House of the Red Slayer

CHAPTER 3

Athelstan and Cranston followed Colebrooke around the half-timbered sheds and outbuildings, under the archway of the inner curtain wall and across the frozen yard to a huge tower which bulged out over the moat. He stopped and pointed.

‘There are dungeons beneath ground level, and above them steps leading to the upper tier which has one chamber.’ He shrugged. ‘That’s where Sir Ralph died.’

‘Was murdered!’ Cranston interrupted.

‘Are there other chambers?’ Athelstan asked.

‘There used to be a second tier but the doorway was sealed off.’

Athelstan looked up at the snow-capped crenellations and drew in his breath quickly.

‘A tower of silence,’ he murmured. ‘A bleak place to die.’

They walked up the steps. Inside two guards squatted on stools round a brazier. Colebrooke nodded at them. They climbed another steep staircase, pulled back the half-open door, and a dark, musty passageway stretched before them. Quietly cursing to himself, Colebrooke took a tinder from a stone shelf and the sconce torches flared into life. They walked along the cold corridor. Athelstan noticed the pile of fallen masonry, loose bricks and shale which sealed off the former entrance to the upper storey. Colebrooke searched amongst some keys he had brought out from beneath his cloak, opened the door and, with a half-mocking gesture, waved Athelstan and Cranston inside.

The chamber was a stone-vaulted room. The first impression was one of brooding greyness. No hangings or tapestries on the walls, nothing except the gaunt figure of a dying Christ on a black, wooden crucifix. Pride of place was given to a huge four-poster bed, its begrimed, tawny curtains tightly closed. There was a table, stools and three or four wooden pegs driven into the wall next to the bed. A cloak, heavy jerkin and broad leather sword belt still hung there. On the other side of the bed stood a wooden lavarium with a cracked pewter bowl and jug over which a soiled napkin had been placed. A small hooded fireplace would have afforded some warmth but only cold powdery ash lay there. A brazier full of half-burnt charcoal stood forlornly in the centre of the room. Athelstan was sure it was colder in here than outside. Cranston snapped his fingers at the open shutters.

‘By the Devil’s tits, man!’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s freezing!’

‘We left things as we found them, my Lord Coroner,’ Colebrooke snapped back.

Athelstan nodded towards the window. ‘Is that where the assassin is supposed to have climbed in?’

He stared at the huge diamond-shaped opening.

‘It could have been the only way,’ Colebrooke muttered, going across and slamming the shutters firmly together. Athelstan stared round the room. He recognized the fetid stench of death and noticed with distaste the soiled rushes on the floor and the cracked chamber pot full of night stools and urine.

‘By the sod!’ Cranston barked, tapping it with his boot. ‘Get that removed or the place will stink like a plague pit!’

The coroner crossed to the bed and pulled the curtains back. Athelstan took one look and stepped away in horror. The corpse sprawled there, white and bloodless against the grimy bolsters and sheets; rigid hands still clutched the blood-soaked bedcovers and the man’s head was thrust back, face contorted in the rictus of death. The heavy-lidded eyes of the corpse were half-open and seemed to be staring down at the terrible slash which ran from one ear to the other. The blood had poured out like wine from a cracked barrel and lay in a thick congealed mess across the dead man’s chest and bedclothes. Athelstan pulled the sheets back and gazed at the half-naked, white body.

‘The cause of death,’ he muttered, ‘is obvious. No other wounds or bruise marks.’ He silently made the sign of the cross over the corpse and stepped back.

Colebrooke wisely stood well away. ‘Sir Ralph feared such a death,’ he murmured.

‘When did this fear begin?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Oh, three to four days ago.’

‘Why?’ Cranston queried. ‘What did Sir Ralph fear?’

Colebrooke shrugged. ‘God knows! Perhaps his daughter or kinsman will tell you that. All I know is that before he died, Sir Ralph believed the Angel of Death stood at his elbow.’

Cranston walked across to the window, pulled back the shutters and leaned out into the chill air.

‘A sheer drop,’ he commented, drawing himself back, much to Athelstan’s relief. He alone realized how much the good coroner had drunk. Cranston slammed the shutters closed.

‘Who would make such a climb at the dead of night and in the depths of winter?’

‘Oh, there are steps cut in the wall,’ Colebrooke answered smugly. ‘Although few people know they are there.’

‘Why?’ Athelstan asked.

‘They’re really just footholds,’ Colebrooke answered. ‘A precaution of the mason who built the tower. If anyone fell in the moat, they could climb out.’

