by Paul Doherty
Athelstan winked secretively at Cranston, made his farewells, and walked out into the darkening street. He collected Philomel from the stables of the Holy Lamb and rode back through the darkness, chuckling to himself at Sir John’s reaction to his news. He hoped Lady Maude had heard his announcement about Vincentius’ departure. Perhaps, the friar concluded, it was all for the best.
Philomel suddenly slipped on a strip of ice. Athelstan groaned in despair, dismounted and, gathering the reins in his hands, gently guided the old horse along the darkened pathway. Above him the houses rose sheer and sombre. Outside each of the great Cheapside mansions an oil lamp burned, but as Athelstan turned the corner at St Peter Cornhill and went down Gracechurch into Bridge Street, the tracks became darker. He had to pick his way carefully round the mounds of refuse, night soil and scraps of food where rats gnawed and scampered. Behind him a door slammed and a night bird nesting in the eaves of a house flew out in a burst of black feathers, making Athelstan jump. Beggars whined for alms. A whore stood on the corner, the orange wig straggling across her raddled face made all the more ghastly in the light of the candle she cradled in her hand.
She cackled at Athelstan and made a rude gesture. He sketched the sign of the cross in her direction. A city bully-boy leaning against the door of an ale-house saw the lonely figure and felt his wooden knife hilt. But when he glimpsed Athelstan’s tonsure and the crucifix round his neck, he thought better of it.
Athelstan moved on, relieved to see the soldiers in the torchlight guarding London Bridge. Its gates were closed but the city archers recognised ‘the coroner’s chaplain’, as they called Athelstan, and let him through.
The friar crossed the bridge, the sound of Philomel’s hoof beats hollow on the wooden planks. It was an eerie experience. Usually the bridge was busy but now it was silent and shrouded in a thick river mist. Athelstan had the ghostly impression of walking across some chasm between heaven and hell. The gulls nesting in the wooden arches below flew out, shrieking in protest at this unexpected disturbance. Athelstan remembered the ravens in the Tower. Another death there, he thought, two if he included the bear’s. Athelstan felt sorry for the beast.
‘Perhaps it was for the best,’ he murmured to himself. ‘Never have I seen so unhappy an animal.’ He recalled the teaching of some of his Franciscan brethren who, following the preaching of their founder, maintained all animals were God’s creation and should never be ill-treated or kept in captivity.
Athelstan passed the silent darkened chapel of St Thomas of Canterbury in the centre of the bridge. The wards-men on the Southwark bank shouted at him; some of them even wondered if he was a ghost. Athelstan sang out his name and they let him through, teasing him gently about his unexpected appearance.
The friar led Philomel through the dark alleyways of Southwark. He felt safer here. He was known and no one would dare accost him. He passed a tavern where a boy, to earn a few crusts, stood just within the doorway, sweetly singing a carol. Athelstan stopped and listened to words promising warmth and cheer. He patted Philomel on the neck. ‘Where will we spend Christmas, eh, old friend?’ he asked and walked on. ‘Perhaps Lady Cranston might invite me, now her relatives are not coming from the West Country.’
He stopped abruptly. ‘Lady Maude’s relatives!’ he murmured to the dark, quietened street, and felt a shiver go up his spine. ‘Strange,’ he murmured. ‘Something so small, a mere froth on the day’s happenings.’ He rubbed the side of his face. Lady Maude’s words stirred memories of something else he had heard.
He almost dragged Philomel back to St Erconwald’s, so eagerly the destrier snickered angrily at him. Athelstan stabled the old war horse, ensured all was well in the church, and guiltily remembered his anger earlier in the day. Bonaventura was apparently out courting so Athelstan went across to the house, built up the fire and hastily ate a piece of bread. After a few bites he tossed it into the fire as the bread was stale, and poured himself a goblet of watered wine. He cleared the rough table top and began to list all he knew about the murders in or near the Tower.
The thought which had sparked his memory in the street outside might, he speculated, be the key to resolving the entire problem. He smiled as he remembered old Father Anselm’s oft-repeated axiom in his lectures on logic. ‘If a problem exists, a solution must exist. It’s only a question of finding the path in. Sometimes it can be by the smallest chink of light.’ Anselm would then cast a beady eye on Athelstan. ‘Always remember that young Athelstan. It applies as much in the realm of metaphysics as it does to a day’s ordinary events.’
