to the steps leading up to the parapet walk. They stopped at the foot and stared up at the curtain wall rising above them.
‘A terrible fall,’ Athelstan whispered.
‘You said there was a connection?’ Cranston replied testily, ‘between the bell sounding and Mowbray falling.’
‘A mere hypothesis, Sir John. Mowbray went on to the parapet walk. Like many old soldiers he liked to be by himself, to reflect well away from others. He stands there staring into the darkness. He has already received warnings of his own impending doom so is lost in his own thoughts, fears and anxieties. Suddenly the tocsin sounds, proclaiming the greatest fortress in the realm to be under attack.’ Athelstan stared into Sir John’s soulful eyes. ‘If you had been Mowbray, what would you have done? Remember, Sir John,’ Athelstan added slyly, ‘you too are a warrior, a soldier.’
Cranston pushed back the beaverskin hat on his head, scratched his balding pate and pursed his lips as if he was a veritable Alexander. ‘I’d run to find the cause,’ he replied ponderously. ‘Yes, that’s what I’d do.’ He stared at Athelstan. ‘Of course, Mowbray would have done the same, but then what happened? Did he slip? Or was he pushed?’
‘I don’t think he slipped, Mowbray would have been too careful, and I doubt he would have let someone push him off the parapet walk without a struggle.’
‘So how?’
‘I don’t know, Sir John. Let’s study the evidence first.’
They were about to climb the steps when a voice suddenly sang out: ‘Good morrow, friends!’ Red Hand, his gaudy rags fluttering around him, jumped through the slush towards them. ‘Good morrow, Master Coroner. Good morrow, Sir Priest,’ he repeated. ‘Do you like old Red Hand?’
Athelstan saw the chicken struggling in Red Hand’s grip. The poor bird squawked and scrabbled, its claws beating the madman’s stomach, ripping his rags still further, but Red Hand held it firmly by the neck.
‘Death has come again!’ he chanted, his colourless eyes dancing with mischievous glee. ‘The old Red Slayer has returned and more will die. You wait and see. Death will come, snap, like this.’
And before Athelstan or Cranston could do anything, the madman bit into the hen’s neck and tore its throat out. The bird squawked, struggled and lay limp. Red Hand stared up, his mouth ringed with blood, gore and feathers.
‘Slay! Slay! Slay!’ he chanted.
‘Go away!’ Cranston barked. ‘Sod off, you little bugger!’
Red Hand turned and ran, the blood from the freshly killed chicken spraying the greying slush on every side. Cranston watched him disappear behind a wall.
‘In my treatise, Brother,’ he said softly, ‘I will suggest houses for such men. Though I do wonder…’
‘What, Sir John?’
‘Well, if Red Hand is as mad as he claims to be.’
Athelstan shrugged. ‘Who decides who is mad, Sir John?
Red Hand may think he is the only sane man around here.’
They climbed the steep steps, Athelstan going first. Behind him followed Sir John, breathing heavily and muttering a litany of dark curses. The wind whipped their faces; halfway up Athelstan stopped and, stooping, picked up the thick sand mixed with gravel which carpeted every step.
‘This would stop anyone from slipping, Sir John.’
‘Unless he was drunk or careless,’ Cranston replied.
‘Aye, Sir John. A sober soldier is a rarity indeed.’
‘Aye, monk, very rare, but not as rare as a holy priest.’
Athelstan grinned and continued climbing. They reached the parapet walk. It was about four feet wide and as carefully coated with sand and pebbles as the step. They leaned against the curtain wall. Cranston, breathing heavily, looked down, curiously watching the figures below as they scurried around like black ants on the various tasks of the garrison. He then stared up at the blue sky. The clouds were now only faint wisps lit by the strong mid-day sun. The coroner suddenly felt rather giddy and quietly cursed himself for drinking so much.
‘Old age,’ he murmured.
‘Sir John?’
