The Straw Men smoba-12

by Paul Doherty

‘Something else is being planned,’ the gang leader retorted quickly, stung by Cranston’s jibe. ‘What, Sir John, I do not know. There is chatter about a gathering at the Tower, or around it.’ Duke Ezra sipped from his goblet. ‘Tell Gaunt to leave there,’ he continued. ‘The Upright Men will play him hard and fast, make it appear as if he is besieged, driven from his power, frightened of even being in his palace of the Savoy. Also tell him,’ Ezra paused, ‘that despite all his precautions, the secret prisoner, or so the gossip runs, poses a direct threat to him.’

  Athelstan leaned forward. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Nothing, for the moment.’

  The friar stared at this notorious wolfshead. For a few heartbeats he caught fear in Ezra’s face and voice, as if this self-proclaimed Duke knew how far he could go. Gaunt’s mysterious prisoner seemed to mark the limit. So who was she? Athelstan wondered. If Gaunt thought Ezra would meddle with his prisoner he’d send troops into Whitefriars and hang this outlaw leader from his gatehouse.

  ‘I will give His Grace the Regent your kind advice.’ Cranston toasted Ezra with his goblet. ‘But you know why we are here. I want to meet the Herald of Hades. If there is mischief afoot, he’ll have snouted it out as swiftly as a hungry hog with a truffle.’

  Duke Ezra stared at the blood brimming on the samite cloth.

  ‘Sir John,’ he did not lift his eyes, ‘the Herald of Hades — you want to speak to him?’ He raised a be-ringed hand, the precious finger stones dazzling in the light. ‘So you shall. But not now.’ Ezra grinned. ‘He has been very busy on my behalf across the Narrow Seas in Ghent. You may meet him the day after tomorrow, on one condition.’ He drew a small scroll from the cuff of his velvet-laced jerkin and held it up. A figure stepped out of the darkness and took this round to Cranston. The coroner unrolled it. Athelstan glanced quickly at the list of names under the heading of ‘Newgate’.

  ‘My beloveds, Sir John, all intended for the Elms gibbet at Smithfield. I know you have pardons prepared. I want my beloveds back.’

  Cranston, fingers to his lips, studied the names. ‘Not these two.’ He tapped the parchment. ‘Crail and Layburn ravished an innocent maid and throttled her; they must hang.’

  ‘Really, Sir John?’

  ‘They will hang,’ Cranston declared defiantly, pushing back his chair. ‘I viewed her corpse. Barely twelve summers old, she was. I have seen a cat treat a rat with more respect. God wants them for judgement.’

  ‘No mercy?’

  ‘None!’ Cranston shouted. ‘But these three others, the Plungers. .’

  ‘Plungers?’ Athelstan queried.

  ‘Professional cozeners,’ Cranston whispered. ‘One pretends to fall in the Thames, the second pretends to rescue him, and the third organizes a collection for both the so-called victim and his saviour.’ He tapped the parchment. ‘These three,’ he raised his voice, ‘have allegedly dipped into every stream, river and brook in and around London. I know this unholy trinity; they’ve had the gristle in their ears pierced and an “F” branded on their shoulders, yet they still keep plunging.’

  ‘Old comrades,’ Duke Ezra declared mournfully, ‘Sir John, they truly are my beloveds.’

  ‘All three will be pardoned.’ Cranston rose to his feet. ‘On one condition: I never see their ugly faces this side of the Thames again.’

  ‘Then go in peace.’ Duke Ezra also rose. ‘The Lord be with you, Brother Athelstan, Sir John.’

  ‘And with your spirit too,’ Athelstan quipped back.

  ‘You will arrange it personally, Sir John, the morning after tomorrow as the execution cart leaves Newgate?’

  ‘I’ll be there. And the Herald of Hades?’

  ‘Sir John, he will await you. .’

  In the ruined nave of the derelict church of St Dismas, which stood in a thick clump of trees to the north of the old city wall, Simon Grindcobbe and the other leaders of the Upright Men had gathered their cell drawn from Massingham, Maldon, and other villages of south Essex. This was a safe, deserted place. Once a prosperous village, the great pestilence had swept through with its scythe and reduced both church and village to a haunt of ghosts. Outside the wooden crosses and stone memorials in God’s Acre had crumbled and fallen. Only the towering memorial stone on the top of the great burial pit bore witness to the church’s former history as well as the horror that had silenced it forever. Grindcobbe, Tyler and Straw now sat cross-legged behind the preacher John Ball as he knelt before the crumbling altar and intoned their chant.

  ‘Nations in their greatness, he struck.’

