Read Online The House of the Red Slayer by Paul C. Doherty - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Paul C. Doherty
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questions.
Athelstan winked at Cranston, stood his ground and called out: ‘Master Colebrooke?’
The lieutenant turned, trying hard to hide his irritation. ‘Yes, Brother?’
‘Why are so many people here? I mean the hospitallers, Master Geoffrey, Sir Fulke?’
Colebrooke shrugged. ‘The constable’s kinsman always stays here.’
‘And young Geoffrey?’
Colebrooke smirked. ‘I think he’s as hot for Mistress Philippa as she is for him. Sir Ralph invited him to the Tower for Christmas, and why not? This great frost has stopped all business in the city and Sir Ralph insisted, especially when he grew strangely fearful, that his daughter’s betrothed stay with him.‘
‘The two hospitallers?’ Cranston asked.
‘Old friends,’ Colebrooke replied. ‘They come here each Christmas and go through the same ritual. They arrive two weeks before Yuletide, and every Christmas Eve go to sup at the Golden Mitre tavern outside the Tower. They always stay till Twelfth Night and leave after the Feast of the Epiphany. Three times they’ve done so, though God knows why!‘ He turned and spat a globule of yellow phlegm on to the white snow. ‘As I have said, Sir Ralph had his secrets and I never pried.‘
Cranston fidgeted, a sign he was growing bored as well as tired of the cold, so Athelstan allowed Colebrooke to take them back into the White Tower, up a stone spiral staircase, through an antechamber and into the Chapel of St John.
Athelstan immediately relaxed as he caught the fragrant scent of incense. He walked into the nave with its soaring hammer-beamed roof and wide aisles, each flanked by twelve circular pillars around which thick green and scarlet velvet ribbons had been tied. The floor was polished, the strange red flagstones seeming to give off their own warmth, whilst the delicate paintings on the walls and the huge glazed windows caught the blinding white light of the snow and bathed both sanctuary and nave in a warm, glowing hue. Braziers, sprinkled with herbs, stood next to each pillar, making the air thick with the cloying sweetness of summer. Athelstan felt warm, comfortable and at peace, even though he studied the church enviously. If only, he thought, he had such decorations at St Erconwald! He saw the great silver star pinned above the chancel screen and, muttering with delight, walked into the silent sanctuary, marvelling at the marble steps and magnificent altar carved out of pure white alabaster.
‘So serene,’ he murmured, coming back to join his companions.
Colebrooke smiled self-consciously. ‘Before we left the hall I ordered servants to prepare the place,’ he announced, and looked around. ‘By some trick or artifice of the architects, whether it be the thickness of the stone or its location in the Tower, this chapel is always warm.’
‘I need refreshment,’ Cranston solemnly announced. ‘I have walked up many stairs, studied a ghastly corpse, balanced on freezing ice, and now I’ve had enough! Master Lieutenant, you seem a goodly man. You will gather the rest here and, seeing it’s the Yuletide season, bring a jug of claret for myself and my clerk.’
Colebrooke agreed and hurried off, but not before he and Athelstan had rearranged the chapel stools into a wide semicircle. Once he’d gone, Athelstan brought a polished table from the sanctuary and laid out pen, inkhorn and parchment. He took care to warm the ink over the brazier so it would run smooth and clear from his quill. Cranston just squatted on his chair, throwing back his cloak and revelling in the fragrant warmth. Athelstan studied him carefully.
‘Sir John,’ he murmured, ‘take care with the wine. You have drunk enough and are tired.’
‘Sod off, Athelstan!’ Cranston slurred angrily. ‘I’ll drink what I damned well like!‘
Athelstan closed his eyes and breathed a prayer for help. So far Sir John had behaved himself, but the wine in his belly might rouse the devil in his heart and only the Good Lord
Athelstan winked at Cranston, stood his ground and called out: ‘Master Colebrooke?’
The lieutenant turned, trying hard to hide his irritation. ‘Yes, Brother?’
‘Why are so many people here? I mean the hospitallers, Master Geoffrey, Sir Fulke?’
Colebrooke shrugged. ‘The constable’s kinsman always stays here.’
‘And young Geoffrey?’
Colebrooke smirked. ‘I think he’s as hot for Mistress Philippa as she is for him. Sir Ralph invited him to the Tower for Christmas, and why not? This great frost has stopped all business in the city and Sir Ralph insisted, especially when he grew strangely fearful, that his daughter’s betrothed stay with him.‘
‘The two hospitallers?’ Cranston asked.
‘Old friends,’ Colebrooke replied. ‘They come here each Christmas and go through the same ritual. They arrive two weeks before Yuletide, and every Christmas Eve go to sup at the Golden Mitre tavern outside the Tower. They always stay till Twelfth Night and leave after the Feast of the Epiphany. Three times they’ve done so, though God knows why!‘ He turned and spat a globule of yellow phlegm on to the white snow. ‘As I have said, Sir Ralph had his secrets and I never pried.‘
Cranston fidgeted, a sign he was growing bored as well as tired of the cold, so Athelstan allowed Colebrooke to take them back into the White Tower, up a stone spiral staircase, through an antechamber and into the Chapel of St John.
Athelstan immediately relaxed as he caught the fragrant scent of incense. He walked into the nave with its soaring hammer-beamed roof and wide aisles, each flanked by twelve circular pillars around which thick green and scarlet velvet ribbons had been tied. The floor was polished, the strange red flagstones seeming to give off their own warmth, whilst the delicate paintings on the walls and the huge glazed windows caught the blinding white light of the snow and bathed both sanctuary and nave in a warm, glowing hue. Braziers, sprinkled with herbs, stood next to each pillar, making the air thick with the cloying sweetness of summer. Athelstan felt warm, comfortable and at peace, even though he studied the church enviously. If only, he thought, he had such decorations at St Erconwald! He saw the great silver star pinned above the chancel screen and, muttering with delight, walked into the silent sanctuary, marvelling at the marble steps and magnificent altar carved out of pure white alabaster.
‘So serene,’ he murmured, coming back to join his companions.
Colebrooke smiled self-consciously. ‘Before we left the hall I ordered servants to prepare the place,’ he announced, and looked around. ‘By some trick or artifice of the architects, whether it be the thickness of the stone or its location in the Tower, this chapel is always warm.’
‘I need refreshment,’ Cranston solemnly announced. ‘I have walked up many stairs, studied a ghastly corpse, balanced on freezing ice, and now I’ve had enough! Master Lieutenant, you seem a goodly man. You will gather the rest here and, seeing it’s the Yuletide season, bring a jug of claret for myself and my clerk.’
Colebrooke agreed and hurried off, but not before he and Athelstan had rearranged the chapel stools into a wide semicircle. Once he’d gone, Athelstan brought a polished table from the sanctuary and laid out pen, inkhorn and parchment. He took care to warm the ink over the brazier so it would run smooth and clear from his quill. Cranston just squatted on his chair, throwing back his cloak and revelling in the fragrant warmth. Athelstan studied him carefully.
‘Sir John,’ he murmured, ‘take care with the wine. You have drunk enough and are tired.’
‘Sod off, Athelstan!’ Cranston slurred angrily. ‘I’ll drink what I damned well like!‘
Athelstan closed his eyes and breathed a prayer for help. So far Sir John had behaved himself, but the wine in his belly might rouse the devil in his heart and only the Good Lord
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