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Authors: Paul Doherty
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murmured.
‘A present,’ the lieutenant replied, ‘from a Norwegian prince to the present king’s grandfather, God bless him! It is called Ursus Magnus.’
‘Ah!’ Athelstan smiled. ‘After the constellation.’
Colebrooke looked dumb.
‘The stars,’ Athelstan persisted. ‘A constellation in the heavens.’
Colebrooke smiled thinly and led them back to a postern gate in the outer curtain wall. He pulled back bolts and the hinges shrieked in protest as he threw open the solid, creaking gate.
No one, Athelstan thought, has gone through this gate for months.
They stepped gingerly on to the frozen moat, the very quietness and heavy mist creating an eerie, unreal feeling.
‘The only time you’ll ever walk on water, Priest!’ Cranston muttered.
Athelstan grinned. ‘A strange feeling,’ he replied, then looked at the drawn face of Colebrooke. ‘Why is the gate here?’
The lieutenant shrugged. ‘It’s used very rarely. Sometimes a spy or a secret messenger slips across the moat, or someone who wishes to leave the Tower unnoticed. Now,’ he tapped his boot on the thick, heavy ice, ‘it makes no difference.’
Athelstan stared around. Behind him the great soaring curtain wall stretched up to the snow-laden clouds, whilst the far side of the moat was hidden in a thick mist. Nothing stirred. There was no sound except their own breathing and the scraping noise of their boots on the ice. They walked gingerly, carefully, as if expecting the ice to crack and the water to reappear. They followed the sheer curtain wall round to the North Bastion.
‘Where are these footholds?’ Cranston asked.
Colebrooke beckoned them forward and pointed to the brickwork. At first the holds in the wall could hardly be detected, but at last they saw them, like the claw marks of a huge bird embedded deeply in the stonework. Cranston pushed his hand into one of them.
‘Yes,’ he muttered, ‘someone has been here. Look, the ice is broken.’
Athelstan inspected the icy apertures and agreed. He followed the trail of the footholds up until they, like the top of the tower, were lost in the clinging mist.
‘A hard climb,’ he observed. ‘Most dangerous in the dead of night.’ He looked at the frost-covered snow and, stooping down, picked up something, hiding it in the palm of his hand until Colebrooke turned to go back.
‘What is it?’ Cranston slurred. ‘What did you find there?’
The friar opened his hand and Cranston smiled at the silver-gilt buckle glinting in his palm.
‘So,’ Cranston mumbled, ‘someone was here. All we have to do is match the buckle with its wearer, then its heigh-ho to King’s Bench, a swift trial, and a more prolonged execution.’
Athelstan shook his head. ‘Oh, Sir John,’ he whispered, ‘if things were only so simple.’ They went back through the postern gate and into the inner bailey. The Tower had now come to life even though the frost still held and there was still no sign of any break in the weather. Farriers had fired the forges and the bailey rang with the clang of the hammer and the whoosh of bellows as ragged apprentices worked hard to fan the forge fires to life. A butcher was slicing up a gutted pig and scullions ran, shaking the blood from the meat, to stick it into fat-bellied tubs of salt and brine so it would last through to the spring. A groom trotted a lame horse, roaring at his companions to look for any defect, whilst scullions and maids soaked piles of grease-stained pewter plates in vats of scalding water. The lieutenant watched the scene and grinned.
‘Soon be Christmas!’ he announced. ‘All must be clean and ready.’
Athelstan nodded, watching three boys drag holly and other evergreen shrubs across the snow to the steps of the great keep.
‘You will celebrate Christmas?’ Athelstan asked, nodding to a high-wheeled cart from which soldiers were now unloading huge tuns of wine.
‘Of course,’ Colebrooke replied. ‘Death is no stranger to the
‘A present,’ the lieutenant replied, ‘from a Norwegian prince to the present king’s grandfather, God bless him! It is called Ursus Magnus.’
‘Ah!’ Athelstan smiled. ‘After the constellation.’
Colebrooke looked dumb.
‘The stars,’ Athelstan persisted. ‘A constellation in the heavens.’
Colebrooke smiled thinly and led them back to a postern gate in the outer curtain wall. He pulled back bolts and the hinges shrieked in protest as he threw open the solid, creaking gate.
No one, Athelstan thought, has gone through this gate for months.
They stepped gingerly on to the frozen moat, the very quietness and heavy mist creating an eerie, unreal feeling.
‘The only time you’ll ever walk on water, Priest!’ Cranston muttered.
Athelstan grinned. ‘A strange feeling,’ he replied, then looked at the drawn face of Colebrooke. ‘Why is the gate here?’
The lieutenant shrugged. ‘It’s used very rarely. Sometimes a spy or a secret messenger slips across the moat, or someone who wishes to leave the Tower unnoticed. Now,’ he tapped his boot on the thick, heavy ice, ‘it makes no difference.’
Athelstan stared around. Behind him the great soaring curtain wall stretched up to the snow-laden clouds, whilst the far side of the moat was hidden in a thick mist. Nothing stirred. There was no sound except their own breathing and the scraping noise of their boots on the ice. They walked gingerly, carefully, as if expecting the ice to crack and the water to reappear. They followed the sheer curtain wall round to the North Bastion.
‘Where are these footholds?’ Cranston asked.
Colebrooke beckoned them forward and pointed to the brickwork. At first the holds in the wall could hardly be detected, but at last they saw them, like the claw marks of a huge bird embedded deeply in the stonework. Cranston pushed his hand into one of them.
‘Yes,’ he muttered, ‘someone has been here. Look, the ice is broken.’
Athelstan inspected the icy apertures and agreed. He followed the trail of the footholds up until they, like the top of the tower, were lost in the clinging mist.
‘A hard climb,’ he observed. ‘Most dangerous in the dead of night.’ He looked at the frost-covered snow and, stooping down, picked up something, hiding it in the palm of his hand until Colebrooke turned to go back.
‘What is it?’ Cranston slurred. ‘What did you find there?’
The friar opened his hand and Cranston smiled at the silver-gilt buckle glinting in his palm.
‘So,’ Cranston mumbled, ‘someone was here. All we have to do is match the buckle with its wearer, then its heigh-ho to King’s Bench, a swift trial, and a more prolonged execution.’
Athelstan shook his head. ‘Oh, Sir John,’ he whispered, ‘if things were only so simple.’ They went back through the postern gate and into the inner bailey. The Tower had now come to life even though the frost still held and there was still no sign of any break in the weather. Farriers had fired the forges and the bailey rang with the clang of the hammer and the whoosh of bellows as ragged apprentices worked hard to fan the forge fires to life. A butcher was slicing up a gutted pig and scullions ran, shaking the blood from the meat, to stick it into fat-bellied tubs of salt and brine so it would last through to the spring. A groom trotted a lame horse, roaring at his companions to look for any defect, whilst scullions and maids soaked piles of grease-stained pewter plates in vats of scalding water. The lieutenant watched the scene and grinned.
‘Soon be Christmas!’ he announced. ‘All must be clean and ready.’
Athelstan nodded, watching three boys drag holly and other evergreen shrubs across the snow to the steps of the great keep.
‘You will celebrate Christmas?’ Athelstan asked, nodding to a high-wheeled cart from which soldiers were now unloading huge tuns of wine.
‘Of course,’ Colebrooke replied. ‘Death is no stranger to the
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