The Straw Men smoba-12

by Paul Doherty

  ‘Much more serious were the Wardes. You discovered they were Gaunt’s spies in the cell of Saint Erconwald’s. The Upright Men must have told you that, or Rosselyn. You’d surely demand the truth about how Boaz and others were so neatly trapped. The finger of suspicion pointed at the Wardes. May God absolve you, Rachael. You did not confess to me, not really. You did not validly take the sacrament; you are not covered by the seal. You seethe with hatred. You have an unslaked thirst, a ravenous hunger for revenge. Did the Upright Men demand the total annihilation of the Wardes? If not, your vengeance certainly did.’

  ‘So I left the Tower, crossed to Southwark and massacred an entire family?’

  ‘In a word, yes! Rosselyn allowed you out. You ensured all was safe, quiet then you moved. You carried out your hideous crime without any sign of resistance or struggle. Why, Rachael?’

  She just shrugged.

  ‘Because,’ Cranston spoke his thoughts aloud, ‘Warde admitted someone he either knew and trusted or someone who appeared to pose no threat.’

  ‘Precisely,’ Athelstan agreed. ‘On that fateful evening Humphrey Warde opened his door to a delightful young woman who claimed to have a recommendation to visit him. I presume you came in disguise, hooded and cowled. You also gambled on the fact that the Wardes were distrusted — not the type of family to be entertaining in a parish where they were so fiercely resented. If there had been any obstacle to your plan, you’d either wait to come back or visit again.’ Athelstan sipped from his goblet. ‘Anyway, why should Warde fear a charming young woman? You are well spoken and courteous. He greets you warmly, you respond. The rest of his household hear this and return to their routine. You follow Warde into his small shop and ask for an opiate. He turns away. You bring up the crossbow you’ve concealed and kill him. Warde, before he died, had prepared a small pouch of opiate for you. You’d also probably learnt that the only people in the house were his family. You intended to deal with all of them, the pretty, smiling young woman who carries death beneath her robe. You moved through that house, swiftly slaying before slipping into the darkness like the demon you’ve become.’ Athelstan took a further sip. ‘God forgive you, at least you spared the baby, but you made a mistake.’

  ‘What, what are you talking about?’

  ‘You made a mistake about Huddle’s death, but you also described Warde’s killer moving from chamber to chamber. How did you know that?’

  ‘I would like a drink,’ Rachael declared loudly. ‘My throat is dry. Have you finished, Brother?’

  ‘No, because you had not. The Upright Men did not really concern you. They could plot whatever they wanted against Gaunt. At the same time Thibault and his coven were growing more vigilant. So you turned back to easier quarry. You regarded the Straw Men as a coven of traitors, not so much to the Common Good but to the ideals your beloved Boaz died for.’

  Athelstan leaned forward, offering her the goblet which she took. ‘I truly believe that you put the entire company under the ban. Samuel was your next victim.’

  ‘He committed suicide.’

  ‘No, you made it appear so. Once again with Rosselyn, now much smitten with you. Oh, yes, he was! I saw him watch you play that masque in Saint Peter’s ad Vincula. He, as with so many men you have dealt with, followed you like a dog guarding your ways. You slipped through the dark and into Bowyer Tower. You knocked at Samuel’s chamber. Only the good Lord knows what part you played then: worried, anxious, coy, timid or flirtatious. You also brought along a wine skin and a goblet. I’m sure the wine was laced with the opiate that you had taken from Warde’s shop. You pretended to drink. Samuel certainly did and fell into a dead swoon. You summoned up Rosselyn. You took the fire rope, fastened it around the senseless Samuel’s throat and thrust him out of the window to strangle. You then cleared the room and put anything you’d brought back into a sack. You leave. Rosselyn locks and bolts the door behind you and climbs out of the window. He uses the rope then the corpse to reach the chamber directly below. You were waiting for him. You opened the shutters and Rosselyn climbed through. You then close and bar the window. You would wipe away any wet, perhaps even sprinkle a little dust, but who would really notice in that darkened chamber? Moreover, those same shutters were violently disturbed — broken — when Thibault decided to force the chamber. What evidence could they offer? You hoped that would happen, which is why you locked that chamber and slid the key under the door.’ Athelstan paused and went to stand over her. She gazed coolly back.

