‘Go on!’ he had grated. ‘Draw your weapon! Let us end it now!’

Instead, Sir Maurice had scrambled to his feet and, with Parr’s strictures ringing in his ears, had fled the mansion. He’d drowned his sorrows in a tavern and, when he returned to the Savoy Palace, summoned up enough courage to see his lord. John of Gaunt had been sympathetic but unhelpful. The Regent had slouched in his chair, his sharp, hard eyes keenly observant. As he listened, he would stroke his silver moustache and goatee beard. Now and again he would nod or intervene with a question.

‘But there’s nothing I can do,’ he concluded sadly.

‘My lord, you are the Regent!’

‘I am the King’s officer,’ Gaunt replied with a smile. ‘I can command his armies, issue writs, but I have no power over Sir Thomas and what he wishes to do with his daughter.’ He held his hand up, emphasising the points on his fingers. ‘First, my good knight, our opponents in the Commons would love that. John of Gaunt, the King’s evil Regent, forcing one of his knights into the bed of the daughter of a powerful London merchant! How the scurriers and the gossips would relish it! They’d depict me as an even greater tyrant than Nero or Caligula!’

Sir Maurice didn’t know who these were but he stared bleakly at Gaunt.

‘Secondly,’ the Regent continued remorselessly, ‘Sir Thomas Parr is a very, very wealthy man. Oh, he comes from nothing but he virtually owns the wool trade to the Low Countries. He has ten ships which he has put at our disposal. Thirdly, the Crown owes him monies. Fourthly, and more importantly, Sir Maurice, so do I. If Sir Thomas called in these loans…’ John of Gaunt drummed his fingers on the table-top. ‘Well.’ He sighed. ‘It’s best not to think about what might happen.’ He got up and grasped the young knight’s hands. ‘Maurice,’ he continued kindly. ‘You are my man in peace and war as your father was. In battle I couldn’t ask for a better soldier. You took those two ships, the St Sulpice and St Denis and, for that, you will always have my favour. In time I will grant you lands, manors, fields, meadows but not now. In this matter of Sir Thomas Parr’s daughter I can do nothing.’

Crestfallen, Sir Maurice had withdrawn. He had not seen Angelica after his confrontation with her father. He thought his cause was doomed but, a short while later, Rosamunda brought a short letter.

‘Are you a lackey to leave the field?’ the note had read. ‘Is your love so shallow that it breaks at the first obstacle?’

Full of fire, he had returned to his wooing though this time it was more difficult. Nevertheless, thanks to Rosamunda, he and Angelica had met, sworn oaths of love and agreed to elope this very night. He had no real plan. They would ride into Berkshire and hire some hedge-priest to marry them and be their witness when they exchanged vows at the church door.

Sir Maurice stepped back into the lane. Further down, cats fought rats among the ordure piled on either side of the open sewer. A mongrel cur came snarling out, but the cats drove it off. In the pool of light thrown by the sconce torches, Sir Maurice stared in pity at the tarred figure swinging from the makeshift gallows: a house-breaker who had been caught red-handed and executed at the scene of his crime. The gibbeters had coated the body in pitch which gleamed eerily in the dancing torchlight.

Sir Maurice returned to the church path. What would happen to him once Gaunt found out? Would he be favoured or punished? The Regent had a vile temper and those who betrayed him received no forgiveness.

The bells of St Mary-Le-Bow now began to chime the hour of Compline. Sir Maurice tensed. Would Angelica keep her word? He heard the sound of horses and stepped out but the figures who came out of the darkness were not what he expected: no Rosamunda, no Angelica. Instead he recognised Sir Thomas Parr’s henchmen led by Ralph Hersham. They left their horses and walked forward, drawing sword and dagger, fanning out in a semi-circle.

‘What do you want?’

He felt his heart would break with disappointment.

‘Don’t be foolish.’ Hersham edged forward. ‘There are five of us and more coming. We do not wish to cross swords with you, Maltravers. We bring you messages. My master says he knows you and rejects you. You are forbidden to see his daughter again. And do not bother,’ Ralph’s sly face broke into a smile, ‘to come and wheedle beneath the windows of his house. Angelica is now with the holy nuns at Syon on Thames. They have strict orders to keep you at the gates!’

Sir John Cranston, coroner of the city, lowered his massive body into the high-backed chair in his small chamber at the Guildhall. Simon, his scrivener, thought Sir John looked in fine fettle. He was dressed in a doublet of burgundy, white cambric shirt, hose and soft leather Spanish riding boots. Sir John’s hair was swept and oiled back, his moustache and beard fair bristling with expectation.

‘Why are we here, Simon?’ Sir John patted his stomach. He unhitched his thick leather war belt and threw it over the corner of the chair. ‘When I leave make sure I put my sword and dagger in my sheaths. The King’s coroner cannot be too careful in this vale of wickedness.’

‘Of course, Sir John.’ Simon dared not raise his eyes. He fought to keep his face straight at what was coming. Sir John Cranston was not a man of easy temper, though kindly and big-hearted, but, as Simon told his wife, when he was surprised, Sir John’s rubicund face was a veritable tapestry of moods and emotions.

‘Well!’ He leaned his elbows on the arms of the chair. ‘Where is Adam Wallace? He said he had something important to tell me. I’ve heard Mass, broken my fast. I’m just in the mood to listen to a lawyer.’

‘I’ll fetch him in now.’ Simon rose and went down the stairs.

Sir John leaned back in his chair and scratched his head. Wallace had sent him a message yesterday afternoon, saying he had something important to tell Sir John and that he was bringing a bequest of old Widow Blanchard who lived in Eel Pie Lane. Sir John had spent the evening wondering what it could be. Blanchard had been a merry old soul; Sir John had often called in to ensure that all was well with her. Blanchard’s husband had fought with Sir John in France. Perhaps she wished to give him some keepsake? Or…? He heard a creaking on the stairs. Simon came back into the chamber at a half-run, hands hanging by his side. Sir John’s light-blue eyes blazed. He could always tell when Simon was laughing at him: the scrivener would become all humble, stoop-shouldered, chin tucked in, face down.

‘What is it, Simon?’

‘You’d best see for yourself, Sir John.’

Wallace waddled into the room, followed by a little goat.

‘In heaven’s name!’ Sir John half-rose out of the chair.

Wallace was a small, self-important man, his hooked nose perpetually dripping, little black eyes ever searching for a fee or a profit. His smile was smug as he hitched his cloak about his shoulders. He held a scroll of parchment in his hand and approached Sir John’s desk.

‘You are Sir John Cranston, coroner of the city?’

‘Of course I am, you bloody idiot! Who do you think I am, the Archangel Gabriel?’

‘Now, now, Sir John. I am only performing my duty in accordance with the law, its customs and usages.’

‘Shut up! What are you doing in my court with that bloody thing?’

He pointed at the goat and glanced dangerously at his scrivener, hunched over his desk, shoulders shaking, pretending to sharpen his quill.

‘I have identified you as Sir John Cranston, coroner of the city,’ Wallace continued lugubriously. ‘I have brought into your court, in accordance with the law, its customs and usages, the will of one Eleanor Blanchard, widow of this parish. I am her legal executor as approved in the Court of Chancery!’