Paul Doherty - House of the Red Slayer

Colebrooke’s hand fell to his dagger hilt. ‘Sir John, I resent that though I confess I did not like Whitton, notwithstanding His Grace the Regent did.’

‘Did you want Whitton’s post?’

‘Of course. I believe I am the better man.’

‘But the Regent disagreed?’

‘John of Gaunt kept his own private counsel,’ Colebroke sourly observed. ‘Though I hope he will now appoint me as Whitton’s successor.’

‘Why?’ Athelstan asked softly.

Colebrooke looked surprised. ‘I am loyal, and if trouble comes, I shall hold the Tower to my dying breath!’

Cranston grinned and tapped him gently on the chest. ‘Now, my good lieutenant, you have it. We think the same on this. Sir Ralph’s death may be linked to the conspiracies which flourish like weeds in the villages and hamlets around London.’

Colebrooke nodded. ‘Whitton was a hard taskmaster,’ he replied, ‘and the Great Community’s paid assassin would have found such a task fairly easy to accomplish.’

Athelstan too smiled and patted Colebrooke on the shoulder. ‘You may be right, Master Colebrooke, but there is only one thing wrong with such a theory.’

The lieutenant gazed dumbly back.

‘Can’t you see?’ Athelstan murmured. ‘Someone in the Tower must have told such an assassin where, when and how Sir Ralph could be found!’

A now crestfallen lieutenant led them down the stairs. The two burly, thick-set guards still squatted with hands outstretched towards the fiery red brazier. They hardly moved as Colebrooke approached and Athelstan sensed their disdain for a junior officer suddenly thrust into authority.

‘You were on guard last night?’

The soldiers nodded.

‘You saw nothing untoward?’

Again the nods, accompanied by supercilious smiles as if they found Athelstan slightly amusing and rather boring.

‘Stand up!’ Cranston roared. ‘Stand up. You whore-begotten sons of bitches! By the sod, I’ve had better men tied to trees and whipped till their backs were red!’

The two soldiers jumped up at the steely menace in Cranston’s voice.

‘That’s better,’ the coroner purred. ‘Now, my buckos, answer my clerk’s questions properly and all will be well.’ He grasped one by the shoulder. ‘Otherwise, I may put it about that in the dead of night you killed your master.’

‘That’s not true!’ the fellow grated. ‘We were loyal to Sir Ralph. We saw nothing, knew nothing, until the popinjay — ’ the guard shrugged ‘- the constable’s prospective son-in-law, comes rushing down, exclaiming he can’t rouse Sir Ralph. He grabs the key and is about to return, but the coward thinks better of it and sends for the lieutenant here.’

‘You heard him knock on the door and call Sir Ralph?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Of course we did.’

‘But he did not enter?’

‘The key was down here,’ the guard replied, pointing to a peg driven into the wall. ‘It was hanging before our eyes. There were only two. One here, and Sir Ralph had the other.’

‘You are certain of that?’ Cranston asked.

‘Yes, yes,’ the fellow confirmed. ‘I found the other key on the table next to the constable’s bed as soon as I opened the door. I have it now.’

Cranston nodded. ‘Ah, well,’ he breathed, ‘enough is enough. Let us see the tower from the outside.’

As they left the North Bastion, they suddenly heard an awesome din from the inner bailey. They followed the lieutenant as he hurried under the arch, staring across the snowcapped green. The noise came from a building in between the great hall and the White Tower. At first Athelstan couldn’t distinguish what was happening. He saw figures running about, dogs leaping and yelping in the snow. Colebrooke breathed deeply and relaxed.

‘It’s only him,’ he murmured. ‘Look!’

Athelstan and Cranston watched in stupefaction as a great brown shaggy-haired bear lurched into full view. The beast stood on its hind legs, its paws pummelling the air.

‘I have seen bears before,’ Cranston murmured, ‘rough-haired little beasts attacked by dogs, but nothing as majestic as that.’

The bear roared and Athelstan saw the great chains which swung from the iron collar round its neck, each held by a keeper as the lunatic Red Hand led the animal across the bailey to be fastened to a huge stake at the far side of the great hall.

‘It’s magnificent!’ Athelstan murmured.

‘A present,’ the lieutenant replied, ‘from a Norwegian prince to the present king’s grandfather, God bless him! It is called Ursus Magnus.’

‘Ah!’ Athelstan smiled. ‘After the constellation.’

Colebrooke looked dumb.

‘The stars,’ Athelstan persisted. ‘A constellation in the heavens.’

Colebrooke smiled thinly and led them back to a postern gate in the outer curtain wall. He pulled back bolts and the hinges shrieked in protest as he threw open the solid, creaking gate.

No one, Athelstan thought, has gone through this gate for months.

They stepped gingerly on to the frozen moat, the very quietness and heavy mist creating an eerie, unreal feeling.

‘The only time you’ll ever walk on water, Priest!’ Cranston muttered.

Athelstan grinned. ‘A strange feeling,’ he replied, then looked at the drawn face of Colebrooke. ‘Why is the gate here?’

The lieutenant shrugged. ‘It’s used very rarely. Sometimes a spy or a secret messenger slips across the moat, or someone who wishes to leave the Tower unnoticed. Now,’ he tapped his boot on the thick, heavy ice, ‘it makes no difference.’

Athelstan stared around. Behind him the great soaring curtain wall stretched up to the snow-laden clouds, whilst the far side of the moat was hidden in a thick mist. Nothing stirred. There was no sound except their own breathing and the scraping noise of their boots on the ice. They walked gingerly, carefully, as if expecting the ice to crack and the water to reappear. They followed the sheer curtain wall round to the North Bastion.

‘Where are these footholds?’ Cranston asked.

Colebrooke beckoned them forward and pointed to the brickwork. At first the holds in the wall could hardly be detected, but at last they saw them, like the claw marks of a huge bird embedded deeply in the stonework. Cranston pushed his hand into one of them.

‘Yes,’ he muttered, ‘someone has been here. Look, the ice is broken.’

Athelstan inspected the icy apertures and agreed. He followed the trail of the footholds up until they, like the top of the tower, were lost in the clinging mist.

‘A hard climb,’ he observed. ‘Most dangerous in the dead of night.’ He looked at the frost-covered snow and, stooping down, picked up something, hiding it in the palm of his hand until Colebrooke turned to go back.

‘What is it?’ Cranston slurred. ‘What did you find there?’

The friar opened his hand and Cranston smiled at the silver-gilt buckle glinting in his palm.

‘So,’ Cranston mumbled, ‘someone was here. All we have to do is match the buckle with its wearer, then its heigh-ho to King’s Bench, a swift trial, and a more prolonged execution.’

Athelstan shook his head. ‘Oh, Sir John,’ he whispered, ‘if things were only so simple.’ They went back through the postern gate and into the inner bailey. The Tower had now come to life even though the frost still held and there was still no sign of any break in the weather. Farriers had fired the forges and the bailey rang with the clang of the hammer and the whoosh of bellows as ragged apprentices worked hard to fan the forge fires to life. A butcher was slicing up a gutted pig and scullions ran, shaking the blood from the meat, to stick it into fat-bellied tubs of salt and brine so it would last through to the spring. A groom trotted a lame horse, roaring at his companions to look for any defect, whilst scullions and maids soaked piles of grease-stained pewter plates in vats of scalding water. The lieutenant watched the scene and grinned.