  ‘Samuel was not your only victim. Rosselyn was much taken with you but you, unbeknown to our captain of archers, had unfinished business with him. Rosselyn constantly played the two-faced Janus, acting as Thibault’s henchman yet also spying for the Upright Men. In your eyes he could have informed the Upright Men about the trap being planned at the Roundhoop, but he didn’t.’ Athelstan chewed the corner of his lip. ‘As I have said, I could understand why: that would have been too dangerous for Rosselyn.’ Athelstan bent down, holding Rachael’s strange, green-eyed stare. ‘But to you, Rosselyn was just another traitor, a coward who could have saved Boaz but didn’t. In that darkened chamber in Bowyer Tower, lit only by a scrap of candle, you decided on both judgement and punishment.’ Athelstan returned to sit on his bed. ‘We men are easy to scrutinize, Rachael. Our lusts are our weaknesses. Rosselyn must have been full of his own prowess. He viewed himself as your partner with hopes of becoming your paramour. He’d flirt and demand a kiss. You sat him on that stool. You bestrode his lap like any tavern wench, pressing yourself up against him, moving backwards and forwards to excite his crotch. You caressed him. You put one hand behind the back of his head, the other, hanging by your side, carried a long Italianate poignard. Once again you act the lover, telling him to close his eyes. Rosselyn did. You struck, a swift killing blow pushing the dagger deep into his left eye while keeping him pressed against the wall. He would jerk and struggle but only for a few heartbeats; you would have two hands on that dagger handle, pushing with all your strength.’

  ‘True,’ Cranston declared. ‘A blow to the brain like that would be deadly. I have seen the same happen in battle. The shock alone would kill a man.’

  ‘Once Rosselyn was dead,’ Athelstan continued, ‘you pushed the acclamation into his lifeless hand. You also did something else. Before your visit to Master Samuel, you doused yourself in perfume. Now you had cleared his chamber and the shutters were left open. You certainly didn’t want your fragrance being detected on Rosselyn’s corpse. Help was at hand, a bucket of filthy water full of slime and rottenness. You doused Rosselyn’s corpse; the rank smell would kill any scent of perfume on him or in the chamber. To any observer, the killer would be depicted as abusing his victim’s pathetic remains. Once done, you collected what you had to. You left, locking the chamber and the main door of the tower. On each occasion you pushed the key beneath the door to delay, to mystify, to deepen the confusion.’ Athelstan breathed out. ‘I wonder who was next. Samson? Gideon? Judith?’

  ‘How say you, mistress?’ Cranston leaned forward. ‘The case presses heavily against you.’

  Rachael glanced up, eyes crinkling into a smile. ‘What can I say, Brother, except that you have much to say and even more to prove.’ She moved restlessly on the stool. ‘What about Judith? She is also a player, a mummer, a mistress of disguise?’

  ‘Concedo,’ Athelstan replied. ‘I concede. I did speculate about Judith. She could have done this and she could have done that. She could have been here or there yet she flies against all logic as the killer. Firstly, she is not as courageous as you. She has a mortal fear of bears. Secondly, she suffers an affliction of the eyes, and so finds it difficult to calculate distances. I noticed that when she stares at people some distance away. How could she release a bolt, an arrow shaft? Finally and most importantly, and you know this, Rachael.’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘Judith is very much in awe of you. She has very little time, if any, for men. She can act the role of a braggart in
a tavern but such parts only help her express the contempt she has for men in general. I cannot see her seducing Barak, Eli, Master Samuel or Rosselyn. When you asked me to shrive you, you implied that Boaz and Judith had been close friends. I am sure if we brought her in here and questioned her closely, she would strongly deny this and perhaps point the finger at you. Nor would Samson describe himself as your betrothed, another fiction to confuse me.’

  ‘Still, you have little evidence against me.’

  ‘Oh, I can obtain that; as I said, you made mistakes.’ Athelstan gestured at her gown. ‘We will search your chamber. We’ll find, among other things, a green gown heavy with perfume but stained here high in the chest with thick blood — Rossleyn’s blood. It must have spurted from his eye like juice from a pressed grape. I doubt if you’ve had time to wash it. We would also be able to trace the stains left from that bucket of filthy water.’ Athelstan shook his head. ‘I’m sure Thibault’s interrogators will discover more.’ He spread his hands. ‘Mistress, you are young and fair yet you have the blood of many on your hands. You can expect little or no mercy from Thibault. There is nothing I can do to save you. They will spend days, if not weeks, torturing you and, if you survive that, it will not be a swift hanging at Smithfield. You are a woman: they will burn you before the gates of Saint Bartholomew’s. Knowing Thibault, the wood will be green and the executioner will not move through the smoke to strangle you swiftly. You could confess. I could take you into sanctuary, I could. .’