‘So,’ Cranston mumbled, slumping down on to the stool and wiping his forehead, ‘you are saying someone, probably a soldier or paid assassin, used these footholds and climbed to the window.’ He turned and looked at the shutters. ‘According to you,’ the coroner continued, ‘the killer prized a dagger through the crack to lift the catch, got in, and slashed Sir Ralph’s throat.’

Colebrooke nodded slowly. ‘I suppose so, Sir John.’

‘And I suppose,’ Cranston added sarcastically, ‘Sir Ralph just allowed his assassin entry, didn’t even get out of his bed but lay back like a lamb and allowed his throat to be cut?’

Colebrooke went across to the shutters, and, pushing the wooden clasp back into place, locked them shut. He then took out his dagger, slid it into the crack between the shutters and gently levered the clasp open. He drew the shutters wide, turned and smiled at Cranston.

‘It can be done, my Lord Coroner,’ he observed daily.

‘The assassin, quiet-footed, crossed the chamber. It only takes seconds to cut a man’s throat, especially someone who has drunk deeply.’

Athelstan reflected on what the lieutenant had said. It did make sense. Both he and Cranston knew about the Nightshades, robbers who could enter a house under cover of darkness and plunder it beneath the sleeping noses of burgesses, wives, children, and even dogs. Why should this be any different? Athelstan studied the chamber carefully; the heavy granite walls, the stone-vaulted ceiling and cold rag stone floor beneath the rushes.

‘No, Brother!’ Colebrooke called out as if reading the friar’s thoughts. ‘No secret passageways exist. There are two ways to enter this chamber — by the window or by the door. However, there were guards in the lower chamber, we passed them as we came up, and the upper storey is blocked off by a fall of masonry.’

‘Were any traces of blood found?’ Athelstan asked. He saw the lieutenant smirk and glance sideways at the gory corpse sprawled on the bed. ‘No,’ Athelstan continued crossly, ‘I mean elsewhere. Near the window or the door. When the assassin walked away, his knife or sword must have been coated with blood.’

Colebrooke shook his head. ‘Look for yourself, Brother. I found no trace.’

Athelstan glanced despairingly at Cranston who now sat like a sagging sack on the stool, eyes half-closed after his morning’s heavy drinking and vigorous exertions in the cold. The friar conducted his search thoroughly: the bedclothes and corpse were soaked in dried blood but he found no traces near the window, in the rushes or around the door.

‘Did you find anything else disturbed?’

Colebrooke shook his head. Cranston suddenly stirred himself.

‘Why did Sir Ralph come here?’ he asked abruptly. ‘These were not his usual chambers.’

‘He thought he would be safe. The North Bastion is one of the most inaccessible in the fortress. The constable’s usual lodgings are in the royal apartments in the White Tower.’

‘And he was safe,’ Athelstan concluded, ‘until the moat froze over.’

‘Yes,’ Colebrooke replied. ‘Neither I nor anyone else thought of that.’

‘Wouldn’t an assassin be seen?’ Cranston interrupted.

‘I doubt it, Sir John. At the dead of night, the Tower is shrouded in darkness. There were no guards on the North Bastion, whilst those on the curtain wall would spend most of their time trying to keep warm.’

‘So,’ Cranston narrowed his eyes, ‘before we meet the others, let’s establish the sequence of events.’

‘Sir Ralph dined in the great hall and drank deeply. Geoffrey Parchmeiner and the two guards escorted him over here. The latter searched this chamber, the passageway and the room below. All was in good order.’

‘Then what?’

‘Sir Ralph secured the door behind him. The guards outside heard that. They escorted Geoffrey out of the passageway, locked the door at the far end and began their vigil. They were at their posts all night and noticed nothing untoward. Neither did I on my usual nightly rounds.’

Athelstan held up his hand. ‘This business of the keys?’

‘Sir Ralph had a key to his own chamber, as did the guards, on a key ring below.’

‘And the door at the end of that passage?’

‘Again, both Sir Ralph and the guard had a key. You will see them when you go below, hanging from pegs driven into the wall.’

‘Go on, Lieutenant, what happened then?’

‘Just after Prime this morning, Geoffrey Parchmeiner…’

The lieutenant looked slyly at Athelstan. ‘You have met him? The beloved prospective son-in-law? Well, he came across to waken Sir Ralph.’

‘Why Geoffrey?’

