by Paul Doherty
‘Brother Athelstan?’
‘Yes?’
‘Master Samuel will see you now.’
Athelstan followed the young woman under the curtain which hung to the right of the rood screen and into the sanctuary, behind where the rest of the troupe were hastily storing all the paraphernalia from their play. Master Samuel greeted Athelstan warmly, ushering him to the sanctuary chair and, much to the friar’s embarrassment, the troupe gathered like disciples to sit at his feet. Master Samuel introduced them all again and, in a voice betraying a West Country burr, explained how the ‘Brotherhood’, as he described is colleagues, were foundlings or orphans whom he had taken in, educated and trained.
‘Why the names from scripture?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Why not?’ Judith teased back, her dark eyes full of mischief.
‘We are one missing,’ Gideon declared. ‘Boaz has disappeared.’
‘But that’s our rule,’ Samuel observed. ‘Each of us is free to come and to go as they wish. Now, Brother, what is it you want?’
Athelstan told them, describing his parish and church. The Straw Men listened, obviously touched by this little friar’s enthusiasm. Samuel replied how they would reflect, discuss and vote on it but, he added smilingly, they would be only too willing to help.
Athelstan was about to question them further when Rosselyn, garbed in a heavy military cloak, appeared, soft and silent as shadow shifting along the wall. He clapped his hands and declared that His Grace awaited them all. Master Samuel pulled a face, but they all followed the captain of archers back into the chapel nave. Athelstan delayed a while to examine the magnificent Hell’s mouth with its pulleys and levers. As soon as he had joined the rest, ushered in by Rosselyn, Athelstan took a platter of diced chicken and a goblet of wine. He watched as the Straw Men were formally thanked by Gaunt and congratulated by the guests, who raised their goblets and showered the Straw Men with coins. Once this was finished, the feasting continued. In the recess near the door a group of minstrels played sweet music, the heart-tugging strings of a harp echoing clearly. Athelstan, intrigued, walked down the chapel, nodding and smiling at the guests, though scant acknowledgement was given to the small friar, who was dismissed as Cranston’s clerk.
The coroner himself was holding forth to Walbrook and a group of leading aldermen about his plans to improve the city water supply through the Conduit in Cheapside. He caught Athelstan’s gaze and winked; the friar peered round, stared into the recess and smiled. He was correct in recognizing the same harpist who’d played in the Holy Lamb of God. Athelstan turned, searching for Master Samuel or Rachael, when a small explosion occurred and smoke poured out from one of the braziers. Gaunt’s guests turned in alarm as the same happened in another brazier on the other side of the chapel. The silence was broken by shouts and exclamations. Gaunt’s household hurried towards their master. Athelstan jumped at a scream. He glanced to his right. Lettenhove was swaying on his feet, staring in disbelief at the crossbow bolt embedded deep in his chest. Shouts and yells rang out. People hurried instinctively towards the door. Another sharp scream shrilled as Guido Oudernarde on the other side of the chapel staggered away, one arm up, his face contorted in pain as he turned, trying to free the crossbow bolt which had struck him high in his back. The old Fleming, gagging at the pain, collapsed to his knees. Gaunt, sword in hand, was shouting at his household knights who hurried across to form a protective ring around their master and his fallen guest. The rest of the company, however, now panicked, jostling and pushing to leave the chapel. Athelstan was knocked aside, forced to clutch one of the great drum-like pillars as the chapel swiftly emptied. He glimpsed Eli taking refuge beneath one of the food tables in the transepts. The rest of the troupe had apparently fled with the rest. Cranston’s audience had also melted away but the coroner stood his ground, dagger drawn, his back to one of the pillars. Athelstan waited for the crush of bodies near the narrow entrance to dissipate before hurrying to join him. Cranston clutched the friar’s arm, kicking aside chairs to where a Tower leech knelt before the fallen Lettenhove. The Fleming, however, was beyond all human help. Athelstan went to kneel as the dying man jerked in his final agony, blood seeping out of his mouth and nose, only to be pushed aside by Cornelius.
‘I am a priest,’ he murmured in Latin. ‘I will shrive him.’
