The Straw Men

by Paul Doherty

  ‘It’s true,’ he whispered, taking his hands away. ‘Father, I confess. I love the roll of the dice, the chance of hazard. At the beginning of Advent I visited the Crypt of Bones.’

  ‘A cozener’s paradise,’ Cranston whispered.

  ‘At first I won my wagers.’

  ‘Of course you would,’ Cranston jibed. ‘They always let you win, at first, to lure the bait, to set the trap and so catch the coney.’

  ‘I played against Lascelles, Thibault’s man.’

  ‘Lascelles!’ Athelstan exclaimed. ‘Oh, Huddle, they must have been hunting you.’

  ‘Lascelles is well known,’ Cranston declared, ‘for carrying cogged dice. Despite his funereal looks, Lascelles is a roaring boy and a very, very dangerous one. He would have Minehost at the Crypt of Bones in the palm of his hands.’ The coroner narrowed his eyes. ‘I am sure you were given the best claret, fine foods, the attentions of some buxom wench.’ Huddle just nodded mournfully in agreement. ‘And so the stage is set,’ Cranston declared. ‘You have won! You are celebrating, you are fuddled, you play again and you are trapped.’

  ‘I lost heavily,’ Huddle agreed. ‘Lascelles turned nasty.’

  ‘So what did he offer?’ Cranston asked.

  ‘To cancel my debt and receive his winnings. I became desperate. He offered me a path out of all my difficulties. I agreed but pleaded that I would need some protection. I explained how the cell at Saint Erconwald’s was fast and secure. Lascelles promised that I would be given help. He told me that Warde was Gaunt’s man, body and soul. He had been promised great rewards, an indenture to have the monopoly of the sale of spices to the royal wardrobes at the King’s palaces of Sheen, Woodstock and Westminster.’

  Cranston whistled under his breath. ‘A veritable fortune!’

  ‘Warde said he had done this before. He came to Southwark to receive information as well as report on anything untoward.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘The massing of armed men, especially along the approaches to the bridge.’

  ‘Naturally,’ Cranston declared. ‘When the revolt breaks out, the bridge will be the one stronghold vital to any successful enterprise.’

  ‘Anything else?’ Athelstan insisted.

  ‘Oh, to discover where weapons might be stored.’ Huddle glanced away. ‘I informed Warde how our bows, clubs, swords and daggers were all buried with Watkins’ father.’

  Athelstan closed his eyes and shook his head.

  ‘You see, Brother, the plan worked. Well, at least for a while. The others never suspected. I explained how I visited the spicer to buy my own materials and used that to keep him under close watch.’

  ‘Instead you betrayed the Upright Men at Aldgate and the Roundhoop.’

  ‘Yes, on both occasions, the Upright Men stayed here in Southwark the day before and then moved across the bridge in disguise.’ Huddle shrugged. ‘Master Thibault could make of that what he wanted.’

  ‘And the most recent attack,’ Cranston demanded. ‘On the Tower?’

  ‘After the Roundhoop,’ Huddle confessed, ‘the Upright Men became very suspicious and wary of the cell at Saint Erconwald’s but it was too late for them. I culled rumours about fighters being brought in from Essex. Provisions had to be bought, hiding places secured before they crossed the bridge.’ Huddle’s voice faltered. ‘I passed the information to Warde that the Upright Men were gathering for an attack. That’s the last time I saw Warde alive.’ The artist’s voice broke. ‘Humphrey was a good man. He had been promised so much by Gaunt. He didn’t deserve to die . . .’

  ‘Why,’ Cranston demanded, ‘didn’t the Upright Men drive Warde out, visit him at the dead of night, terrify him into confessing? I mean,’ Cranston gestured at the friar, ‘my good friend here was perplexed about that – almost as if the Wardes were protected?’

  ‘They were,’ Huddle asserted himself, ‘by me – let me explain. Lascelles informed me how Humphrey Warde’s stay in the parish had not been successful. He’d discovered only what everyone knew. I mean, father, it’s common knowledge about Pike, Watkin and Ranulf, isn’t it?’

  Athelstan quietly agreed.

