‘There is an assassin loose at Hawkmere,’ he growled. ‘Whatever these men were, whatever they did, they are prisoners of the English Crown and deserve honourable treatment. Two have been murdered. Serriem here and Routier out on that dry heathland. The questions are how and who is responsible? Sir Walter, when Serriem’s corpse was discovered, nothing untoward was found in his chamber?’

‘Nothing, Sir John. As I said, Serriem’s corpse was found on the floor.’

Sir John turned to the three French prisoners.

‘And, to the best of your knowledge, Serriem only ate and drank what you did?’

‘Yes,’ Gresnay lisped, looking rather bored by the proceedings.

‘And the same goes for Routier!’ Maneil snarled. ‘This morning we came down to this damnable place.’ He gestured round the hall. ‘We had the usual mangy bread, smelly meat and foul drink.’

‘And Routier ate all his?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Of course he did. He was planning to escape. He needed all the sustenance he could to keep his strength up.’

‘But that’s not true,’ Athelstan replied. ‘When we found his corpse he carried a water bottle, scraps of bread and meat.’

‘I gave those to him.’ Gresnay languidly lifted a hand.

‘Why?’

‘Because he was going to escape. He told us last night.’

‘And that’s why you agreed to quarrel in the garden to divert the attention of the guards?’

‘Very perceptive,’ Gresnay drawled.

‘And why did he wish to escape?’ Athelstan continued, ignoring the jibe.

‘Because he fell in love with Sir Walter’s daughter,’ Gresnay grinned. ‘They were going to elope, just like Sir Maurice here with the Lady Angelica.’

Both Sir Walter and Sir Maurice sprang to their feet but Sir John roared at them to sit down.

‘And you, sir,’ he pointed at Gresnay, ‘will keep a civil tongue in your head or you’ll be in a dungeon in the Tower!’

‘Don’t threaten me!’ Gresnay screamed back, his face tight with anger. I am a citizen of France, a sailor. I’m kept in this fly-blown, rat-infested midden-heap and threatened. The Tower would be a welcome change!’

‘Routier escaped,’ Vamier intervened smoothly, ‘because he could no longer tolerate being confined, trapped like a bird in a snare. He thought he had seen a weakness and could use it. He would have either gone into London or some other port. Sought shelter and succour from some captain. I cannot blame him.’

‘Why didn’t you go with him?’ Athelstan asked.

Vamier shrugged. ‘His chances were poor. The more who tried to escape, the more dangerous it became. Anyway, our ransoms will be paid soon.’

‘Yes, I was going to ask about that.’ Athelstan picked up his writing bag and put it on the table. ‘Monsieur de Fontanel, these men are experienced sailors, as English shipping has discovered. Why doesn’t the French Crown pay their ransoms and have done with it?’

Athelstan was not surprised to see the prisoners nod their heads in agreement. De Fontanel spread his hands.

‘You have French prisoners at Hawkmere but you also have them in Calais, Dover, Winchelsea and Rye. The French parliament would be inundated with petitions.’ He smiled crookedly. ‘But you are right, Brother, I have pressed these men’s claims with my masters in France; their ransoms will arrive soon.’

‘But not soon enough for Routier!’ Vamier spat out.

‘I am not responsible for what happens in Paris. I do the best I can for your care.’ De Fontanel then added something quickly in French.

Vamier sat back crestfallen.

‘What was that, Monsieur?’ Athelstan asked.

‘I merely reminded him that I was not responsible for his capture.’

‘Let us return to the matter in hand.’ Sir John took a swig from his wineskin. ‘Routier was poisoned before he fled Hawkmere. You, Monsieur Gresnay, were the last to give him anything to eat or drink, which could make you the poisoner.’

‘It is also very obvious,’ Gresnay sneered back, ‘if I had given Routier poison, I would know he could not travel very far. I would expect to be accused, wouldn’t I?’

Athelstan had to agree with the Frenchman’s logic. He was about to ask further questions when the door to the hall was thrown open and a soldier clattered in, helmet in hand, his face white.

‘Sir Walter, it’s your daughter! You’d best come quickly!’

‘I think we’d best go with him,’ Athelstan said.

Sir Walter was striding up the main staircase. In the stairwell a frightened-looking servant whispered in his ear and he stopped, grabbing the newel of the staircase. He rocked backwards and forwards and gave the most terrible moan.

‘Oh my God!’ he cried. ‘My poor, poor daughter!’

He disappeared down the gallery. By the time Athelstan, Sir John and Sir Maurice reached it they could hear his lamentations through an open door. Inside the chamber they found him kneeling beside his prostrate daughter who lay sprawled on her back, head slightly twisted to one side. Athelstan grasped the girl’s wrist and felt her throat for the life pulse but he could detect nothing. He turned the girl’s face. The eyelids were almost closed, jaws slack, a drool of spittle on her chin; her face was livid rather than pale, her skin cold and clammy. Athelstan ignored Sir Walter’s groans and quickly checked the girl’s body but could see no mark, bruise or slash. Aspinall came in the doorway and crouched down. He held the girl’s face between his hands and, ignoring Sir Walter’s protests, took a small knife and cut the brown smock. Her neck and upper chest were already tainted with faint purplish blotches.

‘She’s been poisoned,’ Aspinall said softly. ‘Probably died within the hour.’

‘Why?’ Sir Walter clutched his daughter’s hair, twisting it round his fingers. ‘Why?’ he moaned. ‘She had no wits, she had no life!’

Athelstan whispered the ‘Absolvo Te’ in the dead woman’s ear, uttered a short prayer then blessed the corpse. He got up and helped Sir Walter to his feet. The knight’s face was stricken with grief, tears streaming down his face, lips moving but no sound came.

‘Sir Walter?’ Athelstan made him sit down on a chair. ‘Sir Walter, listen to me.’

The knight turned, bleary-eyed.

‘Those bastards!’ he grated. ‘Those French bastards! They are responsible for that!’ He clasped his hands together and rocked backwards and forwards. ‘I’ll kill them all!’ he whispered. ‘I’ll kill every single one! You’ll help me won’t you, Cranston? The friar here can absolve them then we’ll hang them from a bloody tree for the pirates they are: murderers, assassins, ravishers of women, killers of children!’

‘Sir Walter! We have no proof of that.’

Sir John looked at the chamber. It contained a few leather chests, some faded cloths on the walls, an aumbry, two stools and a small writing desk beneath the window with a clerk’s stool pushed alongside it.

‘This was your daughter’s chamber?’

Sir Walter nodded.

‘And where was she before?’

‘Why are you asking me?’

‘Where was your daughter before?’ Athelstan insisted.

‘She went down into the garden. She just wandered around, like she always did. Brother, who would poison such a poor thing?’ He wetted his lips. ‘I need some wine,’ he rasped.

Aspinall left and came back with a large goblet filled to the brim, but Sir John stopped him.

‘Where did you get that?’

‘From Sir Walter’s chamber further down the gallery. It’s packed with poison, Sir John,’ he added wearily.

‘Take a sip yourself,’ the coroner ordered.

The doctor made to refuse but Sir John’s hand fell to the dagger in his belt.

‘Oh, for the love of heaven!’ Aspinall complained and took a deep draught. He then went across and gave it to Sir Walter, who seized it greedily. He drained it in one gulp then gestured at his daughter’s corpse.

‘Pick her up,’ he ordered. ‘She’s not a dog to lie sprawled on the floor!’