‘Sir Ralph trusted him.’

‘Did he bring food or drink?’

‘No. He wanted to, but because of the cold weather Sir Ralph said he wished to be aroused with Geoffrey in attendance. They would plan the day, and breakfast with the rest of the company in the hall.’

‘Continue,’ Cranston blurted crossly, stamping his feet against the cold.

‘Well, the guards led Geoffrey up the stairs, let him through the passageway door and locked it behind him. They heard him go down the corridor, knock on the door and shout, but Sir Ralph could not be roused. After a while Geoffrey came back. “Sir Ralph cannot be woken,” he proclaimed.’ Colebrooke stopped, scratched his head and closed his eyes in an attempt to recall events. ‘Geoffrey took the key to Sir Ralph’s chamber from the peg but changed his mind and came for me. I was in the great hall. I hurried here, collected the keys and unlocked the door.’ The lieutenant gestured towards the bed. ‘We found Sir Ralph as you did.’

‘And the shutters were open?’ Cranston asked.

‘Yes.’

‘How long has the moat been frozen solid?’ Athelstan queried.

‘About three days.’ Colebrooke rubbed his hands together vigorously. ‘Surely, Sir John, we need not stay here?’ he pleaded. ‘There are warmer places to ask such questions.’

Cranston stood and stretched.

‘In a little while,’ he murmured. ‘How long had Sir Ralph been constable?’

‘Oh, about four years.’

‘Did you like him?’

‘No, I did not. He was a martinet, a stickler for discipline — except where his daughter or her lover were concerned.’

Cranston nodded and went back to look at the corpse. ‘I suppose,’ he muttered, ‘there’s no sign of any murder weapon? Perhaps, Athelstan, you could check again?’

The friar groaned, but with Colebrooke’s help carried out a quick survey of the room, raking back the rushes with their feet, sifting amongst the cold ash in the fireplace.

‘Nothing,’ Colebrooke declared. ‘It would be hard to hide a pin here.’

Athelstan went across and pulled the sword from Sir Ralph’s sword belt. ‘There are no blood stains here,’ he commented. ‘Not a jot, not a speck. Sir John, we should go.’

Outside, they stopped to examine a stain on the passage floor but it was only oil. They were halfway down the stairs when Athelstan suddenly pulled the lieutenant back. ‘The two guards?’ he whispered. ‘They are the same sentries as last night?’

‘Yes. Professional mercenaries who served Sir Ralph when he was in the household of His Grace the Regent.’

‘They would be loyal?’

Colebrooke made a face. ‘I should think so. They took a personal oath. More importantly, Sir Ralph had doubled their wages. They had nothing to gain from his death and a great deal to lose.’

‘Do you have anything to gain?’ Cranston asked thickly.

Colebrooke’s hand fell to his dagger hilt. ‘Sir John, I resent that though I confess I did not like Whitton, notwithstanding His Grace the Regent did.’

‘Did you want Whitton’s post?’

‘Of course. I believe I am the better man.’

‘But the Regent disagreed?’

‘John of Gaunt kept his own private counsel,’ Colebroke sourly observed. ‘Though I hope he will now appoint me as Whitton’s successor.’

‘Why?’ Athelstan asked softly.

Colebrooke looked surprised. ‘I am loyal, and if trouble comes, I shall hold the Tower to my dying breath!’

Cranston grinned and tapped him gently on the chest. ‘Now, my good lieutenant, you have it. We think the same on this. Sir Ralph’s death may be linked to the conspiracies which flourish like weeds in the villages and hamlets around London.’

Colebrooke nodded. ‘Whitton was a hard taskmaster,’ he replied, ‘and the Great Community’s paid assassin would have found such a task fairly easy to accomplish.’

Athelstan too smiled and patted Colebrooke on the shoulder. ‘You may be right, Master Colebrooke, but there is only one thing wrong with such a theory.’

The lieutenant gazed dumbly back.

‘Can’t you see?’ Athelstan murmured. ‘Someone in the Tower must have told such an assassin where, when and how Sir Ralph could be found!’

A now crestfallen lieutenant led them down the stairs. The two burly, thick-set guards still squatted with hands outstretched towards the fiery red brazier. They hardly moved as Colebrooke approached and Athelstan sensed their disdain for a junior officer suddenly thrust into authority.

‘You were on guard last night?’

The soldiers nodded.

‘You saw nothing untoward?’

Again the nods, accompanied by supercilious smiles as if they found Athelstan slightly amusing and rather boring.

