The Straw Men

PART TWO

Athelstan crossed on to the bridge, coughing and spluttering at the thick smoke and fumes wafting up from the nearby tanneries. He made his way around the potholes, choked with rank weeds and coarse grass which thrived in the sluggish ooze and slush left by the ebb and flow of the river. So lost in his own thoughts, he was across the bridge before he knew it. Athelstan paused, took a deep breath and made his way up towards St Erconwald’s. Now and again the friar paused to exchange a few words with those he met, especially the Brotherhood of the Cloak. Athelstan always liked to find out what mischief they were plotting. The Brotherhood was really a group of beggars who sometimes used the nave of his parish church for what they called ‘Conclaves of their Pastoral Councils’. The leading light of the Brotherhood was Freelove, a buxom young woman with jet-black hair and cheeky eyes, who was always accompanied by her group of admirers — men who rejoiced in the names of Littlerobin, Rentabut, Eatbread and Godshelf. His brief encounter with these colourful characters calmed Athelstan’s mind, though he told them off roundly when they confessed that they planned to cross the bridge to beg in the city under the guise of poor pilgrims to Jerusalem and elsewhere. To deepen their deception, the Brotherhood had fixed fraudulent scallop shells, sprigs of greenery and small pilgrim medals to their tattered cloaks.

Further up the lane, Athelstan found to his dismay Matilda Milksop, scarcely a gospel greeter at St Erconwald’s, though one who considered herself a member of his parish. Matilda was fastened by her neck and wrists in the stocks. The notice pinned next to her proclaimed, ‘How Matilda Milksop, through her malicious words and abuse, had greatly molested and annoyed her neighbours, sowing envy, discord and ill-will, and oft times defamed and back-bitten many of the same neighbours, so she must be punished as a common scold’. Matilda was crying from the pain and the freezing cold. The bailiff, seated on a stool beside her, chewing one of Merrylegs’ pies with a brimming blackjack of ale from the nearby Piebald tavern, ignored her pleas. Athelstan, having produced a coin and mentioned Cranston’s name more than once, secured Matilda’s release. Once she could stand upright, he helped the woman into the dark, warm stuffiness of the Piebald tavern with strict instructions to Joscelyn, its owner, the one-armed former river pirate, to give her good sustenance. By the time he reached the lychgate of St Erconwald’s, Athelstan felt much better, slightly regretting his treatment of Sir John. He stood just beyond the entrance and stared out over the hard, frozen ground. The ancient headstones and crosses glittered in the frost light, and a small column of smoke curled between the shutters of the death house.

‘Godbless,’ Athelstan shouted, ‘you are well?’

‘God bless you too, Brother,’ the beggar replied. ‘God bless your trousers and all you have in them. Thaddeus and I are warm and snug. Mistress Benedicta gave me a bowl of stewed pottage and a jug of ale. We are as merry as robins.’ Athelstan smiled and went up the path through the main door of the church. A strong flutter of torch light further up the northern transept showed only Huddle, ably assisted by the anchorite, busy in what both proclaimed to be their ‘Magnum Opus’, an eye-catching, vivid portrayal of the Seven Deadly Sins. Huddle had finished Greed and was now busy on Pride, ‘that great snare of the devil’, as Huddle had written in the scrolled tag at the bottom of the painting.

Both artists acknowledged Athelstan as he walked over to them, but they were really lost in their creation, almost impervious to his presence. Athelstan stopped to admire the work. Huddle had taken as his theme for Pride the fall of Lucifer from Paradise. The painting depicted fanged, clawed and cloven-hoofed demons as well as bat-winged, sooty hobgoblins, the usual citizens of Hell. Lucifer, however, was totally different. Still an archangel, he fell from Paradise in a thick ream of golden stars while the rebel angels he had seduced flowed after him like brilliant tongues of fire. Lucifer was no creature of the dark pit but a beautiful young man, blond curls framed a face of serious sweet youthfulness; his body glowed white and pure as the driven snow; his limbs were perfectly proportioned. Athelstan was tempted to ask how Huddle had devised such an original treatment but he and the anchorite were locked in deep discussion about the mixing of paints, so he left them to it and returned to the priest’s house. He first checked that Philomel the old war horse was, as Crim the altar boy declared, ‘still breathing’. He certainly was, chewing slowly on a bundle of sweetened hay. Athelstan patted and blessed him and crossed to the priest’s house. He found the secret place where Benedicta had left the key, unlocked the door and walked into the cold, stone-flagged kitchen.

Athelstan moved quickly, building up the fire so the flames flared up, licking the cauldron dangling from its hook; this soon exuded a delicious smell of onions, cooked meats and sprinkled herbs. Bonaventure appeared like a ghost to sit beside the fire before joining the Dominican at the great table. Athelstan took yesterday’s loaf and a pot of butter, filled a tankard of ale from a small barrel in the buttery, washed his hands at the lavarium and blessed both himself and Bonaventure; he sat at the table sipping from his horn spoon, every mouthful being carefully watched by Bonaventure, who always stayed to lick the bowl really clean. Athelstan ate slowly, reflecting on what he had seen, felt and heard. What should he do? Undoubtedly there was a very tangled tale behind the Roundhoop incident but that would take time to unravel. Or would it? Athelstan sensed an evil was gathering like poison in a wound, surging in a boil of pus and filthy matter. His stomach tingled with excitement. He should confess that and yet, he stared into the fire, God forgive him, he loved the tangled maze of mystery. Deep in his soul Athelstan sensed he had reached the meadows of murder; soon he would be through the gate walking that crooked path into the House of Cain. The pursuit would begin. One soul hunting another, like God did the first assassin. Only this would be different: Athelstan would have to wait for the murderer to strike. The friar pushed the bowl away and watched Bonaventure lick it clean. He climbed the steps to his neatly prepared bed loft and lay down on the palliasse, staring up into the darkness.

‘Who will you be?’ he murmured. ‘When will you come? How will you strike?’ Athelstan’s mind drifted back to the Roundhoop — the arrows slicing the air, the screams and yells, that young man bubbling his life blood, his mind all a wander. The orange-wigged whore. Master Simon lying with his throat cut. Thibault’s face, smirking. Bonaventure came up and decided to lie on the other side of him.

‘When it comes, I must act like you, my terror of the alleyways,’ Athelstan whispered. ‘Swift and deadly.’ He was promising to do that when he drifted into a deep sleep, only woken by Bonaventure scratching at the door to get out. Athelstan scrambled down the ladder, opened the door and watched the tom cat disappear into the freezing night. Rubbing his arms, Athelstan went to build up the fire. He peered across at the hour candle on its iron stand. Two rings had burnt — late afternoon, it was time he acted. He doused the candles and lanterns, swung his cloak around him and hurried up the lane to Merrylegs’ pastry shop to find its garrulous owner was absent on business.

‘Father said it was very important.’ Little Merrylegs piped up, serving the friar, handing over the linen-wrapped pies and pastries.

‘You mean he is at the Piebald tavern with the rest of his coven?’

‘Undoubtedly.’ Large Merrylegs, the eldest of the cook’s brood, agreed from where he knelt coaxing the ovens either side of the great hearth. Athelstan made to pay but Little Merrylegs pushed the coins back. ‘Father always tells us. .’

‘Thank you.’ Athelstan smiled, tapping a coin back. ‘But this father would like you to take a message to the Piebald. Tell those two worthies, Watkin and Pike, that I wish to see them within the hour at the priest’s house.’ Little Merrylegs solemnly promised he would. Athelstan walked back into the lane. The houses on either side lay silent and dark. Athelstan felt a tingling along the back of his neck and drew a deep breath against the gathering terrors. No candlelight peeped out between shutters. The lantern boxes which glowed when he came down here now hung empty. Athelstan continued on, his sandal-clad feet crunching on the frozen dirt, head bent against the nipping breeze. He walked slowly and, as he did, became aware of two shapes like shadows flitting either side of him. Athelstan stopped and so did they. He turned to his right and glimpsed a man, head cowled, face blackened. Athelstan glanced over his shoulder; others were merging out of the murk like hell-borne wraiths.

‘Benedicite?’ Athelstan whispered. ‘Blessings on you, brothers! What do you want with a poor friar?’

‘Vengeance.’

‘Haven’t you read, Brother?’ Athelstan replied. ‘“Vengeance is mine, says the Lord, I will repay”?’

‘The Roundhoop,’ the voice grated.

‘I was used, you know that?’

‘How do we know?’

‘On reflection,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘that Friar of the Sack was no more a friar than you are, Brother.’

The man laughed a merry sound which lessened the tension. ‘Why do you say that?’ he asked.

‘Because, allegedly, he belongs to a strict order dedicated to the dying, yet he was more interested in getting out of that tavern than I was. Men were dying violently; never once did he stay to offer the consolamentum. He must have been one of yours; he told you about what happened.’

‘True,’ the voice whispered. ‘He was still a priest, a friar just terrified of being caught both in our company,’ he laughed, ‘as well as that of a common whore.’

‘Brother.’ Athelstan walked on, clutching his linen parcel. ‘My pies are getting cold. I am hungry and very tired. Why lurk in the shadows? Come and join me at the table. I could even hear your confession, shrive you, forgive your sins before you also die.’

‘When the Apocalypse comes, the Day of Great Slaughter and the strongholds fall, which side will you be on, Athelstan?’

‘I will do my duty to my parishioners. I will say my prayers.’

‘You will not be on the side of God?’

‘God has no sides.’

‘What about justice, right?’

‘Micah chapter six, verse three,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘“Three things I ask of you, Son of Man, and only these three. To love justly, to act tenderly and to walk humbly with your God.”’

‘We want you to join us.’

‘I will pray for you.’ Athelstan heard the scrape of steel from a scabbard; he stopped, his mouth dry.

‘Pax et Bonum,’ the voice whispered. ‘Fear not, little friar. We are near the end of the lane and we don’t want to be surprised by your fat friend the coroner.’

‘He is my friend and a good one. He does not draw steel on a poor friar or worse, make his supper grow cold.’

‘We know that. Now listen, just ask Sir John who is the prisoner the Flemings brought to the Tower? Oh, and tell Sir John to be more prudent. He should not walk so bold; most of his masters are both bought and sold.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘This is the hour of Judas, Friar. Darkness is falling. The poor earthworms stir and the hawk lords survey the field and wonder how all this might end.’

‘What is that to him?’

‘Tell him the tribes of Edom, Moab, Philistia and Egypt are already plotting to divide the spoils.’

‘I do not know. .’

‘He will, Brother, but now, a word of warning to you and yours.’ The voice became a hiss. ‘Among your parishioners, those who serve the Upright Men, walks a true-arch priest Judas — for him there will be no mercy or compassion. The business at the Roundhoop was this Judas’ work. Keep an eye on your flock, Brother. We certainly shall. If necessary we shall impose the ban.’

‘The ban?’ Athelstan felt a deep chill, half suspecting what he meant.

‘You quote scripture, Brother, so do I. .’

‘So did Satan,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘when he tempted Christ.’

Again, the laugh. ‘Consult the Book of Samuel, Brother.’ The figure drew closer and, before Athelstan could react, grasped the friar’s hand and pressed in a small pouch of coins. ‘For the poor. You gave the last rites to one of our comrades at the Roundhoop. What did he say?’

‘You know I cannot tell you what he confessed but he babbled about gleaning; he was searching for someone.’

‘Aren’t we all?’ came the sardonic reply. ‘Farewell, Brother, for now.’ The shadows receded. Athelstan looked back down the alleyway: lantern horns had been lit; candles glowed from upstairs windows. Athelstan shook his head at the power and influence of the Upright Men. This secret war, he reasoned, fought in flitting shadows and murky chambers, would soon erupt and what then?

He reached the priest’s house, went in, put the pies in the small oven built into the side of the small hearth and waited. His two guests arrived shortly afterwards, shuffling into the kitchen in their mud-caked boots. Both Watkin and Pike looked flushed with ale.

Athelstan pointed at the lavarium and told them to wash their hands as he placed three tranchers on the scrubbed kitchen table and served the pies. Athelstan waited till they had eaten then picked up his psalter. He found the verse he was looking for and fought to hide the fear spurting within him. He closed the book. ‘Well, gentlemen,’ Athelstan forced a smile, ‘and so it is written that the prophet Samuel placed Agag and the Amalekites under the ban, to be smitten hip and thigh, no quarter to be shown to man, woman, child or beast. Now tell me,’ Athelstan’s voice thundered, ‘who among us would do what the Prophet Samuel did?’ He paused. ‘Examine yourselves before your priest. Remember, as Christ does, your misdeeds. Make no secret of your sins even though your wickedness might be difficult to confess.’ Athelstan breathed in. ‘To cut to the quick, in a word, I ask you in God’s name, has the ban been imposed on our parish. .?’

