The Straw Men

PART SIX

Athelstan pushed open the corpse door and walked into the musty darkness of his parish church. Bonaventure, sprawled in front of one of the braziers, languidly lifted his head then flopped back. Athelstan, followed by Cranston, entered the nave. The friar crouched to scratch behind the cat’s ears. He knelt, comforting Bonaventure as he stared at the pool of torchlight in one of the transepts: the anchorite and Huddle were busy drawing the chalk outline of an angel guarding the gates of Eden with a flaming sword. Both painters stopped their hushed, heated discussion and came out to meet him.

‘All went well at Smithfield and Tyburn?’ Cranston asked.

‘As soft as spring dew,’ the anchorite replied, wiping his hand. ‘But you haven’t come here to enquire about the souls I have dispatched.’

‘No,’ Athelstan declared. ‘I need a word with Huddle about parish business.’

‘About what?’ Huddle’s long, pallid face wrinkled in concern.

‘Oh, this and that.’ Athelstan gently guided Huddle away from the transept and up under the rood screen. No braziers glowed here, nothing but the faint twinkle from the sanctuary lamp and the day’s dying light piercing the narrow windows. It was cold. Huddle began to shiver, so Athelstan went across into the sacristy and brought back one of his robes.

‘Here, Huddle, for a short while be a Dominican.’ The painter swiftly donned it then sat on the sanctuary stool. Athelstan brought two more so he and Cranston could sit before the now very agitated painter.

‘Father,’ Huddle glanced fearfully at Cranston, ‘what is this? Why is My Lord Coroner here?’

‘You have nothing to fear,’ Cranston replied, kindly hiding his own curiosity about what Athelstan really intended.

‘Sir John is my witness.’ Athelstan leaned forward. ‘I will whisper, Huddle. I mean you well. I have come to save your life if not your soul.’

Huddle’s terrified eyes spoke more eloquently than any words. ‘Father, what do you mean?’

‘You are the Judas man here in Saint Erconwald’s,’ Athelstan accused. ‘You, Huddle, who cannot resist a game of hazard, the roll of dice or the spin of a coin. Deep in debt, aren’t you, and just as deep in the counsels of the Upright Men? Your fellow parishioners thought Humphrey Warde the spicer was a spy. He was nothing more than a clever distraction, a catspaw; after all, who would really trust a newcomer, a former resident of Cheapside? My parishioners blamed him for betraying their cause to Gaunt but Warde was only a conduit, wasn’t he? A man who was visited by the real spy, namely you, the parish painter who had to purchase certain mixtures for his frescoes, not to mention those small oyster shells which you use as your colour dish. Or, then again, you need certain spices which are used to preserve paints and brushes. You, Huddle, had every excuse to visit Warde and you certainly did. Much safer, more logical than meeting some stranger dispatched by master Thibault, who’d soon be noticed here in Southwark or, even worse, you, Huddle, being seen with him.’ Athelstan paused. ‘And even more dangerous, Huddle, having to cross London Bridge to be glimpsed in that tavern or this, entering or leaving the Tower or Gaunt’s palace of the Savoy.’ Athelstan grasped Huddle’s paint-daubed hands. ‘No, Huddle, you were the spy and you passed the information on. You visited Warde quite regularly to buy this or that, be it lime or resin or some other ingredient. He could take you into the back of his house where you could talk. You delivered your information which he then dispatched to his masters at the Savoy. God knows how he did that — in a package of spices, a small tun of fresh herbs, a pannier of condiments?’

Huddle simply licked dry lips.

‘It was only a matter of time before suspicion was quickened — how there must be a traitor in the parish of Saint Erconwald’s.’

‘But Warde was never accepted into the community,’ Cranston murmured.

‘No, but he was a spicer; he lived here, he could listen to the gossip and chatter which flow like God’s own rain along the crooked lanes and runnels of my parish. And you helped that, didn’t you, Huddle? It diverted attention from the true traitor; you’d fan the fires of suspicion while acting all righteous. Who knows, you probably offered to place a special vigil or watch on Warde through your regular visits to him.’ Athelstan squeezed Huddle’s hands. ‘You certainly did visit him. Warde’s bills testify to that but. .’ Athelstan picked up his chancery bag and took out the psalter; Huddle quietly moaned and closed his eyes. Athelstan leafed swiftly through the pages and thrust the book towards the painter who opened his eyes and stared at the page which Athelstan tapped with his finger.

‘A unique picture, Huddle: Lucifer falling from Paradise. Now most artists depict Satan as a grotesque with a monstrous head, scaly body and the wings of a giant bat, dragon or some other monster. But this is most original. Look, Lucifer is still God’s light-bearer, a beautiful young man.’ Athelstan pointed towards the transept where the anchorite was still busily working. ‘You copied such a unique idea for the wall painting you and the anchorite have just completed. You did not visit Warde to watch but to talk; you became his friend though a traitor to your own kind. You provided precious information about the Upright Men and received your thirty pieces of silver, or whatever.’ Athelstan fell silent. Huddle, despite the robe, shivered so much his teeth rattled. ‘Warde became your friend,’ Athelstan repeated, ‘so much so he let you read his psalter.’

