‘London’s unprotected. We have a garrison in the Tower. Gaunt and the great lords have their retainers but, if a rebel army marched south, they could take London in a day.’

‘Rebels?’ Athelstan had asked.

‘Peasants — the Great Community of the Realm. They are traitors.’ Sir John had sighed. ‘But many of their grievances are just. The peasants are taxed to the point of rebellion, they are tied to the soil. Their duties are fixed, their wages are paltry. If they can produce a leader, then God help us all.’ He nudged Athelstan. ‘And, if you read my treatise on the governance of the city, Southwark is our weakest point. The north is defended by walls but, once they sweep into Southwark and take the bridge, London will be at their mercy.’

Athelstan understood the coroner’s disquiet. He knew some of his parishioners, particularly Pike, were members of the Great Community of the Realm and, although he had never said it, Athelstan believed Sir John was the only royal official able to walk unharmed through the narrow alleyways of Southwark. The coroner had a reputation for honesty while his friendship with the parish priest of St Erconwald’s also afforded protection.

‘Sir John Cranston, Brother Athelstan?’

The Dominican shook himself from his reverie.

The young knight on the stairs was not one of Gaunt’s foppish retainers. Athelstan recognised a fighting man, in his dour, drab clothes, the buttoned sword belt clasped round his waist.

‘Why bless me, if it isn’t Sir Maurice.’

Sir John made the introductions. Athelstan shook the young knight’s hand. He took an immediate liking to this knight with his blunt features and honest eyes. A soldier, Athelstan concluded, a man direct in speech and action. As he followed Sir Maurice up the stairs, Athelstan reflected on how contrary John of Gaunt could be. A silken courtier, a man born to plot, Gaunt was still the son of Edward III, with the strength and the courage to attract warriors to him as well as the young fops and dilettantes. The latter constantly preened themselves, drenched their bodies in perfume, crimped their hair and dressed more fastidiously than high-class courtesans. Athelstan had seen them in their ornate, long-toed shoes and fantastic head-dresses and had observed the lisping way they talked. He tried not to judge but, often, he secretly agreed with Sir John that the warriors of England were no more than gelded palfreys, all show, with little mettle or fire.

Sir Maurice led them into the Regent’s private chamber. A small, narrow room, it had wainscoting against the walls; the white plaster above was decorated with banners of Leon, Castile, France and England. Gaunt was sitting behind a great black desk. He sifted among the manuscripts as he talked in hushed tones to a clerk sitting on a writing stool beside him. Then he glanced up.

Athelstan couldn’t decide whether Gaunt was angel or demon. He had the Plantagenets’ striking good looks: blond hair, moustache and beard, high cheekbones and sapphire-blue eyes which could crinkle in merriment or become as hard as glass. He was dressed in an open-necked, pleated linen shirt, a silver Lancastrian ‘S.S.’ collar round his neck. His sleeves were pushed back, displaying gold gauntlets on each wrist, and the rings on his fingers caught the light and shimmered like fire. He dismissed the clerk and rose.

‘Why, good Sir Jack.’ He clasped the coroner’s hand and turned to Athelstan. The Dominican caught the taunting look in his eyes. ‘So, you are still at St Erconwald’s, Brother?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

Gaunt stretched his hand out and smiled dazzlingly.

‘Like Sir Jack, Brother Athelstan, I have no time for priests but you are always welcome here.’ He gripped Athelstan’s hand firmly. ‘Maltravers, close the door.’ He waved his guests to the two chairs the clerk had pushed up before he’d scurried out. ‘Do sit down.’

The wine Sir Maurice served was white, slightly bitter but ice-cold. Athelstan caught the tang and closed his eyes in pleasure, then he felt guilty and opened them. It was always the same with Gaunt, like walking into a spider’s web, silken, soft but still very treacherous. Sir John, however, was enjoying the wine. He had already finished his goblet and was stretching out for Sir Maurice to refill it. The young knight did so, a lopsided smile on his face. Gaunt was slouched in his chair watching the coroner from under heavy-lidded eyes.

‘You like your wine, Sir Jack?’

‘Wine gladdens the heart,’ the coroner quipped. ‘Or so the psalmist says, and even the apostles drank deep.’

‘It doesn’t blur your wits?’

‘No, my lord. Why, does it yours?’

Gaunt laughed and waved his hand. ‘Enough of this jousting.’ He waved airily at Maltravers. ‘You know Sir Maurice?’

‘By name and reputation, yes.’

‘He’s one of my captains,’ Gaunt continued. ‘He has waged war ruthlessly against the French by land and sea. Two months ago, off Calais, he commanded a small flotilla of ships which attacked two French men-of-war, the St Sulpice and the St Denis. The St Denis was sunk, the St Sulpice successfully brought back to Dover. Now the French soldiers and sailors were ransomed by the baker’s dozen. However, five officers, men of quality, were captured. Pierre Vamier; Jean Gresnay; Eudes Maneil; Philippe Routier; and Guillaum Serriem. Being officers they were bound by the customs and usages of war to be ransomed, so they were taken to Hawkmere Manor.’

‘A desolate place,’ Sir John broke in. ‘Near the priory at Clerkenwell.’

‘A place of dread indeed.’ Gaunt sifted through the manuscripts on his desk. ‘I appointed as their captor, host, guest-master, whatever they wish, Sir Walter Limbright. He and his daughter Lucy have custody of the manor. Limbright is an old soldier. He hates the French, because they burnt his manor outside Winchelsea, killed his wife and two sons. He was at war while Lucy was visiting relatives at Hyde. Limbright would ensure the French were kept secure.’

‘What has happened?’ Athelstan asked.

‘The French envoy to England,’ Gaunt continued as if Athelstan hadn’t interrupted, ‘is Lord Charles de Fontanel. He’s waiting downstairs.’ Gaunt picked up the goblet and rolled it between his hands. ‘I hoped the ransoms would be raised and these men released but, to answer your question bluntly, Brother, last night Guillaum Serriem was found poisoned in his chamber.’

‘Last night?’ Athelstan asked curiously.

‘Well, to be perfectly honest, this morning, but his body was stiff and cold. The physician, Osmund Aspinall, he’s a leech who owns chambers above an apothecary’s in Cripplegate, reckoned the prisoner must have died shortly after he retired, nine o’clock in the evening.’

‘He was definitely poisoned?’

Athelstan glanced fearfully at Sir John. The coroner had now drunk two goblets of wine very quickly and was slouched in his chair cradling his goblet, as a mother would a baby, eyes closed, the most beatific smile on his face.

‘Oh yes.’ Gaunt raised his voice as if to rouse Cranston. ‘Discoloration of the mouth and tongue, a deadly pallor, marks on his belly and thighs.’

‘And how was the poison administered?’

Gaunt scratched his chest and glanced testily at the coroner.

‘If I knew that, Brother,’ he snorted, ‘you wouldn’t be here. The chamber was locked from within. A guard stood at the end of the passageway. There’s no window except a narrow aperture, no secret entrances, nothing. Serriem had drunk some wine before he retired but, when Limbright broke the door down, and there were others present, the cup was untainted. A thorough search was made of the room. Nothing suspicious was found.’

‘And when did Sir Guillaum eat?’ Athelstan asked.

‘With the rest at about seven in the evening. He drank the same, ate the same, then played chess in the parlour.’

‘Couldn’t the poison have been administered then?’