The leaders of the Upright Men: Wat Tyler, Jack Straw, John Ball the preacher, Simon Grindcobbe and others, disguised in the robes of Friars of the Sack, stood before the gates to the entrance of London Bridge on the city side of the Thames. Capped candles were carried before them. They had, in their pretended role as preachers, permission from the Guardian of the Gates and Keeper of the Heads, Master Burdon, to pray for those slain during the furious bloody affray at the Roundhoop. They all stared up at the heads of their dead comrades now poled on staves jutting above the gate. They were unrecognizable; the crows had already been busy with their eyes, while the heads had been boiled and tarred before being displayed.

‘How many?’ Grindcobbe whispered.

‘All of them,’ came the murmured reply. ‘Most were killed in the assault. Three were sorely wounded and lowered by chains into the river to slowly drown as the tide changed.’

‘By whom?’

‘A creature called Laughing Jack, a grotesque with a gargoyle face. He and two others are Thibault’s hangmen. They now rejoice, spending their earnings in the Paradise of Purgatory tavern near the house of the Crutched Friars.’

‘Kill them,’ Grindcobbe whispered over his shoulder. ‘Kill them when their bellies are bloated with wine. I do not want them to hear the bells of vespers tomorrow.’ Grindcobbe stared at the row of severed heads: their hair had been combed before they’d been spiked, a truly gruesome sight in the dancing flames of the cresset torches beneath. John Ball the preacher intoned the requiem and the others joined in; a few, including Grindcobbe, just waited for the words to peter out.

‘And the traitor?’ Tyler’s broad Kentish accent did nothing to diminish the menace in his voice. ‘Our comrades were betrayed. Gaunt was informed.’

‘We have our suspicions,’ Grindcobbe murmured. ‘The parish of Saint Erconwald’s may nurse a traitor; their priest Athelstan has been warned.’

‘But he is innocent.’ Jack Straw pulled his cowl further over his head. ‘Magister Thibault, that devil in flesh, just used him. Our brothers,’ he sighed, ‘should have been more vigilant.’

‘Thibault was furious about what we seized,’ Tyler remarked.

‘Perhaps it’s time we returned his property.’ Grindcobbe laughed. ‘But this mysterious prisoner. Who is she? Why does Gaunt place such a value on her? For now that must wait. Oh, yes, it shall, as will why our spy in Thibault’s stronghold failed to inform us that an attack on the Roundhoop was being planned.’

‘Perhaps he did not know.’

‘Or perhaps he did not wish to expose himself further. But one day he will have to — perhaps sooner than he thinks.’ Grindcobbe stared up, watching the tendrils of mist curl round the spiked heads. ‘I wonder who our traitor is?’ Grindcobbe spoke as if to himself. ‘But come.’

They moved from the gateway, making their way up East Cheap. The night was quiet. The Upright Men walked, hoods pulled forward, hands up the voluminous sleeves of their gowns. They were not afraid or wary; their henchmen, weapons at the ready, went before them. To the casual observer they appeared to be a group of friars, yet no beggar or footpad lurking in the slime-filled, dirt-coated doorways dared approach them. Only once did they stop, to allow a group of mounted men-at-arms to ride by. Ball the preacher simply lifted a hand and intoned a blessing which he immediately followed with a curse once they had passed. They turned off into Crooked Lane, flitting like dark shadows past St Michael’s Church and into the Babylon, a decayed tavern with as many entrances, doorways and windows as holes in a rabbit warren. They went up the staircase just within the doorway and along the gallery which reeked of urine, rotting vegetables and human sweat. Rats squeaked and scuttled in corners as a mangy alley cat padded like any soft-footed assassin across the creaking floorboards. A man hooded and masked stood by a doorway. He bowed to the Upright Men, opened the door and ushered them into what once was the tavern’s principal bedroom, now just a square dirty chamber, empty except for one long table with benches down one side and a stool on the other.

The Upright Men sat on the benches, pulled back their hoods and donned their masks before re-covering their heads.

‘The basilisk,’ Grindcobbe ordered.

The guard left and a short while later pushed the basilisk, also cloaked and hooded, into the chamber, where he had to assist as the basilisk’s eyes were blindfolded. Once his guest, as Grindcobbe described their visitor, was seated on the stool, the guard withdrew.

‘Announce yourself to my comrades. What is your name?’ Grindcobbe demanded.

‘Basilisk!’ came the whispered reply.

‘Why?’

‘Because the basilisk is a creature which lies in ambush before it strikes.’

‘You have taken the oath to live and die with us; you have helped us before, but now you are sworn.’

‘I am.’

‘You accept us as your liege lords?’

‘I do.’

‘You will wage war and kill on our behalf?’

‘I will.’

‘Treachery will be punished.’

‘I know.’

‘By the ban?’

‘I know.’

‘Which means what?’

‘The total annihilation of me and mine.’

‘And if you are captured and unmasked, Basilisk, clever and subtle though you may be, we can do little to assist you against Gaunt and his minions.’ Grindcobbe paused at a strident screech from the alleyway below as some night predator caught its prey. Grindcobbe’s tone lightened. ‘A warning indeed! Gaunt and his henchmen, Thibault in particular, will be ruthless, you understand that?’

‘Yes.’

‘And your task,’ Grindcobbe leaned across the table, ‘is to wage war by fire and sword against our enemies, to fight the good fight, to kill, to terrify. Do you understand?’

‘I do.’

‘Not only among Gaunt and his coven but the Straw Men.’

‘I understand.’

‘Once you enter the Tower, everything will be provided. You will not be alone — we have one friend there. He will reveal himself to you — do not be surprised. We have made it very clear that he is to do exactly what you say; otherwise he, too, will be marked down.’ Grindcobbe raised a hand. ‘He will, in particular, help you with a certain sack which the guard outside will give to you before you leave the Babylon. Do not be shocked at its contents, gruesome though they are. I believe you may suspect their origin.’

‘How will I recognize this so-called friend?’ The basilisk’s voice betrayed contempt.

Grindcobbe dug into his purse and took out a scrap of parchment. ‘He will give you this.’ Grindcobbe pulled the candle closer so he could read the script:

‘When Adam delved and Eve span,

Who was then the gentleman?

Now the world is ours and ours alone,

To cut the lords to heart and bone.’

Grindcobbe smiled behind his mask. ‘A doggerel verse but, as you know, many of those we lead do not read or write. They certainly understand what this means.’ He pushed the scrap across the table, grasping Basilisk’s outstretched hand. ‘Don’t fail us,’ he warned. Grindcobbe rose. ‘Your escort will see you safely back. As I said, we will supply whatever you need for your first act of terror. Farewell. We may not meet again but go, rejoicing that you do with the full blessing and support of the Upright Men.’

Athelstan sat on the stool close to the inglenook of Cranston’s favourite tavern, The Holy Lamb of God which fronted Cheapside. He pulled off his mittens and unbuttoned his cloak, smiling at Mistress Rohesia, its jolly-faced owner who came bustling across.

‘I will wait for Sir John,’ he assured her. ‘He will not be long.’

Mistress Rohesia, snow-white, apron all fresh, soft napkins over her arm, returned to the kitchens even as she loudly chanted what was on offer. ‘Chicken with cherries, pike in doucettes, beef rissoles, roast coney, and a selection of the sweetest, hottest and softest pies.’ Athelstan half heard her out. He had broken his fast immediately after his dawn Mass attended by a very few. He’d then changed, left the keys with Benedicta and hurried across the frozen bridge to meet Sir John here before the Nones bell rang.

Cranston had sent Flaxwith late the previous evening, about an hour after Watkin and Pike had left. Flaxwith offered his master’s apologies over what had happened at the Roundhoop and asked Athelstan to meet the coroner here in his favourite tavern, which stood directly opposite the Guildhall. Athelstan wondered about his own agitation over what he had learnt the previous evening. Danger certainly pressed on every side. He stared around. The tap room, so clean and welcoming with its host of delicious smells, was fairly empty. A harpist sat in the far corner reciting a poem about ‘the Lord of the Ravens’. Two chapmen sifted through their trays in preparation for another day’s bustling trade along Cheapside. A slaughterer from St Nicholas’ shambles bit greedily into an eel pie, his hands and arms stained to the elbow in dried blood. A herald enjoyed a pot of ale while three raggedy scholars from St Paul’s loudly conjugated ‘Mensa’ and ‘Cursus’ before they met their Latin master. They rose, still chanting, to pick food from the horse-saddle table, a few boards placed across trestles and covered with linen cloths on which Minehostess had laid tranchers and pewter dishes piled high with blood-red sausages, cutlets of pork and sliced white bread. For a few coins every morning, customers could fill a platter with these meats, sops of bread and collect a blackjack of ale from the young tapster.

‘Good morrow, Friar.’ Silent as a ghost, despite his breadth and size, Cranston slid on to the stool opposite Athelstan.

‘Once again, my friend.’ Cranston pulled down the muffler and doffed his beaver hat. ‘I had no knowledge about what Thibault intended at the Roundhoop.’

‘I know.’ Athelstan leaned across the table and grabbed Cranston’s gauntleted hand.

‘I heard what you said about the scorpion.’ Cranston chuckled, tossing his cloak and hat on to the empty stool beside him. ‘Brother, I owe you an explanation.’ Cranston paused to order a capon pastry, a pot of vegetables and a goblet of Bordeaux’s best. He waited until Mistress Rohesia served this, whiling the time away by carefully scrutinizing the rest of the customers. ‘You can never be too careful, especially in this vale of tears.’ He sniffed. ‘Life is becoming dangerous, Brother. The Lady Maude, the two poppets, my wolf hounds, not to mention steward Blaskett are all, thank God, in the best of health and safe. Lord knows, I’ve lit enough tapers before the Virgin at Saint Mary-le-Bow in thanks for this. However, once the weather breaks and spring begins to green everything, I’ll send them off to our small manor at Overton.’

‘Matters are so bad?’

‘No, but they will be.’ Cranston thanked Mistress Rohesia for the food and wine, blew her a kiss and lifted the goblet in toast to Athelstan, who declined yet again Mistress Rohesia’s litany of mouth-watering delicacies.

‘You should eat, Brother.’

‘Brother has eaten and drunk enough for the day.’

‘True, and you will feast tonight.’

‘What!’

‘Not for the moment.’ Cranston took a generous bite. Athelstan glanced away; he was fasting and the smell of hot, juicy chicken in a spice sauce might prove to be a temptation too much.

‘Now,’ Cranston dabbed his mouth with his napkin, ‘let me be brief for the hour will soon be upon us. First, you and I know this city bubbles like a bucket of oil over a fire. Secondly, the day will come when the oil and fire meet. The angels be my witness, London will burn. Thirdly, our king, the noble Richard, is only a child. True power lies with his dear uncle, our self-styled Regent John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster etc., etc.’ Cranston waved his hand. ‘Gaunt is also preparing for the evil day. He has brought across his agents in Flanders, powerful Ghent merchants — the city Gaunt was born in — Pieter Oudernarde and his father Guido.’ Cranston pulled a face. ‘The rest are just minions, household henchmen. On the ninth of January last I was told to meet them north of the old city wall near Saint John’s in Clerkenwell. The Upright Men launched an attack. Now,’ Cranston took a sip of his claret, ‘the Upright Men could have easily discovered something was afoot. Many of them are old soldiers; they disguised themselves in white sheets in order to blend in with the snow, an old trick used many times in France.’ Cranston paused. ‘Anyway, the attack was launched but beaten off — there’s the rub. At first, I thought they were trying to kill the Oudernardes — they weren’t. The Flemings had brought a prisoner, I’m sure it was a woman, cloaked, cowled and strictly guarded. The fiercest fighting took place around her and certain bundles on the sumpter ponies. The prisoner was kept safe but some of the baggage was plundered and taken.’

‘And the prisoner?’

‘Escorted down to the Tower. I and my men-at-arms parted company with them at the Lion gate. Rosselyn, captain of archers, together with Lascelles, Thibault’s henchman, were very strict on that. The prisoner, the sumpter ponies and their escort disappeared swiftly inside.’ Cranston pulled a face. ‘More than that I do not know. And you?’

Athelstan told him about his parish, the troubles faced by Spicer Warde and Athelstan’s own eerie meeting with the envoys from the Upright Men the previous evening.

