by Paul Doherty
‘Perhaps later,’ Athelstan intervened quickly.
Sir Walter handed the commission back.
‘It’s not my fault,’ he wailed. He picked at a stain on his tunic. ‘I’ve kept the prisoners safely housed and protected. No one comes in here apart from that arrogant fop de Fontanel and, when he does, I watch him like a hawk. My Lord of Gaunt can’t . . .’
‘Where’s the corpse?’ Sir John demanded.
Sir Walter blinked. ‘Yes, yes, quite, you’d best come with me!’
He led them out of his chamber along a passageway which smelt of stale vegetables. He reached the foot of a wooden spiral staircase. A pale young woman with light brown hair was sitting on the bottom step. She was picking at the floor and didn’t look up as they approached.
‘Lucy! Lucy!’ Sir Walter glanced at Sir John. ‘This is my daughter.’
The young woman glanced up; her face was vacuous, her eyes empty, her lower lip hung loose and a trail of saliva ran down her chin. A pretty-looking girl but her soul was gone, her wits fuddled.
‘I’m going to press some flowers, Father.’ She became aware of the visitors and squinted up at them. ‘They are not supposed to be here.’
‘Hush now, Lucy! They are from my Lord of Gaunt.’
‘Have they brought some money?’ she asked.
‘It’s Sir John Cranston,’ Sir Walter replied. ‘He’s coroner of the city, come to view the corpse.’
‘All Frenchmen are corpses,’ she replied. ‘And one’s up there, stiffening and cold, smelling like a fish.’
‘God have mercy on her!’ Sir Walter said. ‘Her wits wander. Sir John, she has no great love of the French.’
They reached the second gallery. The passageway was narrow and dark, the floor boards unpolished, the white plaster battered and peeling. Nevertheless, the doors to the chambers they passed hung straight and secure. Sir Walter stopped at one of these and pushed it open. The room was large but poorly lit. The shutters on the windows were thrown back but the little sunlight which poured through did nothing to lift the gloom or the summer breezes soften the stench of death and decay. A crucifix hung on the far wall, a few sticks of furniture and two battered leather coffers stood scattered around. On the narrow cot bed lay the corpse. Athelstan glimpsed a protuberant nose, greying skin; the dirty sheet meant to cover it had slipped to one side. Although he had given the last rites to many people, Athelstan was always struck by how pathetic a corpse looked. This was no different.
Athelstan crossed to the bed. He was not a physician but one glance told him that Guillaum Serriem had died in agony. The eyes were open, the pupils rolled back, the mouth hung slack. The skin of the face was puffy and discoloured. Athelstan pulled up the shift, noting the dark purple blotches which discoloured the chest and the muscular stomach. He opened the small writing-bag he always carried and took out a thin-stemmed horn spoon. He forced this into the mouth; the cadaver was stiff though the jaw was still slightly slack. The pink skin inside the mouth had turned a dark purplish hue, the gums and tongue were swollen. Athelstan sniffed. There was an odour, slightly sweetish. Athelstan knew and recognised a number of poisons but not this, which had the sugary smell of marzipan. He inspected the corpse for any recent wound or mark. Serriem’s body was lean and muscular; it bore the high, pink, furrowed cuts where old wounds had healed but nothing out of the ordinary. Athelstan whispered the Requiem, made the sign of the cross over the corpse and pulled the sheet over that ghastly face. Sir John was sitting on a stool mopping his brow. Sir Maurice was playing with the wrist guard, Sir Walter was going round the room touching things as if he might find something significant. The door was pushed open. A young man entered, tall, thin and stooped, long brown hair falling to his shoulders. He was sharp-eyed and clean-shaven with a kindly face.
‘Osmund Aspinall,’ Sir Walter introduced him. ‘He’s our leech and apothecary.’
The physician hitched his fur gown and pulled up the belt which hung loose round his thin waist. He shook Sir John’s hand and then Athelstan’s, peering at them closely as if short-sighted.
‘I’m a physician,’ he joked. ‘Most people call me a leech. I have chambers in Cripplegate and Sir Walter here pays me to keep an eye on the prisoners.’ He sat on the edge of the bed and patted the corpse. ‘Poisoned, yes?’
‘How do you know?’ Athelstan asked, going to sit on the small bench under the window.