  ‘The Wardes were a laughing stock,’ Huddle continued. ‘I was to change this. At first I gave him mere morsels about where weapons were hidden. Lascelles eventually came back. He sent menacing messages through Humphrey that he needed meat, not just the gravy. I provided information about both the Roundhoop as well as the ambush planned near Aldgate. Now,’ Huddle rubbed his hands vigorously as if he was trying to wash them, ‘up until then I had always protected Warde. I informed the Upright Men how Warde was stupid and to let him run. Better him, I argued, than Thibault send in someone more dangerous. Of course, that all changed after the Roundhoop was stormed . . .’

  ‘Oh, Huddle,’ Athelstan whispered, ‘can’t you see what you have done? The ambush at Aldgate, the Roundhoop affray and the most recent attack on the Tower followed in very swift succession. The Upright Men must have now concluded that Warde was a very dangerous spy. Worse, they will be casting about further. How did Warde acquire such information? It’s only a matter of time before they turn on you, the very man who assured them that Warde was a nonentity. Yes, yes,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘you are wrong, Huddle. I believe the Wardes were placed under the ban but, because the entire cell in Saint Erconwald’s is now tainted, Watkin and Pike were not consulted or informed. I suspect, my friend, a similar judgement has been passed against you.’

  Huddle put his face in his hands and began to sob. Athelstan stared hard at this painter whom he had come to love and care for. He had shriven Huddle at Lent and in Advent. He had listened to his secret sins, about his attraction to young men and the thoughts and desires this provoked, as well as his sense of deep shame and guilt. How he tried to lose himself in the world of hazard and chance. Athelstan always heard him out and insisted that Huddle express himself in those beautiful wall paintings which brought to life dramatic stories from the Bible.

  ‘Father, what will you do? What can I do?’

  ‘You cannot stay here, Huddle.’ Athelstan smiled bleakly. ‘You know that. You have committed the sin of Judas and, whatever their cause, betrayed those who truly trusted you.’ Athelstan steeled himself against Huddle’s heartrending sob. ‘Trust me,’ Athelstan continued, ‘as God made little apples, the Upright Men’s suspicions about you will now be hardening into a certainty. They will not entrust judgement to the likes of Watkins and Pike.’

  Huddle closed his eyes and sighed deeply.

  Athelstan rocked backwards and forwards. ‘Indeed, I must tell you this, Huddle. The Upright Men have their own traitor in Thibault’s household. It may be only a matter of time before he learns the truth and passes such information on, if he hasn’t already.’

  Huddle would have jumped to his feet but Athelstan pressed him on the shoulder. ‘Or worse,’ he hissed, ‘do you think Lascelles will let you go? Do you think just because the Wardes are dead, Master Thibault doesn’t want more information? I assure you, Huddle, whether you like it or not, before the week is out you will face judgement from both camps. You are in this, Huddle, to the death.’ Athelstan leaned forward and cupped the artist’s face in his hands. ‘So, you are truly finished here. You cannot stay in Saint Erconwald’s, yet I will not, I cannot, hand you over to a gruesome death.’ The friar paused to collect his thoughts.

  ‘Father, please!’

  ‘Listen, Huddle. The Dominicans have a house on the outskirts of Durham near Ushaw Moor. You are to go there and hide. I shall write to the father guardian, a friend, a man I trust.’ Athelstan took his hands away. ‘You must become a lay brother for a while. Use your talents to decorate their church.’

  ‘And Father, what will you do?’

  ‘I shall tell my parish council how my order has been greatly impressed by Huddle’s marvellous talent. How they needed one of their churches decorated with paintings before the great feast of Easter. How you were reluctant to leave, but I was ins
istent. Now,’ Athelstan pointed to the corpse door, ‘Go to the priest’s house and wait for me there.’

  Huddle left, closing the door quietly behind him. Athelstan made to rise when a thud and clatter at the door made him startle. He hurried down, opened the door and saw Huddle sprawled back, eyes staring, limbs thrashing, hands clutching at the yard-long feathered shaft embedded deep in his chest. Athelstan cried out even as another arrow shaft whipped by his face to clatter against the crumbling door jamb.

  ‘In God’s name!’ Cranston, crouching low, dragged both Athelstan and the dying artist back into the church, slamming the door shut just before a third arrow shaft thudded into it. Athelstan sat down on the cold paving stones gazing helplessly as Huddle, eyes fluttering, lips bubbling a scarlet froth, legs and arms shaking, choked on his own blood.

