House of the Red Slayer (23 page)

Athelstan smiled. What would be the use? the friar thought, Horne could have been killed at any hour. He studied Parchmeiner’s girlish face. ‘You are London-born?’ he queried, trying to look at the parchment lying on Geoffrey’s desk.

‘No, Brother, I am not. My family are Welsh, hence my colouring. They moved to Bristol. My father traded in parchments and vellum in a shop just beneath the cathedral there. When he died I moved to London.’ Geoffrey picked up the piece of parchment. ‘My sister, now married, still lives there; she has just written inviting herself to town for the Yuletide season. She, her husband,’ his face grew mock solemn, ‘and their large brood of children will bring some life to the Tower.’ He turned to Sir John. ‘My Lord Coroner, you have more questions?’

Sir John shook his head. ‘No, sir, we have not.’

They rose, made their farewells, and stepped out into the cold, icy street

‘What do you think, Brother?’

‘A young man who will go far in his trade, Sir John. He has his roots.’ The friar grinned. ‘Yes, Sir John, like you I wondered if he could be Burghgesh’s son. But I am sure he is not.’ Athelstan stopped and stared hard at the coroner. ‘We are looking for a killer without ties, Sir John. Someone who is pretending to be something he or she is not. Someone who knows about the great act of betrayal so many years ago. The question is, who?’

‘Well!’ Cranston clapped his hands together. ‘We’ll not find it here, Brother, but perhaps in Woodforde . . .’ The coroner wiped his nose on the back of his hand and stared up at the sky. ‘I don’t want to stay in London,’ he murmured. ‘The Lady Maude needs a rest from me. And you, Brother?’

‘My parish,’ Athelstan drily replied, ‘will, I think, survive the continued absence of their pastor a little longer.’

They separated at the corner of Friday and Fish Streets, agreeing to meet within two hours at a tavern outside Aldgate on the Mile End Road. Sir John stamped off, leading his horse, whilst Athelstan continued down Trinity into Walbrook, along Ropery to London Bridge. Thankfully, he found St Erconwald’s fairly deserted except for Watkin to whom he gave strict instructions about the custody of the church, and Ranulf the rat-catcher who had come to remind him of his promise that if a Guild of Rat-Catchers were founded, St Erconwald’s could be their chantry church.

‘I promise you, Ranulf, I will think on the matter,’ Athelstan replied, trying to hide his amusement at the thought of St Erconwald’s full of tarry-hooded rat-catchers, all looking like Ranulf. The fellow’s yellow, wizened face broke into a sharp-toothed smile. He skipped down the steps as happily as any boy.

‘Brother,’ Watkin mournfully moaned.

‘What is it?’

‘Well –’ The dung-collector turned on the top step of the church and pointed towards the frozen cemetery. ‘We still haven’t set a watch.’

‘Why should we, Watkin? The grave robbers have moved on.’

The dung-collector shook his head. ‘I don’t think so, Brother, and I am afeared worse might happen.’

Athelstan forced a smile. ‘Nonsense. Now look, Watkin, I will be back late tomorrow evening. Take a message to Father Luke at St Olave’s. Ask him to be so kind as to come here and say Mass tomorrow morning. You will know where everything is? And tell the widow Benedicta to help you. You’ll do that?’

Watkin nodded and stumped off, muttering under his breath about priests who didn’t listen to tales of the dark shapes which did dreadful things in city churchyards. Athelstan watched him go and sighed. How could he deal with the cemetery when there was no evidence of any danger threatening? He checked the door of the church was locked and stood engrossed in his own thoughts about Cranston. The Lord Coroner was proving to be as difficult a problem as the dreadful deaths they were investigating. What was wrong with the Lady Maude? Athelstan wondered. Why didn’t Cranston ask her outright?

Athelstan smiled as he went across to his own house. Strange, he concluded. Cranston, who was frightened of nothing on two legs, seemed terrified of his little lady wife. Athelstan checked that the windows and doors of the priest’s house were locked, slung his saddle bags over a protesting Philomel, and both horse and rider wearily made their way along the icy track. He stopped at an ale-house to leave further messages with Tab the tinker for Benedicta and Watkin; they were to lock the church after morning Mass and, if the widow felt so inclined, she should take Bonaventura back to her own house. The friar then made his way back on to the main highway, past the Priory of St Mary Overy and across London Bridge. He stopped midway to say a prayer in the Chapel of St Thomas for the safety of their journey and then continued on his way.