‘If Watkin and Pike discover your treachery,’ Cranston had now overcome his surprise, ‘friend or not, they will hand you over to the Upright Men. They will take you to some desolate place. It might be days before you die.’

‘I didn’t kill Warde and his family,’ Huddle blurted out. ‘I had nothing to do with that but, there again,’ Huddle swallowed hard, ‘neither did the Upright Men. Watkin and Pike swore that the Wardes had not been placed under the ban.’

‘Why not?’ Athelstan asked. ‘I am curious.’

‘The Upright Men themselves were not sure about Warde, were they?’ Cranston plucked at the front of Huddle’s gown. ‘They too began to wonder how a spicer, distrusted by the local community, could learn so much — not just parish chatter, gossip and rumour but important matters. How did Thibault learn that an ambush was being planned on a freezing, snowbound January morning near Aldgate? Or even worse, that meeting of the Upright Men in the Roundhoop.’ The coroner let go of Huddle’s robe; the artist put his face in his hands and quietly sobbed.

‘It’s true,’ he whispered, taking his hands away. ‘Father, I confess. I love the roll of the dice, the chance of hazard. At the beginning of Advent I visited the Crypt of Bones.’

‘A cozener’s paradise,’ Cranston whispered.

‘At first I won my wagers.’

‘Of course you would,’ Cranston jibed. ‘They always let you win, at first, to lure the bait, to set the trap and so catch the coney.’

‘I played against Lascelles, Thibault’s man.’

‘Lascelles!’ Athelstan exclaimed. ‘Oh, Huddle, they must have been hunting you.’

‘Lascelles is well known,’ Cranston declared, ‘for carrying cogged dice. Despite his funereal looks, Lascelles is a roaring boy and a very, very dangerous one. He would have Minehost at the Crypt of Bones in the palm of his hands.’ The coroner narrowed his eyes. ‘I am sure you were given the best claret, fine foods, the attentions of some buxom wench.’ Huddle just nodded mournfully in agreement. ‘And so the stage is set,’ Cranston declared. ‘You have won! You are celebrating, you are fuddled, you play again and you are trapped.’

‘I lost heavily,’ Huddle agreed. ‘Lascelles turned nasty.’

‘So what did he offer?’ Cranston asked.

‘To cancel my debt and receive his winnings. I became desperate. He offered me a path out of all my difficulties. I agreed but pleaded that I would need some protection. I explained how the cell at Saint Erconwald’s was fast and secure. Lascelles promised that I would be given help. He told me that Warde was Gaunt’s man, body and soul. He had been promised great rewards, an indenture to have the monopoly of the sale of spices to the royal wardrobes at the King’s palaces of Sheen, Woodstock and Westminster.’

Cranston whistled under his breath. ‘A veritable fortune!’

‘Warde said he had done this before. He came to Southwark to receive information as well as report on anything untoward.’

‘Such as?’

‘The massing of armed men, especially along the approaches to the bridge.’

‘Naturally,’ Cranston declared. ‘When the revolt breaks out, the bridge will be the one stronghold vital to any successful enterprise.’

‘Anything else?’ Athelstan insisted.

‘Oh, to discover where weapons might be stored.’ Huddle glanced away. ‘I informed Warde how our bows, clubs, swords and daggers were all buried with Watkins’ father.’

Athelstan closed his eyes and shook his head.

‘You see, Brother, the plan worked. Well, at least for a while. The others never suspected. I explained how I visited the spicer to buy my own materials and used that to keep him under close watch.’

‘Instead you betrayed the Upright Men at Aldgate and the Roundhoop.’

‘Yes, on both occasions, the Upright Men stayed here in Southwark the day before and then moved across the bridge in disguise.’ Huddle shrugged. ‘Master Thibault could make of that what he wanted.’

‘And the most recent attack,’ Cranston demanded. ‘On the Tower?’

‘After the Roundhoop,’ Huddle confessed, ‘the Upright Men became very suspicious and wary of the cell at Saint Erconwald’s but it was too late for them. I culled rumours about fighters being brought in from Essex. Provisions had to be bought, hiding places secured before they crossed the bridge.’ Huddle’s voice faltered. ‘I passed the information to Warde that the Upright Men were gathering for an attack. That’s the last time I saw Warde alive.’ The artist’s voice broke. ‘Humphrey was a good man. He had been promised so much by Gaunt. He didn’t deserve to die. .’

‘Why,’ Cranston demanded, ‘didn’t the Upright Men drive Warde out, visit him at the dead of night, terrify him into confessing? I mean,’ Cranston gestured at the friar, ‘my good friend here was perplexed about that — almost as if the Wardes were protected?’

‘They were,’ Huddle asserted himself, ‘by me — let me explain. Lascelles informed me how Humphrey Warde’s stay in the parish had not been successful. He’d discovered only what everyone knew. I mean, father, it’s common knowledge about Pike, Watkin and Ranulf, isn’t it?’

Athelstan quietly agreed.