  ‘What is the matter?’ The anchorite hurried across to stare in hushed desperation at his former colleague’s death throes. He knelt down, clutching Huddle’s hand, but the blood welling out of the chest wound as well as from his mouth and nose showed Huddle was in his last extremities. Athelstan remembered himself. Leaning down beside the dying man, he feverishly whispered the absolution, followed by the invocation to God’s angels to go out and greet the departing soul. Sir John left him to it, abruptly opening the corpse door then slamming it shut just as swiftly before another shaft thudded into the wood.

  ‘What shall we do?’ the anchorite murmured. ‘What is happening here?’

  Athelstan leaned across, pressing a finger against the anchorite’s bloodless lips.

  ‘You are Giles of Sepringham, the Hangman of Rochester, the anchorite. You live here by my grace and favour. You will say nothing,’ Athelstan insisted, ‘and I mean nothing, about what you have seen or heard today. Do you understand? If you do break confidence, you and I, sir, are finished. Do I have your solemn word?’

  The anchorite nodded, raising his right hand as if taking the solemn pledge.

  ‘Now,’ Athelstan breathed, ‘what weapons do we have?’

  ‘I have a crossbow,’ the anchorite offered.

  ‘Against an assassin!’ Cranston grunted. ‘Armed with a war bow he could kill us in the blink of an eye?’

  Athelstan gazed down at Huddle. The painter now lay quiet, the death rattle faint in his throat, the great chest wound drenched in blood.

  ‘Was it me?’ Athelstan whispered. ‘Did the assassin think he was loosing at me or you, Huddle, dressed in the robes of a Dominican?’ Athelstan’s stomach lurched at the way death had so casually brushed him. ‘Brother?’ He glanced across at Cranston. ‘You know what I’m thinking, Sir John?’

  ‘God knows,’ the coroner replied.

  ‘What if, what if, what if,’ Athelstan broke free from his fear, ‘what if doesn’t matter. A killer lurks outside. He wants to end our lives as you would snuff a candle flame. Well,’ the friar wiped sweaty hands on his robe, ‘Huddle is now past all caring and gone to God, while we, sirs, do have a very powerful weapon.’ Athelstan rose and went across into the dusty bell tower. He seized the oiled ropes and pulled vigorously, tolling the bell, ringing out the tocsin, time and again, until he heard the shouts of his parishioners as they hurried across the icy waste outside to discover what was wrong.

  Athelstan stared round the chancery chamber, shuttered and warm, in the King’s lodgings at the Tower. The smooth sheen of the oval table before him glinted in the dancing glow of candlelight. Outside a stiff cold breeze clattered the shutters. Athelstan recalled the events of the previous day: the death of Huddle, the arrival of his parishioners and of course the disappearance of the assassin. Athelstan had quietened and comforted his parishioners, stayed the night in the priest’s house and led Huddle’s requiem early the following morning. Afterwards he had conducted the candle-bearing, funeral procession into God’s Acre. The harsh soil had been broken. Huddle, wrapped in his deerskin shroud, was interred in the frozen mud. Athelstan had performed the last rites, praised Huddle’s work and declared that an assassin had slain the painter for reasons known only to Satan and, Athelstan grimly added, to God. Then he had issued the general blessing for all the faithful dead but added that he intended to conduct a thorough review of burials in the parish cemetery, beginning with the grave of Watkin’s parents. Athelstan had secretly smiled at the consternation this had caused but then left, hurrying across the bridge to meet Sir John at the appointed time in their chamber at the Tower. Now, at the hour of Christ’s passion and death, he had assembled those he wanted to question here in this opulent, warm room.

  Athelstan breathed in deeply to control his temper. He had stomached enough secrecy and malevolence. It was time for the truth to be defined and published. He wanted to shake and disturb some of the certainties behind which these people defended themselves. The friar glared round. Thibault, Cornelius and Lascelles sat along one side of the table; on the other were Rosselyn and the Straw Men: Samuel, Gideon, Samson, Rachael and Judith.

  ‘Brother,’ Thibault’s voice was almost a drawl, ‘break free from your meditations. His Grace the Regent is demanding answers.’

