Athelstan interrupted.
‘No, it was deep, muffled, as if the speaker had something across his mouth. But, there again,’ Christina’s eyes moved quickly, and Athelstan wondered whether she was sharper than he judged, ‘I thought the priest, perhaps with his head bowed, was praying.’ The girl shivered. ‘It was eerie. The passageway was lit by one torch and the shadows were dancing. I was frightened: I knew about the corpse and wondered about ghosts and that voice talking about wrath, God’s anger and the earth burning.’
‘The
“Dies Irae”
!’ Athelstan exclaimed. ‘O day of wrath, O day of mourning!’ He stared at Cranston’s bewildered face. ‘“O day of wrath, O day of mourning, See fulfilled the prophet’s warning,”’ Athelstan chanted. ‘“Heaven and earth in ashes burning.” It’s from the Mass for the dead; the priest always chants it before he recites the Gospel.’ Athelstan grasped Christina’s hand. ‘And you are sure it wasn’t Sir Henry Swynford’s voice?’
‘Oh no, this was different, deep, muffled.’
‘What does it mean, Brother?’ Cranston asked.
Athelstan rubbed his face with his hands. Despite the warmth and cheer of the taproom, he felt cold and frightened. Most assassins killed quickly and quietly.
He replied slowly. ‘What it means, my lord Coroner, is that the chantry priest, and I do not think he was the one hired by our good host, was the assassin. As Sir Henry knelt before his companion’s coffin, this assassin quickly garrotted him but, as he killed him, the assassin chanted those words, not in prayer but as a terrible cry of vengeance.’
CHAPTER 3
The taverner, shaking his head, led them up to the first-floor gallery. He stopped on the stairwell, his dark face framed by the mullioned glass window behind him. Athelstan smelt the fragrant pots of herbs on the small sill and, from the yard below, heard the strident crowing of a cock. For some strange reason Athelstan recalled the words of the Gospel, about Peter’s betrayal of Christ before the cock crowed thrice. He steeled himself: he and Cranston were about to enter a dark, tangled maze of murder and intrigue amongst the wealthy lords of the soil. Swynford’s and Bouchon’s deaths were certainly no accidents, nor were they the victims of unhappy coincidence.
‘Well, what are we waiting for?’ Cranston snapped.
Banyard lifted a finger. ‘Listen, Father.’
Athelstan strained his ears and heard the faint mumbling.
‘It’s Father Gregory,’ the taverner explained. ‘He came this morning to anoint the corpses. After that,’ he continued cheerfully, ‘they’ll be taken down to the local corpse-dresser, an old woman on the far side of the palace. She will remove the bowels and stuff the bodies with spices. I understand Sir Edmund Malmesbury is hiring a small retinue to escort them back to Shrewsbury.’
Cranston made to go on, but Banyard put his arm across next flight of stairs. ‘I think we should wait,’ the taverner declared.
‘And I think we shouldn’t,’ Cranston growled.
Up he went. Athelstan shrugged apologetically and followed. He glanced down the stairs where Christina was staring up at them, her mouth in a round ‘O’.
‘Don’t worry, child,’ Athelstan called back. ‘We’ll all be safe with Sir John.’
They went along the gallery and into a chamber. Even though the windows were open and the shutters thrown back, the air reeked of death and decay. The two corpses lay in their coffins on a specially erected trestle-table at the foot of the four-poster bed. The priest kneeling on a cushion crossed himself and got up hastily. Grey-skinned, grey-haired, with a long, tired face, watery eyes and slobbery mouth, Athelstan took an instant dislike to Father Gregory. He looked a born toper; Athelstan, feeling guilty at his harsh judgement, walked forward, hands extended.
‘Father Gregory, we apologise for interrupting your orisons. I am Brother Athelstan from St
‘No, it was deep, muffled, as if the speaker had something across his mouth. But, there again,’ Christina’s eyes moved quickly, and Athelstan wondered whether she was sharper than he judged, ‘I thought the priest, perhaps with his head bowed, was praying.’ The girl shivered. ‘It was eerie. The passageway was lit by one torch and the shadows were dancing. I was frightened: I knew about the corpse and wondered about ghosts and that voice talking about wrath, God’s anger and the earth burning.’
‘The
“Dies Irae”
!’ Athelstan exclaimed. ‘O day of wrath, O day of mourning!’ He stared at Cranston’s bewildered face. ‘“O day of wrath, O day of mourning, See fulfilled the prophet’s warning,”’ Athelstan chanted. ‘“Heaven and earth in ashes burning.” It’s from the Mass for the dead; the priest always chants it before he recites the Gospel.’ Athelstan grasped Christina’s hand. ‘And you are sure it wasn’t Sir Henry Swynford’s voice?’
‘Oh no, this was different, deep, muffled.’
‘What does it mean, Brother?’ Cranston asked.
Athelstan rubbed his face with his hands. Despite the warmth and cheer of the taproom, he felt cold and frightened. Most assassins killed quickly and quietly.
He replied slowly. ‘What it means, my lord Coroner, is that the chantry priest, and I do not think he was the one hired by our good host, was the assassin. As Sir Henry knelt before his companion’s coffin, this assassin quickly garrotted him but, as he killed him, the assassin chanted those words, not in prayer but as a terrible cry of vengeance.’
CHAPTER 3
The taverner, shaking his head, led them up to the first-floor gallery. He stopped on the stairwell, his dark face framed by the mullioned glass window behind him. Athelstan smelt the fragrant pots of herbs on the small sill and, from the yard below, heard the strident crowing of a cock. For some strange reason Athelstan recalled the words of the Gospel, about Peter’s betrayal of Christ before the cock crowed thrice. He steeled himself: he and Cranston were about to enter a dark, tangled maze of murder and intrigue amongst the wealthy lords of the soil. Swynford’s and Bouchon’s deaths were certainly no accidents, nor were they the victims of unhappy coincidence.
‘Well, what are we waiting for?’ Cranston snapped.
Banyard lifted a finger. ‘Listen, Father.’
Athelstan strained his ears and heard the faint mumbling.
‘It’s Father Gregory,’ the taverner explained. ‘He came this morning to anoint the corpses. After that,’ he continued cheerfully, ‘they’ll be taken down to the local corpse-dresser, an old woman on the far side of the palace. She will remove the bowels and stuff the bodies with spices. I understand Sir Edmund Malmesbury is hiring a small retinue to escort them back to Shrewsbury.’
Cranston made to go on, but Banyard put his arm across next flight of stairs. ‘I think we should wait,’ the taverner declared.
‘And I think we shouldn’t,’ Cranston growled.
Up he went. Athelstan shrugged apologetically and followed. He glanced down the stairs where Christina was staring up at them, her mouth in a round ‘O’.
‘Don’t worry, child,’ Athelstan called back. ‘We’ll all be safe with Sir John.’
They went along the gallery and into a chamber. Even though the windows were open and the shutters thrown back, the air reeked of death and decay. The two corpses lay in their coffins on a specially erected trestle-table at the foot of the four-poster bed. The priest kneeling on a cushion crossed himself and got up hastily. Grey-skinned, grey-haired, with a long, tired face, watery eyes and slobbery mouth, Athelstan took an instant dislike to Father Gregory. He looked a born toper; Athelstan, feeling guilty at his harsh judgement, walked forward, hands extended.
‘Father Gregory, we apologise for interrupting your orisons. I am Brother Athelstan from St
Similar Books