‘The Wardes were a laughing stock,’ Huddle continued. ‘I was to change this. At first I gave him mere morsels about where weapons were hidden. Lascelles eventually came back. He sent menacing messages through Humphrey that he needed meat, not just the gravy. I provided information about both the Roundhoop as well as the ambush planned near Aldgate. Now,’ Huddle rubbed his hands vigorously as if he was trying to wash them, ‘up until then I had always protected Warde. I informed the Upright Men how Warde was stupid and to let him run. Better him, I argued, than Thibault send in someone more dangerous. Of course, that all changed after the Roundhoop was stormed. .’

‘Oh, Huddle,’ Athelstan whispered, ‘can’t you see what you have done? The ambush at Aldgate, the Roundhoop affray and the most recent attack on the Tower followed in very swift succession. The Upright Men must have now concluded that Warde was a very dangerous spy. Worse, they will be casting about further. How did Warde acquire such information? It’s only a matter of time before they turn on you, the very man who assured them that Warde was a nonentity. Yes, yes,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘you are wrong, Huddle. I believe the Wardes were placed under the ban but, because the entire cell in Saint Erconwald’s is now tainted, Watkin and Pike were not consulted or informed. I suspect, my friend, a similar judgement has been passed against you.’

Huddle put his face in his hands and began to sob. Athelstan stared hard at this painter whom he had come to love and care for. He had shriven Huddle at Lent and in Advent. He had listened to his secret sins, about his attraction to young men and the thoughts and desires this provoked, as well as his sense of deep shame and guilt. How he tried to lose himself in the world of hazard and chance. Athelstan always heard him out and insisted that Huddle express himself in those beautiful wall paintings which brought to life dramatic stories from the Bible.

‘Father, what will you do? What can I do?’

‘You cannot stay here, Huddle.’ Athelstan smiled bleakly. ‘You know that. You have committed the sin of Judas and, whatever their cause, betrayed those who truly trusted you.’ Athelstan steeled himself against Huddle’s heartrending sob. ‘Trust me,’ Athelstan continued, ‘as God made little apples, the Upright Men’s suspicions about you will now be hardening into a certainty. They will not entrust judgement to the likes of Watkins and Pike.’

Huddle closed his eyes and sighed deeply.

Athelstan rocked backwards and forwards. ‘Indeed, I must tell you this, Huddle. The Upright Men have their own traitor in Thibault’s household. It may be only a matter of time before he learns the truth and passes such information on, if he hasn’t already.’

Huddle would have jumped to his feet but Athelstan pressed him on the shoulder. ‘Or worse,’ he hissed, ‘do you think Lascelles will let you go? Do you think just because the Wardes are dead, Master Thibault doesn’t want more information? I assure you, Huddle, whether you like it or not, before the week is out you will face judgement from both camps. You are in this, Huddle, to the death.’ Athelstan leaned forward and cupped the artist’s face in his hands. ‘So, you are truly finished here. You cannot stay in Saint Erconwald’s, yet I will not, I cannot, hand you over to a gruesome death.’ The friar paused to collect his thoughts.

‘Father, please!’

‘Listen, Huddle. The Dominicans have a house on the outskirts of Durham near Ushaw Moor. You are to go there and hide. I shall write to the father guardian, a friend, a man I trust.’ Athelstan took his hands away. ‘You must become a lay brother for a while. Use your talents to decorate their church.’

‘And Father, what will you do?’

‘I shall tell my parish council how my order has been greatly impressed by Huddle’s marvellous talent. How they needed one of their churches decorated with paintings before the great feast of Easter. How you were reluctant to leave, but I was insistent. Now,’ Athelstan pointed to the corpse door, ‘Go to the priest’s house and wait for me there.’

Huddle left, closing the door quietly behind him. Athelstan made to rise when a thud and clatter at the door made him startle. He hurried down, opened the door and saw Huddle sprawled back, eyes staring, limbs thrashing, hands clutching at the yard-long feathered shaft embedded deep in his chest. Athelstan cried out even as another arrow shaft whipped by his face to clatter against the crumbling door jamb.

‘In God’s name!’ Cranston, crouching low, dragged both Athelstan and the dying artist back into the church, slamming the door shut just before a third arrow shaft thudded into it. Athelstan sat down on the cold paving stones gazing helplessly as Huddle, eyes fluttering, lips bubbling a scarlet froth, legs and arms shaking, choked on his own blood.

‘What is the matter?’ The anchorite hurried across to stare in hushed desperation at his former colleague’s death throes. He knelt down, clutching Huddle’s hand, but the blood welling out of the chest wound as well as from his mouth and nose showed Huddle was in his last extremities. Athelstan remembered himself. Leaning down beside the dying man, he feverishly whispered the absolution, followed by the invocation to God’s angels to go out and greet the departing soul. Sir John left him to it, abruptly opening the corpse door then slamming it shut just as swiftly before another shaft thudded into the wood.

‘What shall we do?’ the anchorite murmured. ‘What is happening here?’

Athelstan leaned across, pressing a finger against the anchorite’s bloodless lips.

‘You are Giles of Sepringham, the Hangman of Rochester, the anchorite. You live here by my grace and favour. You will say nothing,’ Athelstan insisted, ‘and I mean nothing, about what you have seen or heard today. Do you understand? If you do break confidence, you and I, sir, are finished. Do I have your solemn word?’

