Athelstan watched the sun strengthen and rise. The Golden Oliphant sign was directly in its path and, for a short while, blocked the fiery circle. Athelstan smiled even as he marvelled at the golden glow which appeared through the cross-piece of the crucifix which decorated the lid of the Oliphant, piercing it clearly as it would translucent glass. Athelstan revelled in the sheer beauty of the sight, then the moment passed. Distracted by what he had seen and learnt, the friar rose to his feet, but then froze at a low, throaty growl. He turned slightly. The two hunting mastiffs stood staring at him, great beasts with their tawny, short-haired bodies, powerful legs, massive heads and ferocious jaws. They stood poised, then one of them edged forward, belly going slightly down, and the other followed suit. Athelstan retreated back into the arbour. Childhood terrors returned. Memories of a similar confrontation years ago on a neighbour’s farm. The hounds were certainly edging forward. Athelstan kept still, trying hard not to stare at them, recalling his father’s advice on how to deal with such animals.
‘Gaudete! Laetare!’ Athelstan glanced up. Foxley appeared along the path to the arbour.
‘Gaudete! Laetare!’ He repeated the dog’s names. ‘Come! Come!’
Athelstan breathed a sigh of relief. Both mastiffs relaxed, turning away, tails wagging, heads down as they trotted to meet Foxley. He shared some biscuit with them, then, whistling softly, led them away. Athelstan waited until Foxley returned, sauntering down the path, crossbow in one hand, a quiver of bolts hanging on the warbelt around his waist. Athelstan scrutinized the Master of Horse closely: the scuffed, black leather jerkin, leggings and boots, the dark brown shirt, open at the neck, the wrist guard on his left arm, the quizzical look on that sardonic face. Athelstan recalled Benedicta’s remark about putting on a mask to meet other masks. Foxley’s mask had slipped. You are a fighter, Athelstan reflected, a man of war, and, if Sir John is correct, an Upright Man.
‘Well, Brother?’
‘Well, Master Foxley. I thought the hounds were kennelled?’
‘They were.’
‘And?’
‘Brother, anyone could have slipped out of the kitchen, drawn the bolts and lifted the latch. You were lucky. The mastiffs are tired after a night’s prowling. They have also eaten.’ He smiled. ‘They probably recognized the smell of the Golden Oliphant on you. But,’ he slipped the arbalest on to the hook on his belt, ‘still very, very dangerous.’
‘And you just happened to take a walk in the garden with a crossbow, a quiver of quarrels and some biscuit for your two friends?’
Foxley laughed and drew closer.
‘You are the Upright Men’s representative here, aren’t you?’ Athelstan demanded. Foxley just hunched his shoulders.
‘I asked a question,’ Athelstan insisted.
Foxley came and sat beside Athelstan. ‘I am what you say I am. Yes, I followed you into the garden because I am under strict orders. My masters in the Great Community of the Realm want you kept safe in this place of sudden, mysterious death. I watched you go out. I was in a chamber on the third gallery; I saw Gaudete and Laetare slipping through the garden like demons on the hunt. And, before you ask, Brother, no, I do not know who released the mastiffs. It could be anybody here.’
‘Did you question Whitfield?’
‘Of course, the Upright Men gave Whitfield silver and gold. We suspected he was about to flee. We were keen to retrieve the cipher he carried and any other secret information.’ Foxley eased off his warbelt and sat watching the first bees of the day cluster above a flower bed. He pointed up to the window of Whitfield’s chamber. ‘I know the clerk was supposed to leave in the early hours to meet a captain of the Upright Men, but I was ordered not to show my hand or interfere in any way, so I didn’t. Once Whitfield left the Golden Hall that evening I lost interest in him and became deep in my cups. I tell you this, Brother: Whitfield was frightened as any coney being hunted in a wheat field. He refused to talk. The only people he really conversed with were the moppets, the ship’s captain and Matthias Camoys. Why he paid attention to that dream-catcher, I do not know. I believe the Upright Men would have let him go provided he returned the secret manuscripts he carried.’ Foxley rose, gripping the heavy warbelt. ‘Now my questions, Brother. What were you doing in the garden – not just watching the sun rise, I assume?’