‘Stand up!’ Cranston roared. ‘Stand up. You whore-begotten sons of bitches! By the sod, I’ve had better men tied to trees and whipped till their backs were red!’

The two soldiers jumped up at the steely menace in Cranston’s voice.

‘That’s better,’ the coroner purred. ‘Now, my buckos, answer my clerk’s questions properly and all will be well.’ He grasped one by the shoulder. ‘Otherwise, I may put it about that in the dead of night you killed your master.’

‘That’s not true!’ the fellow grated. ‘We were loyal to Sir Ralph. We saw nothing, knew nothing, until the popinjay — ’ the guard shrugged ‘- the constable’s prospective son-in-law, comes rushing down, exclaiming he can’t rouse Sir Ralph. He grabs the key and is about to return, but the coward thinks better of it and sends for the lieutenant here.’

‘You heard him knock on the door and call Sir Ralph?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Of course we did.’

‘But he did not enter?’

‘The key was down here,’ the guard replied, pointing to a peg driven into the wall. ‘It was hanging before our eyes. There were only two. One here, and Sir Ralph had the other.’

‘You are certain of that?’ Cranston asked.

‘Yes, yes,’ the fellow confirmed. ‘I found the other key on the table next to the constable’s bed as soon as I opened the door. I have it now.’

Cranston nodded. ‘Ah, well,’ he breathed, ‘enough is enough. Let us see the tower from the outside.’

As they left the North Bastion, they suddenly heard an awesome din from the inner bailey. They followed the lieutenant as he hurried under the arch, staring across the snowcapped green. The noise came from a building in between the great hall and the White Tower. At first Athelstan couldn’t distinguish what was happening. He saw figures running about, dogs leaping and yelping in the snow. Colebrooke breathed deeply and relaxed.

‘It’s only him,’ he murmured. ‘Look!’

Athelstan and Cranston watched in stupefaction as a great brown shaggy-haired bear lurched into full view. The beast stood on its hind legs, its paws pummelling the air.

‘I have seen bears before,’ Cranston murmured, ‘rough-haired little beasts attacked by dogs, but nothing as majestic as that.’

The bear roared and Athelstan saw the great chains which swung from the iron collar round its neck, each held by a keeper as the lunatic Red Hand led the animal across the bailey to be fastened to a huge stake at the far side of the great hall.

‘It’s magnificent!’ Athelstan murmured.

‘A present,’ the lieutenant replied, ‘from a Norwegian prince to the present king’s grandfather, God bless him! It is called Ursus Magnus.’

‘Ah!’ Athelstan smiled. ‘After the constellation.’

Colebrooke looked dumb.

‘The stars,’ Athelstan persisted. ‘A constellation in the heavens.’

Colebrooke smiled thinly and led them back to a postern gate in the outer curtain wall. He pulled back bolts and the hinges shrieked in protest as he threw open the solid, creaking gate.

No one, Athelstan thought, has gone through this gate for months.

They stepped gingerly on to the frozen moat, the very quietness and heavy mist creating an eerie, unreal feeling.

‘The only time you’ll ever walk on water, Priest!’ Cranston muttered.

Athelstan grinned. ‘A strange feeling,’ he replied, then looked at the drawn face of Colebrooke. ‘Why is the gate here?’

The lieutenant shrugged. ‘It’s used very rarely. Sometimes a spy or a secret messenger slips across the moat, or someone who wishes to leave the Tower unnoticed. Now,’ he tapped his boot on the thick, heavy ice, ‘it makes no difference.’

Athelstan stared around. Behind him the great soaring curtain wall stretched up to the snow-laden clouds, whilst the far side of the moat was hidden in a thick mist. Nothing stirred. There was no sound except their own breathing and the scraping noise of their boots on the ice. They walked gingerly, carefully, as if expecting the ice to crack and the water to reappear. They followed the sheer curtain wall round to the North Bastion.

‘Where are these footholds?’ Cranston asked.

Colebrooke beckoned them forward and pointed to the brickwork. At first the holds in the wall could hardly be detected, but at last they saw them, like the claw marks of a huge bird embedded deeply in the stonework. Cranston pushed his hand into one of them.

‘Yes,’ he muttered, ‘someone has been here. Look, the ice is broken.’

Athelstan inspected the icy apertures and agreed. He followed the trail of the footholds up until they, like the top of the tower, were lost in the clinging mist.

