‘Uncle!’ Philippa murmured. ‘That’s not fair.’
‘What’s not fair,’ Cranston interrupted, ‘is that we know so little about last night Mistress Philippa, what time did your guests assemble?’
‘Oh, just after Vespers, about eight o’clock.’
‘And all except Rastani and the hospitaller came?’
‘Yes, yes, that’s correct.’
Cranston turned to the hospitaller. ‘And where did you say you were?’
‘In my chamber.’
‘And Mowbray?’
‘On the parapet walk.’
‘So,’ Cranston heaved a sigh, ‘as Mowbray brooded, the rest of you except Fitzormonde gathered here?’
‘Yes.’
‘And how long till the tocsin sounded?’
‘About two to three hours.’
‘And no one left?’
‘Only Colebrooke on his round and others to the privy, but that’s along the passageway.’ The girl smiled wanly.
‘We all drank deep.’
Athelstan raised a hand. ‘Never mind that.’ The friar, snatching the parchment from Cranston’s hand, went and stood over the hospitaller. Athelstan pushed the drawing under the knight’s face. ‘Sir Brian, what does this mean?’
The knight looked away.
‘Sir Brian Fitzormonde,’ Athelstan repeated, ‘soon you will appear before God’s tribunal. I ask you, on your oath as a knight, what does this parchment signify?’
The hospitaller glanced up with his red-rimmed eyes in a drawn, pale face. Athelstan felt he was looking at a man already under the shadow of Death’s soft, black wing. The friar leaned closer until he could see the small red veins in the knight’s eyes and the grey, dusty pallor of his cheeks. Fitzormonde was probably a brave man but Athelstan could almost taste the stench of fear which emanated from him.
‘On your oath to Christ,’ Athelstan whispered, ‘tell me the truth.’
Sir Brian suddenly lifted his face and whispered in Athelstan’s ear. The Dominican stood back in surprise but then nodded.
‘What did he say?’ Cranston barked.
‘Later, Sir John.’ Athelstan turned to the rest of the group. ‘What did happen here last night?’ he asked, trying to divert the conversation.
Sir Fulke, his face now suffused with his usual false bonhomie, leaned forward. ‘My niece,’ he said, ‘wished to thank us for our kindness following the death of Sir Ralph. We sat and dined like a group of friends. We talked of old times and what might happen in the future.’
‘And no one left?’
‘Not until the tocsin sounded.’
‘No, Sir Fulke,’ Geoffrey interrupted. ‘Remember, you drank deeply.’ He smiled falsely. ‘Perhaps too deeply to remember. The priest left.’ Geoffrey pointed to where the chaplain, William Hammond, dressed like a crow, sat perched on his stool near the fire. ‘Don’t you remember, Father, you left?’
‘I went back to my room,’ the chaplain announced. ‘I had a gift of some wine.’ He glared maliciously at Geoffrey and then at Colebrooke. ‘A parishioner gave it to me. It’s not from the Tower stores if that’s what you’re thinking.’ He shrugged. ‘Yes, I too drank deeply and I was unsteady and slow in returning. I was about to re-enter Beauchamp Tower when the bell began to toll.’
‘What happened then?’ Athelstan asked. He glanced at Colebrooke and realised the lieutenant had told them little of his own movements. ‘Well, Lieutenant?’ Athelstan repeated. ‘What did happen?’
‘Well, the bell tolled. I and the others left Mistress Philippa. The garrison was roused and all gates were checked. We then scattered, trying to find what was wrong. Fitzormonde discovered Mowbray’s body, we joined him then Master Parchmeiner came. We examined the corpse and I went up on to the parapet.’
‘And?’ Cranston barked.
‘I found nothing. We were more concerned that the tocsin had been sounded.’
‘But you found no trace of the bell-ringer?’ Athelstan asked.
‘No, I have told you that.’
Athelstan gazed round in desperation. How, he wondered, could a bell ring and no one be seen pulling it? Or, indeed, any trace of someone being near the bell? What did happen? And how could the bell ringer run undetected across the Tower to arrange Mowbray’s fall? Athelstan drew a deep breath.
‘Where is Mowbray’s body now?’
‘It’s already sheeted,’ Philippa replied. ‘It lies in its coffin before the chancel screen in the Chapel of St Peter ad Vincula.’
‘And I will join him there,’ Fitzormonde murmured. He looked up and smiled wanly. ‘Oh, yes, I have the mark of death upon me.’
His statement hung like an arrow in the air, just before it turns and begins its fatal descent.
Athelstan whirled round as a loud snore from Cranston broke the silence. He heard Geoffrey giggle, even white-faced Philippa smiled, the chaplain grinned sourly whilst Fulke snorted with laughter.
‘Sir John has many problems to exhaust him,’ Athelstan announced. ‘Mistress Philippa, may we be your guests for a while?’ He looked at Colebrooke. ‘Master Lieutenant, I need words with Sir Brian. Is there a chamber here?’
Philippa pointed to the door in the far wall. ‘There’s a small one at the end of the corridor.’ She blushed slightly. ‘Just past the privy. The chamber will be warm. I had a brazier put there this morning.’
Athelstan bowed, smiled thinly at the rest of the group, glanced despairingly at the snoring Cranston and led Sir Brian down the corridor. On the left was the privy, covered by a curtain which hung from a metal rod. Athelstan pulled the curtain back and wrinkled his nose at the smell. The privy was crude, a small recess in the wall with a latrine seat, just under a tiny, open, oval-shaped window which looked down over the green.
‘It drains down to the moat,’ Sir Brian mumbled.
Athelstan nodded, let the curtain fall and walked on. The chamber at the end of the passage was more fragrant and clean. The walls were lime-washed, the windows closely shuttered. Athelstan sat down on a stool and gestured to a bench which ran along the wall.
‘Sit down, Sir Brian. Now, tell me, what do you want?’
Sir Brian suddenly knelt at Athelstan’s feet and sketched the sign of the cross in the air. Athelstan glanced around despairingly. He suspected what was coming.
‘Bless me, Father,’ Fitzormonde murmured, ‘for I have sinned. And this is my confession.’
Athelstan drew back, the legs of the stool scraping the hard stone floor. ‘I cannot,’ he whispered. ‘Sir Brian, you have tricked me! Whatever you tell me now will be covered by the seal of Confession.’
‘I know!’ Fitzormonde hissed. ‘But my soul is steeped in the blackest sin.’
Athelstan shook his head and made to rise. ‘I cannot,’ the friar repeated. ‘Whatever you tell me, I can only reveal on the orders of the Holy Father, the Pope in Avignon. Sir Brian, you are most unfair. Why this trickery?’
Fitzormonde glanced up, his eyes gleaming. ‘No mummery,’ he said. ‘Father, I wish to confess. You must shrive me. I am a sinner in pericuto mortis!’
Athelstan sighed. Sir Brian was right. Canon Law was most strict on this: a priest was bound to hear the confession of any man who believed he was in danger of death. To refuse would be a terrible sin. ‘I agree,’ Athelstan whispered.
Sir Brian made the sign of the cross again.
‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It is many years since my last confession and I confess in the face of God and in the hope of his divine mercy at the imminent approach of death.’
Athelstan closed his eyes and leaned back. He listened to the litany of sins: impure thoughts and actions, the lusts of the flesh, avarice, bad temper, foul language, as well as the petty bickerings which take place in any community. Sir Brian confessed about his fight against sin, his will to do good and his constant failures to carry this through. Athelstan, a skilled confessor, perceived Sir Brian was a good but deeply troubled man. At last the hospitaller finished and leaned back on his heels though he kept his head bowed.