‘I confronted Watkin and Pike,’ Athelstan declared. ‘Sir John, what I tell you now is what you already suspect. Both are members of the Great Community of the Realm. Pike certainly sits high on the councils of the Upright Men.’ Athelstan sighed. ‘They know all about the Roundhoop affair. They’d been instructed once that meeting was over to receive the Upright Men in Southwark and arrange safe passage back into the southern shires.’ Athelstan crossed himself. ‘Of course, all the Upright Men were killed.’

‘Because Gaunt and Thibault knew about the meeting.’

‘According to Pike, this information may well have come from the Community of the Realm’s cell-house, as they call it, the parish of Saint Erconwald’s. In other words, one of my parishioners, while acting as a fervent supporter of the Community of the Realm, could be one of Gaunt’s informants.’

‘And so we come to Agag and the Amalekites,’ Cranston murmured.

‘In the book of Samuel, Agag and his tribe were defeated by the Israelites. The prophet Samuel put them under the ban; he ordered King Saul to slaughter them all.’

Cranston scratched his forehead. ‘I have heard of this,’ he whispered fiercely. ‘Anyone who betrays the Great Community of the Realm will not only be punished, but all those related to them will be also. Something like that happened near King’s Langley in Hertfordshire. A small hamlet was put to both torch and sword. Ostensibly the work of outlaws, common rumour has it that the hamlet housed a traitor who informed the lords of the shire at Hertford about the doings of the local Upright Men. Very few survived. Men, women, children and animals were killed.’ Cranston grasped Athelstan’s hand. ‘Brother, I say this in all honesty: the same could happen in Saint Erconwald’s. Houses, shops, taverns and alehouses all burnt, people slaughtered. It will be put down to river pirates or wolfsheads from the forests to the south; in truth it will be the Upright Men enforcing their will. Believe me, Brother, if there is a traitor and you discover him, hand him over. The Upright Men are ruthless!’

Athelstan stared across the tavern at the harpist, his long hair hanging over his face.

‘Oh, don’t worry about him,’ Cranston whispered. ‘That’s the Troubadour.’ Athelstan raised his eyebrows.

‘One of my little swallows,’ Cranston tapped the side of his nose, ‘who swoops through the alleys of London collecting all sorts of juicy morsels of information, my spy brother! He watches to see who watches us. Now,’ Cranston leaned across the table, ‘as for the treachery of the hawk lords, I do wonder how many of my so-called masters have been both bought and sold?’ Cranston took a sip of his claret as the harpist ran his fingers smoothly across the harp strings, a beautifully melancholic sound. Cranston grinned. ‘All is safe, Brother. Now, my masters and the so-called tribes of Edom and Moab?’ Cranston rearranged his platter and goblet on the table. ‘Brother,’ he grasped the platter, ‘My Lord of Gaunt.’ He tapped the goblet. ‘The Upright Men.’ Cranston moved the knife. ‘In between these, the Lords of London: Walbrook, Legge, Horne and the other hawks. These control the so-called tribes of rifflers, the gangs who lurk in the shadows of Whitefriars, Newgate and even Southwark. Now these knight errants of Hell organize themselves into tribes after the ancient people of the Bible: Edomites, Philistines, Moabites and so on. Their captains assume fantastic titles such as the Duke of Acre or the Earl of Caesarea. Believe me, Brother, there is nothing fantastical about them. They are the brothers and sisters of the knife, garrotte and the club. They swarm like flies over a turd; they wait for Lucifer’s watchman to blow his horn.’ Cranston gulped from his goblet.

‘In a word, Sir John, when the Day of the Great Slaughter breaks, these tribes will rise to revel in murder and mayhem.’

‘Correct, Brother, but worse. Some of our leading citizens, whom the tribes serve, may well go over to the rebels. Then we shall truly see the Apocalypse. No one will be spared — king, earl, duke or commoner.’ Cranston glanced towards the harpist. ‘Blood will run ankle-deep in Cheapside. For the moment we can only watch and wait. Yet, I assure you, my friend, the arrival of the Oudernardes and their mysterious prisoner, the attacks near the Tower, the bloody affray at the Roundhoop are all part of the gathering storm. But,’ Cranston rose and went to peer at the hour candle; he came back looking rather shamefaced. ‘I’m afraid, Brother, you must come with me.’

‘Must, Sir John?’

‘No less a person than His Grace the Regent,’ Cranston ignored Athelstan’s groan, ‘has insisted on your presence at the third hour in the afternoon.’ Cranston was now grinning at the friar’s surprise. ‘In the Chapel of Saint John the Evangelist at the White Tower,’ Cranston leaned down, ‘His Grace’s own troupe of mummers, the Straw Men, are staging a small masque or mystery play for the delight of His Grace and his special guests. One of whom,’ Cranston pressed his fat forefinger gently against the friar’s slender nose, ‘is you. This will be followed by a collation of juicy meats and the best wine. Brother, all I can say is that I am delighted I will not be supping alone.’

Athelstan crossed himself, murmured Jesu Miserere and followed the coroner out into the icy thoroughfare of Cheapside. He pestered Sir John about why he had been invited and swiftly learnt that the Regent may have been helped in the invitation by Cranston himself, who, as he kept chortling, would not have to suffer alone. The coroner truly hated such occasions and was only too grateful for Athelstan’s company. The friar decided that cheerful compliance was the best course of action and followed the coroner’s great bulk as they turned by the Cross near the Standard, down towards Bread Street. The streets and alleyways, despite the harsh weather, were thronged with traders and hawkers who competed with the many funerals being carried out. The smell of pinewood and rosemary, in which the long-dead corpses had been drenched, mingled with the sweet smells of pastries, bread and grilled meats. Thankfully the hard ice under foot had frozen the ordure and waste and provided some grip. Nevertheless, Athelstan remained wary of the sheets of puddle ice, not to mention the legion of Trojans, as Athelstan called the petty cheats and cozeners who scurried fast as ferrets from the mouths of alleyways and lanes. The apprentice boys were also busy, darting like sparrows from beneath their master’s stalls to offer, ‘cloth of Liege, tin pots from Cornwall, pepper mixers and boxes of cloves’. Prisoners manacled together, shuffled like one monstrous being; recently released from the debtors’ house at the Marshalsea, they begged for alms while moaning at the freezing cold which had turned their bare feet purple. A group of whores caught soliciting on the steps of All Hallows were being marched up to the stocks. They were forced to hold their skirts over their heads, revealing dirty-grey flabby buttocks, so they could be thrashed with white split canes by the escorting beadles. Every so often these officials made their prisoners stop at a horse trough to receive a drenching from buckets of icy water. Athelstan closed his eyes at the sheer misery. Head down, cowl pulled close, the friar wondered at the evil which throbbed inside every soul and expressed itself in such cruelty. He felt Cranston clutch his arm. They had stopped outside St Mary-Le-Bow. A dispute had broken out over a corpse sprawled out on a coffin-stretcher, its left eye still open. Passers-by had glimpsed this and were demanding that such a sign of ill-luck be covered, the eye pressed down with a coin. A fresh disturbance distracted the mob as a group of flagellants, naked except for loin cloths and hoods daubed with a huge red cross, pushed their way through, flailing their backs with three-thonged whips, each of the knots pierced with a sharp needle. The whips went backwards and forwards, splashing blood and staining the padded paltocks, close-buttoned hoods and long-toed Cracow shoes of a group of fops. These loudly objected but the flagellants ignored them, whipping themselves even more fiercely as they chanted a hymn and followed their cross-bearing leader. They moved in a shower of blood which splattered and streaked everyone. The court fops became belligerent; daggers and swords were loosened. Cranston pushed Athelstan aside when abruptly a horn sounded: a powerful wailing blast and horsemen burst out of nearby Weasel Lane. Cloaked and hooded, faces blackened, the horsemen cantered down, scattering the crowd to rein in at the bottom of the steps of St Mary-Le-Bow. Hooves clattering, the horses snorted and reared in a creak of harness and steel. The intruders carried small hand arbalests, already primed. The horsemen moved backwards and forwards. Three naked corpses, skin all blotched, throats gaping in a dark, bloody slit, eyes staring, were slung across the saddle horn of some of the horses. These were tipped down to sprawl at the foot of the church steps. Cranston made to go forward. Athelstan grabbed him by the arm and pulled him back.

‘Peace, Sir John,’ he whispered. ‘Think of the Lady Maude, the two poppets; this is not your fight. Not yet, anyway.’

‘Hear ye!’

One of the riders surged forward on his grey-black warhorse; the destrier, head shaking, snorting furiously, clattered iron-shod hooves against the cobbles. The rider, like Satan’s own henchman, tall and black in the saddle, cloak billowing out like the wings of some fearsome bird, raised a leather gauntleted hand.

‘So die all traitors to the Great Cause,’ he shouted, pointing at the corpses. ‘Death to all who offend the Upright Men!’ Then the horsemen were gone, clattering back into the darkness of the alleyway as the crowd surged forwards to view the corpses. Cranston bellowed at them to stand aside. Athelstan knelt at the bottom step and, opening his chancery bag, swiftly administered the rites of the dead, closing his mind to everything except the ritual, the anointing and the blessing. As he did so, Cranston turned the corpses over. All three were fairly elderly men with sagging bellies, fat thighs and vein-streaked legs, their faces unshaven, hair unkempt. Athelstan flinched. One of the dead men’s faces was hideous, not just due to the cruel wound inflicted deep into his left side where the dagger had pierced his heart, but his features were distorted by an older, earlier wound across his mouth so his lips seemed to stretch the entire length of that narrow face.

‘Laughing Jack, Thibault’s man.’ Cranston tapped the corpse. ‘Executioner in Billingsgate, from the bridge to the Tower. These are his two assistants, Sinister and Dexter, literally his left and right hand. I wager they were responsible for severing the heads of those slaughtered at the Roundhoop and their poling on London Bridge.’ Cranston sighed, got to his feet and shouted at a group of gathering bailiffs to take care of the corpses.

‘Come, Brother,’ he urged. ‘Our noble Prince, against whom all this is directed, awaits us. .’

The Upright Men’s assassin, the basilisk, had been very busy. The meeting at the Babylon had ended amicably and the basilisk had prepared. The traitor in Gaunt’s circle had revealed himself, a startling surprise swiftly swept aside by the need for preparations following a heated discussion in the dark recesses of the Chapel of St Peter ad Vincula. The basilisk had been insistent. Assassination would take place. Weapons had been demanded and prepared, including that leather sack with its grisly contents. They had clasped hands in what both knew to be a deadly contract. They would stand or fall by each other. Now, gowned and hooded, carrying a special pass impressed with the Regent’s purple wax seal, the basilisk had already surveyed the sprawling fortress of the Tower from the Lion Gate through past St Thomas’ Tower, along Red Gulley and under the dark shadow of Bell Tower, with its massive wooden casing on top housing the great bell which marked the passing hours and sounded the tocsin. The assassin noted that and passed on into the inner bailey, clearly marking out the different towers — especially Beauchamp — close to the parish church of St Peter ad Vincula. Only then did the basilisk approach the great White Tower, the central donjon or keep, its soaring walls of Kentish grey ragstone all whitewashed and gleaming in the harsh frost of the winter’s day. Once again the basilisk stared back at Beauchamp Tower, where the mysterious prisoner brought from Flanders was lodged. It was best not to go too close to its approaches, closely guarded by archers and men-at-arms. What, the basilisk wondered, did Gaunt want with such a prisoner? Why all the mystery and secrecy? Who was that woman? Even the traitor in Thibault’s circle knew very little. Why were the Upright Men so keen to seize her? What was the true connection between the prisoner and the leather sack the Upright Men had entrusted to her? Yet the politics of this place were of little concern — vengeance was!

The basilisk shifted and stared at the black-timbered and white-plastered guest house which stood in its own neat square garden, the shrubs and plants held fast in the iron grip of a savage hoar frost. Oh, yes, the basilisk promised, those who sheltered there — the mystery players — would also be visited by Murder. The Regent’s acting troupe, the Straw Men, Master Samuel and his companions, were nothing more than a coven of treacherous Judas people. They, too, would chew on the bitter bread of pain and sup deeply from the poisoned chalice of the rankest wormwood. The basilisk, however, had to be careful. The Tower thronged with Gaunt’s retainers, henchmen, armoured knights, archers, mailed clerks and household minions, all busy scurrying to do their infernal master’s bidding. The basilisk glimpsed the small dovecote near St Peter’s and smiled; they’d all hasten even faster when the hawk appeared above the doves. What was being planned was only just and right. How did the verse of one of the Upright Men’s songs run? ‘God is deaf nowadays. He will not hear us and, for their guilt, grinds good men to dust.’ God needed a little help!

