CHAPTER 17
Sir John was very pleased when they left Parr’s house. He was confident that Sir Thomas would do the honourable thing and the betrothal of the Lady Angelica would soon be proclaimed throughout the city. His good humour, however, soon drained as Athelstan, lost in his own thoughts, wandered up and down Cheapside, along the alleyways and runnels, visiting one apothecary after another. He came out of each shop shaking his head and muttering to himself, clicking his tongue in annoyance. Eventually Sir John, exasperated beyond belief, seized the friar by the shoulders.
‘Troublesome priest! What in the name of Satan’s buttocks are you doing?’
‘I don’t really know yet, Sir John. Did you find me a seller in poisons?’
The other man shook his head.
‘Well.’ Athelstan winked. ‘It really doesn’t matter now!’
Cranston arched an eyebrow. ‘So, it’s Hawkmere is it? You little ferret. Oh bugger, here comes Leif!’
The beggar man, however, had espied his fat quarry and was hopping along as merrily as a grasshopper.
‘Sir John! Sir John!’ he gabbled. ‘I have a new song!’ He pointed back along the street. ‘And a new friend. Rawbum can play the flute and accompany me.’
Athelstan stared in disbelief at the dishevelled beggar who stood a few yards away, a battered wooden flute in his hand.
‘Rawbum?’
‘He sat in a pan of boiling oil,’ Sir John explained. ‘And, ever since, he prefers to stand.’
‘Can I sing you my new song, Sir John? It’s about a law officer..’
Sir John dipped into his purse and thrust a coin into the beggar’s hand.
‘Just bugger off and leave me alone!’ he growled.
‘Very well, Sir John, and give my regards to the Lady Maude.’
Both he and Rawbum disappeared into a nearby ale-house, and Athelstan continued his mysterious pilgrimage. Eventually, in an apothecary’s, just near the great conduit which served the hospital of St Thomas of Aeon, he came out, grinning from ear to ear.
‘Come on, Sir John! It’s the Holy Lamb of God for both of us!’
Soon they were ensconced in a small garden behind the tavern, admiring the fish which swam in the artificial carp pond. They sat in a shady arbour. Athelstan insisted on purchasing blackjacks of ale and a meat pie to share with his friend. He also described the conclusions he had reached. Sir John, at first ravaged by hunger, listened and nodded but eventually he swallowed hard and stared in disbelief at his companion.
‘You can prove all this, little friar?’
‘Oh yes, Sir John. But I haven’t marshalled my thoughts yet. They are running round my mind like rabbits in a corn field. I have to impose some order and trap this assassin. What I want you to do is go down to the Savoy and ask the Regent to bring some archers. Seek out Sir Maurice and Aspinall, bring them to Hawkmere Manor.’ He nodded at the empty tankard. ‘I think you should go now, Sir John.’
The coroner was about to object but Athelstan grasped his podgy fingers.
‘We’ll meet again, Sir John, and celebrate the Lady Angelica’s betrothal.’
Sir John got to his feet and turned his face up to catch the sun. This was happiness, he thought. He just wished Maude and the poppets were here. The brave boys would love the fish and Lady Maude would be out listing the flowers and herbs, loudly wondering whether she could have the same in their garden. A small cloud passed over the sun.
‘I never asked this, Athelstan, but do you think they could still move you from Southwark?’
‘They have,’ Athelstan replied. He saw his friend’s jaw drop. ‘But,’ the friar added hastily, ‘I am here, Sir John, this is my life. Now, go please! We have an assassin to trap.’
The coroner, huffing and puffing, waddled back into the tavern. There was a squeal and Athelstan realised the coroner must have caught the tavemer’s wife and given her a kiss. The friar stared at the small, golden fish darting among the reeds. How was it to be done? The tavemer’s wife came out with another tankard. He drank it rather quickly and, before he knew it, he leaned back against the turf seat and fell into a deep sleep.
He woke refreshed and realised it must be mid-aftemoon. Yet he was in no hurry. It would take Sir John some considerable time to organise the Regent.
In fact, Athelstan was quite surprised when he reached Hawkmere to find Gaunt’s retainers had taken over the manor. Men-at-arms stood at the gateway while his archers patrolled the parapet walk. The Regent himself, Sir Maurice beside him, was lounging in a chair on the dais in the hall. The Regent was wearing brown and green velvet and looked as if he had recently come from the chase. His hair was ruffled, his smooth face bore slight cuts from branches and his muddy boots were propped up on the table. He slouched in the high-backed chair, slicing an apple, popping pieces into his mouth. Now and again he would turn and playfully nudge Sir Maurice; Athelstan realised that Sir John’s prophecy had come true.
‘I am betrothed,’ Sir Maurice smiled as Athelstan came in. He welcomed the little friar with a bearlike hug. ‘We’ll be married by Michaelmas. In St Mary-Le-Bow. And you must be the celebrant.’
‘A good day’s work, Brother Athelstan!’ Gaunt called out, beckoning him closer. ‘How did you do it?’
‘My lord Regent, God works in wondrous ways, His wonders to perform.’
‘I’ll take your word for it, Brother.’ Gaunt’s eyes hardened as his gaze moved to the small musicians’ gallery at the far end of the hall.
Athelstan turned and looked but he could see nothing, since the gallery was hidden in shadows.
‘What have we got here?’ Gaunt asked.
‘Why, my lord Regent, the truth.’
‘Do you know something?’ Gaunt pointed at him. ‘You, my little friar, are a very dangerous man. Shall I tell you why?’
‘If you wish, my lord Regent.’
‘Because you see things, Athelstan. You have a love of logic, a hunger for the truth while people like myself can only echo Pilate and ask what is truth? So, do we have the truth here, Brother Athelstan?’
‘I think so, my lord, but…’
‘Ah, there you are!’ Sir John, accompanied by Gervase, walked into the hall. ‘I’ve just been up to see the prisoners. They are both frightened. Our other guests have not arrived yet.’
‘My guards, where are they?’ Gaunt asked.
‘Everywhere but the mice-holes. And there are some men dressed in gowns and hoods. They must be your men, Gervase?’
‘My lovely lads,’ the Keeper of the House of Secrets simpered back. ‘They go where I do and keep an eye on their patron. In fact, we are a most pleasing choir, be it a madrigal or the introit to a Mass.’
‘Shall we begin?’ Gaunt interrupted harshly.
‘I think we should,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Sir John, if you could seal the doors?’
‘Don’t we need the prisoners here?’ Gaunt asked.
‘No, my lord, at least not for the time being.’
‘Well,’ Gaunt waved his hand. ‘The truth, my good friar?’
‘The St Denis and St Sulpice,’ Athelstan began as Cranston closed the doors, ‘were two French warships, pirates, marauders in the Narrow Seas. They were like cats among the mice, snapping up the English merchantmen. You, Sir Maurice, sank one and captured the other.’
‘We know that,’ Gaunt drawled.
‘How did you capture them, Sir Maurice?’
‘I told you, Brother. I was in Dover when news arrived by messenger from London that the wine fleet would be leaving Calais. We were to put to sea and ensure its safe passage across. You know the rest.’ He spread his hands.
‘It was luck, wasn’t it?’ Athelstan asked, staring at Gaunt. Absolute good fortune that the English ships came upon the St Denis and St Sulpice. My lord Regent, Sir Gervase, the English had no spies aboard either ship, did they?’