‘Brother?’
‘My apologies, Sir John.’ Athelstan sighed deeply. ‘I have said this before but I shall do so again. I want the corpses taken to the death house at the Guildhall. The chaplain should anoint them. Afterwards, hire the most able physician, strip and search each corpse, scrutinize them carefully. The tub of platters and cups must be scraped; all the dregs and scraps placed in one of the Guildhall dungeons.’ Athelstan blew his cheeks out. ‘Of course, there is also Hugh of Hornsey, holder of the third key and captain of archers. Where is he? Dead? Alive? Innocent or guilty? Sir John, this assassin, Beowulf? How long has he been waging his secret, bloody war?’
‘Oh, about two years.’
‘And does he confine himself to the city?’
‘The city and the shires around London, as far north as Colchester and as far south as Richmond.’
‘And, when he strikes, is he always successful?’
‘No, as with the attack on Marsen at Leveret Copse, sometimes he fails.’
‘And are his victims always crown officials?’ Athelstan held Cranston’s gaze as the friar hid his own fears. Does that include you, my fat, faithful friend? Athelstan thought. Are you also, incorruptible though you are, marked with the sign of the beast, an intended victim for slaughter?
‘No.’ Cranston’s beaming smile was eloquent enough. ‘Beowulf hunts Gaunt’s creatures, the minions of Master Thibault.’
‘And who are the other guests, those who roomed here last night?’ Athelstan hid his relief beneath his question to Thorne.
‘Philip Scrope, the physician, Sir Robert Paston, a member of the Commons from the shire of Surrey, together with his daughter Martha and his clerk, William Foulkes.’
‘I know Paston.’ Cranston spoke up. ‘Gaunt’s most bitter enemy. A critic of the poll tax, Gaunt paid him back in equal coin. Sir Robert is a seasoned mariner who believes he should have been appointed as admiral of the king’s ships from the mouth of the Thames along the east coast to the Scottish March. Instead, Gaunt appointed one of his own favourites. Paston constantly criticizes the lack of war cogs to protect English merchantmen. Paston should know. He makes his wealth out of wool. He would be no friend of Marsen.’
‘Ah, Sir John, Brother Athelstan.’ Thorne leaned forward. ‘I am sorry, I should have told you this but it slipped my mind. Two nights ago, just after Marsen returned from collecting the tax, the same evening Lascelles appeared here, Sir Robert and Marsen met in the Dark Parlour. There was an angry exchange of words, fingers falling to daggers.’
‘Why?’ Athelstan asked. ‘What happened?’
‘Sir Robert called Marsen a robber, a wolfshead, a vile plunderer.’
‘And Marsen?’
‘He just jeered and jibed. He said he knew all about Sir Robert and didn’t care for him, though he would more than welcome a visit during the night from Paston’s daughter – that’s when fingers fell to daggers. I intervened. Marsen just sauntered off, laughing over his shoulder.’
‘What do you think Marsen meant when he said he knew all about Sir Robert?’
‘Brother Athelstan, you must ask Sir Robert yourself. I suspect Marsen was quietly mocking Paston for not being appointed as Admiral of the Eastern Seas. I know Sir Robert was very sensitive on the issue.’
‘And the rest of the guests?’ Cranston asked. ‘How were they to Marsen?’
‘I would say they were just as hostile but that’s based on tittle-tattle. There’s Brother Roger, a Franciscan from their house at Canterbury. I have mentioned the physician who claims he has been on pilgrimage to Glastonbury. Finally, there’s a professional chanteur, minstrel or whatever else he proclaims himself. I understand he enjoys quite a reputation as a troubadour. He calls himself Ronseval. I cannot say whether he was baptized as such; he claims he is against anyone who fetters the human spirit.’
‘In which case,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘he must champion most of London. I presume they are all waiting for us in the refectory?’
‘Then come.’ Cranston heaved himself up.
They left, crossing the Dark Parlour into the refectory. Five people sat around the common table. Athelstan was aware of hostile looks and bitter grimaces as introductions were made and they took their seats. Mine Host and Mooncalf stood in the doorway. Cranston asked if they wished for anything to eat or drink but all he received were muttered refusals. Athelstan sketched a blessing. Cranston then clapped his hands and moved swiftly to business.
