‘My Lord, You can take Brother Athelstan’s seat.’ Cranston looked away, ‘On the night Fitzroy died, I know you were absent.’
The young nobleman, toying nervously with the hilt of his dagger, quietly obeyed. Athelstan once more peered round the room; two of the Guildmasters had already fallen into his small trap. Gaunt banged the table top, demanding they should continue, and Athelstan got to his feet.
‘Your Grace, the night Fitzroy died, we were, I believe, in the middle of a splendid banquet?’
‘A perceptive observation.’ Gaunt replied tartly.
‘No, Your Grace, it is important. Tell me,’ Athelstan continued, ‘had we finished the banquet?’
Gaunt wriggled in his seat, ‘Of course not. The main course had been served and the cooks were preparing dessert when Fitzroy brought matters to a macabre conclusion.’
‘Yes,’ Athelstan said, ‘I had forgotten about that until the other day when I ate a plum.’
‘For God’s sake!’ Denny snarled. ‘Don’t pose riddles Brother!’
‘No, I did,’ Athelstan continued softly. ‘I ate a sugared plum. I was embarrassed because the sugar and honey syrup stuck to my gums and teeth. I had to prise bits loose from my mouth. S I washed my hands in a bowl of water, I suddenly realized the last time I’d had so much sugar on my fingers was when I examined Fitzroy just after he died. I wondered why the dead Guildmaster had so much sugar in his mouth when dessert had not even been served.’ He starred around the quiet room. ‘Your Grace, sirs, think back on what we ate that evening. Can any of you remember eating anything coated with thick sugar and syrup?’
‘Fitzroy could have eaten something before he came to the banquet.’ Hussey spoke defensively,
‘No, No,’ Athelstan replied, ‘We have already established that if Fitzroy had eaten such a poison beforehand, he would have died with the hour.’ Athelstan smiled as another of his listeners fell into his trap.
‘What do you mean?’ Gaunt snapped.
‘I mean, Your Grace that we established that Fitzroy did not take the poison before the meal. We also established that nothing he ate or drank at the banquet was poisoned. Yet,’ Athelstan continued, ‘Fitzroy was certainly poisoned in this room because he ate something none of us did.’
‘What?’ Hussey exclaimed, leaning forward, ‘Enough riddles, Brother.’
‘Fitzroy was poisoned by someone who knew he had a sweet tooth. Indeed, Fitzroy had an appetite for sugar. Some even called him a glutton. What I think happened is this. Someone who knew where Fitzroy was going to sit, placed a sweetmeat, something very sweet, beneath his silver plate before the banquet began. Only the cloying sugar helped hide the fact that this sweetmeat was soaked in poison. It was that sugar which I detected in the dead man’s mouth. I suspect this is how Fitzroy was killed.’
‘Nonsense!’ Goodman exclaimed his arrogant face now white and pale. ‘Wouldn’t Fitzroy think it strange?’
‘No.’ Athelstan replied,’ First, he had come to a banquet. Perhaps he thought a servant had dropped it or left it there as a small treat for him. Second,’ Athelstan smiled,’ you have all sat down. Before you on the table is a small trencher. Beside each of these, before you entered, I placed a sweetmeat. How many of you ate that sweetmeat? Popped it absentmindedly into your mouths?’
Denny, Goodman and Bremmer smiled in embarrassment.
‘How do you know it wasn’t poisoned?’ Cranston barked, enjoying the look of stupefaction on their faces. He lumbered to his feet. ‘You did what any person might do, seated at a table waiting for a meal. You found something nice and popped it into your mouth. Fitzroy was no different. Indeed, with his appetite, he could scarcely resist.’
‘Yes, but who placed it there?’
The atmosphere chilled as Gaunt’s question hung like the sword of Damocles above them, Cranston pointed to Lord Adam Clifford.
‘You, sir, are a traitor, a liar and a murderer! I accuse you of maliciously causing the deaths of Sir Fitzroy, Peter Sturmey and Sir Gerard Mountjoy!’
Clifford sprang to his feet, his eyes wide with anger, his face suffused by rage. ‘You fat old fool!’ he yelled. ‘How dare you?’
Gaunt sat back in his chair, looking as if he had been pole-axed, whilst the Guildmasters started unbelievingly at Cranston. Clifford advanced threateningly towards the Coroner, hand on his danger. Sir John drew his own sword but the captain of Gaunt’s guard moved swiftly between the two men.
‘Lord Adam, I suggest you sit down,’ the solider said softly. He looked over his shoulder at his master. Gaunt had now regained his composure and nodded silently. His eyes never leaving his young lieutenant.
Sit down, Adam.’ He said quietly.’ My Lord Coroner, continue. But if his allegation is false, you shall answer for it.’
‘I will answer to God,’ Cranston retorted. He started round the assembled men. ‘Now let me tell you a story,’ he began, ‘of a kingdom where the prince is a mere child and all power rests with his uncle, the Regent. In the absence of a strong ruler, factions emerge, jostling for power. At court the nobles become immersed in deadly rivalries; in the city powerful burgesses vie for power. Outside in the countryside the labourers mutter treason, forming secret covens and groups to plot treasonable rebellion.’
‘Be careful, Sir John!’ Gaunt snapped.
Athelstan closed his eyes and prayed that Cranston would not go too far.
If I tell a lie,’ Sir John answered,’ let someone here contradict me,’ Cranston gazed round the Guildmasters but they were silent as was Clifford who now sat with beads of sweat running down his face.
‘A leader emerges.’ Cranston continued, ‘a mysterious man who calls himself Ira Dei, the Anger of God. He directs the Great Community of the Realm, the secret council of peasant leaders. They do not know who he is, nor does anyone else. He comes and goes, sowing the seeds of dissension. Now things change. His Grace the Regent here decides to form a bond of amity with the leading merchants of London. Ira Dei wishes to frustrate this so he looks for a traitor close to the Regent. He finds him in My Lord Clifford, a young man who has not forgotten his humble beginnings, or at least those of his family. And Clifford, either for idealism or for personal profit or for both, agrees to be Ira Dei’s agent in bringing my Lord of Gaunt’s plans to nothing.’
‘A lie!’ Clifford shouted, though the tremor in his voice did little to convince any of his companions, who gazed stonily back.
‘Now my Lord of Clifford’s father,’ Cranston continued, ‘was a captain of archers, a skilled bowman — a skill he passed on to his son Adam. On the afternoon Sir Gerard Mountjoy dies, Clifford brings a hunting bow or converted arbalest and, when everyone is either resting or involved in their own affairs, slips like the shadow of death along the pentice. He shoots the dagger, Mountjoy dies in mysterious circumstances, and we become engrossed in the riddle of how he died rather than considering why or who did it.’ Cranton helped himself to a generous swig from his wineskin. ‘The following evening, the assassin strikes again.’
‘Impossible!’ Goodman shouted. ‘Don’t you remember, Sir John, Lord Clifford was absent from the banquet?’
Cranston pushed the wine stopper back in firmly.’
Yes, he did say he had business elsewhere but not before he left the poisoned sweetmeat beneath Fitzroy’s plate.’
‘Of course!’ Gaunt got to his feet and pointed to his pale-faced lieutenant. ‘Adam, you were responsible for deciding who sat where, then you excused yourself, claiming pressing business in the city.’ Gaunt’s face became mottled with anger. ‘You were most insistent. My Lord Coroner is correct: not even I knew where everyone would sit. That was left to you and you told each of the guests.’