As they hurried down Fleet Street Athelstan wondered if perhaps Sir John had drunk too deep. They turned abruptly into the long gardens of the Inner Temple, fenced off from sightseers. The gatekeeper, recognising Cranston, let them in without a word. They hurried through the tranquil, fragrant-smelling garden, past the Inner and Middle Temples, and down Temple Stairs where they hired a wherry to take them to Westminster. Cranston, despite his bulk, jumped into the boat, pulling a surprised Athelstan along with him. He tripped on his staff and nearly pitched head first into the water. The boatman cursed, telling them to sit down and keep still, and then, puffing and sweating, he pulled his craft out midstream through the flocks of swans who arched their wings in protest as if they owned the river.
They followed the Thames as it curved down past the Savoy Palace, Durham and York House, past the high- pooped ships scarred from long voyages which were crowding in for repairs. At Charing Cross the boatman began to pull in as the deep bend in the river became more pronounced. They passed Scotland Yard; Westminster Abbey came into sight; the tower of St Margaret's and the roofs, turrets and gables, shop-dwellings, houses and taverns, which made up the small city of Westminster.
The boatman pulled in, allowing Athelstan and Cranston to disembark at the Garden Stairs and go through the courts, corridors and passageways which linked the different buildings of Westminster Palace. The place was thronged; gaolers with their prisoners, attorneys, lawyers and clients, as well as vendors of paper, ink and food. The ne'er-do-wells and the many sightseers mixed with the army of law clerks carrying rolls of parchment up from the cellar known as Hell where, Sir John explained, the legal records were kept. The smell was terrible, despite the fresh breezes wafting in from the river. Some of the lawyers and justices, resplendent in their silken robes, held nosegays to their faces to fend off the odour.
Cranston led Athelstan into the Great Hall, pointing out the painted walls though some of the frescoes were beginning to flake. The famous ceiling, where the wooden angels flew face down through the dusty air above the crowd, was so high it could scarcely be seen in the gloom. Cranston stopped a beadle in his blue cloak, the shield of office on his breast and long staff tapping the paving stones proclaiming his sense of importance. Yes, the fellow assured them, with a nod of his head to the far end of the hall, the Court of King's Bench was now in session and Chief Justice Fortescue attendant upon it.
The beady, little eyes softened as Cranston displayed his warrant, a silver coin lying on top of it. However, the court had finished its morning session. Perhaps Chief Justice Fortescue was in his chamber?
The beadle led them through the gloomy rooms off the main hall where the Court of Common Pleas, Court of Chancery and Court of Requests sat, and down a warren of lime-washed corridors until he stopped in front of a door and rapped noisily with his wand.
'Come in!' Chief Justice Fortescue, his scarlet, fur- trimmed robe tossed over a chair, was sitting behind a table. The angry look on the judge's sallow face showed that either his attendance in court that morning or Cranston's arrival had put him in an ill humour.
'Ah!' Fortescue dropped the manuscript he was reading on to the table. 'Our zealous city coroner and his clerk. Please sit down.' He gestured to a well-cushioned window seat.
Cranston glared back at him and waddled over. Athelstan sat next to the coroner and wondered what was to come. The Chief Justice threw them both another ill-favoured glance.
'What progress has been made?'
In short, clipped tones Cranston told him exactly what had happened, and their suspicions. How the four deaths were linked. How Brampton and Vechey had probably not committed suicide but been murdered and that Allingham's supposed death from natural causes was probably the murderer striking again.
'You have no idea who it is?'
'No, My Lord.'
'Or why?'
'No, My Lord.'
'You found no great mystery that Sir Thomas Springall was hiding? Nothing which could endanger either the crown or the safety of the realm?'
'Nothing,' Cranston retorted. 'Why should there be?'
Fortescue dropped his glance, fiddling with the great amethyst ring on one of his fingers.
'Sir John, you hold your office from the crown. You could be removed.'
Cranston's face sagged and Athelstan felt a tremor run through the great, corpulent body. He spoke up.
