The Straw Men smoba-12

by Paul Doherty

  ‘Brother Athelstan,’ she beckoned him deeper into the darkness. Cranston stayed as the friar followed her.

  ‘Rachael, what is this?’

  ‘Father,’ she smiled dazzlingly over his shoulder at Cranston, ‘Samson and I would like to be shrived. We wish to confess, to be absolved.’

  Athelstan raised his eyebrows at the thickset, heavy-limbed young man who came to stand beside Rachael.

  ‘We need to be shrived.’ Samson’s voice was a thick, rustic burr. ‘I have not confessed since Easter, Maundy Thursday.’

  ‘Together?’ Athelstan joked, gesturing further up the transept to where the shriving chair and mercy pew stood just before the Lady altar.

  ‘Separately.’ Samson’s moon-like face broke into a smile.

  ‘Brother,’ Cranston declared, ‘I shall go elsewhere. I too need to be shriven but, there again,’ he wryly added, ‘that would take at least a week.’

  Athelstan led Samson up to the mercy pew. Athelstan turned the chair slightly; they were now hidden by the creeping darkness and lengthening shadows.

  ‘In the name of the Father and of the Son. .’

  Athelstan began the sacrament with the usual blessing. Samson immediately blurted out his litany of sins: his anger, the fights he’d been involved in, his resentments, drinking too much ale and lecherous doings with certain young ladies. ‘I even have very lustful thoughts about Rachael and Judith. Father, they plague my mind both day and night.’

  ‘Along with every other man who meets them.’ Athelstan smiled. ‘Even priests! Samson, Christ knows our weaknesses, but what have you really come to confess?’ Athelstan tried to control his breathing; he sensed both of these young people wanted to unburden their conscience of more than just petty sins.

  ‘The murders, Father,’ Samson whispered, ‘the killings, the attacks, the hangings and the decapitations.’

  ‘You did not cause them.’

  ‘We had a hand in it, Father! We journeyed to Ghent. We stayed at the convent of Saint Bavin. We heard the rumours. We know Master Samuel was closeted with the Oudernardes. We are not stupid, Father. We may not know the secrets, but we believe that our stay at that convent is an important part of the horrid happenings which dog our days.’

  ‘But that’s not on your soul, Samson. Samuel must answer for that.’

  ‘There’s more, Father. You were correct: we are Gaunt’s spies. We travel the shires. The village people trust us. They take our pledge. We take their money and their secrets, then betray them. We pretend it’s Samuel’s doing but we are all guilty. That’s why Boaz left our company — he was sickened by it all.’

  ‘And where did he go?’

  ‘I don’t know, Father; perhaps deeper into Essex to join the Great Community. Father, I am finished with the Straw Men. I want your absolution and, as soon as I am able, I will be gone. These are my sins.’

  Athelstan pronounced absolution.

  ‘And my penance, Father?’

  ‘You have punished yourself enough, Samson. Give glory and thanks to God. Do as much good as you can, as often as you can, whenever you can, to as many as you can. Now go, and be at peace.’

  Rachael came and knelt at the mercy pew. Athelstan smelt the strong herbal perfume which she must have dabbed on while waiting. She recited the usual benediction in a whisper then paused.

  ‘Rachael?’

  ‘Father, Samson persuaded me to confess, to be shriven. He has probably told you the reason. All these killings, the Warde family, the spicers in your parish.’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘How gruesome it was, that killer moving from chamber to chamber. I understand you also buried one of your own parishioners this morning. Father,’ she continued in a hiss, ‘we, me, Samson and the others, had a hand in all of this. We discussed our trip to Ghent, our visit to that convent. Samuel was spying on behalf of his master. I’m sickened by it.’

  ‘As was Boaz?’

  ‘I know nothing of that. Judith was his friend. Father, I am certain that we are all in danger from both the Upright Men as well as My Lord of Gaunt.’

  ‘What!’ Athelstan turned in the chair. ‘Your own patron?’

  ‘We not only work for him,’ she whispered, ‘but also for the Upright Men. Father, think — we are nothing but strolling players. We need licences to wander the roads, to enter towns and villages or seek the help of the local parson.’

  ‘I understand,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘that without those licences you could be driven from any village, harassed by any sheriff’s man or bailiff. Indeed, you’d be nothing but vagrants to be whipped from pillar to post. Gaunt’s protection may open many doors,’ he didn’t wait for an answer, ‘but of course you are frightened. .’

