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Cranston opened his eyes. ‘Yes, Brother, but what do they mean?’
‘I don’t know, but it would appear that someone took an axe and drove it hard against the wall, with such force the stone was marked and the wooden handle of the axe shattered.’
Cranston shook his head in disbelief.
‘What it all means,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘I don’t know. I ca
They made their way gingerly down the steps. At the bottom Cranston immediately felt better, turned and beamed at Athelstan.
‘Thank God!’ he bellowed. ‘You don’t do that every day, eh, Brother?’
Thank God, Athelstan thought, you are not in such a mood every day. The friar looked around. The Tower garrison was now busy: soldiers in half-armour lounged on benches. Despite the cold they wished to revel in the sunshine. A few played dice, others shared a wineskin. A scullion ran across with a basket of fresh-cooked meat, taking it to one of the kitchens where it would hang to be cured, diced, salted and stored for the duration of the winter. The clanging from the blacksmith’s rang like a bell through the air, somewhere a child cried, the son or daughter of one of the garrison. In the outer bailey an officer was shouting orders about a gate being oiled. A dog barked and they heard laughter from the kitchens. Athelstan smiled and relaxed.
He must not forget the small things of life, he concluded, they kept you sane. He linked his arm through Sir John’s and they ambled across Tower Green, making their way carefully through the soft, dirty slush, alert for the icy patches which hadn’t thawed. A guard ushered them into the Beauchamp Tower and up into Mistress Philippa’s chamber on the second floor. It was a spacious room with a deep bay window overlooking Tower Green. The seats were cushioned and quilted, the windows glazed with fragments of stained glass. As soon as he entered, Athelstan sensed it was a woman’s chamber hand-woven tapestries hung on the walls, one depicting a golden dragon locked in combat with a silver wyvern. Another portrayed the Infant Jesus smiling, arms outstretched, in the manger at Bethlehem where Christ’s mother stood in a dress of gold and a mantle of deep sky blue. The bricks in the wall had been painted alternately white and red; large cupboards stood with doors half-open displaying gowns, dresses, hoods and mantles, of various colours and different fabrics. A small pine log fire blazed in the canopied hearth. In one corner stood a spi
‘A lady’s bower, my Lord Coroner,’ he whispered.
Cranston smiled, then remembered Lady Maude and his face grew long.
Mistress Philippa rose as they entered. In temperament, though not in looks, she reminded Athelstan of Benedicta; she had the same quiet composure and he had glimpsed the steely look in her eyes. Was Philippa strong and ruthless enough, he wondered, to commit murder? Athelstan stared round at the rest, mumbling quietly like people who wanted to maintain appearances though he sensed their tension. The conversation died abruptly as Cranston lurched across the room. Perhaps Philippa or the femininity of her chamber had reminded Cranston of Maude for the coroner suddenly became bellicose with the girl.
‘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 ru
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 gri
‘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.