Thibault stepped forward, clearing his throat. ‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan – you saw how much I love my daughter, Isabella?’
Neither replied.
‘Before I took minor orders,’ Thibault explained, ‘her mother died in childbirth. Do you love the Lady Maude, Sir John, your twin sons?’
‘Of course.’
‘And Brother Athelstan, whom do you love? You, a priest who is supposed to love everybody – do you love anybody?’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘The good widow Benedicta, perhaps?’
‘Aye,’ Athelstan replied calmly, ‘as I love you, Brother Thibault. Isn’t that what Christ commanded?’
Gaunt smiled bleakly.
‘Very good, very good.’ Thibault took a step forward. ‘And His Grace dearly loves Meister Oudernarde who, thanks be to God, is recovering, although he still lies gravely wounded. He will be moved to the hospital at Saint Bartholomew’s for more special care. Lettenhove, however, is dead, sheeted cold in his coffin. The Regent’s guests, Brother Athelstan, Sir John, were grievously attacked in this hallowed place. Those guests were sacred. His Grace the Regent was cruelly mocked; he grieves for what has happened.’
‘For all of this,’ Athelstan turned to the strong-faced Fleming, ‘both Sir John and I are truly sorry.’ Oudernarde bowed his head slightly in thanks.
‘We want you,’ Thibault continued, ‘Brother Athelstan and you, Sir John, to examine most closely what truly happened here today.’
‘The assassin lies dead, does he not?’
‘To examine most closely, Brother Athelstan, what happened here today,’ Thibault repeated. ‘Captain Rosselyn will provide you with comfortable quarters.’
‘I have other duties,’ Athelstan replied.
‘Voluntas principis,’ Thibault leaned down, ‘habet vigorem legis’, or so Justinian says. ‘The will of the prince has force of law.’
‘Et quod omnes tangit,’ Athelstan quoted back, ‘ab omnibus approbetur.’ You have read your Bracton, Master Thibault? What affects all should be approved by all.’
The Master of Secrets was about to reply when a savage roaring and growling echoed through the chapel.
‘The keepers are feeding the King’s lions,’ Thibault whispered. ‘You must visit them, Brother, during your stay here.’
‘My parishioners?’ Athelstan ignored Cranston’s quick intake of breath.
‘Oh, yes,’ Thibault smiled, ‘your parishioners! You heard about the murder of my hangmen, Laughing Jack and his two minions. Perhaps, Brother, their assassins might be hiding among your parishioners – His Grace’s enemies, the Upright Men, who can be hanged out of hand.’ Thibault pursed his lips. ‘Yes, that would be justice. We could hire that strange anchorite you shelter, the Hangman of Rochester. We could set up a gallows outside your church. I could have your parishioners’ filthy, mean hovels searched and ransacked. And who shall we begin with? Watkin? Yes, I’m sure it’s Watkin, the shit collector? And his great friend, the grubby-faced ditcher? We could search their shabby houses. Rosselyn could bring them here for questioning in certain chambers beneath this tower.’
Athelstan repressed a shiver. Now he was certain. There was a spy among his parishioners. This Master of Secrets knew too much.
‘Of course,’ Thibault smiled, ‘your parishioners will miss you. But, if you stay and do my master’s bidding, there will be no need for the search or the gallows.’ He wagged a finger like some master in the schools. ‘I can send them comfort; perhaps pig, nicely roasted and basted with all sorts of mouth-watering sauces. Some capon and chicken, soft and white; freshly baked bread and a large barrel of the finest ale. Indeed, I shall send it tomorrow, early in the morning.’ Thibault turned, slightly gesturing at his master. ‘A gift from His Grace.’
‘I will do what I can,’ Athelstan replied slowly.
‘Good. Very good.’ Thibault clapped his hands like an excited child.
‘The heads,’ Athelstan demanded swiftly. ‘Where are those heads, severed at the neck and soaked in brine for at least a month? Did you recognize them, Thibault?’
The Master of Secrets simply pulled a face and shrugged.
‘Did any of you recognize them?’ Athelstan gazed around. No one answered. ‘In which case,’ Athelstan persisted, ‘may I see those heads, to inspect them?’ Athelstan bit his tongue; he was tempted to ask about the mysterious prisoner but that might betray Sir John.
‘Why?’ Thibault asked. ‘Those heads are not part of . . .’