By Murder's bright light

CHAPTER 2

Brother Athelstan sat at the table in his kitchen in the small priest’s house of St Erconwald’s in Southwark and stared moodily into the fire. He’d celebrated morning Mass. He’d cleaned the church with the help of Cecily the courtesan and talked with Tab the tinker about mending some pots. After that he had said goodbye to the widow Benedicta, who was going to spend a few days helping a relative across the river who was expecting a baby.

Athelstan got up and went to stir the porridge cooking in a black cauldron above the flames. He looked over his shoulder at Bonaventura, the big one-eyed tomcat, who was sitting patiently on the table, daintily washing himself after a night’s hunting in the alleyways around the church.

‘It will soon be ready, Bonaventure. Some hot oatmeal with a little milk, spice and sugar. Benedicta herself prepared it before she left. It will taste delicious. For the next week we will break our fast like kings.’

The cat yawned and stared arrogantly at this strange Dominican who constantly talked to him. Athelstan wiped the horn spoon, put it back on its hook, stretched and yawned.

‘I should have gone to bed myself,’ he murmured. Instead he had climbed the tower of his church to study the stars, watching in awe the fiery fall of a meteor. He walked back to the table, sat down again and sipped his watered ale.

‘Why?’ he asked Bonaventure. Tell me this, most cunning of cats. Why do meteors fall from heaven but not stars? Or,’ he continued, seeing he had the cat’s attention, ‘are meteors falling stars? And, if they are, what causes one star to fall and not another?’

The cat just blinked with its one good eye.

‘And the problem becomes even more complicated,’ Athelstan explained. ‘Let me put it this way. Why do some stars move? The constellation called the Great Bear does but the ship’s star, the North Star, never?’

Bonaventure’s reaction was to miaow loudly and slump down on the table as if desperate at the long wait for his morning dish of oatmeal. Athelstan smiled and gently stroked the cat’s tattered ear.

‘Or should we ask questions?’ he whispered. ‘Or just gaze in admiration at God’s great wonder?’

He sighed and returned to the piece of parchment he had been studying the evening before. On it was a crude drawing of the church. The parish council, in their wisdom, had decided that on their saint’s day they would produce a mystery play in the nave of the church. Athelstan was now drawing up a list of the things they’d need. Thomas Drawsword, a new member of the parish, had agreed to refurbish a large wagon which would act as the stage, but they would need more. Athelstan studied his list:

Two devils’ coats

Two devils’ hoods

One shirt

Three masks

Wings for the angels

Three trumpets

One hell’s door

Four small angels

Nails

Last, but not least, a large canvas backcloth

The play was called The Last Judgement and already Athelstan was beginning to regret his enthusiasm for the venture.

‘We are going to be short of wings,’ he muttered, ‘and we can’t have one-winged angels.’ He groaned. All this was nothing to the arguments over who would play the different characters. Watkin the dung-collector insisted on being God, but this was bitterly disputed by Pike the ditcher. The civil war had spread to their children, who were quarrelling over who would act the roles of the four good spirits, the four evil spirits and the six devils. Watkin’s large wife, who had the brassy voice of a trumpet, had declared that she would be Our Lady. Tab the tinker was threatening to withdraw from the pageant if he was denied a principal role.

Huddle the painter, although aloof from these squabbles, presented problems of his own. He was having some difficulty in painting a convincing hell’s mouth. The front of the cart must be raised, Father,’ he insisted, ‘so that when the damned go through the mouth of hell, they disappear downwards.’

Athelstan threw his quill down on to the table.

‘What we need, Bonaventure,’ he declared, ‘is Sir John Cranston. He has agreed that his twin sons, the little poppets, can stagger about as cherubims and Sir John would make a marvellous Satan.’

Athelstan paused and stared up at the blackened timbered ceiling. Cranston! Athelstan had visited him only three days ago, had sat in his huge kitchen while the two poppets chased around, shrieking with laughter. They had hung on to the tails of the great Irish wolfhounds Cranston had, in a fit of generosity, taken into his house. Despite the uproar, the coroner had been in good spirits. He was involved in the minutiae of city government, though he had issued a dire prophecy, aided by generous cups of claret, that some dreadful homicide, some bloody affray, would soon be upon them. Athelstan could only agree; fife had been rather quiet and sweet since he and Sir John had been involved in the business of the Guildhall some months previously.

