House of the Red Slayer (17 page)

Fitzormonde shrugged. ‘I thought of that but I have made some enquiries. Young Burghgesh was killed in France. Now, Father, my penance?’

Athelstan raised his hand and pronounced absolution, making the broad sweep of the sign of the cross above Fitzormonde’s bowed head. Sir Brian looked up.

‘My penance, Father?’ he repeated.

‘Your penance is the guilt you have borne. You are to pray for Burghgesh’s soul and for those of Sir Gerard and Sir Ralph. And one more thing!’

‘Yes, Father?’

‘You are to go downstairs and repeat your confession to Sir John.’

‘He’ll arrest me for murder.’

Athelstan grinned. ‘Sir John is an old soldier and, when sober, a keen student of the human heart. He has more compassion in his little finger than many a priest. He’ll hear you out and probably roar for a cup of sack.’

CHAPTER 8

Fitzormonde left, closing the door quietly behind him. Athelstan went to gaze out of the window, staring absentmindedly at the great tocsin bell which hung so silently on its icy rope above the snow-covered green. The sun, now beginning to set, made the bell shimmer like a piece of silver. Athelstan turned and glimpsed Fitzormonde talking quietly to Cranston. The coroner was nodding, listening intently to the hospitaller’s confession.

Athelstan wandered back to Philippa’s chamber but it was deserted. He stayed for a while reflecting on what Fitzormonde had told him; first, both Sir Ralph and Mowbray’s murders were connected to that terrible act of betrayal in Cyprus so many years earlier. Secondly, and Athelstan shivered, there would be other murders. He packed his writing tray away whilst speculating on other possibilities. First, Burghgesh could have survived and come back to wreak vengeance. Secondly, someone else, possibly Burghgesh’s son, had returned to make his father’s murderers atone for the death. But, if it had been either of these, how would they get into the Tower, mysteriously ring a tocsin bell and then arrange for Mowbray’s fall? Athelstan sighed. Sir Ralph Whitton’s murder was simple compared to the complexities surrounding Mowbray’s.

Athelstan rubbed his chin with the palm of his hand and remembered he’d promised Benedicta to meet her at the Fleet prison where Simon the carpenter would spend his last evening on earth. The thought of Benedicta made him smile. Their relationship had become calmer, more gentle, then he remembered Doctor Vincentius and hoped the physician would not ensnare her with his subtle charm. Athelstan’s smile broadened. Here he was, a friar, a priest, a man sworn to chastity, feeling twinges of jealousy about someone he could only claim as a friend.

He shook himself free from his reverie and looked around the chamber. The murders . . . What other possibilities existed? Was it one of the group? Not Fitzormonde, but perhaps Horne the merchant? Or could it be Colebrooke, who had discovered Sir Ralph’s murky past and was promoting his own ambitions under the guise of revenge for past misdeeds? Athelstan swung his cloak around him, picked up his writing tray and examined the beautiful embroidery of the dorsar draped over the back of one of the chairs. Of course, terrible though it might be to imagine, Mistress Philippa had the cool nerve and composure to be a murderess, and Parchmeiner might well be her accomplice. Hammond the chaplain had the spite, whilst Sir Fulke had everything to gain.

Athelstan heard Cranston bellowing his name so left the chamber and went downstairs where the coroner stood kicking absentmindedly at the snow.

‘You feel better, Sir John?’

Cranston grunted.

‘And Fitzormonde told you all?’

The coroner glanced up.

‘Yes, I believe he did, Athelstan. You think the same as I do?’

He nodded. ‘Our sins,’ he murmured, ‘always catch up with us. The Greeks call them the Furies. We Christians call it God’s anger.’

Cranston was about to reply when Colebrooke came striding across the green. The lieutenant looked white-faced and tense.

‘My Lord Coroner!’ he called out. ‘You are finished here?’

‘In other words,’ Cranston half whispered to Athelstan, ‘the fellow is asking us when we are going to bugger off!’

‘We will leave soon, Master Lieutenant, but may I ask one favour first?’

Colebrooke hid his distaste behind a false smile.

‘Of course, Brother.’

‘You have messengers here. Will you send one to the widow Benedicta at St Erconwald’s in Southwark? Ask her to meet Sir John and me at the Three Cranes tavern in Cheapside. And, Master Lieutenant?’

‘Yes!’

‘Sir Ralph’s corpse – was it cold and the blood congealing?’

‘I’m a soldier, Brother, not a physician. But, yes, I think it was. Why?’

‘Nothing,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘I thank you.’

Colebrooke nodded and strode off. Cranston stretched lazily.