‘Oh, very much so.’ Athelstan gestured for Foxley to accompany him back into the Golden Oliphant. ‘Indeed, I have a task for you, several in fact. First,’ he pointed back at the sign, ‘I want that taken down and brought to the court chamber of Sir John Cranston at the Guildhall.’
‘Is that really necessary?’
‘Yes, it’s very necessary. Tell Mistress Cheyne to comply or I will return with bailiffs and a writ. She also must accompany her property to the Guildhall, where she will joined by other people.’ Athelstan waved a hand. ‘Of course she will object, but she either comes of her own accord or faces an official summons and all that entails. Do you understand?’ Foxley grimaced but agreed. ‘However,’ Athelstan continued, ‘do not say anything until I have gone. Now …’ He turned to face the Master of Horse. ‘I am truly grateful for what you did. If it had not been for you I might have been wounded or even killed.’ He pointed towards the Golden Oliphant. ‘Somebody there wants me silenced, which only deepens my suspicions about these horrid deaths.’
‘Murders?’ Foxley queried.
‘Yes, my friend, heinous murder, which is why my last question to you is so important. Did you see, hear or learn anything suspicious on the evening before Whitfield died?’
‘No, Brother, I did not. True, like many of the others I became drunk, but not blind to what was happening around me. I glimpsed and heard nothing untoward.’
‘And the morning after?’
‘It was as I described. Whitfield’s chamber was bolted, barred and locked both door and window. When the chamber was forced it was as black as pitch inside, but I shall never forget that dangling corpse. If it wasn’t suicide, how did the assassin enter and leave so easily? I know the Golden Oliphant. There are no secret entrances, the chamber doors hang heavy and sturdy. No one heard or saw anything amiss.’
‘You did.’
‘Brother?’
‘You said Whitfield did not look so fat in death.’
‘Yes, that’s what I thought. Strange, especially as I’ve seen enough people hang – their bellies always swell out. Why do you ask me that?’
‘Oh, the answer is quite simple, Master Foxley. Whitfield may have been wearing a money belt,’ Athelstan tapped the warbelt Foxley carried, ‘thick and heavy with small pouches or wallets along the side, each crammed with coins.
‘Of course,’ Foxley whispered, ‘if he was fleeing abroad he would need every silver piece he could seize and he would carry it like that.’
‘Which is why,’ Athelstan pointed across at the brothel, ‘he and Lebarge chose chambers on the top gallery, safer, more secure against any attempt to seize his ill-gotten wealth. Now, Master Foxley, I thank you again. I would like to continue my wandering. Once I leave, please carry out my instructions.’
Foxley promised he would and Athelstan watched him go. Much as he was grateful to the Master of Horse, Athelstan remained deeply suspicious. Was Foxley protecting him or just creating the opportunity to curry favour? The Master of Horse could still be involved in Whitfield’s murder. After all, the Upright Men, like Stretton’s master Arundel, had probably lavished Whitfield with bribes. Was the clerk’s death an act of revenge, or an attempt to reclaim money spent? How many people would know that Whitfield would strap a veritable treasure about his waist? Whitfield would surely hide this from any whore or the likes of the pirate Odo Gray, so who else? The belt must have been fastened tight, hence the marks Brother Philippe had found on Whitfield’s corpse.
Athelstan entered the kitchen, now a hive of activity, and heads turned but little acknowledgement was made. He went down a passageway and had to almost push past Odo Gray and Stretton, who, surly faced and mice-eyed, were making their way along to the refectory. Once he was free of them, Athelstan paused at the foot of the staircase to recall everything he had been told about what had happened the morning Whitfield’s chamber was forced. He imagined Mistress Cheyne, Foxley and the two labourers going up to the gallery, Joycelina quietening the maids and the rest supposedly kept in the refectory under the watchful eye of Griffin. All except for Lebarge, who had apparently slipped away and climbed to the third gallery to listen to the door being forced. Athelstan concentrated on recalling everything Lebarge had told him and felt a tingle of excitement at one fact which did not fit in with the rest.