Athelstan warmed his fingers in front of the fire. He was glad winter was approaching. The harvest had been good. The price of corn and bread had fallen, easing some of the seething discontent in the city. The prospect of revolt had receded, though Athelstan knew it was just hiding, like seeds in the ground, waiting to sprout. Athelstan sighed, he could only hope, pray and do his best.

‘Come on, Bonaventure,’ he said. ‘Let’s eat.’

He took two large bowls from the shelf over the fireplace, ladled into them hot, steaming dollops of oatmeal and took them to the buttery. Following Benedicta’s instructions, he sprinkled each bowl with cinnamon and sugar and went back into the kitchen. One bowl was placed before the hearth for the ever-hungry cat. Athelstan blessed himself and Bonaventure, took up his horn spoon and began to eat the nourishing, boiling-hot oatmeal. He had finished his bowl, or was letting Bonaventure do it for him, when he heard the clamour outside – the sound of running footsteps and a voice screaming, ‘Sanctuary, Christ have mercy!’

Athelstan hurried out of his house and round to the front of the church. A young man, white-faced, eyes staring under a shock of blond hair, gripped the great iron ring of the church door.

‘Sanctuary, Father!’ the man gasped. ‘Father, I claim sanctuary! In the name of God and his Church!’

‘Why?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Murder!’ the young man replied. ‘But, Father, I am innocent!’

The priest studied the man carefully: his thick, serge jerkin, hose of bottle-green wool and leather boots were all coated in muck and ordure.

‘Father!’ the man pleaded. They’ll kill me!’

Athelstan heard the sound of running footsteps and the faint cries of pursuit further up the alleyway. He took out his keys and unlocked the door. The fugitive dashed up the darkened nave and through the new rood screen carved and erected by Huddle. He clung to the corner of the altar and once again shouted.

‘I seek sanctuary! I seek sanctuary!’

Athelstan, followed by an ever-inquisitive Bonaventure, walked up after him. The man now sat with his back to the altar, legs out, fighting for breath as he wiped his sweat-soaked face on the sleeve of his jerkin.

‘I claim sanctuary!’ he gasped.

‘Then, by the law of the Church, you have it!’ Athelstan replied softly.

He turned at the clamour behind him. A cluster of dark figures, armed with staves and swords, stood just inside the church.

‘Stay there,’ Athelstan called. He went out through the rood screen. ‘What do you want?’

‘We seek the murderer, the assassin, Nicholas Ashby,’ a voice growled.

‘This is God’s house,’ Athelstan replied, coming forward. ‘Master Ashby has claimed sanctuary and I have given it according to canon law and the custom of the land.’

‘Bugger that!’ the voice replied.

The figures walked up the nave. Athelstan hid his own panic and stood his ground. The group, wearing the stained red and white livery of some lord, were led by a burly, bewhiskered man. They advanced threateningly towards him, swords drawn, staves in their hands. Athelstan studied their buff jerkins, tight hose, protuberant codpieces, the sword and dagger sheaths hanging on their belts and the way they trailed their cloaks. He recognised them as bully-boys, the hired thugs of some powerful lord. He held a hand up and they stopped only yards away.

‘If you go any further,’ he said quietly, ‘you have broken not only man’s law but God’s. You are already committing sacrilege’ – he pointed to the drawn swords – ‘by coming into God’s house with such weapons.’

The leader stepped forward, sheathing his sword, as to Athelstan’s relief, did the rest.

‘What’s your name?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Mind your own business!’

‘Very well, Master Mind-my-own-business,’ Athelstan continued. ‘If you don’t leave this church, I’ll consider you excommunicated on the spot. Felons, condemned to hell fire.’ Athelstan glimpsed the sullen, arrogant faces of the others. He was pleased to see some of them show a flicker of fear.

‘Come on, Marston,’ one of them muttered to the leader. ‘Let the little turd hide behind the skirts of a priest! He’ll have to leave some time!’

Marston was full of bravado. He walked slowly forward, hands on hips, and pushed his face close to Athelstan’s.

‘We could kick the shit out of you!’ he hissed. ‘Drag that little turd out, kill him and deny anything happened!’

Athelstan stared coolly back, even though his stomach was heaving. He was tempted to quote Cranston’s name, for he didn’t like the smell of sour sweat and stale perfume that came from this bully. He prayed Watkin the dung-collector or Pike the ditcher would make an appearance. Then he smiled, remembering that God helped those who helped themselves.

‘Stay there,’ he commanded. Turning, he walked back through the rood screen.

