by Paul Doherty
Cranston had persuaded Rachael to act as Oudernarde, Samuel as Lettenhove. The rest of the Straw Men were arguing about where they were on that day. The others were just as vague about their whereabouts, especially Rosselyn and Cornelius, who never mentioned anything about their swift departure from the chapel to check on Beauchamp Tower. Eventually Cranston imposed order. He reached a consensus that Oudernarde and Lettenhove had been standing on opposite sides of the chapel.
‘As were the two braziers when the small explosions occurred,’ Cranston declared. ‘They caused the first confusion, then Lettenhove was struck, followed by Oudernarde. Yes?’ They all murmured in agreement. ‘And the assassin,’ Cranston pointed down the chapel towards the door, ‘could not have stood or knelt there; he would have been glimpsed by the guards or the musicians, yes?’ Again, everyone agreed.
‘In the aisles either side,’ Samuel offered but then shrugged as he realized the foolishness of what he had said.
‘The killer,’ Cranston answered, ‘if he had stood in the aisles, would be in full view of all those pressing around the food tables. The assassin first loosed at Lettenhove then somehow moved across the chapel to release a second bolt at Meister Oudernarde. And that,’ the coroner wagged a finger, ‘is the mystery. How could this assassin carry, prime and loose not one crossbow bolt but two then hide his weapon, all without being seen?’
‘Not to mention producing those two severed heads,’ Athelstan intervened. He walked to the rood screen, gesturing with his hands to either side. ‘Both are found halfway along either side of Hell’s mouth. Of course,’ Athelstan pulled at the arras on the right side of the rood screen, ‘the assassin may have hidden behind this, loosed the bolt then moved swiftly across the sanctuary behind Hell’s mouth to the other arras and done the same again, then pushed out those two heads. And yet for one person this would be difficult, very difficult.’
‘And we were there,’ Rachael spoke up. ‘I’m sure we were, collecting costumes, masks and other items.’
‘And I went behind to check all was well.’ Rosselyn, crouching at the foot of a pillar, spoke up. ‘I saw nothing untoward.’ He rose clumsily to his feet. ‘And remember the crossbow was never found.’ Athelstan did not answer him; he was desperately trying to recall what had been happening when those crossbow bolts had been loosed. He pointed to one of the polished oblong tables on which the food had been served.
‘Please, if you could bring one of those over here.’
Samuel and Rosselyn did, moving chairs and putting the table down in the centre of the chapel. Athelstan asked them to gather around.
‘Look,’ he smoothed the top of the table with his hand, ‘the chapel of Saint John is a rectangle stretching west to east. On the eastern side here,’ Athelstan pointed to the top of the table, ‘stretches a line which includes the rood screen and the arras hanging either side. The entrance through that rood screen is blocked by Hell’s mouth.’
‘Are you sure,’ Lascelles intervened, ‘that the assassin did not hide there? You can survey the room from it, prime a crossbow then loose.’ Lascelles shrugged. ‘I know it can be done — we tried that. I appreciate your objections but it remains the only possibility.’
‘I suspect the assassin wanted us to believe that,’ Athelstan replied. ‘But for the crossbow to be used correctly, Hell’s mouth would have to be prised loose and pulled back. No evidence exists that took place. When we did pull it back, the tight fastenings were broken. If the murderer had done that, it would have been obvious; someone would have noticed.’ The Straw Men loudly agreed, adding that they had all worked to place it there.
‘Hell’s mouth,’ Samuel spoke out, ‘is our pride and joy. In the main it can be wedged in the door of most rood screens. Rachael here always polishes and paints it. To move it as you describe, Brother, would have been nigh impossible. The paint work would have been scuffed, the fastenings would have been broken and the noise alone would have attracted attention.’ Athelstan, nodding in agreement, gestured to the side of the table.
