Breathing heavily, the assassin emerged through a narrow doorway and into the full glare of the Chapel of St John the Evangelist, pausing just within the entrance. The basilisk stood, studying the ancient Norman chapel intently — not for the first time, but this was different. The real drama to be staged here would be subtle murder; the chance to strike Gaunt at the heart of his power, to wreak vengeance on those who had brought about the hideous slaughter at the Roundhoop. The basilisk drew a deep breath: that would never be forgotten! This place would be where the dish of vengeance was served. Built so its apse projected out of the south-east corner of the White Tower, the chapel was oval shaped with a recess just close to the door. Here the King could sit enthroned directly opposite the elaborately decorated rood screen depicting the crucified Christ. Above its doorway stood life-sized figures of the Virgin and St John painted in brilliant colours of gold, red, blue and silver. The actual entrance to the rood screen was now filled by a grotesque Hell’s mouth carved in the likeness of the gaping jaws of a fearsome dragon’s head. The face was blood red, its eyes large black pools, the irises a sickly yellow, the parted heavy lips smeared purple, a leather tongue jutting out between sharp white teeth. The basilisk thought this piece of scenery very fitting; a nightmare picture which would dominate the drama played out in front of it. The aisles either side of this rood screen had been curtained off with heavy, silver-powdered damask cloths. The nave of the chapel had been set out with elegant leather-backed chairs; those in the front for Gaunt and his special guests had quilted arm rests. Along either side of the chapel ranged six pillars to represent the twelve apostles with narrow galleries or transepts between these and the outside walls. The gaps between each pillar were now tastefully screened by tapestries of eye-catching colours celebrating the legends of St John and the devotion of the royal family to Christ’s beloved disciple. The figures on the tapestry were all clothed in priestly vestments: rose-coloured chasubles, brilliant blue dalmatics and mauvy-pink amices. The basilisk had seen all this before yet the arrogance of the Plantagenet royal family remained truly breathtaking. The figures were all blond-haired and blue-eyed. St John had been painted likewise as if Gaunt was claiming that the great evangelist was a member of the Plantagenet family. These gorgeous tapestries hung half down; just beneath them stood supper tables, covered in shimmering white damask and groaning under pure gold and silver platters heaped high with deliciously savoury collations for the Regent’s guests. The air, already sweetened with the fragrance from a myriad of beeswax candles and smoking herb pots, was made even richer by the mouth-watering odours of gelatine pie, coras sauce, swan-neck pudding, minced chicken and loach fried in roses and almonds. The basilisk surveyed the scene for the last time watching the servants in their blue, scarlet and gold livery, the knight bannerets, the men-at-arms, the archers, all busy. None of them gave the basilisk a second glance, totally unaware of how this splendid chamber would soon become a place of slaughter. A royal chapel where the power of the Crown would be truly shaken.
Athelstan closed his eyes in sheer pleasure then opened them and stared around the glorious chapel of St John: the entire place blazed with glory. The eye-catching colours delighted the eye, be it the gold, silver, reds, blues and greens on the tapestries hanging between the pillars or the small walnut tables, legs polished to a shine, bearing cups, goblets, bowls and mazers of the most precious metals studded with dazzling stones. Gaunt and his guests looked similarly magnificent in their houppelands and gowns of many colours, powdered with silver and gold. Finger rings, bracelets, collars and pectorals dazzled in the shimmering light of countless tongues of candle flame. The air was beautifully fragranced, warm and sweet. Such a contrast, Athelstan reflected, to their freezing cold, sombre journey by barge along the north bank of the Thames, the mist curling around the shoreline gallows heavy with the crumbling corpses of river pirates. They had shot through the thunderous water passage under London Bridge then docked at the Tower quayside. They’d entered the mighty fortress and the sheer bleakness of this house of war dulled the spirit with its sinister, silent donjons and fogbound cobbled baileys. Now and again the murky river mist would shift to reveal the great engines of war: mangonels, catapults and battering rams. A place of evil repute was how Athelstan’s parishioners described the Tower, and the friar could only agree. A place of ominous silence broken only by the clatter of weapons, the clanging from its many smithies or the heart-chilling roars and growls from the royal menagerie which, according to Cranston, on a hot day made the fortress reek. Athelstan had glimpsed the long enclosure with the cages on either side where the leopards and lions prowled, gifts from rulers in Outremer. Cranston had even told him about a huge snow bear kept in a special chamber cage close to the moat in which the bear was allowed to swim. Athelstan had rejected the story as fanciful. Cranston had assured him that the animal was a recent gift from the King of Norway, almost three yards high and kept on a long chain which allowed him to swim in the nearby water. Athelstan had quietly promised himself to view such a magnificent spectacle.
The Tower was certainly grim. Athelstan turned on his chair, yet this chapel was an island of beautiful serenity in the fear-filled fortress. He and Cranston had been ushered in and served belly-warming, mouth-sweetening cups of hippocras and slices of spiced toast coated with almond sauce. Gaunt with the face of an angel, his extraordinary blue eyes crinkling in good humour, had welcomed all his guests. He had stood before the brilliant rood screen dressed in cloth of silver and lavished them with his charm. Light danced along the golden ‘SS’ collar of Lancaster around the Regent’s neck while the gorgeous finger rings made every elegant gesture of his hands shimmer in the glow. Gaunt wore cream-coloured, Spanish leather riding boots, and every time he moved the jewelled spurs on the heels jingled like the soft ringing of the sacring bell. He had personally welcomed Cranston and Athelstan, thanking for them for their work at the Roundhoop. The Regent then passed them on to Master Thibault who, dressed in a houppeland and shoulder cape of dark blue murrey brushed with silver, ushered them to their seats. The other guests included a few important clerics, Walbrook the mayor and other leading citizens. Lascelles, garbed as usual like a raven, looked after the Flemings, resplendent in their silver brocaded cloaks. Athelstan noticed how Lettenhove, their bodyguard, seemed ill at ease, plucking at his dagger hilt and staring suspiciously around the luxuriously furnished chapel.