‘Oh, please don’t!’ Ashby whispered. They’ll kill me!’

Athelstan picked up the heavy bronze cross from the altar. He winked at Ashby and walked down the nave carrying the cross before him. The smirk faded from Marston’s face.

‘What are you going to do?’

‘Well,’ Athelstan answered him, ‘first, I am going to excommunicate you with this crucifix. Then, if you come any closer, I’m going to use it to crack you on the noddle!’

Marston drew both sword and dagger. ‘Come on!’ he hissed. Try it!’

‘Now, now, my buckos! Lovely lads all!’

Sir John Cranston, swathed in his great military cloak, swept up the nave through the group, knocking them like ninepins left and right. He shoved Marston aside, stood by Athelstan and lifted his wineskin to his mouth. He smacked his lips as the wine disappeared down his throat. Marston and the others stepped back.

‘Who are you, you big fat turd?’ Marston asked. His sword and dagger came up.

Cranston, his arms folded across his chest, walked slowly towards him. ‘Who am I?’ he whispered in a sweet, almost girlish voice.

Marston looked puzzled – but only briefly, for Cranston hit him full in the face. His large, ham fist crashed into the man’s nose and sent him sprawling back among his companions, blood spurting out, drenching moustache, beard and the front of his jerkin. Marston wiped his face, looked at the blood and, roaring with rage, lunged at Sir John. The fat coroner, moving as nimbly as a dancer, simply advanced towards him, stepped quickly aside and stuck out one fat leg. Marston went flat on his face, sword and dagger spinning from his hands. The coroner, tut-tutting under his breath, picked the man up by his greasy black hair, jerked his head back, marched him along the nave and flung him down the steps of the porch. Then he turned to the others.

‘I will count to ten,’ he threatened.

By the time the coroner had reached five the rest of Marston’s group were standing like frightened boys around their leader. They stared up in awe at the great cloak-swathed figure standing, legs apart, on the church steps. Marston, his face covered in blood and bruises, still had fight left in him. Sir John waggled a finger warningly.

‘You asked who I am. And, now you have left the church, I’ll inform you. I am Sir John Andrew Patrick George Cranston, personal friend of the king. I am coroner of this city, law officer, husband to the Lady Maude and the scourge of thugs like you. So far, my buckos, you have committed a number of crimes. Trespass, blasphemy, sacrilege, attempting to break sanctuary, attacking a priest, threatening a law officer and, ipso facto’ – Cranston hid his smile – pro facto, et de facto, guilty of high treason, not to mention misprision of treason. I could arrest you and you’d stand trial before the King’s Bench at Westminster!’

The change in Marston was wonderful to behold. He forgot his blood and bruises, his mouth gaped open and his arms hung limply on either side of his body as he stared fearfully at the coroner.

‘Now, my lads.’ Sir John tripped down the steps of the church, Athelstan following him. Tell me what happened, eh?’

Marston wiped the blood away. ‘We are the retainers of Sir Henry Ospring of Ospring Manor in Kent. Our master was staying at the Abbot of Hyde inn in Southwark whilst journeying into the city.’

‘Oh, yes, I have heard of Ospring,’ Cranston said. ‘A mean-spirited, tight-fisted varlet I gather.’

‘Well, he’s dead,’ Marston went on. ‘Stabbed in his chamber by the murderer now sheltering in that church.’

‘How?’

Marston licked his lips, feeling the lower one tenderly because it was beginning to swell.

‘I went up to the chamber this morning to rouse Sir Henry. I opened the door and my master lay sprawled in his nightshirt, on the floor, the blood pumping out of him. Ashby knelt above him grasping a dagger. I tried to arrest the bastard but Ashby fled through the window. The rest you know.’

‘The Abbot of Hyde inn?’ Cranston queried. ‘Well, let’s see for ourselves.’ He turned to Athelstan. ‘Lock the church, Father. Let’s visit the scene of the crime.’

Athelstan did what he asked. Cranston strode off up the alleyway, leaving the rest to hurry behind him. They found the Abbot of Hyde a scene of chaos and commotion – slatterns crying in the taproom, other servants sitting around looking white-faced and terrified. The landlord was gibbering with fright. He bowed and scraped as Cranston made his entrance and demanded a tankard of sack. Draining it immediately the coroner swept up the broad wooden stairs. Marston hurried before him along the passageway to show him the murder chamber.

