Tower?’
‘Two weeks,’ Fitzormonde replied. ‘We come every year.’
‘It’s a ritual,’ Mowbray added, ‘ever since we served with Sir Ralph in Egypt. We met to discuss old times.’
‘So you were close friends of Sir Ralph?’
‘In a sense. Colleagues, veterans from old wars.’ Mowbray stroked his evenly clipped beard. ‘But, I’ll be honest with you, Sir Ralph was a man more feared and respected than loved.’
Athelstan picked up the yellowing piece of parchment and thrust it at them.
‘Do you know what this drawing means or the significance of the seed cake?’
Both knights shook their heads but Athelstan was sure they were lying. He leaned forward. ‘Why?’ he whispered. ‘Why should Sir Ralph be so terrified of this?’ He stared slowly round the rest of the group.
‘A cup of sack!’ Cranston muttered thickly.
‘Who found this?’ Athelstan quickly asked.
Sir Fulke pointed to Rastani who sat with his dark face fearful and anxious. Athelstan leaned forward. ‘What does this mean, Rastani?’
The eyes stared blankly back.
‘Where did you find it?’
The fellow suddenly made strange gestures with his fingers.
‘He can hear but not speak,’ Philippa reminded the friar.
Fascinated Athelstan watched the strange hand signs which Philippa translated for him.
‘He found it on a table in my father’s chamber,’ she announced. ‘Four days ago. Early on the morning of the ninth of December — that and the hard-baked seed cake.’
Athelstan caught and held Rastani’s glance.
‘You were a faithful servant to Sir Ralph?’
The man nodded in response.
‘Why didn’t you move with your master to the North Bastion?’ Athelstan continued.
The fellow’s mouth opened and shut like a landed carp’s.
‘I can answer that,’ Philippa said. ‘When the message was received, my father distanced himself from Rastani, though God knows why.’ She gently stroked the man’s hand. ‘As I have said, Father became strange. Even I did not recognise him from his actions.’
Cranston smacked his lips and suddenly stirred.
‘Yes, yes, very good!’ he bawled. ‘But did any of you approach the North Bastion Tower the night Sir Ralph was killed?’
A series of firm denials greeted his question.
‘So you can all account for your movements?’
‘I can,’ the kinsman spoke up. ‘Rastani and I were out of the Tower. We were sent to buy stores from a merchant in Cripplegate. Or, at least, that’s where the warehouse is. You can ask Master Christopher Manley in Heyward Lane near All Hallows.’
‘That’s near the Tower?’
‘Yes, it is, Sir John.’
‘And when did you leave?’
‘Before dinner, and did not return until after Prime this morning when we heard of Sir Ralph’s death. Rastani and I can vouch for each other. If you doubt that, speak to Master Manley. He saw us take lodgings at a tavern in Muswell Street.’
Sir John rose and stretched.
‘Well, well! Now my clerk and I,’ he trumpeted, ‘would like to question each of you alone. Though,’ he smiled at the girl, ‘Mistress Philippa and Geoffrey had best stay together. Master Colebrooke, there’s a chamber below. Perhaps our guests could wait there?’
There were mumbled protests and groans but Cranston, refreshed after his nap, glared round beneath thick furrowed brows. Led by Colebrooke, all left except for Philippa and Geoffrey.
‘Your chamber, Master Geoffrey?’ Athelstan asked. ‘Where is it?’
‘Above the gatehouse.’
‘And you stayed there all night?’
The young man smiled weakly. ‘You’re a perceptive man, Sir John. That’s why you asked me to stay, I suppose? I spent the night with Philippa.’
The girl looked away, blushing. Cranston smiled and tapped the man gently on the shoulder. ‘Why did you not rouse Sir Ralph yourself?’
The young man rubbed his eyes. ‘As I have said before, I didn’t have a key and, God be my witness, I knew there was something wrong. The corridor was cold, with no sound from Sir Ralph’s chamber.’ He smiled bleakly at Athelstan. ‘I am not the bravest of men, I’ll be honest I did not like Sir Ralph using me as a page boy but he distrusted the others.’
‘You mean Colebrooke and the rest?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
Cranston stared at Philippa. ‘Had your father been in such dark spirits before?’
‘Yes, about three years ago, just before Christmas. But it passed when he met his companions, as was their custom, and supped at the Golden Mitre.’
‘Who were your father’s companions?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Well, the two hospitallers, Sir Gerard Mowbray and Sir Brian Fitzormonde, and Sir Adam Home — he’s a merchant in the city.’
‘Did these include all your father’s comrades-in-arms?’
‘Oh, there was someone called Bartholomew. Bartholomew…’ the girl repeated, biting her lip ‘… Burghgesh, I believe. But he never came.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know.’ She half laughed. ‘I think he’s dead.’ ‘Why did your father insist on meeting his friends every year just before Christmas?’
‘I don’t know. Some pact they made a long time ago.’
Athelstan scrutinised the girl carefully. He was sure she was hiding something. ‘Tell me,’ he said, changing tack, ‘is there more than one postern gate on to the moat?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Philippa replied. ‘Quite a number.’
Athelstan glanced at Cranston, ‘My Lord Coroner, do you have any questions?’
‘No,’ Sir John replied. ‘Enough is enough! Ask Master William Hammond to come in.’
The priest entered in a surly, disgruntled way, biting his thumb nail to the quick as he gave curt answers to Athelstan’s questions. Yes, he had been in the fortress that evening, but in his chamber in the Beauchamp Tower near the Church of St Peter ad Vincula.
The two hospitaller knights were more courteous but equally adamant. They had chambers in Martin Tower and spent most of the evening drinking or trying their hand at chess.
‘I assure you, Sir John,’ Mowbray rasped, ‘we can hardly find our way around the Tower in the full light of day, never mind on a freezing winter’s night.’
‘But you know what this means, don’t you?’ Athelstan accused, picking up the piece of yellow parchment.
‘By heaven, we do not!’ Fitzormonde replied.
‘Sir,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘I think you do, as you also know about the seed cake.’
The two hospitallers shook their heads.
‘Oh, come,’ Athelstan continued. ‘Let’s not be coy. You are monks and knights. Your Order fights for the cross in Outremer. My Order, too, has brothers who serve there. They bring back tales which they relate over the dinner table at Blackfriars.’
‘What tales?’ Mowbray challenged.
‘How in the mountains of Palestine live a secret sect of infidels called the Assassins, ruled by a chieftain called the Old Man of the Mountain. This coven deals in secret assassination. They are fed on drugs and despatched