‘A hard climb,’ he observed. ‘Most dangerous in the dead of night.’ He looked at the frost-covered snow and, stooping down, picked up something, hiding it in the palm of his hand until Colebrooke turned to go back.

‘What is it?’ Cranston slurred. ‘What did you find there?’

The friar opened his hand and Cranston smiled at the silver-gilt buckle glinting in his palm.

‘So,’ Cranston mumbled, ‘someone was here. All we have to do is match the buckle with its wearer, then its heigh-ho to King’s Bench, a swift trial, and a more prolonged execution.’

Athelstan shook his head. ‘Oh, Sir John,’ he whispered, ‘if things were only so simple.’ They went back through the postern gate and into the inner bailey. The Tower had now come to life even though the frost still held and there was still no sign of any break in the weather. Farriers had fired the forges and the bailey rang with the clang of the hammer and the whoosh of bellows as ragged apprentices worked hard to fan the forge fires to life. A butcher was slicing up a gutted pig and scullions ran, shaking the blood from the meat, to stick it into fat-bellied tubs of salt and brine so it would last through to the spring. A groom trotted a lame horse, roaring at his companions to look for any defect, whilst scullions and maids soaked piles of grease-stained pewter plates in vats of scalding water. The lieutenant watched the scene and grinned.

‘Soon be Christmas!’ he announced. ‘All must be clean and ready.’

Athelstan nodded, watching three boys drag holly and other evergreen shrubs across the snow to the steps of the great keep.

‘You will celebrate Christmas?’ Athelstan asked, nodding to a high-wheeled cart from which soldiers were now unloading huge tuns of wine.

‘Of course,’ Colebrooke replied. ‘Death is no stranger to the Tower, and Sir Ralph will be buried before Christmas Eve.’ He walked on as if tired of their questions.

Athelstan winked at Cranston, stood his ground and called out: ‘Master Colebrooke?’

The lieutenant turned, trying hard to hide his irritation.

‘Yes, Brother?’

‘Why are so many people here? I mean the hospitallers, Master Geoffrey, Sir Fulke?’

Colebrooke shrugged. ‘The constable’s kinsman always stays here.’

‘And young Geoffrey?’

Colebrooke smirked. ‘I think he’s as hot for Mistress Philippa as she is for him. Sir Ralph invited him to the Tower for Christmas, and why not? This great frost has stopped all business in the city and Sir Ralph insisted, especially when he grew strangely fearful, that his daughter’s betrothed stay with him.’

‘The two hospitallers?’ Cranston asked.

‘Old friends,’ Colebrooke replied. ‘They come here each Christmas and go through the same ritual. They arrive two weeks before Yuletide, and every Christmas Eve go to sup at the Golden Mitre tavern outside the Tower. They always stay till Twelfth Night and leave after the Feast of the Epiphany. Three times they’ve done so, though God knows why!’ He turned and spat a globule of yellow phlegm on to the white snow. ‘As I have said, Sir Ralph had his secrets and I never pried.’

Cranston fidgeted, a sign he was growing bored as well as tired of the cold, so Athelstan allowed Colebrooke to take them back into the White Tower, up a stone spiral staircase, through an antechamber and into the Chapel of St John.

Athelstan immediately relaxed as he caught the fragrant scent of incense. He walked into the nave with its soaring hammer-beamed roof and wide aisles, each flanked by twelve circular pillars around which thick green and scarlet velvet ribbons had been tied. The floor was polished, the strange red flagstones seeming to give off their own warmth, whilst the delicate paintings on the walls and the huge glazed windows caught the blinding white light of the snow and bathed both sanctuary and nave in a warm, glowing hue. Braziers, sprinkled with herbs, stood next to each pillar, making the air thick with the cloying sweetness of summer. Athelstan felt warm, comfortable and at peace, even though he studied the church enviously. If only, he thought, he had such decorations at St Erconwald! He saw the great silver star pinned above the chancel screen and, muttering with delight, walked into the silent sanctuary, marvelling at the marble steps and magnificent altar carved out of pure white alabaster.

‘So serene,’ he murmured, coming back to join his companions.

Colebrooke smiled self-consciously. ‘Before we left the hall I ordered servants to prepare the place,’ he announced, and looked around. ‘By some trick or artifice of the architects, whether it be the thickness of the stone or its location in the Tower, this chapel is always warm.’

