by Paul Doherty
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 insistent. 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.’
‘Enough!’ 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.’
Thibault shifted, lower lip jutting out, a set of ivory Ave beads now threaded his fingers.
‘How did you know?’ he demanded.
‘I searched.’
‘And?’ Thibault raised his head. ‘If this is all true, what is it to you, Friar?’ He smiled with his lips. ‘Should you really know such information?’
‘Don’t threaten me, Thibault, just let us visit this woman.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I am curious to see the cause of so much slaughter. I also want to question her; she may know something.’
‘Such as?’
‘I don’t know until I question her and if I can’t,’ Athelstan shrugged, ‘I also speak for Sir John — I would say we are finished here.’
‘You play with fire, Brother Athelstan.’
‘I’ve warned you once,’ Athelstan snapped, ‘don’t threaten me. I am a Dominican friar. I am here by my own grace and favour. I cannot be detained by the Crown — you know the law, so do I. I would plead benefit of clergy.’ Thibault, fingering his Ave beads, rocked backwards and forwards in his chair.
‘You are clever, Athelstan,’ he lisped. ‘Gaunt truly admires you. He said you would pick up the scent and pursue it ruthlessly.’ Thibault blinked. ‘He also said that you and Sir John could be trusted,’ he laughed abruptly, ‘which is the most rare of virtues.’ Thibault pulled a face. ‘Very well,’ he pointed to the leather-bound book of the Gospels on its intricately carved lectern. ‘Both of you must take the oath that you will not divulge anything you see or hear when you visit the prisoner in Beauchamp. Once I have your oaths, I will take you there.’
Athelstan gazed around the comfortable lower chamber of the Beauchamp Tower. Thibault had led them through the lines of hooded and visored archers and men-at-arms down the steps and into this very cavernous room with its hearth fire and numerous flickering candles. Thick tapestries cloaked the grey walls; straw matting and Turkey rugs warmed the flag stones, while the air was sweet with herb and spice smoke. Cranston was sitting to his righ
t. Thibault, for his own personal reasons, stood behind them. Athelstan tensed as a woman came from behind the drapes which cordoned off the small enclosure that served as the bedchamber. She was dressed in the simple blue robe of a nun; a starched white wimple framed her face, which she kept half hidden behind a gloved hand as if pretending to scratch her forehead. She sat down on the leather-backed chair, blessed herself swiftly and glanced up, her hand no longer covering her face. Athelstan heard Cranston’s swift intake of breath. The woman leaned forward, her small black eyes bright with curiosity as she stared fully at Athelstan.
‘You.’ She pointed a long finger. ‘A Dominican, an inquisitor?’
Her English was good but the accent was heavy and pronounced. She blinked furiously, a nervous gesture. Her hand dropped and she leaned forward again. Athelstan scrutinized her. She was dark skinned, her eyebrows finely etched, lips pushed together as if she was ready to kiss. She was comely enough, though the dark mulberry stain which marked the entire right side of her face could be clearly seen, emphasized by the starched white wimple.
‘Well.’ She smiled. ‘Are you an inquisitor?’ She glanced up at Thibault and the smile faded.
‘I am no inquisitor, mistress. I am Athelstan. This is Sir John Cranston, Coroner of the City. And your name?’
‘Eleanor,’ Thibault answered for her.
‘Not Eleanor,’ she retorted. ‘Call me Mara, for Shaddai has blighted me.’ Her answer caught Athelstan unawares yet he was sure she was making some reference to a verse in the Bible.
‘Why. .?’
Mara, as she called herself, raised her hand and stroked the stain on her face. ‘A birth mark,’ she whispered, ‘but when I saw the play. .’
‘The Straw Men?’
‘Oh, I’ve seen theirs but it was at the first staged in the nave of our convent church that I recognized it — my true name. I realized God has struck me, for God knows what reason.’