Aspinall shrugged. ‘Brother, there are as many poisons on the market as there are pigeons round St Paul’s. Belladonna, henbane and at least three types of arsenic.’
‘But this one?’ Sir John asked.
‘I can’t recognise it but, as I have said, there are so many.’
‘How was it administered?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Oh, by mouth. There’s no cut on the corpse.’
‘Could it have been an accident?’
‘Possibly.’ Aspinall gestured at the window. ‘There’s a herb garden down there, with berries and plants which might kill a man.’
‘How long does it take such a poison to work?’ Sir Maurice asked.
‘It depends. I knew of an old woman in Guttersnipe Alley who was poisoned by her son over a period of days but this was one which acted quickly. It would disturb the humours, clog the blood and, by the look on the corpse’s face, he probably choked.’
‘Well, well, well.’ Sir John tapped his boot on the floor. And where would they get poisons from?’
‘There’s none here,’ Sir Walter insisted. ‘None whatsoever.’
‘And you, Master Aspinall?’
The physician spread his long fingers and played with the gem-encrusted ring on one of them.
‘My lord coroner, I have heard of you and Brother Athelstan.’ He laughed drily. ‘Sharp of eye and keen of wit. I assure you that I brought no poison into here, left no potion, gave no medicines. The prisoners are soldiers, seamen, hard and sturdy. The food could have been improved and their humours were disturbed by being confined but nothing else.’
‘And you know nothing of the prisoners or this man’s death?’
Aspinall got to his feet. ‘I know nothing, Sir John.’
‘Why are you here today?’
‘I came to ensure all was well. I inspected the corpse this morning but thought I should return, just in case.’
‘In case of what?’ Athelstan asked, getting to his feet.
Aspinall turned at the door and leaned against it, hands behind his back. He stared up at the ceiling.
‘Brother, you are the coroner’s secretarius. I am a physician, not a master of logic. We have a man poisoned. Now it could have been an accident. He may have found something in this house and eaten it but, God knows, that’s not the truth.’
‘So?’
‘In my experience, Brother, when such deaths occur they are not isolated events.’
‘You mean others will be poisoned?’
‘I know they will be. Oh, I thought about it this morning. Why should anyone kill Serriem? Hawkmere Manor is close and securely guarded; the murderer must know that he stands a good chance of being caught. So Serriem’s death was meticulously planned. It was no crime of passion and it may be one of many.’
Athelstan scrutinised the physician. Aspinall spoke sense. Was there conflict between the prisoners? He glanced sideways at Sir Walter. Or a paying-off of old scores?
‘I’ve also checked the stores and the wine cellar.’
‘You had no right,’ Sir Walter protested.
I have every right, Sir Walter. I am physician to the prisoners. My Lord of Gaunt has paid me good silver. However, do not trouble yourself. The meat and cheese could be fresher, the wine sweeter but the food stores are not tainted.’
‘Are there vermin here?’ Athelstan asked, remembering Ranulf the rat-catcher.
‘Of course.’
‘You put down no poison?’
‘We have three great cats.’ Sir Walter smiled sourly. ‘We do not feed them and they are half-wild, they take care of th
e vermin.’
‘When did Serriem retire to bed?’
‘With the rest at nine o’clock. They supped at seven, walked in the garden. Serriem played checkers with one of the prisoners. Pierre Vamier.’
‘And the relationships?’ Sir John asked. ‘Between the prisoners?’
‘They are cordial enough.’ Aspinall spoke up. ‘Sir Walter will confirm this. They keep to themselves. They are homesick for their families in France, eager for their ransoms to be raised. Yet.’
Sir John undid the stopper of the wine and took two great gulps. He offered it to his companions but they shook their heads.
‘Well, go on.’
‘In the last week to ten days,’ Sir Walter said, ‘something has changed, they do seem wary of each other.’
‘How were they captured?’ Athelstan asked.
‘I did that.’ Sir Maurice spoke up. ‘There are five of them, or there were. Vamier, Gresnay, Routier, Maneil and Serriem. They were captains, lieutenants and masters of the two great French cogs of war: the St Sulpice and the St Denis. Our wine fleet from Bordeaux had sailed up into the Channel. Now, it is customary for the ships to disembark some of their cargo at Calais and make a dash across the Straits into Dover. The St Sulpice and St Denis were waiting for them.’
