The House of Shadows

kitchens. On one occasion he glimpsed two pages carrying across a peacock on a platter which had been de-feathered, roasted and then feathered again, its claws and beak being gilded in gold, so lifelike that Athelstan expected it to rise and give its flesh-tingling scream. A gate opened; they were walking through gardens, their beauty hidden by the mist and cold frost, along a colonnaded walk and into the corridors of the palace. The opulent beauty of this place was famous. Athelstan felt that he was entering a world far different from the poverty and grime of his own parish. The floors were a shiny mosaic of black, white and red lozenge-shaped tiles, rich oaken wainscoting gleamed in the light of countless beeswax candles. Above these glowed tapestries, the work of the best craftsmen in Europe, displaying scenes from the classics, the Bible and Arthurian legend. One in particular caught Athelstan’s eye and made him smile: the ‘Great Beast of Time’, part wolf, which devoured the past, part lion, displaying courage to face the present, part dog, faithful enough to accept the future. Inscriptions carved in gold gleamed above doorways. The Latin poet Terence’s famous quote ‘Without wine and food, Love dies,’ symbolised the life of the palace. The courtiers they passed were dressed in the latest attire from France, the men in doublets and elaborately pointed shoes, the ladies in the finest gowns with lacy bodices, low-slung girdles, their fashionable cloaks inlaid with embroidered silk. They reminded Athelstan of lovely butterflies in a gorgeous garden.
    Matthias of Evesham first took them to a buttery in one of the main halls, a comfortable chamber with polished walnut furniture and tiled floors, linen panelling covering most of the walls. Edible bread platters of delicate red rose, tinged with the green of parsley, were placed before them, on which a scullion served a ladle of spicy lamb, accompanied by the finest wastel bread and goblets of cool white wine. The coroner regained his good humour and did not take long to finish the bread and wine. Matthias had to hurry his own food before leading them into the gorgeous meeting chamber, its walls decorated with resplendent samite cloths, each displaying the six principal colours of heraldry. They were told to sit together on a cushioned settle, to the right of the mantled hearth; they had hardly done so when the far door opened and two men entered. The first, John of Gaunt, the Regent, was easily recognisable in his gold and red silk and soft boots. His narrow, intelligent face with its sharp nose and flinty blue eyes was a sharp contrast to his soft silver-blond hair and neatly clipped moustache and beard.
    ‘Your Grace.’ Cranston and Athelstan went to kneel.
    ‘Oh, sit down,’ Gaunt declared wearily. ‘I’m tired of bobbing courtiers.’
    He grasped a stool, brought it forward and sat down in front of them, one elbow on his thigh, chin cupped in his hand. He gestured with his other hand for his companion to do likewise. Now, up close, Athelstan could clearly study the other man’s swarthy face, fringed by long dark hair. He was not as relaxed as the Regent; his large soulful eyes were watchful, one beringed finger scratching at a bead of sweat which ran down into the close-cut moustache and beard. He was dressed soberly in a dark blue cotehardie; rings glistened on his fingers, a single gem dazzled on the gold chain around his neck. A secretive man, Athelstan thought, who kept his own counsel, but the way that he sat next to John of Gaunt, and the look which passed between them, showed intimacy and affection.
    ‘Signor Teodoro Tonnelli, may I present Sir John Cranston, Coroner to the City, and his secretarius, Brother Athelstan, parish priest of St Erconwald’s in Southwark.’ Gaunt smiled. ‘You all know who I am.’
    Athelstan gazed steadily back at this scion of Edward III, regent of the kingdom during the minority of his nephew Richard, son of the Black Prince. A man many called the Viper, who was feared by the Church and loathed by the peasants and their secret society, The Great Community of the Realm. Nevertheless, Gaunt was also personable, capable of dazzling charm and extraordinary generosity.
    ‘Well, Brother,’ Gaunt studiously ignored Cranston , ‘you and the Lord Coroner have questions for us?’
    ‘The Lombard treasure, a chest of jewellery worth at least ten thousand pounds,’ Athelstan replied.
    ‘Double that,’ Gaunt