Athelstan closed his eyes. ‘I still remember that, Father,’ he murmured. ‘God rest you.’ He arranged his writing tray, marshalled his thoughts and dipped the grey goose quill into the ink, cursing when he found it was cold. He held the pot over the candle to warm it and hastily re-read the memoranda he had written when he was in the Tower. Once the ink was heated he carefully listed his conclusions.
Primo — despite being well protected, Sir Ralph Whitton had been slain in the North Bastion tower. Sir Ralph had slept behind a locked door to which he held the key, as did the guards outside. The door to the passageway in which the chamber stood was also locked; again the keys were shared with his trusted bodyguard. Yet all these precautions had been brought to nothing. His assassin had apparently entered the chamber by crossing the frozen moat and, using footholds in the Tower wall, had climbed up, unlatched the window, entered and slain Sir Ralph.
Secundo — the assassin must have known the Tower well to use these footholds, yet why didn’t the clamour of the shutters being opened, not to mention the assassin’s entry into the chamber, arouse Sir Ralph? The buckle from Sir Fulke’s boot had been found on the ice. Was this a clue to the possible murderer?
Tertio — the young man, Parchmeiner, had been the first person to try and rouse Sir Ralph but the chamber had only been opened by Master Colebrooke the lieutenant. Did Sir Ralph’s second-in-command have a role in this murder?
Athelstan gazed at what he had written, shook his head and smiled. ‘No, no!’ he whispered. ‘All that must wait.’
Quarto — Mowbray had been killed by a fall from the parapet but how had he slipped? Who had rung the tocsin bell? Who had been absent from Mistress Philippa’s chamber? Only two: Fitzormonde and Colebrooke.
Again, Athelstan shook his head.
Quinto — Alderman Horne’s death. Athelstan made a face. No clues there whatsoever.
Sexto — Fitzormonde’s death? He and Cranston had seen that the bear’s chain could have been clasped more securely, and Fitzormonde was in the habit of staring at the bear. But who had been the assassin who fired the bolt and roused the beast to such a murderous rage?
Septimo — Sir Ralph and others had died because of their terrible treachery towards Sir Bartholomew Burghgesh. Had Burghgesh died on that ship so many years ago or had he returned to England? The vicar of Woodforde claimed to have seen him, as had the landlord of the ale-house there. Was this the same mysterious person the landlord at the Golden Mitre tavern had also glimpsed? If so, Burghgesh had been seen by at least three people around Advent three years ago, the same time Sir Ralph Whitton had been in such a state of deep distress. But if Burghgesh had survived and returned to England, how and where was he hiding now? One further problem: Sir Ralph’s distress had apparently diminished. Surely this would not have happened if Burghgesh had survived? Sir Ralph would only have taken comfort had he appeared three years ago and died.
Octavo — whoever had sent the sinister notes to Whitton and the others must have access to the Tower. Did Burghgesh or his son, hidden in the city, send their messages and accomplices into the Tower?
Nono — who stood to profit from the murders? Colebrooke? He wanted promotion and knew the Tower well. He had been present in the Tower when all three had died. Sir Fulke? He, too, benefited from his brother’s death; his buckle had been found on the ice outside the North Bastion tower. He also knew the Tower well and had been ther
e when the two hospitaliers perished. Rastani? A stealthy, subtle man who might have taken his own vow of vengeance against Sir Ralph and his companions. He knew the fortress well and had been present when the hospitallers died.
Athelstan shook his head. The same applied to Hammond, that rather sinister chaplain. Or was it Mistress Philippa in collusion with her lover? And what about Red Hand, the mad man who perhaps was more sane than he appeared?
Athelstan looked up and gasped. Red Hand! The hunchbacked albino had mentioned secret dungeons being bricked up, and Simon the carpenter had mumbled something similar.
Athelstan sat for a while, head in his hands. He picked up his pen, stared round the darkening kitchen and glimpsed a bunch of holly in the far corner. Christmas in a few days, he thought. He got up, warmed his fingers over the brazier and wished Benedicta was with him to share a cup of mulled wine. He recalled Doctor Vincentius’ words about his affection for the widow, and stared into the fire. Was it so obvious? he wondered. Did the other parishioners recognise his feelings as well? He shook his head to clear his mind. No. he must concentrate on the problem in hand. A shutter clattered and Athelstan jumped as a dark shadow pounced on to the rush-strewn floor.
