about events.’
‘And you, Sir Humphrey?’
Aylebore pulled a face. ‘I retired early. I paid my respects to Sir Oliver’s corpse. For a while I sat talking to the landlord and Goldingham here. I left the taproom and went to my own chamber. The first I knew anything was wrong was when the landlord raised the alarm. Isn’t that correct, Goldingham?’
Sir Maurice ran a hand through his neatly coiffed hair.
‘It’s true and the landlord will stand guarantor for me. For a while I talked to him about the wine trade and the attacks by French pirates on our cogs from Bordeaux. He left and I flirted with the lovely Christina.’
‘And one of you saw the priest arrive?’
‘I did.’ Goldingham spoke up. ‘The tavern was rather busy, the taproom filled. I was trying to seize Christina’s hand when the door opened. I saw a figure in a cloak and cowl.’ Goldingham shrugged. ‘He swept into the room, Christina said something to him and he went up the stairs. After that,’ he yawned, ‘I really can’t remember. I went up to prepare for bed until I heard the landlord shouting.’
‘Did anyone see the priest leave?’ Athelstan asked.
‘How could we?’ Malmesbury retorted. ‘I was with Sir Thomas. Aylebore was in bed, Goldingham in his chamber. The first we knew of Swynford’s death was the landlord screaming like a maid.’
‘Which leaves you, Sir Francis.’ Athelstan smiled at Harnett. ‘Where were you last night?’
‘I was . . .’ The close-set eyes blinked. ‘I was in my chamber all the time.’
‘And on the previous evening?’ Athelstan asked.
Harnett opened his mouth to lie, but the silence of his companions betrayed him.
‘I left Dame Mathilda’s early,’ he confessed. ‘I went down to King’s steps and hired a barge.’
‘For where? Sir Francis, please tell me the truth.’
‘I went to the stews in Southwark, to the bath-house there.’
He gazed round, flushed, as his companions hid their sniggers behind their hands.
‘So, you were not tired from the evening’s exertions?’ Athelstan remarked drily. ‘Sir Francis, I am parish priest of St Erconwald’s: the bath-houses on the riverside are notorious brothels.’
‘So?’ Harnett’s face came up, his lips pursed. ‘I went there for refreshments, Brother, as probably do a great many of your parishioners.’
‘And then you came back,’ Athelstan continued, ignoring the insult.
‘Yes, I came back.’ Harnett shrugged. ‘What more can I say?’
What more indeed, Athelstan thought? He smiled to hide his despair: these men were lying, even laughing at him. Yet there was little he or Sir John could do to bring them to book. He glanced over his shoulder. Cranston had now moved to sit beside Coverdale. Athelstan coughed noisily because the coroner was now leaning slightly forward, eyes drooping. Oh, don’t fall asleep, Athelstan prayed. Please, Sir John! He felt they were treading a narrow, dangerous path; the slightest slip and these powerful knights would break into mocking laughter. They would declare they had nothing more to say and sweep out to continue their pleasures and other pastimes.
‘And Sir Henry Swynford,’ Athelstan almost shouted as he turned and walked back towards the knights. He hoped Sir John would stir himself. ‘And Sir Henry,’ he repeated just as loudly, ‘gave no indication that he had received the same artefacts as Sir Oliver Bouchon?’
‘No, he didn’t,’ Aylebore grumbled, ‘and I’m getting tired of this, Brother.’
‘And so none of you knows of any reason why he should have been murdered?’
‘If there was, we’d tell you,’ Malmesbury retorted.
‘What were Sir Oliver and Sir Henry supposed to remember?’ Athelstan asked.
‘If
we
knew,’ Sir Edmund sarcastically replied, ‘you’d know.’
‘You were all friends?’
‘More companions and neighbours,’ Aylebore replied.
‘But you were all Knights of the Swan?’ Athelstan asked.
For the first time he saw the
‘And you, Sir Humphrey?’
Aylebore pulled a face. ‘I retired early. I paid my respects to Sir Oliver’s corpse. For a while I sat talking to the landlord and Goldingham here. I left the taproom and went to my own chamber. The first I knew anything was wrong was when the landlord raised the alarm. Isn’t that correct, Goldingham?’
Sir Maurice ran a hand through his neatly coiffed hair.
‘It’s true and the landlord will stand guarantor for me. For a while I talked to him about the wine trade and the attacks by French pirates on our cogs from Bordeaux. He left and I flirted with the lovely Christina.’
‘And one of you saw the priest arrive?’
‘I did.’ Goldingham spoke up. ‘The tavern was rather busy, the taproom filled. I was trying to seize Christina’s hand when the door opened. I saw a figure in a cloak and cowl.’ Goldingham shrugged. ‘He swept into the room, Christina said something to him and he went up the stairs. After that,’ he yawned, ‘I really can’t remember. I went up to prepare for bed until I heard the landlord shouting.’
‘Did anyone see the priest leave?’ Athelstan asked.
‘How could we?’ Malmesbury retorted. ‘I was with Sir Thomas. Aylebore was in bed, Goldingham in his chamber. The first we knew of Swynford’s death was the landlord screaming like a maid.’
‘Which leaves you, Sir Francis.’ Athelstan smiled at Harnett. ‘Where were you last night?’
‘I was . . .’ The close-set eyes blinked. ‘I was in my chamber all the time.’
‘And on the previous evening?’ Athelstan asked.
Harnett opened his mouth to lie, but the silence of his companions betrayed him.
‘I left Dame Mathilda’s early,’ he confessed. ‘I went down to King’s steps and hired a barge.’
‘For where? Sir Francis, please tell me the truth.’
‘I went to the stews in Southwark, to the bath-house there.’
He gazed round, flushed, as his companions hid their sniggers behind their hands.
‘So, you were not tired from the evening’s exertions?’ Athelstan remarked drily. ‘Sir Francis, I am parish priest of St Erconwald’s: the bath-houses on the riverside are notorious brothels.’
‘So?’ Harnett’s face came up, his lips pursed. ‘I went there for refreshments, Brother, as probably do a great many of your parishioners.’
‘And then you came back,’ Athelstan continued, ignoring the insult.
‘Yes, I came back.’ Harnett shrugged. ‘What more can I say?’
What more indeed, Athelstan thought? He smiled to hide his despair: these men were lying, even laughing at him. Yet there was little he or Sir John could do to bring them to book. He glanced over his shoulder. Cranston had now moved to sit beside Coverdale. Athelstan coughed noisily because the coroner was now leaning slightly forward, eyes drooping. Oh, don’t fall asleep, Athelstan prayed. Please, Sir John! He felt they were treading a narrow, dangerous path; the slightest slip and these powerful knights would break into mocking laughter. They would declare they had nothing more to say and sweep out to continue their pleasures and other pastimes.
‘And Sir Henry Swynford,’ Athelstan almost shouted as he turned and walked back towards the knights. He hoped Sir John would stir himself. ‘And Sir Henry,’ he repeated just as loudly, ‘gave no indication that he had received the same artefacts as Sir Oliver Bouchon?’
‘No, he didn’t,’ Aylebore grumbled, ‘and I’m getting tired of this, Brother.’
‘And so none of you knows of any reason why he should have been murdered?’
‘If there was, we’d tell you,’ Malmesbury retorted.
‘What were Sir Oliver and Sir Henry supposed to remember?’ Athelstan asked.
‘If
we
knew,’ Sir Edmund sarcastically replied, ‘you’d know.’
‘You were all friends?’
‘More companions and neighbours,’ Aylebore replied.
‘But you were all Knights of the Swan?’ Athelstan asked.
For the first time he saw the
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