House of the Red Slayer (27 page)

Vincentius sat back in his chair. ‘What is that, Father?’

‘Well, two to be exact. First, you had a visitor here – Lady Maude Cranston. Why did she come?’

Vincentius grinned. ‘The Lady Maude, despite being in her thirtieth year, is now
enceinte.
’

Athelstan stared back in disbelief. ‘She’s with child!’

‘Yes, priest. About two months gone. Both she and the child are healthy but she is frightened of Sir John not believing her. She doesn’t want to disappoint him. I believe they lost a child some years ago?’

Athelstan nodded and the doctor enjoyed the look of stupefaction on the priest’s face.

‘She told me about Sir John. I advised her most carefully against the pleasures of the flesh. I believe her husband is a mountain of a man?’

‘Aye,’ Athelstan answered, still dumbstruck at what he had discovered. ‘Sir John is certainly that.’

‘And the second favour, Father?’

‘You served in Outremer?’

‘Yes, I did. For a time I practised in hospitals in both Tyre and Sidon.’

‘If you met someone there, how would you greet them?’

Now the physician looked surprised.

‘Shalom,’
he answered. ‘The usual Semitic phrase for “Peace be with you”.’

Athelstan lifted his hand. ‘Doctor Vincentius, I bid you farewell. I do not expect we will meet again.’

‘Priest?’

‘Yes, physician?’

‘Are you pleased that I am going because of what I have done, or pleased that I am leaving and will not see the widow Benedicta again? You love her, don’t you, priest? You, with your sharp accusations against others!’

‘No, I don’t love her!’ Athelstan snapped. But even as he closed the door behind him, he knew that, like St Peter, he was denying the truth.

Sir John Cranston, Coroner of the City, squatted bleary-eyed in a corner of the Holy Lamb tavern and stared self-pityingly across Cheapside. He had drunk a good quart of ale. Athelstan had not arrived so he’d decided to return home. He would deal with his wife like a man should, with abrupt accusations and sharp questions, but he wished the friar had come. He would have liked his advice on so many things.

Cranston leaned back against the wall and squinted across the tavern. The latest business at the Tower was dreadful. He had gone to see Fitzormonde’s badly mauled corpse: half the face had been torn away and the man’s body savaged almost beyond recognition. Cranston rubbed the side of his own face with his hand. At first Colebrooke had believed the death was an accident.

‘It was just after dusk,’ the lieutenant had informed him. ‘Fitzormonde, as was customary with him, had gone to watch the bear. One second everything was peaceful, the next Satan himself seemed to sweep out of hell. The bear broke loose and mauled the hapless hospitaller. I ordered archers down and the bear was killed.’ Colebrooke shrugged. ‘Sir John, we had no choice.’

‘Was it an accident?’ Cranston asked. ‘The bear breaking loose?’

‘At first we thought so, but when we examined the beast we found this in one of his hindquarters.’ The lieutenant handed Cranston a small bolt from the type of crossbow a lady would use for hunting.

‘Who was in the Tower at the time?’

‘Everyone,’ Colebrooke replied. ‘Myself, Mistress Philippa, Rastani, Sir Fulke, Hammond the chaplain – everyone except Master Geoffrey who had returned to his shop in the city.’

Cranston had thanked the lieutenant and gone over to the shabby, dank death-house near St Peter ad Vincula where Fitzormonde’s mangled remains lay, waiting to be sewn into their canvas shroud. The corpse was hideous, nothing more than a scarred, bloody pile of flesh. Cranston had left as quickly as he could, questioned those he found, and concluded that the crossbow bolt had been loosed by some secret archer: this had goaded the bear to fury and, snapping its chain, it had attacked Fitzormonde.

Cranston gazed one more time round the tavern, sighed and closed his eyes. Was there no way of resolving this problem? he thought. And where the bloody hell was Athelstan?

‘My Lord Coroner?’

Cranston opened his eyes. ‘Where have you been, monk? And why are you grinning?’

Athelstan smiled and called over to the taverner ‘Two cups of your best Bordeaux. And I mean your finest.’ He sat down, still beaming at Sir John. ‘My Lord Coroner, I have some news for you.’

CHAPTER 13

Sir John Cranston sat in the high-backed chair in his spacious, stone-flagged kitchen and stared lovingly at Lady Maude who was standing at the table filling jars with comfits. He couldn’t believe Athelstan’s news, not at first. The truth had only sunk in after three further goblets of Bordeaux and Athelstan’s repetition of what he had learnt from Doctor Vincentius. At last, Cranston thought, it all makes sense . . .

