by Paul Doherty
Athelstan crouched down to examine the thick, oiled hempen rope with its tarred, twisted strands, which Barak had used in his abortive escape. The rope was secured tightly to a great iron ring driven into the wall. The rope had been pulled back after Barak’s fatal use and simply tossed on to the floor. Athelstan picked it up, scrutinizing the heavy knots placed every twelve inches. He could detect nothing out of the ordinary. Such ropes were common in both the Tower and other castles in case of fire or if the stairway to St John’s Chapel somehow became blocked. He sifted the rope through his hands and tugged hard, but the rope was sound in itself and firmly secured. He opened the shutters and flinched at the strong gust of icy wind; nevertheless, he persisted. He took the rope and threaded it out; it was long enough to allow someone to safely descend then jump to the ground below, the well-placed heavy knots providing some sort of hold for foot and hand. Athelstan leaned over the sill and peered down.
‘What did happen to you, Barak?’ he whispered to the darkness. ‘Did you slip from the rope? Were you nervous? Why take the arbalest with you? Were you on the rope when someone pushed you?’ Athelstan recalled the horrid wound to the right side of the dead man’s face, the broken neck, the way the body had crumpled. ‘I don’t think you slipped.’ Athelstan again peered over the window ledge: it was a dizzying drop to the cobbles beneath. ‘Do you know what I think, Barak, God rest your soul? You didn’t fall from the rope, you fell from here. Or, even more logical — and this would explain your savage wounds — you were thrown from here.’
Athelstan pulled the rope back and clasped the heavy shutters close. He leaned his hands on them and tried to make sense of his own thoughts. Such an escape could be depicted as probable. Barak the assassin could have easily checked both rope and shutters earlier in the day. According to the evidence, Barak carried out those attacks, left the severed heads and, when everybody else was fleeing the chapel, he joined them. That would be feasible. The rest would only be too eager to escape the White Tower but Barak slipped into the crypt. He certainly reached this window. Such an escape, Athelstan reasoned, from the fastness of this Tower would not be the first. Years ago Athelstan, while studying at Blackfriars, had used the top of the White Tower with its four unique turrets as an observatory to study the stars. Athelstan smiled at the memories. He’d also learnt a great deal about the Tower’s history. How a number of prisoners, including a Welsh prince, Ranulf Flambard, Bishop of Durham, and Roger Mortimer of Wigmore had all escaped by rope from this great Norman keep. Indeed, hadn’t one of them, the Welsh prince, fallen to his death? And yet. . Athelstan felt a deepening disquiet about the accepted story of Barak’s death. The evidence didn’t appear correct; there was a lack of logic to it. ‘Not only the details,’ Athelstan murmured to the darkness, ‘but the motivation. According to his comrades, there was no change in Barak in the hours or days before he committed these dreadful crimes.’ Athelstan rubbed his face. Would, he wondered, the Upright Men have entrusted those severed heads to Barak? Yet there was no evidence, apart from what was found on his corpse, of any link between him and the Upright Men. According to Thibault nothing incriminating was found among Barak’s personal belongings. Athelstan stood with his back to now-closed shutters. He peered through the gloom then walked across to the recess built into the far wall. The paving stones here were the same light colour as those of the chapel while, despite the dust and cobwebs, the walls had been recently whitewashed, probably as late as the previous spring. Athelstan took another cresset from its holder and went into the recess. He crouched down. Using the pools of light from both torches, he scrupulously examined both floor and wall inch by inch.
‘May the Lord be thanked,’ Athelstan prayed, ‘I have found it.’ He stretched out and touched the wall, certain those dark stains were small splashes of fresh blood on the plaster of the enclave. Athelstan put one of the torches down and sat with his back to the wall, rubbing the plaster with the back of his head. He turned so he was on his hands and knees. Barak, if he remembered correctly, was slightly taller than him. Athelstan scrutinized the wall and murmured a prayer of thanks. The small bloodstains were just above where the friar had rested the back of his head.
‘Athelstan, Athelstan! Brother Athelstan!’ The friar returned to the chapel, where Cranston, Lascelles and Rosselyn were waiting. The two soldiers were deeply intrigued by what Athelstan asked for but quickly agreed to help. First Rosselyn and then Lascelles acted as a would-be assassin.
