The House of the Red Slayer

the seed cake as a death threat, but why does the crude drawing of a ship hold such terrors for him and others?’
    ‘All men are fearful because they’re liars!’ Cranston snapped. ‘No one tells the truth!’ He glared at Athelstan under bristling brows.
    ‘What’s wrong, Sir John?’ Athelstan insisted. ‘I can feel the fury and the hurt seething within you. You must tell me.’
    ‘In a while,’ the coroner muttered. ‘Let’s go!‘
    They collected their horses from the stables and led them through the cold, bustling streets. Every Londoner seemed to be out of doors: the stall-holders were busy making up for lost trade and the air was thick with savoury smells from taverns and cookshops. They went to Cornhill, past Leadenhall and into Aldgate, pausing where a crowd had gathered round a speaker on the corner of Poor Jewry. He was a striking figure with a long, dour face, the head completely shaven, his thin body clothed from head to toe in a black gown and cloak. The speaker paused as he glimpsed Cranston, and his mouth and jaw tensed with fury. The anger in his face made his eyes glow, reminding Athelstan of the figure of St John the Baptist in a mummer’s play. The man’s eyes never left Cranston’s as he drew a deep breath, one bony finger pointing upwards to the clear blue sky.
    ‘Woe to this city!’ the preacher rasped. ‘Woe to its corrupt officials! Woe to those they serve who are clad in silk, loll on couches, and fill their bellies with the best of food and the richness of wine. They will not escape the fury which is coming! How can we eat and drink when our poor brothers starve? What will their answer be then?’
    Cranston angrily stepped forward but Athelstan caught him by the sleeve.
    ‘Not now, Sir John!’
    ‘Who is it?’ Cranston rasped.
    ‘The hedge priest, John Ball. A great preacher,’ Athelstan muttered. ‘Sir John,’ he advised, ‘the man is well liked. This is neither the time nor the place!‘
    Cranston took a deep breath, spun on his heel and walked on. The preacher’s fiery words pursued them as they passed the house of Crutched Friars and turned left down an alleyway towards the Tower.
    ‘One day,’ Cranston grated, ‘I’ll see that bastard hang!‘ ‘Sir John, he speaks the truth.’
    The coroner turned. His face and body sagged as the fury drained from him.
    ‘What can I do, Athelstan? How can I feed the poor of Kent? I may eat too much, I know I drink too much, but I pursue justice and do the best I can.’ Cranston’s great fat hands flapped like the wings of a wounded bird and Athelstan saw the hurt in his eyes.
    ‘By the sod, Brother, I can’t even govern my own house.’
    ‘Lady Maude?’ Athelstan queried.
    Cranston nodded. ‘I fear she has met someone else,’ he blurted out. ‘Perhaps a fop from the court.’
    Athelstan stared back in disbelief.
    ‘Lady Maude? Never! Sir John, you are a fool!‘
    ‘If any other man said that, I’d kill him!‘
    ‘Well, I say it, Sir John. Lady Maude is an honourable woman, she loves you deeply. Though,’ Athelstan snarled in genuine anger, ‘sometimes I wonder how she can!’ He grasped the fat coroner by his cloak. ‘What proof do you have?’
    ‘Last night I saw her coming across London Bridge from Southwark, yet when I asked her where she had been, she replied no further than Cheapside.‘
    Athelstan was about to snarl a further retort when the coroner’s words suddenly quickened his own memories. Sir John might be right. A week ago, just before the feast of the Virgin, Athelstan had seen the Lady Maude near the Tabard in Southwark. At the time he’d thought it strange but then forgot about it. Cranston narrowed his eyes.
    ‘You know something, don’t you, you bloody monk?’ Athelstan looked away. ‘I’m a friar,’ he replied softly. ‘Sir John, I know nothing except that I honour you and the Lady Maude. I also know she would never betray you.’ Cranston brushed by him. ‘Come on!’ he barked. ‘We have business to do.’
    They reached the bottom of the alleyway, went up the hill and into the Tower through a rear postern gate. One of the sentries took their horses and led them across Tower Green, now ankle-deep in icy slush, to where a depressed-looking Colebrooke was waiting.
    ‘More deaths,’ the lieutenant announced mournfully. ‘Sir John, I wish I could say you were welcome.’ He took them out, stopped and stared up at the ravens cawing raucously against the blue sky. He pointed