Cranston pushed the door open. Inside all was confusion. Sheets had been dragged from the great four-poster bed, half-open coffers lay overturned and a cup of spilt wine was nestling among the rushes on the floor. What caught their attention, however, was the corpse lying near the bed, its arms spread wide, its thin hairy legs pathetic as they peeped out from beneath a cream woollen nightshirt. The dagger in the man’s chest was long and thin and driven in to the hilt. The blood had splashed out in a great scarlet circle. The corpse’s face, lean and pointed like that of a fox, still bore the shock of death in its open, staring eyes. From a corner of the gaping mouth ran a now dry trickle of blood.

‘God have mercy!’ Athelstan whispered. ‘Help me, Sir John!’

Together they lifted the corpse on to the bed. Athelstan, ignoring the blood spattering the white hair, knelt down and spoke the words of absolution into the man’s ear, sketching a benediction in the air.

‘Absolvo te,’ he whispered, ‘a peccatis in nomine Patris et Filii. I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father and of the Son.’

Cranston, more practical, sniffed at the wine jug and, whilst the friar performed the last rites, walked around the chamber picking up pieces, handling cloths, sifting among the rushes with the toe of his boot.

‘Tell me again what happened,’ Cranston muttered over his shoulder to a now more subdued and respectful Marston.

‘Ashby is Sir Henry’s squire. He’d just returned from a sea voyage on the God’s Bright Light.’

Cranston turned his face away to hide his surprise.

‘Sir Henry was coming to London to meet Roffel, the ship’s captain.’

‘Do you know that he’s dead too?’ Cranston snapped the question.

Marston’s eyes rounded in surprise. ‘You mean Roffel-?’

‘Yes, he’s been dead two days. Taken ill on board ship. By the time they reached the port of London, he was dead.’ Cranston nodded at Athelstan’s surprised face. That’s why I came to Southwark. Not only did Roffel die in rather mysterious circumstances but last night the first mate and the two men on watch aboard the God’s Bright Light disappeared. However, let’s leave that.’ He turned back to Marston. ‘Continue.’

Marston scratched his head. ‘Well, Sir Henry was coming in to have words with Captain Roffel. He always stayed here and took a barge down-river to meet the captain.’ Uninvited, Marston slumped down on a stool. This morning I came to arouse Sir Henry. The door was off the latch. I pushed it open. Ashby was by the corpse, his hand round the hilt of a dagger. Then’ – Marston pointed to the open window – ‘he fled. The rest you know.’

‘Was the window closed last night?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Aye, closed and secure.’

Athelstan pulled a sheet over the corpse and closed the curtains around the four-poster bed.

‘Why should Sir Henry be visiting a captain of a fighting ship?’ he asked.

‘I can answer that,’ Cranston replied. The exchequer is almost empty. Great landowners and merchants like Sir Henry agree to fit out the ships. In return, they not only receive royal favour but a percentage of any plunder taken. Isn’t that right, Marston?’

The henchman nodded.

‘A lucrative trade,’ Cranston continued evenly, ‘which ensures that the captains not only defend English shipping but constantly search for well-laden French ships or the occasional undefended town along the Seine or the Normandy coast. Sometimes they even turn to piracy against English ships.’ Cranston took his beaver hat off and rolled it in his large hands. ‘After all, if an English ship goes down, it can always be blamed on the French.’

‘Sir Henry was not like that,’ Marston snapped.

‘Aye,’ Cranston said drily. ‘And cuckoos don’t lay their eggs in other birds’ nests.’

The coroner paused at a tap on the door. A young woman entered, her face as white as a sheet, her corn-coloured hair loose. She was agitated, her fingers lacing together, and she played nervously with the silver-tasselled girdle around her slim waist. Her red-rimmed eyes flitted to the great four-poster bed. Marston rose as she entered.

‘I am sorry,’ she stuttered. She wiped her hands on the tawny sarcanet of her high-necked dress.

Athelstan strode across the room and took her hand. It was cold as ice.

‘Come on,’ he said softly. ‘You had best sit down.’ He took her gently to the stool Marston had vacated. ‘Do you wish some wine?’

The young woman shook her head, her eyes still fixed on the great four-poster bed.

‘It’s Lady Aveline, Sir Henry’s daughter,’ Marston explained. ‘She was next door when Ashby was in here.’

Athelstan crouched down and stared into Aveline’s doe-like eyes.

‘God rest him, my lady, but your father’s dead.’

The young woman plucked at a loose thread on her dress and began silently to cry, tears rolling down her cheeks.

