The House of the Red Slayer

suddenly smiled. ‘Yes, I was. I went there early this morning. You are not the only one, Brother, to think the assassins scaled the tower at dead of night to murder Sir Ralph.‘
    Athelstan tossed the buckle at him and Sir Fulke caught it clumsily.
    ‘Then, Sir John, we are finished here. Perhaps some refreshment?’
    They met Colebrooke in the passageway outside, thanked him for his attentions and went down the outside steps into the Tower bailey. Athelstan gauged it to be about two o’clock in the afternoon and this was confirmed by a servant who bumped into them as they passed the great hall. They were on the point of going under the Archway of Wakefield when Athelstan caught sight of the great brown bear chained to the wall in the corner near Bell Tower.
    ‘I have never seen a bear so huge, Sir John!’ he exclaimed.
    Cranston clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Then, my lad, it’s time you did!’
    The friar was fascinated by Ursus. The bear scarcely repaid the compliment but sat on his hindquarters, hungrily stuffing his great muzzle from a pile of scraps thrown around him. Cranston clapped his hands and the beast raised his huge, dark head. One paw came up and Athelstan stood, riveted by the great, slavering jaws, the teeth — long, white and pointed like a row of daggers — and the insane ferocity blazing in those red-brown eyes. The bear lurched slightly towards them, growling softly in his throat. Cranston grabbed Athelstan’s arm and pulled him back. The animal, alarmed by such rapid movement, now sprang to his full height, his great unsheathed paws beating the air as he strained at the massive steel collar around his neck. Both the coroner and his companion saw the chain fastened to the wall strain at its clasps.
    ‘That chain,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘is not as secure as it should be.’
    ‘Goodbye, Ursus,’ Cranston whispered. ‘Let’s go, Athelstan. Very softly!‘
    They collected their horses and made their way out of the Tower into Petty Wales. A few stalls stood uncovered and some brave souls made their way through the ankle-deep, mucky slush. Two beggar children, arms and legs as thin as sticks, stood beside a brazier singing a carol. Cranston tossed them a penny, and turned to watch as a woman condemned as a scold was led by a beadle up to the stocks in Tower Street, a steel brank fastened tightly around her head. Down the dirt-filled alleyways business was thriving for the red-wigged whores and their constant stream of clients from the Tower garrison.
    Cranston asked directions from a one-eyed beggarman and came back beaming from ear to ear.
    ‘I have found it!’ he announced. ‘The Golden Mitre tavern! You know, the one Sir Ralph and the hospitallers went to every year for their banquet.’
    The tavern was just near the Custom House on the corner of Thames Street, a grand, spacious affair with a green-leaved ale-stake pushed under the eaves from which hung a huge, gaudily painted sign. A red-nosed ostler took their horses. Inside, the tap room was airy and warmed by a fire. The rushes on the floor were clean and sprinkled with rosemary and thyme. The walls were lime-washed to keep off insects, and the hams which hung from the blackened beams gave off a sweet crisp smell which made Cranston smack his lips. They hired a table between the fire and the great polished wine butts. The landlord, a small, red-faced, balding fellow with a surprisingly clean apron draped across his expansive front, took one look at Sir John and brought across a deep bowl brimming with blood red claret.
    ‘Sir John!’ he exclaimed. ‘You remember me?’
    Cranston seized the bowl by its two silver handles and half drained it at a gulp. ‘Yes, I do,’ he replied, smacking his lips and glaring over the rim. ‘You are Miles Talbot who once worked as an ale-conner in the taverns round St Paul’s.’ Cranston put down the bowl and shook the landlord’s hand. ‘Let me introduce an honest man, Brother Athel-stan. Talbot always knew when a blackjack of ale had been watered down. Well, well, well!’ Cranston unclasped his cloak and basked in the sweet odours and warmth of the tavern. ‘What can you serve us, Master Talbot? And don’t give me fish. We know the river is frozen and the roads blocked, so anything from the water must be weeks old!‘ The landlord grinned, listed the contents of his larder, and within the half-hour served a couple of pullets stuffed with herbs and covered with a piquant sauce of