The anchorite nodded, raising his right hand as if taking the solemn pledge.

‘Now,’ Athelstan breathed, ‘what weapons do we have?’

‘I have a crossbow,’ the anchorite offered.

‘Against an assassin!’ Cranston grunted. ‘Armed with a war bow he could kill us in the blink of an eye?’

Athelstan gazed down at Huddle. The painter now lay quiet, the death rattle faint in his throat, the great chest wound drenched in blood.

‘Was it me?’ Athelstan whispered. ‘Did the assassin think he was loosing at me or you, Huddle, dressed in the robes of a Dominican?’ Athelstan’s stomach lurched at the way death had so casually brushed him. ‘Brother?’ He glanced across at Cranston. ‘You know what I’m thinking, Sir John?’

‘God knows,’ the coroner replied.

‘What if, what if, what if,’ Athelstan broke free from his fear, ‘what if doesn’t matter. A killer lurks outside. He wants to end our lives as you would snuff a candle flame. Well,’ the friar wiped sweaty hands on his robe, ‘Huddle is now past all caring and gone to God, while we, sirs, do have a very powerful weapon.’ Athelstan rose and went across into the dusty bell tower. He seized the oiled ropes and pulled vigorously, tolling the bell, ringing out the tocsin, time and again, until he heard the shouts of his parishioners as they hurried across the icy waste outside to discover what was wrong.

Athelstan stared round the chancery chamber, shuttered and warm, in the King’s lodgings at the Tower. The smooth sheen of the oval table before him glinted in the dancing glow of candlelight. Outside a stiff cold breeze clattered the shutters. Athelstan recalled the events of the previous day: the death of Huddle, the arrival of his parishioners and of course the disappearance of the assassin. Athelstan had quietened and comforted his parishioners, stayed the night in the priest’s house and led Huddle’s requiem early the following morning. Afterwards he had conducted the candle-bearing, funeral procession into God’s Acre. The harsh soil had been broken. Huddle, wrapped in his deerskin shroud, was interred in the frozen mud. Athelstan had performed the last rites, praised Huddle’s work and declared that an assassin had slain the painter for reasons known only to Satan and, Athelstan grimly added, to God. Then he had issued the general blessing for all the faithful dead but added that he intended to conduct a thorough review of burials in the parish cemetery, beginning with the grave of Watkin’s parents. Athelstan had secretly smiled at the consternation this had caused but then left, hurrying across the bridge to meet Sir John at the appointed time in their chamber at the Tower. Now, at the hour of Christ’s passion and death, he had assembled those he wanted to question here in this opulent, warm room.

Athelstan breathed in deeply to control his temper. He had stomached enough secrecy and malevolence. It was time for the truth to be defined and published. He wanted to shake and disturb some of the certainties behind which these people defended themselves. The friar glared round. Thibault, Cornelius and Lascelles sat along one side of the table; on the other were Rosselyn and the Straw Men: Samuel, Gideon, Samson, Rachael and Judith.

‘Brother,’ Thibault’s voice was almost a drawl, ‘break free from your meditations. His Grace the Regent is demanding answers.’

‘In which case we do have something in common,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘So do I. First, however, I do not yet understand what happened during that attack at Saint John’s Chapel, how Barak was murdered and thrown from that window or how Eli was slain so feloniously in his chamber. I confess I do not know who slaughtered the bear keeper, released Maximus and opened that postern gate so the Upright Men could enter the Tower. Nor can I fully account for why the spicer and his family were massacred. However, I have discovered, Master Thibault, that you have a spy or spies in the company of the Upright Men.’ Thibault smirked. ‘And they undoubtedly have a spy close to you.’ The Master of Secrets simply flicked his fingers. ‘Spies, traitors, Judas men,’ Athelstan pointed at Samuel in the Straw Men, ‘that’s what you are, aren’t you? My Lord of Gaunt’s spies as you move through the countryside? You stay in this hamlet, you rest at that village, you collect information.’ Athelstan raised a hand. ‘No, no, please don’t deny it.’ He glanced swiftly at the other Straw Men: he could tell from their faces that he had hit his mark; they sat heads down, shuffling on their stools.

‘Brother Athelstan?’ Thibault protested.

‘You are Flemish, Master Samuel?’ The friar just ignored the interruption.

‘What makes you ask that?’

‘Nothing at all. . pure speculation. Well, are you?’

‘My mother was.’

‘I thought as much. I’ve noticed how My Lord of Gaunt surrounds himself with people from the country he was born in. I suspect you were born in the same city and your parents had some connection with His Grace’s household. You are well versed in the tongue — you must be.’

Samuel nodded warily; his eyes slid to Thibault.

‘You travel to Flanders, Master Samuel and no, don’t mislead me.’ Samuel was now looking directly at Thibault for guidance. They are allies, Athelstan concluded. There is more between them than just miracle plays. Thibault and Samuel, when it comes to their master, think with the same mind and act with the same heart. They are Gaunt’s men, body and soul, in peace and war, day and night, totally devoted and loyal to their royal master. Athelstan had met such before — men who accepted the legal concept of the emperor Justinian, ‘Voluntas principis habet vigorem legis — the will of the prince has force of law’. In other words, if Gaunt wanted something done, they would do it within the law or beyond it.

