by Paul Doherty
‘Master Thibualt,’ Athelstan rose to his feet, ‘I understand your concerns. I shall do what I can.’
‘What can you do?’ Cranston asked once they had returned to their own chamber.
‘Pray,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘reflect and think.’ The friar was true to his own word. He washed, shaved and changed his robes, then walked over to celebrate Mass in St Peter’s chapel. The only congregation was the coroner and a young lady whom Athelstan had glimpsed before because of the brindle-coloured greyhound which followed her everywhere. After they had broken their fast in the refectory, Cranston announced that, despite the freezing weather, he was off to the city. Athelstan accompanied him to a postern gate in the south-east wall, bade him farewell and trudged back across the ice. A group of children were playing ‘Hodman Blind’, shrieking at the boy who was Hodman not to lower the blindfold and keep his eyes shut. Athelstan watched them for a while then continued on to his own chamber. He made himself comfortable and reviewed the steps he had already constructed, adding two more: Samuel’s apparent suicide and Rosselyn’s gruesome murder. The friar brooded over his collection of facts but could see no logic or order. He took the book of plays from his chancery satchel and leafed through the pages. He enjoyed reading the transcripts of miracle plays and the plots of the different masques. He paused at one, his eye caught by the word ‘gleaning’ and the list of characters: Boaz, Mara, Naomi and Ruth. Athelstan crossed himself; his belly tingled with excitement as he studied the short play, ideal for any hamlet square or the nave of its church.
‘Of course, the Book of Ruth,’ he whispered. ‘Oh, Lord, save me.’ He scribbled a note on a scrap of parchment, got to his feet, threw a cloak about him and searched out Master Thibault in the royal lodgings. The Master of Secrets caught Athelstan’s excitement; his eyes narrowed as he clasped the friar’s hands.
‘Brother, what is happening?’
‘Not for now, not for now, Master Thibault, but I need two favours.’ He handed across the scribbled note. ‘Please give that to Lady Eleanor, your mysterious guest, and ask for an immediate reply.’
‘And secondly?’
‘I need a copy of the Bible, the Vulgate as translated by the blessed Jerome.’ Thibault took the scrap of parchment, still trying to press Athelstan on what was happening but, when the friar refused to answer, he promised the Bible would be brought immediately to Athelstan. Within the hour both requests had been answered and Athelstan stood before the lectern in his chamber. He hurriedly turned the stiffened leaves of the Bible until he found the Book of Ruth. He swiftly read the story of how Ruth, a Moabite woman, was widowed but when Naomi, her mother-in-law, decided to leave Moab for Judah, Ruth, the loyal daughter, insisted on following. What happened next led to Ruth becoming an ancestor of David from whose line the Messiah came. Athelstan read the story carefully. He listed all the characters and returned to the ‘steps’ he had drawn up beginning with the attack near Aldgate. He tried to fit into each one a possible assassin but he could not establish a logical development. Frustrated, he tried again and again until he flung the quill pen down, took his cloak and tramped round the Tower. He visited the scene of each murder, hoping to recall who was where and doing what. He stayed sometime in the chapel of St John, sitting at the base of one of the pillars, staring through the cold darkness trying to visualize what had happened. The crossbow bolts whirling so swiftly, the dramatic appearance of those severed heads. He racked his brains as he recalled who was where, who had fled and who had stayed. He stared around the oval-shaped chapel, concentrating on how the top half near the rood screen had so swiftly emptied after the attacks. So how, he thought furiously, had they been carried out? The only logical conclusion he could reach sent him scrambling to his feet. He hurried back to his chamber where Cranston sat toasting his toes before the fire as he savoured what he called, ‘the sweetest chicken leg in London with the claret to match’.
‘There are two of them!’ Athelstan exclaimed, shaking off his cloak and sitting down at his chancery desk.
‘Most chickens do have two.’
‘No, no, no,’ Athelstan laughed, ‘two assassins, Sir John, not one. Stupid, stupid friar,’ Athelstan continued. ‘I did think of this before but dismissed it too soon. I forget my logic: never dismiss a possibility until it’s proved to be impossible.’
‘Ah, well,’ Cranston murmured. ‘Perhaps perfection can never be found beyond a well-roasted chicken. Brother, are you sure?’