'My Lord Chief Justice?'
Fortescue looked surprised, as if he had expected Athelstan to keep his mouth shut for the entire interview.
'Yes, Brother? You have something to add, perhaps? Something Sir John does not know.'
'No, I have nothing to add,' replied Athelstan. 'Except that Sir John and I have been most zealous in this matter. We could ask further questions – such as, My Lord what you yourself were doing at the banquet on the night Sir Thomas died? You said to us that you left early in the evening, but according to other witnesses you left just an hour before midnight. It would help us, My Lord,' he said, ignoring the look of deep annoyance on the Chief Justice's face. 'If everyone spoke the truth we might avoid future dangers.'
'Is that why you carry the staff, Brother?' The Chief Justice retorted, totally ignoring Athelstan's jibe. 'You fear something, don't you? What?'
'I fear nothing, My Lord, except perhaps that those who do not wish us to find the truth may intervene in a way we least expect. And that, of course, would help no one.'
'Meaning?'
'I mean, My Lord,' continued Athelstan, warming to his task, 'Sir John is a well-known and well-beloved coroner in the city. If he was attacked in public, people would be scandalised. The king's chief peace officer in the capital prevented from walking the streets! And if he was removed from office, questions would be asked. People would look very carefully at what matters Sir John was involved in when he was removed. There would be questions. There are aldermen who sit in the Commons, in St Stephen's Chapel, just a stone's throw away, only too willing to use any ammunition against the regent.' He spread his hands. 'Now, My Lord, I ask you to think again before you threaten Sir John. Remember, this task was given to us by you. If you wish, we can let the matter drop and others, perhaps more fortunate, can dig amongst the scandals, the lies and the deceit and possibly search out the truth.'
Fortescue took a deep breath to control the fury raging within him. How dare this friar, this bare-arsed Dominican in his dusty black robe and shoddy leather sandals, sit and lecture him, Chief Justice of the realm! Yet Fortescue was no man's fool. He knew Athelstan spoke the truth. He smiled falsely.
'True, Brother,' he replied, 'but there seems no answer to this conundrum in sight and the regent is most pressing. Indeed, he has invited both of you to a special tournament to be held at Smithfield the day after next and, following that, later in the evening, a banquet in the Savoy Palace. I may as well be blunt: Sir Richard Springall and all his household have also been invited. The duke does not care whether you wish to attend or not – he orders it. He wishes to inspect at close quarters all the actors in this drama. I take it you will attend?'
'Of course, My Lord,' Sir John spoke up. 'It's our duty.' He grinned slyly at his assistant. 'And both Brother Athelstan and myself would like some sort of respite, a short rest from tramping the streets on your work.'
On that parting note, Cranston belched noisily and left Chief Justice Fortescue, Athelstan behind him. They made their way back to the river steps.
During their journey up river Cranston sat morosely in the bows of the boat, staring into the water. Only when they reached Temple Stairs and disembarked did he put one podgy arm round Athelstan's shoulders and press his face closer to that of the friar. His breath smelt as rich as a wine press.
'Athelstan,' he slurred, 'I thank you for what you said there, in the presence of that mean-faced bastard! I'll not forget.'
Athelstan stepped back in mock annoyance.
'Sir John, remember the old adage? "The devil you know is better than the devil you don't." Moreover, I always think that working with you will lessen my spell in Purgatory when I die.'
Sir John turned and belched as loudly as he could.
'That, Brother,' he retorted, 'is the only answer I can and will make!'
They continued through the Temple Gates into the alleyway which would lead them into Fleet Street and a new cook shop. They were chatting about the tournament and John of Gaunt's invitation when Cranston stopped as he heard a sound behind them: a slithering across the cobbles.
'Athelstan,' he whispered, 'keep on walking.' His hand went to the hilt of his sword. 'But grip your staff and be ready!'
