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Authors: Paul Doherty
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in a long old-fashioned
houppelande
which fell beneath the knees of his dark woollen hose. Rosamund Clifford, now apparently Lady Rohesia’s personal maid, was garbed in a Lincoln-green gown, her dark hair hidden by a tightly clamped veil. She was petite and pretty with ever-darting eyes and puckered lips. Athelstan could not decide whether she was fey-witted or just acting the part.
Once the introductions were finished, chilled white wine and small bowls of marzipan were served to each guest. Cranston sat at the head of the table with Lady Anne on his right and Athelstan on his left. The friar immediately laid out his writing implements as the coroner, who had eaten all his sweetmeats, now turned on the friar’s. Athelstan leaned closer and whispered on the whereabouts of the miraculous wineskin.
‘Left it at the Guildhall,’ Cranston murmured, ‘silly fool, but I know my precious is waiting for me there.’
‘Sir John,’ Falke intoned as if ready to plead, ‘we have come, we have waited and we still wait.’
‘Was she innocent?’ Cranston barked, his voice ringing through the solar. ‘I repeat, was Lady Isolda innocent of murder? Let me assure you, someone certainly believes that. You must have heard about an assassin, the common tongue now calls him the Ignifer – the Fire Bringer. He has thrown what I suppose is Greek fire over two judges as well as the prosecutor who sent Lady Isolda to the stake. They died as horribly as she did. In my view, the Ignifer believes he is carrying out well-plotted vengeance for the gruesome death of an innocent victim.’ Cranston jabbed a finger at Falke. ‘That is why we are here. I asked Lady Anne to be our hostess, to gather all those who were involved in the prosecution of Lady Isolda to this meeting.’
‘Are we all in danger?’ Lady Rohesia snapped. ‘Are we all to be turned into living tongues of flame? Surely this Ignifer can be caught?’
‘You may not be marked down.’ Buckholt’s voice carried sombrely. ‘But I certainly am. You asked a question, Sir John. Was Lady Isolda innocent? She was not. I know what I saw. She was the last to feed her husband that tainted posset. The goblet she used was discarded. She hid it and replaced it with another.’ Buckholt stared around. ‘In God’s name, what more can I say but what I have sworn on oath?’
‘Yet we don’t really know,’ Falke cried, ‘that Sir Walter was poisoned. We have nothing but the opinion of a physician.’
‘We also have further evidence,’ Cranston retorted. ‘Firstly, there is the goblet that Reginald Vanner specially bought. Secondly, Vanner diverted Buckholt, who is so distracted he hands the posset to Lady Isolda, who takes it to her husband and makes him drink. Thirdly, she apparently gave Buckholt a different goblet in return. Fourthly, the goblet Buckholt first brought from the buttery ended up in the cesspit, and apparently such a change took place in a very short time. Sutler simply argued how the posset was poured into a second goblet, which was poisoned, fed to Sir Walter and later discarded.’
‘There, Master Falke,’ Athelstan declared softly, ‘Sir John describes a grim logic of events with a life of their own and what can be said in reply?’
‘Vanner,’ Falke retorted, ‘he has fled or has he not, Sir Henry?’
‘Yes, yes.’ The merchant knight couldn’t disguise the slur in his voice. ‘So it would appear.’
‘Lady Isolda,’ Falke declared, lips twitching, ‘swore how Sir Walter told her Vanner had fed him a strange-tasting wine earlier in the day. Some poisons take time for their malignancy to become apparent. That’s possible, isn’t it?’ He turned and gestured at Buckholt.
‘Of course,’ the steward replied, ‘anything is possible, but Sir Walter suffered no ill effects.’
‘Parson Garman also visited him early in the morning and brought the usual figs in almond sauce,’ Falke declared. ‘My point is others offered Sir Walter food
houppelande
which fell beneath the knees of his dark woollen hose. Rosamund Clifford, now apparently Lady Rohesia’s personal maid, was garbed in a Lincoln-green gown, her dark hair hidden by a tightly clamped veil. She was petite and pretty with ever-darting eyes and puckered lips. Athelstan could not decide whether she was fey-witted or just acting the part.
Once the introductions were finished, chilled white wine and small bowls of marzipan were served to each guest. Cranston sat at the head of the table with Lady Anne on his right and Athelstan on his left. The friar immediately laid out his writing implements as the coroner, who had eaten all his sweetmeats, now turned on the friar’s. Athelstan leaned closer and whispered on the whereabouts of the miraculous wineskin.
‘Left it at the Guildhall,’ Cranston murmured, ‘silly fool, but I know my precious is waiting for me there.’
‘Sir John,’ Falke intoned as if ready to plead, ‘we have come, we have waited and we still wait.’
‘Was she innocent?’ Cranston barked, his voice ringing through the solar. ‘I repeat, was Lady Isolda innocent of murder? Let me assure you, someone certainly believes that. You must have heard about an assassin, the common tongue now calls him the Ignifer – the Fire Bringer. He has thrown what I suppose is Greek fire over two judges as well as the prosecutor who sent Lady Isolda to the stake. They died as horribly as she did. In my view, the Ignifer believes he is carrying out well-plotted vengeance for the gruesome death of an innocent victim.’ Cranston jabbed a finger at Falke. ‘That is why we are here. I asked Lady Anne to be our hostess, to gather all those who were involved in the prosecution of Lady Isolda to this meeting.’
‘Are we all in danger?’ Lady Rohesia snapped. ‘Are we all to be turned into living tongues of flame? Surely this Ignifer can be caught?’
‘You may not be marked down.’ Buckholt’s voice carried sombrely. ‘But I certainly am. You asked a question, Sir John. Was Lady Isolda innocent? She was not. I know what I saw. She was the last to feed her husband that tainted posset. The goblet she used was discarded. She hid it and replaced it with another.’ Buckholt stared around. ‘In God’s name, what more can I say but what I have sworn on oath?’
‘Yet we don’t really know,’ Falke cried, ‘that Sir Walter was poisoned. We have nothing but the opinion of a physician.’
‘We also have further evidence,’ Cranston retorted. ‘Firstly, there is the goblet that Reginald Vanner specially bought. Secondly, Vanner diverted Buckholt, who is so distracted he hands the posset to Lady Isolda, who takes it to her husband and makes him drink. Thirdly, she apparently gave Buckholt a different goblet in return. Fourthly, the goblet Buckholt first brought from the buttery ended up in the cesspit, and apparently such a change took place in a very short time. Sutler simply argued how the posset was poured into a second goblet, which was poisoned, fed to Sir Walter and later discarded.’
‘There, Master Falke,’ Athelstan declared softly, ‘Sir John describes a grim logic of events with a life of their own and what can be said in reply?’
‘Vanner,’ Falke retorted, ‘he has fled or has he not, Sir Henry?’
‘Yes, yes.’ The merchant knight couldn’t disguise the slur in his voice. ‘So it would appear.’
‘Lady Isolda,’ Falke declared, lips twitching, ‘swore how Sir Walter told her Vanner had fed him a strange-tasting wine earlier in the day. Some poisons take time for their malignancy to become apparent. That’s possible, isn’t it?’ He turned and gestured at Buckholt.
‘Of course,’ the steward replied, ‘anything is possible, but Sir Walter suffered no ill effects.’
‘Parson Garman also visited him early in the morning and brought the usual figs in almond sauce,’ Falke declared. ‘My point is others offered Sir Walter food
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