  ‘For his love endures forever.’ The voices of the fifty fighters rolled back like a crashing wave.

  ‘Kings in their splendour he slew.’

  ‘For his love endures forever.’

  ‘Sihon, King of the Amorites.’

  ‘For his love endures forever.’ The response grew even stronger.

  ‘On the earthworms their land he bestowed.’

  ‘For his love endures forever.’

  ‘Kings in their splendour he slew.’

  ‘For his love endures forever.’

  ‘Og, the King of Bashan.’

  ‘For his love endures forever.’

  ‘On the earthworms their land he bestowed.’

  ‘For his love endures forever.’

  ‘Kings in their splendour he slew.’

  ‘For his love endures forever.’

  ‘Edward, tyrant of England.’

  ‘For his love endures forever.’

  ‘Gaunt the usurper.’

  ‘For his love endures forever.’

  Grindcobbe turned. The fighters, heads and shoulders cowled and mantled in tarred leather, faces hidden behind black mesh masks, were now in a trance, chanting the responses to John Ball’s hymn of destruction. Grindcobbe rose and walked up the crumbling sanctuary steps into the darkened sacristy. ‘Are you there, Basilisk?’ he called out.

  ‘I am.’

  Grindcobbe peered through the murk; the far outside door, hanging off its latch, swayed in the breeze. ‘You have met our spy in Gaunt’s household? You must be surprised?’

  ‘No surprise, Master Grindcobbe. This entire city seems up for sale.’

  Grindcobbe laughed softly. ‘When you decide,’ he added, ‘deal with him. He has served his purpose. He only feeds us morsels, what he wants to. One day Gaunt will catch him out. The torturers will tug him apart to discover what he knows. More importantly, to protect himself, he might kill you. Anyway,’ he continued, ‘tomorrow, just after the Angelus bell, let all chaos break out. Have the postern gate loosened. You have wreaked great damage. More must be done.’

  ‘Who is that prisoner?’ The basilisk’s voice was scarcely above a whisper.

  ‘Rumour abounds,’ Grindcobbe replied evasively. ‘Once we seize her, we shall have the truth about Gaunt’s shame. We will topple him off his high throne. We will make the people wonder. We will present him as a spectacle, a prince who can’t even rule the Tower. Remember, once the Angelus bell has tolled.’

  ‘I shall remember,’ came the whisper. The sacristy door swung open and the basilisk slipped like a ghost into the night.

  ‘There is an assassin on the loose who swept through my parish like some winged demon. This murderer annihilated an entire family.’ Athelstan gripped the lectern in the chapel of St Peter ad Vincula. The friar had returned to his lodgings in the Garden Tower late the previous day; he’d immediately demanded an audience with Magister Thibault, where Cranston had passed on Duke Ezra’s warnings. Thibault had heard them out, tapping fingers against the arm of his chair before informing them that he would reflect on all this and meet them on the morrow.

  ‘The Straw Men must also be present,’ Athelstan demanded.

  Thibault had nodded and said he would reflect on that as well. Now Gaunt’s Master of Secrets, together with his henchmen and the bland-faced Cornelius, sat on a cushioned bench before Athelstan; on the other side ranged the Straw Men. Judith was openly agitated, her ey
es screwed up in fear. She stared at Athelstan, who once again sensed the tension between Judith and her male companions, whose attempts to sit close were brusquely refused. Rachael leaned forward, red hair straggling down, green eyes wide in shock. Master Samuel sat combing his beard with chewed fingers. The burly Samson had the look of a pole-axed ox while the effete Gideon twirled a lock of hair between his fingers. Next to these, leaning against the pillar stood Rosselyn, hood pulled back, his grim face twisted in a look of disbelief.

  ‘I mourn for you, Brother,’ the captain of archers spoke up, ‘but I swear, nobody here left the Tower yesterday. Ask my men. I was here all day; I can vouch for everyone else. My Lord of Gaunt’s instructions, reinforced by Master Thibault, are most clear. None of us are to leave. None of us did.’

  ‘Who was murdered?’ Rachael asked, shifting the hair from her face.

  ‘Nobody you know.’ Athelstan sighed. ‘A spicer and his family,’ he glanced swiftly at Thibault, ‘though I believe they were known to you.’

  The Master of Secrets just shrugged as if that was a matter of little concern. ‘We cannot leave here,’ Samson protested. ‘Brother Athelstan, I thought we were to visit your parish to perform a passage from a mystery play?’

  ‘Not now,’ Thibault snapped. ‘Not till these mysteries are solved. Nobody leaves.’