He stole a glance at his wife’s waist and realised Lady Maude’s voluminous skirts would conceal any thickening of the waist; even her nightgowns were quilted, and of course the thought of another child had never occurred to him. After Matthew’s death from plague so many years ago at the age of three, Cranston had given up all hope of an heir. He drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. Lady Maude caught his glance and sniffed into a jar to hide her surprise at Sir John’s sudden change of mood. Should she tell him now? she wondered. Or wait, as she had planned, till Christmas Day?

Lady Maude had been stunned by the realisation her monthly courses had ceased and a friend had recommended Doctor Vincentius. The physician had confirmed her hopes and given her sound advice on what to eat and drink and to be gentle with herself. She had to refuse Sir John’s amorous embraces but could not tell him the reason. She had to be certain. Lady Maude bit her lip. There was another reason: once Sir John learnt the truth, she would know no peace. He would hang round her like a great shaggy guard dog, watch her every move and give her endless lectures about ‘being safe and keeping well’. Lady Maude lowered her face. The child, she silently prayed, must be healthy. She would never forget Sir John when Matthew died. He, who had the courage of a lion, just sat like a little boy, with not a sound, not a moan, nothing save those streams of silent tears.

Sir John’s thoughts followed a similar pattern; he had solemnly promised Athelstan not to broach the matter with his wife but wait for her to do so. He had also promised to allow Vincentius to leave London unscathed. However, Cranston narrowed his eyes, he would have to think again about that. Perhaps in the new year letters should be sent to every sheriff in England about Doctor Vincentius and his iniquitous activities in other people’s graveyards? The coroner stirred and looked across at Athelstan who was chatting merrily with Leif the beggar.

‘Brother, you will stay for some dinner?’

‘No, Sir John, I must go. Perhaps later?’

‘And the business at the Tower?’

Athelstan rose from his chair. ‘I don’t know, Sir John. Perhaps it is best if you eat and reflect on what we have already learnt. We’ll discuss it tomorrow, eh?’ He looked admiringly at the jars Lady Maude was filling. ‘You expect guests at Yuletide?’

‘I thought so, Father,’ she replied. ‘My relatives from Tiverton in Devon.’ Lady Maude threw a mock angry glance at Sir John’s snort of displeasure. ‘They were supposed to come but the roads are impassable, not even messengers can get through. I was talking to one of the aldermen’s wives. She said her husband’s trade had been badly hurt. All of his journeymen travelling to the south-west have had to turn back.’

Athelstan smiled and Lady Maude went back to her comfits. She strove to hide her agitation as Brother Athelstan informed Sir John that one of his parishioners, a Doctor Vincentius, was leaving Southwark and would not be returning. Lady Maude hid her face. She was sorry the doctor was going. He had been a most skilful man. She sighed and stared at the table. Now she would have to look around for a good physician, someone better than the usual leeches who lived round Cheapside.

Athelstan winked secretively at Cranston, made his farewells, and walked out into the darkening street. He collected Philomel from the stables of the Holy Lamb and rode back through the darkness, chuckling to himself at Sir John’s reaction to his news. He hoped Lady Maude had heard his announcement about Vincentius’ departure. Perhaps, the friar concluded, it was all for the best.

Philomel suddenly slipped on a strip of ice. Athelstan groaned in despair, dismounted and, gathering the reins in his hands, gently guided the old horse along the darkened pathway. Above him the houses rose sheer and sombre. Outside each of the great Cheapside mansions an oil lamp burned, but as Athelstan turned the corner at St Peter Cornhill and went down Gracechurch into Bridge Street, the tracks became darker. He had to pick his way carefully round the mounds of refuse, night soil and scraps of food where rats gnawed and scampered. Behind him a door slammed and a night bird nesting in the eaves of a house flew out in a burst of black feathers, making Athelstan jump. Beggars whined for alms. A whore stood on the corner, the orange wig straggling across her raddled face made all the more ghastly in the light of the candle she cradled in her hand.

She cackled at Athelstan and made a rude gesture. He sketched the sign of the cross in her direction. A city bully-boy leaning against the door of an ale-house saw the lonely figure and felt his wooden knife hilt. But when he glimpsed Athelstan’s tonsure and the crucifix round his neck, he thought better of it.