‘What are you implying?’ Thibault asked testily. He paused at a sudden roar from the royal menagerie. Athelstan recalled that great snow bear bursting into the inner bailey with its blood-flecked paws, gore staining its front.

‘I am not implying anything.’ Athelstan strove to concentrate on the fog of mystery he was trying to thread through. ‘I am saying that Master Samuel and his troupe visited Flanders and travelled the roads of that country. You were looking for something, weren’t you, and you found it.’

‘Enough!’ Thibault shouted, clapping his hands and springing to his feet. The Master of Secrets grasped the silver chain of office around his neck as if it was some sort of talisman. ‘Brother Athelstan, it is best,’ he indicated with his hands, ‘if you all left except. .’ He gestured at the friar and Sir John. The others did. Rosselyn paused to whisper in Thibault’s ear but his master, face all grim, shook his head. Once the chamber was cleared, Thibault bolted the door and sat down, patting his stomach, staring at a point above the friar’s head. ‘Continue, Brother Athelstan.’

‘You know what I am going to say. I can’t state when, but the Straw Men visited Ghent. They eventually discovered a certain lady sheltering at Saint Bavin. They later discovered, or at least Master Samuel did, that this lady, whoever she really is, had been joined by a former royal nurse or midwife, together with the latter’s son, a scrivener. This precious pair were beginning to peddle the story of how this mysterious lady, to whom they had attached themselves, was really the legitimate daughter of King Edward III of England and his wife Philippa of Hainault, and how she had been changed at birth and replaced by the son of a peasant because of some hideous birth defect. The peasant boy, of course, is now My Lord of Gaunt, Regent of England.’ Athelstan paused. ‘I admit this is pure conjecture. I probably have the sequence of events jumbled or even inaccurate, but my conclusion is that the Straw Men are your spies. They, among others, were used to track down your mysterious prisoner as well as the mother and son who had prepared to publish, or at least record, what could have been an outrageous scandal.’

Thibault continued to stare at the point above their heads.

‘Master Samuel immediately informed you as well as your agents in Ghent, the Oudernardes. They seized the former nurse and her son, tortured them, tore their tongues out and beheaded them. The woman, your mysterious prisoner, was then taken into your care and, together with the severed heads of her former patrons, brought to England. A traitor close to you, whoever that is, divulged all or some of this to the Upright Men, hence the attacks at Aldgate and here in the Tower.’

Thibault shifted, lower lip jutting out, a set of ivory Ave beads now threaded his fingers.

‘How did you know?’ he demanded.

‘I searched.’

‘And?’ Thibault raised his head. ‘If this is all true, what is it to you, Friar?’ He smiled with his lips. ‘Should you really know such information?’

‘Don’t threaten me, Thibault, just let us visit this woman.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I am curious to see the cause of so much slaughter. I also want to question her; she may know something.’

‘Such as?’

‘I don’t know until I question her and if I can’t,’ Athelstan shrugged, ‘I also speak for Sir John — I would say we are finished here.’

‘You play with fire, Brother Athelstan.’

‘I’ve warned you once,’ Athelstan snapped, ‘don’t threaten me. I am a Dominican friar. I am here by my own grace and favour. I cannot be detained by the Crown — you know the law, so do I. I would plead benefit of clergy.’ Thibault, fingering his Ave beads, rocked backwards and forwards in his chair.

‘You are clever, Athelstan,’ he lisped. ‘Gaunt truly admires you. He said you would pick up the scent and pursue it ruthlessly.’ Thibault blinked. ‘He also said that you and Sir John could be trusted,’ he laughed abruptly, ‘which is the most rare of virtues.’ Thibault pulled a face. ‘Very well,’ he pointed to the leather-bound book of the Gospels on its intricately carved lectern. ‘Both of you must take the oath that you will not divulge anything you see or hear when you visit the prisoner in Beauchamp. Once I have your oaths, I will take you there.’

Athelstan gazed around the comfortable lower chamber of the Beauchamp Tower. Thibault had led them through the lines of hooded and visored archers and men-at-arms down the steps and into this very cavernous room with its hearth fire and numerous flickering candles. Thick tapestries cloaked the grey walls; straw matting and Turkey rugs warmed the flag stones, while the air was sweet with herb and spice smoke. Cranston was sitting to his right. Thibault, for his own personal reasons, stood behind them. Athelstan tensed as a woman came from behind the drapes which cordoned off the small enclosure that served as the bedchamber. She was dressed in the simple blue robe of a nun; a starched white wimple framed her face, which she kept half hidden behind a gloved hand as if pretending to scratch her forehead. She sat down on the leather-backed chair, blessed herself swiftly and glanced up, her hand no longer covering her face. Athelstan heard Cranston’s swift intake of breath. The woman leaned forward, her small black eyes bright with curiosity as she stared fully at Athelstan.

‘You.’ She pointed a long finger. ‘A Dominican, an inquisitor?’

