by Paul Doherty
‘And His Grace the Regent?’
‘A dog does not bite the hand that feeds it,’ Samuel swiftly retorted. ‘Barak neither said yea or nay against him.’
‘Yet according to the evidence,’ Athelstan insisted, ‘Barak was an assassin hand-in-glove with the Upright Men.’ Athelstan then described the scraps of parchment found in the mouth of one of the severed heads as well as in Barak’s wallet purse. They heard him out in silence, clearly disbelieving what they were hearing.
‘Those heads?’ Judith asked, ‘why did they contain such a message?’
‘Mistress,’ Athelstan sighed, ‘I cannot really say. I suspect they were severed some time ago then carefully preserved. One, I suspect, was that of a youngish man and the other belonged to an older woman but,’ Athelstan shrugged, ‘I cannot be precise. Now, Barak, was he skilled in the use of the crossbow?’
‘Very skilled,’ Samuel agreed. ‘We are all for battle as any man-at-arms – that includes Rachael and Judith. We have no choice. We must protect ourselves. We travel lonely roads and we carry money and provisions, clothing and jewellery. Wolfheads, outlaws, the so-called men of the Greenwood, approach us. Every one of us here, whatever else we do, is skilled in the war bow, the arbalest, the pike, the sword and dagger. Usually we are unmolested but these are desperate times and they produce desperate men.
‘And your company has an armoury?’ Cranston asked sleepily.
‘Of course – swords, daggers, bucklers and maces.’
‘And small hand-held arbalests?’
‘Yes, Sir John.’
‘And today?’ Athelstan asked. ‘Did Barak act any differently?’
‘No,’ Samuel replied. ‘As Rachael said, Barak lived and breathed for the masque and the miracle play. He was no different today. I’ve asked the rest. He fled from the Chapel of St John. Nobody saw him do anything untoward. Why should he? He was happy, contented.’ Master Samuel drew his brows together. ‘He didn’t act as if . . .’
‘He was planning murder?’
‘No, no, he didn’t. He was excited about us staging a great play at the Cross in Cheapside. He urged me to indenture a new mummer. I mean, ever since Boaz left—’
‘Boaz?’ Athelstan asked. ‘You have mentioned him before.’
‘A member of our company,’ Eli spoke up, ‘very skilled in learning lines and painting. He helped us decorate the dragon’s head – Hell’s mouth.’
‘A magnificent sight,’ Athelstan agreed. ‘Truly magnificent.’
‘Boaz left us just after we visited Castle Acre in Norfolk around the Feast of All Hallows,’ Rachael declared. ‘God knows why. We woke one morning and he was gone but,’ she blew her cheeks out, ‘we have our rules – liberty is one of them. We are not bonded to the company.’
‘What are you then?’ Cranston asked. ‘Come.’ He offered the miraculous wine skin; this time it was gratefully accepted.
‘The hour is late but we must wait,’ Sir John insisted, ‘so why not chat. Just who are you?’
Master Samuel, after taking a generous gulp of the fine claret, described how the Straw Men were his company. An Oxford clerk ordained to minor orders, he had studied the Quadrivium and Trivium, then stumbled on to the plays of Plautus and Terence. He began earning a few coins reciting their lines at the Carfax in Oxford or on the steps of St Mary the Virgin Church. The authorities were not impressed. Time and again the proctors of the university as well as the mayor’s bailiffs had warned him off. On at least three occasions they even forced him to stand in the stocks and recite his lines for free. Eventually Samuel – he claimed to have forgotten his real name – had fled to serve in the commission of array in France, where he had entered Gaunt’s household as a troubadour. On his journeys Samuel became acquainted with the Laon and Montpellier mystery plays. Gaunt had presented him with a fine copy of The Castle of Perseverance, the Lincoln miracle play, peopled by characters such as Bad Angel, Plain Folly and Backbiter. Samuel had immediately fallen in love with both the themes and the verse and so, using the money he had acquired, founded the Straw Men.
‘Why that title?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Because, Brother,’ Samuel laughed sharply, ‘we bend and change with every breeze. You want us to be Herod or perhaps Pilate, or may be Saint John or,’ he pulled an arrogant face, ‘Pride.’ He relaxed. ‘Or Sloth.’ Athelstan laughed at Samuel’s swift change of expression, listening carefully as the others gave their story. Judith, who had been a bear-tamer’s daughter, worked as their travelling apothecary and cook. Rachael, who had been in the care of the good nuns at Godstow, was costume mistress. Samson, a former soldier, burly-faced, thickset and lugubrious, could act the jester or Master Tom-Fool. Eli, an orphan, was as slim as a beanpole, with an impudent, freckled face and who, Samuel assured them, could mimic anyone or anything. Eli promptly did, springing to his feet to perform the mincing walk of a courtier before changing swiftly to that of a pompous cleric. Gideon, with his blond hair and pretty, girlish face, openly admitted to mimicking women and, despite the gloom, made Cranston and Athelstan laugh as he imitated a court maiden playing cat’s cradle to Samson’s burly knight.