‘I need refreshment,’ Cranston solemnly announced. ‘I have walked up many stairs, studied a ghastly corpse, balanced on freezing ice, and now I’ve had enough! Master Lieutenant, you seem a goodly man. You will gather the rest here and, seeing it’s the Yuletide season, bring a jug of claret for myself and my clerk.’

Colebrooke agreed and hurried off, but not before he and Athelstan had rearranged the chapel stools into a wide semicircle. Once he’d gone, Athelstan brought a polished table from the sanctuary and laid out pen, inkhorn and parchment. He took care to warm the ink over the brazier so it would run smooth and clear from his quill. Cranston just squatted on his chair, throwing back his cloak and revelling in the fragrant warmth. Athelstan studied him carefully.

‘Sir John,’ he murmured, ‘take care with the wine. You have drunk enough and are tired.’

‘Sod off, Athelstan!’ Cranston slurred angrily. ‘I’ll drink what I damned well like!’

Athelstan closed his eyes and breathed a prayer for help. So far Sir John had behaved himself, but the wine in his belly might rouse the devil in his heart and only the Good Lord knew what mischief might then occur. Colebrooke hurried back. Behind him, much to Athelstan’s despair, a servant carried a huge jug of claret and two deep-bowled goblets. Cranston seized the jug like a thirsty man and downed two cupfuls as the rest of the constable’s household entered the chapel and sat on the stools before him. At last Cranston closed his eyes, gave a deep rich belch and pronounced himself satisfied. His reluctant guests stared in disbelief at the red face of the King’s Coroner as he sprawled slack-limbed on the chair before them. Athelstan was torn between anger and admiration. Something had upset Cranston, though God only knew what. Nevertheless, the coroner’s ability to drink a vineyard dry and still keep his wits about him always fascinated Athelstan.

The Dominican quickly scanned the assembled people. The two hospitallers looked aloof and disdainful. Philippa clung more closely to her now tipsy betrothed who grinned benevolently back at Cranston. Rastani, the servant, looked ill at ease, fearful of the huge cross which hung from one of the beams above him, and Athelstan wondered if the Moslem’s conversion to the true faith was genuine. Sir Fulke looked bored, as if he wished to be free of such tiresome proceedings, whilst the chaplain’s exasperation at being so abruptly summoned was barely suppressed.

‘I do thank you,’ Athelstan began smoothly, ‘for coming here. Mistress Philippa, please accept our condolences on the sudden and ghastly loss of your father.’ Athelstan toyed with the stem of his goose-quilled pen. ‘We now know the details surrounding your father’s death.’ ‘Murder!’ Philippa strained forward, her ample bosom heaving under her thick taffeta dress. ‘Murder, Brother! My father was murdered!’

‘Yes, yes, so he was,’ Cranston slurred. ‘But by whom, eh? Why and how?’ He sat up straight and drunkenly tapped the side of his fiery red nose. ‘Do not worry, Mistress! The murderer will be found and do his last final dance on Tyburn scaffold.’

‘Your father,’ Athelstan interrupted, ‘seemed most fearful, Mistress Philippa. He moved from his usual quarters and shut himself up in the North Bastion. Why? What frightened him?’

The group fell strangely silent, tensing at this intrusion into the very heart of their secrets.

‘I asked a question,’ Athelstan repeated softly. ‘What was Sir Ralph so frightened of that he locked himself up in a chamber, doubled the wages of his guards, and insisted that visitors be searched? Who was it,’ he continued, ‘that wanted Sir Ralph’s death so much he crossed an icy moat in the dead of night, climbed the sheer wall of a tower, and entered a guarded chamber to commit foul, midnight murder?’

‘The rebels!’ Colebrooke broke in. ‘Traitors who wanted to remove a man who would protect the young King to the last drop of his blood!’ ‘Nonsense!’ snapped Athelstan. ‘His Grace the Regent, John of Gaunt, will as you said yourself, Master Colebrooke, appoint a successor no less fervent in his loyalty.’

‘My father was special,’ Philippa blurted out.

‘Mistress,’ Athelstan caught and held her tearful glance, ‘God knows your father was special, both in his life and in his secrets. You know about those, so why not tell us?’

The girl’s eyes fell away. She brought her hand from beneath her cloak and tossed a yellowing piece of parchment on to the table. ‘That changed my father’s life,’ she stammered. ‘Though God knows why!’

Athelstan picked up the parchment and quickly gazed at the people sitting around him. He noticed the hospitallers suddenly tense. The friar smiled secretly to himself. Good, he thought. Now the mystery unfolds.