‘I mean,’ the Master of Secrets fought to curb his temper, ‘you could be promoted to higher favour.’
Cranston snorted noisily and put the seals away.
Athelstan tapped the table edge. ‘You want certainty, Magister? I will give you certainties. First, a killer haunts the Tower. Who he is, how and why he slays is, for the moment, a mystery. Secondly, the Upright Men have a hand in this. Thirdly, you have a spy among the Upright Men; they certainly have one in your company. Fourthly,’ Athelstan brushed aside Thibault’s attempt to protest, ‘the two severed heads which suddenly appeared in the chapel of St John disappeared equally swiftly during the attack on your company near Aldgate. Fifthly, Master Oudernarde, you brought those severed heads from Flanders. Sixthly, the attackers took these but their real prize was your hooded prisoner, probably the woman who now lives in splendid but closely guarded isolation in Beauchamp Tower. Seventhly, Barak was not the assassin but was murdered to appear so. Eighthly, Eli’s death is a complete mystery. How can a young man, locked and bolted in a most secure chamber, be killed by crossbow bolt loosed to his face, yet no such weapon be found in that chamber?’ Athelstan took a deep breath. ‘So, yes, masters, good sirs all of you: certainties, however uncertain they may appear, have been established.’ Athelstan picked at the three knots on his waist cord symbolizing his vows of poverty, chastity and obedience. ‘I would like to inspect those severed heads,’ he continued, ‘and I would dearly love to meet your mysterious prisoner, or at least be told why she is so mysterious.’
Cranston coughed noisily to hide his grin, clearing his throat as he stared up at the vaulted chamber roof. Thibault picked up his pen, smoothed the quill plume feathers then used it to beckon Lascelles. The henchman leaned over the chair to hear his master’s whisper and slipped like some black wraith from the chamber.
‘For the time being,’ Thibault almost lisped, ‘our prisoner is not your concern, Brother Athelstan.’
‘Ninthly,’ Athelstan almost shouted, ‘Sir John and I need to be busy. We need to reflect, to discuss, possibly even search. Master Thibault, in a word, we need to be gone. I have one favour to ask. My parishioners will have undoubtedly appreciated My Lord of Gaunt’s gifts, and they would rejoice if the Straw Men, albeit in mourning for two of their members, could visit Saint Erconwald’s. My parishioners would love to see their performance, while it would give me the opportunity to question the troupe further.’ Athelstan paused as Lascelles slipped back into the room carrying a leather sack. Athelstan suspected what it contained.
‘The Straw Men can wait but you have our permission to leave.’ Thibault smacked his lips. ‘As for the heads…’ He snatched the sack from Lascelles and placed it on the table. ‘Take them, Brother Athelstan. You have our authority, and that of the King’s Coroner in London, to hand them over to Master Robert Burdon, Custos of the Gatehouse of London Bridge and Keeper of the Heads, to add to his collection above the gatehouse.’
‘And their crime?’ Cranston demanded, leaning across to pluck up the sack.
‘For the moment that must remain secret, Sir John.’ Thibault waggled his fingers. ‘Suffice to know, they were traitors who deserved their fate.’
‘We all deserve our fate; only God’s mercy saves us from it.’ Athelstan pushed back the narrow chair and rose to his feet. He bowed, and with Cranston carrying the sack, walked to the door.
‘Brother Athelstan?’
‘Yes, Master Thibault?’
‘You say we have a spy in our company. I find that difficult…’
‘It always is,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘A Judas hides behind his kiss which,’ he gestured around, ‘is why I must return to question people here, and that includes you, Master Thibault.’ Athelstan nodded at Rosselyn to open the door and they left. Once outside Athelstan winked at Cranston. ‘Let us divert ourselves, Lord Coroner. The royal menagerie? Perhaps we’ll visit that, but I must see this great snow bear.’
Cranston needed no further encouragement. He led Athelstan across baileys and courtyards, skirting frozen white gardens, herb plots and snow-covered outbuildings, past their own lodgings and through Hall Tower along Red Gulley to St Thomas’ Tower which fronted the wide deep moat. Even before they entered the great cavernous cell on the ground floor, Athelstan smelt the thick, rancid odour of rotting fish and putrid meat, so dense and cloying it made him gag. The bear keeper, who rejoiced in the name of Artorius, a bulbous-eyed, bald-headed fellow, round as a tub, his unshaven face glistening and reddened from the coarse wine he was enjoying, was at first hostile and surly. However, he was only too willing to take Cranston’s coin and show them what he called his ‘pride and joy’. He raced up the steps on the side of St Thomas’, gave them each a pomander and unlocked the iron-barred door. He beckoned them into the reeking darkness, took a cresset from its holder and began to light a long line of other torches fixed into the wall.
Athelstan could only stare in disbelief. The entire ground floor of St Thomas’ was a huge cavern with a pointed vaulted ceiling. Most of it was taken up by a huge cage: the bars, placed very closely together, were driven into the ground and rose to meet similar poles of the finest steel driven horizontally into the far wall. The flaring flames of the sconce torches shimmered in these. Athelstan noticed how there was a gate built into the cage where the vertical bars had been cut to form a square filled by a thick oaken door so as to allow the keeper to put in food or, if he wanted, enter the cage itself. Athelstan stood, transfixed. Despite the coarse but powerful-smelling pomander drenched
