House of the Red Slayer

Fitzormonde paused again. He was back in time, standing battered and blood-stained, gazing open-mouthed at the belt Bartholomew had found hidden beneath the tiled floor.

‘What happened?’ Athelstan asked.

Fitzormonde smiled. ‘Bartholomew did a brave thing. He said he would wait to see if the Caliph would reward us for forcing the breach. He didn’t so Bartholomew kept the purse.’

‘Why was that brave?’

‘Well, if he had been caught, Bartholomew would have been sliced from neck to crotch, his genitals ripped off and stuffed into his mouth, and his decapitated head placed on a spike above the city gates. Now Bartholomew agreed to conceal the purse on condition that he had half the treasure whilst we shared the rest. We agreed, and by night fled the Caliph’s armies and crossed the sea to Cyprus.’

‘Is that the co

‘Oh, no. We reached Cyprus safely but the Caliph sent assassins after us. These were the Hashishoni, the followers of the Old Man of the Mountain, skilled killers who came by night. They were so confident they even sent us fair warning of their arrival.’

‘A flat sesame seed cake?’ Athelstan interrupted.

‘Yes, but Bartholomew was waiting for them. One night they crept into our house but he had arranged for us to sleep on the roof whilst through a crack he could watch our sleeping chamber. Do you know,’ Fitzormonde said in a dream-like voice, ‘Bartholomew showed no fear? He trapped all three in that room and killed them.’ Sir Brian’s voice broke. ‘He was the best — Bartholomew, I mean — honourable and fair. I have never met a more redoubtable fighter, yet we murdered him!’

Athelstan rose, took the wine jug and refilled the man’s cup.

‘Continue, Sir Brian.’

‘Bartholomew wanted to go home, return to his manor at Woodforde. His wife was sickly and he also feared for his young son’s life. At the same time he had difficulties with Sir Ralph Whitton.’ Fitzormonde glared into his wine cup. ‘Ralph was the canker in the rose. I think he was secretly jealous of Bartholomew. He began to object to the way the treasure was being shared out, but Bartholomew failed to take him seriously. He said a bargain was a bargain; he had found the treasure, he had risked the Caliph’s wrath, and he had killed the three assassins. However, he said he trusted his blood brothers and left the treasure with us when he took ship from Cyprus.’ Fitzormonde stared at Athelstan and the friar began to suspect the true reason behind the drawing on the pieces of parchment.

‘What happened to that ship, Sir Brian?’

The knight emptied the wine goblet in one gulp. ‘A few days later we learnt Whitton had sent a secret message to the Caliph.’ He shrugged. ‘The rest is obvious. The ship Bartholomew was travelling on was intercepted and sunk.’

Athelstan whirled round as the door crashed open. Cranston stood there, foul-faced and bleary-eyed.

‘What’s the bloody matter, monk?’ he boomed. ‘Where the…?’ Cranston used an obscene word and glared at the knight ‘You still wish to challenge me, Sir Brian?’

Athelstan rose, grabbed Cranston by the arm and hustled him out of the room, closing the door behind him.

‘Sir John,’ he rasped, ‘I am hearing this man’s confession!’

Cranston tried to push Athelstan aside. ‘By the sod!’ he roared. ‘I don’t give a shit!’

‘Sir John, this is nothing to do with you.’

Athelstan, using all his weight, pushed Sir John back and sent him tottering down the corridor. Cranston steadied himself, pulled his long, wicked-looking dagger from its sheath and walked slowly back, his red-rimmed eyes fixed on Athelstan. The friar leaned against the door.

‘What are you going to do, John?’ Athelstan asked softly. ‘Are you, the Lord Coroner, going to slay a priest, a colleague and a friend?’

Sir John stopped and slouched against the wall, staring upwards at the great beams resting on their corbels of stone.

‘God forgive me, Athelstan,’ he whispered. ‘My apologies to Sir Brian. I shall wait for you downstairs.’

The friar re-entered the room. Fitzormonde still sat, cradling his head in his hands. Athelstan touched him gently on the shoulder.

‘Forget Cranston.’ He smiled. ‘A man whose bark is much worse than his bite. Sir Brian, you wanted me to hear your confession? So Burghgesh was murdered. Surely the blame rests squarely with Sir Ralph?’

Fitzormonde shook his head and looked up. ‘Don’t patronise me, Father. Ralph told us what he had done. We could have stopped it. We could have brought Sir Ralph to justice. We could have searched the seas to see if Bartholomew had survived.’

‘Was that possible?’

‘Perhaps. Sometimes the Moors sell prisoners in the slave markets. But we didn’t look there for him. We could have looked after Bartholomew’s widow and his little son but we failed to do that.’ Fitzormonde drove one of his fists into the palm of his hand. ‘We should have executed Sir Ralph. Instead, we became his accomplices and shared out his ill-gotten wealth.’

‘What happened to Bartholomew’s widow?’

‘I don’t know. We went our separate ways. Eventually guilt caught up with Mowbray and myself so we joined the hospitallers, handing over what wealth we had left to the Order. Horne came back to the city and grew powerful on his riches. Whitton entered the service of John of Gaunt.’ Fitzormonde placed the goblet on the ground before him. ‘Do you know, Father, it wasn’t until Whitton was dead that I realised how he had held us in his evil thrall.’ Fitzormonde paused. ‘You have seen the great bear in the Tower bailey?’

‘Yes.’

‘Every afternoon I am here,’ Fitzormonde continued, ‘I go to stare at it. The beast is a killer, but I’m fascinated by it. Whitton was like that. Sir Ralph made his guilt a bond between us all. As the years passed, we became more confident that our crime had been forgotten and began the custom of every year meeting to celebrate Christmas. We never discussed Bartholomew.’

Athelstan nodded. ‘That’s the terrible thing about sin, Sir Brian. We let it become part of us, like a rotting tooth which we tolerate and forget.’

Fitzormonde rubbed his face with his hands.

‘But what happened,’ Athelstan asked, ‘three years ago?’

‘I don’t know. We came to the Tower as Ralph’s guests for Yuletide, supping as usual at the Golden Mitre in Petty Wales, but when we met Sir Ralph that particular time, he looked as if he had seen a ghost. In fact he said he had, and that’s all he would say.’

Athelstan seized the man’s wrist and forced him to look up. ‘Have you confessed all, Sir Brian?’

‘Everything I know.’

‘And the piece of parchment?’

‘A reminder of the ship Bartholomew was sailing on.’

‘And the four crosses?’

‘They represent Bartholomew’s four companions.’

‘And the seed cake?’

Fitzormonde sighed and blew his cheeks out ‘A reminder of how Bartholomew saved us from the assassins, and a warning of our own deaths.’

‘Do you know who murdered Sir Ralph and Sir Gerard?’

‘Before God, I do not!’

‘Could Bartholomew have survived?’

‘He may have.’

Athelstan stared at the lime-washed walls. ‘What about Bartholomew’s son? He would be a young man now.’

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 gri