‘Bonaventura!’ he muttered. The cat padded over and brushed majestically against the friar’s leg. ‘Well, Master Cat, you have come for something to eat?’
The cat stretched, arching his back. Athelstan went into the buttery, filled a cracked, pewter bowl full of milk and watched the cat lap it up before going to stretch out in front of the fire. Athelstan went across and fastened the shutters: windows, doors and passageways, he thought, recalling once again Red Hand’s mutterings and Simon the carpenter’s dark warnings. Athelstan looked enviously at the cat. ‘It’s all right for some,’ he grumbled and sat down before his parchments to continue his study. He took each name, building up a line of argument as if he was preparing some theological disputation.
The hours passed. Athelstan rubbed his eyes wearily. Only one path remained open: the one shown by Lady Maude’s innocent remarks which had so abruptly startled him on his journey back to Southwark. Athelstan drew a rough plan of the Tower and continued to pursue the conclusions he had reached. Just before dawn he pronounced himself satisfied. He had found the assassin, though very little else. For that he would need Cranston.
The next morning Sir John rode like a young knight down Cheapside to the Golden Mitre tavern near the Tower. The coroner felt as if he was riding on air. Even the cold morning breeze felt as warm and soft as the caress of a young woman.
Cranston had embraced the Lady Maude most passionately before getting out of bed that morning. She had clung tearfully to his chest and muttered about speaking to him soon. He had murmured sweet nothings, patted her on the head, rose, dressed and, going downstairs, bellowed for a cup of sack whilst a groom saddled his horse. Sir John felt as proud as a peacock to know he would be a father again. He rewarded himself with a swig from his ‘miraculous wineskin’, as Athelstan called it, sucking the robust red juice into his mouth. He beamed around expansively. Oh, it was a fine day to be alive!
Sir John scattered pennies before a group of beggars shivering on the corner of the Mercery. He shouted cheerful abuse at the poulterers who were cleaning and gutting chickens and other fowl in their huge iron vats for the Christmas season. A whore was being led bare-shouldered through the streets, her head shaved close under a conical white cap. A bagpiper went before her whilst a scrawled notice, pinned to her dirty bodice, proclaimed her a public slut Cranston stopped the procession and had her freed.
‘Why, Sir John?’ the rat-mouthed bailiff asked.
‘Because it’s Christmas!’ he roared back. ‘And Christ the beautiful boy of Bethlehem will be with us once again!’
The bailiff was going to object but Cranston’s hand fell to his dagger so the fellow cut the woman’s bonds. She stuck out her tongue at the bailiff, made an obscene gesture at Cranston and scampered off up an alleyway. Sir John rode on into Petty Wales. He arrived at the tavern and, tossing the reins of his horse to a groom, swaggered into the sweet-smelling tap room.
‘Monk, where the hell are you?’ he bellowed, giving the other customers the fright of their lives and bringing a wide-eyed taverner scurrying to attend to him.
‘Sir John, you are happy?’
‘As a fly on a horse’s arse in summer!’ Sir John bawled back. He threw the miraculous wineskin at the taverner. ‘Fill that! The friar told me to meet him here,’ he muttered. He gazed through the smoke and gloom and glimpsed Athelstan, nodding half-asleep over a table.
‘Bring a cup of sack for me,’ Cranston ordered the landlord. ‘Fresh oatcakes, and a strip of dry gammon!’ He smacked his lips. ‘Some eel stew for the Brother and, even though it’s Advent, he’ll take a jug of watered ale!’
The coroner swaggered across and tapped the half-sleeping friar on the shoulder. ‘Arouse yourself. Brother!’ he bawled. ‘For, by the sod, the devil walks, roaring like a lion seeking whom he may devour!’
‘I hope he’s not as heavy-handed as you, Cranston,’ Athelstan grumbled, opening his eyes and gazing wearily up.
Cranston crouched down beside him. ‘Good morrow, monk.’
‘I am a friar.’
‘Good morrow, friar. And why are you not so full of the joys of Yuletide?’
