The House of the Red Slayer

Philippa is correct. You are the King’s Coroner. She is a lady of high birth who has lost her father and now sees one of his friends meet a similar terrible death.’ He grasped the coroner’s arm and swung him round, keeping an eye on the hospitaller now standing behind them.
    ‘Sir John! Control yourself, please,’ he murmured. ‘For my sake.’
    Cranston stared at Athelstan with red-rimmed eyes. He reminded the friar of the great, shaggy bear squatting in the courtyard below. The friar touched Cranston’s hand gently.
    ‘Sir John,’ he whispered, ‘please. You are a gentleman and a knight.’
    The coroner closed his eyes, took a deep breath, opened them and grinned.
    ‘When you are around, monk,’ he muttered, ‘I don’t need a bloody conscience.’ He turned to Philippa. ‘My lady,’ he said, ‘before Sir Brian or Sir Fulke,’ he glanced contemptuously at the girl’s uncle who still sat slumped in his chair, ‘challenge me to a duel, I apologise profusely.’ He gave her a dazzling smile. ‘There are old men, Mistress,’ he continued, ‘and there are fools. But there’s nothing worse than an old fool.’ He stretched out his hand, took the girl’s unresisting fingers and kissed them in a way the most professional courtier would have envied.
    ‘I was most discourteous,’ he bellowed. ‘You must forgive me, especially at this time when your father’s body is not yet buried.’

CHAPTER 7

    The atmosphere in the room relaxed. Athelstan closed his eyes. Good God, he prayed, oh thank you! The hospitaller had been on the verge of striking Sir John and, once that happened, well, Athelstan knew Cranston. It would be a duel à outrance, to the death! Mistress Philippa smiled and stepped forward into the light and Athelstan realised just how boorish Cranston had been.
    The girl’s face was white as snow, her eyes red-rimmed and circled with deep shadows, but she sensed Cranston’s insult had not been intended. She leaned over and kissed Sir John gently on the cheek. This only discomfited the coroner further, he stared down at the floor and shuffled his feet like some clumsy schoolboy. Philippa went across to a tray of goblets, filled two and brought them back. She gave one to Athelstan and pressed the other into Sir John’s great paw. The coroner smiled at the wine, lifted the cup and downed it in one gulp. He smacked his lips, winked at the girl and held out the goblet to be refilled. Phllippa smilingly obliged and Athelstan groaned. He didn’t know what was worse, Cranston sulking or Cranston in his cups.
    Sir John took the goblet and went over to the window, staring out at the sun dazzling the snow on Tower Green. Athelstan busied himself arranging his writing tray on the table. The rest of the group hardly moved as if absorbed in everything the coroner said or did. They watched him intently, like a group of schoolboys would a fearsome master. Cranston watched the sunlight shimmer on the great tocsin bell then turned round abruptly.
    ‘Mowbray,’ he announced, ‘was murdered. Well, at least I believe he was. He received the same message as Sir Ralph. I think he went on to the parapet and the tocsin was sounded to make him run. Now, I have examined the parapet most carefully
    Athelstan remembered how Cranston had slouched against the wall and hid his smile.
    ‘I have examined the parapet most carefully,’ Cranston continued, glaring at Athelstan. ‘Mowbray did not slip accidentally. The sand and gravel there are at least an inch thick. Someone planned his fall.‘
    ‘Did Mowbray drink?’ Athelstan asked.
    Cranston turned and glanced at the other hospitaller. Sir Brian shook his head.
    ‘He was a seasoned warrior,’ the knight replied. ‘He could run along such a parapet in a blinding snow storm.‘ ‘Tell me,’ Cranston said, ‘what happened yesterday evening? I mean, before Mowbray fell?’
    ‘We were all here,’ Sir Fulke spoke up. He smiled. ‘Mistress Philippa had invited us for supper.’
    ‘I wasn’t!‘ snapped Fitzormonde. ‘I was in my own chamber, awaiting poor Mowbray’s return.’
    ‘And, of course, Rastani,’ the chaplain stuttered, squirming on his stool.
    ‘Yes,’ Fitzormonde murmured. ‘The Morisco wasn’t here.’
    Athelstan left his desk and squatted in front of Rastani. He stared into the silent, fear-filled face.
    ‘My Lady Philippa,’ Athelstan murmured over his shoulder, ‘I wish to talk to Rastani though I think he knows what I am going