  ‘Not me, not Samson.’

  ‘Very well. Master Samuel,’ Athelstan drew in a deep breath, ‘like everybody else fears the Great Day of Retribution. Samuel is worried that Gaunt might be toppled so he sits and secretly sups with the Upright Men?’

  ‘More than that, Father,’ Rachael murmured, pushing her face closer, ‘the Great Community of the Realm is very powerful especially in the shires around London. If the Upright Men want, they can make our life very difficult out on some lonely trackway.’

  ‘And so Master Samuel has reached an accommodation with them. What proof do you have?’

  ‘Father, we know that Samuel was on Gaunt’s business in Flanders. I do wonder if he told the Upright Men about this. I have no real proof, Father, just a feeling. Isn’t it true that, if you betray one cause, you will betray another? Isn’t that why the Crown executes those guilty of treason?’ She shifted the Ave beads around her fingers. ‘But what does it matter, Father? Perhaps we should be called the “Judas Men” not the Straw Men. There again, we are aptly named, bending to any breeze which blows. Betrayal and treachery are our stage; we mouth words we don’t mean. Father, I know Gideon is growing tired, while I’m with Samson on this. Once the Tower gates are open, we shall be gone.’ Her voice lightened. ‘Father, Samson and I are close. When this business is over we shall become betrothed. I just want to confess the deep resentment I feel. We are mummers, nothing more and nothing less. The games of princes should not concern us. Now, Father, please, your absolution.’

  Athelstan replied with the same penance he had given Samson. Both mummers then left the chapel.

  Athelstan sat staring at the slender wax taper burning merrily in front of the Virgin’s statue. He reflected on the confessions he had heard. He sensed both penitents felt they had become squalid, dirty, polluted by the treachery swirling about them, the brutal deaths of their comrades, their confinement here. Athelstan moved uncomfortably on his chair. Yet something was very wrong here. Undoubtedly traitors flourished in both camps — that was a hard fact of city life. Cranston constantly talked of how the great lords of London were in secret negotiation with this faction or that. When the great revolt did occur, many merchants didn’t want to see their beautiful Cheapside mansions pillaged and burnt or, even worse, be hustled out into the street for summary execution. Many of those who fawned upon Gaunt bowed and kissed his ring but kept one hand on their dagger and an eye on the main chance. So, if that was true of the powerful, why not the Straw Men?

  ‘“This is London and everything is up for sale”.’ Athelstan quoted the famous proverb. ‘“Even souls. Yet what doth it profit a man if he gain the whole world but suffer the loss of his immortal soul?”’ Athelstan gazed at the shadow-wrapped statue of the Virgin. ‘Sweet Lady,’ he prayed, ‘please help me because it is not just as simple as that, is it? There is something else, another play here, something I’ve missed, something I’ve glimpsed out of the corner of my eye but cannot recall.’

  ‘Father! Are you well? Is there someone else here?’

  Athelstan turned swiftly in his chair. Judith had quietly slipped through the door of St Peter’s and was standing cloaked in the shadow of one of the pillars.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Athelstan half laughed. �
��I was praying. I forget how nimble and soft-footed you are. I admired you performing. Come.’ He gestured. ‘Come into the light. Do you also want to be shriven?’

  Judith picked up a stool and sat down next to him. ‘Father, I don’t want to be shriven. Rachael and Samson have spoken to you?’

  Athelstan nodded.

  ‘She, Rachael, should lead our troupe, not Samuel.’

  ‘And you, do you want to leave like Boaz?’

  Judith simply pulled a face and shook her head.

  ‘I’ve spoken to Wolkind.’ She laughed at Athelstan’s puzzlement. ‘The servant who looks after you and the fat coroner in the Garden Tower? Well,’ Judith continued in a rush, ‘he took me to the Leech as my eyes are sore, and he told me about you and your parish. He has a kinsman who lives there. You would like a mummers play? All I can say,’ she paused to catch her quickening breath as Athelstan secretly marvelled at this young woman who could chatter more merrily than a spring sparrow, ‘is that when this is over, I will leave the Straw Men. Father,’ she grasped his arm, ‘could I settle in your parish? I have some money and I could arrange my own home. Father, the others are leaving. There’ll be no place for me to go. I could help you stage masques. I’ve served in taverns and workhouses. I am cook to the Straw Men. .’

