Delicately featured, exquisite in all his gestures, Richard of Bordeaux was almost a fairy-tale prince. Cranston found it difficult to believe that this highly intelligent, intense and sensitive young man was the son of the ruthless warrior, Edward the Black Prince, a chevalier so fierce and fiery, so determined in battle to kill everything and everyone who passed across the eye slits of his war helmet, he had even killed his own destrier when its nodding head caught his gaze in the red mist of battle. Cranston and the other knights of the body who had fought alongside the Black Prince soon learnt never to go before him. Now the Black Prince was dead of some loathsome, rotting disease contracted in Spain, leaving this young boy as England’s future king. As he knelt there listening to Burley’s declaration of loyalty on behalf of them all, Cranston speculated on what would become of this boy-king, so poised in his golden gown with the Lions of England emblazoned across his chest, fingers and wrists shimmering with jewellery, a silver circlet around the gold-spun hair. Sometimes, and Cranston had only confided this to Athelstan, he worried about the stability of this young king’s mind, so taken up with the sacredness of his office and the rights due to him from all his subjects. The coroner shifted his gaze to the woman clothed in dark-blue damask fringed with ermine, sitting on the King’s immediate right. If anyone was responsible for Richard’s sensitivity about his royal office, she was. Joan of Kent, mother of the King, once considered the greatest beauty in all of Europe.
Joan caught Cranston’s gaze, winked and smiled, pulling back her head to reveal her not so golden hair and a face dissipated by wine, luxurious living and the cares of high office. The lioness and her cub, Cranston thought. So what lay behind this extraordinary meeting at the dead of night, here, close to the Confessor’s tomb? He stared around. Like Cranston, these men were the King’s personal bodyguard who had sworn to be Richard’s men, body and soul, in peace and war. Once Burley’s declaration was finished, Richard delivered a pithy reply and bade them sit on the stools his retainers hastily set out. Cranston looked over his shoulder to see that the lights were being extinguished, candles capped, sconce torches doused, leaving only a shimmering glow around the ghostly tombs.
‘Gentlemen,’ the Queen Mother’s voice rang out. ‘You have been brought here to renew your oaths of loyalty and be advised of a most sinister conspiracy against your king.’ She paused for effect, before lifting a gloved hand to caress her son’s arm, a gesture which only emphasised his youth and vulnerability. Once again Cranston recalled those sombre words: ‘Woe to the kingdom whose ruler is a child.’
‘Listen now,’ the Queen Mother continued, ‘we all know unrest seethes both here and in the surrounding shires, in particular Kent and Essex. Oh, we know the storm will come and, to quote the great Augustine, “We shall bend lest we break.” Now, Sir John, my old friend,’ she smiled dazzlingly, ‘confidant of my late beloved husband, comrade in arms to many assembled here, you are investigating the mysterious death of Amaury Whitfield, creature of Thibault, the so-called Master of Secrets, henchman of His Grace, the King’s beloved uncle, John of Gaunt.’ Despite the smile and the courtly titles, the Queen Mother could hardly conceal her well-known loathing for her brother-in-law. ‘His Grace, the King’s uncle,’ Joan continued, her false smile now fading, ‘has left this sea of troubles to defend our northern march against the Scots. Anyway,’ she pointed at Cranston, ‘have you discovered the truth about Whitfield’s death or the secrets he may have carried?’
‘Your Grace,’ Cranston stood up, ‘my secretarius, my friend Brother Athelstan, has not yet resolved it, though he believes Whitfield did not kill himself. As for any secrets he may have held, we have a cipher which at this moment we cannot break. Your Grace, why …?’
‘You are here,’ the Queen Mother declared, rising to her feet and pulling back the sleeves of her voluminous gown, ‘because we have received dreadful news. You know the rebel leaders have always proclaimed, sworn and solemnly protested that they have no quarrel with their king, our beloved son, but only with those who try and control him.’ She let her words hang in the air. Everyone knew she was referring to Gaunt and his henchmen, Sudbury of Canterbury, John Hales, Master Thibault and others of their ilk.
‘Now, however,’ the Queen Mother’s voice shrilled, ‘matters have changed. We have received information from the very heart of the Great Community of the Realm that some of the Upright Men plot the greatest blasphemy, regicide! The murder of your God-given king and our most beloved son!’ Her words created uproar. Shouts and cries of protest filled the hallowed precincts. Swords were drawn and raised as individuals shouted their defiance against such an outrageous act, even though some like Cranston wondered how true the threat was. The clamour was silenced by the King rising to his feet. Immediately swords were sheathed and the assembled council retook their seats. Cranston remained standing.
‘Sir John,’ the Queen Mother declared, ‘you have a question, though I can anticipate it. What source informed us of this? Suffice to say,’ she continued with one hand on her son’s shoulder, ‘that we accept this information unreservedly, as well as the warning of how it will be done.’
Cranston sat down.
‘On no account when the troubles come,’ the Queen Mother continued, ‘and they surely will, must our soveriegn lord agree in any form or guise to meet the rebel leaders. If he does, if he is forced to, if he has no choice, remember this. Your king’s very survival, your survival, our survival, will depend on one thing and one thing only.’ She paused for effect, lifting her right hand as if taking a great oath. ‘You must go armed. You must kill every single rebel leader present at that meeting because if you do not, they will undoubtedly slay your king, God’s Chosen, Christ’s Anointed, as well as anyone else who accompanies him. So swear.’ The Queen’s voice echoed like a trumpet. ‘Here in this hallowed place that what I said tonight will be obeyed. On your souls’ eternal fate …’
‘Absolvo te a peccatis tuis – I absolve you from your sins.’ Athelstan crouched by the corpse of Oliver Lebarge sprawled on the sacristy floor. He tried to avoid looking at the dead man’s liverish face all twisted in the agonized contortion of a painful death. Lebarge had been poisoned, Athelstan was certain of that. The dead man’s face was more than proof, especially the dirty white foam drying on his mouth, the bulging eyes, his slightly swollen tongue thrust through half-open lips; his limbs were rigid, head thrust forward as the dying man had fought for his last breath. The friar finished the absolution and hastily anointed the hands, chest and feet of the corpse, aware of his parishioners thronging at the half-open door leading to God’s Acre. Apparently Lebarge had taken the poison, God knows what, how or when, and, realising he was in mortal agony, staggered out of the sanctuary only to collapse here in the sacristy where Mauger had found him.
‘How, Brother?’ Benedicta came across and crouched beside him. He turned and stared at her smooth, olive-skinned face. ‘How?’ she repeated. ‘Brother Athelstan, this was a man terrified out of his wits. The only food he would eat was what I brought from your house; nothing was added whilst I fetched him his supper some hours ago.’ She gestured at the door. ‘He distrusted the doxies at the Golden Oliphant, he confessed as much, none of them came here. Moreover, why should he take anything from those he fled from?’