  Rachael moved with the speed of a lunging cat. She threw the goblet at Sir John as she rose, clutched the stool and hurled it at Athelstan, then she was at the door fumbling with the latch before they could recover. Athelstan immediately sensed what Rachael was going to do. But, by the time he had reached the door, she was already racing up the steps to the top of the Tower. Athelstan, with Cranston lumbering behind, climbed as fast as he could but it was fruitless. Rachael was young, energetic, nimble on her feet and, by the time a breathless Athelstan burst through on to the icy windswept tower top, she was already standing between two of the crenellations, the wind tossing her beautiful hair and fanning out her thick murrey robe. Dusk was sweeping in, grey and freezing cold. Sounds from below echoed up. Athelstan, fighting for breath, walked carefully around the beacon brazier.

  ‘Please?’ He extended a hand.

  ‘Brother, do not be foolish. You are correct — what can you do? Save me from Thibault’s demons? They will strip me naked, rape me and abuse me before they even start their questions. You know that.’

  Athelstan sensed she was smiling through the murk.

  ‘You will find evidence in my chamber. I never had time to hide everything. Your indictment is sound.’ She waved a hand. ‘Some details are wrong but, in the main,’ she fought for breath, ‘Boaz was the only person I ever loved. Samuel and the rest are Thibault’s creatures, body and soul despite their protests. They are what they are, Straw Men. Their words mere mumbling, they were weasel people who serve a weasel lord. All of them.’ Her voice turned hard and defiant. ‘Rosselyn was no better, a turncoat to the heart. The Upright Men despised him. Thibault would have discovered his treachery sooner or later. Rosselyn was weak, uncertain. He tried to stride either side only to blunder. He did not inform the Upright Men about the Roundhoop. He failed to reveal the plot to trap the Upright Men in the Tower. Once that happened, I received notice: Rosselyn, the Wardes and Huddle your painter were placed under the ban. Grindcobbe personally decided that.’

  ‘You were given permission to slay at will?’

  ‘Oh, yes, and I enjoyed it. Ah, well, I won’t see Thibault smirk. I won’t burn at Smithfield. I don’t want to spend weeks in a filthy cell in this ghastly place.’

  ‘Please?’ Athelstan begged, even though he knew it was fruitless.

  ‘Remember, Brother, those lines from the book of Ruth? “Wherever you go I shall follow”,’ then she was gone, slipping back into the gathering darkness, red hair flaring, gown billowing, her body plummeting to smash on the cobbles below.

  Athelstan sat in Master Thibault’s warm, luxurious council chamber. Lascelles was there, standing behind his master’s chair like the shadow he was.

  ‘So?’ Thibault picked up a stick of sealing wax, weighing it in his hands. ‘Rachael the vixen, the treasonable bitch! What a pity she escaped, to fall like that. She could have told us so much but,’ he smiled, ‘now you can do that, Brother Athelstan.’

  ‘No, I shall not,’ Athelstan retorted.

  Cranston stiffened, breathing in noisily.

  ‘Cannot, shall not?’ Thibault queried. ‘I can make you.’

  ‘Do not threaten us,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘Please, Thibault, don’t be so stupid. You have powerful friends, but so do I. I am a Dominican priest, a cleric protected by the full power of Holy Mother Church. I will tell you in return for four favours. Firstly, Rachael is to be given honourable burial here in God’s Acre. I do not want her corpse dismembered.’

  ‘I see no problem with that.’

  ‘Secondly,’ Athelstan dipped into his chancery satchel and brought out the book of plays, ‘I keep this as a gift. My parishioners would benefit from it.’

  ‘Sic habes,’ Thibault quoted. ‘You have it. And thirdly?’

  ‘The woman Judith is allowed to settle in Saint Erconwald’s.’

  Thibault shrugged. ‘And finally?’