  ‘In which case we do have something in common,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘So do I. First, however, I do not yet understand what happened during that attack at Saint John’s Chapel, how Barak was murdered and thrown from that window or how Eli was slain so feloniously in his chamber. I confess I do not know who slaughtered the bear keeper, released Maximus and opened that postern gate so the Upright Men could enter the Tower. Nor can I fully account for why the spicer and his family were massacred. However, I have discovered, Master Thibault, that you have a spy or spies in the company of the Upright Men.’ Thibault smirked. ‘And they undoubtedly have a spy close to you.’ The Master of Secrets simply flicked his fingers. ‘Spies, traitors, Judas men,’ Athelstan pointed at Samuel in the Straw Men, ‘that’s what you are, aren’t you? My Lord of Gaunt’s spies as you move through the countryside? You stay in this hamlet, you rest at that village, you collect information.’ Athelstan raised a hand. ‘No, no, please don’t deny it.’ He glanced swiftly at the other Straw Men: he could tell from their faces that he had hit his mark; they sat heads down, shuffling on their stools.

  ‘Brother Athelstan?’ Thibault protested.

  ‘You are Flemish, Master Samuel?’ The friar just ignored the interruption.

  ‘What makes you ask that?’

  ‘Nothing at all . . . pure speculation. Well, are you?’

  ‘My mother was.’

  ‘I thought as much. I’ve noticed how My Lord of Gaunt surrounds himself with people from the country he was born in. I suspect you were born in the same city and your parents had some connection with His Grace’s household. You are well versed in the tongue – you must be.’

  Samuel nodded warily; his eyes slid to Thibault.

  ‘You travel to Flanders, Master Samuel and no, don’t mislead me.’ Samuel was now looking directly at Thibault for guidance. They are allies, Athelstan concluded. There is more between them than just miracle plays. Thibault and Samuel, when it comes to their master, think with the same mind and act with the same heart. They are Gaunt’s men, body and soul, in peace and war, day and night, totally devoted and loyal to their royal master. Athelstan had met such before – men who accepted the legal concept of the emperor Justinian, ‘Voluntas principis habet vigorem legis – the will of the prince has force of law’. In other words, if Gaunt wanted something done, they would do it within the law or beyond it.

  ‘What are you implying?’ Thibault asked testily. He paused at a sudden roar from the royal menagerie. Athelstan recalled that great snow bear bursting into the inner bailey with its blood-flecked paws, gore staining its front.

  ‘I am not implying anything.’ Athelstan strove to concentrate on the fog of mystery he was trying to thread through. ‘I am saying that Master Samuel and his troupe visited Flanders and travelled the roads of that country. You were looking for something, weren’t you, and you found it.’

  ‘Enoug
h!’ Thibault shouted, clapping his hands and springing to his feet. The Master of Secrets grasped the silver chain of office around his neck as if it was some sort of talisman. ‘Brother Athelstan, it is best,’ he indicated with his hands, ‘if you all left except . . .’ He gestured at the friar and Sir John. The others did. Rosselyn paused to whisper in Thibault’s ear but his master, face all grim, shook his head. Once the chamber was cleared, Thibault bolted the door and sat down, patting his stomach, staring at a point above the friar’s head. ‘Continue, Brother Athelstan.’

  ‘You know what I am going to say. I can’t state when, but the Straw Men visited Ghent. They eventually discovered a certain lady sheltering at Saint Bavin. They later discovered, or at least Master Samuel did, that this lady, whoever she really is, had been joined by a former royal nurse or midwife, together with the latter’s son, a scrivener. This precious pair were beginning to peddle the story of how this mysterious lady, to whom they had attached themselves, was really the legitimate daughter of King Edward III of England and his wife Philippa of Hainault, and how she had been changed at birth and replaced by the son of a peasant because of some hideous birth defect. The peasant boy, of course, is now My Lord of Gaunt, Regent of England.’ Athelstan paused. ‘I admit this is pure conjecture. I probably have the sequence of events jumbled or even inaccurate, but my conclusion is that the Straw Men are your spies. They, among others, were used to track down your mysterious prisoner as well as the mother and son who had prepared to publish, or at least record, what could have been an outrageous scandal.’

  Thibault continued to stare at the point above their heads.

  ‘Master Samuel immediately informed you as well as your agents in Ghent, the Oudernardes. They seized the former nurse and her son, tortured them, tore their tongues out and beheaded them. The woman, your mysterious prisoner, was then taken into your care and, together with the severed heads of her former patrons, brought to England. A traitor close to you, whoever that is, divulged all or some of this to the Upright Men, hence the attacks at Aldgate and here in the Tower.’