The basilisk looked up at the grey, lowering sky and recalled a recent story, now common gossip in Gaunt’s household. How the Regent had gone hawking in the wastelands east of Aldgate. Ever so proud of his new snow-white falcon, Gaunt had released this against an old heron which frequented a misty, tree-fringed mere. The falcon, superb and swift, had climbed above its prey then plunged for the kill but the old heron, desperate in its flight, had turned on the wing and speared the falcon with his dagger-like bill. The story was seen as a possible prophecy and augury of how the hunter could become the hunted. Well, that was one prophecy which would soon come to fruition. Clutching the leather sack, the basilisk moved across the icy bailey, wary of the frozen, slippery cobbles. The guards at the bottom of the wooden staircase acknowledged the pass sealed by Rosselyn, captain of archers. The basilisk continued up and entered the crypt of St John’s Chapel, a long, dark chamber lit by pools of light thrown by the wall torches and warmed by braziers crammed with fiery charcoal. Despite the light and fire, the crypt, which stood on the first floor of the White Tower, was cold and dark. The basilisk peered through the murk at the chink of light from the far window; the crypt was empty except for benches and tables, as well as battered chests and aumbries to store clothing. The basilisk nodded — all was well here, and returned to the narrow spiral staircase. The ingenuity of its builder was fascinating. The staircase constantly twisted so the defenders could use their right arm while attackers would be forced to wield swords with their left. The basilisk promised to remember this in case flight became the only path to take.

Breathing heavily, the assassin emerged through a narrow doorway and into the full glare of the Chapel of St John the Evangelist, pausing just within the entrance. The basilisk stood, studying the ancient Norman chapel intently — not for the first time, but this was different. The real drama to be staged here would be subtle murder; the chance to strike Gaunt at the heart of his power, to wreak vengeance on those who had brought about the hideous slaughter at the Roundhoop. The basilisk drew a deep breath: that would never be forgotten! This place would be where the dish of vengeance was served. Built so its apse projected out of the south-east corner of the White Tower, the chapel was oval shaped with a recess just close to the door. Here the King could sit enthroned directly opposite the elaborately decorated rood screen depicting the crucified Christ. Above its doorway stood life-sized figures of the Virgin and St John painted in brilliant colours of gold, red, blue and silver. The actual entrance to the rood screen was now filled by a grotesque Hell’s mouth carved in the likeness of the gaping jaws of a fearsome dragon’s head. The face was blood red, its eyes large black pools, the irises a sickly yellow, the parted heavy lips smeared purple, a leather tongue jutting out between sharp white teeth. The basilisk thought this piece of scenery very fitting; a nightmare picture which would dominate the drama played out in front of it. The aisles either side of this rood screen had been curtained off with heavy, silver-powdered damask cloths. The nave of the chapel had been set out with elegant leather-backed chairs; those in the front for Gaunt and his special guests had quilted arm rests. Along either side of the chapel ranged six pillars to represent the twelve apostles with narrow galleries or transepts between these and the outside walls. The gaps between each pillar were now tastefully screened by tapestries of eye-catching colours celebrating the legends of St John and the devotion of the royal family to Christ’s beloved disciple. The figures on the tapestry were all clothed in priestly vestments: rose-coloured chasubles, brilliant blue dalmatics and mauvy-pink amices. The basilisk had seen all this before yet the arrogance of the Plantagenet royal family remained truly breathtaking. The figures were all blond-haired and blue-eyed. St John had been painted likewise as if Gaunt was claiming that the great evangelist was a member of the Plantagenet family. These gorgeous tapestries hung half down; just beneath them stood supper tables, covered in shimmering white damask and groaning under pure gold and silver platters heaped high with deliciously savoury collations for the Regent’s guests. The air, already sweetened with the fragrance from a myriad of beeswax candles and smoking herb pots, was made even richer by the mouth-watering odours of gelatine pie, coras sauce, swan-neck pudding, minced chicken and loach fried in roses and almonds. The basilisk surveyed the scene for the last time watching the servants in their blue, scarlet and gold livery, the knight bannerets, the men-at-arms, the archers, all busy. None of them gave the basilisk a second glance, totally unaware of how this splendid chamber would soon become a place of slaughter. A royal chapel where the power of the Crown would be truly shaken.

Athelstan closed his eyes in sheer pleasure then opened them and stared around the glorious chapel of St John: the entire place blazed with glory. The eye-catching colours delighted the eye, be it the gold, silver, reds, blues and greens on the tapestries hanging between the pillars or the small walnut tables, legs polished to a shine, bearing cups, goblets, bowls and mazers of the most precious metals studded with dazzling stones. Gaunt and his guests looked similarly magnificent in their houppelands and gowns of many colours, powdered with silver and gold. Finger rings, bracelets, collars and pectorals dazzled in the shimmering light of countless tongues of candle flame. The air was beautifully fragranced, warm and sweet. Such a contrast, Athelstan reflected, to their freezing cold, sombre journey by barge along the north bank of the Thames, the mist curling around the shoreline gallows heavy with the crumbling corpses of river pirates. They had shot through the thunderous water passage under London Bridge then docked at the Tower quayside. They’d entered the mighty fortress and the sheer bleakness of this house of war dulled the spirit with its sinister, silent donjons and fogbound cobbled baileys. Now and again the murky river mist would shift to reveal the great engines of war: mangonels, catapults and battering rams. A place of evil repute was how Athelstan’s parishioners described the Tower, and the friar could only agree. A place of ominous silence broken only by the clatter of weapons, the clanging from its many smithies or the heart-chilling roars and growls from the royal menagerie which, according to Cranston, on a hot day made the fortress reek. Athelstan had glimpsed the long enclosure with the cages on either side where the leopards and lions prowled, gifts from rulers in Outremer. Cranston had even told him about a huge snow bear kept in a special chamber cage close to the moat in which the bear was allowed to swim. Athelstan had rejected the story as fanciful. Cranston had assured him that the animal was a recent gift from the King of Norway, almost three yards high and kept on a long chain which allowed him to swim in the nearby water. Athelstan had quietly promised himself to view such a magnificent spectacle.

The Tower was certainly grim. Athelstan turned on his chair, yet this chapel was an island of beautiful serenity in the fear-filled fortress. He and Cranston had been ushered in and served belly-warming, mouth-sweetening cups of hippocras and slices of spiced toast coated with almond sauce. Gaunt with the face of an angel, his extraordinary blue eyes crinkling in good humour, had welcomed all his guests. He had stood before the brilliant rood screen dressed in cloth of silver and lavished them with his charm. Light danced along the golden ‘SS’ collar of Lancaster around the Regent’s neck while the gorgeous finger rings made every elegant gesture of his hands shimmer in the glow. Gaunt wore cream-coloured, Spanish leather riding boots, and every time he moved the jewelled spurs on the heels jingled like the soft ringing of the sacring bell. He had personally welcomed Cranston and Athelstan, thanking for them for their work at the Roundhoop. The Regent then passed them on to Master Thibault who, dressed in a houppeland and shoulder cape of dark blue murrey brushed with silver, ushered them to their seats. The other guests included a few important clerics, Walbrook the mayor and other leading citizens. Lascelles, garbed as usual like a raven, looked after the Flemings, resplendent in their silver brocaded cloaks. Athelstan noticed how Lettenhove, their bodyguard, seemed ill at ease, plucking at his dagger hilt and staring suspiciously around the luxuriously furnished chapel.

All of this had been swept aside by the drama. Gaunt’s mummers, the Straw Men, appeared from around the rood screen to present themselves — seven in all. Master Samuel, their florid-faced, grey-bearded leader, explained how he and his troupe had no personal names but took those from ancient scripture. He was Samuel; the four young men of varying heights and descriptions were called after the heroes of Israel: Gideon, Barak, Samson and Eli. Two young women were also members of the troupe. Judith, called after Israel’s great heroine who resisted a tyrant, was small, dark and rather plump, her raven-black hair cropped close around an impish face. The woman’s dancing eyes and merry mouth reminded Athelstan of one of his parishioners, Cecily the courtesan. The second woman was young and slim; her pointed, snow-white face only emphasized her tumbling, gorgeous fiery-red hair; she was Rachael of Galilee, named after the woman who had mourned the innocents slaughtered by Herod the tyrant. Cranston chuckled quietly at this and, as he whispered to Athelstan, hoped that John of Gaunt would not be offended. The Straw Men bowed at the applause and then reappeared masked and gowned. They staged the Laon play about Herod’s confrontation with the Magi. Athelstan watched, fascinated. The drama swirled vigorously, the mummers changing masks and gowns as they played out the confrontation before Hell’s mouth. This piece of scenery intrigued Athelstan with its sheer ugly vigour and eye-catching carvings and colours, especially the huge, extended jaws through which Herod came and went. Athelstan quietly calculated how much was in the parish chest of St Erconwald’s and wondered if he could hire the Straw Men to stage a similar drama in his own church.

Once the play had finished with Herod disappearing forever into the gaping mouth of Hell to the flourish of a trumpet, Athelstan remained seated while Cranston, hungry and thirsty as ever, went hunting for refreshment. The friar asked a servant if he could speak to Master Samuel and sat waiting expectantly as the rest of Gaunt’s guests rose and moved about, selecting food and wine from the hovering servants. One of these asked Athelstan if he wished to have something to eat. The friar courteously refused and, when he turned back, Rachael of Galilee was kneeling on the chair in front of him, her red hair now tied back. She was staring at him and Athelstan smiled at the look of tenderness in her face, then she grinned, her green eyes bright with excitement.

‘Brother Athelstan?’

‘Yes?’

‘Master Samuel will see you now.’

Athelstan followed the young woman under the curtain which hung to the right of the rood screen and into the sanctuary, behind where the rest of the troupe were hastily storing all the paraphernalia from their play. Master Samuel greeted Athelstan warmly, ushering him to the sanctuary chair and, much to the friar’s embarrassment, the troupe gathered like disciples to sit at his feet. Master Samuel introduced them all again and, in a voice betraying a West Country burr, explained how the ‘Brotherhood’, as he described is colleagues, were foundlings or orphans whom he had taken in, educated and trained.

‘Why the names from scripture?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Why not?’ Judith teased back, her dark eyes full of mischief.

‘We are one missing,’ Gideon declared. ‘Boaz has disappeared.’

‘But that’s our rule,’ Samuel observed. ‘Each of us is free to come and to go as they wish. Now, Brother, what is it you want?’

Athelstan told them, describing his parish and church. The Straw Men listened, obviously touched by this little friar’s enthusiasm. Samuel replied how they would reflect, discuss and vote on it but, he added smilingly, they would be only too willing to help.

Athelstan was about to question them further when Rosselyn, garbed in a heavy military cloak, appeared, soft and silent as shadow shifting along the wall. He clapped his hands and declared that His Grace awaited them all. Master Samuel pulled a face, but they all followed the captain of archers back into the chapel nave. Athelstan delayed a while to examine the magnificent Hell’s mouth with its pulleys and levers. As soon as he had joined the rest, ushered in by Rosselyn, Athelstan took a platter of diced chicken and a goblet of wine. He watched as the Straw Men were formally thanked by Gaunt and congratulated by the guests, who raised their goblets and showered the Straw Men with coins. Once this was finished, the feasting continued. In the recess near the door a group of minstrels played sweet music, the heart-tugging strings of a harp echoing clearly. Athelstan, intrigued, walked down the chapel, nodding and smiling at the guests, though scant acknowledgement was given to the small friar, who was dismissed as Cranston’s clerk.

