Outside the baileys and yards of the Tower were freezing cold. A thick river mist had descended to create a land of ghosts, broken only by the shouts of sentries, the neighing of horses and that deep, throaty roaring from the royal menagerie. Pinpricks of lights glowed from battlements and tower windows. Torches flared in their desperate fight against the chilly night breeze.
Cranston and Athelstan were pleased to reach the Garden Tower; the smell from around the Watergate was offensive but the chamber on the ground floor of that squat, sinister-looking tower had been well prepared. A circular, comfortable room, the windows were not only shuttered but covered with heavy leather drapes embroidered with heraldic devices. The fire in the small hearth roared up the flue, the pine logs cracking and snapping. The lime-washed walls gleamed cleanly and displayed a crucifix with small statues of the Virgin and saints placed in niches. The servant waiting for them loudly assured Sir John that the cot beds were comfortable, while he would place more rope matting on the floor to curb the chill. The servant then offered to bring food. Cranston, bellowing how hungry he was, began to take off his cloak. Athelstan kept thinking about that desolate chapel. He walked towards the door.
‘Sir John, wait here.’
‘No, I will not,’ Cranston barked. ‘You are off again on your travels, little friar? Well, if you are, I will stay with you in this benighted place.’ Athelstan told the surprised servant not to serve the food and, pulling up his cowl, walked back into the icy blackness. Cranston followed, cursing quietly. Athelstan stopped an archer who kindly led them down the steps into the gloomy dungeons of the White Tower.
‘Oh Lord, save us, Brother,’ Cranston moaned. ‘What in Heaven’s name are we doing?’
‘The archer told me Barak’s corpse is here, I want to see it. Come on, Sir John.’
The dungeons proved to be a stygian underworld of shadow-filled, stinking tunnels and enclaves. Torches glowed in their rusty holdings. Vermin, like little black demons, scurried across the pools of light. The reeking odour of decay caught their noses and mouths. A figure jangling keys lurched out of the murk. The burly-faced janitor immediately recognized Cranston, though the coroner could only shake his head when the man introduced himself as William Ockle, former assistant hangman at Smithfield. He asked their business. Athelstan replied and the janitor led them to a dungeon door, opened it and ushered them in.
‘The Fleming has been taken to the death house on the other side of Saint Peter’s,’ Ockle explained between noisy mouthfuls of ale from a blackjack. He gestured at Barak’s corpse thrown on to a dirty, sodden palliasse. ‘God knows what His Grace will do with him. Perhaps,’ he smacked his lips, ‘his head will be lopped off, his limbs quartered and the bloody, tarred chunks will festoon London Bridge.’ Athelstan crouched down, murmuring a prayer. He asked both the janitor and Cranston to hold the torches close as he re-examined the corpse. He turned Barak over to examine the back of his head, feeling the deep wound which he traced with his fingers. Moving the corpse back, Athelstan studied the entire right side of the face, pulped to a hideous, soggy mess.
‘Do you want me to strip the corpse?’ Ockle offered. ‘I will have to sooner or later.’ His voice became peevish. ‘I lay claim to all his clothing, boots and possessions. I hope he is wearing an undershirt. My woman can wash it, then I’ll sell it to the Fripperers in East Cheap.’
Cranston glared up at him. Ockle pulled a face. ‘I was only asking…’
Athelstan searched the corpse. He could tell from the neck and other injuries that the entire right side had been badly bruised and crushed as Barak smashed into the cobbles. He examined the war belt with the quiver box hanging on the right side before moving to the hands. He sniffed at these, noting the mud stains though the nails were neatly pared and clean, the skin soft and smooth as any clerk’s. Barak’s wrists were also sleek, unmarked and bereft of any jewellery or covering. Athelstan recited the requiem, blessed the corpse and got to his feet. He gave Ockle a coin for his pains, left the dungeons and, ignoring Cranston’s protests, climbed the spiral staircase leading back into St John’s Chapel. He nodded at the archer on guard and stood in the centre of the nave, staring at the rood screen.
‘Remember this, Sir John,’ Athelstan pointed to the braziers, one to his right, the other to his left, ‘the explosions occurred in each. Nearby stood Lettenhove and, across the chapel, Oudernarde. Along the transepts, the tapestries had been pulled up to reveal the food tables, servants were milling about. Now look at the rood screen: Hell’s mouth seals its entrance, on either end of it hangs an arras of heavy damask.’ He sighed. ‘Remember that as I surely will.’ The friar refused to say any more; he left the chapel with Cranston hurrying behind.
‘Brother…?’
Athelstan waited till they had left the keep. Once out in the blistering cold, he paused and stared up.
‘The sky blossoms are hidden, Sir John. We’ll have snow tonight and it will lie thick.’
‘Is Barak the murderer?’
‘He was no assassin,’ Athelstan whispered. ‘God have mercy on him. He did not slip from that rope, he was hurled from that window, or that is what I suspect.’
‘Why?’
‘Gloves and wrist guards, Sir John, or the lack of them, but now I am famished.’
Part Three
‘Ursus Marinus: Sea Bear’
They returned to their chamber, the snow falling in heavy flakes. Athelstan recalled the legend of souls tumbling from Heaven seeking a dwelling in human flesh.
‘It will lie swift and rich,’ Cranston declared, stomping up the steps. He was startled by a figure stepping out of a shadow in the stairwell inside. ‘In God’s name!’
‘Aye, Sir John, in God’s name surely.’ The black-haired harpist pushed