‘And what happened?’ Athelstan asked.
‘I was in Dover at the time,’ the young knight continued. ‘Commanding a large force of knights, hobelars, men-at-arms and archers. We had four craft at our disposal led by a cog of war, The Great Edward. The Constable of Dover Castle received information that the St Sulpice and St Denis would be waiting for our ships so we took to sea. It was a long and bloody fight: the St Denis was sunk, the St Sulpice captured.’
Athelstan picked up his writing-bag, tying the cord at the top.
‘That’s almost miraculous,’ he observed. ‘From where did the Constable of Dover Castle get his orders?’
‘By courier from London. The message was general. It simply said that our wine fleet would be leaving Calais and French privateers were busy in the Channel’
‘A remarkable coincidence.’ Sir John, wheezing and puffing, got to his feet.
‘What are you implying?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Something I’ve suspected.’ Sir Maurice spoke up. ‘The St Sulpice and St Denis came out of a French port. They had to be prepared and provisioned for sea.’ He shrugged. ‘It was common gossip that the Regent had a spy in the French camp who sent him news about this.’
‘And now the French captains themselves suspect this?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Possibly.’
Sir Walter rubbed his hands together, pleased that suspicion had been diverted from him.
‘It could well cause animosity amongst the prisoners,’ he declared, bright-eyed, ‘if they thought someone was the traitor, perhaps Serriem?’
Sir John clapped him on the shoulder. And you, Sir Walter?’
‘I know what you are thinking.’ The knight gaoler shrugged Sir John’s hand off. ‘Don’t worry, Sir John, I thought the same as soon as I knew Serriem was dead. Here’s old Limbright, a man who hates the French, who killed his wife, sons and drove his daughter witless. What a marvellous opportunity for revenge!’ He drummed his fingers against his dagger. ‘But I didn’t want them dead, Sir John. I just wanted them prisoners. I wanted them to experience the hurt that I felt. To pine for their families as I did. To walk round and round a room and feel the grief of separation.’ He faced the coroner squarely. Athelstan noticed the spots of anger high in his cheeks. ‘And if I wanted to kill them, Sir John, I’d do it honourably. I may be the knight of the dirty jerkin, ageing and bitter, but it would be sword against sword, or lance against lance, not poison in the dead of night.’
‘Well said! Well said!’ Athelstan commented.
‘And the corpse?’
‘It will be interred in some churchyard!’ Sir Walter snapped. ‘If the French want it home they’ll have to pay for it!’
‘I’d best be leaving,’ the physician interrupted.
Aspinall bid farewell, and quietly left.
Sir Walter waited until the footfalls faded.
‘Now there goes a man,’ he muttered sarcastically, ‘who believes that blunt, honest speech covers a multitude of sins.’
‘What do you mean?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Our good physician is what he claims to be but he likes visiting Hawkmere Manor.’
‘Stop talking in bloody riddles!’ Sir John snapped.
‘Aspinall is a bachelor; he’s taken a liking to young Gresnay.’
‘You mean he’s a lover of men?’
‘I didn’t say that, Sir John. Serriem did. Aspinall is recently arrived in London. I know little of him. Anyway, Gresnay had a fall downstairs. Aspinall came to examine him. Nothing more than bruised ribs. Serriem cracked a joke about our physician being as tender as a woman. Gresnay and the physician became rather flustered, very embarrassed. A fight might have ensued but Vamier intervened.’
‘Is there anything else we should know?’ Sir John asked.
‘Very little! The French seem a close-knit group of sailors and soldiers who’ve fought against the Goddamns since their youth. They give little away.’
‘And how long will they remain here?’ Athelstan asked.
‘They are all from fairly wealthy families. But the ransom is steep, ten pounds in gold each.’
‘Why so high?’
‘Talk to any ship owner along the Thames,’ Sir Maurice answered. ‘The St Sulpice and St Denis were hated and feared. Those two warships did terrible damage to English shipping. They are only receiving what they served up to others.’
‘Wait! Wait!’ Sir John held his hand up as Sir Walter went to open the door. ‘They commanded warships?’
‘I’ve told you.’
‘Sir Maurice, when the St Sulpice was taken, what was its cargo?’
The young knight scratched his chin. ‘Most of it was armaments, some chests and coffers which were immediately sealed with the Regent’s insignia. The cargo always goes to the Crown,’ he added wryly.