‘A pretty mess, Brother.’

‘Hush, Sir John, not here. I think these walls do have ears, and our boon companion Red Hand wishes an audience.’

Cranston turned and quietly cursed as the madman scampered across the snow to greet them, yelping like an affectionate dog.

‘Lots of blood! Lots of blood!’ he screamed. ‘Many deaths, dark secrets! Three dungeons but only two doors. Dark passages. Red Hand sees them all! Red Hand sees the shadows creak!’ The madman danced in the snow before them. ‘Up and down! Up and down, the body falls! What do you think? What do you think?’

‘Sod off, Red Hand!’ Cranston muttered and, taking Athelstan by the arm, guided him past the great hall towards the gateway under Wakefield Tower. Athelstan suddenly remembered the bear, stopped and walked back to where the animal sat chained in the corner where curtain wall met Bell Tower. The friar was fascinated. He stared and hid a smile, hoping Sir John would not notice, for there was a close affinity between the shaggy beast and the corpulent coroner.

‘It smells like a death house,’ Cranston moaned.

The bear turned and Athelstan glimpsed the fury in its small, red eyes. The great beast lumbered to his feet, straining at the chain around its neck.

‘I don’t know which is the madder,’ Cranston muttered, ‘the bear or Red Hand!’

The animal seemed to understand Sir John’s words for it lunged towards him with a strangled growl; its top lip curled, showing teeth as sharp as a row of daggers.

‘I think you are right, Sir John,’ Athelstan observed.

‘Perhaps we should go.’

The friar watched with alarm the way the chain around the bear’s neck creaked and shook the iron clasp nailed to the wall. They turned left to collect their horses from the stables.

‘We could leave them here,’ Athelstan remarked, ‘and take a boat downriver.’

‘God forbid, Brother,’ Cranston snapped. ‘Have you no sense? The bloody ice is still moving, and I never fancy shooting under London Bridge even on the fairest day!’

They left the Tower and rode up Eastcheap, turning into Gracechurch, past the Cornmarket where St Peter on Cornhill stood, and into Cheapside. The roar from that great thoroughfare was deafening: traders, merchants and apprentices shouted themselves hoarse as they tried to make up for their previous loss of trade. The bailiffs and beadles were also busy: two drunkards, barrels placed over their heads, were being led through the marketplace, followed by a stream of dirty, ragged urchins who pelted the unfortunates with ice and snowballs. A beggar had died on the corner of Threadneedle Street. The corpse, now stiff, had turned blue with the cold. A small boy armed with a stick tried to beat off two hungry-looking dogs which sniffed suspiciously at the dead beggar’s bloody feet. Cranston tossed him a penny and, standing on an overturned barrel, bellowed for half the market to hear how he was Coroner of the city, and would no one help the poor lad have the corpse removed?

‘I don’t care if you’re the bloody mayor himself.’ one of the traders shouted back. ‘Piss off and leave us alone!’

Athelstan drew his cowl over his head and pulled his sleeves down. He knew what was coming next. Cranston, true to his nature, jumped down from the barrel and grasped the unfortunate trader by the throat.

‘I arrest you, sir!’ he roared. ‘For treason! That is the crime you have committed. I am the King’s Coroner. Mock me and you mock the crown!’

The man’s face paled and his eyes bulged.

‘Now, sir,’ Cranston continued quietly as the other traders slunk back, ‘I can ask the wardsman to convene a jury of your peers or we can settle on a fine?’

‘A fine! A fine!’ the man gasped, his face turning puce.

Sir John tightened his grip. ‘Two shillings!’ he announced, and shook the fellow so hard Athelstan became alarmed and took a step forward, but the coroner waved him back.

‘Two shillings, payable now!’ Cranston repeated.

The man dug into his purse and slapped the coins into the coroner’s hand. Sir John released him and the fellow slumped down on all fours, retching and coughing.

‘Was that necessary, Sir John?’ Athelstan whispered.

‘Yes, Brother, it was!’ Cranston snapped. ‘This city is ruled by fear. If a trader can mock me, in a week every bastard in London will follow suit.’

Cranston scowled as two beadles, summoned by the commotion, approached. The self-important looks on their smug faces faded as they recognised Sir John.

‘My Lord Coroner!’ one of them gasped. ‘What is it you want?’

Cranston pointed to the beggar’s corpse. ‘Have that removed!’ he bellowed. ‘You know your job. God knows how long the poor bastard has been lying there. Now move it before I kick both your arses!’