The coroner himself was holding forth to Walbrook and a group of leading aldermen about his plans to improve the city water supply through the Conduit in Cheapside. He caught Athelstan’s gaze and winked; the friar peered round, stared into the recess and smiled. He was correct in recognizing the same harpist who’d played in the Holy Lamb of God. Athelstan turned, searching for Master Samuel or Rachael, when a small explosion occurred and smoke poured out from one of the braziers. Gaunt’s guests turned in alarm as the same happened in another brazier on the other side of the chapel. The silence was broken by shouts and exclamations. Gaunt’s household hurried towards their master. Athelstan jumped at a scream. He glanced to his right. Lettenhove was swaying on his feet, staring in disbelief at the crossbow bolt embedded deep in his chest. Shouts and yells rang out. People hurried instinctively towards the door. Another sharp scream shrilled as Guido Oudernarde on the other side of the chapel staggered away, one arm up, his face contorted in pain as he turned, trying to free the crossbow bolt which had struck him high in his back. The old Fleming, gagging at the pain, collapsed to his knees. Gaunt, sword in hand, was shouting at his household knights who hurried across to form a protective ring around their master and his fallen guest. The rest of the company, however, now panicked, jostling and pushing to leave the chapel. Athelstan was knocked aside, forced to clutch one of the great drum-like pillars as the chapel swiftly emptied. He glimpsed Eli taking refuge beneath one of the food tables in the transepts. The rest of the troupe had apparently fled with the rest. Cranston’s audience had also melted away but the coroner stood his ground, dagger drawn, his back to one of the pillars. Athelstan waited for the crush of bodies near the narrow entrance to dissipate before hurrying to join him. Cranston clutched the friar’s arm, kicking aside chairs to where a Tower leech knelt before the fallen Lettenhove. The Fleming, however, was beyond all human help. Athelstan went to kneel as the dying man jerked in his final agony, blood seeping out of his mouth and nose, only to be pushed aside by Cornelius.

‘I am a priest,’ he murmured in Latin. ‘I will shrive him.’

Athelstan rose and glanced across the chapel. Gaunt’s henchmen now ringed their master with kite-shaped shields while Lascelles tried to restore order, ushering people towards the door. Athelstan started at a man’s high-pitched yell. Eli, hiding under a table, had pushed back the heavy covering cloth and was pointing at the rood screen. Athelstan followed the direction and stifled his own exclamation. Two severed heads lay either side of Hell’s mouth. He hastened across, knelt and turned both over; they were very similar to those master Burdon poled on London Bridge. Both heads had seemingly been severed some time ago, the dirty-grey skin and the jagged remains of the neck were as dry as leather. Their features were all shrunken and shrivelled, the hair on both very brittle, the eyes sunk deep in their sockets, almost hidden by the crumpled lids.

‘Sweet Lord of Heaven!’ Cranston breathed as he crouched beside Athelstan. ‘In God’s name, where have they come from?’ He broke off as Athelstan plucked a scrap of parchment from one of the dead mouths. He unfolded this and whispered what was scrawled there.

‘When Adam delved and Eve span

Who was then the gentleman?

Now the world is ours and ours alone

To cut the Lords to heart and bone.’

‘Brother!’ Thibault stood behind them, ‘Brother!’ The Master of Secrets’ usual smiling face was pale, taut with anger. ‘Brother, Sir John. I must ask you to go.’ He forced a wintry smile. ‘For the moment leave those heads where they are.’ He plucked the scrap of parchment from Athelstan’s hand. ‘Lascelles will see you to a comfortable chamber. You can. .’

‘Master Thibault!’ An archer stood in the doorway. ‘Master Thibault, the assassin has been found!’

‘What is this?’ Gaunt shouted, breaking free of the encircling knights.

‘My Lord.’ Thibault stretched out his hand and pointed to the grisly human remains on the exquisitely tiled floor. ‘My Lord, I beg you stay here.’

Thibault turned back, snapping his fingers at Cranston. ‘Sir John, I think you’d best come. You too, Brother Athelstan.’

All three left the chapel; outside the freezing darkness was falling. Archers carrying cresset torches moved about, shepherding those guests who’d fled the chapel to the great hall in the nearby royal lodgings. Officers of the Tower could only stand by and watch helplessly.

‘Master Thibault,’ Cranston whispered, ‘will not be interfered with. Royal palace or not, the King’s fortress of the Tower is now firmly under his control. Mark my words, dear friar, this will certainly end in bloodshed.’ Athelstan did not reply but pulled his cowl more firmly against the cutting cold as they followed the archer around the keep. The friar glanced up at the light flaring from the Chapel of St John above them. In the distance he could see a pool of flame where men clustered near the north-east corner of the Tower. Athelstan glimpsed a lantern box burning from a window, its shutters flung wide open, and reckoned this must be a window to the crypt. As they reached the circle of flame, the archer stepped back to allow them closer to where Rosselyn knelt by a crumpled corpse, its face ghoulish white, eyes popping. Blood from the head, which lay strangely twisted, had oozed out to create a sticky puddle. A young man dressed in jerkin, hose and hooded cloak, Athelstan peered closer and recognized Barak, one of the Straw Men. He glanced up the side of the Tower where the end of an oiled hempen rope swung in the evening breeze. A short distance away from the corpse laid a small hand arbalest or crossbow. Athelstan gently moved the twisted cloak, found the man’s belt and touched the stout leather case containing two barbed bolts.

‘You said he was the assassin?’ Athelstan asked over his shoulder at the archer who had led them here.

‘It must be,’ Rosselyn replied as he turned the corpse over on to its back. Athelstan flinched at the way the head flopped and the horrid wound which disfigured the entire right side of Barak’s face. Rosselyn, swift and nimble as any foist, searched the corpse. He emptied the belt purse — a few coins, a medal and two scraps of parchment. Athelstan sensed what was written and quoted the lines he had just read in the chapel. Rosselyn simply stared dead-eyed at him and handed the scripts to Thibault who plucked at the friar’s sleeve as a sign to withdraw. Athelstan chose to ignore him and recited the rite of absolution.

‘If you are finished, Brother,’ Thibault crouched beside him. ‘The night is so cold, and my master awaits.’

‘For whom?’ Athelstan held the sinister clerk’s hard stare.

‘Oh, for you, my dear friar and you, Sir John.’ Thibault moved his head from side to side as if assessing some complex problem. ‘Oh, yes, Brother Athelstan, my master and I certainly need words with you but until then. .’

A short while later Athelstan and Cranston were ushered into the Tower guest house which stood close to the church of St Peter ad Vincula. This two-storey building, fronted with snow-white plaster and brown beams, boasted a great hall, kitchen and buttery on the ground floor, its upper storey being reserved for guest chambers. The hall was pleasant enough, the paved floor covered with tough rope matting. A great, hooded hearth housed a merry, spluttering fire, while braziers stacked with blazing coals and strewn with herbs provided more warmth and fragrance. They walked into a barn-like room with black rafters, the lime-washed walls covered with heavy painted canvasses which described the legends of the Tower, how it was founded by Trojan exiles and strengthened by the great Caesar. The long communal tables down either side gave the impression of a monastic refectory, a likeness heightened by the great black cross nailed to the far wall and the tall pulpitum opposite the hearth. The Straw Men were there, clustering in a frightened huddle on stools around the fire. They had been provided with stoups of ale and platters of food which now stood on one of the tables, and hardly stirred as Cranston and Athelstan entered, though Master Samuel recalled his manners and hurriedly fetched two stools from a recess near the buttery door. Athelstan sketched a blessing and glanced back over his shoulder. Thibault had disappeared as soon as they had entered the hall but he had left a cluster of archers close to the entrance. One of these became busy, walking around the refectory, ensuring the window shutters were firmly clasped before taking up guard near the buttery door.

‘I suspect we are the Regent’s guests,’ Cranston whispered, ‘whether we like it or not.’ They sat down on the stools placed before the fire. Cranston gazed around at the assembled company and, fumbling beneath his cloak, brought out the miraculous wine skin. He offered it around and, when no one accepted, took a generous swig and placed it between his feet.

‘We have heard the news.’ Samuel’s face and voice were bitter, no longer the bonhomie or gracious courtesy of a few hours earlier. ‘They say Barak is the assassin, that he was killed while escaping.’

Athelstan held his gaze, staring at that ruddy face, the neatly clipped moustache and beard. A resolute, determined man, Athelstan thought, well educated and skilled. A former soldier, perhaps a mailed clerk?

‘Is that true, Brother?’ Rachael, even more pale-faced, her fiery red hair now hidden beneath the hood of her gown, stretched out her hands to the fire.

‘Those heads,’ Eli whispered, repressing a shiver, ‘where did those grotesques come from? Brother Athelstan, they were severed heads.’ He pulled a face. ‘Real heads, no mummers’ trickery, no subtle device.’

‘God have mercy on them, whoever they were,’ Athelstan replied slowly. ‘They were the heads of two unfortunates. I suspect they were severed some time ago, washed, soaked in heavy brine and left to dry.’ He shrugged at their cries and exclamations. ‘Possibly the work of the Upright Men.’ Athelstan blew his lips out. ‘They must be; they were left as a warning, weren’t they, for our noble Regent?’

‘When I first saw them,’ Eli declared, ‘I really did think they were part of our wardrobe — masks we’d left unpacked.’ He laughed, shaking his head. ‘Foolish lad I am! Brother, Rachael stitches and embroiders our costumes, paints and cuts most of our scenery, yet I’d never seen them before. They were not Rachael’s work. I stared again and realized they were real.’

‘How long before you noticed them there?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Oh, only a few heart beats before I yelled.’

‘And nobody saw them being placed there?’ Cranston asked.

‘We saw nothing,’ Rachael replied. ‘I was eating some food, there were those explosions from the braziers, then Lettenhove was struck and almost immediately Oudernarde on the other side of the chapel. We fled.’

‘It’s true, it’s true,’ Samuel murmured. The rest of the company quietly agreed.

‘Brother Athelstan,’ Gideon, his blond hair so heavily oiled it seemed pressed down and held by a net, half rose; Samuel gripped him by the shoulder and forced him back on to the stool. ‘You claim this is the work of the Upright Men?’

‘You know who they are?’ Athelstan demanded.

‘Of course,’ Samson and Eli answered as one. ‘Who hasn’t heard of them?’

‘Are you saying,’ Samson accused, ‘that we are their retainers, members of their coven? Is that why we have been brought here, to be questioned?’

‘Hush now,’ Samuel intervened, ‘Brother Athelstan, I’m sorry, but this is. .?’ He gestured at Cranston.

‘Sir John Cranston,’ Athelstan finished the sentence. ‘My friend, also Lord Coroner of London, the King’s law officer.’ Athelstan stared around. ‘Sir John is no retainer or lackey of this lord or that lord but the keeper of the King’s peace. Nevertheless, he, like me, like you, has little knowledge about what is truly happening here.’ Athelstan paused as a snow-white cat slipped through the buttery door and padded softly down the hall. Athelstan wondered how his constant companion, the one-eyed Bonaventure was faring.

‘Brother Athelstan is correct,’ Cranston, basking in the heat from the fire, stirred and stared round the semicircle of anxious faces. ‘Yes,’ he breathed, still jovial and benevolent after the claret he’d supped. ‘We truly are in the kingdom of mayhem and mystery.’ He smiled at his description taken from Athelstan. ‘Though some things are becoming clearer.’ He pointed at the fire. ‘Those explosions before the two men were struck were caused by cannon powder, I suspect — small leather pouches wedged between the charcoal.’

Athelstan nodded in agreement.

‘Now,’ Cranston smacked his lips and straightened up, ‘I am the Lord Coroner. Murder has been committed.’

‘Is this an inquisicio?’ Samuel protested.

‘Yes and no,’ Cranston retorted. ‘Let us at least determine where we were. Brother Athelstan and I stayed in the chapel. What happened to you?’

‘When the second man was struck,’ Judith replied, screwing up her eyes as she peered at the coroner, ‘we all fled. We were frightened.’ Her voice broke. Samson went to stroke her arm and she shrugged him off, a look of distaste on her face. Rachael leaned over, murmuring comfortingly.

‘We ran down the steps with the rest,’ Judith continued in a rush, ‘out into the snow.’

‘Do you all know where you were?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Brother,’ Rachael replied, ‘we were terrified. We all fled. I cannot remember who was where.’

Athelstan nodded in agreement. He realized it would be futile to ask anybody where they had been. All was confused. Everyone would describe not so much what happened but how they perceived it. The assassin would certainly not betray himself. Moreover, there were others, such as the leading citizens, whom he could never question. ‘Asking people where they were, when and what they were doing is not helpful,’ Athelstan conceded. He stared down at the floor, tapping his sandal-clad feet. ‘We do not even know when the severed heads were placed. Before or after the explosions? During the attacks, before or after?’ He shook his head.

‘Did anyone see Barak leave?’

‘Brother,’ Judith retorted, ‘we’ve told you. We fled. God knows who went where.’

A sharp discussion broke out about what happened after the two attacks. The more he listened, the more convinced Athelstan became that establishing the whereabouts of anyone was a fairly fruitless path to follow. The Straw Men grew increasingly vociferous about who was where and when.

‘Except you!’ Athelstan pointed at Eli. ‘You stayed. You hid beneath one of the tables?’

‘I was terrified,’ the mummer replied. ‘True, I hid beneath a table, behind its drape. I then decided to move out. I lifted the cloth and saw the heads.’

‘And nobody else?’

