Sir Thomas Parr’s was the stateliest of these mansions. It stood in its own grounds, two small apple trees on either side of the path leading up to the smartly painted door. This was decorated with shining iron studs, its large brass knocker formed in the shape of a knight tilting in a tourney. On either side stood huge pots of herbs on a charcoal base, the fragrant smoke curling up in billows like incense in a church. Men-at-arms lounged along each side of the house: city bullies, hired by this great merchant, they were dressed in his livery, white surcoats displaying a mailed fist holding a sword. They kept well away from Sir John’s threatening look.

‘I don’t like these buggers!’ the coroner muttered. ‘Small, private armies. Look at them, Brother, they can’t keep their hands away from their swords and daggers. Too much red meat and too little work, always eager for a fight.’

Athelstan quickly inspected the men. They were city boys in their tight fitting hose and high-heeled boots. They were well armed; some even carried crossbows with small pots of bolts attached to their leather war belts.

Sir John lifted the knocker and brought it down with a crash.

‘I enjoyed that,’ he muttered.

He did it again. The door swung open.

‘What’s your business?’

‘What’s your name?’ Sir John barked.

‘Ralph Hersham, man-at-arms to Sir Thomas Parr.’

‘I’m Cranston the King’s coroner. Now, sod off, and let me in!’

They were ushered into the most luxurious parlour whose walls were decorated with oak panelling. The paving-stones were scrubbed white and covered with thick, woollen rugs. A chandelier of candles hung from the pure white ceiling. Pots of flowers stood on the elegant furniture arranged round the room. Chairs and stools were placed in a semicircle round the mantelled hearth. No fire was burning, but the grate was clean and polished. On shelves above the mantelpiece gold, silver and pewter pots gleamed. Carefully carved heraldic devices covered the windows, the shutters held back by scarlet ribbons. Hersham gestured at them to sit in the quilted window seat which overlooked the lawn and small flower beds along the side of the house.

‘Can I ask your business?’

Hersham’s thin, sallow face was still mottled with fury. He couldn’t keep his fingers away from his dagger hilt. A true bully boy, Athelstan thought: a man who liked to swagger the alleyways.

‘You are Sir Thomas’ henchman?’ Sir John asked, rubbing his hands then turning away to look at a small rose bush in the middle of the garden. I’d like one of those, he thought. I wonder how Parr grows them? He turned back to Hersham. ‘Well?’

‘I am Sir Thomas’ bodyguard and steward,’ Hersham replied.

‘You are not a Londoner, are you?’

‘From the south coast, Sir John.’

‘Well, we can’t wait here all day. Run along and get your master.’

If looks could kill, the coroner would have dropped dead on the spot. Hersham left the chamber, slamming the door behind him.

‘I cannot tolerate such men!’ Sir John whispered through clenched teeth. ‘In my treatise on the governance of London…’

Athelstan leaned back against the head-rest. He closed his eyes, enjoying the cool breeze from the garden.

‘Sir John, I beg you, keep your voice down and your opinions to yourself until we get out! Remember, Parr has not committed a crime! We are here to ask a favour.’

The door swung open and Sir Thomas came into the room, Hersham behind him. The merchant prince was dressed in a coloured cote-hardie with fur tippets hanging down from the elbows. His hose were shiny as if pure silk. He wore no shoes but the soles of the hose were covered in soft brown leather. An embroidered belt round his waist carried a gilt-edged purse and a small poignard.

Athelstan’s heart sank when he studied Sir Thomas’ face, which possessed hard, harsh features, narrow eyes, a bulbous nose and lips. The man looked as if he constantly sat in judgement on everything and everyone. He glanced at Athelstan, who raised his hand in salutation. Sir John made no movement but just stared back. Athelstan recalled that these two men knew each other. Parr was the first to break the silence. He came forward, hand extended.

‘Well, well, Jack. I’ve seen you from afar. You’ve grown over the years.’

‘In heart as well as body,’ Sir John replied, grasping Parr’s hand. ‘It’s been a long time, Thomas.’

Parr clasped Athelstan’s hand then snapped his fingers and Hersham moved one of the chairs closer so he could sit down.

‘They say you like claret, Jack.’

‘The same people also say you love wealth, Thomas.’

Parr laughed, a thin, nasal snigger while his eyes remained watchful.

‘And the Lady Maude? She is well and happy?’

Sir John nodded.

‘Isabella died.’ Parr glanced over their heads, his eyes softened. ‘It’s terrible watching someone you love die, isn’t it, Jack? A summer fever. She was out in the garden tending that rose bush. She came in, the sweats upon her. By the following evening she was dead.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Athelstan spoke before he thought.

‘So am I, Brother.’ Parr now studied him from head to toe. ‘I’ve also heard of you, Athelstan. They say you are a good priest.’ His eyes moved back to Sir John. ‘Despite the company you keep! But, come, we’ll have some wine.’

Hersham served three gold-chased goblets. Sir John sipped and closed his eyes.

‘Pure nectar,’ he breathed.

‘The best of Bordeaux, Sir Jack. I’ve had it ready for you. I wondered when the Regent would send someone.’

‘Did you know we were coming?’ Athelstan asked.

‘There’s not much which goes on at the Savoy Palace, Brother, that I don’t know about. A silver piece here, a few groats there, and servants sing like birds in the trees. So, before you ask, the answer is no. Sir Maurice is a goodly knight, a brave man, a warrior, but he’s poor, virtually landless and brings nothing but his sword.’

‘And his heart,’ Sir John riposted. ‘A good, strong heart, Thomas. Like yours, years ago, when you and I ran ragged-arsed round the Inns of Court.’

‘And what about Angelica?’ Athelstan asked. ‘Doesn’t she love Sir Maurice? Are you going to marry her off as you would take a mare down to some stallion? A cold, loveless match?’

‘Angelica knows her duty.’ Parr put his wine cup down and played with the ring on his finger, his face softened. ‘She is my only child and I love her dearly. However, she must see the error of her ways in betrothing her heart to some poor knight errant.’

‘She loves him,’ Athelstan declared. ‘And he loves her, Sir Thomas. And I tell you this…’

‘You’ll tell me what?’ Parr interrupted. ‘You’ll tell me what, Brother? What do you know about love, about women, about lust?’

His face was pale. Athelstan sensed this man’s troubled spirit, at war with himself and, therefore, at war with everyone around him.

‘I know nothing about maids or the songs of troubadours,’ Athelstan answered. ‘But I know a great deal about love, Sir Thomas, and it never dies.’

‘In which case you may visit my daughter Angelica at the nuns of Syon and tell her about love for her father as well as duty, obedience and fealty!’ He got to his feet.

Athelstan didn’t like the smirk on Hersham’s face. The man was leaning against the door, arms folded, gently clicking his tongue. Athelstan had to breathe in deeply to control his own anger. Sir Thomas was being nasty for the sake of it.

‘Weren’t you poor once?’ he asked.

‘Aye and Sir John was once slim. Life changes, Brother Athelstan, and what is yesterday but a pile of dust?’ He walked towards the door. ‘You have my permission to visit Angelica, but I will not talk to you again on this matter.’

Athelstan placed his cup on a table. He noticed a carving of a wooden ship and, painted in small, gilded letters, its name, The Great Edward.