The Straw Men

PART THREE

They returned to their chamber, the snow falling in heavy flakes. Athelstan recalled the legend of souls tumbling from Heaven seeking a dwelling in human flesh.

‘It will lie swift and rich,’ Cranston declared, stomping up the steps. He was startled by a figure stepping out of a shadow in the stairwell inside. ‘In God’s name!’

‘Aye, Sir John, in God’s name surely.’ The black-haired harpist pushed back his hood, the corner of his harp peeping out between the folds of his threadbare cloak. ‘Sir John, good evening. Like you, I’m trapped here. I cannot leave till the morrow, and even then I will need a maintainer. You will vouch for me?’

‘Of course.’ Cranston grasped the harpist by the shoulder and pulled him into the pool of shifting torchlight. ‘Brother Athelstan, let me introduce the Troubadour, former cleric, former soldier, a teller of tales and quite a few lies.’ Athelstan, staring at the hollow eyes and pinched, sallow features beneath an untidy mop of hair, could well believe Sir John’s description. The Troubadour, or whatever his real name, looked crafty and devious — indeed, the ideal choice to play Renard the Fox in any mystery play.

‘Yet a most skilled harpist.’ Cranston took out a silver coin and handed it over. ‘He plucks the strings and they pluck at your heart. But, my friend, it’s your eyes I need now. What have you seen?’

The Troubadour bit on the coin and slid it beneath his robe. ‘I have wandered the Tower, when I can. Thibault has taken it over. There’s great secrecy over the prisoner kept in Beauchamp. I tried to draw as close as I could. I even spent some money but to no avail. Those archers are Thibault’s men in peace and war, body and soul. No one will speak about the prisoner — well, not openly.’

‘And yet you have discovered something?’

The harpist grinned; his teeth were remarkably white and even. ‘Definitely a woman, Sir John — she still has trouble with her monthly courses according to a servant who empties the slop jars. Another says she spends her days embroidering and requires needle, thread and thimble.’

‘And?’

‘She is definitely Flemish. She finds London food not to her taste, though she is partial to eel pies and lightly grilled fish cakes. However, she is no damsel in distress; she’s not fair of face or lovely of form.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘Again, servants have glimpsed her with her veil pulled back. Sir John, they say she reminds them of someone, but they cannot actually place her.’

‘Someone? Someone who?’

‘This was an old servant who has worked here for many a year; she glimpsed the prisoner’s face, it sparked a memory, but she cannot say which.’ The Troubadour spread his hands. ‘More than that I cannot say.’

‘And the severed heads?’ Athelstan asked.

The Troubadour’s strange eyes blinked. ‘Again, Brother, very little. I heard a whisper, just a rumour, that the heads really belonged to Master Thibault and were taken from his care when the Upright Men attacked him on his journey to the Tower. They also say that Thibault was looking for something, perhaps the severed heads, when he laid siege to the Roundhoop.’

‘And the attack in the chapel?’

‘Again, very little, Brother except, immediately after the second attack, the Flemings’ secretary, the Mousehead?’

‘Cornelius?’

‘Yes, he and Thibault’s bully boy, Rosselyn, abruptly left the chapel as if they were pursuing somebody. Remember I was with the minstrelling in the recess. They went down the stairs then Cornelius hurried back.

‘Why, where did they go?’

‘I don’t know, Sir John. I suspect that they went out to ensure Beauchamp Tower was still kept secure.’

‘Ah, of course!’ Athelstan declared. ‘They wondered if the attack could be linked to an attempt to free this mysterious woman.’

‘Perhaps. I tell you this, the squires of the shadows. .’

‘Thibault’s spies?’

‘Yes, Sir John. They’ve been very busy throughout the city, as if they were searching for something, or listening to rumour.’

‘They could be looking,’ Athelstan answered, ‘for what was plundered when the Flemings were attacked on their journey to the Tower — the severed heads. They would also be very interested in discovering if the news that Gaunt holds a special prisoner here has become common knowledge.’

‘And so we, too, must get very busy,’ Cranston murmured. ‘Look, my friend, tomorrow you will be allowed to leave — I shall vouch for you. Thibault will see no danger in you. Now, once you have gone, seek out Muckworm. Tell him Sir John, sometime soon, desires to meet the leader of the tribes at the Tower of Babel.’

‘Sir John, you wish to go there?’

‘I have to. Now, my friend,’ Cranston opened the door and Athelstan peered out; the snow was still falling. The troubadour slipped through and they adjourned to their chamber, all shuttered and closed, the braziers a mound of glowing bright coal, the fire in the hearth built up and roaring. A short while later, the servant who’d been waiting brought bowls of steaming hot chicken broth, slices of cold beef and pots of heavily spiced vegetables. Athelstan blessed the food and watched as Sir John cleared the platters and swiftly downed his wine. Afterwards the coroner, kicking off boots and loosening belts, clasps and buttons, stretched out on one of the cot beds. ‘Well, little friar, what have you learnt?’

‘A little, Sir John, but first, Limoges?’

Cranston raised his head off the bolster; abruptly realizing he was still wearing his beaver hat, he tore this off and tossed in on to the floor. He lay half propped, listening to the bell clanging from the top of Bell Tower above the constant growling from the animal pens. ‘I must take you there, Brother, see the cages. .’

‘Limoges, Sir John!’

‘Ten years ago, or just over, I was with Gaunt and his brother the Black Prince at the siege of Limoges.’

‘Ah,’ Athelstan interrupted, ‘I remember this. De Cos the bishop?’

‘Yes,’ Cranston sighed, ‘he refused to surrender the city. When it was taken, the Black Prince nearly had him killed — his flock certainly were. You may have heard the stories?’

‘Garbled, tangled,’ Athelstan replied, ‘difficult to believe.’

‘Then believe me, Brother, whatever you heard, never mind how dreadful it is, the truth is more heinous. I was there. I turned my horse at the Porte de Saint Marcel and rode back to camp. A nightmare, awful to see, horrible to hear! Unarmed men, women and children, brutally butchered, the streets bubbled ankle-deep in blood. Gaunt was there along with his black-armoured brother; they are both as guilty as each other. I mentioned the King’s lions in their cages; Gaunt was like a ravenous, raging lion.’ Cranston pulled himself up, wagging a finger at Athelstan. ‘Now you know why I remained silent. You don’t poke a lion, especially one that is both mad and bad. Oh,’ Cranston’s voice turned sweet in mimicry, ‘Gaunt can be the perfect gentle knight, the gallant warrior, the courteous courtier, the righteous ruler,’ Cranston’s voice turned hard, ‘as long as you do exactly what he’s asked. Oppose him, especially in public, then prepare to experience the furies of Hell. Remember that — never forget it. The Upright Men and Gaunt richly deserve each other. Now,’ Cranston continued, rubbing his hands, ‘what have you discovered?’