‘Yes,’ Athelstan smiled over his shoulder. ‘Two killers, but which two?’ Athelstan concentrated on building a logical argument based on the syllogism that there were two assassins. He worked late, absent-mindedly informing Cranston that he would eat and drink anything the coroner brought from the Tower buttery. Athelstan did so and returned to his studies, working until his eyes grew so heavy he began to nod off over the scraps of parchment littering his desk. The following morning he celebrated his Jesus Mass, broke his fast and returned to his syllogism. Sir John tried to question him but Athelstan kept bringing the conversation back to the ‘steps’ he’d constructed, urging Sir John to recall all the details he could.
Eventually, as early evening crept in, Athelstan made his decision. He stared at the names of possible culprits, yet what evidence could he produce? Moreover, he had failed to resolve how Eli and Rosselyn had been murdered or if Master Samuel had truly committed suicide. Athelstan now realized what had happened at the Roundhoop, the attacks on himself both here and St Erconwald’s, the massacre of the Wardes, the freeing of the great snow bear and the Upright Men’s assault on the Tower. Yet Eli and Rosselyn’s murders remained an enigma. How had that young man been killed by a crossbow bolt in a locked, barred chamber? No opening could be found. The eyelet had been fastened shut, stuck hard in an ancient door by the passage of time, the chamber shutters barred so the assassin could not have escaped by the window. Or Samuel’s apparent suicide. If he had been murdered, why was there no mark or violence in his chamber or on him? The assassin could have climbed down using both rope and corpse to reach the chamber below but what then? And Rosselyn, found sitting in that lower chamber with a dagger piercing his left eye? The evidence pointed to Rosselyn’s eyes being closed. Was he sleeping? Yet as a veteran soldier he would have been very alert to any danger. He could have been drugged with some opiate, yet there wasn’t a shred of evidence for this. And why had the assassin drenched him in that filthy water which reeked like a midden heap? Why did Rosselyn close his eyes? When did anyone close their eyes? Athelstan recalled the children playing Hodman’s Blind. Athelstan then wrote on a scrap of parchment: When would any adult close his or her eyes outside of sleep? When did he? Athelstan began to list these and abruptly paused at a surge of excitement. He had it! He returned to Eli’s murder and that of Rosselyn. Yes, he had it! He was sure. He had unmasked the culprits, the two assassins, except for why they had been killed.
Athelstan waited until Sir John returned from his ‘devotions’ in the buttery; he asked him to search out the surveyor of the King’s works in the Tower and make enquiries about the door to Eli’s chamber. Athelstan now concentrated on drawing up what he called his bill of indictment. Cranston returned with the answer Athelstan already expected. He quietly congratulated himself and continued his summation, steeling his will against the heinous consequences of his conclusions. Once finished, Athelstan revised his ‘billa’. He did this time and again then turned to the coroner.
‘Now,’ he said quietly. Cranston, sitting on the edge of his bed, put down the book of plays and stared at the friar.
‘Now what, Brother? Soon it will be dark.’
‘And we must be gone, Sir John, the sooner the better from this benighted place. Do not cause any alarm or provoke the suspicions of Magister Thibault or his henchmen. Quietly seek out the Straw Men and bring them to me, please.’ Cranston dressed and swept out through the door. Athelstan prepared the chamber, placing a stool in the centre of the room between the two beds. He cleared t
he chancery table, pushing the sheets and scraps into his chancery satchel, and waited. Cranston returned with the four woebegone players. Athelstan could only secretly marvel at the sheer skill of the assassin’s acting. He greeted all of them, warmly asking Samson, Gideon and Judith to leave and wait in the refectory until he’d finished asking Rachael a few questions about Master Samuel. All three looked puzzled but shrugged and left. Athelstan waved at the stool, asking Rachael to sit while he took her cloak, offered her wine and complimented her warmly on her fresh gown of dark murrey. The young woman, her glorious red hair falling thickly either side of her lovely white face, watched intently, her green eyes slightly slanted, hard and unblinking despite the smile on her pretty lips.
‘Mistress Rachael?’
‘Brother Athelstan?’
‘When did we first meet?’
‘Why, Brother, here in the Tower, Saint John’s Chapel.’ She rounded her eyes. ‘Remember?’
