by Paul Doherty
‘The Fleming has been taken to the death house on the other side of Saint Peter’s,’ Ockle explained between noisy mouthfuls of ale from a blackjack. He gestured at Barak’s corpse thrown on to a dirty, sodden palliasse. ‘God knows what His Grace will do with him. Perhaps,’ he smacked his lips, ‘his head will be lopped off, his limbs quartered and the bloody, tarred chunks will festoon London Bridge.’ Athelstan crouched down, murmuring a prayer. He asked both the janitor and Cranston to hold the torches close as he re-examined the corpse. He turned Barak over to examine the back of his head, feeling the deep wound which he traced with his fingers. Moving the corpse back, Athelstan studied the entire right side of the face, pulped to a hideous, soggy mess.
‘Do you want me to strip the corpse?’ Ockle offered. ‘I will have to sooner or later.’ His voice became peevish. ‘I lay claim to all his clothing, boots and possessions. I hope he is wearing an undershirt. My woman can wash it, then I’ll sell it to the Fripperers in East Cheap.’
Cranston glared up at him. Ockle pulled a face. ‘I was only asking . . .’
Athelstan searched the corpse. He could tell from the neck and other injuries that the entire right side had been badly bruised and crushed as Barak smashed into the cobbles. He examined the war belt with the quiver box hanging on the right side before moving to the hands. He sniffed at these, noting the mud stains though the nails were neatly pared and clean, the skin soft and smooth as any clerk’s. Barak’s wrists were also sleek, unmarked and bereft of any jewellery or covering. Athelstan recited the requiem, blessed the corpse and got to his feet. He gave Ockle a coin for his pains, left the dungeons and, ignoring Cranston’s protests, climbed the spiral staircase leading back into St John’s Chapel. He nodded at the archer on guard and stood in the centre of the nave, staring at the rood screen.
‘Remember this, Sir John,’ Athelstan pointed to the braziers, one to his right, the other to his left, ‘the explosions occurred in each. Nearby stood Lettenhove and, across the chapel, Oudernarde. Along the transepts, the tapestries had been pulled up to reveal the food tables, servants were milling about. Now look at the rood screen: Hell’s mouth seals its entrance, on either end of it hangs an arras of heavy damask.’ He sighed. ‘Remember that as I surely will.’ The friar refused to say any more; he left the chapel with Cranston hurrying behind.
‘Brother . . .?’
Athelstan waited till they had left the keep. Once out in the blistering cold, he paused and stared up.
‘The sky blossoms are hidden, Sir John. We’ll have snow tonight and it will lie thick.’
‘Is Barak the murderer?’
‘He was no assassin,’ Athelstan whispered. ‘God have mercy on him. He did not slip from that rope, he was hurled from that window, or that is what I suspect.’
‘Why?’
‘Gloves and wrist guards, Sir John, or the lack of them, but now I am famished.’
PART THREE
‘Ursus Marinus: Sea Bear’
They returned to their chamber, the snow falling in heavy flakes. Athelstan recalled the legend of souls tumbling from Heaven seeking a dwelling in human flesh.
‘It will lie swift and rich,’ Cranston declared, stomping up the steps. He was startled by a figure stepping out of a shadow in the stairwell inside. ‘In God’s name!’
‘Aye, Sir John, in God’s name surely.’ The black-haired harpist pushed back his hood, the corner of his harp peeping out between the folds of his threadbare cloak. ‘Sir John, good evening. Like you, I’m trapped here. I cannot leave till the morrow, and even then I will need a maintainer. You will vouch for me?’
‘Of course.’ Cranston grasped the harpist by the shoulder and pulled him into the pool of shifting torchlight. ‘Brother Athelstan, let me introduce the Troubadour, former cleric, former soldier, a teller of tales and quite a few lies.’ Athelstan, staring at the hollow eyes and pinched, sallow features beneath an untidy mop of hair, could well believe Sir John’s description. The Troubadour, or whatever his real name, looked crafty and devious – indeed, the ideal choice to play Renard the Fox in any mystery play.
‘Yet a most skilled harpist.’ Cranston took out a silver coin and handed it over. ‘He plucks the strings and they pluck at your heart. But, my friend, it’s your eyes I need now. What have you seen?’