‘Because, Sir John, I am cold, tired and totally dispirited.’ Athelstan was about to continue the litany of his woes when he caught the mischief dancing like devils in Cranston’s eyes. ‘It’s good to see you happy, Sir John. I suppose you have ordered food?’
Cranston nodded, swept his great beaver hat off his head and slumped down on the bench opposite.
They had eaten their fill and Cranston downed two cups of claret before Athelstan had finished his story. The coroner shook his head, asked a few questions and whistled softly under his breath.
‘By the sod, are you sure, Brother? So much from an innocent little remark by the Lady Maude?’
Athelstan shrugged. ‘Lady Maude’s little comments have caused a great deal of consternation in the last few days, Sir John.’
Cranston belched, rose, and bellowed for his wineskin, tossing coins at the taverner. ‘You have carried out my instructions, Sir John?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Yes, friar, I have.’ Sir John stretched and yawned. ‘All our suspects are waiting in the Tower, though Parchmeiner will arrive late. You want to see Colebrooke first?’
‘And Red Hand?’
‘Ah, yes, Red Hand.’
‘You have the warrant, Sir John?’
‘I don’t need any bloody warrants, monk! I am Cranston, the King’s Coroner in the City, and they will either answer the question or face the consequences.’
They made their way out of the tavern where they left their horses, down some alleyways and through the great yawning entrance to the Tower. Colebrooke was waiting for them at the gatehouse. Athelstan noticed he was wearing hauberk, mailed shirt and leggings.
‘You are expecting trouble, Master Lieutenant?’ ‘Sir John’s instructions seem most stringent,’ Colebrooke replied.
‘Where’s Red Hand?’
‘What do you want that mad bugger for?’
‘Because I ordered it,’ Cranston replied.
They crossed the green, the sparse grass now visible beneath the wide swathes of grey slush. Two soldiers trailed behind. Colebrooke sent one across to the small door in the base of the White Tower. Athelstan stared sadly across at the far corner where the great bear had sat, now empty and forlorn but the ground still showed the marks of its occupation and a few pathetic scraps of food still littered the icy cobblestones.
‘God rest the bear’s soul!’ Athelstan murmured.
Cranston turned. ‘Do bears have souls, friar? Do they go to heaven?’
Athelstan grinned. ‘If your heaven needs bears, Sir John, then there will be bears! But, in your case, I suppose heaven will be miles and miles of taverns and spacious ale-houses!’
Cranston slapped his thigh with his gauntlet. ‘Oh, I like you, Brother.’ And he beamed at a surprised Colebrooke.
Suddenly the door of the White Tower was thrown open and the soldier re-emerged, dragging Red Hand by the scruff of the neck.
‘Let him go!’ Athelstan shouted. He went across, crouched and clasped the hunchback’s hand in his. He stared into the madcap’s milky eyes and saw the tear stains on his raddled cheeks. ‘You mourn the bear, Red Hand?’
‘Yes. Red Hand’s friend has gone.’
Athelstan looked at the soldier and indicated he should move away. ‘I know, Red Hand,’ Athelstan whispered. ‘The bear was a magnificent beast, but he will be happy now. His spirit’s free.’
Red Hand’s watery eyes caught Athelstan’s. The madman smiled. ‘You’re Red Hand’s friend?’
Athelstan studied the hunchback’s face, his scrawny, white hair and grotesque mottled rags. He recalled Father Anselm’s other words of wisdom: ‘Always remember, Athelstan, every man is in God’s image. A flame burns as fiercely in a broken jar as it does in the most elaborately carved lamp.’
‘I am your friend,’ Athelstan replied. ‘But I need your help.’
Red Hand’s eyes became wary.
‘I want you to show me your secrets.’
‘What secrets, Master?’
‘What the bloody hell are you doing, Brother?’
Athelstan threw a warning glance at the coroner.
‘Look, Red Hand,’ Athelstan whispered. ‘You talked to me of chambers, dungeons, which were bricked up.’
Red Hand tried to prise his fingers free of Athelstan’s but the friar held firm.
‘Please,’ he murmured. ‘Did Sir Ralph have such secret cells? If you tell me, Red Hand, I can trap the man responsible for the bear’s death.’
