was black and forbidding. The steps leading to it were choked with weeds and crumbling. The windows were either arrow slits or small squares of wood, not filled with glass but protected by shutters from within and iron bars on the outside. It reminded Athelstan of the great block houses in France, built by the English to control crossroads, bridges and fords over rivers.
The archer had disappeared round the back. Athelstan could see now why Hawkmere had been chosen as a prison. On the other three sides of the house ran a great curtain wall which probably defended the outhouses and buildings behind it. He glanced at his companions; Sir John was standing, legs apart, eyes half-closed. Sir Maurice looked as if he were a thousand miles away and, once again, Athelstan wondered how they could possibly help this young man’s futile pursuit of his beloved. Sir John knew Sir Thomas and so did Athelstan. Sir Thomas had a reputation for being hard-fisted and stony-hearted. A man who lent monies to everyone and always demanded a good profit in return.
‘Come on, Athelstan,’ Sir John growled. ‘I’m not standing here baking in the sun.’
He marched across and up the steps, the other two close behind, and hammered on the great oaken door. It swung open and a servant ushered them in.
The inside of Hawkmere Manor was as gloomy as its exterior. The hallway was so dark, cresset torches spluttered in their iron holders. They were taken down a shabby passageway, their boots ringing hollow on the hard grey paving-stones. Sir Walter Limbnght was waiting for them in his chamber just near the Great Hall. A small, surly-looking knight, he had thinning grey hair, eyes close-set, a cynical cast to his mouth. He was unshaven and his dark-brown doublet was stained. He rose to greet them.
‘I was told of your arrival, Sir John. I was coming . . .’
‘We decided not to wait,’ Sir John snapped. ‘It’s hot outside.’
‘Would you like something to drink?’ Sir Walter became nervous as he realised he had been caught out in his bad manners.
‘Perhaps later,’ Athelstan intervened quickly.
Sir Walter handed the commission back.
‘It’s not my fault,’ he wailed. He picked at a stain on his tunic. ‘I’ve kept the prisoners safely housed and protected. No one comes in here apart from that arrogant fop de Fontanel and, when he does, I watch him like a hawk. My Lord of Gaunt can’t . . .’
‘Where’s the corpse?’ Sir John demanded.
Sir Walter blinked. ‘Yes, yes, quite, you’d best come with me!’
He led them out of his chamber along a passageway which smelt of stale vegetables. He reached the foot of a wooden spiral staircase. A pale young woman with light brown hair was sitting on the bottom step. She was picking at the floor and didn’t look up as they approached.
‘Lucy! Lucy!’ Sir Walter glanced at Sir John. ‘This is my daughter.’
The young woman glanced up; her face was vacuous, her eyes empty, her lower lip hung loose and a trail of saliva ran down her chin. A pretty-looking girl but her soul was gone, her wits fuddled.
‘I’m going to press some flowers, Father.’ She became aware of the visitors and squinted up at them. ‘They are not supposed to be here.’
‘Hush now, Lucy! They are from my Lord of Gaunt.’
‘Have they brought some money?’ she asked.
‘It’s Sir John Cranston,’ Sir Walter replied. ‘He’s coroner of the city, come to view the corpse.’
‘All Frenchmen are corpses,’ she replied. ‘And one’s up there, stiffening and cold, smelling like a fish.’
‘God have mercy on her!’ Sir Walter said. ‘Her wits wander. Sir John, she has no great love of the French.’
They reached the second gallery. The passageway was narrow and dark, the floor boards unpolished, the white plaster battered and peeling. Nevertheless, the doors to the chambers they passed hung straight and secure. Sir Walter stopped at one of these and pushed it open. The room was large but poorly
The archer had disappeared round the back. Athelstan could see now why Hawkmere had been chosen as a prison. On the other three sides of the house ran a great curtain wall which probably defended the outhouses and buildings behind it. He glanced at his companions; Sir John was standing, legs apart, eyes half-closed. Sir Maurice looked as if he were a thousand miles away and, once again, Athelstan wondered how they could possibly help this young man’s futile pursuit of his beloved. Sir John knew Sir Thomas and so did Athelstan. Sir Thomas had a reputation for being hard-fisted and stony-hearted. A man who lent monies to everyone and always demanded a good profit in return.
‘Come on, Athelstan,’ Sir John growled. ‘I’m not standing here baking in the sun.’
He marched across and up the steps, the other two close behind, and hammered on the great oaken door. It swung open and a servant ushered them in.
The inside of Hawkmere Manor was as gloomy as its exterior. The hallway was so dark, cresset torches spluttered in their iron holders. They were taken down a shabby passageway, their boots ringing hollow on the hard grey paving-stones. Sir Walter Limbnght was waiting for them in his chamber just near the Great Hall. A small, surly-looking knight, he had thinning grey hair, eyes close-set, a cynical cast to his mouth. He was unshaven and his dark-brown doublet was stained. He rose to greet them.
‘I was told of your arrival, Sir John. I was coming . . .’
‘We decided not to wait,’ Sir John snapped. ‘It’s hot outside.’
‘Would you like something to drink?’ Sir Walter became nervous as he realised he had been caught out in his bad manners.
‘Perhaps later,’ Athelstan intervened quickly.
Sir Walter handed the commission back.
‘It’s not my fault,’ he wailed. He picked at a stain on his tunic. ‘I’ve kept the prisoners safely housed and protected. No one comes in here apart from that arrogant fop de Fontanel and, when he does, I watch him like a hawk. My Lord of Gaunt can’t . . .’
‘Where’s the corpse?’ Sir John demanded.
Sir Walter blinked. ‘Yes, yes, quite, you’d best come with me!’
He led them out of his chamber along a passageway which smelt of stale vegetables. He reached the foot of a wooden spiral staircase. A pale young woman with light brown hair was sitting on the bottom step. She was picking at the floor and didn’t look up as they approached.
‘Lucy! Lucy!’ Sir Walter glanced at Sir John. ‘This is my daughter.’
The young woman glanced up; her face was vacuous, her eyes empty, her lower lip hung loose and a trail of saliva ran down her chin. A pretty-looking girl but her soul was gone, her wits fuddled.
‘I’m going to press some flowers, Father.’ She became aware of the visitors and squinted up at them. ‘They are not supposed to be here.’
‘Hush now, Lucy! They are from my Lord of Gaunt.’
‘Have they brought some money?’ she asked.
‘It’s Sir John Cranston,’ Sir Walter replied. ‘He’s coroner of the city, come to view the corpse.’
‘All Frenchmen are corpses,’ she replied. ‘And one’s up there, stiffening and cold, smelling like a fish.’
‘God have mercy on her!’ Sir Walter said. ‘Her wits wander. Sir John, she has no great love of the French.’
They reached the second gallery. The passageway was narrow and dark, the floor boards unpolished, the white plaster battered and peeling. Nevertheless, the doors to the chambers they passed hung straight and secure. Sir Walter stopped at one of these and pushed it open. The room was large but poorly