by Paul Doherty
‘Another bloody murder!’ he roared. ‘What now, eh?’
Geoffrey Parchmeiner, Philippa’s betrothed, stood up and walked out of the darkness near the wall. He looked anxious, more white-faced and sober than the last time Athelstan had seen him.
‘Murder, My Lord Coroner?’ he stammered. ‘What proof do you have? You swagger in here, into my lady’s chamber, and shout allegations yet show no evidence. What can we make of that?’
Athelstan looked around. Sir Fulke seemed subdued and remained slouched in his chair. The chaplain, crouched on a stool near the fireplace, stared into the flames wringing his hands whilst Rastani, the silent, dark servant, sat with his back to the wall as if he wished the very stones would open and swallow him. The other hospitaller, Fitzormonde, stood near the window, his hands folded, staring at the floor as if totally unaware of Cranston’s presence. Colebrooke looked embarrassed, tapping his foot and whistling softly under his breath.
‘My betrothed asked a question,’ Philippa demanded. ‘How do you know the knight was murdered? And what difference does it make, Sir Coroner? So was my father, and are you any nearer to finding his killer?’
‘Your father’s murder will be avenged,’ Cranston snapped. ‘As for Mowbray, he had that bloody parchment on him and the fragments of a seed cake. What further proof do you need?’
Philippa stared coolly back.
‘Well!’ Cranston shouted. ‘I have answered one of your bloody questions!’
‘Sir John,’ she replied icily, ‘moderate your language. My father,’ her voice nearly broke, ‘now lies sheeted in a coffin in the Chapel of St Peter Ad Vincula. I, his daughter, grieve and demand justice, but all I get is the offensive language of the alleys and runnels of Southwark. Sir, I am a lady.’
Cranston’s eyes narrowed evilly.
‘So bloody what?’ he answered before Athelstan could intervene. ‘Show me a lady and I’ll show you a whore!’
The girl gasped. Her betrothed leapt back to his feet, his hand going to the knife at his belt, but Cranston just dismissed him with a contemptuous flicker of his eyes. Athelstan watched the hospitaller suddenly stir and noticed with alarm how the knight now grasped one of his gloves in his hand.
Good Lord, the friar thought, not here, not now! The last thing Sir John needs is a challenge to the death.
‘Sir John!’ he snapped. ‘Mistress Philippa is correct. You are the King’s Coroner. She is a lady of high birth who has lost her father and now sees one of his friends meet a similar terrible death.’ He grasped the coroner’s arm and swung him round, keeping an eye on the hospitaller now standing behind them.
‘Sir John! Control yourself, please,’ he murmured. ‘For my sake.’
Cranston stared at Athelstan with red-rimmed eyes. He reminded the friar of the great, shaggy bear squatting in the courtyard below. The friar touched Cranston’s hand gently.
‘Sir John,’ he whispered, ‘please. You are a gentleman and a knight.’
The coroner closed his eyes, took a deep breath, opened them and grinned.
‘When you are around, monk,’ he muttered, ‘I don’t need a bloody conscience.’ He turned to Philippa. ‘My lady,’ he said, ‘before Sir Brian or Sir Fulke,’ he glanced contemptuously at the girl’s uncle who still sat slumped in his chair, ‘challenge me to a duel, I apologise profusely.’ He gave her a dazzling smile. ‘There are old men, Mistress,’ he continued, ‘and there are fools. But there’s nothing worse than an old fool.’ He stretched out his hand, took the girl’s unresisting fingers and kissed them in a way the most professional courtier would have envied.
‘I was most discourteous,’ he bellowed. ‘You must forgive me, especially at this time when your father’s body is not yet buried.’
CHAPTER 7
The atmosphere in the room relaxed. Athelstan closed his eyes. Good God, he prayed, oh thank you! The hospitaller had been on the verge of striking Sir John and, once that happened, well, Athelstan knew Cranston. It would be a duel a outrance, to the death! Mistress Philippa smiled and stepped forward into the light and Athelstan realised just how boorish Cranston had been.
The girl’s face was white as snow, her eyes red-rimmed and circled with deep shadows, but she sensed Cranston’s insult had not been intended. She leaned over and kissed Sir John gently on the cheek. This only discomfited the coroner further, he stared down at the floor and shuffled his feet like some clumsy schoolboy. Philippa went across to a tray of goblets, filled two and brought them back. She gave one to Athelstan and pressed the other into Sir John’s great paw. The coroner smiled at the wine, lifted the cup and downed it in one gulp. He smacked his lips, winked at the girl and held out the goblet to be refilled. Philippa smilingly obliged and Athelstan groaned. He didn’t know what was worse, Cranston sulking or Cranston in his cups.