‘These are the aisles or transepts. On that day they were busy, food and drink tables stood here, guests and servants moved about. The same is true here.’ Athelstan grasped the end of the table. ‘This is the entrance — guards stood there. Musicians were busy in the recess, people were coming and going.’ He shook his head. ‘So where did our assassin lurk and successfully and secretly loose two crossbow bolts?’ His question was greeted with silence. The friar shrugged. ‘Sir John, my apologies but my sermon may have proved too long. I am even sorrier that all it did was pose questions.’
The coroner grinned, picked up his cloak and bowed at the assembled company. ‘Gentlemen, Mistress’ Rachael and Judith, I thank you for your attention.’ And the coroner, taking a sip from his wine skin, headed for the door. Athelstan swiftly sketched a blessing and hurried after him.
‘Sir John?’ Once they were outside Athelstan plucked at the coroner’s sleeve. ‘I apologize, but this mystery hounds me. .’
‘No need to apologize.’ Cranston clutched Athelstan’s hand and squeezed it. ‘I am baffled, you are baffled, we are baffled. All that you said in there is what I was trying to express.’ He let go of the friar’s hand. ‘Anyway, what brought you up? I thought you were busy with Warde’s manuscripts. Did you find anything which might explain the massacre of him and his family?’
‘No,’ Athelstan replied evasively. ‘Perhaps the Upright Men were involved? But come, Sir John, while we are braving the cold, let us visit Eli’s chamber.’ They trudged through the snow. The guard inside the Salt Tower allowed them up to the death chamber. Carpenters had been very busy. The door had been rehung on new freshly oiled leather hinges with gleaming bolts and a new lock. Cranston remarked on the speed and skill of the repairs as Athelstan began to search around. There was very little. Eli’s possessions had been removed. The chamber was cold, empty and bleak. Athelstan returned to the door. He closed it over, drew the bolts and turned the well-greased lock. He then crossed the chamber to examine the window shutters but swiftly deduced that these had not been opened since late summer or early autumn: the bar was secure and covered in dust. Athelstan, puzzled, stood chewing his lip. This chamber has no secret entrance, so how had Eli been killed? He returned to the door and examined the eyelet. The slit looked unchanged, about six inches long and the same in breadth; the small wooden shutter had been replaced and now slid easily backwards and forwards. Athelstan pulled this open and stared into the darkened stairwell.
‘An assassin with a small hand arbalest could loose a bolt quite easily through that slit,’ Athelstan remarked. ‘Except. .’
‘Except what, my dear friar?’
‘Except when Eli was murdered that shutter was firmly stuck.’ Athelstan stamped his feet against the gathering cold. ‘And even if it hadn’t been, Eli would have surely been cautious. I mean, that’s the whole purpose of an eyelet, isn’t it, to determine friend or foe? Eli was young, alert and vigorous; even if that shutter could slide back, problems remain. Let us analyse it,’ Athelstan wagged a finger, ‘causa disputandi — for the sake of argument. Let us suppose that the shutter could be moved. Now, logically the assassin standing outside would have knocked, perhaps even called out, yes?’
Cranston nodded.
‘Eli must have asked who it was? Satisfied with the answer, Eli pulled back the shutter. He would certainly flinch at an arbalest being pushed up to the slit and move very swiftly out of danger. Yet in the end all this is fiction,’ Athelstan closed the door, ‘that couldn’t have happened, as the shutter was held fast, stuck.’ Athelstan laughed sharply. ‘Even if it hadn’t been, and Eli was satisfied with his visitor, why not just open the door? Why bother peering through the eyelet in the first place?’
‘Brother, one question?’
‘Yes, Sir John?’
‘Can we resolve these mysteries?’
‘At first sight, Sir John, no, though logic dictates, and God demands we do so.’