They walked a few steps further. Athelstan heard a sound close behind him and spun round as Cranston followed suit. Two men stood there, one tall and masked, the other a small, weasel-eyed individual dressed in a dirty leather jerkin, hose and boots which had seen better days. He wore a flat, battered cap on his head, pushed to one side to give him a jaunty air. Athelstan swallowed hard and felt a surge of panic. Both men were armed, each carrying a naked sword and dirk. What frightened him most was their absolute silence, the way they stared, unmoving, not issuing threats.
'Why do you follow us?' Cranston said, pushing Athelstan behind him.
'We do not follow, sir,' the weasel-eyed man replied. 'My companion and I merely walk the same path as you do.'
'I think you do follow us,' Cranston replied, 'and have been for some time. You followed us down to the river and waited until we returned. You have been expecting us.'
'I don't know what you are talking about!' The man took one step closer, sword and dagger now half raised. 'But you insult us, sir, and you must apologise.'
'I do not apologise to you, nor to the murderous bastard next to you! I am Sir John Cranston, coroner of the city.' He drew his sword and scrabbled behind his back to pull out the dirk. 'You, sirs, are footpads which is a felony. You are attacking a king's officer and that is treason. This is Brother Athelstan, a member of the Dominican order, a priest of the church. Any attack on him would bring down excommunication on you. And that, sirs, is the least you can expect! I will count to three,' the coroner continued as if enjoying himself, 'and then, if you are not out of this alleyway and back whence you came, you will answer to me! One… two…'
That was as far as he got. The men rushed at them, swords and daggers raised. The coroner met both attackers, catching their weapons in a whirling arc of steel as he nimbly spun his own in self-defence. In those few seconds Athelstan realised the depth of his own arrogance. He had always considered Sir John a portly, self-indulgent toper, but at this moment the coroner seemed more at ease, sword and dagger in his hands, fighting for his life, than he had at any time since they had met. He moved with a grace and speed which surprised both Athelstan and his opponents. Sir John was a competent swordsman, moving only when he needed to, keeping both dagger and sword locked in constant play. Athelstan could only stand and watch, open- mouthed. The coroner was smiling, his eyes half closed, sweat running down his face. The friar could have sworn that Sir John was singing a hymn or a song under his breath. There seemed little danger. Whoever had sent these assassins had completely underestimated the fat knight. Sir John fenced on, parrying sideways, backwards and forwards, playing with his opponents. Cautiously, Athelstan joined the fray – not as expertly as Sir John, but the long ash pole came into play, creating as much confusion as it did harm. Athelstan now stood shoulder to shoulder with Cranston. Their two assailants drew back.
Cranston was loath to stop the fight. 'And again, my buckosF he cried. 'Just once more and then a wound, an injury. If I don't kill you, the hangman will! Be sure of that.'
The small, weasel-eyed man looked at his companion, and before the coroner could advance another step, both men took to their heels and fled. Cranston leaned suddenly against the wall, wiping away the sweat now coursing down his face. His jerkin was stained with damp patches at the armpits and chest.
'You see that, Athelstan?' he gasped, resting his sword point on the ground. 'You saw me, didn't you? The sword play, the footwork. You will vouch for me with Lady Maude?'
Athelstan smiled. Sir John saw himself as a knight errant, a chevalier, and his little wife Maude as his princess.
'I saw it, Sir John,' he said. 'A born soldier. A true Saint George. You were in no danger?'
Cranston coughed and spat.
'From those? Alleymen, roaring boys, the dregs of some commissioner's levy! I tell you this, Athelstan,' sheathing his sword and dagger, 'I fought in France against the cream of French chivalry for the Old King, bless him! We were raging lions then and England's name was feared from the northern seas to the Straits of Gibraltar. In my younger days,' he bellowed, pulling his shoulders back martial fashion, 'I was keen as a greyhound, fast as a falcon swooping to the kill.'
Athelstan hid a smile, looking at the sweat still pouring down the fat coroner's face, the great, stout stomach wobbling with a mixture of pride and anger.
Of course they had to stop at the nearest tavern for Sir John to take refreshment and go over his sword play, step by step, blow by blow. Athelstan, concealing his amusement, listened as attentively as he could.