The Troubadour bit on the coin and slid it beneath his robe. ‘I have wandered the Tower, when I can. Thibault has taken it over. There’s great secrecy over the prisoner kept in Beauchamp. I tried to draw as close as I could. I even spent some money but to no avail. Those archers are Thibault’s men in peace and war, body and soul. No one will speak about the prisoner – well, not openly.’
‘And yet you have discovered something?’
The harpist grinned; his teeth were remarkably white and even. ‘Definitely a woman, Sir John – she still has trouble with her monthly courses according to a servant who empties the slop jars. Another says she spends her days embroidering and requires needle, thread and thimble.’
‘And?’
‘She is definitely Flemish. She finds London food not to her taste, though she is partial to eel pies and lightly grilled fish cakes. However, she is no damsel in distress; she’s not fair of face or lovely of form.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Again, servants have glimpsed her with her veil pulled back. Sir John, they say she reminds them of someone, but they cannot actually place her.’
‘Someone? Someone who?’
‘This was an old servant who has worked here for many a year; she glimpsed the prisoner’s face, it sparked a memory, but she cannot say which.’ The Troubadour spread his hands. ‘More than that I cannot say.’
‘And the severed heads?’ Athelstan asked.
The Troubadour’s strange eyes blinked. ‘Again, Brother, very little. I heard a whisper, just a rumour, that the heads really belonged to Master Thibault and were taken from his care when the Upright Men attacked him on his journey to the Tower. They also say that Thibault was looking for something, perhaps the severed heads, when he laid siege to the Roundhoop.’
‘And the attack in the chapel?’
‘Again, very little, Brother except, immediately after the second attack, the Flemings’ secretary, the Mousehead?’
‘Cornelius?’
‘Yes, he and Thibault’s bully boy, Rosselyn, abruptly left the chapel as if they were pursuing somebody. Remember I was with the minstrelling in the recess. They went down the stairs then Cornelius hurried back.
‘Why, where did they go?’
‘I don’t know, Sir John. I suspect that they went out to ensure Beauchamp Tower was still kept secure.’
‘Ah, of course!’ Athelstan declared. ‘They wondered if the attack could be linked to an attempt to free this mysterious woman.’
‘Perhaps. I tell you this, the squires of the shadows . . .’
‘Thibault’s spies?’
‘Yes, Sir John. They’ve been very busy throughout the city, as if they were searching for something, or listening to rumour.’
‘They could be looking,’ Athelstan answered, ‘for what was plundered when the Flemings were attacked on their journey to the Tower – the severed heads. They would also be very interested in discovering if the news that Gaunt holds a special prisoner here has become common knowledge.’
‘And so we, too, must get very busy,’ Cranston murmured. ‘Look, my friend, tomorrow you will be allowed to leave – I shall vouch for you. Thibault will see no danger in you. Now, once you have gone, seek out Muckworm. Tell him Sir John, sometime soon, desires to meet the leader of the tribes at the Tower of Babel.’
‘Sir John, you wish to go there?’
‘I have to. Now, my friend,’ Cranston opened the door and Athelstan peered out; the snow was still falling. The troubadour slipped through and they adjourned to their chamber, all shuttered and closed, the braziers a mound of glowing bright coal, the fire in the hearth built up and roaring. A short while later, th
e servant who’d been waiting brought bowls of steaming hot chicken broth, slices of cold beef and pots of heavily spiced vegetables. Athelstan blessed the food and watched as Sir John cleared the platters and swiftly downed his wine. Afterwards the coroner, kicking off boots and loosening belts, clasps and buttons, stretched out on one of the cot beds. ‘Well, little friar, what have you learnt?’
‘A little, Sir John, but first, Limoges?’
Cranston raised his head off the bolster; abruptly realizing he was still wearing his beaver hat, he tore this off and tossed in on to the floor. He lay half propped, listening to the bell clanging from the top of Bell Tower above the constant growling from the animal pens. ‘I must take you there, Brother, see the cages . . .’
‘Limoges, Sir John!’
‘Ten years ago, or just over, I was with Gaunt and his brother the Black Prince at the siege of Limoges.’
‘Ah,’ Athelstan interrupted, ‘I remember this. De Cos the bishop?’
‘Yes,’ Cranston sighed, ‘he refused to surrender the city. When it was taken, the Black Prince nearly had him killed – his flock certainly were. You may have heard the stories?’