‘Two stories.’ Athelstan made himself comfortable at the table. ‘According to the accepted one, Barak is the assassin. Why, we don’t really know. He may not have liked the rich and the powerful, in which case he was only one among a multitude. Anyway, according to the accepted story, Barak wedged that cannon powder in those two braziers,’ Athelstan shrugged, ‘an easy enough task. Travelling players use such powder to create their illusions. Barak could have done that and not been noticed. Sometime after the play, Barak crawled into the back of Hell’s mouth and used the gaping jaws to mark down Oudernarde senior and Lettenhove. The former he wounded, the latter he killed.’

‘Why do you still insist he used Hell’s mouth?’

‘Sir John, where else could the assassin hide to prime an arbalest then loose, not once but twice, and never be noticed? I mean, if we believe the accepted story?’

‘Agreed, and?’

‘Barak must have somehow moved Hell’s mouth to strike as well as position those two severed heads. God knows where he got them from.’ Athelstan laughed grimly. ‘And God only knows to whom those heads belong? Who were those unfortunates? Why were they killed? Why are their heads here? God bless me, it is beyond answer. I suspect Master Thibault, who was so keen to seize those grim relics, knows the truth but will not share that with us. Nor,’ Athelstan added, ‘will he reveal the truth about his mysterious prisoner. Are those severed heads part of the mystery surrounding her, whoever she may be? Why are Gaunt and Thibault so concerned about a middle-aged woman, a Fleming who, according to the fickle memory of a servant, may have been in the Tower before?’ Athelstan paused. He realized how silent it had become, as if the snow was enveloping this grim fortress in a thick white shroud. He recalled the stories of the ghosts who allegedly haunted the soaring, deep-dungeoned towers, the wraiths said to stalk its lonely courtyards and baileys.

‘Your story, Brother?’

‘Apparently, after he had done all this, Barak tried to flee — that’s understandable. Using all the tumult and upset, Barak left the chapel for the crypt. He reached that window and, still clutching the arbalest, attempted to use the fire rope to escape. Again, according to the evidence, he slipped and fell to his death.’

‘And,’ Cranston asked sleepily, ‘you challenge this?’

‘Well,’ Athelstan paused at a knock at the door; he opened it to see the servant, covered in snow, his face pale with cold, stood in the icy stairwell.

‘Brother Athelstan, Master Thibault asks you to celebrate the Jesus Mass tomorrow after dawn.’ The fellow hopped from foot to foot, scratching his grey beard and pulling at his cloak, doing a little jig to keep warm by stamping his feet.

‘What is your name?’ Athelstan smiled, fishing into his purse.

‘Wolkind.’

‘Well, Wolkind, there’s a coin for your pains. Tell Master Thibault I will celebrate Mass. Now get you warm.’ Athelstan sketched a blessing and closed the door.

‘You were saying, Brother?’

‘So I was.’ Athelstan stood over a brazier warming his hands and smiling at Cranston who lay sprawled red-faced and content without a care in the world. ‘I said there were two stories. The first is faulted so many times, I wonder if it’s a complete lie.’ Athelstan used his fingers to emphasize his points. ‘Primo. For Barak to use Hell’s mouth as a cover he would have to detach it from the rood screen so that he could clearly strike Oudernarde as well as Lettenhove. He would also have to move it backwards and forwards to position those two severed heads, but we now accept that’s nonsense. Hell’s mouth was firmly wedged in the door of the rood screen. It had to be. Don’t forget, Sir John, we watched the masque. Herod was pushed through those jaws. I saw no movement.’

‘It could have been done afterwards and then repositioned?’

‘I don’t think so. Marks would have been left. The noise alone would have alerted people. Think, Sir John, the scenery would have to have been moved forward and back. Trust me, Sir John, it was not moved until we did it.’

‘So how did Barak loose two bolts without being detected?’

‘Sir John, that’s the mystery, and it deepens. Barak, given the speed of his attack, must have used two arbalests already primed. So where is the second? Why should Barak only take one of them? Why hold it on a dangling, swinging rope while attempting such a dangerous escape? Why not place it on a hook on his war belt as Rosselyn and Lascelles did? Why was the quiver box on the wrong side? Barak was right-handed; the quiver should have been on his left not his right.’ Athelstan pulled a face. ‘Concedo — I concede,’ he continued, ‘Barak may have simply made a mistake, but there is more. He wore no wrist guard as any archer should and, above all, no gloves.’

‘You mentioned that before.’

‘Sir John, Barak was going down a rope, hard and coarse.’

‘True, true,’ Cranston breathed.

‘He would have burnt his hands. He’d have worn gauntlets — heavy ones — yet his hands were soft and unscarred. Then there are the injuries,’ Athelstan continued, ‘the right side of his face and body were smashed to pulp against the cobbles. Moreover, there is a deep wound to the back of his head, while I detected flecks of blood against the wall of that recess in the crypt.’

‘You think he was struck at the back of the head and his body rested against the crypt wall before being hurled with great force, the arbalest pushed into his hands, from that window?’

‘Yes, Sir John, I suspect that’s the truth. Barak was no assassin but the victim of murder. Of course, my conclusion prompts other problems when we return to what happened in Saint John’s Chapel. We do not know who was doing what, where and when. Indeed,’ he laughed sharply, ‘the only person who does is the assassin.’ He turned at a loud snore. ‘Sir John, are you leaving us?’

‘Brother, I have to. I’m exhausted.’

Athelstan continued to stare into the red-hot coals which invoked memories of paintings of Hell he’d glimpsed in frescoes and illuminated psalters. He shifted his gaze and recalled the events of the day. The explosions in the braziers, that gaping gargoyle, the dragon’s head. The crossbow bolts whipping across that beautiful chapel. Lettenhove and Oudernarde collapsing. Barak’s twisted, battered corpse. And the reason for all this? Athelstan crossed himself then moved to check the draught cloths pinned to the bottom of the chamber door. He returned to the brazier. Where did this all begin? That furious affray at the Roundhoop? Athelstan recalled the young man hesitating with his sword before being struck himself, those words mumbled as he died about ‘gleaning’. How some woman was to continue to glean. How he tried to raise himself as if looking for something. Was that just a man lost in the fever of his death throes? And before the attack at the Roundhoop, that savage assault on Thibault’s party near Aldgate? It wasn’t just an attack on Gaunt; the Upright Men had been searching for something — that enigmatic woman prisoner? Why was she so closely guarded? Why was she so important to Gaunt to be kept under such strict watch at the heart of his power? Undoubtedly there was treachery afoot, the one link between all these events. The attack at Aldgate, the murders in the White Tower. Somebody, pretending to be Gaunt’s friend and ally, was really a vigorous Judas.

