smiled and winked mischievously. Athelstan grinned, embarrassed, and looked away, He was not frightened of Gaunt, who sat in scarlet robes on the King’s right, but Athelstan knew how jealous the Regent was of the King’s open affection for Sir John Cranston, as well as his secretarius, Brother Athelstan. The young King turned and talked to Hussey on his left, grasping his tutor’s wrist in a gesture of friendship. Cranston, though on his eighth cup of claret, turned and pulled a face at Athelstan; for the King to touch anyone at a formal banquet was a breach of etiquette and the highest mark of royal favour.
Athelstan glanced at Gaunt. He was astute enough to see the flicker of annoyance cross the Regent’s saturnine face even though Gaunt tried to hide it by stroking his neatly clipped gold moustache and beard.
‘As I have said,’ Cranston whispered rather too loudly in Athelstan’s ear, ‘no love lost there. Hussey is now the King’s favourite as well as his tutor. A university man,’ Sir John continued. ‘I wonder what Hussey and the King think of Gaunt’s friendship with the Guildmasters? Just look at the turd worms!’
Athelstan squeezed Cranston’s arm. ‘Sir John, keep your voice down. You have eaten well?’
Cranston smiled. ‘As I would wish to in Paradise! For God’s sake, Brother, just look at the wealth!’
Athelstan stared at his own cup, plate and knives all fashioned from pure gold and silver, whilst his goblet, hardly touched throughout the meal, was encrusted with a King’s ransom in jewels, part of the loot Gaunt had brought back from his wars in France.
‘What have we eaten so far, Brother?’
Lamprey, salmon, venison, boar’s meat, swan and peacock.’ Athelstan grinned. ‘And dessert is still to come!’
He was about to tease Sir John further when suddenly Fitzroy, Guildmaster of the Fishmongers, rose to his feet, scrabbling at his fur-lined collar, his habitually red face purple now as he coughed and choked. The rest of the guests watched, astounded. No one moved as Fitzroy staggered against his table, turned slightly and crashed to the floor.
Despite his laden stomach, Cranston sprang to his feet, Athelstan behind him, and hurried across. Fitzroy lay sprawled on his side, eyes and mouth still open, but Athelstan could feel no life beat in the puce-coloured throat. He stuck his finger into the man’s mouth, ensuring the tongue was free, thinking Fitzroy might have choked. He hid his distaste, working his fingers downwards, but found no blockage in the man’s throat. Cranston felt Fitzroy’s wrist and then his heart.
‘He’s gone!’ he growled. ‘Dead as one of his bloody fish, God rest him!’
The others hurried across in a hubbub of shouts and exclamations, the young King included. Despite his tender years, Richard shouldered his way forward.
‘Is the fellow dead, Sir John?’
‘God rest him, yes, Sire.’
‘And the cause?’
Athelstan shrugged. ‘I am no physician, Your Grace. Apoplexy, perhaps?’
‘Nephew, you should not be here.’ Gaunt edged his way forward and clapped a beringed hand on young Richard’s shoulder.
‘We will stay, Uncle, until the cause of death is established. You, man.’ The King nodded at one of the royal archers guarding the door. ‘You will go for Master de Troyes!’
Gaunt bit back his anger and, nodding at the archer, confirmed his nephew’s order. Meanwhile Athelstan stared down at the corpse.
‘This is no apoplexy, Sir John,’ he whispered, I believe Fitzroy’s death is not a natural one.’
The rest protested noisily but Sir John, crouching beside Athelstan, lifted a finger to his lips as a signal for silence.
Athelstan leaned down and sniffed at the man’s mouth. He smelt wine, roast meat and the bitter-sweet smell of something else, like that of a decaying rose with the wormwood strong within it.
‘Did Fitzroy complain of any illness before the meal?’ Sir John suddenly asked.
Bremmer, Sudbury, Marshall,
Athelstan glanced at Gaunt. He was astute enough to see the flicker of annoyance cross the Regent’s saturnine face even though Gaunt tried to hide it by stroking his neatly clipped gold moustache and beard.
‘As I have said,’ Cranston whispered rather too loudly in Athelstan’s ear, ‘no love lost there. Hussey is now the King’s favourite as well as his tutor. A university man,’ Sir John continued. ‘I wonder what Hussey and the King think of Gaunt’s friendship with the Guildmasters? Just look at the turd worms!’
Athelstan squeezed Cranston’s arm. ‘Sir John, keep your voice down. You have eaten well?’
Cranston smiled. ‘As I would wish to in Paradise! For God’s sake, Brother, just look at the wealth!’
Athelstan stared at his own cup, plate and knives all fashioned from pure gold and silver, whilst his goblet, hardly touched throughout the meal, was encrusted with a King’s ransom in jewels, part of the loot Gaunt had brought back from his wars in France.
‘What have we eaten so far, Brother?’
Lamprey, salmon, venison, boar’s meat, swan and peacock.’ Athelstan grinned. ‘And dessert is still to come!’
He was about to tease Sir John further when suddenly Fitzroy, Guildmaster of the Fishmongers, rose to his feet, scrabbling at his fur-lined collar, his habitually red face purple now as he coughed and choked. The rest of the guests watched, astounded. No one moved as Fitzroy staggered against his table, turned slightly and crashed to the floor.
Despite his laden stomach, Cranston sprang to his feet, Athelstan behind him, and hurried across. Fitzroy lay sprawled on his side, eyes and mouth still open, but Athelstan could feel no life beat in the puce-coloured throat. He stuck his finger into the man’s mouth, ensuring the tongue was free, thinking Fitzroy might have choked. He hid his distaste, working his fingers downwards, but found no blockage in the man’s throat. Cranston felt Fitzroy’s wrist and then his heart.
‘He’s gone!’ he growled. ‘Dead as one of his bloody fish, God rest him!’
The others hurried across in a hubbub of shouts and exclamations, the young King included. Despite his tender years, Richard shouldered his way forward.
‘Is the fellow dead, Sir John?’
‘God rest him, yes, Sire.’
‘And the cause?’
Athelstan shrugged. ‘I am no physician, Your Grace. Apoplexy, perhaps?’
‘Nephew, you should not be here.’ Gaunt edged his way forward and clapped a beringed hand on young Richard’s shoulder.
‘We will stay, Uncle, until the cause of death is established. You, man.’ The King nodded at one of the royal archers guarding the door. ‘You will go for Master de Troyes!’
Gaunt bit back his anger and, nodding at the archer, confirmed his nephew’s order. Meanwhile Athelstan stared down at the corpse.
‘This is no apoplexy, Sir John,’ he whispered, I believe Fitzroy’s death is not a natural one.’
The rest protested noisily but Sir John, crouching beside Athelstan, lifted a finger to his lips as a signal for silence.
Athelstan leaned down and sniffed at the man’s mouth. He smelt wine, roast meat and the bitter-sweet smell of something else, like that of a decaying rose with the wormwood strong within it.
‘Did Fitzroy complain of any illness before the meal?’ Sir John suddenly asked.
Bremmer, Sudbury, Marshall,
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