‘Garbled, tangled,’ Athelstan replied, ‘difficult to believe.’
‘Then believe me, Brother, whatever you heard, never mind how dreadful it is, the truth is more heinous. I was there. I turned my horse at the Porte de Saint Marcel and rode back to camp. A nightmare, awful to see, horrible to hear! Unarmed men, women and children, brutally butchered, the streets bubbled ankle-deep in blood. Gaunt was there along with his black-armoured brother; they are both as guilty as each other. I mentioned the King’s lions in their cages; Gaunt was like a ravenous, raging lion.’ Cranston pulled himself up, wagging a finger at Athelstan. ‘Now you know why I remained silent. You don’t poke a lion, especially one that is both mad and bad. Oh,’ Cranston’s voice turned sweet in mimicry, ‘Gaunt can be the perfect gentle knight, the gallant warrior, the courteous courtier, the righteous ruler,’ Cranston’s voice turned hard, ‘as long as you do exactly what he’s asked. Oppose him, especially in public, then prepare to experience the furies of Hell. Remember that – never forget it. The Upright Men and Gaunt richly deserve each other. Now,’ Cranston continued, rubbing his hands, ‘what have you discovered?’
‘Two stories.’ Athelstan made himself comfortable at the table. ‘According to the accepted one, Barak is the assassin. Why, we don’t really know. He may not have liked the rich and the powerful, in which case he was only one among a multitude. Anyway, according to the accepted story, Barak wedged that cannon powder in those two braziers,’ Athelstan shrugged, ‘an easy enough task. Travelling players use such powder to create their illusions. Barak could have done that and not been noticed. Sometime after the play, Barak crawled into the back of Hell’s mouth and used the gaping jaws to mark down Oudernarde senior and Lettenhove. The former he wounded, the latter he killed.’
‘Why do you still insist he used Hell’s mouth?’
‘Sir John, where else could the assassin hide to prime an arbalest then loose, not once but twice, and never be noticed? I mean, if we believe the accepted story?’
‘Agreed, and?’
‘Barak must have somehow moved Hell’s mouth to strike as well as position those two severed heads. God knows where he got them from.’ Athelstan laughed grimly. ‘And God only knows to whom those heads belong? Who were those unfortunates? Why were they killed? Why are their heads here? God bless me, it is beyond answer. I suspect Master Thibault, who was so keen to seize those grim relics, knows the truth but will not share that with us. Nor,’ Athelstan added, ‘will he reveal the truth about his mysterious prisoner. Are those severed heads part of the mystery surrounding her, whoever she may be? Why are Gaunt and Thibault so concerned about a middle-aged woman, a Fleming who, according to the fickle memory of a servant, may have been in the Tower before?’ Athelstan paused. He realized how silent it had become, as if the snow was enveloping this grim fortress in a thick white shroud. He recalled the stories of the ghosts who allegedly haunted the soaring, deep-dungeoned towers, the wraiths said to stalk its lonely courtyards and baileys.
‘Your story, Brother?’
‘Apparently, after he had done all this, Barak tried to flee – that’s understandable. Using all the tumult and upset, Barak left the chapel for the crypt. He reached that window and, still clutching the arbalest, attempted to use the fire rope to escape. Again, according to the evidence, he slipped and fell to his death.’
‘And,’ Cranston asked sleepily, ‘you challenge this?’
‘Well,’ Athelstan paused at a knock at the door; he opened it to see the servant, covered in snow, his face pale with cold, stood in the icy stairwell.
‘Brother Athelstan, Master Thibault asks you to celebrate the Jesus Mass tomorrow after dawn.’ The fellow hopped from foot to foot, scratching his grey beard and pulling at his cloak, doing a little jig to keep warm by stamping his feet.
‘What is your name?’ Athelstan smiled, fishing into his purse.
‘Wolkind.’
‘Well, Wolkind, there’s a coin for your pains. Tell Master Thibault I will celebrate Mass. Now get you warm.’ Athelstan sketched a blessing and closed the door.
‘You were saying, Brother?’
