Free The Anger of God by Paul Doherty

ate and drank what we did.’
    Gaunt bowed. ‘Your Grace, my dear nephew, you are as usual most perceptive. A wise head on such young shoulders. So what do you advise next?’
    ‘Let My Lord Coroner finish his task.’
    Cranston bowed, walked back to Fitzroy’s table and removed the napkin. He beckoned the physician over and he, Brother Athelstan and the Coroner carefully examined the remnants of the food, the wine cup, and Fitzroy’s napkin and knife. The others looked on, moving restlessly and talking amongst themselves. De Troyes, despite being a fussy man, listened carefully to what Athelstan said as they sniffed, touched and slightly tasted everything on the table.
    ‘Nothing,’ de Troyes declared. ‘My Lord Coroner, I suggest the remnants of all this food be given to me. There are ways of testing it – perhaps left as rat bait. But I must conclude there’s no poison in anything on Sir Thomas’s table.’
    Athelstan stood perplexed. He was sure that no one had touched anything after Fitzroy’s collapse. He and Cranston had been the first to cross to the stricken man and, even as Fitzroy had sprung to his feet, clutching his throat, Athelstan had carefully watched the men on either side of him. Neither Goodman nor Denny had made any move to take or replace anything on the table. Sir John carefully went through the dead man’s pouch but could find nothing which would explain Fitzroy’s sudden death by poison.
    The atmosphere in the hall had now subtly changed. People were drawing apart as the full implications of the day’s events sunk in. Sudbury spoke for them all.
    ‘My Lord of Gaunt,’ he declared defensively, ‘we began this day in such amity, yet within hours two of our company are dead, foully murdered.’
    ‘What are you implying?’ Clifford snapped. ‘These deaths cannot be laid at the Lord Regent’s door!’
    ‘I merely describe what has happened,’ the Guildmaster replied smoothly.
    ‘Your Grace.’ Determined to take charge of the situation, Gaunt walked towards his nephew. ‘Your Grace,’ he repeated, ‘you should retire. Sir Nicholas!’ He glared at the royal tutor.
    ‘We will go now,’ Richard declared. ‘But, sweet Uncle, two foul murders have occurred in the Guildhall. Someone must account for them.’ Spinning on his heel, the young King swept out of the Hall of Roses, followed by Hussey and the physician.
    Gaunt waited until they had gone. ‘Clear the room!’ he ordered the serjeant-at-arms.
    ‘Sir,’ the steward spoke up. ‘The banquet is not yet finished. Shall I serve the dessert?’
    Gaunt’s look of fury answered his question and the steward and the other servants scuttled from the hall.
    Clifford whispered to the archers and soldiers that they too should leave. He had no sooner closed the door behind them than a loud knocking made him re-open it. Athelstan glimpsed a liveried servant who muttered a few words and thrust a piece of parchment into Clifford’s hand. He re-closed the door and walked into the centre of the room, read the parchment then handed it to the Regent. Gaunt studied it and fury flared in his face.
    ‘Take your seats!’ he ordered. ‘I have news for you.’
    They all obeyed, Athelstan and Cranston included. Gaunt sat down in the King’s chair, the piece of parchment held before him. They waited until the four archers, summoned by Clifford, came in and bundled Fitzroy’s corpse unceremoniously into a canvas sheet, carrying it out of the room with as much care as they would a heap of refuse. Gaunt stared round the now silent, watchful guests.
    ‘I have a proclamation.’ His voice rose to a shout. ‘From the miscreant traitor who calls himself Ira Dei!’ He flung the parchment at Clifford.
    The nobleman smoothed it out. ‘“Sir Thomas Fitzroy”,’ Clifford read, ‘“executed for crimes against the people.” signed, Ira Dei.’ He looked up and Athelstan sensed the fear in all of Gaunt’s guests. Even Cranston, not easily