The House of the Red Slayer

about to leave when a slattern dropped a tankard. The man whirled round and for a few seconds the landlord saw his face. He swore it was Bartholomew Burghgesh.’
    Father Peter sighed. ‘Of course, I kept quiet about what I had seen, but I was intrigued. I journeyed out to the old manor house near Buxfield. If it was Burghgesh, I thought, surely he would have returned to his former home? Yet I discovered that nothing had been disturbed.’ He shrugged and spread his hands. ‘That’s all I can tell you. Only God knows if the man I and the landlord glimpsed was Sir Bartholomew. I heard no other rumours about his sudden return, either from abroad or beyond the grave, so I let the matter rest.’
    ‘Father,’ Athelstan persisted, ‘please, when was this? Three or four years ago?’
    The priest stared into the fire.
    ‘Yes, three years ago,’ he replied. ‘But,’ he smiled, ‘I can tell you no more.’
    Cranston leaned forward and clasped Father Peter by the wrist.
    ‘Father, your hospitality is only matched by the value of what you have told us.’ The coroner glanced at Athelstan and smiled. ‘Come, Brother, it’s not yet noon. If we travel hard and fast, we can be back in the city before nightfall.’ He looked across at Father Peter. ‘I thank you for your hospitality, Father.’ He turned and tossed a penny at the lad still squatting in the corner. ‘You, boy, will either make a good squire or a merchant.‘
    They rose, gathered their cloaks, and within the hour were clear of Woodforde. They journeyed through Leighton, past the grisly scaffold with the freshly dug makeshift grave still visible at its foot, and back on to the Mile End Road. Cranston, who had stopped at a local tavern to refill his miraculous wineskin, was full of chatter and speculation.
    ‘It’s possible, Brother,’ he boomed for the umpteenth time, his bewhiskered lips red from the juice of the grape, ‘quite possible that Sir Bartholomew is still alive and hiding in or near the Tower to carry out his silent war of revenge.‘
    ‘Sir John,’ Athelstan replied, ‘I would agree, but where would Burghgesh hide? Is he a member of the garrison? A kitchen scullion? Some tradesman who has the right of access?’
    Cranston made a rude noise with his lips.
    ‘Or,’ Athelstan continued, ‘does Sir Bartholomew squat like some dark spider in the city whilst others carry out his dreadful commands?’
    Cranston reined in his horse.
    ‘Strange, mind you,’ he murmured.
    ‘What?’
    ‘Well, three years ago Whitton was disturbed, agitated, as if he had seen a ghost. At the same time, Brother, a cowled and hooded figure was seen in the tavern near the Tower, and the same person, probably Burghgesh, also seen in Woodforde.‘
    ‘You’re saying Whitton’s agitation was caused by Burghgesh’s reappearance?’
    ‘Of course.’
    ‘But, if that is so, what has happened to Burghgesh since?’
    He and Cranston were still arguing rival theories when they reached Aldgate long after dark and made their way through a small postern door in the city gate. Cranston, full of wine and his own theories, was now certain they had grasped the truth. Athelstan did not demur. At least, he concluded, their journey to Woodforde had diverted the coroner’s mind from his constant agonising over the Lady Maude’s mysterious conduct.

    As Athelstan and Cranston made their way back into the city, the hospitaller, Fitzormonde, was standing in the bailey of the Tower, staring at the huge bear now stuffing its cruel mouth with scraps from the Tower kitchen. Like Athelstan, Fitzormonde was fascinated by the beast and secretly admired the madcap Red Hand who was the only man who dared approach the animal. Fitzormonde, despite his travels, had never seen such a huge beast. Most bears were small and black, sometimes no higher than a man, but this great, shaggy-furred animal reminded him of stories he had heard from knights who had served with the Teutonic Orders in the wild black forests of the north. How they had seen deer twice the size of anything in England and bears such as this one, which would crush a horse in its huge, muscular arms.
    The bear suddenly stopped eating and glared at the knight, its small, piggy eyes red with hatred. It opened its mouth, growling deep in its throat in a display of wickedly sharp teeth. The huge beast strained at the great iron chain clasped to the collar round its neck. Fitzormonde stepped away and the bear went back to its