‘The influence of Richer,’ Alesia broke in.
‘Mistress, with all due respect – nonsense. A young French monk from St Calliste? Your father was a very shrewd merchant. He would expect Richer to be biased. No.’ Cranston returned to his argument. ‘Item: Sir Robert was influenced, like the astute man he was, by something he didn’t realize before, hence all my questions.’
‘True, true.’ Alesia sighed. ‘Recently, I’d often come into my father’s chamber. He’d be sitting at his chancery desk, nibbling as he so often did at the plume of his pens, the other hand smoothing the wood. He’d be lost in thought as if he was experiencing a vision.’
‘What was that vision?’ Cranston asked.
The household just stared back at him, shaking their heads.
Cranston shuffled his feet. He was finished here. He felt he had only been told what they wanted to tell him. He rose, gathered his possessions and insisted on checking the seals on Kilverby’s chamber. Crispin took him there. The coroner scrutinized the large wax blobs bearing the imprint of the city arms. Flaxwith, as usual, had done a thorough job. The chamber and all the mysteries it held was still securely sealed. Crispin escorted him out but, just before he opened the main door, Cranston grasped the clerk’s arm.
‘The Passio Christi, could it be sold on the open market?’
‘No.’ Crispin gently freed himself from Cranston’s grip. ‘What buyer could ever realize gold and silver on it? He’d certainly risk detection. If he took it abroad the same would happen. Sir John, no merchant would risk sacrilege by buying a sacred relic owned by another, especially the likes of His Grace, John of Gaunt.’
Cranston grunted his agreement and donned both hat and cloak. He strolled out into the icy darkness, smiling to himself as Crispin slammed the door noisily behind him. The coroner had only walked a few paces from the main gate, the porter’s farewells ringing in his ears, when a group of hooded, masked men burst out from an alleyway, sconce torches held high. Cranston threw his cloak back, drew sword and dagger, quickly edging round to have the wall against his back.
‘Good evening. Not me, gentlemen, surely,’ he said hoarsely. ‘The King’s own coroner? Not here where I will cry “Harrow” and rouse the good citizens.’
The men, five in all, formed an arc blocking his way. None had drawn their weapons.
‘Sir John, Sir John, my Lord Coroner.’ The voice of the man in the middle was gentle. ‘Pax et bonum, sir. We have no quarrel with you – well, not yet, not here.’
‘So you’ve come to praise me, to wish me well?’ Cranston raised both sword and dagger. ‘Who are you – envoys from the Upright Men?’
‘Two items, Sir John. The Dominican Athelstan. He’s at St Fulcher’s because of the deaths of those former soldiers?’
‘Yes.’
‘And their assassin?’
‘We don’t know who yet, perhaps you or someone you’ve hired.’
‘Everybody is for hire and yes, we have friends in St Fulcher’s but they know little.’
‘So why ask me?’
‘For our own secret purposes as well as to assure ourselves that the Dominican is safe. His parishioners . . .’
‘You mean your adherents who happen to be his parishioners?’
‘His parishioners are worried. They want to be assured that he’s there for a good purpose. Rumour has it that His Satanic Grace, our so-called Regent, has exiled him.’
‘That’s nonsense.’
‘We have your word on that? Athelstan’s parishioners do seek reassurance.’
‘You have my word, now get out of my way.’
‘Secondly, Coroner,’ the man’s voice remained conversational, ‘we would like you to take a message to my Lord Abbot.’
‘Go hire Mulligrub or Snapskull. I’m not your scurrier.’
‘Please tell our Lord Abbot when you meet him that his payments are long overdue.’
‘Payments for what?’
‘He’ll know and, I guess, so do you, Sir John. We bid you goodnight.’ The five men swiftly withdrew back up the alleyway.
Cranston remained where he was – pursuit would be highly dangerous. He sheathed his weapons and stared up at the sky. He certainly would have words with Lord Walter. As for those rapscallions at St Erconwald’s, they wanted reassurance? Well, Cranston smiled to himself, tomorrow was Sunday and such reassurance would be his gift.
FIVE
‘Moot: a gathering of the people.’
Athelstan spent the remainder of the Saturday before the third Sunday Advent recovering from that mysterious attack. Immediately after that he had met the rest of the Wyverns, who said they’d been looking for him to invite him to a game of bowls. Athelstan reluctantly agreed, studying them carefully. He quickly concluded that the would-be assassin could not be one of them. It would have been impossible for any of them to launch such an attack, dispose of both cloak and arbalest and hurry round to appear with the rest outside the guest house. This conviction deepened as he played bowls, using all his skill to shatter the pins carved in the shape of demons and hell-sprites. Wenlock’s hands were too maimed to hold a crossbow whilst the rest, when questioned about their archery, proudly scoffed about using ‘a woman’s weapon such as an arbalest’.