'Sir John,' he interrupted finally, 'those men, the footpads, they were sent, were they not? They were waiting for us.'
'Yes,' Cranston stuck his fiery red nose deeper into his tankard, slurping noisily, they were sent after us. Which means, Brother Athelstan, that our final remark to Sir Richard as we left the Springall house hit home. The murderer now knows that we are on his trail. Vechey, Brampton and Allingham are dead, and the number of suspects shrinks. We have a greater chance of being able to flush this assassin out. But we must remain vigilant, Brother, for he may strike again.'
He stood up and gazed round the tavern. Athelstan wondered if he was going to describe to all and sundry the recent fray in the alleyway.
'You will come back with me, Athelstan, to Lady Maude?'
He shook his head. If he went back the day would be done. Cranston would drink himself silly, celebrating his triumph, and make Athelstan recount time and time again his great victory.
'No, Sir John, I crave your pardon but not this time. We shall meet the day after next. We have an invitation to a tournament which we must accept.'
Cranston reluctantly conceded his point and they both left the tavern and walked back to collect their horses. The coroner stood and watched Athelstan mount the ancient but voracious Philomel.
'My Lady Maude will come to the tournament,' he said, then looking up at the friar, tapped the side of his fleshy nose. 'You can always bring the woman Benedicta.'
Athelstan blushed. He dare not ask how Cranston knew about Benedicta. The coroner laughed and was still bellowing with mirth as Athelstan urged his horse forward out into the street. He still retained the staff Cranston had bought him. On the journey home he felt slightly ridiculous, like some broken-down knight preparing for a tournament. He tried to ignore the murmured whispers and laughter as he made his way through the streets across London Bridge and back into Southwark. He thought over the attack but felt no fear. The danger from the footpad, the silent assassin, was always present, here in his church or across the river. Athelstan stopped his horse outside St Erconwald's and thought about that further. Suddenly he realised he had no fear of death. Why? Because of his brother? Because of his priesthood? Or because his conscience was clear? Then he thought of Benedicta and felt a twinge of doubt.
That night, whilst Sir John roistered in his house like Hector.home from the wars, Athelstan fed Philomel and Bonaventure. He promised himself he would not go up to the tower to observe the stars. Instead he went into his own church, secured the door, lit candles and took them to his small carrel where he placed his writing tray. He chose a piece of smooth parchment and began to write down everything that had happened since he first went to the Springall mansion. He was sitting there, half dozing over what he had written, when there was a loud knocking on the door. At first he refused to answer, then realised that no assassin would make such a noise so went down to the door and called out: 'Who's there?'
'Rosamund, Brother!'
Athelstan recognised the voice of the eldest daughter of Pike the ditcher. He unlocked the door and peered out into the darkness. A fresh-faced young girl burbled out her news. How her mother had just given birth to another child, her fifth, this time a boy. Athelstan smiled and mumbled his congratulations. The little girl looked at him solemnly.
'Mother wishes you to choose a name.'
Athelstan smiled and acknowledged the great honour.
'She wants a saint's name, Brother.'
Athelstan promised he would do what he could and hoped to see her and her family as soon as possible. He heard the girl run back down the steps and her footsteps faded in the distance. He locked the door and went back to the carrel. Athelstan picked up the piece of parchment and the candle, scrutinising what he had written. He shook his head. He was too tired for work but felt he must continue otherwise he would think back to Cranston's words about Benedicta. Idly, he wondered if the widow would accompany him. After all, there would be nothing wrong in a day out for both of them. 'Christ had his friends,' he kept murmuring to himself. He thought of little Rosamund and went to the high altar where the great missal lay. The friar opened the book, turning to the back where a previous incumbent had written the names of all the saints, listing in a neat hand which guild, craft or profession they were patrons of. Joseph, Athelstan grinned, patron saint of undertakers and mortuary men. The friar laughed. Joseph of Arimithea – the only man he ever buried was alive and well three days later! Perhaps not the best saint the church should have chosen for such a profession. His eyes ran down the list, looking for a suitable saint's name. Suddenly he saw one and stopped, his heart pounding with excitement. He was fully awake. He looked at the name again and the craft and guild of which he was patron. Was it possible? Was it really possible?
