The House of the Red Slayer

companion.
    ‘But do you believe, Brother?’
    ‘What, Sir John?’
    ‘In the black arts? I mean, the business in your cemetery?’
    Athelstan grinned. ‘To be perfectly honest, Sir John, I am more frightened of the human heart than any mischievous demon. Now, come. Let’s rest.’
    Athelstan was pleased he had judged the moment right because, by the time they reached the top of the rickety wooden staircase, Cranston was half-asleep and beginning to mumble piteously about how he missed Lady Maude. Athelstan led him down the cold, darkened passageway and into the small chamber. He gently lowered Cranston on to the bed, pulled off the coroner’s boots and made his companion as comfortable as possible. The coroner turned, belched, and quietly began to snore. Athelstan grinned and covered the huge frame with a coverlet. Sleeping, Cranston reminded the friar more than ever of the huge bear in the bailey of the Tower. Athelstan went over and knelt beneath the small, horn-glazed window, crossed himself and gently mouthed the words of David’s psalm.
    ‘Out of the depths have I called to thee, O Lord. Lord, hear my voice.’
    By the time he had reached the fourth verse Athelstan was already distracted. Was Sir John right? he wondered. Did the great demon, the Red Slayer, haunt both his cemetery and the Tower of London? He closed his eyes, finished the psalm and made his way to the pallet bed. For a while Athelstan lay listening to Cranston’s heavy snoring and fell asleep almost at the very instant when, back in the darkened cemetery outside St Erconwald’s, shadows flitted across the graveyard to crouch over a freshly dug grave.

CHAPTER 11

    In his dream, Athelstan stood on a darkened ship. The bowsprit, mast and sails were covered in black crepe. Above him on the poop, a skeleton, face a white, leering mask, held the wheel and grinned wickedly down at him. The sea was smooth and clear as thick, dark glass. The sky overhead was empty of stars and hung like a purple-blue cloth around the ship as it drifted towards the horizon where a fiery red glow lit the gateway to Hell. On one end of the mast a figure jerked spasmodically. Athelstan glimpsed the blackened, twisted face of Pike the ditcher hanging by the neck. The friar turned as someone tapped him on the shoulder. His brother Francis stood there: his face was blueish-while under a shock of black hair. A thin red snake of blood trickled out of the corner of his mouth; his chest was an open, bubbling mass of blood where he had received his death wound.
    ‘You ran away from your monastery, Brother?’ His voice sounded hollow.
    Athelstan stretched out his hand. ‘I am sorry, Francis,’ he murmured. Athelstan stared around. Was Cranston here? He was sure he could hear the coroner’s voice.
    Athelstan walked to the entrance of the hold and gazed down. A naked woman squatted there, her face hidden behind a black veil; from her mouth came a foul toad and round her neck curled an amber snake, its red-slit eyes flashing like diamonds. A fat-bellied rat crouched beside her. Athelstan walked down the steps. Behind the woman, kneeling stem and impassive, was a knight in full armour, gauntleted hands resting on the hilt of his great two-handled sword. The hold stank of death and Athelstan could feel someone pressing close behind him. He squirmed violently as a hand seized his shoulder.
    ‘Athelstan! Athelstan! Brother, for God’s sake!’
    The friar opened his eyes. Cranston, his fat face wrinkled with concern, stared down at him.
    ‘Brother, what is the matter?’
    Athelstan stared back. ‘Good Sir John, I was dreaming.’ He raised a clammy hand and rubbed his face. ‘I was dreaming,’ he repeated.
    ‘And not a pleasant one!‘
    ‘No, Sir John. Some succubus of the night with the power of a thousand scorpions seized my mind.’
    Cranston gazed quizzically back and Athelstan grinned.
    ‘I am only joking. I think my nightmare was due more to the table than the grave. We dined too well last night.’
    ‘Yesterday is gone and today is today,’ Cranston pompously replied. ‘Come on, Brother, it’s daybreak.’
    Athelstan rose quickly, said a hasty prayer and washed himself in the freezing water from a cracked pewter jug. They gathered their possessions and moved down to the cold, deserted taproom. The fire was not lit and the room didn’t seem as cheerful and welcoming as it had the night before; they broke their fast quickly on warm oat cakes and mulled