Philippa stared coolly back.
‘Well!’ Cranston shouted. ‘I have answered one of your bloody questions!’
‘Sir John,’ she replied icily, ‘moderate your language. My father,’ her voice nearly broke, ‘now lies sheeted in a coffin in the Chapel of St Peter Ad Vincula. I, his daughter, grieve and demand justice, but all I get is the offensive language of the alleys and runnels of Southwark. Sir, I am a lady.’
Cranston’s eyes narrowed evilly.
‘So bloody what?’ he answered before Athelstan could intervene. ‘Show me a lady and I’ll show you a whore!’
The girl gasped. Her betrothed leapt back to his feet, his hand going to the knife at his belt, but Cranston just dismissed him with a contemptuous flicker of his eyes. Athelstan watched the hospitaller suddenly stir and noticed with alarm how the knight now grasped one of his gloves in his hand.
Good Lord, the friar thought, not here, not now! The last thing Sir John needs is a challenge to the death.
‘Sir John!’ he snapped. ‘Mistress Philippa is correct. You are the King’s Coroner. She is a lady of high birth who has lost her father and now sees one of his friends meet a similar terrible death.’ He grasped the coroner’s arm and swung him round, keeping an eye on the hospitaller now standing behind them.
‘Sir John! Control yourself, please,’ he murmured. ‘For my sake.’
Cranston stared at Athelstan with red-rimmed eyes. He reminded the friar of the great, shaggy bear squatting in the courtyard below. The friar touched Cranston’s hand gently.
‘Sir John,’ he whispered, ‘please. You are a gentleman and a knight.’
The coroner closed his eyes, took a deep breath, opened them and grinned.
‘When you are around, monk,’ he muttered, ‘I don’t need a bloody conscience.’ He turned to Philippa. ‘My lady,’ he said, ‘before Sir Brian or Sir Fulke,’ he glanced contemptuously at the girl’s uncle who still sat slumped in his chair, ‘challenge me to a duel, I apologise profusely.’ He gave her a dazzling smile. ‘There are old men, Mistress,’ he continued, ‘and there are fools. But there’s nothing worse than an old fool.’ He stretched out his hand, took the girl’s unresisting fingers and kissed them in a way the most professional courtier would have envied.
‘I was most discourteous,’ he bellowed. ‘You must forgive me, especially at this time when your father’s body is not yet buried.’
CHAPTER 7
The atmosphere in the room relaxed. Athelstan closed his eyes. Good God, he prayed, oh thank you! The hospitaller had been on the verge of striking Sir John and, once that happened, well, Athelstan knew Cranston. It would be a duel a outrance, to the death! Mistress Philippa smiled and stepped forward into the light and Athelstan realised just how boorish Cranston had been.
The girl’s face was white as snow, her eyes red-rimmed and circled with deep shadows, but she sensed Cranston’s insult had not been intended. She leaned over and kissed Sir John gently on the cheek. This only discomfited the coroner further, he stared down at the floor and shuffled his feet like some clumsy schoolboy. Philippa went across to a tray of goblets, filled two and brought them back. She gave one to Athelstan and pressed the other into Sir John’s great paw. The coroner smiled at the wine, lifted the cup and downed it in one gulp. He smacked his lips, winked at the girl and held out the goblet to be refilled. Philippa smilingly obliged and Athelstan groaned. He didn’t know what was worse, Cranston sulking or Cranston in his cups.
Sir John took the goblet and went over to the window, staring out at the sun dazzling the snow on Tower Green. Athelstan busied himself arranging his writing tray on the table. The rest of the group hardly moved as if absorbed in everything the coroner said or did. They watched him intently, like a group of schoolboys would a fearsome master. Cranston watched the sunlight shimmer on the great tocsin bell then turned round abruptly.
‘Mowbray,’ he announced, ‘was murdered. Well, at least I believe he was. He received the same message as Sir Ralph. I think he went on to the parapet and the tocsin was sounded to make him run. Now, I have examined the parapet most carefully…’
Athelstan remembered how Cranston had slouched against the wall and hid his smile.
‘I have examined the parapet most carefully,’ Cranston continued, glaring at Athelstan. ‘Mowbray did not slip accidentally. The sand and gravel there are at least an inch thick. Someone planned his fall.’
‘Did Mowbray drink?’ Athelstan asked.
Cranston turned and glanced at the other hospitaller. Sir Brian shook his head.
‘He was a seasoned warrior,’ the knight replied. ‘He could run along such a parapet in a blinding snow storm.’
‘Tell me,’ Cranston said, ‘what happened yesterday evening? I mean, before Mowbray fell?’
‘We were all here,’ Sir Fulke spoke up. He smiled. ‘Mistress Philippa had invited us for supper.’
‘I wasn’t!’ snapped Fitzormonde. ‘I was in my own chamber, awaiting poor Mowbray’s return.’
‘And, of course, Rastani,’ the chaplain stuttered, squirming on his stool.
‘Yes,’ Fitzormonde murmured. ‘The Morisco wasn’t here.’ Athelstan left his desk and squatted in front of Rastani. He stared into the silent, fear-filled face.
‘My Lady Philippa,’ Athelstan murmured over his shoulder, ‘I wish to talk to Rastani though I think he knows what I am going to ask.’
‘So do I!’ Sir Fulke shouted. ‘I will answer for him.’
‘No, sir, you won’t!’ Cranston barked.
Athelstan touched Rastani’s hand which was as cold as ice. The friar gazed into his liquid dark eyes. The man was terrified, but of what? Detection? Discovery?
‘Where were you, Rastani?’ Athelstan asked.
Beside him, Philippa made strange gestures with her fingers and Rastani replied in the same sign language.
‘He says he was freezing cold,’ Philippa explained. ‘And stayed in my father’s old chamber in the White Tower.’
‘He’s silent-footed as a cat,’ Cranston observed. ‘He could creep round this fortress and no one would notice.’
‘What are you implying, Sir John?’ Philippa snapped.
‘Rastani could have rung the bell.’
‘How on earth could he have done that when there were no footprints?’ Geoffrey mocked, moving to stand beside Philippa.
Cranston smiled. ‘A snowball?’
Colebrooke snorted with laughter. ‘I have told you, Sir John, the area around the bell could be seen by sentries. They saw no one approach.’
Cranston sniffed loudly and looked longingly at his now empty wine goblet
‘Before you continue, Sir John,’ Fitzormonde spoke up, ‘and you start speculating on where I was, all I can say is that I was in my own chamber but no one saw me there.’ He glared fiercely at Cranston. ‘However, I am a priest, a knight and a gentleman. I am not a liar!
‘Why did you stay there, Sir Brian?’ Athelstan tactfully interrupted.
Sir Brian shrugged. ‘I was frightened. I, too, have received a letter of death.’ He drew out a piece of parchment from beneath his cloak and Cranston almost snatched it from his hand.
The hospitaller was right. The same sketch Sir Ralph Whitton and Mowbray had received: a crudely drawn ship in full sail and, in each corner, a small black cross.
‘I also had the seed cake,’ Fitzormonde murmured. ‘But I threw it away.’
‘When Mowbray fell,’ Cranston suddenly asked, ‘did anyone else inspect the parapet?’
‘I, Fitzormonde and Colebrooke did,’ Fulke replied. ‘When the tocsin sounded we all left this room. The hospitaller was with us when Mowbray’s body was found. Our young gallant here,’ he waved his hand contemptuously at Geoffrey, ‘was asked to accompany us to the parapet but it’s well known he’s terrified of heights.’
Geoffrey flushed with embarrassment and looked away.