Sir John took the goblet and went over to the window, staring out at the sun dazzling the snow on Tower Green. Athelstan busied himself arranging his writing tray on the table. The rest of the group hardly moved as if absorbed in everything the coroner said or did. They watched him intently, like a group of schoolboys would a fearsome master. Cranston watched the sunlight shimmer on the great tocsin bell then turned round abruptly.
‘Mowbray,’ he announced, ‘was murdered. Well, at least I believe he was. He received the same message as Sir Ralph. I think he went on to the parapet and the tocsin was sounded to make him run. Now, I have examined the parapet most carefully…’
Athelstan remembered how Cranston had slouched against the wall and hid his smile.
‘I have examined the parapet most carefully,’ Cranston continued, glaring at Athelstan. ‘Mowbray did not slip accidentally. The sand and gravel there are at least an inch thick. Someone planned his fall.’
‘Did Mowbray drink?’ Athelstan asked.
Cranston turned and glanced at the other hospitaller. Sir Brian shook his head.
‘He was a seasoned warrior,’ the knight replied. ‘He could run along such a parapet in a blinding snow storm.’
‘Tell me,’ Cranston said, ‘what happened yesterday evening? I mean, before Mowbray fell?’
‘We were all here,’ Sir Fulke spoke up. He smiled. ‘Mistress Philippa had invited us for supper.’
‘I wasn’t!’ snapped Fitzormonde. ‘I was in my own chamber, awaiting poor Mowbray’s return.’
‘And, of course, Rastani,’ the chaplain stuttered, squirming on his stool.
‘Yes,’ Fitzormonde murmured. ‘The Morisco wasn’t here.’ Athelstan left his desk and squatted in front of Rastani. He stared into the silent, fear-filled face.
‘My Lady Philippa,’ Athelstan murmured over his shoulder, ‘I wish to talk to Rastani though I think he knows what I am going to ask.’
‘So do I!’ Sir Fulke shouted. ‘I will answer for him.’
‘No, sir, you won’t!’ Cranston barked.
Athelstan touched Rastani’s hand which was as cold as ice. The friar gazed into his liquid dark eyes. The man was terrified, but of what? Detection? Discovery?
‘Where were you, Rastani?’ Athelstan asked.
Beside him, Philippa made strange gestures with her fingers and Rastani replied in the same sign language.
‘He says he was freezing cold,’ Philippa explained. ‘And stayed in my father’s old chamber in the White Tower.’
‘He’s silent-footed as a cat,’ Cranston observed. ‘He could creep round this fortress and no one would notice.’
‘What are you implying, Sir John?’ Philippa snapped.
‘Rastani could have rung the bell.’
‘How on earth could he have done that when there were no footprints?’ Geoffrey mocked, moving to stand beside Philippa.
Cranston smiled. ‘A snowball?’
Colebrooke snorted with laughter. ‘I have told you, Sir John, the area around the bell could be seen by sentries. They saw no one approach.’
Cranston sniffed loudly and looked longingly at his now empty wine goblet
&n
bsp; ‘Before you continue, Sir John,’ Fitzormonde spoke up, ‘and you start speculating on where I was, all I can say is that I was in my own chamber but no one saw me there.’ He glared fiercely at Cranston. ‘However, I am a priest, a knight and a gentleman. I am not a liar!
‘Why did you stay there, Sir Brian?’ Athelstan tactfully interrupted.
Sir Brian shrugged. ‘I was frightened. I, too, have received a letter of death.’ He drew out a piece of parchment from beneath his cloak and Cranston almost snatched it from his hand.
The hospitaller was right. The same sketch Sir Ralph Whitton and Mowbray had received: a crudely drawn ship in full sail and, in each corner, a small black cross.
‘I also had the seed cake,’ Fitzormonde murmured. ‘But I threw it away.’
‘When Mowbray fell,’ Cranston suddenly asked, ‘did anyone else inspect the parapet?’
