by Paul Doherty
Athelstan stared around. Behind him the great soaring curtain wall stretched up to the snow-laden clouds, whilst the far side of the moat was hidden in a thick mist. Nothing stirred. There was no sound except their own breathing and the scraping noise of their boots on the ice. They walked gingerly, carefully, as if expecting the ice to crack and the water to reappear. They followed the sheer curtain wall round to the North Bastion.
‘Where are these footholds?’ Cranston asked.
Colebrooke beckoned them forward and pointed to the brickwork. At first the holds in the wall could hardly be detected, but at last they saw them, like the claw marks of a huge bird embedded deeply in the stonework. Cranston pushed his hand into one of them.
‘Yes,’ he muttered, ‘someone has been here. Look, the ice is broken.’
Athelstan inspected the icy apertures and agreed. He followed the trail of the footholds up until they, like the top of the tower, were lost in the clinging mist.
‘A hard climb,’ he observed. ‘Most dangerous in the dead of night.’ He looked at the frost-covered snow and, stooping down, picked up something, hiding it in the palm of his hand until Colebrooke turned to go back.
‘What is it?’ Cranston slurred. ‘What did you find there?’
The friar opened his hand and Cranston smiled at the silver-gilt buckle glinting in his palm.
‘So,’ Cranston mumbled, ‘someone was here. All we have to do is match the buckle with its wearer, then its heigh-ho to King’s Bench, a swift trial, and a more prolonged execution.’
Athelstan shook his head. ‘Oh, Sir John,’ he whispered, ‘if things were only so simple.’ They went back through the postern gate and into the inner bailey. The Tower had now come to life even though the frost still held and there was still no sign of any break in the weather. Farriers had fired the forges and the bailey rang with the clang of the hammer and the whoosh of bellows as ragged apprentices worked hard to fan the forge fires to life. A butcher was slicing up a gutted pig and scullions ran, shaking the blood from the meat, to stick it into fat-bellied tubs of salt and brine so it would last through to the spring. A groom trotted a lame horse, roaring at his companions to look for any defect, whilst scullions and maids soaked piles of grease-stained pewter plates in vats of scalding water. The lieutenant watched the scene and grinned.
‘Soon be Christmas!’ he announced. ‘All must be clean and ready.’
Athelstan nodded, watching three boys drag holly and other evergreen shrubs across the snow to the steps of the great keep.
‘You will celebrate Christmas?’ Athelstan asked, nodding to a high-wheeled cart from which soldiers were now unloading huge tuns of wine.
‘Of course,’ Colebrooke replied. ‘Death is no stranger to the Tower, and Sir Ralph will be buried before Christmas Eve.’ He walked on as if tired of their questions.
Athelstan winked at Cranston, stood his ground and called out: ‘Master Colebrooke?’
The lieutenant turned, trying hard to hide his irritation.
‘Yes, Brother?’
‘Why are so many people here? I mean the hospitallers, Master Geoffrey, Sir Fulke?’
Colebrooke shrugged. ‘The constable’s kinsman always stays here.’
‘And young Geoffrey?’
Colebrooke smirked. ‘I think he’s as hot for Mistress Philippa as she is for him. Sir Ralph invited him to the Tower for Christmas, and why not? This great frost has stopped all business in the city and Sir Ralph insisted, especially when he grew strangely fearful, that his daughter’s betrothed stay with him.’
‘The two hospitallers?’ Cranston asked.
‘Old friends,’ Colebrooke replied. ‘They come here each Christmas and go through the same ritual. They arrive two weeks before Yuletide, and every Christmas Eve go to sup at the Golden Mitre tavern outside the Tower. They always stay till Twelfth Night and leave after the Feast of the Epiphany. Three times they’ve done so, though God knows why!’ He turned and spat a globule of yellow phlegm on to the white snow. ‘As I have said, Sir Ralph had his secrets and I never pried.’
Cranston fidgeted, a sign he was growing bored as well as tired of the cold, so Athelstan allowed Colebrooke to take them back into the White Tower, up a stone spiral staircase, through an antechamber and into the Chapel of St John.