‘No, Brother.’

Athelstan, just for a moment, caught a fleeting look, a glance as if Eli was hiding something, then the rest joined in, talking vigorously about their perception of events.

‘My friends,’ Athelstan intervened, ‘we, like you, are detained here. God knows how long we will have to dance attendance upon our masters.’ Athelstan held his hands up. ‘Remember that the questions we ask, others undoubtedly will, eventually.’ He paused. ‘Barak? Was he a supporter of the Upright Men? Did he plot rebellion? Come now,’ he urged, ‘you travel the length and breadth of both the Kingdom and this city. You see and hear things. You are patronized by no less a person than Lord John of Gaunt. .’

‘Barak.’ Rachael cast off Eli’s restraining hand. ‘Barak,’ she repeated, ‘lived only for the play, the mummery, the masks. He had no time or inclination to meddle in such matters. He was absorbed in his lines. He lived for the performance.’

‘And the poor,’ Eli added. ‘Come, sister, we know that. He often declaimed against the popinjays, the city fops, the court gallants in their gold-encrusted paltocks, their multicoloured hose, Cracow shoes and ridiculously long liripipes, men in woman’s clothing.’ Eli scoffed. ‘Nor did the lords of the manor escape his judgement.’

‘And His Grace the Regent?’

‘A dog does not bite the hand that feeds it,’ Samuel swiftly retorted. ‘Barak neither said yea or nay against him.’

‘Yet according to the evidence,’ Athelstan insisted, ‘Barak was an assassin hand-in-glove with the Upright Men.’ Athelstan then described the scraps of parchment found in the mouth of one of the severed heads as well as in Barak’s wallet purse. They heard him out in silence, clearly disbelieving what they were hearing.

‘Those heads?’ Judith asked, ‘why did they contain such a message?’

‘Mistress,’ Athelstan sighed, ‘I cannot really say. I suspect they were severed some time ago then carefully preserved. One, I suspect, was that of a youngish man and the other belonged to an older woman but,’ Athelstan shrugged, ‘I cannot be precise. Now, Barak, was he skilled in the use of the crossbow?’

‘Very skilled,’ Samuel agreed. ‘We are all for battle as any man-at-arms — that includes Rachael and Judith. We have no choice. We must protect ourselves. We travel lonely roads and we carry money and provisions, clothing and jewellery. Wolfheads, outlaws, the so-called men of the Greenwood, approach us. Every one of us here, whatever else we do, is skilled in the war bow, the arbalest, the pike, the sword and dagger. Usually we are unmolested but these are desperate times and they produce desperate men.

‘And your company has an armoury?’ Cranston asked sleepily.

‘Of course — swords, daggers, bucklers and maces.’

‘And small hand-held arbalests?’

‘Yes, Sir John.’

‘And today?’ Athelstan asked. ‘Did Barak act any differently?’

‘No,’ Samuel replied. ‘As Rachael said, Barak lived and breathed for the masque and the miracle play. He was no different today. I’ve asked the rest. He fled from the Chapel of St John. Nobody saw him do anything untoward. Why should he? He was happy, contented.’ Master Samuel drew his brows together. ‘He didn’t act as if. .’

‘He was planning murder?’

‘No, no, he didn’t. He was excited about us staging a great play at the Cross in Cheapside. He urged me to indenture a new mummer. I mean, ever since Boaz left-’

‘Boaz?’ Athelstan asked. ‘You have mentioned him before.’

‘A member of our company,’ Eli spoke up, ‘very skilled in learning lines and painting. He helped us decorate the dragon’s head — Hell’s mouth.’

‘A magnificent sight,’ Athelstan agreed. ‘Truly magnificent.’

‘Boaz left us just after we visited Castle Acre in Norfolk around the Feast of All Hallows,’ Rachael declared. ‘God knows why. We woke one morning and he was gone but,’ she blew her cheeks out, ‘we have our rules — liberty is one of them. We are not bonded to the company.’

‘What are you then?’ Cranston asked. ‘Come.’ He offered the miraculous wine skin; this time it was gratefully accepted.

‘The hour is late but we must wait,’ Sir John insisted, ‘so why not chat. Just who are you?’

Master Samuel, after taking a generous gulp of the fine claret, described how the Straw Men were his company. An Oxford clerk ordained to minor orders, he had studied the Quadrivium and Trivium, then stumbled on to the plays of Plautus and Terence. He began earning a few coins reciting their lines at the Carfax in Oxford or on the steps of St Mary the Virgin Church. The authorities were not impressed. Time and again the proctors of the university as well as the mayor’s bailiffs had warned him off. On at least three occasions they even forced him to stand in the stocks and recite his lines for free. Eventually Samuel — he claimed to have forgotten his real name — had fled to serve in the commission of array in France, where he had entered Gaunt’s household as a troubadour. On his journeys Samuel became acquainted with the Laon and Montpellier mystery plays. Gaunt had presented him with a fine copy of The Castle of Perseverance, the Lincoln miracle play, peopled by characters such as Bad Angel, Plain Folly and Backbiter. Samuel had immediately fallen in love with both the themes and the verse and so, using the money he had acquired, founded the Straw Men.

‘Why that title?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Because, Brother,’ Samuel laughed sharply, ‘we bend and change with every breeze. You want us to be Herod or perhaps Pilate, or may be Saint John or,’ he pulled an arrogant face, ‘Pride.’ He relaxed. ‘Or Sloth.’ Athelstan laughed at Samuel’s swift change of expression, listening carefully as the others gave their story. Judith, who had been a bear-tamer’s daughter, worked as their travelling apothecary and cook. Rachael, who had been in the care of the good nuns at Godstow, was costume mistress. Samson, a former soldier, burly-faced, thickset and lugubrious, could act the jester or Master Tom-Fool. Eli, an orphan, was as slim as a beanpole, with an impudent, freckled face and who, Samuel assured them, could mimic anyone or anything. Eli promptly did, springing to his feet to perform the mincing walk of a courtier before changing swiftly to that of a pompous cleric. Gideon, with his blond hair and pretty, girlish face, openly admitted to mimicking women and, despite the gloom, made Cranston and Athelstan laugh as he imitated a court maiden playing cat’s cradle to Samson’s burly knight.

‘Do you really think,’ Rachael’s voice stilled the merriment, ‘that Barak was an assassin?’ Athelstan held those anxious green eyes. He recalled Barak’s corpse, the arbalest lying nearby.

‘Was Barak left- or right-handed?’ he asked.

‘Right-handed, like myself,’ Rachael replied. ‘Why?’

‘I don’t know,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘Mistress, I truly don’t.’

‘Pax et Bonum!’ They all whirled round. Thibault stood at the doorway, his thick coat glistening with freshly fallen snow. Behind him was an old woman grasping the hand of a small girl. Rosselyn, Lascelles and a group of archers also came through the doorway, armed as if for battle. Thibault, quiet as a cat, crossed the hall. Cranston lumbered to his feet; the rest followed. Thibault stopped in front of them and gave a small bow. Athelstan couldn’t decide whether he was being courteous, mocking or both. Thibault brought his hands from beneath his cloak and allowed the velvety skinned ferret, its lithe body rippling with muscle, to scramble up the folds of his gown before catching it, nursing it in the crook of his arm as he gently stroked it with one satin-gloved finger.

‘Father!’ the little girl broke free of her stern-faced, grey-gowned nurse and began to leap up and down, trying to take the ferret. ‘Father, please let me have Galahad.’ Thibault knelt and carefully handed the ferret over before grasping his daughter by her arms, pulling her close and kissing her tenderly on cheek and brow. Athelstan watched this viper in human flesh, as Cranston had once described him, stroke his daughter’s hair, a look of pure adoration on his smiling face.

‘It’s yours, Isabella,’ he lisped, ‘but promise me — prayers then bed, yes?’ Thibault turned back, his hooded eyes watchful, as if noticing them for the first time. ‘Master Samuel,’ he beckoned. ‘Rosselyn will provide you and your companions with comfortable chambers.’ He smiled. ‘Each of you will have a room in one of the towers where,’ he waved a hand, ‘you will be more safe and secure than here.’ He clapped his hands. ‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan, His Grace awaits us.’

Gaunt was sitting in the great sanctuary chair, which had been brought around the rood screen to stand before Hell’s mouth. At any other time Athelstan would have been amused at how close this subtle, cunning prince was to Hell. Gaunt’s face was devoid of all graciousness and humour. He sat enthroned, wrapped in a thick, dark blue gown of pure wool which emphasized his beautiful but sharp face, his eyes no longer amused but glass-like. He glared at Athelstan before fixing on Cranston as they were both ushered to stools before him. Gaunt gestured at them to sit then picked up the long-stemmed, jewel-encrusted goblet and sipped carefully. Master Thibault stood close to his right while on a quilted bench to the Regent’s left sat the younger Oudernarde and his secretary, the bland-faced Cornelius.

‘Your Grace,’ Thibault’s voice was scarcely above a whisper, ‘I have said goodnight to Isabella. She sends you her love. Captain Rosselyn will see to the Straw Men; they will be given chambers and forbidden to leave the Tower on pain of death.’

‘Not together,’ Gaunt declared brusquely. ‘They must be kept apart.’

‘Of course, Your Grace. They have been provided with separate quarters throughout the Tower. Barak’s possessions have been searched; nothing untoward was discovered.’ Athelstan was sure Gaunt whispered, ‘Traitor!’ For a while the Regent just sat on his chair, cradling his wine. He rocked slightly backwards and forwards while staring at a point above their heads, his face muscles rippled. Now and again he blinked furiously, as he fought what Cranston knew to be a savage temper. The silence in the chapel grew oppressive. Athelstan pushed his hands up the sleeves of his gown and stared calmly at this brother of the Black Prince, uncle and protector of the young King Richard, Duke of Lancaster, possible heir to the throne of Castile, patron of the arts and of religion, even if it meant favouring heretics like Wycliffe, builder of this palace and that, and fervent enemy of both the Commons and London. Gaunt was truly a formidable opponent. The Regent broke from his reverie, lifting a satin-gloved hand.

Thibault stepped forward, clearing his throat. ‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan — you saw how much I love my daughter, Isabella?’

Neither replied.

‘Before I took minor orders,’ Thibault explained, ‘her mother died in childbirth. Do you love the Lady Maude, Sir John, your twin sons?’

‘Of course.’

‘And Brother Athelstan, whom do you love? You, a priest who is supposed to love everybody — do you love anybody?’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘The good widow Benedicta, perhaps?’

‘Aye,’ Athelstan replied calmly, ‘as I love you, Brother Thibault. Isn’t that what Christ commanded?’

Gaunt smiled bleakly.

‘Very good, very good.’ Thibault took a step forward. ‘And His Grace dearly loves Meister Oudernarde who, thanks be to God, is recovering, although he still lies gravely wounded. He will be moved to the hospital at Saint Bartholomew’s for more special care. Lettenhove, however, is dead, sheeted cold in his coffin. The Regent’s guests, Brother Athelstan, Sir John, were grievously attacked in this hallowed place. Those guests were sacred. His Grace the Regent was cruelly mocked; he grieves for what has happened.’

‘For all of this,’ Athelstan turned to the strong-faced Fleming, ‘both Sir John and I are truly sorry.’ Oudernarde bowed his head slightly in thanks.

‘We want you,’ Thibault continued, ‘Brother Athelstan and you, Sir John, to examine most closely what truly happened here today.’

‘The assassin lies dead, does he not?’

‘To examine most closely, Brother Athelstan, what happened here today,’ Thibault repeated. ‘Captain Rosselyn will provide you with comfortable quarters.’

‘I have other duties,’ Athelstan replied.

‘Voluntas principis,’ Thibault leaned down, ‘habet vigorem legis’, or so Justinian says. ‘The will of the prince has force of law.’

‘Et quod omnes tangit,’ Athelstan quoted back, ‘ab omnibus approbetur.’ You have read your Bracton, Master Thibault? What affects all should be approved by all.’

The Master of Secrets was about to reply when a savage roaring and growling echoed through the chapel.

‘The keepers are feeding the King’s lions,’ Thibault whispered. ‘You must visit them, Brother, during your stay here.’

‘My parishioners?’ Athelstan ignored Cranston’s quick intake of breath.

