introduced the two men. The coroner glanced down at the corpses. ‘Wherever their souls have gone,’ he murmured, ‘their bodies lie murdered, and someone, Master Rolles, will have to answer for that.’
Chapter 3
Sir Stephen Chandler didn’t know he was going to die. After his return from St Erconwald, he had decided to bathe in a tub of hot water, and sip a deep-bowled cup of claret. Chandler liked to bathe; his wife and retainers laughed at him. Most men of his station only bathed on the eve of the great feast days of the Church. Sir Stephen, however, had fought in Outremer, he had swum in the cool fountains and ponds of the Caliph of Egypt’s palaces. He had never forgotten that. Once the palaces had been taken, their treasures ransacked, the men slaughtered, the women raped, to swim in the ornamental pools and to smell the exquisite scent of the lotus flowers floating there was pleasure indeed. He was a man who liked his comforts, Sir Stephen, a great landowner in the shire of Kent, owner of Dovecote Manor on the road to Canterbury, a fine red-bricked building with its pastures, meadows, hunting rights, streams and well-stocked carp ponds.
Sir Stephen sat in the leather-backed chair and sniffed appreciatively at the steam curling from the scented hot water the slatterns had poured in. He had insisted on crushed rose juice being added; it always made him relax, and Sir Stephen, if the truth were known, was deeply agitated. He hated these journeys to London every autumn, the gathering, the Masses and, above all, the memories. Sir Stephen picked up the wine cup and sipped carefully. He didn’t like that priest, the dark-faced Dominican; wasn’t he clerk to Cranston the coroner? Chandler knew Cranston personally – they had fought together on the borders of Gascony. Chandler pulled off his boots, undid his jerkin and stripped himself naked. He stared down at his podgy white body, the red scars and purple welts of ancient wounds, the way his forearms and the lower parts of his legs were still burned dark by that fierce sun.
Sir Stephen waddled across to make sure the bolts on the door were pushed across and the lock turned. He absent-mindedly patted the coffer on the table just within the door and crossed to the bath tub. He would have liked two of the maids to bathe him, but he had to be careful, especially of that self-righteous monk Malachi. He had to hide his secret pleasures. Sir Stephen moved his wine cup to a small table near the tub and stepped gingerly in. He flinched at the heat but lowered himself carefully into the water. He had been quite explicit – the bath tub had to be sturdy and take his size, the finest oak, bound by hoops of iron. Master Rolles, as usual, could not do enough for him and his other companions. No wonder, Sir Stephen reflected, they’d paid the greasy taverner generously enough over the years. He stared appreciatively around the chamber. Master Rolles did look after them! These chambers were luxurious, whilst they dined not in that filthy tap room, but in the comfortable solar at the rear of the tavern. No dirty rushes covered that floor; instead, the oaken boards had been polished to shine like a mirror whilst carpets of soft turkey had been carefully nailed down to deaden the sound and keep in the warmth. The walls were hung with exquisite tapestries of blue and gold depicting scenes from the legends of King Arthur. Each chamber had its own theme, and Sir Stephen had been given the Excalibur chamber. Accordingly, all the blue and gold tapestries described incidents relating to the famous sword, from its discovery in a stone to its return to the Lady of the Lake.
Sir Stephen leaned back, gazing up at the black rafters and the Catherine wheel of candles which could be lowered, lit and hoisted up again. In each corner of the chamber were capped metal braziers, the charcoal now red and spluttering, exuding not only warmth but also the fragrance of the herb pack-ets placed
Chapter 3
Sir Stephen Chandler didn’t know he was going to die. After his return from St Erconwald, he had decided to bathe in a tub of hot water, and sip a deep-bowled cup of claret. Chandler liked to bathe; his wife and retainers laughed at him. Most men of his station only bathed on the eve of the great feast days of the Church. Sir Stephen, however, had fought in Outremer, he had swum in the cool fountains and ponds of the Caliph of Egypt’s palaces. He had never forgotten that. Once the palaces had been taken, their treasures ransacked, the men slaughtered, the women raped, to swim in the ornamental pools and to smell the exquisite scent of the lotus flowers floating there was pleasure indeed. He was a man who liked his comforts, Sir Stephen, a great landowner in the shire of Kent, owner of Dovecote Manor on the road to Canterbury, a fine red-bricked building with its pastures, meadows, hunting rights, streams and well-stocked carp ponds.
Sir Stephen sat in the leather-backed chair and sniffed appreciatively at the steam curling from the scented hot water the slatterns had poured in. He had insisted on crushed rose juice being added; it always made him relax, and Sir Stephen, if the truth were known, was deeply agitated. He hated these journeys to London every autumn, the gathering, the Masses and, above all, the memories. Sir Stephen picked up the wine cup and sipped carefully. He didn’t like that priest, the dark-faced Dominican; wasn’t he clerk to Cranston the coroner? Chandler knew Cranston personally – they had fought together on the borders of Gascony. Chandler pulled off his boots, undid his jerkin and stripped himself naked. He stared down at his podgy white body, the red scars and purple welts of ancient wounds, the way his forearms and the lower parts of his legs were still burned dark by that fierce sun.
Sir Stephen waddled across to make sure the bolts on the door were pushed across and the lock turned. He absent-mindedly patted the coffer on the table just within the door and crossed to the bath tub. He would have liked two of the maids to bathe him, but he had to be careful, especially of that self-righteous monk Malachi. He had to hide his secret pleasures. Sir Stephen moved his wine cup to a small table near the tub and stepped gingerly in. He flinched at the heat but lowered himself carefully into the water. He had been quite explicit – the bath tub had to be sturdy and take his size, the finest oak, bound by hoops of iron. Master Rolles, as usual, could not do enough for him and his other companions. No wonder, Sir Stephen reflected, they’d paid the greasy taverner generously enough over the years. He stared appreciatively around the chamber. Master Rolles did look after them! These chambers were luxurious, whilst they dined not in that filthy tap room, but in the comfortable solar at the rear of the tavern. No dirty rushes covered that floor; instead, the oaken boards had been polished to shine like a mirror whilst carpets of soft turkey had been carefully nailed down to deaden the sound and keep in the warmth. The walls were hung with exquisite tapestries of blue and gold depicting scenes from the legends of King Arthur. Each chamber had its own theme, and Sir Stephen had been given the Excalibur chamber. Accordingly, all the blue and gold tapestries described incidents relating to the famous sword, from its discovery in a stone to its return to the Lady of the Lake.
Sir Stephen leaned back, gazing up at the black rafters and the Catherine wheel of candles which could be lowered, lit and hoisted up again. In each corner of the chamber were capped metal braziers, the charcoal now red and spluttering, exuding not only warmth but also the fragrance of the herb pack-ets placed
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