Athelstan rose and glanced across the chapel. Gaunt’s henchmen now ringed their master with kite-shaped shields while Lascelles tried to restore order, ushering people towards the door. Athelstan started at a man’s high-pitched yell. Eli, hiding under a table, had pushed back the heavy covering cloth and was pointing at the rood screen. Athelstan followed the direction and stifled his own exclamation. Two severed heads lay either side of Hell’s mouth. He hastened across, knelt and turned both over; they were very similar to those master Burdon poled on London Bridge. Both heads had seemingly been severed some time ago, the dirty-grey skin and the jagged remains of the neck were as dry as leather. Their features were all shrunken and shrivelled, the hair on both very brittle, the eyes sunk deep in their sockets, almost hidden by the crumpled lids.
‘Sweet Lord of Heaven!’ Cranston breathed as he crouched beside Athelstan. ‘In God’s name, where have they come from?’ He broke off as Athelstan plucked a scrap of parchment from one of the dead mouths. He unfolded this and whispered what was scrawled there.
‘When Adam delved and Eve span
Who was then the gentleman?
Now the world is ours and ours alone
To cut the Lords to heart and bone.’
‘Brother!’ Thibault stood behind them, ‘Brother!’ The Master of Secrets’ usual smiling face was pale, taut with anger. ‘Brother, Sir John. I must ask you to go.’ He forced a wintry smile. ‘For the moment leave those heads where they are.’ He plucked the scrap of parchment from Athelstan’s hand. ‘Lascelles will see you to a comfortable chamber. You can . . .’
‘Master Thibault!’ An archer stood in the doorway. ‘Master Thibault, the assassin has been found!’
‘What is this?’ Gaunt shouted, breaking free of the encircling knights.
‘My Lord.’ Thibault stretched out his hand and pointed to the grisly human remains on the exquisitely tiled floor. ‘My Lord, I beg you stay here.’
Thibault turned back, snapping his fingers at Cranston. ‘Sir John, I think you’d best come. You too, Brother Athelstan.’
All three left the chapel; outside the freezing darkness was falling. Archers carrying cresset torches moved about, shepherding those guests who’d fled the chapel to the great hall in the nearby royal lodgings. Officers of the Tower could only stand by and watch helplessly.
‘Master Thibault,’ Cranston whispered, ‘will not be interfered with. Royal palace or not, the King’s fortress of the Tower is now firmly under his control. Mark my words, dear friar, this will certainly end in bloodshed.’ Athelstan did not reply but pulled his cowl more firmly against the cutting cold as they followed the archer around the keep. The friar glanced up at the light flaring from the Chapel of St John above them. In the distance he could see a pool of flame where men clustered near the north-east corner of the Tower. Athelstan glimpsed a lantern box burning from a window, its shutters flung wide open, and reckoned this must be a window to the crypt. As they reached the circle of flame, the archer stepped back to allow them closer to where Rosselyn knelt by a crumpled corpse, its face ghoulish white, eyes popping. Blood from the head, which lay strangely twisted, had oozed out to create a sticky puddle. A young man dressed in jerkin, hose and hooded cloak, Athelstan peered closer and recognized Barak, one of the Straw Men. He glanced up the side of the Tower where the end of an oiled hempen rope swung in the evening breeze. A short distance away from the corpse laid a small hand arbalest or crossbow. Athelstan gently moved the twisted cloak, found the man’s belt and touched the stout leather case containing two barbed bolts.
‘You said he was the assassin?’ Athelstan asked over his shoulder at the archer who had le
d them here.
‘It must be,’ Rosselyn replied as he turned the corpse over on to its back. Athelstan flinched at the way the head flopped and the horrid wound which disfigured the entire right side of Barak’s face. Rosselyn, swift and nimble as any foist, searched the corpse. He emptied the belt purse – a few coins, a medal and two scraps of parchment. Athelstan sensed what was written and quoted the lines he had just read in the chapel. Rosselyn simply stared dead-eyed at him and handed the scripts to Thibault who plucked at the friar’s sleeve as a sign to withdraw. Athelstan chose to ignore him and recited the rite of absolution.
‘If you are finished, Brother,’ Thibault crouched beside him. ‘The night is so cold, and my master awaits.’
‘For whom?’ Athelstan held the sinister clerk’s hard stare.
‘Oh, for you, my dear friar and you, Sir John.’ Thibault moved his head from side to side as if assessing some complex problem. ‘Oh, yes, Brother Athelstan, my master and I certainly need words with you but until then . . .’
