The Nightingale Gallery

not yours to offer. If your brother had known, if your father, the old king, had even suspected, you might well have lost your head. If the Commons found out now they would suspect you of plotting against the king. If your noble brothers and the other great lords, Gloucester and Arundel, even glimpsed that document, they would tear you to pieces!'
    'I was worried,' Gaunt haltingly replied. 'My brother was dying, my father senile, young Richard sickly. This realm needs strong government. Yes, if necessary, I would have seized the crown.'
    'And now, My Lord?' Cranston asked.
    'I am the king's most loyal servant,' Gaunt answered glibly. 'I am indebted to you, Sir John. I will not forget it.'
    'Then, My Lord, we bid you goodnight.'
    'Sir John,' Gaunt called after them, 'I will see you later on this matter. Brother Athelstan, ask any favour you wish.'
    'Yes, My Lord. I would like some silver for my church and, secondly, a pension for a poor woman, widow of Hob the grave-digger.'
    Gaunt grinned. 'So little for so much! See my clerks. It will be done.'
    Athelstan and Cranston strode out along the now emptying corridors of the Savoy Palace, down through the heavily perfumed garden and on to the riverside.
    Athelstan rubbed his eyes wearily. 'The murderer made one mistake and so did we, Sir John. First, I suspect Father Crispin waited until the tide fell before stringing the hapless corpse up.'
    'But he told us he was gone on errands?'
    'And that's where we made our mistake, Lord Coroner. We didn't ask when he returned, not that it would have made any difference in the Springall house where Sir Richard and Lady Isabella were lost in themselves and Allingham led his own lonely existence. Moreover, I am sure the priest had ways of sneaking in and out of such a large mansion without being noticed.'
    'Do you think Crispin will hang?' asked Cranston.
    Athelstan shook his head.
    'Fortescue asked him to get the information but then, as we know, matters got out of hand. Fortescue will go abroad and gain employment in some foreign court. Father Crispin, being a priest, will probably be immured in a monastery for the rest of his life and eat the bitter bread of repentance.' He crossed himself. 'Gaunt would never dare bring either of them to trial. But I suspect, within a year, Fortescue and our evil priest will both suffer some "accident" and answer for their crimes before God's tribunal.' Suddenly he remembered Benedicta. 'Sir John!' he cried. 'Your lady wife? Benedicta?'
    Cranston turned and looked slyly at him.
    'I asked the captain,' he said, 'to have two of his men escort the Lady Maude home. Benedicta was invited to go with her, but whether she did or not…' His voice trailed off.
    Athelstan stared up at the sky, now blood red as the sun began to set. He felt the evening breeze cool his face. He hardly spared a thought for assassins steeped in murder and ambition. How crimson was his own soul? Had not he too committed a secret sin?
    'What shall we do, Brother?' Cranston interrupted.
    Athelstan looked at that fat, friendly face, the good- humoured smile, the compassion in the bleary, drink- sodden eyes.
    'You are a good man, Sir John.'
    The coroner looked away.
    'And I shall tell you what we shall do,' Athelstan continued, taking him by the elbow. 'We shall celebrate!'
    He led Sir John along the waterside into the nearest tavern where he secured the best seats near the window. Athelstan raised a hand and called the landlord over.
    'I want a jug of your best Bordeaux and two deep cups. My friend and I are going to get drunk!'
    Sir John clapped his hands like a child, crowing with excitement. They drank like parched men. They heard the chimes of midnight and saw the stars come out before reeling back into the city and the warm security of Cranston's house. The Lady Maude screeched how she had heard of good seed falling amongst briars but never of good men falling from grace amongst friars! Cranston told her to shut up, announced he was going to give up ale and become a Dominican. He was still grinning beatifically when he passed out. Lady Maude knelt near her husband's porpoiselike body and made him comfortable for the night. She talked softly, keening over him as if he was Abelard and she Heloise. Love is strange, Athelstan thought, and has so many forms!
    Late the next morning, thick-headed and a little wiser, Athelstan went back to his church. He said Mass with no congregation present and sang his matins, wondering what had