‘I don’t want to see him,’ she whispered. ‘I can’t bear to see him, not in a nightshirt soaked in blood.’ She looked at Marston. ‘Where’s Ashby?’

‘He’s taken sanctuary in a church.’

Suddenly there was a commotion in the passage outside. The door was flung open and a tall woman with steel-grey hair swept into the room. Behind her followed another woman, rather similar in appearance but more subdued. Both women wore heavy cloaks with the hoods pushed back. The innkeeper followed, waving his hands in agitation.

‘You shouldn’t! You shouldn’t really!’ he spluttered.

‘Shut up!’ Cranston roared. ‘Who are you?’

The first and taller of the two women drew her shoulders back and looked squarely at Sir John.

‘My name is Emma Roffel, wife to the late Captain Roffel. I came here to see Sir Henry Ospring.’

Cranston bowed. ‘Madam, my condolences on your husband’s death. Was he a sickly man?’

‘No,’ she replied tartly. ‘As robust as a pig.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘I know you. You’re Cranston, Sir John Cranston, coroner of the city. What has happened here? This fellow’ – she indicated the innkeeper – ‘says Sir Henry has been murdered!’

‘Yes,’ Athelstan tactfully intervened, seeing the look on Cranston’s face. ‘Sir Henry has been murdered and we have the culprit.’

Emma Roffel’s face relaxed. Athelstan studied her curiously. She was rather pretty, he thought, in a tired-looking way. He was always fascinated by women’s faces and Emma’s struck him as a strong one, with its high-beaked nosed and square chin. Its pallor emphasised lustrous dark eyes, though these were now red-rimmed and tinged with shadows. She let her cloak fall open and he glimpsed her black widow’s weeds. She smiled at Athelstan.

‘I apologise for my entrance but I couldn’t believe the news.’ She pointed to the other woman, quiet and mousey, standing behind her. ‘This is Tabitha Velour, my maid and companion.’

Aveline still sat on the stool, her face white with shock. Emma Roffel went over and touched the girl gently on the shoulder.

‘I am sorry,’ she murmured. ‘Truly sorry.’ She glanced up at Cranston. ‘How did this happen?’

‘Stabbed by his squire,’ Cranston said. ‘Nicholas Ashby.’

Emma Roffel pulled her face in surprise.

‘You find that difficult to believe, madam?’ Athelstan asked.

The woman pursed her lips and stared at him. ‘Yes,’ she said slowly. ‘Yes, I do. Ashby was quiet, more of a scholar than a soldier.’

‘But he sailed with your husband?’

Emma Roffel smiled cynically. ‘God forgive me and God rest him but Sir Henry was a suspicious man. Yes, squire Ashby was often sent by his master to make sure his investment gained a just return.’

‘And you came here to inform Sir Henry of your husband’s death?’

‘Yes, yes, I did. But there’s little point,’ she said with a half-smile, ‘for I suppose they can talk to each other now.’

‘Madam,’ Cranston barked, ‘I need to talk to you about your husband’s death!’

‘Sir, you can. I live in Old Fish Street off Trinity on the corner of Wheelspoke Alley. But now I must go. My husband lies coffined before the altar of St Mary Magdalene. Sir John, Father.’ And Emma Roffel spun on her heel, leaving the chamber as dramatically as she had arrived.

‘What will happen now?’ Marston grated.

Sir John walked slowly over to him. ‘Ashby can have sanctuary for forty days. After that he has two choices – he either surrenders himself to the king’s justice or he walks to the nearest port and takes ship abroad. If any attempt-’ Cranston glared at Marston. ‘If any attempt is made to take him by force from St Erconwald’s, I’ll see the perpetrators dangle on the end of a noose at Smithfield! Now, I suggest you look to your master’s corpse and secure his belongings. I want the dagger removed and sent to my office at the Guildhall.’ Cranston turned to where Aveline sat. ‘Madam, please accept my condolences. However, I must insist that you stay here until my investigation is finished.’ Then, gesturing to Athelstan, Cranston left.

‘What’s this business about the ship God’s Bright Light?’ Athelstan asked once they had left the Abbot of Hyde’s courtyard.

‘As I said,’ Cranston answered between swigs from his wineskin, ‘the ship’s at anchor in the Thames. Last night the first mate and two other members of the crew disappeared whilst on watch. We also have the strange business of Captain Roffel’s death. The murder of Sir Henry Ospring and the flight of Nicholas Ashby have muddied the waters even further.’ He popped the stopper back in and hid the wineskin beneath his cloak. ‘I am hungry, monk.’