Athelstan closed the missal, all thoughts of Pike the ditcher and his family cleared from his head. He went back to the carrel, seized his pen and continued to write out everything he knew. He tried to extract every detail from his memory, quoting to himself what he had said to Cranston earlier in the day: 'If there's a problem, logically there must be a solution.' For the first time ever, Athelstan had a piece of evidence, something that would fit, something which might unlock the rest of the secrets.
He fell asleep for a few hours just before dawn and woke cold and cramped, his head on the small desk, his body somehow wedged on the stool. He stretched, cracking muscles, and looked up at the small window above the high altar, pleased to see it would be a fair day. He prepared the altar for Mass, opened the door and waited for the small trickle of his congregation to enter. At last, when he thought he could wait no longer, he glimpsed Benedicta slip silently up the nave to join the other two members of his congregation, kneeling between them at the entrance to the rood screen. The widow's ivory face, framed in its veil of luxurious black curls, seemed more exquisite than ever and Athelstan said a prayer of thanks to God for such beauty.
As usual, after Mass, Benedicta stayed to light a candle before the statue of the Virgin. She smiled as Athelstan approached and asked softly if all was well.
Athelstan took his courage in both hands and blurted out his invitation. Benedicta's eyes rounded in surprise but she smiled and agreed so quickly that the friar wondered if she, too, felt the kinship between them. For the rest of the day he could hardly concentrate on any problem, caught between contrition that he had done something wrong in inviting Benedicta and pleasure that she had so readily accepted. He could not really account for what he did, moving from duty to duty like a sleep-walker, so buoyed up he didn't even bother to study the stars that night, in spite of the sky being cloud free. His mind was unwilling to rest. Sleep eluded him. Instead he tossed and turned, hoping Girth the bricklayer's son had delivered his message to Sir John Cranston indicating where they should meet the next day.
The friar was up just before dawn and celebrated his Mass, Bonaventure and Benedicta being his only congregation. Athelstan's pleasure increased when he saw that Benedicta, her hair now braided and hidden under a wimple, had a small basket by her side in preparation for their journey to Smithfield. After Mass they talked, chatting about this and that, as they walked from Southwark across London Bridge to meet Cranston and his wife at the Golden Pig, a comfortable tavern on the city side of the river.
Lady Maude, small and pert, was cheerful as a little sparrow, welcoming Benedicta like a long lost sister. Cranston, with at least three flagons of wine down him already, was in good form, nudging Athelstan in the ribs and leering lecherously at Benedicta. After Sir John had pronounced himself refreshed they made their way up to Thames Street to the Kirtle tavern which stood on the edge of Smithfield, just under the forbidding walls of Newgate Prison.
Athelstan remembered what he had learnt from his study of the Index of Saints but decided not to confide in Sir John. The puzzle had other pieces and the friar decided to wait, although he felt guiltily that Benedicta's presence might have more to do with his tardiness than it should have.
The day had proved to be a fine one. The streets were hot and dusty, so Cranston and Athelstan's party welcomed the tavern's coolness. They sat in a corner watching the citizens of every class and station go noisily by, eager to reserve a good place from which to watch the day's events. Merchants sweltering under beaver hats, their fat wives clothed in gaudy gowns, beggars, quacks, story-tellers, hordes of apprentices, a man from the guilds. Athelstan groaned and hid his face as a crowd of parishioners led by Black Clem, Ranulf the rat-catcher and Pike the ditcher, passed the tavern door, roaring a filthy song at the top of their voices. At last Cranston finished his further refreshment and, with Benedicta so close beside him his heart kept skipping for joy, Athelstan led them out into the great cleared area of Smithfield. Three blackened crow-pecked corpses still hung from a gibbet but the crowd ignored them. The food-sellers were doing a roaring trade in spiced sausages and, beside them, water-sellers with great buckets slung round their necks sold cooling drinks to soothe the mouths of those who chewed the hot, spicy meat. Athelstan looked away, his gorge rising, after seeing Ranulf the rat-catcher sidle up beside one of these water-sellers and quietly piss into one of the buckets.
