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.’