The House of Shadows

continued, ‘but this ring did. A goldsmith contacted Brother Malachi. Once he saw the ring, he realised that Guinevere was dead, and so was his brother. When Mother Veritable killed Guinevere, greedy as ever and disappointed at what was found in the Lombard treasure chest, she kept the casket, but sold the ring. It was only a matter of time before some goldsmith recognised it and, hoping to claim the reward, wrote to Brother Malachi. This ring has already made Mother Veritable confess.’
    ‘I told you!’
    Master Rolles’ outburst surprised even Cranston . The taverner leaped to his feet, dagger already drawn, and lunged across the table, the point of the blade narrowly missing Sir Maurice’s face. The knight pushed his chair back, hand going to his own dagger, but Rolles, face white and tight, eyes glaring, now lunged at Athelstan, his tormentor. Cranston , even swifter, lashed out with his hand and knocked Rolles’ wrist, sending the dagger flying. Athelstan could only sit as the taverner, backing away, drew the evil-looking Welsh dagger from the top of his boot. He turned on Cranston , lips moving soundlessly, one hand going to brush the sweat from his cheek.
    ‘Don’t be stupid.’ Cranston rose, drawing his own sword in a hiss of steel, his other hand expertly plucking a dagger from its sheath. ‘Come, Master Rolles, this is no way forward, whatever charges you face.’
    ‘Charges?’
    Rolles wiped his face with the back of his hand. He had lost all sense of where he was and what was happening, trapped by the mistakes of the past.
    ‘You stupid bastard.’ Rolles turned on Sir Maurice. ‘It was your scheme from the start. I should have known better. And what for? All that blood, for what? And that stupid bitch Veritable, greedy as a jackdaw.’
    Sir Maurice still sat in his chair, slightly pushed back from the table. Sir Reginald’s hand edged slowly towards his own dagger.
    ‘All this,’ Rolles shouted so loudly the guards outside became alarmed and burst in, only to be waved away by Cranston, ‘all this,’ he screamed again, a white froth appearing at the corner of his mouth, ‘lost because of you.’
    ‘Master Rolles,’ Cranston warned, ‘put down your knife.’
    ‘And you,’ Rolles took a step forward, ‘fat Jack Cranston, come to take my profits, have you? I never did like you, with your prying eyes, all bluff and merry, ever righteous.’
    Cranston took a step back, raising both sword and dagger. Rolles was lost in his own fury, mad with rage at what was about to be revealed. Athelstan had calculated that the disappearance of Mother Veritable would disconcert Rolles, but not to this extent.
    Suddenly there was a tap on the window. Flaxwith, alarmed, was peering through. Cranston lowered his sword; Rolles seized the opportunity, turning slightly sideways like the fighting man he was, and lunged, his dagger making a feint for Cranston’s face, but moving just as quickly, he brought the dagger down, aiming for his true mark, the coroner’s broad chest. Cranston , despite his bulk, acted even more swiftly. Instead of retreating, he moved to the right. His dagger hand blocked Rolles’ blow, whilst he thrust his sword deep into the soft flesh where stomach and chest met. The force of Rolles’ lunge made him take the blade deeper, and for a while he just rocked backwards and forwards on his feet, a look of pained surprise on his face as he dropped his dagger.
    Sir John pulled his sword out. Rolles tried to speak, moving forward even as the blood frothed between his lips. He made one last effort, then fell to his knees, gave a sigh and collapsed to the floor. Flaxwith threw open the door, others of his company thronging in behind, Cranston roared at them to withdraw.
    ‘But Sir John, I’ve—’
    ‘Never mind,’ Cranston retorted. ‘You saw it all, Henry. I had no choice.’
    Flaxwith nodded. ‘It’s treason, Sir John, to draw a weapon on a King’s officer who is about to make an arrest.’
    ‘Thank you, Henry.’
    Cranston gestured to the door. The bailiff withdrew, and Cranston ordered the rest to stay where they were and keep their hands on the tabletop. He knelt down, pressing his fingers against Rolles’ neck. Athelstan joined him. By now the blood was gushing out of Rolles’ mouth and the gaping wound in his chest, forming a dark red puddle on the floor. Neither Cranston nor Athelstan could find the life beat. The friar whispered a prayer, but Cranston was more