A short while later Athelstan and Cranston were ushered into the Tower guest house which stood close to the church of St Peter ad Vincula. This two-storey building, fronted with snow-white plaster and brown beams, boasted a great hall, kitchen and buttery on the ground floor, its upper storey being reserved for guest chambers. The hall was pleasant enough, the paved floor covered with tough rope matting. A great, hooded hearth housed a merry, spluttering fire, while braziers stacked with blazing coals and strewn with herbs provided more warmth and fragrance. They walked into a barn-like room with black rafters, the lime-washed walls covered with heavy painted canvasses which described the legends of the Tower, how it was founded by Trojan exiles and strengthened by the great Caesar. The long communal tables down either side gave the impression of a monastic refectory, a likeness heightened by the great black cross nailed to the far wall and the tall pulpitum opposite the hearth. The Straw Men were there, clustering in a frightened huddle on stools around the fire. They had been provided with stoups of ale and platters of food which now stood on one of the tables, and hardly stirred as Cranston and Athelstan entered, though Master Samuel recalled his manners and hurriedly fetched two stools from a recess near the buttery door. Athelstan sketched a blessing and glanced back over his shoulder. Thibault had disappeared as soon as they had entered the hall but he had left a cluster of archers close to the entrance. One of these became busy, walking around the refectory, ensuring the window shutters were firmly clasped before taking up guard near the buttery door.
‘I suspect we are the Regent’s guests,’ Cranston whispered, ‘whether we like it or not.’ They sat down on the stools placed before the fire. Cranston gazed around at the assembled company and, fumbling beneath his cloak, brought out the miraculous wine skin. He offered it around and, when no one accepted, took a generous swig and placed it between his feet.
‘We have heard the news.’ Samuel’s face and voice were bitter, no longer the bonhomie or gracious courtesy of a few hours earlier. ‘They say Barak is the assassin, that he was killed while escaping.’
Athelstan held his gaze, staring at that ruddy face, the neatly clipped moustache and beard. A resolute, determined man, Athelstan thought, well educated and skilled. A former soldier, perhaps a mailed clerk?
‘Is that true, Brother?’ Rachael, even more pale-faced, her fiery red hair now hidden beneath the hood of her gown, stretched out her hands to the fire.
‘Those heads,’ Eli whispered, repressing a shiver, ‘where did those grotesques come from? Brother Athelstan, they were severed heads.’ He pulled a face. ‘Real heads, no mummers’ trickery, no subtle device.’
‘God have mercy on them, whoever they were,’ Athelstan replied slowly. ‘They were the heads of two unfortunates. I suspect they were severed some time ago, washed, soaked in heavy brine and left to dry.’ He shrugged at their cries and exclamations. ‘Possibly the work of the Upright Men.’ Athelstan blew his lips out. ‘They must be; they were left as a warning, weren’t they, for our noble Regent?’
‘When I first saw them,’ Eli declared, ‘I really did think they were part of our wardrobe – masks we’d left unpacked.’ He laughed, shaking his head. ‘Foolish lad I am! Brother, Rachael stitches and embroiders our costumes, paints and cuts most of our scenery, yet I’d never seen them before. They were not Rachael’s work. I stared again and realized they were real.’
‘How long before you noticed them there?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Oh, only a few heart beats before I yelled.’
‘And nobody saw them being placed there?’ Cranston asked.
‘We saw nothing,’ Rachael replied. ‘I was eating some food, there were those explosions from the braziers, then Lettenhove was struck and almost immediately Oudernarde on the other side of the chapel. We fled.’
‘It’s true, it’s true,’ Samuel murmured. The rest of the company quietly agreed.
‘Brother Athelstan,’ Gideon, his blond hair so heavily oiled it seemed pressed down and held by a net, half rose; Samuel gripped him by the shoulder and forced him back on to the stool. ‘You claim this is the work of the Upright Men?’
‘You know who they are?’ Athelstan demanded.
‘Of course,’ Samson and Eli answered as one. ‘Who hasn’t heard of them?’
‘Are you saying,’ Samson accused, ‘that we are their retainers, members of their coven? Is that why we have been brought here, to be questioned?’
‘Hush now,’ Samuel intervened, ‘Brother Athelstan, I’m sorry, but this is . . .?’ He gestured at Cranston.