  ‘You take a solemn oath,’ Athelstan indicated the Book of the Gospel on the lectern, ‘here in the presence of Sir John Cranston, Coroner of the City of London, that Mistress Eleanor, who calls herself Mara, your prisoner in Beauchamp Tower, will be kept safe and sent to the Domincan convent of Saint Frideswide outside Oxford. I know the Mother Superior, a Scottish lady, Isabella Urquhart. You will swear that Eleanor will be kept safe, lodged most comfortably and given a pension for as long as she lives.’

  Thibault looked as if he was going to object.

  ‘Do so,’ Athelstan urged. ‘She is religious, protected by the church. She has committed no crime. She is innocent of any wrongdoing and I know she will pose no threat. Saint Frideswide lies near the palace of Woodstock. She can be, in a most careful manner, watched without being bothered.’

  Thibault sucked on his lips and smiled. ‘Brother Athelstan, Sir John, I agree. You have in fact solved a problem. Can you assure me your order will guarantee the Lady Eleanor will cause no trouble?’

  ‘Believe me,’ Athelstan grinned. ‘The Lady Urquhart will see to that.’

  Thibault rose and took the oath, his right hand planted firmly on the Book of the Gospel, and returned to his seat. Athelstan then described what had happened, moving swiftly through the evidence and citing the proof he had found in Rachael’s chamber: certain scraps of parchment, an arbalest, a pouch of opiate and that blood-soaked gown.

  Once he had finished, Thibault, his face contorted in fury as Rosselyn’s treachery was described, sat head down. Eventually he glanced up. ‘I heard about the business in Flanders. I sent the Straw Men and other agents to hunt the rumours down — the rest is as you describe it, Athelstan. As for Rosselyn, he must have been suborned very recently, possibly in the early winter but, there again,’ Thibault blinked and glanced away, ‘I wonder how many of those who eat My Lord of Gaunt’s bread act the Judas once darkness falls. I did wonder about the attack near Aldgate; perhaps that was Rosselyn’s offering, a guarantee of his word to the Upright Men.’

  ‘That business in Flanders,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘Master Thibault, you have been very honest in taking the oath. I accept your assurances about the Lady Eleanor but there is one thing you haven’t told me. And I swear, if you keep your oath, so will I.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Evangeline was a former midwife, a royal nurse or whatever she called herself. I have no doubt that the tales she spun were based on rumour, lie, wishful thinking,’ Athelstan shrugged, ‘or court gossip. Well, you can take your choice.’ Athelstan could feel the rise in tension. Thibault pulled himsel
f up in his chair; Lascelles’ hand slipped to the hilt of his dagger.

  ‘When I was a boy,’ Athelstan continued softly, ‘my father had a small holding. Most of our summers were dry and I always remember my father being anxious lest a fire be started in the wheat field. He and other villagers hired Machlin, a former mercenary, to guard against this. Machlin was given a small hut on top of a hill. He was provided with food and drink and accepted into our community.’

  ‘And?’ Thibault asked.

  ‘Machlin was very good, extremely vigilant in reporting the outbreak of fires until, of course, my father became suspicious. He discovered that Machlin was starting the very fires he was reporting. Machlin wanted to be a hero, a saviour.’

  ‘The business in Flanders?’ Lascelles rasped.

  ‘Now I think,’ Athelstan continued, holding Thibault’s gaze, ‘that Evangeline would have gone to her grave and kept to herself the farrago of lies about My Lord of Gaunt. But someone approached her posing as Gaunt’s great enemy, enticing her greed with the prospect of fat profit.’

  ‘My Lord of Gaunt has many enemies.’

  ‘I just wonder,’ Athelstan replied, ‘if this mysterious messenger was sent by Gaunt’s friends, someone who wanted to depict himself as a saviour, the man who crushed filthy lies and rumours about our glorious Plantagenet Prince. Someone who started the fire then posed as the saviour who extinguished it.’

  ‘And whoever could that be?’

  ‘Oh I would have to prove that, but Sir John here could help. We would go through the licences issued to those who have travelled to Flanders. We would make careful enquiries about why they went, where they went and what they did.’ Athelstan now stared at Lascelles, who moved uncomfortably.

  ‘I don’t think that would be necessary,’ Thibault remarked.

  ‘No, neither do I,’ Athelstan smiled. ‘I’m sure the Lady Eleanor will remain safe. I am also confident, Master Thibault, that you will always hold the parish of Saint Erconwald’s in tender respect, and that you will regard my flock as more misled than malevolent.’ Thibault smiled and nodded. Cranston bit his lip to stop laughing.