The House of the Red Slayer

and, even though it’s Advent, he’ll take a jug of watered ale!‘
    The coroner swaggered across and tapped the half-sleeping friar on the shoulder. ‘Arouse yourself, Brother!’ he bawled. ‘For, by the sod, the devil walks, roaring like a lion seeking whom he may devour!‘
    ‘I hope he’s not as heavy-handed as you, Cranston,’ Athelstan grumbled, opening his eyes and gazing wearily up.
    Cranston crouched down beside him. ‘Good morrow, monk.’
    ‘I am a friar.’
    ‘Good morrow, friar. And why are you not so full of the joys of Yuletide?’
    ‘Because, Sir John, I am cold, tired and totally dispirited.’ Athelstan was about to continue the litany of his woes when he caught the mischief dancing like devils in Cranston’s eyes. ‘It’s good to see you happy, Sir John. I suppose you have ordered food?’
    Cranston nodded, swept his great beaver hat off his head and slumped down on the bench opposite.
    They had eaten their fill and Cranston downed two cups of claret before Athelstan had finished his story. The coroner shook his head, asked a few questions and whistled softly under his breath.
    ‘By the sod, are you sure, Brother? So much from an innocent little remark by the Lady Maude?’
    Athelstan shrugged. ‘Lady Maude’s little comments have caused a great deal of consternation in the last few days, Sir John.’
    Cranston belched, rose, and bellowed for his wineskin, tossing coins at the taverner. ‘You have carried out my instructions, Sir John?’ Athelstan asked.
    ‘Yes, friar, I have.’ Sir John stretched and yawned. ‘All our suspects are waiting in the Tower, though Parchmeiner will arrive late. You want to see Colebrooke first?’
    ‘And Red Hand?’
    ‘Ah, yes, Red Hand.’
    ‘You have the warrant, Sir John?’
    ‘I don’t need any bloody warrants, monk! I am Cranston, the King’s Coroner in the City, and they will either answer the question or face the consequences.’
    They made their way out of the tavern where they left their horses, down some alleyways and through the great yawning entrance to the Tower. Colebrooke was waiting for them at the gatehouse. Athelstan noticed he was wearing hauberk, mailed shirt and leggings.
    ‘You are expecting trouble, Master Lieutenant?’
    ‘Sir John’s instructions seem most stringent,’ Colebrooke replied.
    ‘Where’s Red Hand?’
    ‘What do you want that mad bugger for?’
    ‘Because I ordered it,’ Cranston replied.
    They crossed the green, the sparse grass now visible beneath the wide swathes of grey slush. Two soldiers trailed behind. Colebrooke sent one across to the small door in the base of the White Tower. Athelstan stared sadly across at the far corner where the great bear had sat, now empty and forlorn but the ground still showed the marks of its occupation and a few pathetic scraps of food still littered the icy cobblestones.
    ‘God rest the bear’s soul!‘ Athelstan murmured.
    Cranston turned. ‘Do bears have souls, friar? Do they go to heaven?’
    Athelstan grinned. ‘If your heaven needs bears, Sir John, then there will be bears! But, in your case, I suppose heaven will be miles and miles of taverns and spacious ale-houses!‘ Cranston slapped his thigh with his gauntlet. ‘Oh, I like you, Brother.’ And he beamed at a surprised Colebrooke.
    Suddenly the door of the White Tower was thrown open and the soldier re-emerged, dragging Red Hand by the scruff of the neck.
    ‘Let him go!‘ Athelstan shouted. He went across, crouched and clasped the hunchback’s hand in his. He stared into the madcap’s milky eyes and saw the tear stains on his raddled cheeks. ‘You mourn the bear, Red Hand?’
    ‘Yes. Red Hand’s friend has gone.’
    Athelstan looked at the soldier and indicated he should move away. ‘I know, Red Hand,’ Athelstan whispered. ‘The bear was a magnificent beast, but he will be happy now. His spirit’s free.’
    Red Hand’s watery eyes caught Athelstan’s. The madman smiled. ‘You’re Red Hand’s friend?’
    Athelstan studied the hunchback’s face, his scrawny, white hair and grotesque mottled rags. He recalled Father Anselm’s other words of wisdom: ‘Always remember, Athelstan, every man is in God’s image. A flame burns as fiercely in a broken jar as it does in the most elaborately carved lamp.’
    ‘I am your friend,’ Athelstan replied. ‘But I need your help.’
    Red Hand’s eyes became wary.
    ‘I want you to show me your secrets.’
    ‘What secrets,