‘Sir John?’

‘Yes, Brother?’ came the sleepy reply.

‘The ambush near Aldgate — surely, for it was so well prepared, the Upright Men must have a spy close to Gaunt and Master Thibault?’

Cranston groaned and rolled over, one eye squinting up at Athelstan. ‘Brother, for the love of God, go to sleep. The Upright Men watch Gaunt as closely as he watches them. They could have easily learnt about the arrival of the Flemings at Dover and the intended route to London. The Upright Men have countless watchmen and spies.’

‘But so carefully plotted and prepared?’

‘Brother,’ Cranston rolled back, ‘good night and. .’

He abruptly pushed back the blankets as the tocsin on the top of Bell Tower began to toll, a discordant, harsh clattering rousing the garrison. Athelstan unbolted the door and hurried out. The falling snow had created a sea of brilliant white against the black fortifications of the Tower. Athelstan glanced across. A glow of fire pierced the darkness brightening the night sky. Other doors were opening, men hurrying out, slipping and slithering across the snow in a clatter of mail and drawn weapons. Cranston, wrapped in blankets, joined Athelstan on the top step, spluttering as the snowflakes settled on his face. A shout echoed, followed by two strident blasts of a horn. Rosselyn strode out of the darkness.

‘Brother, Sir John,’ he gasped apologies, ‘only an accident, a fire in the stables. I’ve directed men there; we will soon douse the flames.’

‘Ite missa est — go, our Mass has ended.’ Athelstan smiled at the small crowd of worshippers huddled within the rood screen of the rather severe sanctuary of St Peter’s. Like Athelstan, they had struggled through the snow, at least a foot deep, as the sacring bell announced a very grey dawn. The Straw Men were there, as were Master Thibault, Lascelles and Oudernarde. Master Cornelius, Athelstan suspected, would be celebrating his own Mass much later in more comfortable lodgings. Cranston, who’d served as Athelstan’s altar boy, rose from the sanctuary steps, stamping booted feet, rubbing his hands and noisily smacking his lips. He helped Athelstan divest. Thibault and his party promptly left but not before Lascelles curtly informed Cranston and Athelstan that his master would like to see them before they exited the Tower. Cranston grunted he’d break his fast first, then turned away to help Athelstan clear the sacred vessels from the altar. Once they’d finished and were about to leave by the narrow corpse door, the Straw Men, led by Samuel, came back under the rood screen. Rachael had pulled up her hood to hide her gorgeous red hair in deference to being in church. She rested on Judith’s arm; they and their companions, rubbing their hands for warmth, stopped before Cranston and Athelstan, shuffling their feet. Samuel went to speak but thought otherwise. He closed his mouth, fingering his lips.

‘Well?’ Cranston barked. ‘What do. .’

Athelstan touched him on the arm. ‘You have come to ask about Barak?’

‘Yes, we have, Brother.’ Judith stepped forward, her impish face set in a stubborn twist. ‘We are all here, except Eli, but he’s a lazy slug-a-bed.’

‘And?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Do you think. .?’ Rachael blurted out. ‘Well, we don’t. We have been discussing this. Barak cannot be the murderer. He just cannot be, I mean. .’

Athelstan grasped the young woman’s mittened fingers; her green, cat-like eyes crinkled in amusement.

‘Look,’ Athelstan smiled at her then round at the rest. ‘Gaunt regards you as his mummers, his players, yes? He favours you. He patronizes you.’

‘Yes,’ Samuel conceded, ‘he pays us well.’

‘I’m sure he does.’ Athelstan released Rachael’s hands even as he glimpsed a swift, startled look in Samuel’s eyes. Athelstan immediately wondered if there were other reasons why Gaunt and Thibault favoured these strolling players.

‘So. .’ The friar took Judith by the elbow, guiding her and the rest out of the church by the narrow side door.

‘So what?’ Judith asked.

Athelstan scratched his head. ‘I don’t think Barak was responsible; I don’t believe his corpse should be abused. I need to see Thibault. Sir John and I entertain serious doubts about the accepted story but that can wait. Let’s break our fast in the guest house refectory.’

They went out into the crisp morning air. The darkness was thinning. Torches moved. Cries and shouts rang out as the Tower community were roused. Women trudged through the snow with buckets for the well. A few children, swathed in motley cloths, played in the snow. High on the Tower parapet walks, torches and braziers glowed. Horses neighed greedily from the stables to be answered by roars and growls from the royal menagerie. Dogs gingerly nosed the snow and barked furiously as they floundered in a drift. Athelstan watched an old greyhound, brindle coloured, desperately trying to get back to its mistress, who was offering a titbit to eat. Smells and odours wafted from latrines, kitchens, lay stalls and wash chambers. The snow had ceased falling but everything was shrouded in white. The great magonels, trebuchets, catapults, sheds and other siege weapons rose like monsters frozen in the snow. Sills and ledges, roofs and cornices — even the great three-branched gallows, each arm displaying a frozen hard cadaver, were encrusted in frosty ice. Cranston led them along the side of the pebble-dashed church. Athelstan knew there would be no stopping him. The coroner was famished, already savouring the cooking smells billowing from the kitchens. Cranston moved as fast and as keen as a strong lurcher. Athelstan walked behind listening to Judith’s chatter — how she hoped they could visit St Erconwald’s — when he heard the whirr, like the wings of a bird, and a crossbow bolt smacked and splintered against the wall of the church. He abruptly stopped. Cranston turned. ‘Get down Athelstan!’ he screamed. He dragged the friar by the arm, pulling both him and Judith down just as another bolt whirled over their heads. Crouching in the snow, Athelstan felt the ice seep up the sleeves of his gown. Cranston drew his dagger. The rest raced back to the corpse door as another barb shattered noisily against the church wall.

‘Harrow! Harrow!’ Cranston bellowed at the top of his voice, raising the alarm. Doors were opened. Archers, men-at-arms and servants came spilling out as Cranston continued to shout. Athelstan, still crouching in the snow, glanced at where the spent barbs lay, then across at the looming mass of the White Tower. He scrutinized the log piles, the engines of war, the wooden staircase and its supporting scaffolding, the unhitched carts and hand barrows.

‘There’ll be no more,’ he murmured, getting to his feet and pointing across.

‘Look, Sir John, a company of archers could lurk behind any of those barriers and then disappear.’ He brushed the snow from his gown, calling out to the rest gathered just within the corpse door that it was safe. Rosselyn, cowled and cloaked, war bow strung, hurried up. Athelstan briefly explained what had happened, gesturing across at the impedimenta close to the White Tower.