  ‘I will.’ Athelstan voice thrilled with defiance. ‘I shall. I need to. I must revisit the Roundhoop.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To refresh my memory.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘I shall know that, Master Thibault, when I remember it.’

  ‘And I am the King’s own officer.’ Cranston, sitting in the sanctuary chair next to the lectern, spoke up. ‘I shall go where I want. I have business in the city tomorrow. King’s business.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘If you were King, Master Thibault, I’d tell you.’ Cranston got to his feet. ‘But you are not, so I shall not. We are finished here, Brother. We’ve been told that no one left the Tower yesterday.’

  Athelstan murmured his agreement. He felt weary. He’d slept late, risen and celebrated his Mass, now this. The friar stared down the church at a faded wall painting depicting St Peter’s confrontation with the arch-magician, Simon Magus. Magus had tried to fly, only to be brought crashing back to earth by the prayer of St Peter. Athelstan smiled to himself. He felt that he was also stumbling around despite going hither and thither in pursuit of this or that. Power games were being played. Pieces were being shifted on the board. Forces gathered — Gaunt on one side, the Upright Men on the other. In between was himself, Cranston and St Erconwald’s. Nevertheless, there was something else, something that constantly dogged Athelstan’s secret thoughts. He was exasperated because he felt weary, because he was failing to resolve these problems. To confront a mystery, to enter it as he would a maze, to thread his way through to the centre and so prove there was no mystery was Athelstan’s great passion. He felt physically and mentally depleted if he was not involved in that, or if he started but failed to make headway. In truth, he loved entering that maze perhaps even more than being a Dominican priest, a friend of Cranston, or the spiritual leader of his flock. An absorbing. .

  ‘Brother Athelstan,’ Thibault mocked, ‘are you praying?’

  ‘I wish to God I was,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘Believe me,’ Athelstan breathed in deeply, ‘I need to visit the Roundhoop, then we shall return.’ He smiled at Judith, Rachael and the other Straw Men. ‘Perhaps we shall then stage our own play?’

  ‘Meaning what?’ Cornelius demanded.

  ‘Oh, we shall go back to Saint John’s Chapel. I want to recreate where everybody stood, to establish how that skilful assassin could wreak such damage.’ Athelstan blessed the air as a sign that he had finished. He collected his cloak and chancery bag from the corner of the sanctuary and left the chapel by the corpse door. Once outside he finished dressing against the cold, thanking God for the thick serge leggings under his robe. Cranston was similarly attired. The morning was freezing cold; a thick mist had wrapped itself about everything, a moving shroud which made the eyes wince and the lips curl as it nipped exposed flesh. No fresh snow had fallen but the ground under foot was like polished glass. Athelstan and Cranston gratefully accepted the walking canes Rosselyn offered. The captain of archers accompanied them down to a postern gate and allowed them through. The ward outside, Petty Wales, was busy, though this was one of the wastelands of the city. The slippery lanes, derelict houses ranging either side, were cold and filthy hovels where illness and ignorance ruled like lords. Hunger-haunted faces stared out at them. Frozen fingers picked at chestnuts roasting in a dirty pan above a rubbish heap which had been doused in filthy oil and set alight. Nearby stale bread, hard and black, was on sale with sausages and dripping from dead dog preparations. The beggars clustered so close together it looked like a mass of rags covered one huge body with many pinched faces. Cheap tapers glowed from tawdry box lanterns, spots of yellow which pierced the thickening whiteness.

  They reached the Roundhoop and went up the steps into the musty, circular tap room. The place was dark and the shutters were closed — only candlelight broke the gloom. Athelstan stared around as Cranston ordered two blackjacks of ale. Minehost was new. Athelstan could recognize no one from that previous dramatic and bloody visit. Goodmayes, the tavern master at the time, had been killed along with his servants. Athelstan took his blackjack and joined Cranston in the shabby window seat close to the meagre glow of the hearth fire.

  ‘Brother, your thoughts?’ Athelstan glanced round; the only customers were chapmen and tinkers sheltering from the cold.

  ‘The killings at the Tower,’ Athelstan began, ‘were very mysterious. Clever and subtle, they caused deep confusion, heaping great shame on Gaunt. Look at how he is now depicted. Don’t forget, Sir John, Gaunt has assumed the power of Regent. He may call himself that but I understand that it has never been approved by parliament. He is not as secure as he thinks and this bloody business at the Tower weakens him further. Gaunt is being depicted not as a great prince but a jackanapes, a fool, a weakling who cannot even protect his own in the Crown’s greatest fortresses. My friend, I have no idea of how these murders occurred — none whatsoever. We have deduced a few truths about those severed heads but who they were remains a mystery. The murders of Eli and Barak are buried beneath layers of deceit and lies, not to mention clever trickery. The Wardes were murdered, bloody, gruesome deaths yet, at the same time, so swift, so silent with no evidence of any alarm or resistance. The assassin appears to have moved from chamber to chamber like a welcome guest who, at the same time, proved to be a bloody-handed slayer.’