Cranston was waiting for him at the small tavern just outside Aldgate in the Portsoken overlooking the stinking city ditch. The coroner seemed in good spirits. Athelstan concluded it was due to the large empty wine bowl in front of Sir John but Cranston, winking and burping, staunchly kept his hidden resolve not to vex Athelstan further with his own worries and anxieties. The friar joined Sir John in one last cup of mulled wine, heated with a red hot poker and spiced with cinnamon, before they reclaimed their horses from the stable and made their way along the darkening highway towards Mile End. Cranston remained full of good cheer, aided and abetted by an apparently miraculous wineskin which never seemed to empty. Athelstan, tired and saddle sore, prayed and cursed whilst Cranston, farting and swaying in the saddle, chattered about this or that. Finally Athelstan reined in Philomel and grasped the coroner by the wrists.

‘Sir John,’ he asked wearily, ‘this business at the Tower – we are making no headway. How long can we spend on the matter?’

‘Until we finish.’ Cranston’s eyes gleamed back. ‘By the sod, Brother! Orders are orders, and I don’t give a rat’s fart about mumbling monks, icy roads or cold journeys. Now, have I told you of the Lady Maude’s preparations for Christmas?’

Athelstan groaned, shook his head and kicked Philomel forward as Cranston regaled him with Lady Maude’s intended banquet of boar’s head, cygnet, venison, quince tarts and junkets of apple-flavoured cream. The coroner chattered like a magpie as the weak daylight died and dusk fell like a grey powder, shrouding the wide waste stretches of snow. The distant forest became obscured by a misty darkness which closed in round them, broken by the odd pinprick of light as they passed some hamlet or village. No wind blew but it was deathly still and bitterly cold.

‘I am sure,’ Athelstan mumbled to himself, ‘the very birds will freeze on the trees and even the hares on the hill will remain underground.’

Cranston, the wineskin now surprisingly empty, only replied with a short stream of belches. They passed a crossroads where a cadaver hung, black and frozen, its head twisted to one side, face unrecognisable after the crows had feasted there. Cranston stopped and pointed down a track to a light blinking in the distance.

‘We’ll stop there for the night, Brother. A good, snug tavern, The Gallow’s Friend.’ He leaned over and smiled at Athelstan. ‘Despite its name, you’ll like it.’

Athelstan did. It was a clean, well-swept establishment with secure stables, a fresh herb-smelling tap room, a large roaring fire with the logs piled high – though he baulked at the huge four-poster bed he’d have to share with Sir John.

‘No, no, My Lord Coroner,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘I insist you sleep alone.’

‘Why, monk?’

‘Because, coroner, if you rolled over in your sleep, you’d crush me to death!’

Laughing and joking, they left their bags there and made their way down to the tap room where the landlord’s wife served them huge fish pies, the crust, golden and crisp, hiding a savoury sauce which dulled the flavour of the rancid fish. Athelstan tactfully asked the landlord for a pallet bed to be placed in their chamber and sat down to eat almost as heartily as Cranston. Of course, the coroner drank as if there was no tomorrow and when he had had his fill, leaned back against the pillar of the huge fireplace, belched, and pronounced himself satisfied. Athelstan stared into the flames, half listening to a wind which had suddenly sprung up, now whining and clattering against the tightly secured shutters.

‘Brother?’

‘Yes, Sir John?’

‘This business at the Tower, could it be black magic?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, the head that was sent to me.’

Athelstan stretched his hand out to the flames. ‘No, no, Sir John. As I have said, we are not dealing with a demon but something worse, a soul steeped in mortal sin. But whose?’ He looked up at Sir John, who had his fiery red nose deep in a wine cup again. ‘What’s puzzling,’ Athelstan continued, ‘is why now? Why has the murderer chosen this moment? And how can they know about the dreadful events surrounding Burghgesh’s death?’

‘What do you mean?’ Cranston slurred.

‘Well,’ Athelstan replied, ‘we should be looking for a man or woman with no background, someone who has suddenly appeared on the scene, but everyone we have talked to has their own little niche.’

Cranston burped. ‘I don’t know,’ he slurred. ‘It could still be black magic because I’m damned if I can find a way through the tangle. Now, as I have said to Lady Maude . . .’ The coroner suddenly stopped and stared into his wine cup, and the good humour drained from his face.

‘Come, Sir John,’ Athelstan said quietly. ‘It’s time we slept.’

Surprisingly, Cranston agreed, drained the cup and slammed it down on the table. He stood up, swaying and smiled benevolently down at his companion.

‘But do you believe, Brother?’

‘What, Sir John?’

‘In the black arts? I mean, the business in your cemetery?’

