a maid scurried up with a jug of steaming gravy in which the bird had been cooked. Sir John grinned his thanks, took his own pewter spoon from his wallet, drew his dagger and set to as if he hadn’t eaten for days. Athelstan watched in astonishment: Sir John’s permanent hunger always fascinated him. A slattern brought his own meal, a thickly spiced bowl of soup. Athelstan asked to borrow a pewter spoon and ate slowly.
‘They’ve forgotten the bread,’ Sir John grumbled.
Athelstan called the girl back and small, fresh white loaves, wrapped in a linen cloth, were immediately served. Whilst he ate Athelstan reflected on what they had discussed. He waited a while until Sir John had taken the edge off his appetite.
There is one matter we have overlooked.
‘What’s that?’ Cranston mumbled, his mouth full of food.
‘Horne’s murderer means the assassin knows us or why should he send such a grisly trophy to your house?’
‘Because the bastard’s mad!’
‘No, no, Sir John. It’s meant as a warning. This murderer sees himself as doing God’s work. He is sending a message: Keep well away until my work is done. Don’t interfere.’ Athelstan lowered his spoon. ‘Such a terrible thing,’ he whispered. ‘A man’s genitals hacked off and stuffed into the mouth of his decapitated head. Of course,’ he continued, ‘Fitzormonde mentioned that.’
‘What?’
‘Well, how the Caliph of Egypt would punish in such a way anybody who transgressed his command. The head and genitals hacked off and both exposed above the city gates in Alexandria. It’s obvious. Sir John,’ he continued, ‘our murderer must be someone who has lived in Outremer, someone who knows about the Hashishoni — the flat sesame seed cake, and that awful way of humiliating the corpse of an executed criminal.’
Cranston lowered his knife. ‘But who is the murderer, Brother?’
‘I don’t know, Sir John, but I think we should re-visit the Tower and speak to our group of suspects.’
‘And then?’
‘We go to Woodforde.’
Cranston groaned.
‘Sir John,’ Athelstan persisted, ‘it’s not far — a few miles through Aldgate and down the Mile End Road. We must find out if Burghgesh ever returned and what happened to his son. Moreover,’ he continued, ‘perhaps it may give you some time to reflect on the Lady Maude.’
Cranston jabbed the point of his knife into a piece of soft meat, mumbled his assent and continued to eat as if his very life depended upon it.
CHAPTER 10
Athelstan and Cranston finished their meal and crossed London Bridge. Beneath them the water moved black and sluggish and they heard chunks of ice crashing against the starlings which protected the wooden arches from the fury of the Thames. They passed through Billingsgate. The air stank with the odour from the stalls, now freshly stocked with herring, cod, tench and even pike as the fishing fleets took advantage of a break in the weather.
The Tower was all abustle when they arrived. Like any good soldier, Colebrooke had the garrison working to break the tedium caused by the freezing weather, as well as to take his own mind off the recent murders. The lieutenant was standing on Tower Green, shouting orders at workmen who were refurbishing mangonels, scorpions and the great battering rams. A number of archers stood ankle-deep in the slush, practising at the butts, whilst others were being mercilessly drilled by the Serjeants. Athelstan vaguely remembered rumours about how, in the spring, the French might attack the Channel ports and even force their way up the Thames to plunder and burn the city.
Colebrooke’s displeasure at seeing Cranston and Athelstan was more than apparent.
‘You have found the murderers?’ he yelled.
‘No, Master Lieutenant!’ Cranston bellowed back. ‘But we will. And, when we do, you can build the gallows.’
Cranston stepped aside as a butcher and two fletchers rolled barrels of salted pork down to the store house. The coroner wrinkled his nose. Despite the heavy spices and thick white salt, the pork smelt rancid and his gorge rose as he saw insects crawling out from under the rim of the barrel. He quietly vowed not to accept any food from the Tower buttery or kitchens. Colebrooke, seeing his visitors would not be deterred, turned away to issue further orders. Athelstan took advantage of the delay to walk over to where the bear, squatting in its own filth, was busy plundering a mound of refuse piled high before him. The madman, Red Hand, sat like an elf fascinated by the great beast
‘You are content, Red Hand?’ Athelstan asked softly.
The man grimaced, waving his hands in the air as if mimicking the bear. Athelstan crouched down beside him.
‘You like the bear, Red Hand?’
The fellow nodded, his eyes intent on the bear.
‘So does the knight,’ Red Hand slurred and Athelstan caught the stench of wine fumes on his breath.
‘Which knight?’
‘The one with the cross.’
‘You mean Fitzormonde?’
‘Yes, yes, Fitzormonde. He often comes to stare. Red Hand likes Fitzormonde. Red Hand likes the bear. Red Hand does not like Colebrooke. Colebrooke would kill Red Hand.’
‘Did you like Burghgesh?’ Athelstan asked quickly. He caught the gleam of recognition in the madman’s eyes. ‘You knew him,’ Athelstan continued. ‘As a young soldier, he once served here.’
Red Hand looked away.
‘Surely you remember?’ Athelstan persisted.
The madman shook his head and stared at the bear but Athelstan saw him blink away the tears which pricked his madcap eyes. The friar sighed and rose, dusting the wet ice from his robe.
‘Brother Athelstan!’ Cranston barked. ‘Master Colebrooke is a busy man. He says he cannot waste the day whilst you converse with a madman.’
‘Master Colebrooke should realise,’ Athelstan replied, ‘that it is a matter of opinion, as well as the judgment of God, who is sane and who is mad.’
‘Father, I mean no offence,’ Colebrooke answered, taking off his conical helmet and cradling it in his arms. ‘But I have a garrison to command. I will do what you want.’
Athelstan smiled. ‘Good! Mowbray’s body, where does it lie?’
Colebrooke pointed to the Chapel of St Peter ad Vincula. ‘Before the chancel screen. Tomorrow it will be buried in the cemetery of All Hallows church.’
‘Is it coffined?’
‘No. no.’
‘Good, I wish to see the corpse, and after that My Lord Coroner and I would like to speak with all those affected by Sir Ralph’s death.’
Colebrooke groaned.
‘We are here on the Regent’s authority,’ Athelstan interrupted. ‘When these matters are finished, Master Lieutenant, shall report on the support, or lack of it, we have had in our investigation. We will meet the group in St John’s Chapel.’
Colebrooke forced a smile and hurried off, shouting at his soldiers to search out Sir Fulke and others. Cranston and Athelstan walked over to St Peter’s. The church was a dour, sombre place, cold and dank. The nave was shaped like a box, with rounded pillars guarding darkened aisles.
At the top a small rose window afforded some light. The chancel screen was of polished oak and before it, surrounded by a ring of candles, lay the corpses of Sir Ralph Whitton and Sir Gerard Mowbray. The embalmers had done what they could but, even as they walked up the nave, both Cranston and Athelstan caught the whiff of
