Murder most holy

hall door closed and serve my clerk and myself two large goblets of my Lord of Gaunt’s famous Rhenish wine which he keeps chilled in the cellars below!’
    The chamberlain pulled his lips into a vinegarish smile.
    ‘The door must remain open,’ he squeaked in protest.
    ‘Oh, piss off!’ Cranston hissed. ‘Bring us some wine at least or I'll tell my Lord of Gaunt that his guests were ill-treated.’
    ‘Master Bellamonte,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘Sir John has a terrible thirst so your kindness in this matter would be deeply appreciated.’
    The chamberlain drew himself up to his full height and stalked away with all the grace of an ambling duck. The courtiers remained in the hall but at least Sir John got his wine, a large pewter cup, winking and bubbling at the rim. Sir John downed the wine in one gulp, smacked his lips and held out the cup.
    ‘More!’ he ordered, and smiled at Athelstan. ‘Oh, my favourite friar, I could well become accustomed to this luxury and wealth.’
    He watched the servitor hurry off. Cranston glared once more down the hall at the courtiers who were surreptitiously staring up at him.
    ‘The old days are gone,’ he murmured. ‘Look at them, Athelstan. Dressed like women, walking like women, smelling like women and talking like women!’
    ‘I thought you loved women, Sir John?’
    Cranston licked his lips. ‘Oh, I do, but Lady Maude is worth a thousand of these.’ He stamped his foot. ‘Lady Maude is England !’
    Athelstan stared at the coroner warily. Nothing was more dangerous than Sir John in one of his maudlin, nostalgic moods.
    ‘I remember,’ the coroner continued in a half-whisper, ‘when I stood with the fathers of these men, shoulder to shoulder at Poitiers , and the French crashed against us like a steel wave.’ He patted his stomach. ‘I was slimmer then, sharper, like a greyhound. Speedy in the charge, ferocious in the fight. We were like falcons, Athelstan, falling on our enemies like a thunderbolt.’ He breathed noisily through his nostrils and his white whiskers bristled. ‘Oh, the days,’ he whispered. ‘The lechery, the drunkenness.’ He shook his head, then glared quickly at Athelstan who sat with head bowed so Cranston wouldn’t see the smile on his face.
    ‘What’s the matter, Sir John?’ he asked abruptly.
    ‘God knows! I suppose being brought here, being baited by the likes of Gaunt. I knew his father, golden-haired Edward, and his elder brother, the Black Prince, God rest him!’ Cranston wiped away a tear from his eye. ‘A fierce fighter, the Black Prince. In battle no one would dare come near him! He would kill anything that moved, anything he saw through the slits of his terrible helmet. He killed at least three horses under him. He thought their heads and ears were enemies coming at him.’
    ‘Sir John,’ Athelstan persisted, ‘forget the past. You remember what we agreed? You must tell the story yourself.’
    Cranston flicked his fingers. ‘Fairy’s tits! I’ll tell them a tale.’ He glared fiercely at Athelstan. ‘I only hope it’s the right one.’
    The servitor brought back another cup of wine. Athelstan closed his eyes and breathed a prayer that the fat coroner would not become too deep in his cups to resolve the riddle. Sir John, however, eyes half-closed, sipped from the goblet now and again, glaring contemptuously down the hall. Athelstan realised he was still quietly bemoaning the decadence of the younger generation. Suddenly a shrill bray of trumpets broke out. A party of young squires entered the hall carrying multi-coloured banners. They stood on either side of a herald dressed in the red, blue and gold of the Royal House of England. He blew three sharp fanfares on a long silver trumpet and cried for silence for ‘His Grace the King, his most noble uncle, John Duke of Lancaster, and his sweet cousin, the Lord of Cremona.’
    King Richard entered, dressed in a blue gown bedecked with golden lions and the silver fleur de lys of France . To one side of him walked Lancaster in a russet-gold gown, a silver chaplet round his tawny hair, whilst on the other side walked Cremona dressed in black and silver, a smile of smug satisfaction on his dark face. Behind them members of the court, resplendent in their peacock gowns, jostled for position. The young king clapped his hands when he saw Cranston and, like any child, would have run forward if Gaunt had not restrained him with one beringed hand.
    ‘My Lord Coroner,’