  ‘Mistress,’ Athelstan smiled. ‘I assure you. Once this is over, I shall give your request the most favourable consideration.’

  Judith, grinning from ear to ear, jumped to her feet.

  ‘One thing, Judith. .’

  ‘Father, I cannot speak about my companions.’

  ‘I respect that. You are Gaunt’s spies.’

  ‘Master Samuel certainly is.’

  ‘Did you spy for the Upright Men?’

  ‘I don’t think so, except for one strange thing.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Father, whatever Samuel is, he’s well known as Gaunt’s man and. .’ Judith screwed up her eyes. ‘Father, isn’t it strange? We wander the shire roads, lonely paths where the power of the Upright Men is well known. Now, we have been attacked by wolfsheads, outlaws but the Upright Men. .’

  ‘Have never accosted you.’

  ‘Yes, Father — at least, not until now. Isn’t that strange?’

  ‘Yes, Judith. Yes, it is!’

  PART SEVEN

  ‘Celamentum: Secret’

  Athelstan crossed himself, rose, genuflected towards the altar and left the chapel. He paused at the roaring from the menagerie which carried clear on the river breeze. Maximus! Athelstan made his way out into the inner bailey, down Red Gulley to St Thomas’ Tower. The entrance door was guarded by men-at-arms; one of these, eager to escape the evening cold, said he would fetch the royal beastmaster. The latter soon appeared and, seeing it was Athelstan, beckoned the friar into the cavernous cage chamber now dimly lit by torch light which jumped and spluttered in the wet breeze. Athelstan noticed how the narrow aisle past the bars had been scrubbed clean though the air was fetid. The great snow bear was not active but lay sprawled in one corner. Athelstan walked the full length of the aisle then turned and came back. He paused to examine the bar around which the great clinking chain was secured. He scrutinized it carefully and realized how quickly someone could pull back the clasp and leave it loose.

  ‘It was deliberate, wasn’t it?’ Athelstan turned to the beastmaster.

  ‘Oh, of course, Brother, we can’t understand how the intruder entered.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  The beastmaster pointed to the door leading down to the wharf, then the great gate which Maximus would go through to swim in the moat.

  ‘They are always locked, Brother, lest anyone tries to gain entry from the river. If Artorius left by the way we came in, he always locked the door behind him. When he returned, he’d do the same.’

  ‘But visitors? Artorius allowed Sir John and I to view Maximus.’

  ‘Oh, come, Brother, we all know why you are here.’

  Athelstan smiled and turned away. They left the Tower, and Athelstan beckoned at the beastmaster to follow.

  ‘Whoever killed Artorius must have first persuaded him to open that door and allow him inside?’

  ‘Yes, and I reported so to Magister Thibault. Artorius was surly; he didn’t take kindly to visitors.’

  Athelstan stared back at the door: of course, the bear keeper had no choice but to admit Cranston yet, even then, silver had changed hands.

  ‘There is another problem,’ the beastmaster declared. ‘Artorius was an old soldier; he served at Poiters. He was quick-witted, swift on his feet and could defend himself.’

  ‘What about some member of the garrison?’

  ‘Artorius despised them as weaklings, while he openly resented Master Thibault and his coven.’

  Athelstan thanked him and strolled back into the inner bailey, lost in his thoughts.

  ‘Again there is a mystery,’ he murmured and stared up at the darkening sky. How could someone persuade Artorius to take him into that aisle then kill him? Athelstan walked on. If he remembered correctly, Thibault had informed him that a crossbow bolt had been loosed straight into Artorius’ forehead so he must have been facing his killer. Athelstan returned to his chamber in the Garden Tower. He fired the brazier, built up the meagre fire then nibbled at the dried bread, meat and fruit left on the platter. He was sure the good coroner would be feasting himself in the Tower refectory. Athelstan washed his hands, sat down at the chancery table and began to list what he termed ‘the steps’ leading into this mystery. Firstly, the attack on Cranston near Aldgate. Secondly, the assault on the Roundhoop. Thirdly, the murderous assault in Saint John’s Chapel. Fourthly, the attack on him outside St Peter’s. Fifthly, the murder of Eli. Sixthly, the slaying of the Wardes. Seventhly, the freeing of the great white bear, the murder of Artorius and the Upright Men’s assault on the Tower. Eighthly, the attack on himself and Sir John at Saint Erconwald’s. Ninthly, the meeting with Eleanor — or Mara — in Beauchamp Tower. Athelstan studied these steps. Was there, he wondered, dipping his quill into the ink, anything to connect all these? Was it the same one person behind all the mayhem, or most of it? Athelstan conceded that he was working on imperfect knowledge and uncertain facts. However, he reasoned, if one person was responsible for the murders, the assaults and the treachery, that person was not only a professional assassin but one who could move freely both in the Tower and outside it. Yet then again, according to what Athelstan knew, Thibault had severely restricted all passage in and out of the Tower; only he and Cranston had been permitted to leave and re-enter the fortress as they wished. Yet who had left the Tower and gained such easy entry into the Warde household to deal out death so silently, so carefully? And had the same person, armed with a war bow, struck down Huddle? If a professional assassin was at work outside the Tower, that would explain everything which had occurred beyond its walls, but Athelstan was sure that the same person was responsible for the attack on him near St Peter’s as well as the murder of Eli. Athelstan curbed his annoyance; try as he might, he could make little sense of what had happened. He drank a full goblet of wine, finished the meagre platter food and returned to his scrutiny.

