The House of Shadows

that. In the end, as in a game of chequers, everyone’s move was blocked. The Crusaders had lost their treasure, but there was more to be had from the Lombards , not to mention the profits of the war. The bankers hadn’t really lost their money and stood to gain more. The Keeper of the Tower was the secret recipient of fresh wealth, whilst the true thieves were the proud owners of a mere midden heap. The real victims were Mortimer, Culpepper and those two innocent boatmen. You knew Mortimer and Culpepper must be dead, but, of course, you couldn’t reveal that without telling the truth, for why should two knights abscond with a chest full of rocks and bricks? Oh, you would make a careful search, but the game was played, there was nothing to be done. All you could do was sit, wait and watch. Only one person warranted sympathy, poor Helena Mortimer, still hoping, still trusting that her brother would return. You took pity on her. You made sure that every quarter your comrade here, Signor Tonnelli, handed a pension to a London goldsmith for her. This kept Helena’s dreams alive and made sure she didn’t fall into poverty,- it was the least you could do to honour Edward’s memory.’
    Athelstan’s gaze never left the Regent’s face. Handsome as an angel, he reflected, his light skin burned dark by the Castilian sun. The silver-blond hair, beard and moustache so neatly trimmed, those beautiful blue eyes so frank and direct, except for the glint of mischief; only this time Gaunt looked genuinely sad. For a moment Athelstan caught this powerful man’s deep regret and sorrow at what had happened.
    ‘Do you believe this, my Lord Coroner?’ Gaunt glanced at Cranston .
    ‘I have always admired both your courage and your cunning, your Grace. A source of wonderment for me, as it was for your blessed father and elder brother.’
    Gaunt laughed quietly to himself.
    ‘You may have suspected the other knights,’ Athelstan declared, ‘but you could never prove the truth, which hangs in a delicate balance and, as I have said, like a two-edged sword, cuts both ways. You kept the treasure, the years passed, Signor Tonnelli would arrange for it to be broken up and sold elsewhere in the cities along the Rhine or even in the lands of the Great Turk. One person remained keen in the hunt for the truth: Brother Malachi, a Benedictine monk, Sir Richard Culpepper’s brother. He approached you, didn’t he? Asking questions, some of which you could answer, others you had to ignore. Malachi was dangerous, an intelligent man, a scholar and, above all, a Benedictine monk. I do wonder,’ Athelstan deliberately picked up the Regent’s goblet and sipped from it; Gaunt did not object, ‘I do wonder what he said to you.’
    Gaunt leaned his elbows on the table and cupped his face in his hands, tapping his boot against the floor as he scrutinised this friar.
    ‘You’re a very dangerous man, Athelstan.’
    ‘Is that why you have spies in my parish?’
    Gaunt smiled.
    ‘You do have spies in the Night in Jerusalem . The head groom, for one.’
    ‘True, true,’ Gaunt quipped. ‘I have a legion of spies in Southwark. I watched the Night in Jerusalem like a hawk surveys a field.’
    ‘You know what happened there today?’
    ‘Of course, but I would like to hear it from you, Brother.’
    Athelstan quickly described the events of the last few days and the violent, bloody confrontation in the tavern solar. Gaunt listened, eyes closed, now and again interrupting with a short sharp question. At the end he turned to Matthias of Evesham.
    ‘Tell the good sisters to bring some wine, nothing too heavy, the juice of the Rhineland , so we can all slake our thirsts.’
    Matthias hurried off. He brought back a tray of mugs and cups and Gaunt insisted on serving everyone. He then retook his seat, lifted his goblet and toasted both Athelstan and Cranston .
    ‘ Tu dixisti , you have said it, Brother. Twenty years ago I was Keeper of the Tower. I had barely reached my twenty-first year. As Jack Cranston knows, I’d campaigned in France , but not long enough to harvest any wealth. In the May of that year the Treaty of Bretigny was signed. There would be,’ Gaunt sighed, ‘for the foreseeable future, no more armies in France , no more ransoms or plunder. My father and elder brother kept me on a tight rein. To put it bluntly, I hadn’t two sous to rub together. Then the crusading fleet arrived and Signor Tonnelli collected the Lombard treasure; the