Another shrill blast of the trumpets. Banners were lowered, and behind the pavilions came a procession led by pages in tight quilted jackets, multi-coloured hose and gaudy feathered hats. They carried huge canvas paintings depicting scenes from the Bible and classical times. Hercules fighting with the python; the slaying of Hector; the Siege of Troy; Samson amongst the Philistines; and the serpent entering Eden. Such a tableau always preceded tournaments. It was followed by musicians with tambour, fife and viol. Behind them came squires and further pages and, finally, the knights themselves, not yet armoured, their colours carried before them. The procession wound around the whole tournament area, knights and men-at-arms acknowledging the cheers and cries of the crowd.

Athelstan looked more closely at one of the paintings, a scene from the Book of Genesis, remembered something he had glimpsed in the Springall house, and he gasped. The sounds around him died away. All he could see was that crude canvas painting being carried by two pages. Of course! His stomach churned with excitement. He turned to Cranston, grabbing him by the arm.

‘The paintings! The canvas paintings!’ he whispered hoarsely.

Cranston looked at him blearily.

‘The paintings, Sir John, in the Springall house? The canvas ones on the walls. When we first went there, they were covered in black drapes because of the mourning. Don’t you remember? Genesis Chapter Three, Verse One, the serpent entering Eden! There was a painting like that in one of the galleries in Springall’s house. Maybe that is what Sir Thomas was referring to?’

Cranston blinked. Making sure his wife did not see him, he pulled a wineskin from underneath his cloak and took a generous swig.

‘I am here to enjoy myself, man,’ he said hoarsely. As he put the stopper back, Athelstan’s words sank in. ‘My God, of course, you’re right! The paintings, the three riddles. They may hold the secret!’

Athelstan dare not tell him that he had already resolved one of them.

‘What shall we do?’ murmured Cranston.

‘Go now!’ Athelstan said.

‘But we are here as the guests of John of Gaunt. I know the duke. If we leave, he will send some busy body squire or serjeant-at-arms after us.’

‘Now is the best time,’ Athelstan replied, drawing closer, whispering into Sir John’s ear, conscious that Lady Maude was totally absorbed in the pageant before her whilst Benedicta, distracted, was still staring back at the admiring gallant.

‘Sir John, the Springall house is empty now. Let us strike whilst the iron is hot!’

Cranston looked as if he was going to refuse but thought again. ‘Follow me,’ he said.