Her English was good but the accent was heavy and pronounced. She blinked furiously, a nervous gesture. Her hand dropped and she leaned forward again. Athelstan scrutinized her. She was dark skinned, her eyebrows finely etched, lips pushed together as if she was ready to kiss. She was comely enough, though the dark mulberry stain which marked the entire right side of her face could be clearly seen, emphasized by the starched white wimple.

‘Well.’ She smiled. ‘Are you an inquisitor?’ She glanced up at Thibault and the smile faded.

‘I am no inquisitor, mistress. I am Athelstan. This is Sir John Cranston, Coroner of the City. And your name?’

‘Eleanor,’ Thibault answered for her.

‘Not Eleanor,’ she retorted. ‘Call me Mara, for Shaddai has blighted me.’ Her answer caught Athelstan unawares yet he was sure she was making some reference to a verse in the Bible.

‘Why. .?’

Mara, as she called herself, raised her hand and stroked the stain on her face. ‘A birth mark,’ she whispered, ‘but when I saw the play. .’

‘The Straw Men?’

‘Oh, I’ve seen theirs but it was at the first staged in the nave of our convent church that I recognized it — my true name. I realized God has struck me, for God knows what reason.’

Athelstan nodded sympathetically. He’d met such people before who identified themselves with individuals in the Bible, be it Mary Magdalene or Job; after all, hadn’t he called Huddle a Judas? Wasn’t he hunting a child of Cain?

‘And your true origins?’ he asked.

Mara lifted her tearful eyes, small pools of sadness.

‘Brother,’ she murmured, ‘a curse. I always thought I was a foundling raised in that convent of Saint Bavin by the good nuns. I never gave it a second thought. I always considered my mother to be some poor woman who gave birth to me but could not nurse or support me.’ She brushed her eyes with the cuff of her gown. ‘That is, until Evangeline and her son arrived. They seemed fairly prosperous and took lodgings in our guest house; once settled she soon singled me out. She claimed to know the truth about me. I promise, I shall be swift.’ She glanced hard-eyed at Thibault. ‘I am sure the magister has related my story.’

‘He hasn’t,’ Athelstan interposed.

‘Evangeline and her son,’ the words now came in a rush, ‘maintained that I was the true daughter of Edward of England and Philippa his Queen.’

‘What proof did they offer?’

‘Evangeline claimed to be in the birthing chamber when I was born. She would repeat time and again what she alleged to have seen — how I was replaced by a peasant’s son because I was a sickly girl with this mark of God on my face.’

‘Did she say why she had delayed for so long in coming forward to tell you?’

‘She could not answer that except to say that she had been frightened and, of course, she did not know what had happened to me. Only much later did she discover that nothing, in fact, had happened. I had been raised in the same convent where I had been born, so she waited to summon up enough courage to visit me.’

‘But why? And just as importantly, why now?’

‘She claimed others in England would be greatly interested in my story. She said she had that on very good authority.’

‘Whose authority?’

‘She said she couldn’t say because she did not know their names, but Gaunt’s enemies would be interested in who I really was.’

‘Did that interest you?’

‘Brother, I will go on oath. I am not greedy or ambitious. I simply wanted to know the truth. Perhaps Gaunt’s enemies,’ Mara glanced at Thibault, ‘might have helped me.’ She shrugged. ‘Or perhaps even his friends and henchmen. The former nurse did say there were rumours that Gaunt might be illegitimate.’

‘Scurrilous tales,’ Thibault interrupted. ‘Filthy lies about a great prince!’

‘But what proof could she offer?’ Athelstan insisted.

Mara, hands folded in her lap, bowed her head.

‘I mean,’ Athelstan added, ‘with all due respect, mistress, you do not have the look or colouring of a Plantagenet.’

‘I know,’ Cranston intervened. Mara lifted her head.

‘I know,’ Cranston repeated. Athelstan sensed Thibault stiffen behind him.

‘They showed me a likeness of Queen Philippa,’ Mara murmured. ‘Peas in a pod was how Evangeline described both her and me.’ Mara glanced coyly at Cranston. ‘You met Queen Philippa?’

‘I did,’ Cranston declared.

‘And what further proof?’ Athelstan asked. He felt truly frightened for this poor, desolate prisoner. Thibault was, and would be, absolutely ruthless in defence of his master. This woman would not survive another winter.

‘Evangeline persuaded me to ask the lady abbess about my origins. I did so. I discovered I was not a poor foundling but left at the convent by a woman of quality.’

‘Left?’ Athelstan queried. ‘Not born there?’

‘Brother, that was forty years ago.’ She shrugged. ‘That’s all I was told. No manuscripts or records survived. I cannot tell if I was born there and left or taken there and left.’ Mara turned and sipped from a horn-shaped beaker on the side table. ‘Evangeline said her son, a scrivener, would relate my origins and later story. Of course, Brother, as you know, abbeys, monasteries, convents and priories are not closed communities — gossip travels faster than a swift over the cloister garth. I began to have other visitors. Evangeline and her son paid to use the convent chancery. I began to tell them what I knew and the son transcribed it. Then one evening, just before vespers, mailed horsemen arrived in the courtyard; the Oudernardes and their henchman, Lettenhove, along with a cohort of mercenaries. They had words with our lady abbess. I believe,’ her voice sank to a whisper, ‘a great deal of gold and silver changed hands. All documents and possessions were seized. Evangeline and her son were taken up, as was I. I protested. Mother Superior replied that my presence was no longer conducive to the peace of the convent. The Oudernardes would find me a better place.’ She spread her hands. ‘And I suppose this is it.’