Smithfield had been specially cleared for the joust. Even the customary dung heaps and piles of ordure had been taken away. A vast open space had been cordoned off for the day. At one side was the royal enclosure with row after row of wooden seats, all covered in purple or gold cloth. In the centre a huge canopy shielded the place where the king and his leading nobility would sit. The banners of John of Gaunt, resplendent with the gaudy device of the House of Lancaster, waved lazily in the breeze. Marshalls of the royal household in their colourful tabards, white wands of office held high, directed Cranston and his party to their reserved seats.
All around them benches were quickly filling with ladies in silk gowns, giggling and chattering, who clutched velvet cushions to their bosoms as they simpered past the young men eyeing them. These gallants, with hair long and curled, and jerkins dripping pearls, proved to be raucous and strident. Cranston was merry, but some of these young men were already far gone in their cups. Athelstan ignored the lustful glances directed at Benedicta, trying to curb the sparks of jealously which flared in his heart.
Once they were seated, he looked round, studying the tournament area. The field, a great grassy plain, was divided down the centre by a huge tilt barrier covered in a black and white canvas. At the end of this barrier were the pavilions, gold, red, blue and scarlet, one for each of the jousters. Already the contestants were arriving and around each pavilion scuttled pages and squires. Armour glinted and dazzled in the sun; banners bearing the gules and lozenges, lions, wyverns and dragons of the noble houses, fluttered in the faint summer breeze. A bray of trumpets stilled the clamour, their shrill so angry the birds in the trees around Smithfield rose in noisy protesting flocks. The royal party had arrived.
Cranston pointed out John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, his face cruel under blond hair, skin burnt dark from his campaigns in Castille. On either side of him stood his brothers and a collection of young lords. In the centre of the group, with one of John of Gaunt's hands on his shoulder, stood a young boy, his face white as snow under a mop of golden hair, a silver chaplet on his head. Cranston nudged and pointed again: beside the royal party Athelstan glimpsed Chief Justice Fortescue in scarlet, lined with pure white lamb's wool, Sir Richard, Lady Isabella, the priest Crispin, Master Buckingham, Dame Ermengilde, and others of their household. Athelstan was sure that they all looked his way but again came the shrill bray of the trumpets. Gaunt raised his hand as if welcoming the plaudits of the crowd. There was clapping from the claque of young courtiers around him but the London mob was silent and Athelstan remembered Cranston's mutterings about how the expensive tastes of the court, coupled with the military defeats against the French, had brought Gaunt and his party into disrepute.
'Our quarry's in sight!' Cranston whispered to the friar, though his voice carried for yards around them. Athelstan looked sideways at Benedicta and his heart lurched. She had turned slightly, staring coolly back at a young, dark-faced gallant, resplendent in red and white silks, who lounged in his seat with eyes for no one but Athelstan's fair companion. Cranston, sharp enough under his bluff, drunken exterior, caught the friar's pained glance. He leaned over and tapped Athelstan on the arm.
'The tournament is about to begin, Brother,' he said. 'Watch carefully. You may learn something about combat.'
Another shrill blast of the trumpets. Banners were lowered, and behind the pavilions came a procession led by pages in tight quilted jackets, multi-coloured hose and gaudy feathered hats. They carried huge canvas paintings depicting scenes from the Bible and classical times. Hercules fighting with the python; the slaying of Hector; the Siege of Troy; Samson amongst the Philistines; and the serpent entering Eden. Such a tableau always preceded tournaments. It was followed by musicians with tambour, fife and viol. Behind them came squires and further pages and, finally, the knights themselves, not yet armoured, their colours carried before them. The procession wound around the whole tournament area, knights and men-at-arms acknowledging the cheers and cries of the crowd.