‘I, Fitzormonde and Colebrooke did,’ Fulke replied. ‘When the tocsin sounded we all left this room. The hospitaller was with us when Mowbray’s body was found. Our young gallant here,’ he waved his hand contemptuously at Geoffrey, ‘was asked to accompany us to the parapet but it’s well known he’s terrified of heights.’
Geoffrey flushed with embarrassment and looked away.
‘Uncle!’ Philippa murmured. ‘That’s not fair.’
‘What’s not fair,’ Cranston interrupted, ‘is that we know so little about last night Mistress Philippa, what time did your guests assemble?’
‘Oh, just after Vespers, about eight o’clock.’
‘And all except Rastani and the hospitaller came?’
‘Yes, yes, that’s correct.’
Cranston turned to the hospitaller. ‘And where did you say you were?’
‘In my chamber.’
‘And Mowbray?’
‘On the parapet walk.’
‘So,’ Cranston heaved a sigh, ‘as Mowbray brooded, the rest of you except Fitzormonde gathered here?’
‘Yes.’
‘And how long till the tocsin sounded?’
‘About two to three hours.’
‘And no one left?’
‘Only Colebrooke on his round and others to the privy, but that’s along the passageway.’ The girl smiled wanly.
‘We all drank deep.’
Athelstan raised a hand. ‘Never mind that.’ The friar, snatching the parchment from Cranston’s hand, went and stood over the hospitaller. Athelstan pushed the drawing under the knight’s face. ‘Sir Brian, what does this mean?’
The knight looked away.
‘Sir Brian Fitzormonde,’ Athelstan repeated, ‘soon you will appear before God’s tribunal. I ask you, on your oath as a knight, what does this parchment signify?’
The hospitaller glanced up with his red-rimmed eyes in a drawn, pale face. Athelstan felt he was looking at a man already under the shadow of Death’s soft, black wing. The friar leaned closer until he could see the small red veins in the knight’s eyes and the grey, dusty pallor of his cheeks. Fitzormonde was probably a brave man but Athelstan could almost taste the stench of fear which emanated from him.
‘On your oath to Christ,’ Athelstan whispered, ‘tell me the truth.’
Sir Brian suddenly lifted his face and whispered in Athelstan’s ear. The Dominican stood back in surprise but then nodded.
‘What did he say?’ Cranston barked.
‘Later, Sir John.’ Athelstan turned to the rest of the group. ‘What did happen here last night?’ he asked, trying to divert the conversation.
Sir Fulke, his face now suffused with his usual false bonhomie, leaned forward. ‘My niece,’ he said, ‘wished to thank us for our kindness following the death of Sir Ralph. We sat and dined like a group of friends. We talked of old times and what might happen in the future.’
‘And no one left?’
‘Not until the tocsin sounded.’
‘No, Sir Fulke,’ Geoffrey interrupted. ‘Remember, you drank deeply.’ He smiled falsely. ‘Perhaps too deeply to remember. The priest left.’ Geoffrey pointed to where the chaplain, William Hammond, dressed like a crow, sat perched on his stool near the fire. ‘Don’t you remember, Father, you left?’
‘I went back to my room,’ the chaplain announced. ‘I had a gift of some wine.’ He glared maliciously at Geoffrey and then at Colebrooke. ‘A parishioner gave it to me. It’s not from the Tower stores if that’s what you’re thinking.’ He shrugged. ‘Yes, I too drank deeply and I was unsteady and slow in returning. I was about to re-enter Beauchamp Tower when the bell began to toll.’
‘What happened then?’ Athelstan asked. He glanced at Colebrooke and realised the lieutenant had told them little of his own movements. ‘Well, Lieutenant?’ Athelstan repeated. ‘What did happen?’
‘Well, the bell tolled. I and the others left Mistress Philippa. The garrison was roused and all gates were checked. We then scattered, trying to find what was wrong. Fitzormonde discovered Mowbray’s body, we joined him then Master Parchmeiner came. We examined the corpse and I went up on to the parapet.’
‘And?’ Cranston barked.
‘I found nothing. We were more concerned that the tocsin had been sounded.’
‘But you found no trace of the bell-ringer?’ Athelstan asked.
‘No, I have told you that.’
Athelstan gazed round in desperation. How, he wondered, could a bell ring and no one be seen pulling it? Or, indeed, any trace of someone being near the bell? What did happen? And how could the bell ringer run undetected across the Tower to arrange Mowbray’s fall? Athelstan drew a deep breath.
‘Where is Mowbray’s body now?’