Athelstan moved on, relieved to see the soldiers in the torchlight guarding London Bridge. Its gates were closed but the city archers recognised ‘the coroner’s chaplain’, as they called Athelstan, and let him through.

The friar crossed the bridge, the sound of Philomel’s hoof beats hollow on the wooden planks. It was an eerie experience. Usually the bridge was busy but now it was silent and shrouded in a thick river mist. Athelstan had the ghostly impression of walking across some chasm between heaven and hell. The gulls nesting in the wooden arches below flew out, shrieking in protest at this unexpected disturbance. Athelstan remembered the ravens in the Tower. Another death there, he thought, two if he included the bear’s. Athelstan felt sorry for the beast.

‘Perhaps it was for the best,’ he murmured to himself. ‘Never have I seen so unhappy an animal.’ He recalled the teaching of some of his Franciscan brethren who, following the preaching of their founder, maintained all animals were God’s creation and should never be ill-treated or kept in captivity.

Athelstan passed the silent darkened chapel of St Thomas of Canterbury in the centre of the bridge. The wards-men on the Southwark bank shouted at him; some of them even wondered if he was a ghost. Athelstan sang out his name and they let him through, teasing him gently about his unexpected appearance.

The friar led Philomel through the dark alleyways of Southwark. He felt safer here. He was known and no one would dare accost him. He passed a tavern where a boy, to earn a few crusts, stood just within the doorway, sweetly singing a carol. Athelstan stopped and listened to words promising warmth and cheer. He patted Philomel on the neck. ‘Where will we spend Christmas, eh, old friend?’ he asked and walked on. ‘Perhaps Lady Cranston might invite me, now her relatives are not coming from the West Country.’

He stopped abruptly. ‘Lady Maude’s relatives!’ he murmured to the dark, quietened street, and felt a shiver go up his spine. ‘Strange,’ he murmured. ‘Something so small, a mere froth on the day’s happenings.’ He rubbed the side of his face. Lady Maude’s words stirred memories of something else he had heard.

He almost dragged Philomel back to St Erconwald’s, so eagerly the destrier snickered angrily at him. Athelstan stabled the old war horse, ensured all was well in the church, and guiltily remembered his anger earlier in the day. Bonaventura was apparently out courting so Athelstan went across to the house, built up the fire and hastily ate a piece of bread. After a few bites he tossed it into the fire as the bread was stale, and poured himself a goblet of watered wine. He cleared the rough table top and began to list all he knew about the murders in or near the Tower.

The thought which had sparked his memory in the street outside might, he speculated, be the key to resolving the entire problem. He smiled as he remembered old Father Anselm’s oft-repeated axiom in his lectures on logic. ‘If a problem exists, a solution must exist. It’s only a question of finding the path in. Sometimes it can be by the smallest chink of light.’ Anselm would then cast a beady eye on Athelstan. ‘Always remember that young Athelstan. It applies as much in the realm of metaphysics as it does to a day’s ordinary events.’

Athelstan closed his eyes. ‘I still remember that, Father,’ he murmured. ‘God rest you.’ He arranged his writing tray, marshalled his thoughts and dipped the grey goose quill into the ink, cursing when he found it was cold. He held the pot over the candle to warm it and hastily re-read the memoranda he had written when he was in the Tower. Once the ink was heated he carefully listed his conclusions.

Primo – despite being well protected, Sir Ralph Whitton had been slain in the North Bastion tower. Sir Ralph had slept behind a locked door to which he held the key, as did the guards outside. The door to the passageway in which the chamber stood was also locked; again the keys were shared with his trusted bodyguard. Yet all these precautions had been brought to nothing. His assassin had apparently entered the chamber by crossing the frozen moat and, using footholds in the Tower wall, had climbed up, unlatched the window, entered and slain Sir Ralph.

Secundo – the assassin must have known the Tower well to use these footholds, yet why didn’t the clamour of the shutters being opened, not to mention the assassin’s entry into the chamber, arouse Sir Ralph? The buckle from Sir Fulke’s boot had been found on the ice. Was this a clue to the possible murderer?

Tertio – the young man, Parchmeiner, had been the first person to try and rouse Sir Ralph but the chamber had only been opened by Master Colebrooke the lieutenant. Did Sir Ralph’s second-in-command have a role in this murder?

Athelstan gazed at what he had written, shook his head and smiled. ‘No, no!’ he whispered. ‘All that must wait.’