Athelstan looked more closely at one of the paintings, a scene from the Book of Genesis, remembered something he had glimpsed in the Springall house, and he gasped. The sounds around him died away. All he could see was that crude canvas painting being carried by two pages. Of course! His stomach churned with excitement. He turned to Cranston, grabbing him by the arm.
'The paintings! The canvas paintings!' he whispered hoarsely.
Cranston looked at him blearily.
'The paintings, Sir John, in the Springall house? The canvas ones on the walls. When we first went there, they were covered in black drapes because of the mourning. Don't you remember? Genesis Chapter Three, Verse One, the serpent entering Eden! There was a painting like that in one of the galleries in SpringalPs house. Maybe that is what Sir Thomas was referring to?'
Cranston blinked. Making sure his wife did not see him, he pulled a wineskin from underneath his cloak and took a generous swig.
'I am here to enjoy myself, man,' he said hoarsely. As he put the stopper back, Athelstan's words sank in. 'My God, of course, you're right! The paintings, the three riddles. They may hold the secret!'
Athelstan dare not tell him that he had already resolved one of them.
'What shall we do?' murmured Cranston.
'Go now!' Athelstan said.
'But we are here as the guests of John of Gaunt. I know the duke. If we leave, he will send some busybody squire or serjeant-at-arms after us.'
'Now is the best time,' Athelstan replied, drawing closer, whispering into Sir John's ear, conscious that Lady Maude was totally absorbed in the pageant before her whilst Benedicta, distracted, was still staring back at the admiring gallant.
'Sir John, the Springall house is empty now. Let us strike whilst the iron is hot!'
Cranston looked as if he was going to refuse but thought again. 'Follow me,' he said.
Cranston whispered to his wife, then waddled off with Athelstan in tow, pushing through the crowd towards the royal enclosure. Knight bannerets of the king's household stopped them but Cranston muttered a few words and they let him by. Athelstan, however, had to stand outside the protective ring of steel watching Cranston bow at the foot of the steps and fall to one knee. Athelstan looked behind him. The procession was still circling the arena. John of Gaunt came down the steps, laughing. He tapped Cranston on the shoulder and raised him up, whispering in his ear. The coroner replied. Behind Gaunt, Chief Justice Fortescue glowered like some angry hawk. John of Gaunt looked up abruptly and stared like a hungry cat at Athelstan, his eyes yellow, hard and unblinking. He nodded and muttered something over his shoulder to Fortescue, then to Cranston. The coroner bowed and backed away. Athelstan looked to his left to where the Springall household sat. Surprisingly, no one seemed interested in Sir John's meeting with the regent.
Cranston himself said nothing until they had walked away from the royal enclosure.
'Brother,' he whispered, 'we have the Regent's permission to go down to the Springall house now, to examine and take anything we wish. The regent has said, even if it takes all day, we are not to appear at the royal palace or the Savoy until we have something more to tell him!'
Athelstan's heart sank. On the one hand he wished to examine those paintings and resolve the mystery. But on the other, he wished to be with Benedicta. He looked up. Fitful clouds were beginning to obscure the sun. He glanced across to where the women sat. Cranston's wife was making herself comfortable on the bench whilst the gallant who had been eyeing Benedicta had now moved closer and was talking quietly with her. He was teasing her but Benedicta did not seem to mind. She seemed absorbed in the young man's conversation. Athelstan barely listened to Cranston's muttering. He fought to control a sense of panic and reminded himself that he was a priest, a man ordained, sworn to God. Had he not taken a vow of celibacy? Although he might have a woman as a friend, he could not lust, he could not desire or covet any woman, whether she be free or not. Athelstan steeled himself. Benedicta was courteous to everyone, whether it be Hob's wife, Ranulf the rat-catcher, or now a court gallant. Nevertheless, Athelstan felt a growing rage at his condition; a sense of jealous hurt that Benedicta could find someone else so attractive and entertaining, even though he dismissed the emotion itself as both childish and dangerous.