‘Do you really think,’ Rachael’s voice stilled the merriment, ‘that Barak was an assassin?’ Athelstan held those anxious green eyes. He recalled Barak’s corpse, the arbalest lying nearby.
‘Was Barak left- or right-handed?’ he asked.
‘Right-handed, like myself,’ Rachael replied. ‘Why?’
‘I don’t know,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘Mistress, I truly don’t.’
‘Pax et Bonum!’ They all whirled round. Thibault stood at the doorway, his thick coat glistening with freshly fallen snow. Behind him was an old woman grasping the hand of a small girl. Rosselyn, Lascelles and a group of archers also came through the doorway, armed as if for battle. Thibault, quiet as a cat, crossed the hall. Cranston lumbered to his feet; the rest followed. Thibault stopped in front of them and gave a small bow. Athelstan couldn’t decide whether he was being courteous, mocking or both. Thibault brought his hands from beneath his cloak and allowed the velvety skinned ferret, its lithe body rippling with muscle, to scramble up the folds of his gown before catching it, nursing it in the crook of his arm as he gently stroked it with one satin-gloved finger.
‘Father!’ the little girl broke free of her stern-faced, grey-gowned nurse and began to leap up and down, trying to take the ferret. ‘Father, please let me have Galahad.’ Thibault knelt and carefully handed the ferret over before grasping his daughter by her arms, pulling her close and kissing her tenderly on cheek and brow. Athelstan watched this viper in human flesh, as Cranston had once described him, stroke his daughter’s hair, a look of pure adoration on his smiling face.
‘It’s yours, Isabella,’ he lisped, ‘but promise me – prayers then bed, yes?’ Thibault turned back, his hooded eyes watchful, as if noticing them for the first time. ‘Master Samuel,’ he beckoned. ‘Rosselyn will provide you and your companions with comfortable chambers.’ He smiled. ‘Each of you will have a room in one of the towers where,’ he waved a hand, ‘you will be more safe and secure than here.’ He clapped his hands. ‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan, His Grace awaits us.’
Gaunt was sitting in the great sanctuary chair, which had been brought around the rood screen to stand before Hell’s mouth. At any other time Athelstan would have been amused at how close this subtle, cunning prince was to Hell. Gaunt’s face was devoid of all graciousness and humour. He sat enthroned, wrapped in a thick, dark blue gown of pure wool which emphasized his beautiful but sharp face, his eyes no longer amused but glass-like. He glared at Athelstan before fixing on Cranston as they were both ushered to stools before him. Gaunt gestured at them to sit then picked up the long-stemmed, jewel-encrusted goblet and sipped carefully. Master Thibault stood close to his right while on a quilted bench to the Regent’s left sat the younger Oudernarde and his secretary, the bland-faced Cornelius.
‘Your Grace,’ Thibault’s voice was scarcely a
bove a whisper, ‘I have said goodnight to Isabella. She sends you her love. Captain Rosselyn will see to the Straw Men; they will be given chambers and forbidden to leave the Tower on pain of death.’
‘Not together,’ Gaunt declared brusquely. ‘They must be kept apart.’
‘Of course, Your Grace. They have been provided with separate quarters throughout the Tower. Barak’s possessions have been searched; nothing untoward was discovered.’ Athelstan was sure Gaunt whispered, ‘Traitor!’ For a while the Regent just sat on his chair, cradling his wine. He rocked slightly backwards and forwards while staring at a point above their heads, his face muscles rippled. Now and again he blinked furiously, as he fought what Cranston knew to be a savage temper. The silence in the chapel grew oppressive. Athelstan pushed his hands up the sleeves of his gown and stared calmly at this brother of the Black Prince, uncle and protector of the young King Richard, Duke of Lancaster, possible heir to the throne of Castile, patron of the arts and of religion, even if it meant favouring heretics like Wycliffe, builder of this palace and that, and fervent enemy of both the Commons and London. Gaunt was truly a formidable opponent. The Regent broke from his reverie, lifting a satin-gloved hand.
Thibault stepped forward, clearing his throat. ‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan – you saw how much I love my daughter, Isabella?’
Neither replied.
‘Before I took minor orders,’ Thibault explained, ‘her mother died in childbirth. Do you love the Lady Maude, Sir John, your twin sons?’
‘Of course.’
‘And Brother Athelstan, whom do you love? You, a priest who is supposed to love everybody – do you love anybody?’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘The good widow Benedicta, perhaps?’
