Athelstan rose swiftly to his feet and Cranston quietly cursed. Now he realised why Athelstan had been waiting, even as he recalled the head ostler riding so swiftly from the tavern in Southwark. He and the friar courteously excused themselves and walked out of the refectory. Cranston stopped on the top step. The convent yard milled with armed men, all wearing gorgeous livery displaying the arms of England, France and Castile. Banners and pennants fluttered in the breeze. Knights of the royal household gathered round Mother Superior and other officials of the convent, placating them and offering the Regent’s excuses for this sudden visit.
‘Satan’s buttocks!’ Cranston whispered. ‘I wonder what the royal serpent wants.’
Athelstan felt a chill as he noticed that each gateway and entrance was guarded by archers, bows unslung, quivers hanging by their sides. A knight banneret, in half armour, his ruddy face gleaming with sweat under a mop of close-cropped blond hair, broke away from the group around Mother Superior and came striding across.
‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan, His Grace waits for you.’
He led them across to the guest house, opened the door and ushered them in. John of Gaunt, dressed in a simple leather jerkin, open at the neck to reveal the golden double S collar of Lancaster, had already made himself comfortable, war belt slung on the floor, his long legs and booted feet up on the table, gauntlets stripped off. He was enjoying a small jug of beer at the far end of the table. Signor Tonnelli and Matthias of Evesham did not look so relaxed as their master.
‘My Lord Coroner, Brother Athelstan, come here!’
The Regent gestured at the stools on the other side of the table. Cranston and Athelstan went over, bowed and took their seats. The coroner stared pointedly at the Regent’s boots. Gaunt smiled apologetically, swung his feet off the table, and leaned across, hand extended so that Cranston and Athelstan could kiss the ring on his middle finger.
‘Now we have dispensed with ceremony, let us get to the heart of the matter.’
‘The heart of the matter?’ Athelstan retorted. ‘You mean the truth, your Grace. Well, I shall tell you the truth. No Lombard treasure was ever put on that barge. Oh, it may have arrived in the Tower, but it was never sent downriver.’
Cranston gasped and put his hands to his face, peering through his fingers. Gaunt seemed unperturbed, playing with the ring, watching Athelstan as he would a fellow gambler reach for the next throw. Tonnelli and Matthias of Evesham went to protest, but Gaunt waved his hand.
‘An interesting theory, Brother.’
‘The truth usually is, your Grace. You took the treasure, and concocted that farrago of nonsense about outlaws and river pirates. Oh, it was true enough, but it only served as the spice for the meal you cooked. Edward Mortimer was your man, body and soul, a knight who would have gone down to hell for you. He brought Richard Culpepper into your plot. You took the treasure, opened the chest, removed the precious hoard and filled it with bricks and stones, or whatever came to hand. It was then locked and resealed, the keys sent to the Admiral of the Fleet. Mortimer and Culpepper were to take possession of it and, in midstream, would tip it overboard, where it would sink to the bottom of the river. They would then tear their clothes, inflict minor wounds and bruises on themselves, and arrive at the Admiral’s ship with a story about how they were attacked by a group of river pirates. Mortimer prepared for that by giving his sister a cross he did not wish to lose in the darkness on the river. They would be believed. After all, where was the treasure? And they bore wounds to prove their resolute defence. The Fleet would sail. Later on, Mortimer and Culpepper would receive their reward. Nobody was to be really hurt. The Lombard treasure was only a part of the Crusaders’ war chest; they would claim that they could not pay back what they didn’t receive. The Lombard bankers might cry piteously in public, but in private, Signor Tonnelli was part of the plot, as were you.’
Gaunt clapped his hands together quietly.
‘Very good, Brother,’ he murmured.
‘But then something went wrong,’ Athelstan continued. ‘You and Mortimer made one mistake, as did Richard Culpepper. He had fallen in love with Guinevere, a courtesan who sold her favours to the highest bidder. She betrayed him to what I call the company at the Night in Jerusalem. You never knew that. In the end, as in a game of chequers, everyone’s move was blocked. The Crusaders had lost their treasure, but there was more to be had from the Lombards, not to mention the profits of the war. The bankers hadn’t really lost their money and stood to gain more. The Keeper of the Tower was the secret recipient of fresh wealth, whilst the true thieves were the proud owners of a mere midden heap. The real victims were Mortimer, Culpepper and those two innocent boatmen. You knew Mortimer and Culpepper must be dead, but, of course, you couldn’t reveal that without telling the truth, for why should two knights abscond with a chest full of rocks and bricks? Oh, you would make a careful search, but the game was played, there was nothing to be done. All you could do was sit, wait and watch. Only one person warranted sympathy, poor Helena Mortimer, still hoping, still trusting that her brother would return. You took pity on her. You made sure that every quarter your comrade here, Signor Tonnelli, handed a pension to a London goldsmith for her. This kept Helena’s dreams alive and made sure she didn’t fall into poverty; it was the least you could do to honour Edward’s memory.’
Athelstan’s gaze never left the Regent’s face. Handsome as an angel, he reflected, his light skin burned dark by the Castilian sun. The silver-blond hair, beard and moustache so neatly trimmed, those beautiful blue eyes so frank and direct, except for the glint of mischief; only this time Gaunt looked genuinely sad. For a moment Athelstan caught this powerful man’s deep regret and sorrow at what had happened.
‘Do you believe this, my Lord Coroner?’ Gaunt glanced at Cranston.
‘I have always admired both your courage and your cunning, your Grace. A source of wonderment for me, as it was for your blessed father and elder brother.’
Gaunt laughed quietly to himself.
‘You may have suspected the other knights,’ Athelstan declared, ‘but you could never prove the truth, which hangs in a delicate balance and, as I have said, like a two-edged sword, cuts both ways. You kept the treasure, the years passed, Signor Tonnelli would arrange for it to be broken up and sold elsewhere in the cities along the Rhine or even in the lands of the Great Turk. One person remained keen in the hunt for the truth: Brother Malachi, a Benedictine monk, Sir Richard Culpepper’s brother. He approached you, didn’t he? Asking questions, some of which you could answer, others you had to ignore. Malachi was dangerous, an intelligent man, a scholar and, above all, a Benedictine monk. I do wonder,’ Athelstan deliberately picked up the Regent’s goblet and sipped from it; Gaunt did not object, ‘I do wonder what he said to you.’
Gaunt leaned his elbows on the table and cupped his face in his hands, tapping his boot against the floor as he scrutinised this friar.
‘You’re a very dangerous man, Athelstan.’
‘Is that why you have spies in my parish?’
Gaunt smiled.
‘You do have spies in the Night in Jerusalem. The head groom, for one.’
‘True, true,’ Gaunt quipped. ‘I have a legion of spies in Southwark. I watched the Night in Jerusalem like a hawk surveys a field.’
‘You know what happened there today?’
‘Of course, but I would like to hear it from you, Brother.’
Athelstan quickly described the events of the last few days and the violent, bloody confrontation in the tavern solar. Gaunt listened, eyes closed, now and again interrupting with a short sharp question. At the end he turned to Matthias of Evesham.