‘It’s already sheeted,’ Philippa replied. ‘It lies in its coffin before the chancel screen in the Chapel of St Peter ad Vincula.’
‘And I will join him there,’ Fitzormonde murmured. He looked up and smiled wanly. ‘Oh, yes, I have the mark of death upon me.’
His statement hung like an arrow in the air, just before it turns and begins its fatal descent.
Athelstan whirled round as a loud snore from Cranston broke the silence. He heard Geoffrey giggle, even white-faced Philippa smiled, the chaplain grinned sourly whilst Fulke snorted with laughter.
‘Sir John has many problems to exhaust him,’ Athelstan announced. ‘Mistress Philippa, may we be your guests for a while?’ He looked at Colebrooke. ‘Master Lieutenant, I need words with Sir Brian. Is there a chamber here?’
Philippa pointed to the door in the far wall. ‘There’s a small one at the end of the corridor.’ She blushed slightly. ‘Just past the privy. The chamber will be warm. I had a brazier put there this morning.’
Athelstan bowed, smiled thinly at the rest of the group, glanced despairingly at the snoring Cranston and led Sir Brian down the corridor. On the left was the privy, covered by a curtain which hung from a metal rod. Athelstan pulled the curtain back and wrinkled his nose at the smell. The privy was crude, a small recess in the wall with a latrine seat, just under a tiny, open, oval-shaped window which looked down over the green.
‘It drains down to the moat,’ Sir Brian mumbled.
Athelstan nodded, let the curtain fall and walked on. The chamber at the end of the passage was more fragrant and clean. The walls were lime-washed, the windows closely shuttered. Athelstan sat down on a stool and gestured to a bench which ran along the wall.
‘Sit down, Sir Brian. Now, tell me, what do you want?’
Sir Brian suddenly knelt at Athelstan’s feet and sketched the sign of the cross in the air. Athelstan glanced around despairingly. He suspected what was coming.
‘Bless me, Father,’ Fitzormonde murmured, ‘for I have sinned. And this is my confession.’
Athelstan drew back, the legs of the stool scraping the hard stone floor. ‘I cannot,’ he whispered. ‘Sir Brian, you have tricked me! Whatever you tell me now will be covered by the seal of Confession.’
‘I know!’ Fitzormonde hissed. ‘But my soul is steeped in the blackest sin.’
Athelstan shook
his head and made to rise. ‘I cannot,’ the friar repeated. ‘Whatever you tell me, I can only reveal on the orders of the Holy Father, the Pope in Avignon. Sir Brian, you are most unfair. Why this trickery?’
Fitzormonde glanced up, his eyes gleaming. ‘No mummery,’ he said. ‘Father, I wish to confess. You must shrive me. I am a sinner in pericuto mortis!’
Athelstan sighed. Sir Brian was right. Canon Law was most strict on this: a priest was bound to hear the confession of any man who believed he was in danger of death. To refuse would be a terrible sin. ‘I agree,’ Athelstan whispered.
Sir Brian made the sign of the cross again.
‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It is many years since my last confession and I confess in the face of God and in the hope of his divine mercy at the imminent approach of death.’
Athelstan closed his eyes and leaned back. He listened to the litany of sins: impure thoughts and actions, the lusts of the flesh, avarice, bad temper, foul language, as well as the petty bickerings which take place in any community. Sir Brian confessed about his fight against sin, his will to do good and his constant failures to carry this through. Athelstan, a skilled confessor, perceived Sir Brian was a good but deeply troubled man. At last the hospitaller finished and leaned back on his heels though he kept his head bowed.
‘I am a sinner, Father,’ he whispered.
‘God knows,’ Athelstan replied, ‘we are all sinners, Sir Brian. There are those who know they are sinners, confess and try to pursue the good. You are one of these. There are others like the Pharisees who cannot be forgiven, for they believe they never do wrong!’ Athelstan leaned closer. ‘Now you wish absolution?’ The friar raised his hand. ‘Absolvo te,’ he intoned. ‘I absolve you.’
‘Stop!’ Sir Brian lifted his head and Athelstan saw the tears on the white, haggard cheeks.
‘Sir Brian, there is more?’ he asked gently.
‘Of course there is!’ Fitzormonde hissed. ‘I am a murderer, Father. An assassin. I took my friend’s life. No! No!’ He shook his head as if talking to himself. ‘I was party to a murder. I turned my face the other way.’