‘Whoever it was,’ he declared, ‘hid there but now he has gone. I hope he hasn’t taken my appetite with him.’ He showed Rossleyn, the captain’s hardened face all pinched and severe, where the crossbow bolts had hit before trudging on through the snow into the welcoming warmth of the refectory. At the buttery hatch servants were ladling out bowls of boiling hot oatmeal spiced with nutmeg and thick dark treacle. Athelstan collected his and went over to a stool close to the fireplace. He took out his horn spoon, murmured a blessing and began to eat, allowing both the heat of the food and the glow from the fierce fire to calm him. Athelstan, as always after Death’s dark wings had brushed him, mentally recited both the ‘Confiteor’, an act of sorrow, followed by the ‘Deo Gratias’, a prayer of thanksgiving. He ate and calmed himself staring up at the roughly carved woodwose in the centre of the mantle, a hell-born face with popping eyes, wild hair, pig’s snout and gaping, moustached mouth. The others joined him. Cranston bustled over.

‘You are correct, Brother, the devil’s bowman must have stood close to the White Tower, cloaked in white. God knows there is enough there to hide behind.’

‘Not very accurate, was he?’ Athelstan lifted a spoonful and carefully sipped at the oatmeal. ‘More of a warning than anything else.’ He stared around. ‘Who’s missing?’

‘Eli.’ Rachael began to tap her feet nervously. Athelstan gazed towards the half-open door; a raven perched there, a huge bird, black, fat and sleek, its yellow curved beak jabbing at the snow. A visitor from Hell, Athelstan wondered, watching it strut like a devil, unafraid of the human bustle around it.

‘Eli never sleeps this late.’ Samuel rose from his stool, putting the earthenware bowl on the ground. Athelstan, sensing a growing unease, also got up.

‘Where does Eli lodge?’

‘The Salt Tower.’

‘The rest of you stay.’ Athelstan pointed to Samuel. ‘But you come with me.’

‘And where you go,’ Cranston gobbled the remains of his oatmeal, ‘I shall certainly follow.’

They left the guest house, booted feet crunching on the snow. The ravens had gathered. A dense flock of black glossy feathers, sharp beaks and empty eyes, hungry for any titbits or scraps of refuse. The garrison was also stirring. The hot smells from the stables mingled with the fetid odour from the animal cages. Day had broken and the real business could begin. A butcher and his two apprentices were slaughtering pigs in a small compound near the kitchens. The chilling squeals of the animals grew strident on the freezing morning air as blood from the slaughter seeped in dark red rivulets under the wicker fence. Another apprentice stood close by with a club driving away dogs maddened by the smell. Athelstan glanced away. They moved carefully, side stepping the burly washerwomen with their huge round tubs as well as soldiers, surly and freezing with cold after their duty along the ice-bound parapets. Children played snowballs, shouting and yelling as they were hit or fell. The pounding of hammers and the scrape of metal echoed from the smithies. Deep in his heart Athelstan wished to be away from here. The Tower was a strange and narrow place, its atmosphere unsettling. Above all this activity brooded the great soaring donjons, walls and towers. Athelstan recalled how his parishioners believed these dark stones housed demons and other malevolent spirits. He had also heard the stories about its miserable dank dungeons, the secret torture chambers; of corpses being burnt in the dead of night, their ashes being tipped into the river. The Tower was a secret maze of passageways and tunnels, a place where people were taken and never seen again, alive or dead. A house of blood, Athelstan brooded, and he wished to be rid of it.

They reached the entrance to the Salt Tower. Cranston gestured at Samuel, who led them up the freezing spiral staircase. Athelstan gripped the guide rope fastened to the wall. Torches flared and danced in the brisk draughts which came whipping through the narrow windows and murder slits. They reached the first storey. Another set of worn steps led up to an iron-studded door, black with age, its great iron ring flaked with rust. Samuel knocked then kicked with his booted foot, shouting Eli’s name. There was no reply. Again, knocking and kicking brought no response. Samuel scrabbled at the broad eye slit, yet even his dagger was unable to pull back the wooden slat.

‘Stuck with the dirt of ages,’ Samuel muttered, stepping back. Cranston tried but could gain no response. Others were gathering in the entrance below. Rossleyn came up the stairs, shaking the snow from his cloak. The door was examined.

Rossleyn peered through the keyhole before banging with the pommel of his dagger at the top and bottom of the door. ‘Locked and bolted,’ he announced. ‘The key’s there. I’m sure the bolts are in their clasps.’

The stairwell was becoming thronged. Athelstan went and looked in a narrow recess close by; there was nothing but dust. He whispered to Cranston then pushed himself by the others, going down out into the mist-hung morning. He walked around the Tower, trying to ignore the rank odours from a nearby midden heap. He paused and stared up at the window to Eli’s chamber, its heavy wooden shutters sealing what must be a simple box-shaped opening.

‘Probably shuttered both inside and out,’ Athelstan muttered. He studied the sheer face of the Tower wall. ‘And that would be very difficult,’ he whispered, ‘to scale, especially during a snow storm at the dead of night.’

‘Are you praying, Brother?’ Cranston, his face almost hidden by the low-pulled beaver hat and the high muffler on his cloak, stood grinning at him.

‘No, Sir John, just preparing to meet another child of Cain. That door is locked and bolted from the inside. If Eli is in there, he must be either dead or senseless — probably the former. A young man, the victim of a knife or club rather than any falling sickness. I hope for the best but plan for the worst. You have delivered my instruction. .?’

‘The door will be forced but no one will enter before we do,’ Cranston agreed. ‘Rosselyn is acting all officious but this tower falls within my jurisdiction. .’ Cranston broke off, grabbing Athelstan by the arm and leading him back as the sound of shouts and a dull thudding trailed from the Tower. Someone had piled rubbish into a makeshift brazier. Cranston and Athelstan stood with the gathering crowd warming their hands. The friar let his mind drift back to the very start of all this — that attack near Aldgate, or was it something before that? Athelstan suspected it did. The malignant root to all this still laid hidden, murky and tangled, richly nourished by treachery. Who was the traitor in Gaunt’s entourage who had informed the Upright Men about that cavalcade, the Flemings and their mysterious prisoner? In turn, who was the Judas among the Upright Men, the one who revealed to Thibault that fateful meeting at the Roundhoop? Were the Warde family really spies sent into the parish of St Erconwald’s to ferret out such mischief? A shout followed by a crack from the Tower startled Athelstan from his meditation. Rosselyn appeared in the doorway.

‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan, the door is forced. You’d best come. .’

Athelstan and Cranston squeezed by the broken door into the Tower chamber. The room was poorly lit. All torches and rush lights had long burnt out, while the braziers were simply mounds of dead grey ash. Athelstan walked carefully across the squelching rushes. Eli’s corpse lay almost in the centre of the chamber; the gore from the hideous wound to his face had congealed into a fearsome, dark red mask. Athelstan crouched, his stomach heaving. Eli’s face had been shattered by the crossbow bolt embedded deep between his eyes. The barb had ploughed a furiously bloody furrow; the face had almost collapsed, the bolt thrust so deep the small, stiffened feathers of its flight had merged with the ruptured skin. Eli was fully dressed, his dagger still in its belt scabbard, boots on his feet. A wine cup lay nearby where it had apparently rolled from his fingers. Athelstan picked this up and sniffed it but caught only the slightly bitter smell of dried claret. He murmured a prayer, blessed the corpse and stared round that bleak chamber. Others tried to come in but, at Athelstan’s hushed request, Cranston ordered them to stay outside in the stairwell. Both coroner and friar rigorously scrutinized that shabby room — its flaking walls, the mush of reeds on the floor, the untidy cot bed with its grey linen bolster. Eli’s saddlebag and purse contained paltry items: a paternoster ring, some coins, a Santiago medal and a greasy, tattered manuscript, its pages bound by twine containing extracts of some mystery play clumsily copied from an original. Athelstan picked up the small wine jug and platter; he sniffed at these but detected nothing untoward. Athelstan then joined Cranston by the door, now leaning against the wall to the left of the entrance. Ancient and sturdy, the door was at least five inches thick; its stiffened leather hinges had cracked, as had the bolts at both top and bottom. The lock, too, was wrenched, the heavy key, still inserted, twisted by the pounding when the door was forced.

‘Jesu Miserere,’ Athelstan whispered. ‘How could this happen?’ He studied the eyelet; the slit was about six inches wide and the same length. The moveable slat itself had a heavy stud screwed into one end so the person inside could pull it backwards and forwards. Athelstan grasped this. He pulled with all his might but he couldn’t move it; nor could Cranston.

‘Stiffened with age,’ Rossleyn stepped into the chamber, ‘the wood’s become wedged tight, a common problem in the Tower.’ He tapped the door. ‘The cold, the damp.’ His voice trailed off.

Athelstan, shaking his head, walked back and crouched by Eli’s corpse. From the stairwell he heard the moans and cries of Eli’s companions as the news of the murder spread. The shouting drew closer. The Straw Men gathered in the doorway. Rossleyn ordered them to stay back but Samuel and the rest spilled into the chamber. Rachael, her red hair all loose, knelt beside Athelstan, sharply rocking backwards and forwards. Judith staggered towards the bed and simply lay down, thumb to her mouth, staring at the corpse. Samuel took one look at the shattered face and turned away, one hand over his mouth as he stumbled to the jake’s pot to be sick. Samson and Gideon crouched by Rachael, comforting her, whispering that Judith needed her. Athelstan swiftly intoned the De Profundis and the requiem. He blessed the corpse and got up. ‘Sir John,’ he declared, ‘we are finished here.’ He helped Rachael to her feet, beckoning at the others to gather around.

‘Eli, last night did any of you visit him?’

‘No,’ they chorused.

‘And nothing strange,’ Cranston insisted, ‘nothing untoward occurred?’

‘Nothing, Sir John.’ Samuel wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘Eli retired. He left the refectory just as the bells were tolling for Compline.’ He shook his head, ‘I do not know, I cannot explain. .’

Athelstan let them go and called over Rosselyn. The captain of archers sauntered across.

‘Brother?’

‘The fire last night?’

‘From what I know, a simple accident. A candle fell out of a lantern box on to some dry straw. The fire was fierce but soon doused. Why?’ Rosselyn indicated with his head. ‘Do you think this was somehow connected?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Anything else, Brother?’

‘No, no thank you.’ Athelstan paused and watched him walk away. ‘Pardon my lies, Sir John, but I think it was,’ Athelstan whispered, ‘and I’m not too sure how. As for Eli’s murder, I wonder. Was he slain because he saw something when hiding under that table? He was the nearest to the rood screen and Hell’s mouth.’

‘Possible,’ Cranston conceded.

‘And the greater mystery,’ Athelstan declared. ‘How was a young man in a locked, secured chamber, its door firmly sealed, the windows,’ he pointed, ‘shuttered within and without — how could such a young man be murdered by a crossbow bolt?’

Athelstan repeated the same question sometime later in Thibault’s chancery chamber, a comfortable, elegant room draped in heavy ornate tapestries with the richest Turkey cloths across the floor. Oaken furniture gleamed in the light of pink-coloured candles and the glare of flames roaring in the stone hearth. The Master of Secrets, half man, half shadow, Athelstan thought, sat enthroned behind a polished walnut table. He was swathed in a fur-lined cloak. On either side sat Oudernarde and Cornelius. Behind him stood Lascelles with Rosselyn guarding the door. Athelstan repeated the question about Eli’s death. Cranston slurped noisily from his goblet of hot posset, drawing a look of distaste from the prim-faced Cornelius. Thibault threw down his quill pen and leaned over the table, his soft face lit by the flaring candles. Despite the opulence, the heavily scented warm air, the crackling fire and the hot posset warming his belly, the Dominican sensed the ice-cold harshness of Thibault’s soul.

‘Brother Athelstan, you argue that Barak is not the assassin but a victim?’

‘He may be the assassin, but he was definitely the victim of murder. How and why?’ Athelstan shrugged. ‘I have expressed my doubts. I shared the same last night with Sir John. I assure you of this. The passing hours, a good night’s sleep and celebrating the Eucharist have not changed my mind. The attack on us this morning confirms my doubts. An assassin still lurks here in the Tower. I suggest Barak did not murder Lettenhove, or,’ he bowed imperceptibly at the Fleming, ‘wounded your august father. True, Barak may have been used by the assassin but. .’

‘Yes, yes,’ Thibault interrupted testily, ‘you have aired your doubts but you have no explanation as to the truth behind any of these murders, be it Lettenhove, Barak or Eli?’

‘You are correct, or why I was attacked this morning.’

‘I’m sorry that happened,’ Thibault retorted. ‘Rosselyn informed me about it.’

‘Is there anything certain?’ Cornelius jibed.

‘You have studied logic, Master Cornelius?’

‘Of course.’

‘Then you know that in this life nothing is certain, except the fact that there are uncertainties.’

‘You play with words,’ Oudernarde grated, eyes glittering with anger. ‘My henchman lies murdered, my father sorely wounded.’