‘Aye,’ Athelstan replied calmly, ‘as I love you, Brother Thibault. Isn’t that what Christ commanded?’
Gaunt smiled bleakly.
‘Very good, very good.’ Thibault took a step forward. ‘And His Grace dearly loves Meister Oudernarde who, thanks be to God, is recovering, although he still lies gravely wounded. He will be moved to the hospital at Saint Bartholomew’s for more special care. Lettenhove, however, is dead, sheeted cold in his coffin. The Regent’s guests, Brother Athelstan, Sir John, were grievously attacked in this hallowed place. Those guests were sacred. His Grace the Regent was cruelly mocked; he grieves for what has happened.’
‘For all of this,’ Athelstan turned to the strong-faced Fleming, ‘both Sir John and I are truly sorry.’ Oudernarde bowed his head slightly in thanks.
‘We want you,’ Thibault continued, ‘Brother Athelstan and you, Sir John, to examine most closely what truly happened here today.’
‘The assassin lies dead, does he not?’
‘To examine most closely, Brother Athelstan, what happened here today,’ Thibault repeated. ‘Captain Rosselyn will provide you with comfortable quarters.’
‘I have other duties,’ Athelstan replied.
‘Voluntas principis,’ Thibault leaned down, ‘habet vigorem legis’, or so Justinian says. ‘The will of the prince has force of law.’
‘Et quod omnes tangit,’ Athelstan quoted back, ‘ab omnibus approbetur.’ You have read your Bracton, Master Thibault? What affects all should be approved by all.’
The Master of Secrets was about to reply when a savage roaring and growling echoed through the chapel.
‘The keepers are feeding the King’s lions,’ Thibault whispered. ‘You must visit them, Brother, during your stay here.’
‘My parishioners?’ Athelstan ignored Cranston’s quick intake of breath.
‘Oh, yes,’ Thibault smiled, ‘your parishioners! You heard about the murder of my hangmen, Laughing Jack and his two minions. Perhaps, Brother, their assassins might be hiding among your parishioners – His Grace’s enemies, the Upright Men, who can be hanged out of hand.’ Thibault pursed his lips. ‘Yes, that would be justice. We could hire that strange anchorite you shelter, the Hangman of Rochester. We could set up a gallows outside your church. I could have your parishioners’ filthy, mean hovels searched and ransacked. And who shall we begin with? Watkin? Yes, I’m sure it’s Watkin, the shit collector? And his great friend, the grubby-faced ditcher? We could search their shabby houses. Rosselyn could bring them here for questioning in certain chambers beneath this tower.’
Athelstan repressed a shiver. Now he was certain. There was a spy among his parishioners. This Master of Secrets knew too much.
‘Of course,’ Thibault smiled, ‘your parishioners will miss you. But, if you stay and do my master’s bidding, there will be no need for the search or the gallows.’ He wagged a finger like some master in the schools. ‘I can send them comfort; perhaps pig, nicely roasted and basted with all sorts of mouth-watering sauces. Some capon and chicken, soft and white; freshly baked bread and a large barrel of the finest ale. Indeed, I shall send it tomorrow, early in the morning.’ Thibault turned, slightly gesturing at his master. ‘A gift from His Grace.’
‘I will do what I can,’ Athelstan replied slowly.
‘Good. Very good.’ Thibault clapped his hands like an excited child.
‘The heads,’ Athelstan demanded swiftly. ‘Where are those heads, severed at the neck and soaked in brine for at least a month? Did you recognize them, Thibault?’
The Master of Secrets simply pulled a face and shrugged.
‘Did any of you recognize them?’ Athelstan gazed around. No one answered. ‘In which case,’ Athelstan persisted, ‘may I see those heads, to inspect them?’ Athelstan bit his tongue; he was tempted to ask about the mysterious prisoner but that might betray Sir John.
‘Why?’ Thibault asked. ‘Those heads are not part of . . .’
‘You asked us to investigate.’ Cranston stirred himself. The coroner was becoming fidgety, his usual bonhomie fast draining away.
‘I would like to inspect those heads when we want,’ Athelstan insisted. The friar rose to his feet. ‘And it’s best if we begin now. Master Thibault,’ Athelstan bowed towards Gaunt, ‘Your Grace, is there anything,’ Athelstan fought to keep the sarcasm out of his voice, ‘that we should know? Master Oudernarde?’ Athelstan turned towards the Fleming, ‘I noticed poor Lettenhove seemed very agitated before the assault.’
‘So he was,’ Cornelius replied quickly. ‘Brother Athelstan, you must have heard about the heinous attack on us as we journeyed to the Tower? We remained anxious, as did poor Lettenhove.’
