by Paul Doherty
Cranston walked up to face him. ‘Geoffrey Parchmeiner,’ he intoned, ‘also known as Burghgesh, I arrest you for murder. You will be taken to Newgate prison and, at a fixed time, answer for your terrible crimes in the court of King’s Bench.’ He looked round and nodded at Colebrooke. ‘Take him away.’
‘I want to see Bartholomew’s last resting place!’
‘Yes, you may,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Master Lieutenant, let him look at what we discovered this morning, but bind him well!’
The murderer threw one ferocious look at Fulke before Colebrooke and his soldiers hustled him out of the door. Athelstan sighed and looked round.
‘Sir Fulke, Mistress Philippa, I am sorry.’
Philippa buried her face in her uncle’s shoulder and silently wept. Sir Fulke just looked away.
‘Sir John,’ Athelstan said, ‘we are finished here.’ He put his writing implements back into the canvas bag, bowed to Sir Fulke and followed Sir John down the now darkening steps.
Outside Cranston took a deep breath. ‘Thank God that’s over. Brother!’
They walked under the forbidding mass of Wakefield Tower where they waited whilst a servant scurried back to the North Bastion tower to collect Cranston’s dagger.
‘A true murderer,’ Sir John said quietly.
‘Aye!’ Athelstan replied. ‘Insane or possessed, driven by hatred and revenge.’ He looked up at the ravens cawing noisily above them. ‘I’ll be glad to be free of here, Sir John. This place has the stink of death about it.’
‘It is called The House of the Red Slayer.’
‘It’s well named,’ Athelstan replied.
They stood aside as Colebrooke marched by, Parchmeiner now tightly bound, almost hidden in the middle of his guards. The servant came back with Cranston’s dagger and they left for the nearest tavern.
Sir John, of course, demanded refreshment after what he called his ‘arduous labours’. Athelstan matched him cup for cup until they separated. Sir John went back to continue his rejoicing whilst Athelstan led a protesting Philomel up Billingsgate and across London Bridge to the dark loneliness of St Erconwald’s.
A few days later, on Christmas Eve, Athelstan sat at his bench just inside the chancel screen, cradling a purring, contented Bonaventura on his lap. The friar looked around the sanctuary. All was ready for Christmas. The altar had a fresh cloth trimmed in gold, the sanctuary had been swept, the altar decorated with holly and ivy, the greenery and blood red berries shimmering in the candlelight. The children had rehearsed their mummers’ play. Athelstan laughed softly remembering how Crim, who had played the role of Joseph, had disrupted the proceedings by a short fist fight with one of the angels. Cecily had swept the nave and dusted the ledgers, and tomorrow he would celebrate three Masses: one at dawn, one mid-morning and the other at noon. Athelstan closed his eyes. He would remember his dead, his parents and his brother Francis, the men killed so violently in the Tower, as well as young Parchmeiner who would surely hang.
The bishop had given him permission to re-consecrate the cemetery and Pike the ditcher had announced that Doctor Vincentius had left. Benedicta had been upset and Athelstan still felt wracked by feelings of guilt. He absentmindedly kissed Bonaventura between the ears. He had apologised to all concerned for his ill temper on the morning he had heard about Tosspot’s grave being desecrated. Athelstan sighed. All seemed to be in order, but was it? Christmas would pass, the Feast of the Epiphany would come, and with it fresh problems. Perhaps he would arrange a feast, a banquet for the parish council, to thank them for their kindness? Watkin had given him a new spoon made of horn; Ursula the pig woman a flitch of bacon; Pike the ditcher a new hoe for the garden; Ranulf the rat-catcher a pair of moleskin gloves and Benedicta, God bless her, a thick woollen cloak against the rigours of winter. Yet tomorrow, after Mass, he would be alone. Athelstan stared at the candle flames. Did God hide behind the fire? he wondered. He closed his eyes.