He asked what each of them had done the previous evening and received the expected, perfunctory replies. All the chamber guests, as Thorne described them, had eaten supper, returned to their chambers and retired to bed. They had neither seen nor heard anything to report. Athelstan sensed they were lying. He was certain that the killer must be in this tavern, even though logic dictated the very strong possibility that last night’s massacre was the work of a professional assassin despatched by the Upright Men. Athelstan studied the guests closely. He noticed the easy flow of conversation, the relaxed attitude between them all and concluded they liked each other.
Sir Robert was a wealthy wool merchant, a manor lord, a grey-haired, sharp-eyed man with ever-twitching lips as if there was something unpleasant in his mouth. He was clean-shaven and dressed most conservatively in a houppelande, a long gown fringed with lambswool, clasped at throat and wrist with silver studs. A former soldier and a mariner who had fought in France as well as in the constant sea battles between Dover and Calais, he was a rather sad man, Athelstan considered, a widower who apparently doted on his delicately faced, blue-eyed daughter Martha: she sat close to him dressed as soberly as a Benedictine nun in her white-starched wimple, dark-blue veil and unadorned gown of the same colour. She wore doe-skinned gloves studded with pearls, her only concession to fashion. Nevertheless, despite all her coyness, Athelstan noticed the fervent glances between the seemingly doe-like Martha and her father’s clerk William Foulkes. Athelstan hid his smile; both young people were deeply in love, although Martha’s father appeared blithely unaware of it. Foulkes acted all precise and courtly: vigilant and keen-witted, an observer rather than a talker, probably a graduate of the halls of Oxford or Cambridge. Foulkes was dressed in buckram and dark fustian, constantly fiddling with the chancery ring on his finger, apparently resentful at being detained and questioned, although he tried to hide it. Athelstan noticed that the two young lovers wore no religious insignia, be it a cross, medal or ring. Young women such as Martha often carried crystal Ave beads entwined between their fingers, more a service to fashion than prayer, but she did not. Nor had she or Foulkes crossed themselves when Athelstan first entered the refectory and, as was customary, sketched a blessing in the air. He was also intrigued that, as each of the guests described what they had done the previous evening, both young people glanced at Mooncalf, who stared warningly back, fingers twitching as if the ostler was trying to communicate some secret message to them. Athelstan wondered why all three seemed so uncomfortable.
The same applied to Philip Scrope the physician. He sat cross-legged, his costly slashed robes gathered about his scrawny frame. An arrogant man with harsh dry features and heavy-lidded eyes, Physician Scrope apparently regarded himself as superior to those around him. He kept scratching his thinning hair, lips twisted in a sardonic grimace, tapping the table as if impatient to be gone. Ronseval, the wandering minstrel, troubadour and whatever else he claimed to be, exuded the same arrogance. Ronseval was dressed in a sky-blue jerkin, tight black hose and costly, ankle-high leather boots. His reddish hair was neatly coiffed and crimped, his smooth, swarthy face generously rubbed with perfumed oil. He slouched at the table, fingers smoothing its surface. Now and again he’d touch the hand-held harp lying nearby, a delicately carved instrument with finely taut strings. Despite Ronseval’s confident stare and poise, Athelstan detected a nervousness which expressed itself in what the friar could only judge as slightly feminine gestures of his mouth and eyes, the nervous twitching of long, well-manicured fingers and the way he kept touching his hair and glancing up at the ceiling. Brother Roger in contrast sat upright, still as a statue, his raw, high-boned face and slightly slanted eyes cold and impassive. A wiry man, the Franciscan was dressed in the clay-coloured robes of his order with stout sandals on his feet and the white cord around his waist displaying the three knots symbolizing his vows of poverty, chastity and obedience. He held Athelstan’s gaze, staring coldly back as he chewed the corner of his lip. Then he relaxed, smiled and winked quickly, as if he and the Dominican were conspirators and all this was some elaborate masque.