‘I understand that nothing has been disturbed and taken away from this chapel?’
‘Nothing,’ Thibault replied.
‘In which case,’ Athelstan bowed, ‘I would like to begin. Your Grace, I need to examine this chapel.’ Athelstan returned to his stool.
‘You are quiet, Sir John,’ he leaned over and whispered.
‘Limoges, I shall explain,’ Cranston murmured.
Gaunt rose to his feet. He nodded at Cranston and Athelstan then gestured at Thibault and the Flemings to follow him as he swept out of the chapel. Lascelles covered their retreat; the archers followed until only Rosselyn remained close to the doorway. Cranston glanced at Athelstan sitting so composedly on his stool; the friar just grinned and made a swift, soothing movement with his hand, a sign to wait. They both sat listening to Gaunt and his party clattering down the spiral staircase; only then did Athelstan move his stool closer to Cranston.
‘Limoges, Sir John?’
‘I shall tell you later,’ the coroner hissed. ‘But remember this, my little friar, Sir John is not frightened. He is tired, weary after drinking claret but not frightened.’ The coroner tapped his boots against the floor. ‘Oh, no, I am not frightened, but I am as wary as I would be if there was a rabid wolf in the room.’ He rose to his feet. ‘Let us begin.’
Athelstan did likewise. He slowly looked around that gorgeously decorated chapel. ‘Primo,’ he pointed to the braziers, now full of grey scented ash. ‘There were the explosions. As you said, Sir John, easy to fashion. Cannon powder or saltpetre in thick leather pouches, thrust into the
hot coals – eventually they would break in the heat. The consequent explosion caused consternation; people would be looking at the braziers, nowhere else. Secundo.’ Athelstan stifled a yawn, ignoring the wave of weariness. God knows he’d loved to be stretched out on his cot bed with Bonaventure sprawled at his feet. ‘Secondo,’ he repeated, moving a stool, ‘Lettenhove’s marked and struck a mortal wound; he falls to the ground. Tertio, Master Oudernarde is attacked next, but only wounded. I suspect the barb was loosed a little off the mark.’
‘And the severed heads?’ Cranston asked.
‘Good, Sir John. Quatro. Before our assassin flees, he somehow leaves those two severed heads by the rood screen and that, Sir John, is where the mystery begins. Look at this chapel. Remember this afternoon, how busy it was, thronged with Gaunt and his guests, servants, musicians, men-at-arms and archers. So I ask you. How could our assassin prime a small crossbow, take aim, loose and repeat the same action, then open a sack,’ Athelstan walked across and tapped the rood screen, ‘and place a severed head here.’ He walked past Hell’s mouth to the other side, ‘And another one here, yet not be noticed?’
‘Did he use Hell’s mouth?’ Cranston pointed to the great dragon’s head tightly wedged in the doorway of the rood screen. ‘Look at those gaping jaws, Athelstan. Our assassin could have crawled in with his crossbow . . .’ Athelstan and Cranston pulled back the curtain at one end of the rood screen and walked into the sanctuary. Athelstan stared around, peering through the poor light.
‘Dark,’ he observed. ‘See, Sir John,’ he pointed to the heavy curtains hanging either end of the rood screen, ‘these block out the light from the window of the transepts. There’s the sanctuary lamp, but,’ Athelstan sniffed at the candles on their five-branched spigot, ‘once these are extinguished, murder could easily wrap its dark cloak around this holy place. Now Hell’s mouth.’ Athelstan swiftly scrutinized the back of the dragon’s head, at least two-and-a-half yards high. He marvelled at the artifice for it was simply fastened to a high-legged table; each leg had a wooden castor while a black canvas cloth clasped to the back of the dragon’s head covered the table entirely. In the gloomy light this did look like the rippling skin of a dragon. ‘Very clever, Sir John. The dragon’s head is simply a large mask with those splendid jaws fixed and wedged into the door of the rood screen. The rest of its body is quite simply a table and a canvas cloth. Now,’ Athelstan pushed the canvas back and, going on his hands and knees, crawled beneath the table, the top of which was well above the gaping jaws. Athelstan peered through this; it provided a good view of the chapel nave as well as the stool marking the spot where Lettenhove had fallen. The elder Oudernarde, however, would have been much more difficult, if not impossible, to mark down. The assassin would have to move sharply to the right but, even then, his target would be blocked. Oudernarde had been standing that little bit closer to Hell’s mouth. Moreover, there was the question of the two severed heads. Athelstan had wildly considered that both had been dropped through Hell’s mouth, but surely that would have been noticed? They would have rolled, yet he’d seen them placed like ornaments either side of the dragon’s head. Of course, Hell’s mouth might have been moved? Was that possible? Athelstan scrambled out from beneath the table.