The House of the Red Slayer

Tower and up into Mistress Philippa’s chamber on the second floor. It was a spacious room with a deep bay window overlooking Tower Green. The seats were cushioned and quilted, the windows glazed with fragments of stained glass. As soon as he entered, Athelstan sensed it was a woman’s chamber: hand-woven tapestries hung on the walls, one depicting a golden dragon locked in combat with a silver wyvem. Another portrayed the Infant Jesus smiling, arms outstretched, in the manger at Bethlehem where Christ’s mother stood in a dress of gold and a mantle of deep sky blue. The bricks in the wall had been painted alternately white and red; large cupboards stood with doors half-open displaying gowns, dresses, hoods and mantles, of various colours and different fabrics A small pine log fire blazed in the canopied hearth. In one corner stood a spinning wheel, the threads still pulled tight. In the other, curtained off from the rest of the room, was the bed chamber. A long, polished table stood in the centre of the room. On it were placed chafing dishes full of glowing charcoal, spices and herbs. Their perfume reminded Athelstan of a fresh spring morning on his father’s farm in Sussex. He also noticed the other door in the far side wall, peeping out from behind the thick red arras. Athelstan grinned and winked at Sir John.
    ‘A lady’s bower, my Lord Coroner,’ he whispered.
    Cranston smiled, then remembered Lady Maude and his face grew long.
    Mistress Philippa rose as they entered. In temperament, though not in looks, she reminded Athelstan of Benedicta; she had the same quiet composure and he had glimpsed the steely look in her eyes. Was Philippa strong and ruthless enough, he wondered, to commit murder? Athelstan stared round at the rest, mumbling quietly like people who wanted to maintain appearances though he sensed their tension. The conversation died abruptly as Cranston lurched across the room. Perhaps Philippa or the femininity of her chamber had reminded Cranston of Maude for the coroner suddenly became bellicose with the girl.
    ‘Another bloody murder!‘ he roared. ‘What now, eh?’ Geoffrey Parchmeiner, Philippa’s betrothed, stood up and walked out of the darkness near the wall. He looked anxious, more white-faced and sober than the last time Athelstan had seen him.
    ‘Murder, My Lord Coroner?’ he stammered. ‘What proof do you have? You swagger in here, into my lady’s chamber, and shout allegations yet show no evidence. What can we make of that?’
    Athelstan looked around. Sir Fulke seemed subdued and remained slouched in his chair. The chaplain, crouched on a stool near the fireplace, stared into the flames wringing his hands whilst Rastani, the silent, dark servant, sat with his back to the wall as if he wished the very stones would open and swallow him. The other hospitaller, Fitzormonde, stood near the window, his hands folded, staring at the floor as if totally unaware of Cranston’s presence. Colebrooke looked embarrassed, tapping his foot and whistling softly under his breath.
    ‘My betrothed asked a question,’ Philippa demanded. ‘How do you know the knight was murdered? And what difference does it make, Sir Coroner? So was my father, and are you any nearer to finding his killer?‘
    ‘Your father’s murder will be avenged,’ Cranston snapped. ‘As for Mowbray, he had that bloody parchment on him and the fragments of a seed cake. What further proof do you need?’
    Philippa stared coolly back.
    ‘Well!’ Cranston shouted. ‘I have answered one of your bloody questions!‘
    ‘Sir John,’ she replied icily, ‘moderate your language. My father,’ her voice nearly broke, ‘now lies sheeted in a coffin in the Chapel of St Peter Ad Vincula. I, his daughter, grieve and demand justice, but all I get is the offensive language of the alleys and runnels of Southwark. Sir, I am a lady.’
    Cranston’s eyes narrowed evilly.
    ‘So bloody what?’ he answered before Athelstan could intervene. ‘Show me a lady and I’ll show you a whore!’
    The girl gasped. Her betrothed leapt back to his feet, his hand going to the knife at his belt, but Cranston just dismissed him with a contemptuous flicker of his eyes. Athelstan watched the hospitaller suddenly stir and noticed with alarm how the knight now grasped one of his gloves in his hand.
    Good Lord, the friar thought, not here, not now! The last thing Sir John needs is a challenge to the death.
    ‘Sir John!’ he snapped. ‘Mistress