Athelstan grinned. ‘To be perfectly honest, Sir John, I am more frightened of the human heart than any mischievous demon. Now, come. Let’s rest.’

Athelstan was pleased he had judged the moment right because, by the time they reached the top of the rickety wooden staircase, Cranston was half-asleep and beginning to mumble piteously about how he missed Lady Maude. Athelstan led him down the cold, darkened passageway and into the small chamber. He gently lowered Cranston on to the bed, pulled off the coroner’s boots and made his companion as comfortable as possible. The coroner turned, belched, and quietly began to snore. Athelstan grinned and covered the huge frame with a coverlet. Sleeping, Cranston reminded the friar more than ever of the huge bear in the bailey of the Tower. Athelstan went over and knelt beneath the small, horn-glazed window, crossed himself and gently mouthed the words of David’s psalm.

‘Out of the depths have I called to thee, O Lord. Lord, hear my voice.’

By the time he had reached the fourth verse Athelstan was already distracted. Was Sir John right? he wondered. Did the great demon, the Red Slayer, haunt both his cemetery and the Tower of London? He closed his eyes, finished the psalm and made his way to the pallet bed. For a while Athelstan lay listening to Cranston’s heavy snoring and fell asleep almost at the very instant when, back in the darkened cemetery outside St Erconwald’s, shadows flitted across the graveyard to crouch over a freshly dug grave.

CHAPTER 11

In his dream, Athelstan stood on a darkened ship. The bowsprit, mast and sails were covered in black crepe. Above him on the poop, a skeleton, face a white, leering mask, held the wheel and grinned wickedly down at him. The sea was smooth and clear as thick, dark glass. The sky overhead was empty of stars and hung like a purple-blue cloth around the ship as it drifted towards the horizon where a fiery red glow lit the gateway to Hell. On one end of the mast a figure jerked spasmodically. Athelstan glimpsed the blackened, twisted face of Pike the ditcher hanging by the neck. The friar turned as someone tapped him on the shoulder. His brother Francis stood there: his face was blueish-white under a shock of black hair. A thin red snake of blood trickled out of the corner of his mouth; his chest was an open, bubbling mass of blood where he had received his death wound.

‘You ran away from your monastery, Brother?’ His voice sounded hollow.

Athelstan stretched out his hand. ‘I am sorry, Francis,’ he murmured. Athelstan stared around. Was Cranston here? He was sure he could hear the coroner’s voice.

Athelstan walked to the entrance of the hold and gazed down. A naked woman squatted there, her face hidden behind a black veil; from her mouth came a foul toad and round her neck curled an amber snake, its red-slit eyes flashing like diamonds. A fat-bellied rat crouched beside her. Athelstan walked down the steps. Behind the woman, kneeling stern and impassive, was a knight in full armour, gauntleted hands resting on the hilt of his great two-handled sword. The hold stank of death and Athelstan could feel someone pressing close behind him. He squirmed violently as a hand seized his shoulder.

‘Athelstan! Athelstan! Brother, for God’s sake!’

The friar opened his eyes. Cranston, his fat face wrinkled with concern, stared down at him.

‘Brother, what is the matter?’

Athelstan stared back. ‘Good Sir John, I was dreaming.’ He raised a clammy hand and rubbed his face. ‘I was dreaming,’ he repeated.

‘And not a pleasant one!’

‘No, Sir John. Some succubus of the night with the power of a thousand scorpions seized my mind.’

Cranston gazed quizzically back and Athelstan grinned.

‘I am only joking. I think my nightmare was due more to the table than the grave. We dined too well last night.’

‘Yesterday is gone and today is today,’ Cranston pompously replied. ‘Come on, Brother, it’s daybreak.’

Athelstan rose quickly, said a hasty prayer and washed himself in the freezing water from a cracked pewter jug. They gathered their possessions and moved down to the cold, deserted taproom. The fire was not lit and the room didn’t seem as cheerful and welcoming as it had the night before; they broke their fast quickly on warm oat cakes and mulled wine, saddled their horses and rode back along the track to the highway.

The day looked as if it would be a fine one. A weak sun was about to rise, turning the darkness to a dusty grey: their horses plodded along the frozen track, both riders taking special care against the potholes, some as deep as a man, which could bring down and even kill both the unwary rider and his horse. The countryside was empty and silent. Athelstan shivered as he remembered his nightmare and the eerie stillness of that terrible dream. The hedgerows on either side were still thickly covered with snow and, beyond them, the fields lay iron hard under sheets of ice. A circle of hungry crows soared noisily above a clump of oak trees, branches black against the lightening sky.