  ‘And here?’ Cranston gulped from his blackjack. In truth the coroner was deeply uneasy and out of his depth. He resented being locked up in the fastness of the Tower with the treachery and deceit of Gaunt and his party swirling about him. He was the King’s law officer; he dealt with murder and dispatched its perpetrators to the gallows. He glanced wistfully at Athelstan; surely this little friar with his probing eyes and sharp wits would find a path out?

  ‘And here?’ Cranston repeated. Athelstan rose and walked to the centre of the tap room. He recalled that bloody affray. He was standing here when it occurred; he had turned, desperate to reach the door. The Upright Man had confronted him. He’d been looking beyond Athelstan — at what? Then the arrows had flown. The Upright Man had collapsed. Athelstan had knelt beside him. The friar chewed the corner of his lip. The dying man still had that questioning look in his eyes even as he babbled about some woman gleaning. Athelstan felt a tingle of excitement. He was sure that young man’s swift, brutal death was linked to these mysteries. He could offer no logical reasoning or evidence to justify such a conclusion, just a suspicion which nagged at his brain as a dog would a bone.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ Cranston called out, ‘we must be at Newgate.’

  ‘And today, Sir John, we must take care of the present evil. I need to go through
Humphrey Warde’s papers. Sir John, if you are leaving the Tower, I would be most grateful if you could collect them from the parish chest in Saint Erconwald’s.’

  Cranston finished his blackjack and stood up. ‘I certainly want to be free of the Tower. I promise to give Benedicta a kiss from you. I also want to make my own enquiries. I will collect those papers and rejoin you soon enough.’

  PART FIVE

  ‘Jocus: Dramatic Scene’

  Athelstan sat in his chamber in the Garden Tower and stared at the wall. He felt slightly sleepy, but a growing chorus of shouts and yells kept distracting him. Athelstan rose, straining his ears, then horns brayed and bells clanged. He hurried to the door and went out on to the steps. He stopped in surprise: men, women and children, accompanied by barking dogs, were running for their lives out of Red Gulley which snaked past Bell Tower. They kept pointing back, shouting about some horror as they slipped and slithered in the snow. Athelstan did not know what to do. He heard the words ‘St Thomas’ mentioned but no one stopped to explain, fleeing across to any open door to fling themselves in. After the crowd came the royal beastmaster dressed in the livery of the King’s household, accompanied by his minions. They were dragging nets and the beastmaster was trying to organize others to hold long poles with flaming cresset torches lashed on the end, into a line. Behind these rose the howling of the Tower mastiffs, echoed by a more fearsome roar. Athelstan watched the entrance to Red Gulley and gaped in disbelief. He thought his eyes were deceiving him. The mastiffs came streaming through the gateway leading from the gulley, then turned as a pack to confront Maximus the great snow bear. Maximus, his snout and paws covered in blood, stood up on his hind legs. The animal still wore his collar, the long, silver-like chain attached to it swung backwards and forwards and proved no real obstacle to the bear’s movements. Maximus, massive head forward, jaws gaping, roared his defiance at the mastiffs. Two of these, their blood lust roused, streaked in, racing across the packed snow, bellies low, crushing jaws open for the bite. Trained to hunt as a pair, the mastiffs aimed to seize each of the hind legs and hamstring their opponent. Maximus, however, was too swift. He abruptly dropped to all fours. Shifting slightly to one side, he swiped the nearest dog a killing blow which smashed the mastiff’s head to pulp. Maximus then moved just as swiftly as the second mastiff turned to flee, only to flounder in the snow. The great bear pounced, trapping the dog’s haunches between his paws, pulling it back in a flurry of bloody snow for the death bite to the nape of its neck. The rest of the hunting pack hurtled in. Maximus, pounding the corpse of the dead dog, reared up, paws threshing the air. The royal beastmaster screamed at a company of archers who had moved forward notching their bows not to loose. Maximus, who seemed to sense the danger, now turned from the dogs and lumbered back towards Red Gulley. The dogs followed. Maximus turned again. The dogs retreated but the beastmaster seized his opportunity. The cresset torches soaked in pitch and tar were now burning fiercely.