Athelstan immediately relaxed as he caught the fragrant scent of incense. He walked into the nave with its soaring hammer-beamed roof and wide aisles, each flanked by twelve circular pillars around which thick green and scarlet velvet ribbons had been tied. The floor was polished, the strange red flagstones seeming to give off their own warmth, whilst the delicate paintings on the walls and the huge glazed windows caught the blinding white light of the snow and bathed both sanctuary and nave in a warm, glowing hue. Braziers, sprinkled with herbs, stood next to each pillar, making the air thick with the cloying sweetness of summer. Athelstan felt warm, comfortable and at peace, even though he studied the church enviously. If only, he thought, he had such decorations at St Erconwald! He saw the great silver star pinned above the chancel screen and, muttering with delight, walked into the silent sanctuary, marvelling at the marble steps and magnificent altar carved out of pure white alabaster.
‘So serene,’ he murmured, coming back to join his companions.
Colebrooke smiled self-consciously. ‘Before we left the hall I ordered servants to prepare the place,’ he announced, and looked around. ‘By some trick or artifice of the architects, whether it be the thickness of the stone or its location in the Tower, this chapel is always warm.’
‘I need refreshment,’ Cranston solemnly announced. ‘I have walked up many stairs, studied a ghastly corpse, balanced on freezing ice, and now I’ve had enough! Master Lieutenant, you seem a goodly man. You will gather the rest here and, seeing it’s the Yuletide season, bring a jug of claret for myself and my clerk.’
Colebrooke agreed and hurried off, but not before he and Athelstan had rearranged the chapel stools into a wide semicircle. Once he’d gone, Athelstan brought a polished table from the sanctuary and laid out pen, inkhorn and parchment. He took care to warm the ink over the brazier so it would run smooth and clear from his quill. Cranston just squatted on his chair, throwing back his cloak and revelling in the fragrant warmth. Athelstan studied him carefully.
‘Sir John,’ he murmured, ‘take care with the wine. You have drunk enough and are tired.’
‘Sod off, Athelstan!’ Cranston slurred angrily. ‘I’ll drink what I damned well like!’
Athelstan closed his eyes and breathed a prayer for help. So far Sir John had behaved himself, but the wine in his belly might rouse the devil in his heart and only the Good Lord knew what mischief might then occur. Colebrooke hurried back. Behind him, much to Athelstan’s despair, a servant carried a huge jug of claret and two deep-bowled goblets. Cranston seized the jug like a thirsty man and downed two cupfuls as the rest of the constable’s household entered the chapel and sat on the stools before him. At last Cranston closed his eyes, gave a deep rich belch and pronounced himself satisfied. His reluctant guests stared in disbelief at the red face of the King’s Coroner as he sprawled slack-limbed on the chair before them. Athelstan was torn between anger and admiration. Something had upset Cranston, though God only knew what. Nevertheless, the coroner’s ability to drink a vineyard dry and still keep his wits about him always fascinated Athelstan.
The Dominican quickly scanned the assembled people. The two hospitallers looked aloof and disdainful. Philippa clung more closely to her now tipsy betrothed who grinned benevolently back at Cranston. Rastani, the servant, looked ill at ease, fearful of the huge cross which hung from one of the beams above him, and Athelstan wondered if the Moslem’s conversion to the true faith was genuine. Sir Fulke looked bored, as if he wished to be free of such tiresome proceedings, whilst the chaplain’s exasperation at being so abruptly summoned was barely suppressed.
‘I do thank you,’ Athelstan began smoothly, ‘for coming here. Mistress Philippa,
please accept our condolences on the sudden and ghastly loss of your father.’ Athelstan toyed with the stem of his goose-quilled pen. ‘We now know the details surrounding your father’s death.’ ‘Murder!’ Philippa strained forward, her ample bosom heaving under her thick taffeta dress. ‘Murder, Brother! My father was murdered!’
‘Yes, yes, so he was,’ Cranston slurred. ‘But by whom, eh? Why and how?’ He sat up straight and drunkenly tapped the side of his fiery red nose. ‘Do not worry, Mistress! The murderer will be found and do his last final dance on Tyburn scaffold.’
‘Your father,’ Athelstan interrupted, ‘seemed most fearful, Mistress Philippa. He moved from his usual quarters and shut himself up in the North Bastion. Why? What frightened him?’
The group fell strangely silent, tensing at this intrusion into the very heart of their secrets.
