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‘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 gri
‘Sir John has many problems to exhaust him,’ Athelstan a
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 si
Athelstan drew back, the legs of the stool scraping the hard stone floor. ‘I ca
‘I know!’ Fitzormonde hissed. ‘But my soul is steeped in the blackest sin.’
Athelstan shook his head and made to rise. ‘I ca
Fitzormonde glanced up, his eyes gleaming. ‘No mummery,’ he said. ‘Father, I wish to confess. You must shrive me. I am a si
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 si
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 si
‘God knows,’ Athelstan replied, ‘we are all si
‘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.’
Athelstan tensed, trying to hide that i
‘Whose murder?’ he asked softly.
Sir Brian shook his head, sobbing like a child.
‘Sir Brian.’ Athelstan tapped him gently on the shoulder. ‘Sit down, man! Come, sit down!’
Sir Brian slumped on the bench. Athelstan looked round the chamber and saw the wine jug and goblets on the chest. He got up, filled one of these and thrust it into Fitzormonde’s hand.
‘There’s nothing in Canon Law,’ Athelstan smiled, ‘which says a man ca
Sir Brian sipped from the goblet and smiled. ‘Aye, Father,’ he replied. ‘And, as the Romans put it, “In vino veritas”. In wine there is truth.’
Athelstan nodded, pushed the stool nearer and sat down. ‘Tell me, Sir Brian, in your own words and at your own time, the truth about this murder.’
‘Many years ago,’ Fitzormonde began, ‘I was a wild, young man, a knight with visions of becoming a crusader. My friends were of a similar disposition. We all served in London or hereabouts: Ralph Whitton, Gerard Mowbray, Adam Horne, and…’ The man’s voice trailed off.
‘And who?’
‘Our leader, Bartholomew Burghgesh, of Woodforde in Essex.’ Fitzormonde took a deep breath. ‘The war in France was finished. Du Guesclin was reorganising the French armies, our old king was doddering and there was no need for English swords in France, so we sailed for Outremer. We offered our swords to the King of Cyprus. We spent two years there, becoming steeped in blood. Eventually, the Cypriot king dispensed with our services and we had nothing to show for it but our clothes, horses, armour, and the wounds of battle. So we became mercenaries in the armies of the Caliph of Egypt’
‘All of you?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Yes, yes. We were still a band of brothers. David and Jonathan to each other.’ Fitzormonde smiled to himself. ‘We feared nothing. We had each other and we always shared. Now there was a revolt in Alexandria. Our leader, Bartholomew, was hired by the Caliph to join his satraps in suppressing the uprising.’ Fitzormonde stopped and gulped from the cup. ‘It was a bloody business but eventually a breach was forced in the defences and Bartholomew led us through.’ The hospitaller’s eyes caught Athelstan’s. ‘We hacked our way through a wall of living flesh. Do you know, the cobblestones couldn’t be seen for the blood which swilled like water? The Caliph’s armies followed us in and the real killing began. Men, women and children were put to the sword.’ Fitzormonde paused and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘That, too, Father, I confess, though we were not party to it. Bartholomew led us away. We found a merchant’s house full of treasure.’ Fitzormonde licked his lips and closed his eyes tightly, trying to remember events in that sun-drenched city so many years ago. ‘Now the Caliph’s rules were strict,’ he continued. ‘As mercenaries we were allowed no plunder, so most of the treasure was useless to us, but Bartholomew found a heavy purse of gold.’ The knight stopped speaking and pointed to the cord tied round Athelstan’s waist. ‘Think of that ten times thicker, Father. Two heavy pieces of leather sewn together and stuffed with money. Every coin was of pure gold. A king’s ransom in a leather belt. There must have been thousands.’