The beadles backed off, bowing and scraping as if the coroner was the Regent himself. Cranston turned and flicked his fingers at the urchin. The boy, arms and legs as thin as sticks, his eyes dark and round in a long, white face, came over, his thumb stuck in his mouth.

‘Here, lad!’ Cranston pushed the two shillings into an emaciated hand. ‘Now, go to Greyfriars. You know it? Between Newgate and St Martin’s Lane. Ask for Brother Ambrose. Tell him Sir John sent you.’

The boy, the money clenched tightly in his fist, stared back, spat neatly between Cranston’s boots and scampered off.

The coroner watched him go. ‘The preacher Ball is correct,’ he murmured. ‘Very soon this city will burn with the fires of revolt if the rich do not get off their fat arses and do more to help!’ He turned, his face now grave and serious. ‘Believe me, Brother, God’s angel stands at the threshold, the flailing rod of divine retribution in his hand. When that day comes,’ Cranston rasped, ‘there will be more violent deaths than there are people in this marketplace!’

Athelstan nodded in agreement and stared around. Oh, the marketplace was full of wealthy traders, merchants draped in furs, the wealthy artisans in jackets of rabbit and moleskin. Most looked well fed, plump even, but in the alleyways off the markets, Athelstan saw the poor; not like those in his parish but the landless men driven from their farms, flocking into the city to look for work though none was to be had. The Guilds controlled everything and soon these vagrants would be turned out, forced across London Bridge to swell the slums and violent underworld of Southwark.

‘Come on, Sir John,’ he murmured.

They pushed on up the Mercery, standing aside as a group of debtors from the Marshalsea, linked by chains, moved through the crowd, begging for alms both for themselves and other inmates. They found the Three Cranes tavern at the corner of an alleyway just opposite St Mary Le Bow. Benedicta was waiting for them, seated before a roaring fire; beside her on the ground, crouched like a little dog, sat Orme, one of Watkin the dung-collector’s sons. Athelstan slipped him a penny, patted him lightly on the head, and the boy scampered off.

‘Well, Benedicta, you left my church in good order?’

The widow smiled and unloosed the clasp of her cloak. Athelstan suddenly wondered what she would look like in a bright dress of scarlet taffeta rather man the dark browns, greens and blues she always wore.

‘All is well?’ he repeated hastily.

Benedicta grinned. ‘Cecily the courtesan and Watkin’s wife were screaming abuse at each other, but apart from that, you will be sorry to hear, the church still stands. Sir John, you are well?’ She twisted her head to catch the coroner’s eye as he scowled across at the innkeeper who was busy gossiping to the other customers around the great wine barrels.

‘My Lady,’ Cranston retorted, ‘I would feel better –’ he raised his voice to a bellow ‘– I would feel better if I got some custom, and the attention due to a King’s officer!’

The landlord kept chatting so Cranston strode across, roaring for a cup of sack and wine for his companions.

‘What’s wrong with Sir John?’ Benedicta whispered.

‘I don’t know. I think the Lady Maude has upset him. She is being mysterious and secretive.’

‘Strange,’ Benedicta mused. ‘I meant to tell you, Brother, Lady Maude was seen in Southwark over a week ago. She is so memorable, so petite and sweet-faced.’ Benedicta screwed up her eyes. ‘Yes, I am sure they told me she was coming out of Doctor Vincentius’ house.’

‘Is he a ladies’ man?’ Athelstan asked hastily, and wished he could have bitten his tongue out the moment he spoke. Benedicta stared coolly back.

‘Brother Athelstan,’ she replied, ‘can you show me a man who isn’t?’

Cranston’s return saved Athelstan from further embarrassment. The coroner swept his beaver hat from his head, scratched his balding pate, winked lecherously at Benedicta and turned to watch a now frightened taverner bring across a deep pewter bowl of sack and cups of wine for his companions.

‘You are not eating, Sir John?’

‘No,’ Cranston muttered. ‘I don’t feel hungry and I suspect the innkeeper, after my blunt speech with him, would poison the bloody dish!’

Benedicta laughed merrily. ‘Sir John, you must calm yourself!’

‘No,’ Cranston replied, lifting the goblet. ‘I’ll find serenity at the bottom of this cup.’

Benedicta watched in disbelief as Cranston drained his drink in one large gulp and boomed for more, smacking his lips, gently burping and belching. Benedicta bit her lower lip to stifle her laughter.

‘Well, Brother.’ Cranston patted his broad girth. ‘With apologies to the Lady Benedicta, what do you make of Mowbray’s death?’ Cranston licked his lips. ‘Or Sir Ralph’s?’