; The mournful tolling of the Newgate bell was answered by that of the nearby church of St Sepulchre; the bells boomed out across the sleet-swept, blood-strewn concourse in front of the soaring iron-bound gates of London’s greatest and grimmest prison. Despite the harsh winter’s day, fleshers, butchers and their minions were busy hacking and hewing the carcasses of cattle, pigs and birds of every kind. Apprentice boys raced about with tubs and buckets crammed with steaming entrails, giblets and offal. The morning air was rich with the raw stench of slaughter, heavy with the tang of salt and brine. Scavengers, human, animal and bird, flocked to fight over globules of flesh and the occasional chunk of meat. Around these surged a crowd, leather boots, wooden sandals and, in some cases, bare feet squelching in the gory mess of blood, snow and filthy mud. Citizens hoped to buy a bargain though at the same time the great gates of Newgate were kept under close watch. When these abruptly swung open, people surged forward to greet the death carts which came rumbling out, escorted by men-at-arms wearing the city livery. Cranston and Athelstan, who’d been sheltering in the porch of the aptly named tavern The Roast Pig, stepped out and waited. Duke Ezra had insisted that the pardon for the three plungers be served here.
‘So everyone can see his power,’ Cranston whispered. ‘A better mummer than any of the Straw Men, Ezra loves a spectacle. We have to do what he says — the Herald of Hades will be watching, hah!’ Cranston pointed at the black-garbed executioner, his face concealed by a red mesh mask, sitting by the driver of the first cart. ‘Your friend the anchorite, the Hangman of Rochester.’ Cranston marched across. The line of carts now stood still as the undersheriffs in fur-lined cloaks organized their posse or comitatus to divide; three carts for the Elms of Smithfields, three for the gallows at the Forks by Tyburn stream. Cranston took off his beaver hat and pulled down his muffler so he would be recognized, then handed one of the undersheriffs the three pardons. Athelstan could only stand and pray for all he saw and heard was most pitiful. Some prisoners lolled half drunk in the carts, others protested and yelled their innocence, a few sobbed bitterly as family and friends gathered to make their final farewells. The reeking stench of unwashed bodies clothed in filthy rags all coated in Newgate slime was nauseous. Athelstan, whispering his Aves, moved to where the hangman sat.
‘Good morning, Giles.’ Athelstan deliberately used the anchorite’s real name. ‘God have mercy on you.’
‘Soon done, soon finished,’ came the hoarse reply. ‘I’ll visit Tyburn first then a city courier will escort me across to Smithfield.’
‘You’ll go back to your cell at Saint Erconwald’s?’
‘And to my painting, Brother.’
‘You and Huddle?’
‘Father,’ the anchorite leaned down, eyes gleaming through his mask, ‘we could transform your church. I mean. .’ He broke off as cheers and cries broke out. Athelstan glanced down the line of carts. The three plungers had been taken off the death tumbrils. Manacles and chains removed, they grasped their pardons and danced like fleas on a hotplate. Athelstan realized why Duke Ezra had insisted it be so — a public demonstration of his influence and protection for those he called ‘his beloveds’. The three plungers were suddenly enveloped by a small mob who hurried them away lest any official might change his mind.
‘You must go,’ Athelstan grasped the hangman’s black gauntleted hand, ‘to make sure their deaths are swift and painless. God have mercy on them all.’
‘In the twinkling of an eye,’ the hangman replied, ‘from this vale of tears to Heaven’s gate before they realize.’
The mounted men-at-arms now imposed order, beating away the crowds and ordering the carts to go their appointed route. Cranston seized Athelstan’s wrist and pulled him aside. They walked briskly. Cranston pushed his way through the crowds, stepping around puddles and pits of refuse, knocking away the grasping hands of apprentices and beggars who importuned for trade or alms.
‘God knows,’ Cranston growled, ‘when the Herald will make his appearance, but it’s the Holy Lamb for us, Friar, a tankard of ale and the juiciest, freshest mince beef pie.’