‘In media vitae, sumus in morte,’ Cranston replied. ‘In the midst of life we are in death, Brother. I do not feel too safe here, yet in France when I was younger but not so wise, I held one of these parapet walks against the best the French could send.’ Cranston felt self-pity seep through him. Did Maude also think him old? he wondered. Was that it? Sir John breathed deeply, trying to control the spasm of rage and fear which shot through him. ‘Go on, Athelstan,’ he muttered. ‘Make your careful, bloody study.’
‘Stay there, Sir John,’ Athelstan replied softly. The friar glanced despondently down at the sand and gravel. ‘I suppose so many have been up here since Mowbray’s fall, I doubt we will find anything.’
Athelstan walked gingerly along the parapet, using the crenellated wall as his guide. He walked slowly, not daring to look at the drop on his right and becoming ever more aware of the cold, biting wind and eerie sense of loneliness, as if he hung half way between heaven and earth. On either side of the parapet walk were two towers. Near the Salt Tower he found the gravel-strewn slush had been disturbed, indicating someone had stood there for some time. Athelstan studied this spot for a while.
‘What have you found, Brother?’ Cranston bellowed.
Athelstan walked carefully back.
‘Mowbray stood where I stopped. Now, Sir John, if you go first?’
Cranston went back to the top of the steps. Athelstan followed behind.
‘Go on, Sir John. Stand on the top step.’
Cranston obliged, closing his eyes for he had begun to feel rather dizzy.
‘What is it, Brother?’ he rasped.
Athelstan crouched and stared closely where the sand and gravel had been scattered. ‘I suspect Mowbray fell from here,’ he replied. ‘But why, and how?’ The friar examined the crenellations from which an archer would shoot if the wall was under attack. ‘Strange,’ he murmured. ‘There’s a fresh mark in the wall as if an axe has been swung against it. And look, Sir John.’ Athelstan carefully picked up some splinters of wood. ‘These are fresh.’
Cranston opened his eyes. ‘Yes, Brother, but what do they mean?’
‘I don’t know, but it would appear that someone took an axe and drove it hard against the wall, with such force the stone was marked and the wooden handle of the axe shattered.’
Cranston shook his head in disbelief.
‘What it all means,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘I don’t know. I cannot make the connection between Mowbray’s fall and these fragments of evidence.’ The Dominican looked suspiciously at the white, haggard face of Cranston, the bleary red eyes, and the way he was swaying rather dangerously on the top step. ‘Come on. Sir John,’ he said gently. ‘We are finished here and others await.’
They made their way gingerly down the steps. At the bottom Cranston immediately felt better, turned and beamed at Athelstan.
‘Thank God!’ he bellowed. ‘You don’t do that every day, eh, Brother?’
Thank God, Athelstan thought, you are not in such a mood every day. The friar looked around. The Tower garrison was now busy: soldiers in half-armour lounged on benches. Despite the cold they wished to revel in the sunshine. A few played dice, others shared a wineskin. A scullion ran across with a basket of fresh-cooked meat, taking it to one of the kitchens where it would hang to be cured, diced, salted and stored for the duration of the winter. The clanging from the blacksmith’s rang like a bell through the air, somewhere a child cried, the son or daughter of one of the garrison. In the outer bailey an officer was shouting orders about a gate being oiled. A dog barked and they heard laughter from the kitchens. Athelstan smiled and relaxed.
He must not forget the small things of life, he concluded, they kept you sane. He linked his arm through Sir John’s and they ambled across Tower Green, making their way carefully through the soft, dirty slush, alert for the icy patches which hadn’t thawed. A guard ushered them into the Beauchamp Tower and up into Mistress Philippa’s chamber on the second floor. It was a spacious room with a deep bay window overlooking Tower Green. The seats were cushioned and quilted, the windows glazed with fragments of stained glass. As soon as he entered, Athelstan sensed it was a woman’s chamber hand-woven tapestries hung on the walls, one depicting a golden dragon locked
