Adam Stretton swaggered into the Exchequer Chamber of the Golden Oliphant. Athelstan recognized the type immediately: the mailed clerk, the henchman, the professional killer, a seasoned soldier who could quote the Sentences of Aquinas as well as wield sword and dagger. Keen-eyed and swarthy faced, a little fleshy, his black hair cropped close on all sides to ease the war helmet he would don in battle. Clean-shaven and sharp in movement, Stretton peered at Athelstan from under heavy-lidded eyes as his be-ringed fingers fluttered above a warbelt with sword and dagger as well as a pouch for ink horn and quill. Stretton slouched down on the settle, flicking at the dust on his murrey-coloured jerkin and hose, moving now and again so the spurs on his high-heeled riding boots clinked noisily.
‘Are you preparing to leave?’ Cranston asked. ‘In which case you are most mistaken.’
‘My Lord of Arundel …’
‘My Lord of Arundel.’ Cranston smacked both hands down on the table. ‘My Lord of Arundel,’ he repeated, ‘will have to wait. You, sir, shall not leave this brothel until we are satisfied as to the truth of what happened here.’
Stretton licked thin, almost bloodless lips, his slit of a mouth twisted in protest.
‘Why are you here, Master Stretton?’ Athelstan asked quietly. ‘Just tell us.’
‘For the Cokayne Festival.’
‘For the delights of the flesh?’ Athelstan queried. ‘Master Stretton, I doubt that. I believe,’ Athelstan lifted a hand, ‘that you, a mailed clerk, the esteemed henchman of a great lord, did not come here just for revelry.’ Athelstan paused. ‘I wonder, I truly do.’
‘What?’ Stretton had lost some of his arrogant certainty.
‘Well,’ Athelstan glanced swiftly at Cranston. ‘Master Thibault is Gaunt’s henchman. Amaury Whitfield was Thibault’s creature, his principal chancery clerk. My Lord of Arundel, by his own proclamation, is Gaunt’s heart’s blood opponent. True? Well?’ Athelstan smiled at this arrogant clerk. ‘Did you come here to meet Master Whitfield? To negotiate with him, to suborn him, to learn his master’s secrets?’ Athelstan sat back. He and Cranston had discussed this while they had broken their fast on some delicious simnel cake and a pot of ale. Cranston strongly believed that Stretton was a ‘Master of Politic’ and that it was no coincidence that he had lodged at a brothel along with Thibault’s principal chancery clerk.
‘Well?’ Cranston barked. ‘Master Stretton, I could put you on oath and, if you lie, indict you for perjury …’
‘I came here,’ Stretton made himself more comfortable on the settle, ‘to revel, but also because I – we – learned that Whitfield also liked to attend such festivities. My Lord of Arundel felt it might be profitable to fish in troubled waters. I did keep Whitfield and his close-eyed scrivener Lebarge under sharp watch.’ Stretton paused as if to collect his thoughts, determined to be prudent about what he said.
‘Under sharp watch?’ Cranston queried, taking a slurp from the miraculous wineskin. ‘So, what did he do?’
‘Revel, as did Lebarge, with the ladies of the night.’
‘Who in particular?’
Stretton blew his cheeks out. ‘Whitfield with Joycelina, Lebarge with one of the others. I forget now.’
‘You forget so you can question her later?’ Cranston tapped the table. ‘I want her name.’
‘Hawisa. I think it was Hawisa.’
‘How did Whitfield appear?’
‘Frightened and, despite the wine and wenching, he seemed to grow more cowed and withdrawn.’
‘Why?’
‘I do not know.’
‘So why did you say that?’
‘Whitfield drank a great deal,’ Stretton replied. ‘He was often by himself. He kept rubbing his stomach as if his belly was agitated. Sometimes he disappeared. He left the tavern, slipping out like a shadow and returning just as furtively. But, why and where he went?’ Stretton gabbled quickly to fend off Athelstan’s next question, ‘I don’t know.’