‘You’ve been questioned?’

‘Tace,’ Thibault retorted in Latin. ‘Silence, Brother. That is not your business.’

‘You are treated well?’ Cranston demanded.

‘I have every comfort. I have asked Master Thibault to see a play. I know the mummers, the Straw Men, are also here in the Tower. I have heard rumours that two of them have been killed.’

‘Murdered!’ Athelstan declared. ‘And who told you that?’

‘Brother Athelstan, I have a window; servants talk. I’m sorry.’ She paused as if searching for words. ‘I also understand others, whom you call the Upright Men, tried to seize me.’

‘Have you ever had dealings with them?’

‘Never!’

‘Have you ever had any dealings with My Lord of Gaunt’s enemies?’

‘Never.’

‘So how would they know about you?’

‘As I have said, Evangeline would know more about that than me. Or at least she did,’ she added wearily. ‘Until she lost both her tongue and head, or so I was informed.’

Athelstan crossed his arms and stared down at the floor, trying to arrange what he had learnt. He truly believed this woman was an innocent. According to her, the origins of her present misfortune lay with the former nurse Evangeline. Until she’d appeared, this unfortunate had lived in comfortable, safe obscurity. Now Evangeline may have heard rumours, but who prompted her? Had she been approached by Gaunt’s powerful enemies at court?

‘Brother?’

‘I’m sorry,’ Athelstan apologized. ‘You mention the Straw Men. What do you want with them?’

The woman’s face became suffused by a brilliant childlike smile. Athelstan felt a surge of pity. Mara was truly innocent; he sensed she had told him the truth and could say no more. She waved her gloved hands.

‘Brother, I love miracle plays — the colour, the pageantry, the make-believe. I could sit and watch them from Matins to Compline. I would love to see the Straw Men.’

Athelstan glanced over his shoulder at Thibault.

‘It’s possible,’ came the clipped reply. ‘But, Brother, we are finished here, yes?’

Athelstan and Cranston, wishing the woman well, rose and left, joining Thibault in the freezing cold outside. Thibault led them away from the guards.

‘There is a real problem here, Athelstan,’ he whispered, ‘I am concerned about how many people are getting to know our prisoner.’ The friar turned at the sound of laughter which came from the chapel of St Peter ad Vincula, a strange merry sound in this bleak, stone-cold place, the daylight already fading.

‘And what will happen to her?’ Athelstan turned back to Thibault. Thibault’s eyes were as cold, hard and unblinking as those of the giant raven spearing the ground nearby with its beak. The Master of Secrets pulled a face.

‘In media vita,’ he lisped, ‘sumus in morte — in the midst of life, Brother, we are in death. Well,’ he smiled falsely at Cranston. ‘Sir John, when you first met our guest, you took a sharp breath — you gasped. Did you recognize her?’

‘Of course. I did see a likeness between her and Queen Philippa of blessed memory.’

‘And?’ Thibault’s voice was a menacing purr. ‘You see a likeness between our guest and My Lord of Gaunt’s mother? Which means?’

‘Don’t threaten me, Thibault.’ Cranston took a step forward. ‘Don’t put words in my mouth. Queen Philippa was a saint; she had a better soul than you or I. What I believe, and I truly do having watched her closely, is that Eleanor — or Mara, whatever she wants to call herself — is the child of one of the Count of Hainault’s children; certainly not Philippa but one of the men folk: a brother, an uncle, God knows.’ Cranston put on his gauntlets. ‘Every ruling family in Europe has its bastard children. Didn’t our own Henry I of blessed memory have over two dozen? Even today. .’ Cranston’s voice trailed away, in itself an eloquent but gentle reminder to Thibault of Gaunt’s own amorous dealings with Katherine Swynford and others.

‘I shall share your thoughts with My Lord.’

‘Do what you want, but you have the truth already, Master Thibault.’ Athelstan stamped his feet and glanced over to the chapel as another burst of laughter rang out.

‘The Straw Men,’ Thibault explained. ‘Life is so gloomy here, they are staging an impromptu masque. Sir John, you were talking about the truth?’

‘Evangeline and her son confessed, didn’t they, before they died, how their story was a complete fable? How they were arrant liars who retracted every jot and tittle of what they had said? Somewhere, Master Thibault, in your secret coffers lie their confessions sworn on a book of the Gospels, signed, sealed and witnessed. Everything you and your master need.’

‘Sir John,’ Thibault mocked back, ‘how did you know?’

‘It’s surprising what a man and woman will say under torture.’

‘The truth will out,’ Thibault quipped. ‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan,’ he wagged a finger, ‘remember you are on solemn oath. You have seen our prisoner. We now look for further light to be cast on the murderous mayhem which laps around us. We want,’ he threatened, ‘the slayer of Lettenhove and the wounder of Meister Oudernarde there.’ He pointed to the Tower gallows with its frozen cadavers.