‘I am truly sorry for that, Magister.’

‘We expected better of you.’ Oudernarde jabbed a finger. ‘My Lord of Gaunt and Master Thibault talk highly of your work, Brother Athelstan, and that of your companion, the Coroner of London. .’

‘For the time being.’ Thibault’s threat was almost hissed. Cranston, sitting with his eyes half closed and wishing the pain in his belly would fade, simply opened his wallet and drew out his seals of office. Athelstan grasped his friend’s arm. Thibault smiled and spread his hands.

‘I mean,’ the Master of Secrets fought to curb his temper, ‘you could be promoted to higher favour.’

Cranston snorted noisily and put the seals away.

Athelstan tapped the table edge. ‘You want certainty, Magister? I will give you certainties. First, a killer haunts the Tower. Who he is, how and why he slays is, for the moment, a mystery. Secondly, the Upright Men have a hand in this. Thirdly, you have a spy among the Upright Men; they certainly have one in your company. Fourthly,’ Athelstan brushed aside Thibault’s attempt to protest, ‘the two severed heads which suddenly appeared in the chapel of St John disappeared equally swiftly during the attack on your company near Aldgate. Fifthly, Master Oudernarde, you brought those severed heads from Flanders. Sixthly, the attackers took these but their real prize was your hooded prisoner, probably the woman who now lives in splendid but closely guarded isolation in Beauchamp Tower. Seventhly, Barak was not the assassin but was murdered to appear so. Eighthly, Eli’s death is a complete mystery. How can a young man, locked and bolted in a most secure chamber, be killed by crossbow bolt loosed to his face, yet no such weapon be found in that chamber?’ Athelstan took a deep breath. ‘So, yes, masters, good sirs all of you: certainties, however uncertain they may appear, have been established.’ Athelstan picked at the three knots on his waist cord symbolizing his vows of poverty, chastity and obedience. ‘I would like to inspect those severed heads,’ he continued, ‘and I would dearly love to meet your mysterious prisoner, or at least be told why she is so mysterious.’

Cranston coughed noisily to hide his grin, clearing his throat as he stared up at the vaulted chamber roof. Thibault picked up his pen, smoothed the quill plume feathers then used it to beckon Lascelles. The henchman leaned over the chair to hear his master’s whisper and slipped like some black wraith from the chamber.

‘For the time being,’ Thibault almost lisped, ‘our prisoner is not your concern, Brother Athelstan.’

‘Ninthly,’ Athelstan almost shouted, ‘Sir John and I need to be busy. We need to reflect, to discuss, possibly even search. Master Thibault, in a word, we need to be gone. I have one favour to ask. My parishioners will have undoubtedly appreciated My Lord of Gaunt’s gifts, and they would rejoice if the Straw Men, albeit in mourning for two of their members, could visit Saint Erconwald’s. My parishioners would love to see their performance, while it would give me the opportunity to question the troupe further.’ Athelstan paused as Lascelles slipped back into the room carrying a leather sack. Athelstan suspected what it contained.

‘The Straw Men can wait but you have our permission to leave.’ Thibault smacked his lips. ‘As for the heads. .’ He snatched the sack from Lascelles and placed it on the table. ‘Take them, Brother Athelstan. You have our authority, and that of the King’s Coroner in London, to hand them over to Master Robert Burdon, Custos of the Gatehouse of London Bridge and Keeper of the Heads, to add to his collection above the gatehouse.’

‘And their crime?’ Cranston demanded, leaning across to pluck up the sack.

‘For the moment that must remain secret, Sir John.’ Thibault waggled his fingers. ‘Suffice to know, they were traitors who deserved their fate.’

‘We all deserve our fate; only God’s mercy saves us from it.’ Athelstan pushed back the narrow chair and rose to his feet. He bowed, and with Cranston carrying the sack, walked to the door.

‘Brother Athelstan?’

‘Yes, Master Thibault?’

‘You say we have a spy in our company. I find that difficult. .’

‘It always is,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘A Judas hides behind his kiss which,’ he gestured around, ‘is why I must return to question people here, and that includes you, Master Thibault.’ Athelstan nodded at Rosselyn to open the door and they left. Once outside Athelstan winked at Cranston. ‘Let us divert ourselves, Lord Coroner. The royal menagerie? Perhaps we’ll visit that, but I must see this great snow bear.’

Cranston needed no further encouragement. He led Athelstan across baileys and courtyards, skirting frozen white gardens, herb plots and snow-covered outbuildings, past their own lodgings and through Hall Tower along Red Gulley to St Thomas’ Tower which fronted the wide deep moat. Even before they entered the great cavernous cell on the ground floor, Athelstan smelt the thick, rancid odour of rotting fish and putrid meat, so dense and cloying it made him gag. The bear keeper, who rejoiced in the name of Artorius, a bulbous-eyed, bald-headed fellow, round as a tub, his unshaven face glistening and reddened from the coarse wine he was enjoying, was at first hostile and surly. However, he was only too willing to take Cranston’s coin and show them what he called his ‘pride and joy’. He raced up the steps on the side of St Thomas’, gave them each a pomander and unlocked the iron-barred door. He beckoned them into the reeking darkness, took a cresset from its holder and began to light a long line of other torches fixed into the wall.

Athelstan could only stare in disbelief. The entire ground floor of St Thomas’ was a huge cavern with a pointed vaulted ceiling. Most of it was taken up by a huge cage: the bars, placed very closely together, were driven into the ground and rose to meet similar poles of the finest steel driven horizontally into the far wall. The flaring flames of the sconce torches shimmered in these. Athelstan noticed how there was a gate built into the cage where the vertical bars had been cut to form a square filled by a thick oaken door so as to allow the keeper to put in food or, if he wanted, enter the cage itself. Athelstan stood, transfixed. Despite the coarse but powerful-smelling pomander drenched in lavender and pinewood, the reek was intense. Athelstan coughed and spluttered. He held the pomander close as he walked carefully forward. The ground was greasy under foot. Athelstan slipped and slithered as he made his way down the aisle past the cage. He grasped a pole of the cage and his heart skipped a beat as a great dark shape lurched out of the shadows. He stepped back and stared in disbelief as the light from the cresset torches above him grew stronger. The bear approached the bars on all fours. Abruptly aroused from its sleep, it reared up on its hind legs. Its black-edged snout sniffed the air, huge jaws opened in a roar, massive paws flailed in the air. The friar was taken by the bear’s sheer ferocity, but also by its heart-throbbing magnificence.

