his sudden return, either from abroad or beyond the grave, so I let the matter rest.’
‘Father,’ Athelstan persisted, ‘please, when was this? Three or four years ago?’
The priest stared into the fire.
‘Yes, three years ago,’ he replied. ‘But,’ he smiled, ‘I can tell you no more.’
Cranston leaned forward and clasped Father Peter by the wrist
‘Father, your hospitality is only matched by the value of what you have told us.’ The coroner glanced at Athelstan and smiled. ‘Come, Brother, it’s not yet noon. If we travel hard and fast, we can be back in the city before nightfall.’ He looked across at Father Peter. ‘I thank you for your hospitality, Father.’ He turned and tossed a penny at the lad still squatting in the corner. ‘You, boy, will either make a good squire or a merchant.’
They rose, gathered their cloaks, and within the hour were clear of Woodforde. They journeyed through Leighton, past the grisly scaffold with the freshly dug makeshift grave still visible at its foot, and back on to the Mile End Road. Cranston, who had stopped at a local tavern to refill his miraculous wineskin, was full of chatter and speculation.
‘It’s possible, Brother,’ he boomed for the umpteenth time, his bewhiskered lips red from the juice of the grape, ‘quite possible that Sir Bartholomew is still alive and hiding in or near the Tower to carry out his silent war of revenge.’
‘Sir John,’ Athelstan replied, ‘I would agree, but where would Burghgesh hide? Is he a member of the garrison? A kitchen scullion? Some tradesman who has the right of access?’
Cranston made a rude noise with his lips.
‘Or,’ Athelstan continued, ‘does Sir Bartholomew squat like some dark spider in the city whilst others carry out his dreadful commands?’
Cranston reined in his horse.
‘Strange, mind you,’ he murmured.
‘What?’
‘Well, three years ago Whitton was disturbed, agitated, as if he had seen a ghost. At the same time, Brother, a cowled and hooded figure was seen in the tavern near the Tower, and the same person, probably Burghgesh, also seen in Woodforde.’
‘You’re saying Whitton’s agitation was caused by Burghgesh’s reappearance?’
‘Of course.’
‘But, if that is so, what has happened to Burghgesh since?’
He and Cranston were still arguing rival theories when they reached Aldgate long after dark and made their way through a small postern door in the city gate. Cranston, full of wine and his own theories, was now certain they had grasped the truth. Athelstan did not demur. At least, he concluded, their journey to Woodforde had diverted the coroner’s mind from his constant agonising over the Lady Maude’s mysterious conduct.
As Athelstan and Cranston made their way back into the city, the hospitaller, Fitzormonde, was standing in the bailey of the Tower, staring at the huge bear now stuffing its cruel mouth with scraps from the Tower kitchen. Like Athelstan, Fitzormonde was fascinated by the beast and secretly admired the madcap Red Hand who was the only man who dared approach the animal. Fitzormonde, despite his travels, had never seen such a huge beast. Most bears were small and black, sometimes no higher than a man, but this great, shaggy-furred animal reminded him of stories he had heard from knights who had served with the Teutonic Orders in the wild black forests of the north. How they had seen deer twice the size of anything in England and bears such as this one, which would crush a horse in its huge, muscular arms.
The bear suddenly stopped eating and glared at the knight, its small, piggy eyes red with hatred. It opened its mouth, growling deep in its throat in a display of wickedly sharp teeth. The huge beast strained at the great iron chain clasped to the collar round its neck. Fitzormonde stepped away and the bear went back to its meal, shuffling its food into a dirty untidy pile as if it suspected Fitzormonde would like to take it away. The knight stamped his feet to keep warm. Tomorrow, he thought, he would leave the Tower. He had already said as much to Mistress Philippa when he had met her and her rather effeminate betrothed.
Fitzormonde gazed up at the cruel gargoyle faces on the Chapel of St Peter ad Vincula. Yes, he thought, tomorrow, he would pay the chaplain to sing one last Mass for his fallen comrades then go back into the city and request from his superiors some mission or task well away from this benighted fortress.
He started as he heard a whirring noise in the air. He looked up. A raven? No, what was it? The hospitaller suddenly stepped back in panic as the bear sprang into life, towering above him, its great paws clawing the air. The bear roared at him with fury, its black muzzle and huge jaws covered in a thick white froth. Fitzormonde’s hand went to his dagger as the bear danced like a demon, pulling at the great chain clasped in the wall. What was wrong with the animal? What had happened?
Fitzormonde made to run but, even as he turned, heard the great iron chain spring loose and saw the bear rush towards him. He tugged at his knife but had it only half-drawn when the huge taloned paw of the bear smashed his head as if it was a rotten apple. Roaring with fury, the bear dug his claws into the dying knight’s unprotected back and dragged him across the cobbles, bellows of rage proclaiming its triumph.
CHAPTER 12
Athelstan was furious. He felt the anger burn his innards until his heart pounded and the blood throbbed in his head. For a moment, the friar didn’t give a damn about anything — the teaching of his Order to be gentle or the precepts of the gospels about kindness. All that mattered was the anger raging within him as he stood in the cemetery outside St Erconwald’s church. The snow had now turned into an icy, grey slush which dripped off graves, trees, bushes and the low cemetery wall as the thaw continued under clear skies and a weak wintry sun. Athelstan cursed, using every filthy oath he had learnt from Cranston. He beat the staff he held against the loose brick, furious enough to grind the rock into sand.
Oh, he had found everything in order on his return: Bonaventura, asleep and well, curled up in the church like some fat bishop as Cecily cleaned and swept the nave. Benedicta and Watkin had set up the crib in one of the aisles, using figures carved by Huddle. The painter had also finished a vivid picture of Christ in the manger, just above the baptismal font inside the church door. Even Ursula’s pig had resisted its usual forays into his garden, and Pike the ditcher had cleared the gravel-strewn path in front of the church.
Athelstan had pronounced himself satisfied and chattered about parochial matters as he stabled, watered and fed Philomel. But even then he had sensed the anxiety in the faces of those who had come to welcome him: Benedicta, Pike, Watkin, Cecily, and Tab the tinker. They had followed him around the church, answering his questions whilst exchanging secretive, anxious glances.
At first Athelstan dismissed their concern as some petty matter. Had Cecily been flirting again, or one of Pike the ditcher’s sons peed in the church? Perhaps Ranulf borrowed Bonaventure or Watkin’s children had been drinking from the holy water stoup? The members of his parish council had fussed round him like noisy chickens. At last, just before he locked the church, Athelstan tired of their secrecy.
‘Come on!’ he demanded, confronting them. ‘What has happened?’
They shuffled their feet and looked away. Benedicta suddenly became concerned about an apparent spot on her gown.
‘It’s the cemetery, Father!’ Watkin blurted out. ‘Tosspot’s grave has been disturbed.’
‘When?’
‘The night you left.’
Athelstan had been so angry he’d used language which made even Pike the ditcher’s face blanch.
‘Perhaps Sir John will do something now,’ Benedicta tactfully intervened. ‘Or maybe if we make an appeal to the Alderman of the Ward?’
‘Aye!’ Athelstan rasped. ‘And perhaps pigs will fly and we’ll find pork in the trees tomorrow morning. The people who do this terrible thing are bastards! They are wicked and fear neither God nor man. Even the pagans honour the corpse of a dead man. Not even a dog would do this!’
His parishioners had withdrawn, more frightened of their gentle parish priest’s terrible rage than the dreadful news they had brought. Athelstan had stormed off to his house and drunk a cup of wine with a speed Cranston
