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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 the 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 Cha
‘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 Cha
‘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.