An hour candle placed on the table under the window had burnt a complete ring before Cranston heard footsteps outside. He and Athelstan rose as Gaunt swept into the room. Beside the duke was the young king, a silver chaplet around his head. Uncle and nephew were dressed identically in purple gowns edged with gold. The young king looked serene though Gaunt seemed angry and troubled, as if he resented Cranston’s message. He slumped into the chair at the end of the table and ordered a servant to bring in a similar one for his nephew. Chief Justice Fortescue slid in like a spider, scuttling across to sit next to the Duke. He was followed by Sir Richard Springall and his household. The merchant was flushed with drink; he grinned at Cranston and Athelstan as if they were lifelong friends; Dame Ermengilde, her nose in the air, chose to ignore them. Father Crispin and Buckingham smiled wanly whilst Lady Isabella looked decidedly agitated.

‘Are we all assembled?’ Gaunt asked sardonically.

Chief Justice Fortescue glanced around and nodded. ‘Yes, Your Grace, we are all here.’

Athelstan noticed that a burly serjeant-at-arms had just stepped into the room.

‘I want this chamber guarded closely!’ the regent ordered. ‘No one is to leave or enter without my permission. Do you understand?’

The man nodded. Outside Athelstan could hear him shouting orders, the sound of running feet and the clash of arms. He gazed at the assembled company. Sir Richard Springall had sobered up surprisingly quickly. Lady Isabella was looking across at him, nervously twisting her fingers. Dame Ermengilde, even though she was in the presence of royalty, sat staring at the wall opposite her. The rest of them kept their eyes fastened on the duke, waiting to see what lay behind his summons.

Gaunt leaned forward, the jewels on his tanned hands flashing in the candlelight.

‘Sir John, coroner of the city, I am pleased to see you. And even though you were not present at the banquet, it is obvious that you have drunk well. I hope your day was a fruitful one?’

Cranston caught the touch of menace in the duke’s words and glanced at Athelstan.

The friar acknowledged the regent and the young king. ‘My Lord of Gaunt, Your Grace, we were given a commission to investigate the true causes and purposes behind Sir Thomas Springall’s death, and in consequence the truth behind other deaths equally unfortunate.’ He rose to his feet. ‘Your Grace, I ask your indulgence but I would like us to perform a small mummer’s play, a useful introduction to what we are about to declare.’

Gaunt gazed at the friar crossly. ‘What is it, Brother?’ he asked.

‘A game, Uncle!’ The young king suddenly spoke up, childish glee replacing the mask of royalty on his face. He clapped his hands.

‘Your Grace,’ Gaunt smiled thinly at his nephew, ‘perhaps you should not be here?’