‘Sir John Cranston,’ Athelstan finished the sentence. ‘My friend, also Lord Coroner of London, the King’s law officer.’ Athelstan stared around. ‘Sir John is no retainer or lackey of this lord or that lord but the keeper of the King’s peace. Nevertheless, he, like me, like you, has little knowledge about what is truly happening here.’ Athelstan paused as a snow-white cat slipped through the buttery door and padded softly down the hall. Athelstan wondered how his constant companion, the one-eyed Bonaventure was faring.
‘Brother Athelstan is correct,’ Cranston, basking in the heat from the fire, stirred and stared round the semicircle of anxious faces. ‘Yes,’ he breathed, still jovial and benevolent after the claret he’d supped. ‘We truly are in the kingdom of mayhem and mystery.’ He smiled at his description taken from Athelstan. ‘Though some things are becoming clearer.’ He pointed at the fire. ‘Those explosions before the two men were struck were caused by cannon powder, I suspect – small leather pouches wedged between the charcoal.’
Athelstan nodded in agreement.
‘Now,’ Cranston smacked his lips and straightened up, ‘I am the Lord Coroner. Murder has been committed.’
‘Is this an inquisicio?’ Samuel protested.
‘Yes and no,’ Cranston retorted. ‘Let us at least determine where we were. Brother Athelstan and I stayed in the chapel. What happened to you?’
‘When the second man was struck,’ Judith replied, screwing up her eyes as she peered at the coroner, ‘we all fled. We were frightened.’ Her voice broke. Samson went to stroke her arm and she shrugged him off, a look of distaste on her face. Rachael leaned over, murmuring comfortingly.
‘We ran down the steps with the rest,’ Judith continued in a rush, ‘out into the snow.’
‘Do you all know where you were?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Brother,’ Rachael replied, ‘we were terrified. We all fled. I cannot remember who was where.’
Athelstan nodded in agreement. He realized it would be futile to ask anybody where they had been. All was confused. Everyone would describe not so much what happened but how they perceived it. The assassin would certainly not betray himself. Moreover, there were others, such as the leading citizens, whom he could never question. ‘Asking people where they were, when and what they were doing is not helpful,’ Athelstan conceded. He stared down at the floor, tapping his sandal-clad feet. ‘We do not even know when the severed heads w
ere placed. Before or after the explosions? During the attacks, before or after?’ He shook his head.
‘Did anyone see Barak leave?’
‘Brother,’ Judith retorted, ‘we’ve told you. We fled. God knows who went where.’
A sharp discussion broke out about what happened after the two attacks. The more he listened, the more convinced Athelstan became that establishing the whereabouts of anyone was a fairly fruitless path to follow. The Straw Men grew increasingly vociferous about who was where and when.
‘Except you!’ Athelstan pointed at Eli. ‘You stayed. You hid beneath one of the tables?’
‘I was terrified,’ the mummer replied. ‘True, I hid beneath a table, behind its drape. I then decided to move out. I lifted the cloth and saw the heads.’
‘And nobody else?’
‘No, Brother.’
Athelstan, just for a moment, caught a fleeting look, a glance as if Eli was hiding something, then the rest joined in, talking vigorously about their perception of events.
‘My friends,’ Athelstan intervened, ‘we, like you, are detained here. God knows how long we will have to dance attendance upon our masters.’ Athelstan held his hands up. ‘Remember that the questions we ask, others undoubtedly will, eventually.’ He paused. ‘Barak? Was he a supporter of the Upright Men? Did he plot rebellion? Come now,’ he urged, ‘you travel the length and breadth of both the Kingdom and this city. You see and hear things. You are patronized by no less a person than Lord John of Gaunt . . .’
‘Barak.’ Rachael cast off Eli’s restraining hand. ‘Barak,’ she repeated, ‘lived only for the play, the mummery, the masks. He had no time or inclination to meddle in such matters. He was absorbed in his lines. He lived for the performance.’
‘And the poor,’ Eli added. ‘Come, sister, we know that. He often declaimed against the popinjays, the city fops, the court gallants in their gold-encrusted paltocks, their multicoloured hose, Cracow shoes and ridiculously long liripipes, men in woman’s clothing.’ Eli scoffed. ‘Nor did the lords of the manor escape his judgement.’