‘Oh, I do. As I remember the plump whore in the Roundhoop all dressed, or rather disguised, in her orange wig and tawdry finery. That was you, wasn’t it? Yes, that’s when we truly first met.’
‘Brother, why should I be there?’
‘To meet your lover, Boaz.’
The smile on the woman’s lips faded.
‘Boaz,’ Athelstan continued evenly. ‘That was his name. Your lover, a former member of the Straw Men who had grown sickened of what he saw and heard. He’d become tired of being Samuel’s lackey who, in turn, was that of Magister Thibault, My Lord of Gaunt’s Master of Secrets. A true serpent, Thibault, using a troupe of strolling mummers to spy on the villages and communities they entertained.’
‘I told you that they also. .’
‘Oh, by the way, I don’t believe that Samuel had anything to do with the Upright Men. He was always Gaunt’s man; that was your lie to distract me. The Upright Men left your company alone, satisfied to have two of their following in it — you and Boaz.’
‘My confession to you,’ she glanced sharply at Cranston, ‘was under the seal of the Sacrament.’
‘And it remains so. I am just commenting on the possibility that Boaz was an Upright Man who slipped away to join his comrades. He and you formed a pact. He would leave while you would remain with the troupe to keep everything under watch. The Upright Men would be pleased with that. You truly loved Boaz, didn’t you? He took his name from the Book of Ruth in the Old Testament. In that story Boaz falls deeply in love with the Moabite woman, Ruth, and she with him. They met when Ruth was gleaning Boaz’s fields behind his reapers. In both your eyes, their story was being re-enacted in your lives. You were his Ruth, weren’t you?’ Athelstan stared at this young woman, a true killer, yet her great tragedy was that a fiercely fatal and frustrated love had turned her so.
‘You both played your part in a deadly masque even as you staged the Bible story here and there and, above all, in the convent of Saint Bavin’s at Ghent where the woman Eleanor, now Thibault’s prisoner in Beauchamp Tower, was sheltering. She had seen the play before but was much taken by your interpretation. Indeed, she identified herself with one of the characters, Naomi, Ruth’s mother-in-law. Like Naomi, Eleanor changed her name to Mara, meaning “bitterness” because God,’ Athelstan touched the side of his face, ‘had marred her skin. She had also become the plaything of those who wished to meddle in My Lord of Gaunt’s murky and very dangerous pool of politics.’
‘We agree on some things, Brother.’ The reply was icy, belying the smiling mouth.
‘Once Samuel returned from Flanders,’ Athelstan continued, ‘he moved to the shires. Your beloved Boaz, however, could tolerate it no longer. He left the company of the Straw Men but not before swearing his love for you. Perhaps he quoted that marvellous hymn of loyalty from the Book of Ruth, how does it go?’ Athelstan closed his eyes.
‘Wherever you should travel, I shall travel,
Wherever you live so shall I,
Your kin shall be my kin,
Your God shall be my God,
I shall die wherever you shall,
There shall I be buried.
Let Yawheh send all kinds of ills against me,
And more if need be,
If anything but death should separate me from you.’
PART EIGHT
‘Dissultus: Severance’
Athelstan abruptly opened his eyes and caught a look of deep sorrow pass like a shadow across Rachael’s face before it hardened again.
