The House of Shadows

whispers,- she was well protected by two of Master Rolles’ bully boys, armed with cudgels, only a shadow-length behind her. Rosamund felt hungry and her mouth was watering as she entered the Night in Jerusalem . Perhaps Master Rolles would give her a bowl of rapes and lentils mashed with a mortar along with breadcrumbs, spices and herbs, or perhaps a dish of pain-pour dieu, circlets of bread soaked in egg yolks, salted till golden and sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar. She was soon disappointed.
    ‘He’s upstairs.’ Rolles broke her reverie. The tavern keeper was standing at the entrance to the tap room. He certainly didn’t look well, Rosamund reflected. She climbed the stairs,- he hadn’t even offered her a goblet of wine! She’d been informed that Sir Thomas was waiting for her in the Galahad Chamber and had to walk into the adjoining gallery before she spelled out the words painted in gold above the great oaken door.
    ‘Sir Thomas.’
    No answer. Probably maudlin, she thought, as he did like his wine.
    ‘Sir Thomas!’
    She knocked hard, and pressed her ear against the door. She tried the latch but the door held firm. She picked up a jug from the floor outside the room and used this to bang noisily.
    ‘What’s the matter?’ Sir Maurice Clinton, his thin face all cross, came out of the room next door, pulling a fur-edged cloak around him. ‘What’s the matter, girl, can’t you rouse Sir Thomas?’
    ‘No, sir, I cannot.’
    Fair Rosamund would never forget what happened next. Master Rolles, also alerted by the noise, came thundering up the stairs. They were joined by Sir Reginald Branson as well as servants and other maids. Sir Thomas Davenport still could not be roused, and their agitation deepened as people recalled the brutal murders of Chandler and Broomhill. At last the door was forced, broken off its hinges, the locks and bolts snapping free. It fell back with a crash like a drawbridge going down, revealing a gruesome sight. Sir Thomas lay stretched on the floor with a pricket, a pointed candlestick, thrust deep into his heart. The floor around him glistened with blood, still curling and running, as it found its way through the turkey carpets. Nobody told Rosamund to stand back and, fascinated by the horror, she followed the rest into the room.
    ‘He’s been murdered,’ the head ostler whispered.
    Rosamund gazed at the frightful sight. Sir Thomas lay crumpled, slightly to one side, as if he had fallen from the soft-backed chair beside him, face all pale, but the look on his face! As if his sightless eyes were about to blink and those gaping lips about to talk! Rosamund watched Sir Maurice pick up a solace stone, semi precious, its flashing rubies oval cut and polished, and place it on the table. He crouched down beside the corpse, turning it over gently.
    ‘We had best leave him,’ Rolles whispered. ‘That fat coroner and his snooping friar have to be called. No, don’t,’ he intervened as Sir Maurice went to pluck the pricket from Sir Thomas’ flesh.
    ‘Yes, leave it,’ Sir Reginald urged. ‘We should clear the room, leave everything until Cranston comes.’



Chapter 11

    Athelstan and Cranston sat blowing on their fingers in the freezing Chancery room of the Tower. Athelstan’s throat felt slightly sore and his back sweaty and cold. He wondered if he was about to suffer an attack of the rheums. He quietly promised himself a boiling cup of posset before he retired that day and tried to forget the symptoms. He stared round the circular room high in one of the towers, just a short walk from the Norman Keep. The lancet windows had been boarded up, a fire burned in the cavernous hearth, braziers crackled and glowed, yet the chamber was still freezing cold. Colebrook, the surly lieutenant, with whom Cranston and Athelstan had done business before, had greeted them at the Lion Gate, and taken them immediately up to the Chancery room. Hubert, the chief clerk, had reluctantly left his beloved filing and recording of memoranda, writs, letters and proclamations. A small, curiously bird-like man, in both appearance and movement, Hubert had gestured at the various great coffers and chests arranged neatly around the room by regnal year. At first he gave Cranston a lecture on the storage, preservation and filing of parchment and, ignoring their interruptions, insisted on showing them how documents were recorded and stored. He then proudly demonstrated the new invention he had found in