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throes Sir Gerard scrabbles at the dagger, his hands fall away, he dies.’ Cranston beamed round. ‘I think the next step, My Lords, is that my clerk and I should interrogate the prisoner.’
    Gaunt agreed, an archer was summoned, and both Cranston and Athelstan went back into the Guildhall and down into the dank, musty-smelling cellars. The passageways were torch-lit; two archers stood on guard outside a cell with a metal grille high in the door. Cranston peered through this. The dungeon was lit by an oil lamp standing on a battered table and the prisoner lay huddled on a small cot bed. The guards opened the door. Cranston and Athelstan slipped through. The man on the bed moaned and sat up.
    In the poor light of the oil lamp he looked as wretched and as miserable as any man could be. Small and fat, with eyes hidden in rolls of fat, he was heavy-eyed with weeping and his hair was thick with dungeon-dirt.
    Athelstan squatted down beside him and stared into the soft, pampered face of the dead Sheriff’s steward. The fellow crossed his arms and began rocking to and fro.
    ‘What is it now? What is it now?’ he muttered, the tears rolling down his cheeks. ‘Am I to be tortured? Am I to hang? Sirs, you are not to hurt me.’ He whimpered like a child and Athelstan saw the bruise on the side of his head. He touched the man gently on the hand and glanced back at Sir John. Cranston could tell by the look in Athelstan’s eyes that the friar had already concluded that this squat, little man with his doughy skin and plump hands was no murderer.
    ‘We are here to help,’ Athelstan whispered. He got up and leaned against the table whilst Cranston stood with his back to the door. ‘Just tell us the truth.’
    The man looked down, still blubbering, shoulders shaking.
    ‘Sir Gerard’s dead,’ he moaned. ‘And I am to hang. Sirs, I am innocent — and, oh, the day began so well!’
    ‘Then start from the beginning,’ Athelstan urged. ‘Boscombe, Sir John Cranston has the ear of the Regent. If you tell the truth and prove your innocence, you could be out of this cell by nightfall.’
    The prisoner looked up and Athelstan saw the hope flare in the steward’s dark, tear-filled eyes.
    ‘The day began so well,’ the fellow repeated, then coughed and his voice became firmer. ‘Sir Gerard was pleased with what was going to happen: how the Regent and he were to seal a bond of friendship between the Guilds. His Grace the King, the Regent and the others arrived mid-morning for the Mass in the Guildhall chapel. Sir Gerard was in attendance. I and the other retainers stood at the back. Mass began: the Guild-masters, the Regent and Sir Gerard shared the kiss of peace; they received the sacrament followed by the blessing of the keys.’
    ‘What was that?’ Cranston interrupted.
    ‘As a guarantee of their good intentions,’ Boscombe replied, ‘the leading Guilds deposited an ingot of gold, as did the Regent, in a specially constructed chest reinforced with iron bars and six separate locks. One key is held by the Regent, the other five by the Guildmasters.’ Boscombe rubbed the side of his face. ‘After that, we had marchpanes and sweet wines in the porch of the church then the Regent, together with the Mayor, Sheriff and the five Guildmasters, took secret counsel in the Sheriff’s private chamber.’ Boscombe ran his fingers through his hair, now thick and matted as a wolf-lock. ‘The meeting broke up and my master said he would take his pleasure in his private garden.’
    ‘Did you go there?’
    ‘Yes, I took him a stoup of wine. He was sunning himself. He said the morning had gone well and I was not to disturb him again.’ Boscombe started to cry. ‘Masters, I was in my own chamber when I heard the shouting and the soldiers came for me. I was hustled down to the garden and saw poor Sir Gerard there. And now,’ he wailed, ‘I am to hang!’
    Athelstan touched him lightly on the shoulder.
    ‘Be of good comfort, friend. You