House of the Red Slayer (16 page)

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 sinned. And this is my confession.’

Athelstan drew back, the legs of the stool scraping the hard stone floor. ‘I cannot,’ he whispered. ‘Sir Brian, you have tricked me! Whatever you tell me now will be covered by the seal of Confession.’

‘I know!’ Fitzormonde hissed. ‘But my soul is steeped in the blackest sin.’

Athelstan shook his head and made to rise. ‘I cannot,’ the friar repeated. ‘Whatever you tell me, I can only reveal on the orders of the Holy Father, the Pope in Avignon. Sir Brian, you are most unfair. Why this trickery?’

Fitzormonde glanced up, his eyes gleaming. ‘No mummery,’ he said. ‘Father, I wish to confess. You must shrive me. I am a sinner
in pericuto mortis!
’

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 sinned. It is many years since my last confession and I confess in the face of God and in the hope of his divine mercy at the imminent approach of death.’

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 sinner, Father,’ he whispered.

‘God knows,’ Athelstan replied, ‘we are all sinners, Sir Brian. There are those who know they are sinners, confess and try to pursue the good. You are one of these. There are others like the Pharisees who cannot be forgiven, for they believe they never do wrong!’ Athelstan leaned closer. ‘Now you wish absolution?’ The friar raised his hand. ‘
Absolvo te,
’ he intoned. ‘I absolve you.’

‘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 inner tingle of excitement, the deep curiosity aroused in a priest who, in confession, has the unique opportunity to see a soul bare itself.

‘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 cannot have a drink during confession.’ He wiped his sweat-stained hands on his robe. ‘Or,’ he continued, ‘as St Paul says, “Take a little wine for the stomach’s sake”.’

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.’

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 connection with the ship?’ Athelstan asked.

‘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.’