‘This would stop anyone from slipping, Sir John.’
‘Unless he was drunk or careless,’ Cranston replied.
‘Aye, Sir John. A sober soldier is a rarity indeed.’
‘Aye, monk, very rare, but not as rare as a holy priest.’
Athelstan grinned and continued climbing. They reached the parapet walk. It was about four feet wide and as carefully coated with sand and pebbles as the step. They leaned against the curtain wall. Cranston, breathing heavily, looked down, curiously watching the figures below as they scurried around like black ants on the various tasks of the garrison. He then stared up at the blue sky. The clouds were now only faint wisps lit by the strong mid-day sun. The coroner suddenly felt rather giddy and quietly cursed himself for drinking so much.
‘Old age,’ he murmured.
‘Sir John?’
‘In media vitae, sumus in morte,’ Cranston replied. ‘In the midst of life we are in death, Brother. I do not feel too safe here, yet in France when I was younger but not so wise, I held one of these parapet walks against the best the French could send.’ Cranston felt self-pity seep through him. Did Maude also think him old? he wondered. Was that it? Sir John breathed deeply, trying to control the spasm of rage and fear which shot through him. ‘Go on, Athelstan,’ he muttered. ‘Make your careful, bloody study.’
‘Stay there, Sir John,’ Athelstan replied softly. The friar glanced despondently down at the sand and gravel. ‘I suppose so many have been up here since Mowbray’s fall, I doubt we will find anything.’
Athelstan walked gingerly along the parapet, using the crenellated wall as his guide. He walked slowly, not daring to look at the drop on his right and becoming ever more aware of the cold, biting wind and eerie sense of loneliness, as if he hung half way between heaven and earth. On either side of the parapet walk were two towers. Near the Salt Tower he found the gravel-strewn slush had been disturbed, indicating someone had stood there for some time. Athelstan studied this spot for a while.
‘What have you found, Brother?’ Cranston bellowed.
Athelstan walked carefully back.
‘Mowbray stood where I stopped. Now, Sir John, if you go first?’
Cranston went back to the top of the steps. Athelstan followed behind.
‘Go on, Sir John. Stand on the top step.’
Cranston obliged, closing his eyes for he had begun to feel rather dizzy.
‘What is it, Brother?’ he rasped.
Athelstan crouched and stared closely where the sand and gravel had been scattered. ‘I suspect Mowbray fell from here,’ he replied. ‘But why, and how?’ The friar examined the crenellations from which an archer would shoot if the wall was under attack. ‘Strange,’ he murmured. ‘There’s a fresh mark in the wall as if an axe has been swung against it. And look, Sir John.’ Athelstan carefully picked up some splinters of wood. ‘These are fresh.’
Cranston opened his eyes. ‘Yes, Brother, but what do they mean?’
‘I don’t know, but it would appear that someone took an axe and drove it hard against the wall, with such force the stone was marked and the wooden handle of the axe shattered.’
Cranston shook his head in disbelief.
‘What it all means,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘I don’t know. I cannot make the connection between Mowbray’s fall and these fragments of evidence.’ The Dominican looked suspiciously at the white, haggard face of Cranston, the bleary red eyes, and the way he was swaying rather dangerously on the top step. ‘Come on. Sir John,’ he said gently. ‘We are finished here and others await.’
They made their way gingerly down the steps. At the bottom Cranston immediately felt better, turned and beamed at Athelstan.
‘Thank God!’ he bellowed. ‘You don’t do that every day, eh, Brother?’
Thank God, Athelstan thought, you are not in such a mood every day. The friar looked around. The Tower garrison was now busy: soldiers in half-armour lounged on benches. Despite the cold they wished to revel in the sunshine. A few played dice, others shared a wineskin. A scullion ran across with a basket of fresh-cooked meat, taking it to one of the kitchens where it would hang to be cured, diced, salted and stored for the duration of the winter. The clanging from the blacksmith’s rang like a bell through the air, somewhere a child cried, the son or daughter of one of the garrison. In the outer bailey an officer was shouting orders about a gate being oiled. A dog barked and they heard laughter from the kitchens. Athelstan smiled and relaxed.
He must not forget the small things of life, he concluded, they kept you sane. He linked his arm through Sir John’s and they ambled across Tower Green, making their way carefully through the soft, dirty slush, alert for the icy patches which hadn’t thawed. A guard ushered them into the Beauchamp Tower and up into Mistress Philippa’s chamber on the second floor. It was a spacious room with a deep bay window overlooking Tower Green. The seats were cushioned and quilted, the windows glazed with fragments of stained glass. As soon as he entered, Athelstan sensed it was a woman’s chamber hand-woven tapestries hung on the walls, one depicting a golden dragon locked in combat with a silver wyvern. Another portrayed the Infant Jesus smiling, arms outstretched, in the manger at Bethlehem where Christ’s mother stood in a dress of gold and a mantle of deep sky blue. The bricks in the wall had been painted alternately white and red; large cupboards stood with doors half-open displaying gowns, dresses, hoods and mantles, of various colours and different fabrics. A small pine log fire blazed in the canopied hearth. In one corner stood a spinning wheel, the threads still pulled tight. In the other, curtained off from the rest of the room, was the bed chamber. A long, polished table stood in the centre of the room. On it were placed chafing dishes full of glowing charcoal, spices and herbs. Their perfume reminded Athelstan of a fresh spring morning on his father’s farm in Sussex. He also noticed the other door in the far side wall, peeping out from behind the thick red arras. Athelstan grinned and winked at Sir John.
‘A lady’s bower, my Lord Coroner,’ he whispered.
Cranston smiled, then remembered Lady Maude and his face grew long.
Mistress Philippa rose as they entered. In temperament, though not in looks, she reminded Athelstan of Benedicta; she had the same quiet composure and he had glimpsed the steely look in her eyes. Was Philippa strong and ruthless enough, he wondered, to commit murder? Athelstan stared round at the rest, mumbling quietly like people who wanted to maintain appearances though he sensed their tension. The conversation died abruptly as Cranston lurched across the room. Perhaps Philippa or the femininity of her chamber had reminded Cranston of Maude for the coroner suddenly became bellicose with the girl.
‘Another bloody murder!’ he roared. ‘What now, eh?’
Geoffrey Parchmeiner, Philippa’s betrothed, stood up and walked out of the darkness near the wall. He looked anxious, more white-faced and sober than the last time Athelstan had seen him.
‘Murder, My Lord Coroner?’ he stammered. ‘What proof do you have? You swagger in here, into my lady’s chamber, and shout allegations yet show no evidence. What can we make of that?’
Athelstan looked around. Sir Fulke seemed subdued and remained slouched in his chair. The chaplain, crouched on a stool near the fireplace, stared into the flames wringing his hands whilst Rastani, the silent, dark servant, sat with his back to the wall as if he wished the very stones would open and swallow him. The other hospitaller, Fitzormonde, stood near the window, his hands folded, staring at the floor as if totally unaware of Cranston’s presence. Colebrooke looked embarrassed, tapping his foot and whistling softly under his breath.
‘My betrothed asked a question,’ Philippa demanded. ‘How do you know the knight was murdered? And what difference does it make, Sir Coroner? So was my father, and are you any nearer to finding his killer?’
‘Your father’s murder will be avenged,’ Cranston snapped. ‘As for Mowbray, he had that bloody parchment on him and the fragments of a seed cake. What further proof do you need?’