Athelstan touched Rastani’s hand which was as cold as ice. The friar gazed into his liquid dark eyes. The man was terrified, but of what? Detection? Discovery?
‘Where were you, Rastani?’ Athelstan asked.
Beside him, Philippa made strange gestures with her fingers and Rastani replied in the same sign language.
‘He says he was freezing cold,’ Philippa explained. ‘And stayed in my father’s old chamber in the White Tower.’
‘He’s silent-footed as a cat,’ Cranston observed. ‘He could creep round this fortress and no one would notice.’
‘What are you implying, Sir John?’ Philippa snapped.
‘Rastani could have rung the bell.’
‘How on earth could he have done that when there were no footprints?’ Geoffrey mocked, moving to stand beside Philippa.
Cranston smiled. ‘A snowball?’
Colebrooke snorted with laughter. ‘I have told you, Sir John, the area around the bell could be seen by sentries. They saw no one approach.’
Cranston sniffed loudly and looked longingly at his now empty wine goblet
‘Before you continue, Sir John,’ Fitzormonde spoke up, ‘and you start speculating on where I was, all I can say is that I was in my own chamber but no one saw me there.’ He glared fiercely at Cranston. ‘However, I am a priest, a knight and a gentleman. I am not a liar!
‘Why did you stay there, Sir Brian?’ Athelstan tactfully interrupted.
Sir Brian shrugged. ‘I was frightened. I, too, have received a letter of death.’ He drew out a piece of parchment from beneath his cloak and Cranston almost snatched it from his hand.
The hospitaller was right. The same sketch Sir Ralph Whitton and Mowbray had received: a crudely drawn ship in full sail and, in each corner, a small black cross.
‘I also had the seed cake,’ Fitzormonde murmured. ‘But I threw it away.’
‘When Mowbray fell,’ Cranston suddenly asked, ‘did anyone else inspect the parapet?’
‘I, Fitzormonde and Colebrooke did,’ Fulke replied. ‘When the tocsin sounded we all left this room. The hospitaller was with us when Mowbray’s body was found. Our young gallant here,’ he waved his hand contemptuously at Geoffrey, ‘was asked to accompany us to the parapet but it’s well known he’s terrified of heights.’
Geoffrey flushed with embarrassment and looked away.
‘Uncle!’ Philippa murmured. ‘That’s not fair.’
‘What’s not fair,’ Cranston interrupted, ‘is that we know so little about last night Mistress Philippa, what time did your guests assemble?’
‘Oh, just after Vespers, about eight o’clock.’
‘And all except Rastani and the hospitaller came?’
‘Yes, yes, that’s correct.’
Cranston turned to the hospitaller. ‘And where did you say you were?’
‘In my chamber.’
‘And Mowbray?’
‘On the parapet walk.’
‘So,’ Cranston heaved a sigh, ‘as Mowbray brooded, the rest of you except Fitzormonde gathered here?’
‘Yes.’
‘And how long till the tocsin sounded?’
‘About two to three hours.’
‘And no one left?’
‘Only Colebrooke on his round and others to the privy, but that’s along the passageway.’ The girl smiled wanly.
‘We all drank deep.’
Athelstan raised a hand. ‘Never mind that.’ The friar, snatching the parchment from Cranston’s hand, went and stood over the hospitaller. Athelstan pushed the drawing under the knight’s face. ‘Sir Brian, what does this mean?’
The knight looked away.
‘Sir Brian Fitzormonde,’ Athelstan repeated, ‘soon you will appear before God’s tribunal. I ask you, on your oath as a knight, what does this parchment signify?’
The hospitaller glanced up with his red-rimmed eyes in a drawn, pale face. Athelstan felt he was looking at a man already under the shadow of Death’s soft, black wing. The friar leaned closer until he could see the small red veins in the knight’s eyes and the grey, dusty pallor of his cheeks. Fitzormonde was probably a brave man but Athelstan could almost taste the stench of fear which emanated from him.
‘On your oath to Christ,’ Athelstan whispered, ‘tell me the truth.’
Sir Brian suddenly lifted his face and whispered in Athelstan’s ear. The Dominican stood back in surprise but then nodded.
‘What did he say?’ Cranston barked.
‘Later, Sir John.’ Athelstan turned to the rest of the group. ‘What did happen here last night?’ he asked, trying to divert the conversation.
Sir Fulke, his face now suffused with his usual false bonhomie, leaned forward. ‘My niece,’ he said, ‘wished to thank us for our kindness following the death of Sir Ralph. We sat and dined like a group of friends. We talked of old times and what might happen in the future.’
‘And no one left?’
‘Not until the tocsin sounded.’
‘No, Sir Fulke,’ Geoffrey interrupted. ‘Remember, you drank deeply.’ He smiled falsely. ‘Perhaps too deeply to remember. The priest left.’ Geoffrey pointed to where the chaplain, William Hammond, dressed like a crow, sat perched on his stool near the fire. ‘Don’t you remember, Father, you left?’
‘I went back to my room,’ the chaplain announced. ‘I had a gift of some wine.’ He glared maliciously at Geoffrey and then at Colebrooke. ‘A parishioner gave it to me. It’s not from the Tower stores if that’s what you’re thinking.’ He shrugged. ‘Yes, I too drank deeply and I was unsteady and slow in returning. I was about to re-enter Beauchamp Tower when the bell began to toll.’
‘What happened then?’ Athelstan asked. He glanced at Colebrooke and realised the lieutenant had told them little of his own movements. ‘Well, Lieutenant?’ Athelstan repeated. ‘What did happen?’
‘Well, the bell tolled. I and the others left Mistress Philippa. The garrison was roused and all gates were checked. We then scattered, trying to find what was wrong. Fitzormonde discovered Mowbray’s body, we joined him then Master Parchmeiner came. We examined the corpse and I went up on to the parapet.’
‘And?’ Cranston barked.
‘I found nothing. We were more concerned that the tocsin had been sounded.’
‘But you found no trace of the bell-ringer?’ Athelstan asked.
‘No, I have told you that.’
Athelstan gazed round in desperation. How, he wondered, could a bell ring and no one be seen pulling it? Or, indeed, any trace of someone being near the bell? What did happen? And how could the bell ringer run undetected across the Tower to arrange Mowbray’s fall? Athelstan drew a deep breath.
‘Where is Mowbray’s body now?’
‘It’s already sheeted,’ Philippa replied. ‘It lies in its coffin before the chancel screen in the Chapel of St Peter ad Vincula.’
‘And I will join him there,’ Fitzormonde murmured. He looked up and smiled wanly. ‘Oh, yes, I have the mark of death upon me.’
His statement hung like an arrow in the air, just before it turns and begins its fatal descent.
Athelstan whirled round as a loud snore from Cranston broke the silence. He heard Geoffrey giggle, even white-faced Philippa smiled, the chaplain grinned sourly whilst Fulke snorted with laughter.
‘Sir John has many problems to exhaust him,’ Athelstan announced. ‘Mistress Philippa, may we be your