‘A gift from the King of Norway,’ Artorius sang out. The bear was at least three yards high and, despite a few stains from lying in its cage, the animal’s hide was a brilliant thick, white fur. Athelstan had seen many a mangy-coated travelling bear much smaller and black furred; usually broken and infirm, fed on ale slops and discarded food, these hobbled along, muzzled and chained like beaten dogs. This was different. The snow bear was certainly chained: a massive leather collar circled its thick neck with a finely wrought, very long silver-like chain secured to one of the cage poles; this allowed the animal considerable freedom of movement.

‘Behold Maximus,’ Artorius declared, ‘truly the king of all beasts!’ Athelstan could only agree. He had never seen such a splendid creature. Maximus, startled from his sleep, lurched forward and crashed against the poles, his black, red-rimmed eyes with their hard, unblinking stare conveyed his sheer ferocity, his large, massive jaws open to display teeth as long, white and sharp as ivory daggers. Maximus again crashed into the cage poles before lumbering on all fours to a broad, iron-plated door built into the far end of the Tower.

‘The finest steel of Milan,’ Artorius declared, tapping one of the bars. ‘A gift from the Sforzas, as is the chain.’

Athelstan stood back, viewing the cage in the strengthening light of all the torches which were now lit. Maximus appeared to dislike the glare and the heat; he stood with his back to them, pushing at that gate with his head.

‘The best steel,’ Cranston breathed. ‘It would have to be.’

‘True, Sir John,’ Artorius replied. ‘Maximus can take a man’s head off, and has, with one bite or sweep of his paw.’

‘Is he so savage?’ the coroner asked.

‘On a full stomach Maximus can be as content as a pig; he will even play with you,’ Artorius nodded. ‘And I mean that, though even then you have to be very careful, yet he is mild enough. However, once he’s hungry or if he smells blood or worse, both, I do not like being in here, finest steel or not.’ Athelstan studied the cage again; the snow bear was a marvel and so was this. Cunningly devised, the close-set poles stretched from wall to wall, cordoning off most of this cavernous chamber. Maximus kept pressing his head against the gate in the wall leading on to the wharf.

‘He is hungry and wants to go swimming; he hopes to catch fish. Come, I’ll show you.’

Athelstan and Cranston followed. The friar noticed how the aisle was broad enough but he followed the keeper’s advice and kept as far away from the bars of the cage as possible.

‘It has been known,’ Artorius sang out, ‘for Maximus to suddenly make a lunge. One thing about him which always surprises our visitors, despite his bulk, is that he can be as swift as a greyhound.’

‘Like someone else I know,’ Athelstan whispered. He winked as Cranston turned and glared at him. Artorius opened the door at the end of the aisle and led them out on to the broad, snow-swept wharf which ran alongside the moat. Despite being constantly fed by the river, the water here had begun to freeze: sheets of ice bobbed on the surface, the cold was bitter and a thick river mist twisted above the quayside. Artorius walked to the outside entrance to the cage. Maximus was now banging noisily. The keeper pulled back the heavy bolts and lifted the huge bars. Artorius leaned these against the gate and hurriedly withdrew back through the door, beckoning at Cranston and Athelstan to follow. Once inside Artorius lowered the small door hatch so his visitors could have a good view. Athelstan glanced to his left; Maximus was now shoving the gate open. It creaked noisily and the bars on the other side fell away.

‘Deliberately so,’ Artorius whispered. ‘The gate is heavy. The bars delay Maximus so I have enough time to get back in here.’

‘And how do you get him back and seal the gate?’ Athelstan asked.

‘A juicy piece of meat placed at the far end of the cage oozing blood. Maximus loves that. He knows his routine, which is as fixed as any monk’s horarium. Maximus becomes busy with his food. I close over the gate with a hooked pole, pull the bolts across and place the bars back down.’ He paused. ‘Now, watch this.’ Maximus had pushed open the gate. Athelstan glanced through the door hatch, fascinated by the bear’s speed. Maximus, the long chain rattling out, raced across the wharf and plunged into the icy moat, revelling in the splashing water.

‘It’s safe now,’ Artorius declared. He opened the door and led them out.

‘Is it safe?’ Athelstan asked anxiously.

‘Maximus loves to swim and fish,’ the keeper reassured him. ‘He’ll be there for hours.’

‘Fish?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Oh, yes,’ Artorius replied, ‘once he caught a porpoise swept in by the river. Maximus will eat anything and everything.’ Athelstan just stood and watched. Maximus was swift and confidently plunging up and down, swimming expertly — sometimes only his massive head protruded above the surface. The silver chain, fine and delicate in appearance, was very strong. Maximus had the freedom to swim although not to reach the far side of the moat.

‘God be praised!’ Athlestan whispered, crossing himself. ‘For such splendour! Sir John, I think we should go.’

They thanked Artorius and left St Thomas’ Tower, going out through the Lion gate, the roars and snarls from the menagerie ringing in their ears. Athelstan refused Cranston’s offer to see the other beasts; instead he plucked Sir John by the sleeve and led the unresisting coroner into the sweet onion-smelling tap room of the Hook of Heaven, an ancient tavern which overlooked the Thames. They cleaned their hands in the bronze basin hanging by a chain from the rafters in full obedience to the warning carved around the rim: ‘Wash with water your hands so clean that, on the towel, no spot be seen.’ Once done, Athelstan ordered blackjacks of ale and bowls of thickened chicken stew. Cranston had remained ominously silent during their visit to the snow bear. Athelstan suspected Sir John was reflecting deeply on Thibault’s hidden threats and the menaces which swirled around them. He wanted Cranston to lighten his mood.

‘We will do our duty, My Lord Coroner,’ Athelstan whispered as he polished his horn spoon and took a generous mouthful. ‘Let us reflect, Sir John, warm our bellies and,’ he gestured at the sack, ‘fathom these mysteries further. Now listen. You must return to your chambers in the Guildhall. Yes? Lady Maude will also be hungry for your embraces. However, make careful scrutiny of this. Search among the Spicers of Cheapside, discover everything you can about Humphrey Warde. Sir John, you remain silent. You have been so. .’

‘The tribes.’ Cranston finished his soup. ‘Brother Athelstan, my little friar, my friend: Barak is dead, Lettenhove slain, Eli mysteriously murdered, but these are only bubbles on the surface of this morass. Brother,’ Cranston put his spoon down and grasped the friar’s hand, ‘believe me, the tempest has been sown. God help us,’ he murmured, ‘we are going to reap the corpse-makers’ storm.’ The coroner, still distracted, gathered his thoughts. ‘I have business, little friar, so have you, and the hour candle burns.’