  ‘If I make no progress,’ he whispered, ‘perhaps I am following the wrong path, but where is the right one?’ Athelstan felt himself slacking. He was hungry but also tired and did not want to brave the cold outside. He prepared himself for sleep, wrapped a heavy military coat around him and lay down on the cot bed, murmuring the opening words of the sequence from the Mass of the Holy Spirit. He fell into a deep sleep, disturbed slightly by Sir John returning, but then slipped back into his dreams even as the good coroner wished him goodnight. Both were awakened, just as a greying dawn broke, by the bell booming out the tocsin. He and Cranston hurriedly dressed, stumbling out into the eye-watering, limb-numbing freezing air. Mercifully it had not snowed but what lay on the ground had hardened into a sheet of slippery ice. The sky was crystal clear, the stars beginning to disappear. Somewhere a nig
ht bird shrieked, answered by the bell-like howling of a dog. The tocsin continued. The tower buildings emerged out of the mist like brooding monsters. Torches flared. Shouts and cries trailed. An archer, stumbling on the ice, hurried up pointing to his right.

  ‘Bowyer Tower!’ he exclaimed, though the rest of his words were muffled and lost. Cranston and Athelstan, clinging on to each other, staggered and stumbled until they reached the circle of cressets clustered near the soaring Bowyer Tower. Cornelius, Lascelles and Thibault were already there. A man-at-arms was pointing up the side of the tower while another was pounding on its locked door. Cranston and Athelstan joined them, staring up through the gloom at Master Samuel, dressed in his robe and cloak, dangling by his neck from a thick rope lashed to some clasp in the chamber window, its shutters wide open, through which Samuel had either been flung or thrown himself. Samuel’s corpse exuded its own singular horror, just swaying slightly, the toes of his boots pointed down, hands by his side, fingers slightly curled, his frosted face almost hidden by his hair. The creak of the rope and the clattering of one of the shutters provided a sombre, funereal sound.

  ‘The morning watch found him.’ Thibault, shrouded in his cowled cloak, edged his way out of his circle of henchmen. He pointed back to where the man-at-arms still pounded at the door. ‘We cannot gain entry. Apparently no one else is within.’ He paused as an enterprising archer brought along a close-runged ladder which could reach the window.

  ‘Why not go through the one below?’ Cranston pointed to the shuttered window of the ground chamber just beneath the swaying feet of the corpse.

  ‘If we have to,’ Thibault rasped. ‘But this is swifter. Right.’ He gestured at the archer to go up the ladder.

  ‘No,’ Athelstan intervened, ‘I will go.’ And before Cranston could stop him, Athelstan, begging the archer to hold the ladder steady, climbed up. As he passed the corpse he noticed its clothes were stiff with cold, the hands and face deeply frosted; the open shutters were also covered in a white dustiness which showed they’d been open for most of the freezing night. He reached the chamber and clambered in. The braziers had sunk low in the chilly air. Athelstan, murmuring the requiem, found a taper and hastened around the room. He lit the large lantern horn on the table. As he did so he noticed the rumpled bed, the one goblet and food platter on top of a trunk. The lights of the lantern and freshly lit candles strengthened, making the shadows shift. Athelstan scrutinized the goblet and platter but could smell nothing tainted. He swiftly surveyed the rest of the chamber.