a gift delivered in court…’
‘Yes, yes, I know,’ Sir John mimicked. ‘In accordance with the law, its customs and usages, I must decide what happens to it. I could give it away.’ He beamed at Simon.
‘My lord coroner.’ Simon sprang to his feet. ‘As you well know, the coroner’s court is the King’s court. If you refuse the gift here, then the goat belongs to the Crown.’
‘And if it belongs to the Crown…’ Wallace added maliciously.
Sir John wearily sat back. ‘I know, I know.’ He waved a hand. ‘The Crown will order it to be taken to the slaughterhouse and sold for the highest possible price.’ He stared at the goat.
The animal seemed docile and obedient enough. It was a fine, handsome beast; its coat was dappled gold, its small horns pointed and straight, its eyes gentle. It chewed quietly on some victual picked up from the courtyard below.
‘Sir John, I wish you well.’ Wallace bowed and walked out of the door, his shoulders shaking with merriment.
Sir John followed him and, with his boot, slammed the door shut. He walked back, slouched in his chair and studied the goat.
‘What in hell’s name am I supposed to do with you?’
‘You could take it home, Sir John.’
‘Lady Maude has a great fear of goats. By the way, what did that clever bastard call it?’
Simon sifted among some scraps of parchment on his desk.
‘Er, Judas, my lord coroner.’
‘I beg your pardon!’
‘According to this piece of paper, Widow Blanchard called it Judas.’ Simon struggled to keep his long, narrow
