crossed himself. ‘Sir John, have Scrope’s corpse join the rest at the Guildhall then seal this chamber with the signet of the Lord High Coroner.’
‘Brother?’
‘Yes, Sir John?’
‘Marsen was hated. He was Thibault’s creature, a vile, ruthless tax collector, yet he moved with impunity. Surely the Upright Men must have heard about his depredations as well as his stay here? You seem to be implying that they are not responsible, but why shouldn’t they spring a trap and snatch Marsen’s nasty soul from his filthy body?’
‘Perhaps they did, Sir John.’
‘So this is the work of the Upright Men?’
‘Umm.’ Athelstan pulled his cowl up, a sign to Cranston that he wanted to retreat and meditate in some quiet corner. ‘Truly, Sir John, I don’t know. This could be the doing of the Upright Men or it might not be. Perhaps they left all this to their assassin, Beowulf, and yet …’ Athelstan shook his head, blessed the corpse once more and left the chamber. He walked to the top of the stairs and paused at the clatter of hooves, shouts and the rattle of steel from the stableyard. By the time he reached there the horsemen who had entered, all wearing the blue, scarlet and gold livery of the royal household, were milling about, swords drawn, shouting orders at Thorne and Mooncalf to close the gates and to allow no one in or out until they were gone. Lascelles was in charge, dressed as usual in black leather and his helmet off, his harsh, pointed face twisted into a scowl. Mine Host Thorne crossed the yard and angry words were exchanged between the two. Lascelles dismounted as Thorne ordered the gates to remain open. Fearful of an ugly confrontation, Athelstan hastened across, relieved to see Cranston also come striding out. Calm was restored, Lascelles nodding at Cranston’s whispered advice.
‘Very good, Master Taverner.’ Lascelles smirked at Thorne. ‘Go about your business even though your tavern is now the haven of murder, felony and treason. I need to view the corpses.’
Cranston objected, pointing out that all the dead had been sheeted in mort cloths and were being removed. Lascelles, peeling off his black leather gloves, again nodded understandingly, his glittering dark eyes never leaving Athelstan’s face. ‘It does not matter,’ Lascelles wetted his lips. ‘The money is gone, yes? Cannot be found? Yes? Well, well. My business here, Sir John, is you and Brother Athelstan. His Grace My Lord of Gaunt and Master Thibault want to know what happened here and discover what you will do to remedy it. They also want to have words with you on other matters.’ He pointed across at the tavern stables. ‘Get two horses saddled. I want to be out of here as soon as possible.’ He frowned at Cranston’s loudly whispered curse. ‘My Lord High Coroner of London, the hour is passing, my business is pressing. We must be gone – now!’ Athelstan caught Cranston’s gaze, warning him with his eyes to be careful. Cranston strolled off, shouting for Mooncalf to saddle two horses. Ronseval sauntered out and stayed in the porch to watch proceedings. Athelstan looked past the troubadour and glimpsed Paston, his daughter and Foulkes deep in conversation at a table in the Dark Parlour. Lascelles, holding the reins of his horse, beckoned Athelstan closer and asked what had happened. The friar replied in short, blunt sentences.
Lascelles, that raven of a man, listened intently, the arrogance draining from his face at the litany of bloody destruction. ‘Master Thibault,’ he whispered, ‘will not be pleased, such a vast sum stolen. Beowulf the assassin must be in the city. Who is he hunting, Brother?’
Athelstan sensed the deep anxiety of Thibault’s principal henchman. That same cloying, creeping fear which was spreading through the city like some invisible mist, thickening and curling its way around the men of power. The day of judgement was approaching. Only God’s good grace could divert the bloody
‘Brother?’
‘Yes, Sir John?’
‘Marsen was hated. He was Thibault’s creature, a vile, ruthless tax collector, yet he moved with impunity. Surely the Upright Men must have heard about his depredations as well as his stay here? You seem to be implying that they are not responsible, but why shouldn’t they spring a trap and snatch Marsen’s nasty soul from his filthy body?’
‘Perhaps they did, Sir John.’
‘So this is the work of the Upright Men?’
‘Umm.’ Athelstan pulled his cowl up, a sign to Cranston that he wanted to retreat and meditate in some quiet corner. ‘Truly, Sir John, I don’t know. This could be the doing of the Upright Men or it might not be. Perhaps they left all this to their assassin, Beowulf, and yet …’ Athelstan shook his head, blessed the corpse once more and left the chamber. He walked to the top of the stairs and paused at the clatter of hooves, shouts and the rattle of steel from the stableyard. By the time he reached there the horsemen who had entered, all wearing the blue, scarlet and gold livery of the royal household, were milling about, swords drawn, shouting orders at Thorne and Mooncalf to close the gates and to allow no one in or out until they were gone. Lascelles was in charge, dressed as usual in black leather and his helmet off, his harsh, pointed face twisted into a scowl. Mine Host Thorne crossed the yard and angry words were exchanged between the two. Lascelles dismounted as Thorne ordered the gates to remain open. Fearful of an ugly confrontation, Athelstan hastened across, relieved to see Cranston also come striding out. Calm was restored, Lascelles nodding at Cranston’s whispered advice.
‘Very good, Master Taverner.’ Lascelles smirked at Thorne. ‘Go about your business even though your tavern is now the haven of murder, felony and treason. I need to view the corpses.’
Cranston objected, pointing out that all the dead had been sheeted in mort cloths and were being removed. Lascelles, peeling off his black leather gloves, again nodded understandingly, his glittering dark eyes never leaving Athelstan’s face. ‘It does not matter,’ Lascelles wetted his lips. ‘The money is gone, yes? Cannot be found? Yes? Well, well. My business here, Sir John, is you and Brother Athelstan. His Grace My Lord of Gaunt and Master Thibault want to know what happened here and discover what you will do to remedy it. They also want to have words with you on other matters.’ He pointed across at the tavern stables. ‘Get two horses saddled. I want to be out of here as soon as possible.’ He frowned at Cranston’s loudly whispered curse. ‘My Lord High Coroner of London, the hour is passing, my business is pressing. We must be gone – now!’ Athelstan caught Cranston’s gaze, warning him with his eyes to be careful. Cranston strolled off, shouting for Mooncalf to saddle two horses. Ronseval sauntered out and stayed in the porch to watch proceedings. Athelstan looked past the troubadour and glimpsed Paston, his daughter and Foulkes deep in conversation at a table in the Dark Parlour. Lascelles, holding the reins of his horse, beckoned Athelstan closer and asked what had happened. The friar replied in short, blunt sentences.
Lascelles, that raven of a man, listened intently, the arrogance draining from his face at the litany of bloody destruction. ‘Master Thibault,’ he whispered, ‘will not be pleased, such a vast sum stolen. Beowulf the assassin must be in the city. Who is he hunting, Brother?’
Athelstan sensed the deep anxiety of Thibault’s principal henchman. That same cloying, creeping fear which was spreading through the city like some invisible mist, thickening and curling its way around the men of power. The day of judgement was approaching. Only God’s good grace could divert the bloody
Similar Books