‘Oh, Lord of the hidden flame,’ he prayed, ‘why is it so terrible to be alone?’ He jumped, then grinned as the church door was flung open. ‘Good Lord,’ Athelstan beamed. ‘I have heard of the power of prayer but this is truly miraculous!’
‘Monk!’ Cranston bellowed, standing like a Colossus swathed in robes at the back of the church. ‘I know you are here, Athelstan. Where are you bloody well hiding? By the sod, it’s too early for your damned stars!’
Athelstan rose and walked under the chancel screen. ‘Sir John, you are most welcome.’ He looked carefully at the coroner. ‘Surely not another murder?’
‘I bloody well hope not!’ Cranston roared, walking up the church, beating his hands together. ‘I need some refreshment, Brother. You will join me?’
‘Of course, Sir John, but this time I pay.’
‘A priest who pays for what he drinks.’ Cranston mocked. ‘Yes, it must be Christmas.’
Athelstan collected his cloak from where he had flung it over the baptismal font and they walked out into the cold afternoon air.
‘Let us go to the Piebald Horse!’ Cranston suggested. ‘A good cup of claret and some hot stew will do us both body and soul the world of good!’
They walked down the alley and into the welcoming warmth of the tavern. The one-handed landlord bustled across to meet them.
‘Sir John,’ he greeted. ‘Brother Athelstan.’
He ushered them to a table near the fire as Cranston bellowed out his order. Sir John slouched on the bench and beamed round the tavern.
‘You are busy, Sir John?’
‘I am still looking for Roger Droxford who murdered his master in Cheapside. I have had news of him hiding in a tavern near La Reole so perhaps I may call there on my journey home. But, Brother, let us forget murder. The Lady Maude has invited you to dinner tomorrow at three o’clock in the afternoon. You and the Lady Benedicta.’
Athelstan blushed as Cranston grinned devilishly.
‘Don’t worry, she’ll come. I have been to her house, had a cup of claret, and given her a kiss on your behalf.’
‘Sir John, you mock me.’
‘“Sir John, you mock me,”’ Cranston mimicked. ‘Come, Brother, there’s no sin in liking one of God’s creation. You’ll come?’ he added, ‘I have a present for you.’
Athelstan nodded whilst Cranston wondered if the astrolabe he had bought would really delight this strange star-searching friar. The landlord brought their goblets and two dishes of hot spiced mutton.
‘So, Sir John, everything is tidied away. Sir Ralph’s murderer has been caught; Doctor Vincentius has left; my cemetery is safe; tomorrow is Christmas, and all is well.’
Cranston slurped from his cup and smacked his lips.
‘Aye, Brother, but spring will bring its own basket of troubles. The Red Slayer will strike again. Man will always kill his brother.’ He sighed. ‘And Lady Maude must be looked after, she and the child must be kept safe.’ Sir John lowered his head and glared at Athelstan. ‘The child will be a boy,’ he announced flatly. ‘And I shall call him Francis, the name of your dead brother.’
Athelstan caught his breath and put down the wine goblet
‘Sir John, that is most thoughtful. It’s very kind.’
‘He will become a knight,’ Cranston continued expansively. ‘A Justice of the Peace, a man of law.’ He paused. ‘Do you think he will look like me, Brother?’
Athelstan grinned. ‘For the first few months he will, Sir John.’
Cranston caught the humour in Athelstan’s voice. ‘What do you mean, monk?’ he asked dangerously.
‘Well, Sir John, of course he will look like you. He’ll be bald, red-faced, drink a lot, burp and fart, bellow and be full of hot air!’
The rest of the people in the tavern stopped what they were doing and gazed in astonishment as Sir John Cranston, the King’s Coroner in the City, leaned back against the wall and roared with laughter till the tears streamed down his face.
Athelstan grinned till he thought of dealing with two Cranstons. Then
the friar closed his eyes. ‘Oh, Lord,’ he whispered, ‘what happens if it’s twins?’