‘You were his Ruth. She gleaned the fields, gathering ears of corn after the reapers. You did that. Master Samuel would spy on the Upright Men and you would spy on him, collecting what you could and passing it on to Boaz. Now and again he’d return to meet you secretly, as he did that January morning at the Roundhoop; a safe meeting, or so you thought. The Upright Men met. You joined them to provide whatever information you had gleaned as well as meet the love of your life. You went disguised as a city whore, a poor street strumpet, hair covered by a garish wig, face masked by thick, cheap paint, rags pushed up your gown to make you look fat, teeth blackened. You kept your head down and, when you did speak, mouthed the patois of the slums.’ Athelstan spread his hands. ‘You are, Mistress Rachael, a most skilled mummer, a player who can shift in both substance and shape. You have all the paints and disguises at your disposal. You not only posed as a city whore but as the strumpet of that friar of the sack who, in fact, was an Upright Man. Later that same day they visited me. I wondered why they took such pains to emphasize that you were just a common whore. They were in fact protecting you. All should have gone well except,’ Athelstan held a hand up, ‘the meeting had been betrayed, probably by spies in Saint Erconwald’s. The Roundhoop was surrounded. Thibault was desperate to defeat the Upright Men and retrieve those severed heads seized during the ambush at Aldgate. I was brought in to negotiate. In truth, I was only Thibault’s catspaw, a diversion. The Roundhoop was stormed. The Upright Men fought back; in all that carnage who would care for an ugly city whore? One of the Upright Men, I believe it was Boaz, could have killed me but he decided not to — an act of mercy. He was looking for you when he was struck down by an arrow. I tended to him as he died.’ Athelstan fought to keep the tremor out of his voice. ‘Poor Boaz could only think of his Ruth. In his final fever he talked of “gleaning” — he was referring to you. Even as he died he wanted one last look at his beloved. He searched past me, staring desperately.’ Athelstan paused. He was telling the truth. Despite her attempt to remain impassive, Rachael’s eyes filled with tears; her lower lip trembled slightly.
‘He died of his wounds,’ Athelstan added softly. ‘In the violent struggle you escaped. Only later did you discover what had actually happened. How your beloved was dead, his corpse further abused by the removal of his head so it could be thrust on a pole over London Bridge.’ Athelstan glanced at Cranston who sat on the edge of his bed, watching intently. The coroner was used to Athelstan’s ways and waited for the conclusion. ‘You were always sympathetic to the Upright Men.’ Athelstan sipped from his goblet of watered wine. ‘Now you changed. No longer a gleaner but a reaper, and a fearsome one indeed. You wanted revenge on Gaunt and all his ilk, as well as inflict vengeance on your comrades.’
‘Mistress,’ Cranston spoke up, ‘you have nothing to say to counter all of this?’
‘The play is not done yet,’ she retorted, her eyes never leaving Athelstan. ‘Every mummer has his lines.’
‘You entered into a solemn compact with the Upright Men,’ Athelstan declared. ‘They would trust you as Boaz’s helpmate, his lover. They would relish your hunger for vengeance, to wreak havoc however, whenever, wherever you could. They decided to bring you into close alliance with their own spy high in the councils of Master Thibault.’
‘Who?’
‘Why, mistress, you know, you killed him — Rosselyn, captain of archers.’
Rachael threw her head back and laughed. ‘Rosselyn!’ she exclaimed. ‘Thibault’s man body and soul. Brother, surely?’
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br /> ‘Oh, yes, surely, mistress. Rosselyn was of peasant stock — he would not find it difficult to be sympathetic to the earthworms. More importantly, like many in this city, he was preparing against the evil day, the hour of reckoning. To put it succinctly, Rosselyn had a foot in either camp. The Upright Men wanted to ensure that he was with them. I suspect Rosselyn informed them about the cavalcade bringing Gaunt’s mysterious prisoner to the Tower; at the same time he could act the loyal henchman and advise Thibault to take great care, hence the summons to Sir John here to strengthen the cavalcade as it approached the Tower.’
‘If that was so,’ Cranston, full of curiosity, spoke before he could stop himself, ‘why didn’t Rosselyn warn the Upright Men about the impending attack on the Roundhoop?’
‘Yes,’ Rachael taunted, ‘why not, Brother?’
‘I shall come to that in a while. Suffice to say that you and Rosselyn met secretly here. Like pieces on a chess board, you checked each other. Neither of you could betray the other without rousing deep suspicions about yourself. As if in a play, Rachael, you would be the principal actor. Rosselyn was your support. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Directing a man such as Rosselyn as you would some lurcher in a hunt? You decided to cause mayhem here at the very heart of Gaunt’s power.’
‘Why would Rosselyn agree?’ Rachael interrupted. ‘Surely it would be too dangerous?’
‘It would have been dangerous for him not to cooperate. The Upright Men could kill him or, even worse, betray him to his master. You know full well they would demand Rosselyn’s complete cooperation or else. . First came the attack at Saint John’s Chapel. I was puzzled by that. How could an assassin strike twice so swiftly as well as leave those severed heads? I first believed the assault was launched from Hell’s mouth wedged into the entrance to the rood screen. You are a mummer, mistress, you create illusions, perhaps that’s what you intended.’