as Picquart the steward and beckoned them into a stone-paved entrance hall.
The house was comfortably warm. Candles glowed in spigots fastened above linen panelling, whilst soft rope-matting washed in herbs and spices covered the floor. On the left, a half-open door revealed a rich furnished chamber, an arras hanging on the wall and finely polished oak furniture, tables, chairs, chests and cushioned stools. They passed a great open kitchen where servants scurried about. A yawning hearth built into the wall dividing it from the hall gave off gusts of sweet warmth. Picquart led them into the solar, where others were waiting seated around an oval table which glittered in the light of a myriad candles placed along the rims of three lowered Catherine wheels. The hall was furnished with gleaming dark oak panelling but the lights, the candelabra and the flames from the roaring fire in the bell-like hearth made it a place of merry cheer and relaxing comfort. A woman rose from the top of the table and walked gracefully towards them. She was dressed like a Cistercian nun in a light-grey gown and veil: her patrician face, framed by a starched white wimple, emphasized the authority of her commanding dark eyes, and her nose was sharp above a firm mouth and chin. Athelstan reckoned she was a woman past her fortieth summer.
‘Good evening,’ she murmured. ‘Welcome to my house. I am Lady Anne Lesures.’ She smiled at Athelstan and winked quickly at Cranston. She then clasped the friar’s hand and bowed her head for his blessing. Athelstan delivered this and was almost knocked aside by Sir John as he scooped Lady Anne up in his arms, half raising her to kiss her lips and forehead before lowering her gently down.
‘Oh, if I was a bachelor!’ Cranston breathed. ‘Lady Anne, it is so good to see you. Come.’ They exchanged the full kiss of peace followed by Cranston’s spate of questions which Lady Anne, her face beaming with pleasure, said she would answer some other time as they had to meet the others. She led the coroner and friar around the table. Each of her guests rose, scraping back their chairs to clasp hands and receive Athelstan’s hasty blessing. The first was Sir Henry Beaumont, the late Sir Walter’s brother: he was fat-faced and rather corpulent, his thinning hair combed forward to cover a balding pate. Sir Henry was dressed in a costly blood-red jerkin with hose to match; his cambric shirt was snow-white, the collar open. Athelstan glimpsed the precious bejewelled crucifix on its silver chain. Sir Henry struck the friar as most eager to please, highly nervous and rather apprehensive. Rohesia, Sir Henry’s wife, was pretty in a severe sort of way: auburn haired, eyes constantly narrowed, head slightly tilted back, lower lip jutting out as if judging all who came under her scrutiny. She was dressed rather soberly in a brown veil and an old-fashioned gown of the same hue with white bands at the cuff and neck. Edward Garman, prison chaplain of Newgate, was of medium stature; bald, his clean-shaven, oval face burnt a deep brown by the sun of Outremer. He was light and swift in movement; his large eyes looked troubled, his fleshy lower lip slightly quivering as if he was preparing to protest. Garman was dressed simply in a mud-coloured robe, stout sandals on his feet, a set of small Ave beads circling his left wrist, a white-rolled cincture around his waist. Nicholas Falke the lawyer was blond-haired and earnest-faced; his small eyes screwed up against the light, a snub nose above rather pretty, womanish lips which constantly twitched. Falke was dressed in a dark-blue jerkin and hose, the high stiffened collar of his undershirt jutting up just under his chin. Buckholt, Sir Walter’s steward, looked what he was: the stolid, stout, reliable house retainer who let nothing pass him by. He was square-faced with a strong mouth and jaw of a stubborn man, an impression heightened by deep-set, guarded eyes. He dressed demurely
The house was comfortably warm. Candles glowed in spigots fastened above linen panelling, whilst soft rope-matting washed in herbs and spices covered the floor. On the left, a half-open door revealed a rich furnished chamber, an arras hanging on the wall and finely polished oak furniture, tables, chairs, chests and cushioned stools. They passed a great open kitchen where servants scurried about. A yawning hearth built into the wall dividing it from the hall gave off gusts of sweet warmth. Picquart led them into the solar, where others were waiting seated around an oval table which glittered in the light of a myriad candles placed along the rims of three lowered Catherine wheels. The hall was furnished with gleaming dark oak panelling but the lights, the candelabra and the flames from the roaring fire in the bell-like hearth made it a place of merry cheer and relaxing comfort. A woman rose from the top of the table and walked gracefully towards them. She was dressed like a Cistercian nun in a light-grey gown and veil: her patrician face, framed by a starched white wimple, emphasized the authority of her commanding dark eyes, and her nose was sharp above a firm mouth and chin. Athelstan reckoned she was a woman past her fortieth summer.
‘Good evening,’ she murmured. ‘Welcome to my house. I am Lady Anne Lesures.’ She smiled at Athelstan and winked quickly at Cranston. She then clasped the friar’s hand and bowed her head for his blessing. Athelstan delivered this and was almost knocked aside by Sir John as he scooped Lady Anne up in his arms, half raising her to kiss her lips and forehead before lowering her gently down.
‘Oh, if I was a bachelor!’ Cranston breathed. ‘Lady Anne, it is so good to see you. Come.’ They exchanged the full kiss of peace followed by Cranston’s spate of questions which Lady Anne, her face beaming with pleasure, said she would answer some other time as they had to meet the others. She led the coroner and friar around the table. Each of her guests rose, scraping back their chairs to clasp hands and receive Athelstan’s hasty blessing. The first was Sir Henry Beaumont, the late Sir Walter’s brother: he was fat-faced and rather corpulent, his thinning hair combed forward to cover a balding pate. Sir Henry was dressed in a costly blood-red jerkin with hose to match; his cambric shirt was snow-white, the collar open. Athelstan glimpsed the precious bejewelled crucifix on its silver chain. Sir Henry struck the friar as most eager to please, highly nervous and rather apprehensive. Rohesia, Sir Henry’s wife, was pretty in a severe sort of way: auburn haired, eyes constantly narrowed, head slightly tilted back, lower lip jutting out as if judging all who came under her scrutiny. She was dressed rather soberly in a brown veil and an old-fashioned gown of the same hue with white bands at the cuff and neck. Edward Garman, prison chaplain of Newgate, was of medium stature; bald, his clean-shaven, oval face burnt a deep brown by the sun of Outremer. He was light and swift in movement; his large eyes looked troubled, his fleshy lower lip slightly quivering as if he was preparing to protest. Garman was dressed simply in a mud-coloured robe, stout sandals on his feet, a set of small Ave beads circling his left wrist, a white-rolled cincture around his waist. Nicholas Falke the lawyer was blond-haired and earnest-faced; his small eyes screwed up against the light, a snub nose above rather pretty, womanish lips which constantly twitched. Falke was dressed in a dark-blue jerkin and hose, the high stiffened collar of his undershirt jutting up just under his chin. Buckholt, Sir Walter’s steward, looked what he was: the stolid, stout, reliable house retainer who let nothing pass him by. He was square-faced with a strong mouth and jaw of a stubborn man, an impression heightened by deep-set, guarded eyes. He dressed demurely
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