‘I’m a friar and you’re always hungry, Sir John,’ Athelstan replied. ‘So, you came to collect me, to go where?’

‘Downstream to the good ship God’s Bright Light. The admiral of the eastern seas, Sir Jacob Crawley, is waiting to grant us an audience, but’ – Cranston sniffed the air like a hunting dog – ‘I can smell pies.’

‘Round the corner,’ Athelstan said wearily, ‘is Mistress Merrylegs’ pie shop. She’s the best cook in Southwark.’

Cranston needed no second bidding and was off like a greyhound. A short while later, as he and Athelstan fought their way back through the thronged, narrow streets of Southwark, Cranston chomped greedily on one of Mistress Merrylegs’ rich, succulent beef pies.

‘Lovely!’ he breathed between mouthfuls. The woman’s a miracle, a genuine miracle!’

Athelstan smiled and stared around. Now and again he shouted greetings to members of his parish. Ursula the pig-woman was sitting on a stool in the doorway of a house, her large pet sow crouched beside her. Athelstan could have sworn the sow smiled back at him. Tab the tinker was beating out pots on an anvil just inside his shop. Athelstan would have liked to have stopped but Sir John pushed his way, true as an arrow, through the crowd, returning with vigour the usual cat-calls and good-natured abuse.

‘Father! Father!’ Pernell the Fleming, her hair dyed a grotesque red, bustled up in a shabby black dress, a necklace of cheap yellow beads around her scrawny neck. Pernell reminded Athelstan of a rather battered crow.

‘Father, can you say a Mass?’

A thin, dirty hand held out two farthings. Athelstan closed the fingers of the hand gently.

‘A Mass for whom, Pernell?’

‘For my husband. He died sixteen years ago today. The Mass is for the repose of his soul.’ The woman smiled in a display of yellow teeth. ‘Oh yes, Father, and in thanksgiving.’

‘For his life?’

‘No, that the old bugger’s dead!’

Athelstan smiled. ‘Keep your pennies, Pernell. I’ll say a Mass tomorrow morning. Don’t you worry.’

They turned off the alleyway into St Erconwald’s church. Athelstan unlocked the door and, with Cranston beside him greedily licking his fingers, walked down the nave and through the rood screen to find Ashby curled up fast asleep on the altar steps.

‘On your feet, lad!’ Cranston growled, kicking the young man’s muddy boots.

Ashby woke with a start, his eyes full of panic.

‘Have they gone?’

‘Yes, they’ve left.’ Athelstan sat down beside him. ‘Don’t worry about that. But they will be back. They might not invade the church but they will certainly keep a watch. So, if I were you, my lad, I’d stay where you are, at least for the time being.’

‘What will happen now?’ Ashby asked anxiously.

Cranston took a swig from his wineskin, then thrust it at Ashby. ‘Well, you can stay here for forty days. Once that’s up you either surrender to the sheriff’s officers or, dressed in the clothes you’re wearing now, walk the king’s highway to the nearest port, carrying a cross before you. If you drop the cross, or leave the highway, Marston and his men can kill you as a wolfshead.’ Cranston took the wineskin back. ‘Marston and his gang will probably follow you all the way. Unless they have powerful friends, very few sanctuary men reach port.’

Ashby’s head drooped.

‘Did you kill him?’ Athelstan asked abruptly.

‘No!’

‘But you had your hand on the dagger when Marston entered the chamber?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘I went in, I saw my master lying there, I . . . I tried to pull the dagger out.’

‘Strange,’ Cranston mused. ‘You tried to take the dagger out? Was it yours?’

‘No, no, it was Sir Henry’s own!’

‘But instead of screaming "Murder!" and looking for help,’ Athelstan put in, ‘you tried to remove the dagger from the dead man’s chest?’

Ashby looked away, licking his lips. ‘I’m telling the truth,’ he muttered. ‘I went into the room. I saw my master’s corpse. I tried to take the dagger out. Marston came in and I fled.’

‘Well, tell that to the king’s justices,’ Cranston said merrily, ‘and you’ll soon find yourself on your way to the scaffold.’

Ashby crossed his arms and leaned back against the altar.

‘What can I do? If I stay, I hang. If I flee, I die anyway.’

‘And there’s another matter,’ Cranston told him. ‘You seem mixed up in a great deal of murder, my lad. Do you know anything about the death of Captain William Roffel?’