makers, and the occasional whore dressed in saffron or yellow, hanging round the doors of taverns. Once darkness fell, they and the other city riff-raff, the roisterers, the apple squires and what Cranston termed ‘the other beasts of the night’, would soon make their presence felt.
They arrived at the Guildhall to find the entire building surrounded by royal archers and men-at-arms. Cranston bellowed his name at them and shouldered his way through, up the steps and into the audience chamber where Lord Adam Clifford was waiting for them.
The young courtier’s face creased into a genuine smile. ‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan.’ He clasped their hands warmly. ‘You are most welcome!’
Cranston looked at the young nobleman’s simple leather jacket, woollen hose and high-heeled leather riding boots.
‘But, My Lord, you are not joining us for the banquet?’
The young man pulled a face. ‘The Lord Regent has other business for me.’
Athelstan could tell by Clifford’s eyes that the young man was displeased to be sent away.
‘You are the last guest, Sir John,’ he whispered hurriedly. ‘The King will arrive soon and the banquet begin. You had best hurry!’
Clifford handed them over to a liveried servant who led them upstairs and along passageways, all lit by flickering torches. Nevertheless, Athelstan could sense uneasiness in the place; archers wearing either the White Hart, the King’s own personal emblem, or the Lion Rampant of Gaunt, were everywhere.
‘Lord Adam seems a wise-headed fellow,’ Athelstan observed.
‘One good apple in a rotten barrel,’ Cranston whispered out of the corner of his mouth. ‘He’s a northerner who has attached his fortunes to Giant’s star. I hope he’s wise. If the Regent falls, so will he.’
At last they reached the Hall of Roses, the sumptuous though small private banqueting chamber of the Guildhall. The servant ushered them in, Athelstan and Cranston blinking at the brilliant light from hundreds of candles fixed round the room. The other guests were already seated; they paid little heed to the new arrivals and whispered amongst themselves as a cup-bearer took Cranston and Athelstan to their seats.
‘A most noble place,’ the friar whispered.
‘Don’t forget, Brother,’ Cranston murmured as they sat down, ‘tonight we dine with a murderer!’
CHAPTER 4
Cranston sat in his seat in the Hall of Roses and lovingly cradled a jeweled wine goblet.
‘First time I’ve been here,’ he muttered to Athelstan.
The friar studied his fat friend anxiously; Cranston, deep in his cups, was frighteningly unpredictable. He might either go to sleep or else start lecturing these powerful men. However, the Coroner seemed quiet enough for the moment and Athelstan, who had eaten and drunk sparingly, gazed appreciatively round the Hall of Roses.
A perfect circle, the chamber reminded him of a painting of a Greek temple he had once seen in a Book of Hours. The roof was a cupola of cleverly ornate, polished hammer beams which swooped across the ceiling to meet a huge central red rose, carved in wood and painted in gold leaf. The walls and dark embrasures were of dressed stone and the supporting pillars of porphyry linked by banners of cloth of gold, bearing either the Royal Arms or the insignia of the House of Lancaster. The marble floor was overlaid by a carpet which, from a red rose in the centre, radiated out in strips of purple and white, each ending in the name of one of the knights of Arthur’s Round Table. Over each name sat a guest at his own separate table, a small oaken trestle covered with a silver-white cloth. At the top, on King Arthur’s seat, was the young Richard, his golden hair elaborately dressed, a silver chaplet round his white brow; the young King was attired from head to toe in purple damask.
Athelstan, ignoring the hubbub of conversation around him, studied Richard who sat gazing unwinkingly across the hall. Then he caught the friar’s glance,
They arrived at the Guildhall to find the entire building surrounded by royal archers and men-at-arms. Cranston bellowed his name at them and shouldered his way through, up the steps and into the audience chamber where Lord Adam Clifford was waiting for them.
The young courtier’s face creased into a genuine smile. ‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan.’ He clasped their hands warmly. ‘You are most welcome!’
Cranston looked at the young nobleman’s simple leather jacket, woollen hose and high-heeled leather riding boots.
‘But, My Lord, you are not joining us for the banquet?’
The young man pulled a face. ‘The Lord Regent has other business for me.’
Athelstan could tell by Clifford’s eyes that the young man was displeased to be sent away.
‘You are the last guest, Sir John,’ he whispered hurriedly. ‘The King will arrive soon and the banquet begin. You had best hurry!’
Clifford handed them over to a liveried servant who led them upstairs and along passageways, all lit by flickering torches. Nevertheless, Athelstan could sense uneasiness in the place; archers wearing either the White Hart, the King’s own personal emblem, or the Lion Rampant of Gaunt, were everywhere.
‘Lord Adam seems a wise-headed fellow,’ Athelstan observed.
‘One good apple in a rotten barrel,’ Cranston whispered out of the corner of his mouth. ‘He’s a northerner who has attached his fortunes to Giant’s star. I hope he’s wise. If the Regent falls, so will he.’
At last they reached the Hall of Roses, the sumptuous though small private banqueting chamber of the Guildhall. The servant ushered them in, Athelstan and Cranston blinking at the brilliant light from hundreds of candles fixed round the room. The other guests were already seated; they paid little heed to the new arrivals and whispered amongst themselves as a cup-bearer took Cranston and Athelstan to their seats.
‘A most noble place,’ the friar whispered.
‘Don’t forget, Brother,’ Cranston murmured as they sat down, ‘tonight we dine with a murderer!’
CHAPTER 4
Cranston sat in his seat in the Hall of Roses and lovingly cradled a jeweled wine goblet.
‘First time I’ve been here,’ he muttered to Athelstan.
The friar studied his fat friend anxiously; Cranston, deep in his cups, was frighteningly unpredictable. He might either go to sleep or else start lecturing these powerful men. However, the Coroner seemed quiet enough for the moment and Athelstan, who had eaten and drunk sparingly, gazed appreciatively round the Hall of Roses.
A perfect circle, the chamber reminded him of a painting of a Greek temple he had once seen in a Book of Hours. The roof was a cupola of cleverly ornate, polished hammer beams which swooped across the ceiling to meet a huge central red rose, carved in wood and painted in gold leaf. The walls and dark embrasures were of dressed stone and the supporting pillars of porphyry linked by banners of cloth of gold, bearing either the Royal Arms or the insignia of the House of Lancaster. The marble floor was overlaid by a carpet which, from a red rose in the centre, radiated out in strips of purple and white, each ending in the name of one of the knights of Arthur’s Round Table. Over each name sat a guest at his own separate table, a small oaken trestle covered with a silver-white cloth. At the top, on King Arthur’s seat, was the young Richard, his golden hair elaborately dressed, a silver chaplet round his white brow; the young King was attired from head to toe in purple damask.
Athelstan, ignoring the hubbub of conversation around him, studied Richard who sat gazing unwinkingly across the hall. Then he caught the friar’s glance,
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