‘I asked a question,’ Athelstan repeated softly. ‘What was Sir Ralph so frightened of that he locked himself up in a chamber, doubled the wages of his guards, and insisted that visitors be searched? Who was it,’ he continued, ‘that wanted Sir Ralph’s death so much he crossed an icy moat in the dead of night, climbed the sheer wall of a tower, and entered a guarded chamber to commit foul, midnight murder?’
‘The rebels!’ Colebrooke broke in. ‘Traitors who wanted to remove a man who would protect the young King to the last drop of his blood!’ ‘Nonsense!’ snapped Athelstan. ‘His Grace the Regent, John of Gaunt, will as you said yourself, Master Colebrooke, appoint a successor no less fervent in his loyalty.’
‘My father was special,’ Philippa blurted out.
‘Mistress,’ Athelstan caught and held her tearful glance, ‘God knows your father was special, both in his life and in his secrets. You know about those, so why not tell us?’
The girl’s eyes fell away. She brought her hand from beneath her cloak and tossed a yellowing piece of parchment on to the table. ‘That changed my father’s life,’ she stammered. ‘Though God knows why!’
Athelstan picked up the parchment and quickly gazed at the people sitting around him. He noticed the hospitallers suddenly tense. The friar smiled secretly to himself. Good, he thought. Now the mystery unfolds.
CHAPTER 4
The parchment was greasy and finger-stained, a six-inch square with a three-masted ship crudely drawn in the centre and a large black cross in each corner.
‘Is that all?’ Athelstan asked, passing the parchment back.
The girl tensed. Her lower lip trembled, tears pricked her eyes.
‘There was something else,’ Athelstan continued. ‘Wasn’t there?’
Philippa nodded. Geoffrey took her hand and held it, stroking it gently as if she was a child.
‘There was a sesame seed cake.’
‘What?’ Cranston barked.
‘A seed cake like a biscuit, a dirty yellow colour.’
‘What happened to it?’ Cranston asked.
‘I saw my father walk along the parapet. He seemed very agitated. He brought his arm back and threw the cake into the moat. After that he was a changed man, keeping everyone away from him and insisting on moving to the North Bastion Tower.’
‘Is that correct?’ Cranston asked the rest of the group.
‘Of course it is!’ the chaplain snapped. ‘Mistress Philippa is not a liar.’
‘Then, Father,’ Cranston asked silkily, ‘did Sir Ralph share his secrets with you?’ He held up a podgy hand. ‘I know about the seal of confession. All I’m asking is, did he confide in you?’
‘I think not,’ Colebrooke sniggered. ‘Sir Ralph had certain questions to ask the chaplain about stores and provisions which appear to have gone missing.’
The priest turned on him, his lip curling like that of an angry dog.
‘Watch your tongue, Lieutenant!’ he rasped. ‘True, things have gone missing, but that does not mean that I am the thief. There are others,’ he added meaningfully, ‘with access to the Wardrobe Tower.’
‘Meaning?’ Colebrooke shouted
‘Oh, shut up!’ Cranston ordered. ‘We are not here about stores but about a man’s life. I ask all of you, on your allegiance to the King — for this could be a matter of treason — did Sir Ralph confide in one of you? Does this parchment mean anything to any of you?’
A chorus of ‘No's’ greeted the coroner’s demands though Athelstan noticed that the hospitallers looked away as they mumbled their responses.
‘I hope you are telling the truth,’ Cranston tartly observed. ‘Sir Ralph may have been slain by peasant leaders plotting rebellion. Your father, Mistress Philippa, was a close friend and trusted ally of the court.’
Athelstan intervened, trying to calm the situation. ‘Mistress Philippa, tell me about your father.’
The girl laced her fingers together nervously and looked at the floor.
‘He was always a soldier,’ she began. ‘He served in Prussia against the Latvians, on the Caspian, and then travelled to Outremer, Egypt, Palestine and Cyprus.’ She blinked and nodded at the hospitallers. ‘They can tell you more about that than I.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Fifteen years ago,’ she continued, ‘he was in Egypt in the army of the Caliph and then he came home covered in glory, a rich man. I was three years old. My mother died a year later and we entered the household of John of Gaunt. My father became one of his principal retainers; four years ago he was appointed Constable of the Tower.’