‘I want you to go beneath the table, behind Hell’s mouth and,’ Athelstan pointed to the two stools each marking the place where Lettenhove and Oudernarde had fallen, ‘pretend to loose a bolt at the Fleming’s henchman and then at Master Oudernarde. However, you are to do it twice. The first time you must pretend to have one arbalest, the next that you have two and the second is already primed. Now,’ Athelstan insisted, ‘you must use the gaping jaws of Hell’s mouth as your vantage point. I suspect that, like me, you will find Lettenhove an easy target to mark; Oudernarde not so. Once you are ready, shout out. Sir John here will start counting.’ After some confusion and a few false starts, Lascelles declared he was ready. Cranston had almost reached twenty when Lascelles declared he had used the same arbalest twice, and twelve when he used a second one already primed. Rosselyn was not so swift on either occasion, declaring how the war bow was his weapon, but Athelstan was satisfied. He now had a clearer idea of how long an assassin would take if he had used Hell’s mouth as his screen, while both had confessed that aiming at Oudernarde was difficult. The friar also noticed how the two soldiers, being right-handed, wore the box-like quiver of bolts on the left side of their war belt.
‘So you found the first mark easy enough?’ asked Athelstan.
‘Oh, yes,’ Lascelles replied, nodding in agreement, ‘but Oudernarde was very difficult.’
‘To present the best target,’ Rosselyn declared, ‘Hell’s mouth would either have to be dragged back a little or Oudernarde stand further from it.’
‘I agree,’ Lascelles murmured.
‘Shall we move the scenery?’ Athelstan asked. All four men pressed against the gaping jaws. Eventually the dragon’s jaws snapped free of the rood screen to roll back on its castors. Athelstan carefully examined the thick leather straps which acted as both a cushion and a clasp to protect the edges of the rood screen. Athelstan patted the jaws. He would love to bring this to his church. He realized that the doors to most rood screens were about the same measurement. ‘Very clever. They must calculate the gap in the rood screen, then adjust the leather straps accordingly, folding them into a wedge. Now,’ Athelstan eased himself past the dragon’s head, inviting the others to join him in the sanctuary beyond. Once they were, Athelstan and Cranston positioned Hell’s mouth correctly and pushed it back so it wedged easily in the rood screen door, although not as snugly as before with two of the leather straps now damaged. Athelstan shook his head in disbelief. ‘So it couldn’t have been moved.’ He spoke to himself. ‘Well, well, well.’
‘Brother, I have brought you the pig’s bladder,’ Rosselyn, hidden in the shadows, called out.
‘Oh, thank you, bring it here. Please, all of you, go back into the chapel and stare at Hell’s mouth.’ Athelstan, lost in thought, stood staring at the black canvas sheeting as Rosselyn brought across the pig’s bladder. Athelstan waited until he’d left, crouched beneath the table and pushed the ball through the gaping jaws. Cranston confirmed it rolled away from the rood screen. Athelstan just shook his head. How, how, how, he thought to himself, had those two severed heads been placed so carefully? If they had been despatched through Hell’s mouth, although not as light or round as a pig’s bladder, they would have certainly rolled and so been seen, even heard. Yet they had been positioned like two ornaments on a sill. Calling out to the rest, Athelstan left the chapel and walked down into the hollow, empty crypt, the torches still flaring fitfully casting shafts of light which made the shadows dance and shiver. They reached the window Barak had apparently
used for his escape. Rosselyn opened the shutters, stared down and confirmed that Barak’s corpse had been found just beneath.
‘Did you or anyone see or hear the fall?’
‘Brother, this is a January day. Darkness had fallen. A sentry by sheer chance stumbled over the corpse just lying there, the arbalest a short distance away. As I said, it was mere luck; the corpse might not have been discovered until daybreak.’
‘And were the window shutters open or closed?’
‘I don’t truly know — perhaps almost closed. I sent one of my archers up to light the lantern box. I can’t remember distinctly. Perhaps the assassin, once he was through, paused to pull them across — I mean, to hide any light.’ Rosselyn stamped his feet, rubbing his hands. ‘In brief, we found the corpse. We believed the assassin had been escaping through that window in the crypt when he slipped. An archer went up to light the lantern as a signal and,’ he shrugged, ‘that’s all I know.’