‘Oh, yes,’ Thibault smiled, ‘your parishioners! You heard about the murder of my hangmen, Laughing Jack and his two minions. Perhaps, Brother, their assassins might be hiding among your parishioners — His Grace’s enemies, the Upright Men, who can be hanged out of hand.’ Thibault pursed his lips. ‘Yes, that would be justice. We could hire that strange anchorite you shelter, the Hangman of Rochester. We could set up a gallows outside your church. I could have your parishioners’ filthy, mean hovels searched and ransacked. And who shall we begin with? Watkin? Yes, I’m sure it’s Watkin, the shit collector? And his great friend, the grubby-faced ditcher? We could search their shabby houses. Rosselyn could bring them here for questioning in certain chambers beneath this tower.’

Athelstan repressed a shiver. Now he was certain. There was a spy among his parishioners. This Master of Secrets knew too much.

‘Of course,’ Thibault smiled, ‘your parishioners will miss you. But, if you stay and do my master’s bidding, there will be no need for the search or the gallows.’ He wagged a finger like some master in the schools. ‘I can send them comfort; perhaps pig, nicely roasted and basted with all sorts of mouth-watering sauces. Some capon and chicken, soft and white; freshly baked bread and a large barrel of the finest ale. Indeed, I shall send it tomorrow, early in the morning.’ Thibault turned, slightly gesturing at his master. ‘A gift from His Grace.’

‘I will do what I can,’ Athelstan replied slowly.

‘Good. Very good.’ Thibault clapped his hands like an excited child.

‘The heads,’ Athelstan demanded swiftly. ‘Where are those heads, severed at the neck and soaked in brine for at least a month? Did you recognize them, Thibault?’

The Master of Secrets simply pulled a face and shrugged.

‘Did any of you recognize them?’ Athelstan gazed around. No one answered. ‘In which case,’ Athelstan persisted, ‘may I see those heads, to inspect them?’ Athelstan bit his tongue; he was tempted to ask about the mysterious prisoner but that might betray Sir John.

‘Why?’ Thibault asked. ‘Those heads are not part of. .’

‘You asked us to investigate.’ Cranston stirred himself. The coroner was becoming fidgety, his usual bonhomie fast draining away.

‘I would like to inspect those heads when we want,’ Athelstan insisted. The friar rose to his feet. ‘And it’s best if we begin now. Master Thibault,’ Athelstan bowed towards Gaunt, ‘Your Grace, is there anything,’ Athelstan fought to keep the sarcasm out of his voice, ‘that we should know? Master Oudernarde?’ Athelstan turned towards the Fleming, ‘I noticed poor Lettenhove seemed very agitated before the assault.’

‘So he was,’ Cornelius replied quickly. ‘Brother Athelstan, you must have heard about the heinous attack on us as we journeyed to the Tower? We remained anxious, as did poor Lettenhove.’

‘I understand that nothing has been disturbed and taken away from this chapel?’

‘Nothing,’ Thibault replied.

‘In which case,’ Athelstan bowed, ‘I would like to begin. Your Grace, I need to examine this chapel.’ Athelstan returned to his stool.

‘You are quiet, Sir John,’ he leaned over and whispered.

‘Limoges, I shall explain,’ Cranston murmured.

Gaunt rose to his feet. He nodded at Cranston and Athelstan then gestured at Thibault and the Flemings to follow him as he swept out of the chapel. Lascelles covered their retreat; the archers followed until only Rosselyn remained close to the doorway. Cranston glanced at Athelstan sitting so composedly on his stool; the friar just grinned and made a swift, soothing movement with his hand, a sign to wait. They both sat listening to Gaunt and his party clattering down the spiral staircase; only then did Athelstan move his stool closer to Cranston.

‘Limoges, Sir John?’

‘I shall tell you later,’ the coroner hissed. ‘But remember this, my little friar, Sir John is not frightened. He is tired, weary after drinking claret but not frightened.’ The coroner tapped his boots against the floor. ‘Oh, no, I am not frightened, but I am as wary as I would be if there was a rabid wolf in the room.’ He rose to his feet. ‘Let us begin.’

Athelstan did likewise. He slowly looked around that gorgeously decorated chapel. ‘Primo,’ he pointed to the braziers, now full of grey scented ash. ‘There were the explosions. As you said, Sir John, easy to fashion. Cannon powder or saltpetre in thick leather pouches, thrust into the hot coals — eventually they would break in the heat. The consequent explosion caused consternation; people would be looking at the braziers, nowhere else. Secundo.’ Athelstan stifled a yawn, ignoring the wave of weariness. God knows he’d loved to be stretched out on his cot bed with Bonaventure sprawled at his feet. ‘Secondo,’ he repeated, moving a stool, ‘Lettenhove’s marked and struck a mortal wound; he falls to the ground. Tertio, Master Oudernarde is attacked next, but only wounded. I suspect the barb was loosed a little off the mark.’

‘And the severed heads?’ Cranston asked.

‘Good, Sir John. Quatro. Before our assassin flees, he somehow leaves those two severed heads by the rood screen and that, Sir John, is where the mystery begins. Look at this chapel. Remember this afternoon, how busy it was, thronged with Gaunt and his guests, servants, musicians, men-at-arms and archers. So I ask you. How could our assassin prime a small crossbow, take aim, loose and repeat the same action, then open a sack,’ Athelstan walked across and tapped the rood screen, ‘and place a severed head here.’ He walked past Hell’s mouth to the other side, ‘And another one here, yet not be noticed?’

‘Did he use Hell’s mouth?’ Cranston pointed to the great dragon’s head tightly wedged in the doorway of the rood screen. ‘Look at those gaping jaws, Athelstan. Our assassin could have crawled in with his crossbow. .’ Athelstan and Cranston pulled back the curtain at one end of the rood screen and walked into the sanctuary. Athelstan stared around, peering through the poor light.

‘Dark,’ he observed. ‘See, Sir John,’ he pointed to the heavy curtains hanging either end of the rood screen, ‘these block out the light from the window of the transepts. There’s the sanctuary lamp, but,’ Athelstan sniffed at the candles on their five-branched spigot, ‘once these are extinguished, murder could easily wrap its dark cloak around this holy place. Now Hell’s mouth.’ Athelstan swiftly scrutinized the back of the dragon’s head, at least two-and-a-half yards high. He marvelled at the artifice for it was simply fastened to a high-legged table; each leg had a wooden castor while a black canvas cloth clasped to the back of the dragon’s head covered the table entirely. In the gloomy light this did look like the rippling skin of a dragon. ‘Very clever, Sir John. The dragon’s head is simply a large mask with those splendid jaws fixed and wedged into the door of the rood screen. The rest of its body is quite simply a table and a canvas cloth. Now,’ Athelstan pushed the canvas back and, going on his hands and knees, crawled beneath the table, the top of which was well above the gaping jaws. Athelstan peered through this; it provided a good view of the chapel nave as well as the stool marking the spot where Lettenhove had fallen. The elder Oudernarde, however, would have been much more difficult, if not impossible, to mark down. The assassin would have to move sharply to the right but, even then, his target would be blocked. Oudernarde had been standing that little bit closer to Hell’s mouth. Moreover, there was the question of the two severed heads. Athelstan had wildly considered that both had been dropped through Hell’s mouth, but surely that would have been noticed? They would have rolled, yet he’d seen them placed like ornaments either side of the dragon’s head. Of course, Hell’s mouth might have been moved? Was that possible? Athelstan scrambled out from beneath the table.

‘Well, little friar,’ Cranston grinned down at him, ‘and what have you discovered?’

Athelstan dusted down his robe, got up and told him what he had concluded, before moving back into the chapel to examine the front of Hell’s mouth. He pushed hard but the scenery was wedged between the edges of the screen and held tight by clasps. Cranston did the same from the other side. Hell’s mouth was like a stopper in a wine skin. Athelstan reasoned it could be shoved loose but this would damage the clasps, the thick leather strips on either side, and there was no sign that this had happened.

‘The Straw Men must have made sure Hell’s mouth was secure,’ Athelstan sighed. ‘And yet, if it could be moved, the assassin might be able to place the heads, then push or pull it back in again. Of course,’ he rubbed his face, ‘that would have been seen or even heard; the clasps would have been broken, very obvious to detect. So, Sir John, the severed heads must have been put down in another way. Then there’s the vexed question of the assassin having a clear view of Oudernarde. The assassin would only gain this by moving Hell’s mouth, yet there’s not a shred of evidence to suggest that happened.’ Athelstan stood, arms crossed, staring down at the floor.

‘I’m back in the schools, Sir John.’ Athelstan scratched at a piece of wax on his wrist. ‘You can only get a logical conclusion, a truthful conclusion from a logical, truthful beginning, yet that escapes me. Look, Sir John.’ He nodded towards the now-empty doorway, ‘Of your kindness, please ask Lascelles and Rosselyn to join us. Plead with them to bring two hand-held arbalests like the ones our assassin certainly used, as well as a quiver of bolts on a war belt.’ He paused. ‘Oh, yes, and a small inflated pig’s bladder, the type children use as a ball.’ Cranston looked surprised but shrugged and strode away, shouting for the archer on guard.

Athelstan stayed for a while.

‘One assassin here,’ he murmured, ‘or could it have been two? And Barak? Murder, suicide or a simple accident?’

Athelstan left the chapel and went down the spiral staircase into the cavernous murky crypt. For a while he stumbled about with a cresset torch he’d taken from the stairwell. Eventually he lit every sconce, candle and lantern box in that dark, gloomy chamber. Athelstan walked up and down. ‘This is a strange place,’ he murmured. ‘Most crypts are beneath ground level but this is the first floor of the White Tower.’ He held the torch up. The crypt reminded him of a tithing barn: its paved stone floor was scrubbed clean with no matting, while the whitewashed walls lacked any ornamentation — even a cross. Apparently used for storing furniture, the crypt was bleak and soulless. He noticed how all the windows were shuttered and barred before moving down to where the shutters on the furthest window had been thrown back. According to all the evidence, Barak had tried to escape through this but had, due to some mishap, fallen to his death. Athelstan stood listening to the different sounds from both the stairwell and elsewhere in the Tower. Again, he heard the roaring from the menagerie and promised himself a visit to examine both the lions as well as to see for himself that great snow bear swimming in the moat. ‘But that will have to wait,’ he whispered. ‘Barak’s ghost is more important.’

Athelstan crouched down to examine the thick, oiled hempen rope with its tarred, twisted strands, which Barak had used in his abortive escape. The rope was secured tightly to a great iron ring driven into the wall. The rope had been pulled back after Barak’s fatal use and simply tossed on to the floor. Athelstan picked it up, scrutinizing the heavy knots placed every twelve inches. He could detect nothing out of the ordinary. Such ropes were common in both the Tower and other castles in case of fire or if the stairway to St John’s Chapel somehow became blocked. He sifted the rope through his hands and tugged hard, but the rope was sound in itself and firmly secured. He opened the shutters and flinched at the strong gust of icy wind; nevertheless, he persisted. He took the rope and threaded it out; it was long enough to allow someone to safely descend then jump to the ground below, the well-placed heavy knots providing some sort of hold for foot and hand. Athelstan leaned over the sill and peered down.

‘What did happen to you, Barak?’ he whispered to the darkness. ‘Did you slip from the rope? Were you nervous? Why take the arbalest with you? Were you on the rope when someone pushed you?’ Athelstan recalled the horrid wound to the right side of the dead man’s face, the broken neck, the way the body had crumpled. ‘I don’t think you slipped.’ Athelstan again peered over the window ledge: it was a dizzying drop to the cobbles beneath. ‘Do you know what I think, Barak, God rest your soul? You didn’t fall from the rope, you fell from here. Or, even more logical — and this would explain your savage wounds — you were thrown from here.’

Athelstan pulled the rope back and clasped the heavy shutters close. He leaned his hands on them and tried to make sense of his own thoughts. Such an escape could be depicted as probable. Barak the assassin could have easily checked both rope and shutters earlier in the day. According to the evidence, Barak carried out those attacks, left the severed heads and, when everybody else was fleeing the chapel, he joined them. That would be feasible. The rest would only be too eager to escape the White Tower but Barak slipped into the crypt. He certainly reached this window. Such an escape, Athelstan reasoned, from the fastness of this Tower would not be the first. Years ago Athelstan, while studying at Blackfriars, had used the top of the White Tower with its four unique turrets as an observatory to study the stars. Athelstan smiled at the memories. He’d also learnt a great deal about the Tower’s history. How a number of prisoners, including a Welsh prince, Ranulf Flambard, Bishop of Durham, and Roger Mortimer of Wigmore had all escaped by rope from this great Norman keep. Indeed, hadn’t one of them, the Welsh prince, fallen to his death? And yet. . Athelstan felt a deepening disquiet about the accepted story of Barak’s death. The evidence didn’t appear correct; there was a lack of logic to it. ‘Not only the details,’ Athelstan murmured to the darkness, ‘but the motivation. According to his comrades, there was no change in Barak in the hours or days before he committed these dreadful crimes.’ Athelstan rubbed his face. Would, he wondered, the Upright Men have entrusted those severed heads to Barak? Yet there was no evidence, apart from what was found on his corpse, of any link between him and the Upright Men. According to Thibault nothing incriminating was found among Barak’s personal belongings. Athelstan stood with his back to now-closed shutters. He peered through the gloom then walked across to the recess built into the far wall. The paving stones here were the same light colour as those of the chapel while, despite the dust and cobwebs, the walls had been recently whitewashed, probably as late as the previous spring. Athelstan took another cresset from its holder and went into the recess. He crouched down. Using the pools of light from both torches, he scrupulously examined both floor and wall inch by inch.