They left the tavern. Cranston, lost in his own thoughts, turned off up an alleyway leading to the city. Athelstan, grasping the bag with its grisly contents, moved towards the bridge. The Angelus bells began to peal. Traders, merchants, hucksters and apprentices were all preparing to cease trading in order to break their morning fast. Most of these were swathed in cloaks and hoods against the biting cold. The air was riven with shouts and cries. People pushed and shoved towards the cook shops, alehouses and taverns. Beggars, blue with cold, whined for alms and shook their clacking dishes or tapped their canes. The ‘stealthy night shapes’ as Cranston called them, were also busy — the sneak thieves, the shadow stalkers hungry for prey. Bailiffs and beadles, determined on their food, hurried a line of miscreants to the great stocks next to the bridge. A sheriff’s man pushed a moveable, three-branched gallows with the cadavers of house breakers stripped naked, their dead flesh a pasty white, along the thoroughfare. A herald went before them, declaring the gallows proclaimed the dire consequences of breaking the King’s peace. How their wolfish souls, guilt-steeped and sin-scorched, had received their just desserts from both God and man. A relic-seller in a snoop cap followed, hoping to trade among the gathering crowd, loudly declaring he had holy fragments of the Seven Sleepers of Ephesus for sale. Behind him a singing cleric bargained with a funeral party escorting a corpse, stitched in its deer-skinned shroud, to chant the death psalms.

Athelstan, head covered, pushed through this throng on to the bridge. He ignored the fishy, oozing stench from the river as he did the sweet flavour from the public ovens where the morning waffles, cakes and pastries had been baked. He did not look to the left or the right, ignoring the thunder of the Thames as it broke against the starlings of the bridge, the clacking of water mills and the constant noise of the traders crammed into the narrow causeway which ran between the houses and shops either side. He passed Becket’s chapel. On its steps a wandering preacher, standing next to a bonfire of burning rubbish, its creeping flames spluttering in the wet mist, screamed with scorched throat his dire prophecies. How the souls of London’s citizens were polluted by carnal lust. How Christ would soon come again, a brilliant flaming figure appearing like a gorgeous rainbow in the storm-swept skies above London.

Athelstan walked on, knocking away the apprentices plucking at his sleeves and the fleshy-mouthed whores who sidled up whispering what delights they could offer. Athelstan ignored such harrowers of the dark. Nevertheless, the world and all its business still pressed in. A group of Newgate bailiffs pulled two river pirates to the balustrade overlooking the river. Ignoring their screams, the officials tied nooses around the prisoners’ necks and toppled them over. Athelstan glimpsed a prostitute on her knees before a costermonger, feverishly loosening the points of his hose as both sheltered in a narrow runnel between two soaring houses. Athelstan looked away but his eye was caught by other scenes. A beggar, one leg crushed by a cart, lay dying beneath a stall attended by a Carmelite. Two courtesans from The House of Imminent Pleasure just beyond the bridge sauntered by swathed in cheap finery and even cheaper perfume. A group of armed knights, gorgeous pennants proclaiming John of Gaunt’s arms, forced their destriers through the crowd. Curses and insults were thrown. The leading knight, visor down, lowered his lance and the crowd swiftly parted. A gust of river wind, heavy with the smell of rotting fish, buffeted Athelstan. The friar felt dizzy, disconcerted, as if he could feel the pent-up anger and lusts of the people around him. He took a deep breath and moved on, reaching the end of the bridge and the steps either side leading to the upper stories of the yawning bridge gate.

Athelstan climbed these, knocked on the iron-studded door and was ushered into what the mannekin Robert Burdon called his ‘workshop’. Custos of the Bridge and Keeper of the Heads, Burdon was scarcely five feet tall, a small, pot-bellied man who loved to dress in blood-red taffeta, the colour of what he jokingly called his ‘fraternity of the shearing knife’.

In the chambers above Athelstan could hear the screams and shouts of Burdon’s brood of children.

‘Brother Athelstan! Brother Athelstan, come deeper in.’ The friar walked up the macabre chamber, long and narrow, lit only by arrow-slit windows, its wooden floor scrubbed clean, as was the long table which ran down the centre of the room. On shelves along the wall ranged rows of freshly severed heads; these had been washed in brine and recently tarred at the neck, glassy eyes above gaping, bloody mouths gazing sightlessly at him from under half-open lids. Athelstan refused Burdon’s offer of refreshment. He explained why he had come and placed the sack on the table. Burdon, calling blessings down on Sir John, undid the twine and brought out both heads. Clicking his tongue noisily as he critically examined them, the mannekin picked each up, sniffed at them in turn, wetted his fingers and stroked the grey, wizened skin of the two severed heads. He then examined the cut necks. Athelstan had to turn away when Burdon prised open the mouths, poking around with his fingers. Once finished he placed both heads in a space along the shelves.

‘Do you know, Brother,’ Burdon smiled, ‘at night, when darkness falls like a sheet of blackness and the river mists billow in, they come for their heads. Oh, yes! Heart-stricken, bloated and dangerous, the ghosts, the terrormongers, rise from the dismal woods of Hell. They gather here, ushered in by the night hags, a synod of wraiths.’ Athelstan stared at him in disbelief.

‘True, true,’ Burdon lifted his hands towards the shelves, ‘the ghosts of all my guests. I hear them pattering up the steps. Sometimes I glimpse them, smaller than me, hell-borne goblins. They bang on the walls. They gabble like Abraham men then they whisper, a sound like roasted fish hissing on a skillet. But,’ Burdon rose to his feet, ‘not these two. You see, their ghosts cannot cross the sea though their heads did, mind you. I detect salt water on their skins, while I’m sure both were severed not by an English axe but a two-handed broad sword, the execution weapon of Brabant?’ Burdon raised his eyebrows. ‘Flanders? Both heads are dry. The skin withering, the carrion birds will soon peck them to the bone. One head belongs to an old woman, the other to a fairly youngish man. Both have had their tongues plucked out.’

‘So,’ Athelstan sketched a blessing in the direction of the heads, ‘two heads brought from Flanders by Gaunt’s agents. They were undoubtedly the victims of judicial decapitation, probably carried out in secret. Before execution, their tongues were plucked out, the usual statutory punishment for those guilty of grievous calumny and slander. Both heads were to be shown to My Lord of Gaunt.’ Athelstan paused. ‘I suspect the heads were taken by the Upright Men during their assault near Aldgate and searched for when Thibault’s men stormed the Roundhoop.’

‘I heard about both incidents, Brother. I took custody of a number of heads. .’

‘Well, Robert,’ Athelstan clasped him on the shoulder, ‘you have two more.’ He bowed and walked towards the door, reluctant to say any more. After all, Master Burdon might be Thibault’s spy. The friar whispered goodbye and walked into the freezing cold.