The House of the Red Slayer

rushing down, exclaiming he can’t rouse Sir Ralph. He grabs the key and is about to return, but the coward thinks better of it and sends for the lieutenant here.’
    ‘You heard him knock on the door and call Sir Ralph?’ Athelstan asked.
    ‘Of course we did.‘
    ‘But he did not enter?’
    ‘The key was down here,’ the guard replied, pointing to a peg driven into the wall. ‘It was hanging before our eyes. There were only two. One here, and Sir Ralph had the other.’
    ‘You are certain of that?’ Cranston asked.
    ‘Yes, yes,’ the fellow confirmed. ‘I found the other key on the table next to the constable’s bed as soon as I opened the door. I have it now.’
    Cranston nodded. ‘Ah, well,’ he breathed, ‘enough is enough. Let us see the tower from the outside.‘
    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, ‘roughhaired 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,