barbed questions. It’s all a sham, Athelstan thought. Sitting here in this chamber he had a feeling of sin, heavy and oppressive, of arrogance and secrecy. These men had something to hide; Athelstan was sure the killer was sitting with him.
‘Does Sir John sleep a great deal?’ Alcest cocked his head to one side, eyes rounded like that of a child.
Athelstan caught the sneer in the words. ‘I once saw a lion in the Tower,’ he replied. ‘He used to sprawl in the sand but only a fool would dare wake him. You are not a fool, are you, Master Alcest?’
The clerk pulled a face and looked away.
‘Then let’s return to three nights ago when Chapler was killed,’ Athelstan suggested. He caught Alcest’s glance: the clerk had been waiting for that question to be repeated.
‘Three nights ago,’ Alcest replied. ‘At what hour, Brother?’
‘What time do you finish here?’
‘As soon as the light fades in summertime, but three evenings ago was different. It was the feast of St Edmund, our patron: we left here just before Vespers.’
‘And did Chapler go with you?’
‘No, no, as usual he went about his own duties.’
‘And you?’
‘Go ask mine host of the Dancing Pig. We were there well before sunset. We hired a special chamber for a feast. Certain ladies of the town graced us with their presence.’
‘And none of you left?’
‘No!’ Ollerton intervened, scratching at the scar on his face. ‘Not one of us left and we can each stand surety for the other. Moreover, mine host at the Dancing Pig will tell you we had no reason to leave.’
‘You were there all night?’
‘From before dusk until just before dawn.’
‘Ah, the poppets! Lovely lads!’ Cranston murmured. ‘Lovely boys, and a cup of claret for myself.’
Athelstan went red with embarrassment at the sniggers. ‘A king once fought an army,’ he declared hurriedly. ‘And vanquished them but, when the battle was over, victors and vanquished lay together in the same place.’
The sniggers faded away.
‘What on earth?’ Alcest asked.
‘My first,’ Athelstan added, remembering the second riddle, ‘is like a selfish brother.’
‘Father, you are speaking in riddles!’
‘Brother Athelstan,’ Cranston opened his eyes and leaned forward, rubbing his face, ‘Brother Athelstan is quoting from what we found this morning on the corpse of your dead friend Peslep. Two riddles, sir, eh, what do they mean? Come, sir, tell me.’
Cranston stretched, flexing muscles and wetting his lips. He would have sipped from the miraculous wineskin but Athelstan kicked his shin under the table.
‘Riddles!’ Lesures exclaimed. He glanced round the table, eager to join in this mysterious conversation. ‘Why, sirs,’ Lesures addressed the clerks, ‘you are constantly posing riddles for the others to solve.’
‘Is that true?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Yes, it’s true,’ Alcest replied. ‘Sir John, you once served as a clerk. Brother Athelstan, you were engaged in your studies, yes?’ Alcest spread his hands. ‘Life can be tedious, even as a clerk in the Chancery of the Green Wax. So, yes, we have perfected the art of the riddle. We pose each other riddles and, at the end of the week, the one who has solved the most dines free.’
‘Give me an example,’ Athelstan asked.
Alcest scratched his chin. ‘Tell me, Brother, where in the world is the sky no more than three yards wide?’
Athelstan looked at Sir John, who pulled a face.
‘Think, Brother,’ Alcest added teasingly. ‘Where, in any part of the world, is the sky no more than three yards wide?’
Athelstan closed his eyes. He recalled the previous night, standing on St Erconwald’s tower, staring up at the sky. Sometimes he gazed so steadfastly he thought the sky would come down and envelope him whilst the stars, dancing round him, waited to be plucked. Then he thought of the stairs leading up to the tower, winding and narrow; sometimes he’d leave the trap door open . . .
‘Does Sir John sleep a great deal?’ Alcest cocked his head to one side, eyes rounded like that of a child.
Athelstan caught the sneer in the words. ‘I once saw a lion in the Tower,’ he replied. ‘He used to sprawl in the sand but only a fool would dare wake him. You are not a fool, are you, Master Alcest?’
The clerk pulled a face and looked away.
‘Then let’s return to three nights ago when Chapler was killed,’ Athelstan suggested. He caught Alcest’s glance: the clerk had been waiting for that question to be repeated.
‘Three nights ago,’ Alcest replied. ‘At what hour, Brother?’
‘What time do you finish here?’
‘As soon as the light fades in summertime, but three evenings ago was different. It was the feast of St Edmund, our patron: we left here just before Vespers.’
‘And did Chapler go with you?’
‘No, no, as usual he went about his own duties.’
‘And you?’
‘Go ask mine host of the Dancing Pig. We were there well before sunset. We hired a special chamber for a feast. Certain ladies of the town graced us with their presence.’
‘And none of you left?’
‘No!’ Ollerton intervened, scratching at the scar on his face. ‘Not one of us left and we can each stand surety for the other. Moreover, mine host at the Dancing Pig will tell you we had no reason to leave.’
‘You were there all night?’
‘From before dusk until just before dawn.’
‘Ah, the poppets! Lovely lads!’ Cranston murmured. ‘Lovely boys, and a cup of claret for myself.’
Athelstan went red with embarrassment at the sniggers. ‘A king once fought an army,’ he declared hurriedly. ‘And vanquished them but, when the battle was over, victors and vanquished lay together in the same place.’
The sniggers faded away.
‘What on earth?’ Alcest asked.
‘My first,’ Athelstan added, remembering the second riddle, ‘is like a selfish brother.’
‘Father, you are speaking in riddles!’
‘Brother Athelstan,’ Cranston opened his eyes and leaned forward, rubbing his face, ‘Brother Athelstan is quoting from what we found this morning on the corpse of your dead friend Peslep. Two riddles, sir, eh, what do they mean? Come, sir, tell me.’
Cranston stretched, flexing muscles and wetting his lips. He would have sipped from the miraculous wineskin but Athelstan kicked his shin under the table.
‘Riddles!’ Lesures exclaimed. He glanced round the table, eager to join in this mysterious conversation. ‘Why, sirs,’ Lesures addressed the clerks, ‘you are constantly posing riddles for the others to solve.’
‘Is that true?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Yes, it’s true,’ Alcest replied. ‘Sir John, you once served as a clerk. Brother Athelstan, you were engaged in your studies, yes?’ Alcest spread his hands. ‘Life can be tedious, even as a clerk in the Chancery of the Green Wax. So, yes, we have perfected the art of the riddle. We pose each other riddles and, at the end of the week, the one who has solved the most dines free.’
‘Give me an example,’ Athelstan asked.
Alcest scratched his chin. ‘Tell me, Brother, where in the world is the sky no more than three yards wide?’
Athelstan looked at Sir John, who pulled a face.
‘Think, Brother,’ Alcest added teasingly. ‘Where, in any part of the world, is the sky no more than three yards wide?’
Athelstan closed his eyes. He recalled the previous night, standing on St Erconwald’s tower, staring up at the sky. Sometimes he gazed so steadfastly he thought the sky would come down and envelope him whilst the stars, dancing round him, waited to be plucked. Then he thought of the stairs leading up to the tower, winding and narrow; sometimes he’d leave the trap door open . . .
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