‘So I was.’ Athelstan stood over a brazier warming his hands and smiling at Cranston who lay sprawled red-faced and content without a care in the world. ‘I said there were two stories. The first is faulted so many times, I wonder if it’s a complete lie.’ Athelstan used his fingers to emphasize his points. ‘Primo. For Barak to use Hell’s mouth as a cover he would have to detach it from the rood screen so that he could clearly strike Oudernarde as well as Lettenhove. He would also have to move it backwards and forwards to position those two severed heads, but we now accept that’s nonsense. Hell’s mouth was firmly wedged in the door of the rood screen. It had to be. Don’t forget, Sir John, we watched the masque. Herod was pushed through those jaws. I saw no movement.’
‘It could have been done afterwards and then repositioned?’
‘I don’t think so. Marks would have been left. The noise alone would have alerted people. Think, Sir John, the scenery would have to have been moved forward and back. Trust me, Sir John, it was not moved until we did it.’
‘So how did Barak loose two bolts without being detected?’
‘Sir John, that’s the mystery, and it deepens. Barak, given the speed of his attack, must have used two arbalests already primed. So where is the second? Why should Barak only take one of them? Why hold it on a dangling, swinging rope while attempting such a dangerous escape? Why not place it on a hook on his war belt as Rosselyn and Lascelles did? Why was the quiver box on the wrong side? Barak was right-handed; the quiver should have been on his left not his right.’ Athelstan pulled a face. ‘Concedo – I concede,’ he continued, ‘Barak may have simply made a mistake, but there is more. He wore no wrist guard as any archer should and, above all, no gloves.’
‘You mentioned that before.’
‘Sir John, Barak was going down a rope, hard and coarse.’
‘True, true,’ Cranston breathed.
‘He would have burnt his hands. He’d have worn gauntlets – heavy ones – yet his hands were soft and unscarred. Then there are the injuries,’ Athelstan continued, ‘the right side of his face and body were smashed to pulp against the cobbles. Moreover, there is a deep wound to the back of his head, while I detected flecks of blood against the wall of that recess in the crypt.’
‘You think he was struck at the back of the head and his body rested against the crypt wall before being hurled with great force, the arbalest pushed into his hands, from that window?’
‘Yes, Sir John, I suspect that’s the truth. Barak was no assassin but the victim of murder. Of course, my conclusion prompts other problems when we return to what happened in Saint John’s Chapel. We do not know who was doing what, where and when. Indeed,’ he laughed sharply, ‘the only person
who does is the assassin.’ He turned at a loud snore. ‘Sir John, are you leaving us?’
‘Brother, I have to. I’m exhausted.’
Athelstan continued to stare into the red-hot coals which invoked memories of paintings of Hell he’d glimpsed in frescoes and illuminated psalters. He shifted his gaze and recalled the events of the day. The explosions in the braziers, that gaping gargoyle, the dragon’s head. The crossbow bolts whipping across that beautiful chapel. Lettenhove and Oudernarde collapsing. Barak’s twisted, battered corpse. And the reason for all this? Athelstan crossed himself then moved to check the draught cloths pinned to the bottom of the chamber door. He returned to the brazier. Where did this all begin? That furious affray at the Roundhoop? Athelstan recalled the young man hesitating with his sword before being struck himself, those words mumbled as he died about ‘gleaning’. How some woman was to continue to glean. How he tried to raise himself as if looking for something. Was that just a man lost in the fever of his death throes? And before the attack at the Roundhoop, that savage assault on Thibault’s party near Aldgate? It wasn’t just an attack on Gaunt; the Upright Men had been searching for something – that enigmatic woman prisoner? Why was she so closely guarded? Why was she so important to Gaunt to be kept under such strict watch at the heart of his power? Undoubtedly there was treachery afoot, the one link between all these events. The attack at Aldgate, the murders in the White Tower. Somebody, pretending to be Gaunt’s friend and ally, was really a vigorous Judas.
‘Sir John?’
‘Yes, Brother?’ came the sleepy reply.
‘The ambush near Aldgate – surely, for it was so well prepared, the Upright Men must have a spy close to Gaunt and Master Thibault?’
Cranston groaned and rolled over, one eye squinting up at Athelstan. ‘Brother, for the love of God, go to sleep. The Upright Men watch Gaunt as closely as he watches them. They could have easily learnt about the arrival of the Flemings at Dover and the intended route to London. The Upright Men have countless watchmen and spies.’