The Anger of God

Cranston smiled. ‘As I would wish to in Paradise! For God’s sake, Brother, just look at the wealth!’

Athelstan stared at his own cup, plate and knives all fashioned from pure gold and silver, whilst his goblet, hardly touched throughout the meal, was encrusted with a King’s ransom in jewels, part of the loot Gaunt had brought back from his wars in France.

‘What have we eaten so far, Brother?’

Lamprey, salmon, venison, boar’s meat, swan and peacock.’ Athelstan gri

He was about to tease Sir John further when suddenly Fitzroy, Guildmaster of the Fishmongers, rose to his feet, scrabbling at his fur-lined collar, his habitually red face purple now as he coughed and choked. The rest of the guests watched, astounded. No one moved as Fitzroy staggered against his table, turned slightly and crashed to the floor.

Despite his laden stomach, Cranston sprang to his feet, Athelstan behind him, and hurried across. Fitzroy lay sprawled on his side, eyes and mouth still open, but Athelstan could feel no life beat in the puce-coloured throat. He stuck his finger into the man’s mouth, ensuring the tongue was free, thinking Fitzroy might have choked. He hid his distaste, working his fingers downwards, but found no blockage in the man’s throat. Cranston felt Fitzroy’s wrist and then his heart.

‘He’s gone!’ he growled. ‘Dead as one of his bloody fish, God rest him!’

The others hurried across in a hubbub of shouts and exclamations, the young King included. Despite his tender years, Richard shouldered his way forward.

‘Is the fellow dead, Sir John?’

‘God rest him, yes, Sire.’

‘And the cause?’

Athelstan shrugged. ‘I am no physician, Your Grace. Apoplexy, perhaps?’

‘Nephew, you should not be here.’ Gaunt edged his way forward and clapped a beringed hand on young Richard’s shoulder.

‘We will stay, Uncle, until the cause of death is established. You, man.’ The King nodded at one of the royal archers guarding the door. ‘You will go for Master de Troyes!’

Gaunt bit back his anger and, nodding at the archer, confirmed his nephew’s order. Meanwhile Athelstan stared down at the corpse.

‘This is no apoplexy, Sir John,’ he whispered, I believe Fitzroy’s death is not a natural one.’

The rest protested noisily but Sir John, crouching beside Athelstan, lifted a finger to his lips as a signal for silence.

Athelstan leaned down and sniffed at the man’s mouth. He smelt wine, roast meat and the bitter-sweet smell of something else, like that of a decaying rose with the wormwood strong within it.

‘Did Fitzroy complain of any illness before the meal?’ Sir John suddenly asked.

Bremmer, Sudbury, Marshall, De

‘He was in the best of health,’ De

‘Any family?’ Sir John asked, still crouched beside the corpse.

‘A wife and two married sons. But they are absent from the city.’

Cranston nodded. Like Lady Maude, many of the wives of leading city officials and merchants left the city during the warm summer for cool manor houses in the country. Athelstan glanced up and carefully watched these clever, subtle men. In his judgement, one of them was a poisoner. He got to his feet and, stepping over the body, sat down at Fitzroy’s table. The silver plate still bore portions of meat and other remnants from the banquet. Two cups of wine stood there, each about one-third full with either red or white wine. Athelstan picked up the gold-edged napkin, studied this carefully, sniffing at it, then the cups and the food. The hall grew silent and he looked up to find the rest studying him curiously.

‘What is the matter, Brother?’ Gaunt’s voice was full of suspicion.

‘I believe,’ Athelstan declared, ignoring Cranston’s warning look, ‘that Master Fitzroy did not die of a seizure but was poisoned.’

‘Murdered?’ Goodman snapped.

‘Impossible!’ Marshall snorted. ‘What are you implying, Brother?’

‘My clerk is implying nothing!’ Cranston retorted, getting to his feet.

Athelstan carefully laid the napkin over the table, covering the plate and cups.

‘If my secretarius,’ Cranston continued defiantly, ‘says a man is poisoned, then he’s been poisoned.’

‘Now, now, what is this?’ the young King intervened. ‘If Sir Thomas were murdered here, his assassin would still be in the room.’

Athelstan got up and walked across to a servitor who stood holding a jug of rose water and a bowl, with a small towel over his wrist. Athelstan smiled at the fellow, extended his fingers and carefully washed away the sugary-sweet substance from Fitzroy’s mouth. He dried his hands carefully on the towel and walked back to the group.

I believe Master Fitzroy was murdered,’ he declared. ‘I have seen seizures before, but not like this one. Death was too sudden and I detect a strange smell on his lips.’

The powerful Guildmasters stared at Athelstan: they believed him now and their arrogant looks were tinged by fear and suspicion.

‘Who sat on either side of him?’ Cranston asked the unspoken question.

‘I did,’ Goodman declared. ‘I sat to his right.’

‘And I to his left,’ Sudbury added. ‘Why, what are you implying?’

Cranston looked at the servants huddled near the door. ‘You, sir.’ One stubby finger singled out a frightened-looking steward. ‘Come here!’

The fellow scuttled forward.

‘Did Sir Thomas Fitzroy eat or drink anything we did not?’

‘No, sir. All food was served from the one platter and his wine came from the same jugs as everyone else’s.’

‘I will stand as surety for that.’ Bremmer, Guildmaster of the Drapers, spoke up.

‘As will I,’ Marshall of the Spicers declared. ‘You see, old Fitzroy liked his food and drink. Bremmer and I had a quiet wager that Fitzroy would ask for double portions of everything and his cups be refilled more than anyone else’s. I was right,’ the spicer added slyly, glancing quickly at Cranston. ‘He ate and drank even more than you, Sir John.’

Cranston glared back and belched loudly as if that was the only answer such a statement warranted. He turned to Bremmer. ‘You are sure of that?’

‘l am, Sir John.’

‘And you?’ Begi

Oh, Lord, Athelstan prayed silently, don’t let Sir John sit down and go to sleep. Not now. Please, please!

Cranston, however, seemed to have the bit between his teeth as he advanced threateningly on the frightened steward.

‘Are you sure that Fitzroy ate and drank only what we did?’

‘Of course, Sir John. You see,’ the steward turned, bobbing to the King and the Regent, ‘all meats and all drinks were served to His Grace the King and my Lord of Gaunt first, then to everyone else. If any servitor had returned for more wine or meat by the time he had reached Sir Thomas, I would have remembered.’

‘Can the servants be trusted?’ Goodman jibed.

The steward glared furiously back. ‘How could any of us,’ he retorted, ‘while serving meat and drink with both hands, stop to sprinkle or pour poison with others, including Fitzroy, watching?’

‘I only asked!’ Goodman smirked.

Cranston made a rude sound and walked over to Athelstan. He towered above the friar and glared down at him. ‘You’d better be right!’ he hissed.

‘Don’t worry, my good Coroner.’ Athelstan smiled. ‘Ah, here comes the physician.’

Theobald de Troyes, swathed in a voluminous cloak, strode into the room, eyes heavy with sleep and face angry at being disturbed so late. Adam Clifford arrived at the same time, his riding boots covered in mud, the spurs still attached, clinking and jangling. As the physician went to crouch beside the corpse, Gaunt signalled Clifford away from the rest and stood whispering. Athelstan watched Clifford’s face and knew that not only was he right about Fitzroy but, from the look of surprised anger on the Regent’s face, this second murder was a major blow to Gaunt’s political dreams.