‘The shutters were probably closed,’ Athelstan agreed. ‘If they’d been open on a winter’s day that would certainly attract attention. Anyway, gentlemen,’ Athelstan stepped back, ‘pretend you are the assassin. You are preparing to leave as Barak did — remember you are carrying a crossbow.’ Athelstan watched as both men did the same, fastening the small crossbow to a clasp on their war belt before pulling their cloaks around them.
‘I have it,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘Gentlemen,’ he sketched a blessing in the air, ‘I thank you.’
‘What have you learnt, Brother?’ Rosselyn seemed anxious, and Athelstan wondered why. Had he to report back to Thibault, or did he have personal reasons? Lascelles, on the other hand, remained cold and impassive, as he had throughout. Athelstan wondered if Lascelles, as Thibault’s henchman, had reflected on this bizarre mystery and was speculating that the accepted story may not be true.
‘Brother,’ Rosselyn came out of the shadows, ‘I asked you a question?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Athelstan apologized. ‘The truth is I have learnt very little.’ He paused as the bell of St Peter ad Vincula began to answer those tolling from the city, announcing the hour of Compline.
‘We have lodgings here?’ Cranston demanded. ‘I’m becoming hungry, cold and, if the truth be known, exhausted.’
‘Sir John,’ Rosselyn reassured him, ‘you and Brother Athelstan will share a chamber in the Garden Tower near the Watergate. The kitchens will serve you.’
‘Before you leave,’ Athelstan gestured around, ‘I want this left as it is.’
Rosselyn promised he would do what he could, and both men left. Athelstan watched them go.
‘Brother, you don’t want to share your thoughts?’
‘Well, not with those two, Sir John. One of them might be the killer.’
‘But Barak?’
‘Aye, poor Barak,’ Athelstan echoed. ‘We will let the dead sleep in peace for a while. Come, Sir John, your belly is rumbling like a drum.’
Outside the baileys and yards of the Tower were freezing cold. A thick river mist had descended to create a land of ghosts, broken only by the shouts of sentries, the neighing of horses and that deep, throaty roaring from the royal menagerie. Pinpricks of lights glowed from battlements and tower windows. Torches flared in their desperate fight against the chilly night breeze.
Cranston and Athelstan were pleased to reach the Garden Tower; the smell from around the Watergate was offensive but the chamber on the ground floor of that squat, sinister-looking tower had been well prepared. A circular, comfortable room, the windows were not only shuttered but covered with heavy leather drapes embroidered with heraldic devices. The fire in the small hearth roared up the flue, the pine logs cracking and snapping. The lime-washed walls gleamed cleanly and displayed a crucifix with small statues of the Virgin and saints placed in niches. The servant waiting for them loudly assured Sir John that the cot beds were comfortable, while he would place more rope matting on the floor to curb the chill. The servant then offered to bring food. Cranston, bellowing how hungry he was, began to take off his cloak. Athelstan kept thinking about that desolate chapel. He walked towards the door.
‘Sir John, wait here.’
‘No, I will not,’ Cranston barked. ‘You are off again on your travels, little friar? Well, if you are, I will stay with you in this benighted place.’ Athelstan told the surprised servant not to serve the food and, pulling up his cowl, walked back into the icy blackness. Cranston followed, cursing quietly. Athelstan stopped an archer who kindly led them down the steps into the gloomy dungeons of the White Tower.
‘Oh Lord, save us, Brother,’ Cranston moaned. ‘What in Heaven’s name are we doing?’
‘The archer told me Barak’s corpse is here, I want to see it. Come on, Sir John.’
The dungeons proved to be a stygian underworld of shadow-filled, stinking tunnels and enclaves. Torches glowed in their rusty holdings. Vermin, like little black demons, scurried across the pools of light. The reeking odour of decay caught their noses and mouths. A figure jangling keys lurched out of the murk. The burly-faced janitor immediately recognized Cranston, though the coroner could only shake his head when the man introduced himself as William Ockle, former assistant hangman at Smithfield. He asked their business. Athelstan replied and the janitor led them to a dungeon door, opened it and ushered them in.
‘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.