‘May the Lord be thanked,’ Athelstan prayed, ‘I have found it.’ He stretched out and touched the wall, certain those dark stains were small splashes of fresh blood on the plaster of the enclave. Athelstan put one of the torches down and sat with his back to the wall, rubbing the plaster with the back of his head. He turned so he was on his hands and knees. Barak, if he remembered correctly, was slightly taller than him. Athelstan scrutinized the wall and murmured a prayer of thanks. The small bloodstains were just above where the friar had rested the back of his head.

‘Athelstan, Athelstan! Brother Athelstan!’ The friar returned to the chapel, where Cranston, Lascelles and Rosselyn were waiting. The two soldiers were deeply intrigued by what Athelstan asked for but quickly agreed to help. First Rosselyn and then Lascelles acted as a would-be assassin.

‘I want you to go beneath the table, behind Hell’s mouth and,’ Athelstan pointed to the two stools each marking the place where Lettenhove and Oudernarde had fallen, ‘pretend to loose a bolt at the Fleming’s henchman and then at Master Oudernarde. However, you are to do it twice. The first time you must pretend to have one arbalest, the next that you have two and the second is already primed. Now,’ Athelstan insisted, ‘you must use the gaping jaws of Hell’s mouth as your vantage point. I suspect that, like me, you will find Lettenhove an easy target to mark; Oudernarde not so. Once you are ready, shout out. Sir John here will start counting.’ After some confusion and a few false starts, Lascelles declared he was ready. Cranston had almost reached twenty when Lascelles declared he had used the same arbalest twice, and twelve when he used a second one already primed. Rosselyn was not so swift on either occasion, declaring how the war bow was his weapon, but Athelstan was satisfied. He now had a clearer idea of how long an assassin would take if he had used Hell’s mouth as his screen, while both had confessed that aiming at Oudernarde was difficult. The friar also noticed how the two soldiers, being right-handed, wore the box-like quiver of bolts on the left side of their war belt.

‘So you found the first mark easy enough?’ asked Athelstan.

‘Oh, yes,’ Lascelles replied, nodding in agreement, ‘but Oudernarde was very difficult.’

‘To present the best target,’ Rosselyn declared, ‘Hell’s mouth would either have to be dragged back a little or Oudernarde stand further from it.’

‘I agree,’ Lascelles murmured.

‘Shall we move the scenery?’ Athelstan asked. All four men pressed against the gaping jaws. Eventually the dragon’s jaws snapped free of the rood screen to roll back on its castors. Athelstan carefully examined the thick leather straps which acted as both a cushion and a clasp to protect the edges of the rood screen. Athelstan patted the jaws. He would love to bring this to his church. He realized that the doors to most rood screens were about the same measurement. ‘Very clever. They must calculate the gap in the rood screen, then adjust the leather straps accordingly, folding them into a wedge. Now,’ Athelstan eased himself past the dragon’s head, inviting the others to join him in the sanctuary beyond. Once they were, Athelstan and Cranston positioned Hell’s mouth correctly and pushed it back so it wedged easily in the rood screen door, although not as snugly as before with two of the leather straps now damaged. Athelstan shook his head in disbelief. ‘So it couldn’t have been moved.’ He spoke to himself. ‘Well, well, well.’

‘Brother, I have brought you the pig’s bladder,’ Rosselyn, hidden in the shadows, called out.

‘Oh, thank you, bring it here. Please, all of you, go back into the chapel and stare at Hell’s mouth.’ Athelstan, lost in thought, stood staring at the black canvas sheeting as Rosselyn brought across the pig’s bladder. Athelstan waited until he’d left, crouched beneath the table and pushed the ball through the gaping jaws. Cranston confirmed it rolled away from the rood screen. Athelstan just shook his head. How, how, how, he thought to himself, had those two severed heads been placed so carefully? If they had been despatched through Hell’s mouth, although not as light or round as a pig’s bladder, they would have certainly rolled and so been seen, even heard. Yet they had been positioned like two ornaments on a sill. Calling out to the rest, Athelstan left the chapel and walked down into the hollow, empty crypt, the torches still flaring fitfully casting shafts of light which made the shadows dance and shiver. They reached the window Barak had apparently used for his escape. Rosselyn opened the shutters, stared down and confirmed that Barak’s corpse had been found just beneath.

‘Did you or anyone see or hear the fall?’

‘Brother, this is a January day. Darkness had fallen. A sentry by sheer chance stumbled over the corpse just lying there, the arbalest a short distance away. As I said, it was mere luck; the corpse might not have been discovered until daybreak.’

‘And were the window shutters open or closed?’

‘I don’t truly know — perhaps almost closed. I sent one of my archers up to light the lantern box. I can’t remember distinctly. Perhaps the assassin, once he was through, paused to pull them across — I mean, to hide any light.’ Rosselyn stamped his feet, rubbing his hands. ‘In brief, we found the corpse. We believed the assassin had been escaping through that window in the crypt when he slipped. An archer went up to light the lantern as a signal and,’ he shrugged, ‘that’s all I know.’

‘The shutters were probably closed,’ Athelstan agreed. ‘If they’d been open on a winter’s day that would certainly attract attention. Anyway, gentlemen,’ Athelstan stepped back, ‘pretend you are the assassin. You are preparing to leave as Barak did — remember you are carrying a crossbow.’ Athelstan watched as both men did the same, fastening the small crossbow to a clasp on their war belt before pulling their cloaks around them.

‘I have it,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘Gentlemen,’ he sketched a blessing in the air, ‘I thank you.’

‘What have you learnt, Brother?’ Rosselyn seemed anxious, and Athelstan wondered why. Had he to report back to Thibault, or did he have personal reasons? Lascelles, on the other hand, remained cold and impassive, as he had throughout. Athelstan wondered if Lascelles, as Thibault’s henchman, had reflected on this bizarre mystery and was speculating that the accepted story may not be true.

‘Brother,’ Rosselyn came out of the shadows, ‘I asked you a question?’

‘I’m sorry,’ Athelstan apologized. ‘The truth is I have learnt very little.’ He paused as the bell of St Peter ad Vincula began to answer those tolling from the city, announcing the hour of Compline.

‘We have lodgings here?’ Cranston demanded. ‘I’m becoming hungry, cold and, if the truth be known, exhausted.’

‘Sir John,’ Rosselyn reassured him, ‘you and Brother Athelstan will share a chamber in the Garden Tower near the Watergate. The kitchens will serve you.’

‘Before you leave,’ Athelstan gestured around, ‘I want this left as it is.’

Rosselyn promised he would do what he could, and both men left. Athelstan watched them go.

‘Brother, you don’t want to share your thoughts?’

‘Well, not with those two, Sir John. One of them might be the killer.’

‘But Barak?’

‘Aye, poor Barak,’ Athelstan echoed. ‘We will let the dead sleep in peace for a while. Come, Sir John, your belly is rumbling like a drum.’

Outside the baileys and yards of the Tower were freezing cold. A thick river mist had descended to create a land of ghosts, broken only by the shouts of sentries, the neighing of horses and that deep, throaty roaring from the royal menagerie. Pinpricks of lights glowed from battlements and tower windows. Torches flared in their desperate fight against the chilly night breeze.

Cranston and Athelstan were pleased to reach the Garden Tower; the smell from around the Watergate was offensive but the chamber on the ground floor of that squat, sinister-looking tower had been well prepared. A circular, comfortable room, the windows were not only shuttered but covered with heavy leather drapes embroidered with heraldic devices. The fire in the small hearth roared up the flue, the pine logs cracking and snapping. The lime-washed walls gleamed cleanly and displayed a crucifix with small statues of the Virgin and saints placed in niches. The servant waiting for them loudly assured Sir John that the cot beds were comfortable, while he would place more rope matting on the floor to curb the chill. The servant then offered to bring food. Cranston, bellowing how hungry he was, began to take off his cloak. Athelstan kept thinking about that desolate chapel. He walked towards the door.

‘Sir John, wait here.’

‘No, I will not,’ Cranston barked. ‘You are off again on your travels, little friar? Well, if you are, I will stay with you in this benighted place.’ Athelstan told the surprised servant not to serve the food and, pulling up his cowl, walked back into the icy blackness. Cranston followed, cursing quietly. Athelstan stopped an archer who kindly led them down the steps into the gloomy dungeons of the White Tower.

‘Oh Lord, save us, Brother,’ Cranston moaned. ‘What in Heaven’s name are we doing?’

‘The archer told me Barak’s corpse is here, I want to see it. Come on, Sir John.’

The dungeons proved to be a stygian underworld of shadow-filled, stinking tunnels and enclaves. Torches glowed in their rusty holdings. Vermin, like little black demons, scurried across the pools of light. The reeking odour of decay caught their noses and mouths. A figure jangling keys lurched out of the murk. The burly-faced janitor immediately recognized Cranston, though the coroner could only shake his head when the man introduced himself as William Ockle, former assistant hangman at Smithfield. He asked their business. Athelstan replied and the janitor led them to a dungeon door, opened it and ushered them in.

‘The Fleming has been taken to the death house on the other side of Saint Peter’s,’ Ockle explained between noisy mouthfuls of ale from a blackjack. He gestured at Barak’s corpse thrown on to a dirty, sodden palliasse. ‘God knows what His Grace will do with him. Perhaps,’ he smacked his lips, ‘his head will be lopped off, his limbs quartered and the bloody, tarred chunks will festoon London Bridge.’ Athelstan crouched down, murmuring a prayer. He asked both the janitor and Cranston to hold the torches close as he re-examined the corpse. He turned Barak over to examine the back of his head, feeling the deep wound which he traced with his fingers. Moving the corpse back, Athelstan studied the entire right side of the face, pulped to a hideous, soggy mess.

‘Do you want me to strip the corpse?’ Ockle offered. ‘I will have to sooner or later.’ His voice became peevish. ‘I lay claim to all his clothing, boots and possessions. I hope he is wearing an undershirt. My woman can wash it, then I’ll sell it to the Fripperers in East Cheap.’

Cranston glared up at him. Ockle pulled a face. ‘I was only asking. .’

Athelstan searched the corpse. He could tell from the neck and other injuries that the entire right side had been badly bruised and crushed as Barak smashed into the cobbles. He examined the war belt with the quiver box hanging on the right side before moving to the hands. He sniffed at these, noting the mud stains though the nails were neatly pared and clean, the skin soft and smooth as any clerk’s. Barak’s wrists were also sleek, unmarked and bereft of any jewellery or covering. Athelstan recited the requiem, blessed the corpse and got to his feet. He gave Ockle a coin for his pains, left the dungeons and, ignoring Cranston’s protests, climbed the spiral staircase leading back into St John’s Chapel. He nodded at the archer on guard and stood in the centre of the nave, staring at the rood screen.

‘Remember this, Sir John,’ Athelstan pointed to the braziers, one to his right, the other to his left, ‘the explosions occurred in each. Nearby stood Lettenhove and, across the chapel, Oudernarde. Along the transepts, the tapestries had been pulled up to reveal the food tables, servants were milling about. Now look at the rood screen: Hell’s mouth seals its entrance, on either end of it hangs an arras of heavy damask.’ He sighed. ‘Remember that as I surely will.’ The friar refused to say any more; he left the chapel with Cranston hurrying behind.

‘Brother. .?’

Athelstan waited till they had left the keep. Once out in the blistering cold, he paused and stared up.

‘The sky blossoms are hidden, Sir John. We’ll have snow tonight and it will lie thick.’

‘Is Barak the murderer?’

‘He was no assassin,’ Athelstan whispered. ‘God have mercy on him. He did not slip from that rope, he was hurled from that window, or that is what I suspect.’

‘Why?’

‘Gloves and wrist guards, Sir John, or the lack of them, but now I am famished.’