The Nightingale Gallery

lesser man.'
    Cranston looked evilly at the friar.
    'Thank you, Brother,' he said. 'Your words of comfort soothe my heart.'
    'Be at peace, my son,' Athelstan said mockingly and pointed. 'Over there is the Springall mansion. And here,' he turned and gestured to the great garish sign, 'is the tavern of the Holy Lamb of God. The body needs refreshment.' He grinned. 'And your body, great as it is, more than any other!'
    Cranston solemnly tapped his bell-like stomach.
    'You are correct, Brother.' He sighed. 'The spirit is willing but the flesh is very, very weak.'
    And there's a lot of weakness there, thought Athelstan.
    'But not now,' he added hastily, catching the gleam in Cranston's eyes. 'Sir Richard Springall awaits us. We must see him.'
    Cranston's mouth set in a stubborn line.
    "Sir John, we must do it now!' Athelstan insisted.
    Cranston nodded, his eyes petulant like those of a child being refused a sweet. They stabled their horses at the Holy Lamb of God and threaded their way across the noisy market place. A figure garbed in black, a white devil's mask on its face, was jumping amongst the stalls, shouting imprecations at the rich and the avaricious. A beadle in his striped gown tried to arrest him but the 'devil' scampered off to the cheers of the crowd. Cranston and Athelstan watched the drama play itself out; the beadle chasing, the 'devil' dodging. The small, fat official was soon lathered in sweat. Another 'devil' appeared, dressed identically to the first, and the crowd burst into roars of laughter. The beadle had been tricked, fooled by two mummers and their game of illusion.
    'Like life, is it not, Sir John?' Athelstan queried. 'Nothing, as Heraclitus says, is what it appears to be. Or, as Plato writes, we live in a world of dreams, the realities are beyond us.'
    Cranston gave one last pitying glance at the beadle.
    'Bugger philosophy!' he said. 'I have seen more truths at the bottom of a wine cup, and learnt more after a good tankard of sack, than any dry-skinned philosopher could teach in some dusty hall!'
    'Sir John, your grasp of philosophy never ceases to amaze me.'
    Well, I am now going to amaze Sir Richard Springall,' Cranston grated. 'I haven't forgotten yesterday.'
    The same old manservant ushered them into the hall. A few minutes later Sir Richard came down, closely followed by Lady Isabella and Buckingham. The latter informed them that Father Crispin and Allingham were working elsewhere.
    'Sir John, you feel better?' Springall asked.
    'Sir, I was not ill. Indeed, I felt better yesterday than I do now.'
    Sir Richard just glared, refusing to be drawn into Cranston's riddle.
    'You have heard of Vechey's death?'
    Sir Richard nodded. 'Yes,' he said softly. 'We did. But come, let us not discuss these matters here.'
    He led them into a small, more comfortable room behind the great hall where a fire burnt in the canopied hearth; it was cosier and not so forbidding, with its wood-panelled walls and high-backed chairs arranged in a semi-circle around the hearth.
    'Even in the height of summer,' Sir Richard observed, 'it's cool in here.'
    Athelstan smelt the fragrance of the pine logs burning in the hearth, mixing with sandalwood, resin, and something more fragrant – the heavy perfume of Lady Isabella. He looked sharply at her. She had now donned full mourning weeds. A black lacy wimple framed her beautiful white face while her splendid body was clothed from neck to toe in a pure black silk gown, the only concession to any alleviating colour being the white lace cuffs and collar and the small jewelled cross which swung from a gold chain round her neck. Buckingham was paler, quieter. Athelstan noticed how daintily he moved. There was a knock at the door.
    'Come in!' Sir Richard called.
    Father Crispin entered, his thin face creased with pain at his ungainly hobbling. He caught Athelstan's glance and smiled bravely.
    'Don't worry, Brother. I have had a clubbed foot since birth. You may have noticed, a riding boot greatly eases my infirmity. Sometimes I forget my lameness, but it's always there. Like some malicious enemy ready to hurt me,' he added bitterly.
    Lady Isabella went forward and grasped the young priest's hand. 'Father, I am sorry,' she whispered. 'Come, join us.'
    They sat down. A servant brought a tray of wine cups filled to the brim with white Rhenish wine, as well as a platter of sweet pastries. Cranston lost his sour look and satisfied himself by glancing sardonically at Athelstan as he