‘And the ship?’ Sir John persisted.
‘Oh, it now flies under English colours, it’s been renamed the Carisbrooke.’
Athelstan cradled his writing-bag. Something was very wrong here. Why should a man be murdered in such close confined quarters? Was it a coincidence that the sly and subtle John of Gaunt had asked him and Sir John to help, in the affairs of the heart, the knight who had commanded the ships which had brought these Frenchmen to such a poor pass? We are in the dark again, Athelstan reflected; shown bits and pieces but denied the whole picture. He glanced quickly at the coroner, who was now showing obvious signs of the generous swigs from the wineskin. He had a fixed smile on his face, and was licking his lips and patting his stomach.
‘Come on, Sir John,’ he urged. ‘And you, Sir Maurice, let’s visit our French guests.’
The prisoners were assembled in the long, dingy hall below stairs. A narrow, gloomy room with rafters like a barn, its plaster walls had turned a dingy yellow from the countless fires in the crumbling, canopied hearth. Trestle tables stood about, badly scrubbed. Two thin-ribbed wolf hounds were busy licking the table-tops for morsels.
The French were seated on a dais sharing a jug of wine and a platter of roast chicken. Athelstan suspected that Sir Walter provided this to placate his prisoners and restrain them from launching into a litany of protests about their conditions. They were a taciturn, hard-bitten crew; younger than Serriem. Their hair was cropped, their faces weatherbeaten. They were dressed in dingy clothes, shabby jerkins with frayed, faded shirts beneath. The only exception was a girlish-faced young man with thick, red lips and eyelashes any girl would envy. He had allowed his blond hair to grow and his skin was so white Athelstan wondered if he rubbed paste into it.
They hardly bothered to acknowledge their visitors but kept talking among themselves until Sir Walter struck the table with his hand.
&
nbsp; ‘Ah, good morning, Sir Walter,’ one of them said. ‘We have visitors?’
Their gaoler made the introductions. Routier, with his close face, was the first to greet them. Maneil, surly, his left eyelid drooping, constantly fingered the deep scar on his cheek. Vamier was pleasant-faced, or at least he smiled with his eyes. Athelstan took an immediate dislike to the blond-haired Gresnay who simpered in silent mockery at them. Their command of English was very good. They ignored Sir Maurice, just acknowledging his presence with nods of their heads. Athelstan was surprised but he whispered that, unlike the knights of chivalry, sea captains nursed animosities and jealousies: they regarded him as the cause of their misfortune. Sir Walter rearranged more chairs round the circular table. He offered some wine but Athelstan quickly refused.
‘I suppose you’ve heard about Serriem? Poor Guillaum?’ Routier glared at Sir Walter. ‘It’s all a sham,’ he railed. ‘We are prisoners, kept against our will, exorbitant ransoms are demanded. Now we are to be poisoned!’
Sir John got up and leaned across the table.
‘I am no sham, sir! If murder is committed, justice must be done!’
Routier blinked and sat back.
‘In which case,’ Gresnay lisped, flicking his blond hair, ‘you are going to have to perform a miracle.’
‘Now, why is that, sir?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Why, Brother,’ Gresnay replied, ‘all of us took an oath that we would not eat or drink anything someone else didn’t also taste.’
CHAPTER 5
Gresnay’s words created a pool of silence.
‘I am sorry?’ Athelstan stammered.
‘Don’t you understand your own tongue, Brother?’ Vamier snapped. He tapped Gresnay on the arm. ‘Jean has spoken the truth.’
‘What is the truth?’ Sir John asked.
‘We are officers of the King of France,’ Vamier declared. ‘We are prisoners here but we fear for our lives. Sir Walter’s hatred for our nation is well known.’
‘And good reason for it!’ Sir Walter burst out.
‘Hush now!’ Athelstan held his hands up.
‘But it’s true,’ Vamier continued. ‘Why!’ He caught the look of puzzlement in Athelstan’s eyes. ‘Hasn’t he told you? It was the St Denis which attacked Winchelsea when his wife and sons died.’ The Frenchman lifted his shoulders and spread his hands placatingly. ‘Of course, it was a different crew, different men. No man here would agree to the wanton slaying of a woman and her sons. But, Sir John, you have fought in France?’