Erconwald’s, this is my lord Coroner, Sir John Cranston.’
The priest forced a weak smile and limply shook Athelstan’s hand, then winced at Cranston’s powerful, vice-like grip.
‘God have mercy on them!’ the priest wailed, his hands fluttering down at the corpses. ‘Terrible deaths! Terrible deaths! Here today and gone tomorrow, eh, Brother?’
He swayed slightly on his feet, and Athelstan wondered if he had fortified himself with more than prayer.
‘Why didn’t you come last night?’ Cranston asked, squatting down on the stool and mopping his face with the hem of his cloak.
‘I was away you see. Every . . .’ The man was gabbling. ‘Every week I visit my mother for a day. I came back this morning and found Master Banyard’s note. Terrible, terrible.’ He babbled on. ‘To think that a priest could garrotte a man so.’
‘If you wait downstairs,’ Banyard said kindly, ‘Christina will give you some food, Father. My lord Coroner here needs to inspect the corpses.’
The priest threw a fearful look at Sir John, then scuttled from the room.
‘And you can join him,’ Cranston smiled at the taverner. ‘We no longer need you here.’
Banyard pulled a face but walked out, slamming the door behind him. Wheezing and grumbling, Cranston got to his feet and stared down at the corpses.
‘It happens to us all, Brother, but death is a terrible thing.’
Athelstan sketched a blessing in the air and squatted down beside the corpse on the left. A yellowing scrap of parchment at the top of the coffin proclaimed it was Sir Oliver Bouchon: a thin beanpole of a man, his harsh, seamed face made all the more dreadful by the slimy water of the Thames. The skin had turned a bluish-white, the lips were slack. Someone had pressed two coins on the eyes; Athelstan noted also the small red crosses dug into the forehead and each cheek. The corpse had been stripped of its clothes and dressed in a simple shift. Athelstan pushed this back and, swallowing hard, felt the cold, clammy flesh. Bouchon’s cold corpse was covered with scars and welts which Cranston identified as sword and dagger cuts: others were the marks of tight-fitting belts or boots.
‘An old soldier,’ Cranston declared. ‘He must have seen service abroad. Hell’s teeth, I need a drink!’
‘In a short while, Sir John, but please help me.’
Cranston obliged and they turned the corpse over. Athelstan stared at the flabby buttocks, muscular thighs and hairy legs: he felt a strange sadness. Here lay a world in itself: what hopes, what joys, what fears, what nightmares permeated this man’s life? Was he loved? Did he have ideals? Would people mourn that he had died? Athelstan ran his fingers through the still wet, thick black hair at the back of the man’s head.
‘Ah!’ he exclaimed.
‘What is it, Brother?’
‘Feel for yourself.’
Cranston’s stubby fingers searched the back of the skull but stopped as he felt a huge, hard welt.
‘Bring me a candle,’ Athelstan said.
Sir John handed him one of those Father Gregory had lit, and Athelstan held this down close to the hair. The hot oil from the tallow candle sizzled and spluttered as it slipped on to the still damp hair, yet it provided enough light for Athelstan to make out the huge, angry contusion.
‘If anyone says,’ Athelstan declared, ‘that Sir Oliver Bouchon slipped and fell into the Thames, then he’s a liar or ignorant. Someone gave this poor man a powerful whack on the back of his head.’
‘Why didn’t anyone else notice it?’
‘Because no one was looking for it, Sir John.’
Athelstan got up and handed the candle back. ‘Sir Oliver here was knocked senseless and then thrown into the Thames. It’s a pity the corpse is undressed; I would have liked to have established that he was knocked unconscious whilst he was walking along the river bank.’
‘What makes you think that?’
Athelstan turned the corpse over and gently grasped each hand, pointing at the dirty
The priest forced a weak smile and limply shook Athelstan’s hand, then winced at Cranston’s powerful, vice-like grip.
‘God have mercy on them!’ the priest wailed, his hands fluttering down at the corpses. ‘Terrible deaths! Terrible deaths! Here today and gone tomorrow, eh, Brother?’
He swayed slightly on his feet, and Athelstan wondered if he had fortified himself with more than prayer.
‘Why didn’t you come last night?’ Cranston asked, squatting down on the stool and mopping his face with the hem of his cloak.
‘I was away you see. Every . . .’ The man was gabbling. ‘Every week I visit my mother for a day. I came back this morning and found Master Banyard’s note. Terrible, terrible.’ He babbled on. ‘To think that a priest could garrotte a man so.’
‘If you wait downstairs,’ Banyard said kindly, ‘Christina will give you some food, Father. My lord Coroner here needs to inspect the corpses.’
The priest threw a fearful look at Sir John, then scuttled from the room.
‘And you can join him,’ Cranston smiled at the taverner. ‘We no longer need you here.’
Banyard pulled a face but walked out, slamming the door behind him. Wheezing and grumbling, Cranston got to his feet and stared down at the corpses.
‘It happens to us all, Brother, but death is a terrible thing.’
Athelstan sketched a blessing in the air and squatted down beside the corpse on the left. A yellowing scrap of parchment at the top of the coffin proclaimed it was Sir Oliver Bouchon: a thin beanpole of a man, his harsh, seamed face made all the more dreadful by the slimy water of the Thames. The skin had turned a bluish-white, the lips were slack. Someone had pressed two coins on the eyes; Athelstan noted also the small red crosses dug into the forehead and each cheek. The corpse had been stripped of its clothes and dressed in a simple shift. Athelstan pushed this back and, swallowing hard, felt the cold, clammy flesh. Bouchon’s cold corpse was covered with scars and welts which Cranston identified as sword and dagger cuts: others were the marks of tight-fitting belts or boots.
‘An old soldier,’ Cranston declared. ‘He must have seen service abroad. Hell’s teeth, I need a drink!’
‘In a short while, Sir John, but please help me.’
Cranston obliged and they turned the corpse over. Athelstan stared at the flabby buttocks, muscular thighs and hairy legs: he felt a strange sadness. Here lay a world in itself: what hopes, what joys, what fears, what nightmares permeated this man’s life? Was he loved? Did he have ideals? Would people mourn that he had died? Athelstan ran his fingers through the still wet, thick black hair at the back of the man’s head.
‘Ah!’ he exclaimed.
‘What is it, Brother?’
‘Feel for yourself.’
Cranston’s stubby fingers searched the back of the skull but stopped as he felt a huge, hard welt.
‘Bring me a candle,’ Athelstan said.
Sir John handed him one of those Father Gregory had lit, and Athelstan held this down close to the hair. The hot oil from the tallow candle sizzled and spluttered as it slipped on to the still damp hair, yet it provided enough light for Athelstan to make out the huge, angry contusion.
‘If anyone says,’ Athelstan declared, ‘that Sir Oliver Bouchon slipped and fell into the Thames, then he’s a liar or ignorant. Someone gave this poor man a powerful whack on the back of his head.’
‘Why didn’t anyone else notice it?’
‘Because no one was looking for it, Sir John.’
Athelstan got up and handed the candle back. ‘Sir Oliver here was knocked senseless and then thrown into the Thames. It’s a pity the corpse is undressed; I would have liked to have established that he was knocked unconscious whilst he was walking along the river bank.’
‘What makes you think that?’
Athelstan turned the corpse over and gently grasped each hand, pointing at the dirty
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