‘Did he have any visitors?’
‘None that I saw.’
‘And he knew who you were?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Stretton conceded, ‘Whitfield and I had met before. He recognized me for what I am …’
‘Fitzalan of Arundel’s man, body and soul,’ Cranston intervened, ‘in peace and war.’
‘You have travelled the same road as I, Sir John. Arundel is my liege lord.’
‘And Arundel is my Lord of Gaunt’s arch-enemy,’ Cranston jibed. ‘We are correct, Stretton. You came here to suborn and subvert Whitfield.’
‘And I failed; the man was too distracted.’
‘And yesterday evening?’ Cranston demanded.
‘I was with the rest, in the taproom, what they ridiculously call the Golden Hall. Whitfield and Lebarge were present.’ Stretton sniffed. ‘Whitfield left for the stairs, Joycelina went with him, Lebarge continued drinking. Joycelina returned fairly swiftly.’ Stretton’s voice was now monotonous. ‘I retired to bed. I was roused for the morning meal, I came down. Lebarge was already there feeding his face on simnel cake, for which he is so greedy. Eventually Lebarge asked where his master was. The Mistress of the Moppets sent up her chief whore.’ Stretton did not hide the contempt in his voice. ‘She came clattering back all breathless about not being able to rouse Whitfield. Cheyne told us to stay with Griffin; she and Joycelina left the kitchen. We later heard the banging, then those labourers came down.’
‘And?’
‘Oh, chaos ensued.’
‘What about Lebarge?’
‘He slipped away.’
‘Did you go up to the death chamber?’
‘Yes, I did, whilst waiting for Thibault and his coven of …’ Stretton licked his lips and grinned, ‘… his henchmen to arrive. I glimpsed Whitfield, cloaked and booted, swinging like a felon at Tyburn.’
‘Suicide, in your opinion?’
‘Sir John,’ Stretton wagged a finger, ‘Whitfield did not commit suicide. Oh,’ he sat back as if enjoying himself, ‘I cannot tell you anything more – just a feeling. I stared at the corpse of a man dressed for leaving rather than a toper garbed in his nightshirt eager to die. But,’ he shrugged, ‘the full truth of it I cannot say. Am I done now?’
Cranston glanced at Athelstan, who nodded. Arundel’s man rose, bowed and, with Cranston’s shouted warning not to leave the Golden Oliphant ringing out behind him, sauntered out of the chamber.
Matthias Camoys came next. He was the opposite to Stretton, almost stumbling in to meet Cranston and Athelstan. He was pinch-faced and slender with a toper’s flushed, swollen nose and constantly blinking eyes. His sandy hair, wispy moustache and beard did little to improve his appearance. The same could be said for his loose-fitting, ill-hung, ermine-lined scholar’s gown. Matthias seemed more like a monk who’d donned a hair shirt, shoulders constantly twitching against some vexatious scratching. To Athelstan he appeared ill at ease in his own flesh: he kept fingering a small cross on a silver chain round his scrawny neck, his fingers all dirty, the nails close bitten. He sat himself down on the cushioned settle. Athelstan peered closer; he was sure the cross Matthias was wearing was a miniature replica of the Cross of Lothar. The questioning began. Matthias’ answers were desultory, like a prisoner forced to admit certain facts. He confessed to enjoying the Cokayne revels, as well as being a frequent visitor to the Golden Oliphant and a patron of a number of what he called, ‘the delicious Moppets’. A scholar from the halls of Oxford, he claimed he was here for the May festivals, though Athelstan suspected the masters of the university had sent him home for lack of study. It soon became obvious that yesterday evening Matthias Camoys had been deep in his cups and could remember very little except being helped up to his chamber by two doxies who had fumbled with him before he fell into a wine-soaked sleep.
‘And this morning?’ Cranston asked.
Matthias’ reply was as banal as the rest. He had awoken all mawmsy and staggered down to the refectory. He confessed to being so inebriated that he’d failed to realize what was happening.