The House of the Red Slayer

will gather the rest here and, seeing it’s the Yuletide season, bring a jug of claret for myself and my clerk.’
    Colebrooke agreed and hurried off, but not before he and Athelstan had rearranged the chapel stools into a wide semicircle. Once he’d gone, Athelstan brought a polished table from the sanctuary and laid out pen, inkhorn and parchment. He took care to warm the ink over the brazier so it would run smooth and clear from his quill. Cranston just squatted on his chair, throwing back his cloak and revelling in the fragrant warmth. Athelstan studied him carefully.
    ‘Sir John,’ he murmured, ‘take care with the wine. You have drunk enough and are tired.’
    ‘Sod off, Athelstan!’ Cranston slurred angrily. ‘I’ll drink what I damned well like!‘
    Athelstan closed his eyes and breathed a prayer for help. So far Sir John had behaved himself, but the wine in his belly might rouse the devil in his heart and only the Good Lord knew what mischief might then occur. Colebrooke hurried back. Behind him, much to Athelstan’s despair, a servant carried a huge jug of claret and two deep-bowled goblets. Cranston seized the jug like a thirsty man and downed two cupfuls as the rest of the constable’s household entered the chapel and sat on the stools before him. At last Cranston closed his eyes, gave a deep rich belch and pronounced himself satisfied. His reluctant guests stared in disbelief at the red face of the King’s Coroner as he sprawled slack-limbed on the chair before them. Athelstan was tom between anger and admiration. Something had upset Cranston, though God only knew what. Nevertheless, the coroner’s ability to drink a vineyard dry and still keep his wits about him always fascinated Athelstan.
    The Dominican quickly scanned the assembled people. The two hospitallers looked aloof and disdainful. Philippa clung more closely to her now tipsy betrothed who grinned benevolently back at Cranston. Rastani, the servant, looked ill at ease, fearful of the huge cross which hung from one of the beams above him, and Athelstan wondered if the Moslem’s conversion to the true faith was genuine. Sir Fulke looked bored, as if he wished to be free of such tiresome proceedings, whilst the chaplain’s exasperation at being so abruptly summoned was barely suppressed.
    ‘I do thank you,’ Athelstan began smoothly, ‘for coming here. Mistress Philippa, please accept our condolences on the sudden and ghastly loss of your father.’ Athelstan toyed with the stem of his goose-quilled pen. ‘We now know the details surrounding your father’s death.‘
    ‘Murder!’ Philippa strained forward, her ample bosom heaving under her thick taffeta dress. ‘Murder, Brother! My father was murdered!‘
    ‘Yes, yes, so he was,’ Cranston slurred. ‘But by whom, eh? Why and how?’ He sat up straight and drunkenly tapped the side of his fiery red nose. ‘Do not worry, Mistress! The murderer will be found and do his last final dance on Tyburn scaffold.’
    ‘Your father,’ Athelstan interrupted, ‘seemed most fearful, Mistress Philippa. He moved from his usual quarters and shut himself up in the North Bastion. Why? What frightened him?’
    The group fell strangely silent, tensing at this intrusion into the very heart of their secrets.
    ‘I asked a question,’ Athelstan repeated softly. ‘What was Sir Ralph so frightened of that he locked himself up in a chamber, doubled the wages of his guards, and insisted that visitors be searched? Who was it,’ he continued, ‘that wanted Sir Ralph’s death so much he crossed an icy moat in the dead of night, climbed the sheer wall of a tower, and entered a guarded chamber to commit foul, midnight murder?’
    ‘The rebels!’ Colebrooke broke in. ‘Traitors who wanted to remove a man who would protect the young King to the last drop of his blood!‘
    ‘Nonsense!’ snapped Athelstan. ‘His Grace the Regent, John of Gaunt, will as you said yourself, Master Colebrooke, appoint a successor no less fervent in his loyalty.’
    ‘My father was special,’ Philippa blurted out.
    ‘Mistress,’ Athelstan caught and held her tearful glance, ‘God knows your father was special, both in his life and in his secrets. You know about those, so why not tell us?’
    The girl’s eyes fell away. She brought her hand from beneath her cloak and tossed a yellowing piece of parchment on to the table. ‘That changed my father’s life,’ she stammered. ‘Though God knows