Athelstan smiled understandingly. He knew Sir Ralph’s type: a professional soldier, a mercenary who would crusade for the faith but was not averse to serving in the armies of the infidel. Athelstan stared round the group. How quiet and calm they appeared, though he sensed something was wrong. They were hiding mutual dislikes and rivalries in their over-eagerness to answer his questions.
‘I suppose,’ he remarked drily, ‘you have already been through Sir Ralph’s papers?’
Athelstan looked at Sir Fulke who nodded.
‘Of course I have been through my brother’s documents, household accounts, memoranda and letters. I found nothing untoward. I am, after all,’ he added, glaring round the room as if expecting a challenge, ‘the executor of Sir Ralph’s will.’
‘Of course, of course,’ Cranston assured him.
Athelstan groaned to himself. Yes, he thought, and if there was anything damaging it will have been removed. He stared at the young man next to Philippa.
‘How long, sir, have you known your betrothed?’
Geoffrey’s wine-flushed face was wreathed in smiles as he gripped her hand more firmly. ‘Two years.’
Athelstan noticed the conspiratorial smiles the two lovers exchanged. Cranston leered at the girl whilst he considered the incongruous couple. Geoffrey was outstandingly handsome and probably quite wealthy, yet Philippa was almost plain. Moreover, Sir Ralph had been a soldier and Geoffrey was not, at first glance, the sort of man likely to be welcomed into such a family. Cranston then remembered Maude and his own passionate courting of her. Love was strange, as Athelstan kept reminding him, and opposites were often attracted to each other.
‘Tell me, Geoffrey, why did you stay in the Tower?’
The young man belched and blinked his eyes as if he was on the point of falling asleep. ‘Well,’ he mumbled, ‘the great frost has killed all trade in the city. Sir Ralph wished me to stay during the Yuletide season — even more so after he became distraught and upset.’
‘Did you know the reason for his anxiety?’
‘No,’ Geoffrey slurred. ‘Why should I?’
‘Did you like Sir Ralph?’
‘I loved him as a son does a father.’
Cranston switched his attention to Sir Fulke who was beginning openly to fidget.
‘Sir Fulke, you say you are the executor of Sir Ralph’s will?’
‘Yes, I am. And, before you ask, I am also a beneficiary, after the will is approved in the Court of Probate.’
‘What does the will provide?’
‘Well, Sir Ralph had property next to the Charterhouse in St
Giles. This and all of the monies banked with the Lombards in Cornhill will go to Philippa.’
‘And to you?’
‘Meadows and pastures in the Manor of Holywell outside Oxford.’
‘A rich holding?’
‘Yes, Sir John, a rich holding, but not rich enough to murder for.’
‘I didn’t say that’
‘You implied it’
‘Sir Ralph,’ Alhelstan hurriedly interrupted, ‘was a wealthy man?’
‘He amassed wealth in his travels,’ Sir Fulke snapped back. ‘And he was careful with his monies.’ Athelstan noticed the sour smile on the chaplain’s face. Sir Ralph, he thought, was probably a miser. The friar looked sideways at Cranston and quietly groaned. The good coroner was taking one of his short naps, his great belly sagging, mouth half-open. Oh, Lord, Athelstan quietly prayed, please make sure he doesn’t snore!
‘Why do you live in the Tower, a bleak dwelling place for any man?’ Athelstan abruptly asked.
Sir Fulke shrugged. ‘My brother paid me to help him in an unofficial capacity.’
Both he and Athelstan chose to ignore the snorting laughter of Colebrooke. Cranston was now quietly nodding, belching softly and smacking his lips. Mistress Philippa tightened her mouth and Athelstan cursed; he did not wish his interrogation to end in mocking laughter.
‘Sir Gerard, Sir Brian,’ he almost shouted in an attempt to rouse Cranston, ‘how long have you been in the Tower?’
‘Two weeks,’ Fitzormonde replied. ‘We come every year.’
‘It’s a ritual,’ Mowbray added, ‘ever since we served with Sir Ralph in Egypt. We met to discuss old times.’
‘So you were close friends of Sir Ralph?’
‘In a sense. Colleagues, veterans from old wars.’ Mowbray stroked his evenly clipped beard. ‘But, I’ll be honest with you, Sir Ralph was a man more feared and respected than loved.’
Athelstan picked up the yellowing piece of parchment and thrust it at them.