They reached the tavern and revelled in the sweet warmth of the tap room, the fragrance from herb-strewn pine logs mingling with the savoury tang of hams, cheeses and vegetables hanging in snow-white nets from the black beams. The ruddy-cheeked Minehost ushered them to Sir John’s favourite window seat. They’d hardly sat down when Athelstan heard his name called and a lean, hatchet-faced man dressed in black robes like those of a Benedictine monk stepped out from the shadows of the inglenook. Athelstan stared at that sharp face, the foxlike eyes, the cropped auburn hair, the lips twisted ready to mock, talon-like fingers splayed as he stretched out a hand to clasp that of Athelstan.
‘You forget so soon, Athelstan?’
The friar stared in disbelief. ‘Eudo!’ Athelstan clasped the newcomer’s hand. ‘Eudo Camois, or Brother Luke as I knew you in the novitiate. I heard. .’
‘You probably heard right, Brother. Luke the Dominican priest who became a forger and a counterfeiter, defrocked and rejected by the followers of Saint Dominic, yet greatly appreciated by the noble Duke Ezra.’
‘You are the Herald of Hades?’
‘And a little more,’ came the sardonic reply.
Athelstan stared at this former Brother who had won a reputation as an astute scholar and a brilliant calligrapher even though this had proved to be his path to perdition. Luke had fallen from grace. Athelstan could well understand the temptation: forged licences, letters, charters and memoranda were a constant and very rich source of gold and silver. Cranston introduced himself then turned away to order. The herald went back into the shadowy inglenook to collect his small chancery pouch and rejoined them just as the scullion served their table.
‘The business in hand?’ Cranston demanded, making himself comfortable.
‘Ah, yes. The business in hand.’ The herald sipped from his tankard and stared around the tap room. ‘I have to be careful.’ He grinned. ‘Gaunt or the other gang leaders would pay well for what I know. Anyway, Duke Ezra has told me all. Now,’ he lowered his voice, ‘the Oudernardes? They have been very busy in Ghent, the city of Gaunt’s birth.’ He sipped from his tankard. ‘There have been great stirrings there. . rumours.’
‘About what?’ Athelstan asked.
‘As you know, the Flemings are Gaunt’s allies; he needs them to threaten France’s northern border. He also needs Fleming money but that’s politics. The rumours are different. I heard about those severed heads; that of an old woman and young man, yes?’
Cranston agreed.
‘Tongues plucked out?’
‘So I believe,’ the coroner replied.
‘Decapitation is punishment enough. The removal of a prisoner’s tongue beforehand signifies the victim has committed slander.’
‘And?’ Athelstan asked.
‘They were mother and son.’ The herald continued to whisper. ‘She was a midwife, he a scrivener attached to the cathedral in Ghent, a letter writer, a drawer up of bills and memoranda. Now, according to rumour, she claimed that in the year of Our Lord 1340-’
‘The year of Gaunt’s birth?’ Cranston demanded.
‘Yes, remember Edward III and his wife Philippa of Hainault were in Ghent. Philippa’s pregnancy was reaching its fullness. The accepted story is that she gave birth to the Prince who now calls himself Regent and uncle to the King. But there is another story,’ the herald laughed sharply, ‘repeated by the former owners of those two severed heads, that Queen Philippa did not give birth to Gaunt but to a female child. No, no, no,’ the herald raised a hand to still their protests, ‘that’s what rumour dictates. The hush and push of a whisper which crept from the birthing room at the convent of Saint Bavin in Ghent where Philippa had settled some months before her confinement.’
‘But why such a rumour?’ Cranston demanded, intrigued by this royal scandal. ‘King Edward already had three sons — why was it so important to have a fourth?’
The her
ald pulled a face. He was about to speak when the tavern door opened and two local beggars who plagued Cranston’s life slid into the tap room. Before the one-legged Leif could hop over, accompanied by Rawbum who as usual was loudly complaining about the savage burns to his backside caused by sitting on a pan of boiling oil, the coroner twirled each of them a coin. Both beggars, praising Cranston in his public and private parts to the ceiling, ensconced themselves safely on the other side of the tap room.
‘There was something wrong with the child, wasn’t there?’ Athelstan asked. ‘It must be that. Edward III never lacked sons.’