Sir Stephen waddled across to make sure the bolts on the door were pushed across and the lock turned. He absent-mindedly patted the coffer on the table just within the door and crossed to the bath tub. He would have liked two of the maids to bathe him, but he had to be careful, especially of that self-righteous monk Malachi. He had to hide his secret pleasures. Sir Stephen moved his wine cup to a small table near the tub and stepped gingerly in. He flinched at the heat but lowered himself carefully into the water. He had been quite explicit – the bath tub had to be sturdy and take his size, the finest oak, bound by hoops of iron. Master Rolles, as usual, could not do enough for him and his other companions. No wonder, Sir Stephen reflected, they’d paid the greasy taverner generously enough over the years. He stared appreciatively around the chamber. Master Rolles did look after them! These chambers were luxurious, whilst they dined not in that filthy tap room, but in the comfortable solar at the rear of the tavern. No dirty rushes covered that floor; instead, the oaken boards had been polished to shine like a mirror whilst carpets of soft turkey had been carefully nailed down to deaden the sound and keep in the warmth. The walls were hung with exquisite tapestries of blue and gold depicting scenes from the legends of King Arthur. Each chamber had its own theme, and Sir Stephen had been given the Excalibur chamber. Accordingly, all the blue and gold tapestries described incidents relating to the famous sword, from its discovery in a stone to its return to the Lady of the Lake.
Sir Stephen leaned back, gazing up at the black rafters and the Catherine wheel of candles which could be lowered, lit and hoisted up again. In each corner of the chamber were capped metal braziers, the charcoal now red and spluttering, exuding not only warmth but also the fragrance of the herb pack-ets placed carefully amongst the coals. Sir Stephen smacked his lips; he would bathe, dress, perhaps sleep, before joining the rest for his midday meal. Master Rolles had promised them fresh pheasant, served in the tavern’s special oyster sauce, with newly baked white loaves. Sir Stephen sighed. These pilgrimages to London might be difficult but at least they were comfortable. He stared across at the coffer with its three locks. He always checked to ensure it was secure. He bathed his face in water, and even as he did so, the memories came flooding back. He must not forget that he was a soldier of the Faith. He had borne the Cross against the infidel; surely that was reparation enough? How many men had fought in the hot sands around the Middle Sea, the sun beating down, harsh and cruel as any war club? The excruciating thirst, when the tongue became swollen, and the mouth was dry as the sand you trudged through! The foul food aboard the war cogs, the salt of the sea stinging your eyes and worsening your thirst. The long marches during the day, watching your comrades die! The freezing cold of desert nights, and above all, the enemy, dressed in white, astride nimble horses, appearing out of nowhere with ululating war cries, so swift a man had hardly time to arm. The patter-patter of arrows, the sudden surprise of a night attack, the hideous embrace of hand-to-hand combat as you fought for your life and tried to silence the enemy gasping beneath you.
Sir Stephen moved uneasily in the bath, his feet feeling strangely cold. And the sieges! The long ladders against the wall, the dizzying climb, rocks being hurled down, the splash of boiling oil, worsened by fire arrows which turned comrades into living, screaming human torches. Oh yes, Sir Stephen told himself, he had done his duty, he had received the blessings of popes and bishops, so now he should comfort himself and forget past sins. He moved his legs, becoming alarmed. The feeling of coldness was creeping up his body. He wanted to get up but his legs felt paralysed, as if encased in the heaviest steel armour. He stretched out for the wine cup and took a deep draught, not realising he was swallowing his own death.
He began to panic. Pains fired in his lower stomach, and he felt as if he was slipping away, as if the bath water was turning cold and rising to swallow him. He thrashed about, but in vain. His throat felt strangely dry, the chamber seemed to be moving, the tapestries on the wall rippling as though shaken by some unseen hand. He caught one scene, the arm of the Lady of the Lake coming up to grasp Excalibur. The water was turning black and swollen, like the water on the river so many years ago. He made one last effort to rise, only to slip back, his head hitting the side of the wooden tub. Sir Stephen Chandler, Knight of the Golden Falcon, landowner of Kent, knight of the shire, and former Crusader, slipped quietly to his death…
Cranston was holding court in the outhouse. Athelstan had made himself comfortable on a stool. The leader of the knights, Sir Maurice Clinton, had joined them. He had come looking for the taverner and stayed out of curiosity. The Judas Man was at first reluctant to answer Cranston’s questions.
‘You can, sir…’ Cranston took a swig from the miraculous wine skin and popped it back beneath his cloak. ‘You can, sir, either answer my questions here or at the Guildhall.
