Страница 44 из 55
As Athelstan and Cranston made their way back into the city, the hospitaller, Fitzormonde, was standing in the bailey of the Tower, staring at the huge bear now stuffing its cruel mouth with scraps from the Tower kitchen. Like Athelstan, Fitzormonde was fascinated by the beast and secretly admired the madcap Red Hand who was the only man who dared approach the animal. Fitzormonde, despite his travels, had never seen such a huge beast. Most bears were small and black, sometimes no higher than a man, but this great, shaggy-furred animal reminded him of stories he had heard from knights who had served with the Teutonic Orders in the wild black forests of the north. How they had seen deer twice the size of anything in England and bears such as this one, which would crush a horse in its huge, muscular arms.
The bear suddenly stopped eating and glared at the knight, its small, piggy eyes red with hatred. It opened its mouth, growling deep in its throat in a display of wickedly sharp teeth. The huge beast strained at the great iron chain clasped to the collar round its neck. Fitzormonde stepped away and the bear went back to its meal, shuffling its food into a dirty untidy pile as if it suspected Fitzormonde would like to take it away. The knight stamped his feet to keep warm. Tomorrow, he thought, he would leave the Tower. He had already said as much to Mistress Philippa when he had met her and her rather effeminate betrothed.
Fitzormonde gazed up at the cruel gargoyle faces on the Chapel of St Peter ad Vincula. Yes, he thought, tomorrow, he would pay the chaplain to sing one last Mass for his fallen comrades then go back into the city and request from his superiors some mission or task well away from this benighted fortress.
He started as he heard a whirring noise in the air. He looked up. A raven? No, what was it? The hospitaller suddenly stepped back in panic as the bear sprang into life, towering above him, its great paws clawing the air. The bear roared at him with fury, its black muzzle and huge jaws covered in a thick white froth. Fitzormonde’s hand went to his dagger as the bear danced like a demon, pulling at the great chain clasped in the wall. What was wrong with the animal? What had happened?
Fitzormonde made to run but, even as he turned, heard the great iron chain spring loose and saw the bear rush towards him. He tugged at his knife but had it only half-drawn when the huge taloned paw of the bear smashed his head as if it was a rotten apple. Roaring with fury, the bear dug his claws into the dying knight’s unprotected back and dragged him across the cobbles, bellows of rage proclaiming its triumph.
CHAPTER 12
Athelstan was furious. He felt the anger burn his i
Oh, he had found everything in order on his return: Bonaventura, asleep and well, curled up in the church like some fat bishop as Cecily cleaned and swept the nave. Benedicta and Watkin had set up the crib in one of the aisles, using figures carved by Huddle. The painter had also finished a vivid picture of Christ in the manger, just above the baptismal font inside the church door. Even Ursula’s pig had resisted its usual forays into his garden, and Pike the ditcher had cleared the gravel-strewn path in front of the church.
Athelstan had pronounced himself satisfied and chattered about parochial matters as he stabled, watered and fed Philomel. But even then he had sensed the anxiety in the faces of those who had come to welcome him: Benedicta, Pike, Watkin, Cecily, and Tab the tinker. They had followed him around the church, answering his questions whilst exchanging secretive, anxious glances.
At first Athelstan dismissed their concern as some petty matter. Had Cecily been flirting again, or one of Pike the ditcher’s sons peed in the church? Perhaps Ranulf borrowed Bonaventure or Watkin’s children had been drinking from the holy water stoup? The members of his parish council had fussed round him like noisy chickens. At last, just before he locked the church, Athelstan tired of their secrecy.
‘Come on!’ he demanded, confronting them. ‘What has happened?’
They shuffled their feet and looked away. Benedicta suddenly became concerned about an apparent spot on her gown.
‘It’s the cemetery, Father!’ Watkin blurted out. ‘Tosspot’s grave has been disturbed.’
‘When?’
‘The night you left.’
Athelstan had been so angry he’d used language which made even Pike the ditcher’s face blanch.
‘Perhaps Sir John will do something now,’ Benedicta tactfully intervened. ‘Or maybe if we make an appeal to the Alderman of the Ward?’
‘Aye!’ Athelstan rasped. ‘And perhaps pigs will fly and we’ll find pork in the trees tomorrow morning. The people who do this terrible thing are bastards! They are wicked and fear neither God nor man. Even the pagans honour the corpse of a dead man. Not even a dog would do this!’
His parishioners had withdrawn, more frightened of their gentle parish priest’s terrible rage than the dreadful news they had brought. Athelstan had stormed off to his house and drunk a cup of wine with a speed Cranston would have admired. He slept fitfully that night, not even thinking of climbing the tower steps to study the stars. He’d tossed and turned on his pallet bed, fuming with rage at the sinful desecration of his cemetery. The next morning he rose early, opened the church, perfunctorily fed Bonaventura, skipped through the morning office and tried hard to concentrate whilst he celebrated Mass. Bonaventura, like the cu
‘Our cemetery has been violated once again,’ he declared. ‘I, Athelstan, priest of this parish, say this, as God is my witness — no further burials will take place until the ground has been re-consecrated and this problem resolved!’ He glared round at his small congregation. ‘I will go to the highest in the land, be it the young King himself or the Archbishop of Canterbury. Guards will be set and, God forgive me, I shall see these villains hang!’
His parishioners had quietly left and Athelstan, now calming, felt a twinge of guilt as he glared down at Tosspot’s ravaged grave.
‘Your fiery temper, priest’ he muttered to himself, ‘is no more curbed than it was twenty years ago. And your tongue is as sharp as ever.’
He breathed deeply. Yes, he had been too hard, he reflected, far too brusque with Benedicta and the others, but especially with the widow. She had stayed for a few seconds after Mass, not to gossip but simply to say that the chief bailiff of the ward, Master Bladdersniff, had accosted her on her way to church. He wished to see Athelstan on an urgent matter.
‘Oh, yes,’ Athelstan muttered. ‘Master Bladdersniff, as usual, closing the stable door after the horse has bolted!’ Athelstan felt a fresh surge of rage. If St Erconwald’s had been one of the wealthy city churches, guards would have been set immediately and this would never have happened. Even Cranston, that fat-arsed coroner, hadn’t helped, wrapped up like some mewling maid in his own concerns. Athelstan stared once more round the cemetery, it was so cold, so bleak. He remembered Father Peter and envied the Woodforde priest’s quiet domesticity. ‘Bloody Cranston!’ Athelstan muttered. ‘Bloody murder! Bloody Tower! The bloody hearts of men and their evil doings!’ He kicked the icy mud. ‘I am a priest,’ he hissed to himself. ‘Not some sheriff’s man.’