‘We are not finished,’ Athelstan declared. ‘We need to talk to Master Cornelius and you know the reason why we do? Either he or Oudernarde, or both, were present when Evangeline and her son were questioned.’

‘So?’

‘You reminded me that I am under oath, and so I am, but I have decided that I must see Master Cornelius.’

Thibault looked as if he was going to refuse.

‘My Lord of Gaunt,’ Athelstan persisted, ‘demands answers. At this moment in time I can’t provide any. I am unable to clear the mist of mystery which cloaks this entire matter. I need to question Cornelius.’

‘About what?’

‘About Evangeline and her son the scrivener. I’m sure Cornelius was present at their interrogation.’

Athelstan glimpsed a flicker in Thibault’s eyes, a fleeting expression. Fear? Apprehension?

‘Out of the cold,’ the Master of Secrets murmured. ‘Let’s get out of this damnable cold.’

They adjourned to Thibault’s chancery chamber. Servants provided goblets of mulled wine, their fragrance delicious, the hot steam smelling of nutmeg and crushed raisin. Thibault became interested in the manuscripts on his desk until Cornelius, shuffling like a shadow, entered the chamber.

The usual bland courtesies were exchanged then Athelstan came swiftly to the point. ‘Master Cornelius, you were present at the convent of Saint Bavin outside Ghent when the Oudernardes took up, arrested, seized or,’ Athelstan spread his hands, ‘abducted a former royal nurse, a midwife who had served in the retinue of the late Queen Philippa. She and her son, a scrivener, were ruthlessly questioned, yes?’

Cornelius glanced at Thibault, who nodded imperceptibly.

‘Yes, Brother, they were questioned. The son was useless, just his mother’s mouthpiece.’

‘Did she tell the truth?’

‘Which is?’ Cornelius stared at them in owl-eyed innocence.

‘That the prisoner in Beauchamp Tower is the true daughter of King Edward and Queen Philippa.’

‘They maintained that but later, under torture, admitted the truth, that she is not.’

‘Of course,’ Cranston intervened, ‘under torture anyone will say anything.’

Cornelius just blinked like some coy girl. ‘Sir John, we know the truth. She knew the truth and eventually confessed it. She was a charlatan and a liar.’

‘If that was the truth,’ Athelstan declared, ‘why did you take it so seriously?’

‘Brother Athelstan, remember your learning. A lie is a lie and can be the father and mother of even greater lies. Lies can swell like the waters of a river. Evangeline was ready to spread lies about one of Europe’s greatest princes; there are those who would seize such an opportunity to create as much mischief as possible. Evangeline had to be taught a lesson, made to confess, confront the truth and be punished for her treason. Evangeline, like all the tribe of counterfeits, was dangerous. She was a filthy little spider ready to spin a cloying, treacherous web.’

‘And that’s my next question. Why did she lie? Why did she venture on to such a dangerous path?’

‘The root of all evil is the love of money.’

‘In this case whose?’

‘She claimed to have been approached by My Lord of Gaunt’s enemies in England, a masked, mysterious messenger who enticed her and her son out. This messenger, this envoy from Hell, promised wealth and guaranteed even more if she sought out a certain woman at Saint Bavin convent and persuaded her that she truly was a royal princess of England.’

‘Who was this messenger?’

‘She couldn’t say. Oh, believe me, Brother, she couldn’t. Trust me, we questioned her most closely.’

Athelstan stared into the man’s sanctimonious face, nothing but a mask, he thought, for a very cruel soul. Cornelius, he suspected, like some of his kind, did not like women. He would truly relish the opportunity to torture one, to break her will.

‘Brother, she told me that the messenger’s face was all hooded. He appeared like Satan and what he offered was too good to resist.’

‘Did he say who had sent him?’

‘Gaunt’s enemies in England.’

‘Who?’

‘She did not say.’

‘And what was she to do?’

‘Go to Saint Bavin. Persuade, convince that woman, now our prisoner. Take her confession, write it down and record it. She was instructed to do nothing with it until “her protectors” — that’s how she described them — came to visit her.’

‘But you came instead?’

Cornelius smiled. ‘We cut off her villainy at the very root.’ He got to his feet. ‘Is there anything else?’

‘No.’ Athelstan also rose. ‘For the moment.’ He blessed both Thibault and Cornelius. ‘There is nothing else.’

‘Well, Athelstan?’ Cranston whispered once they were free of the royal lodgings. ‘Are we any closer to the truth?’

‘No.’ Athelstan pulled his hood closer. ‘Still I pray, as I always do, that God’s grace will hone our wits keen. But, Sir John,’ Athelstan pointed at St Peter’s, ‘it’s wonderful to hear laughter in this grim place.’

The nave of St Peter’s chapel thronged with garrison people who had assembled to enjoy the Straw Men stage an impromptu play at the foot of the sanctuary steps. Athelstan and Cranston watched from the pillared transept as Rachael, garbed in wig and robes, played the cunning wife of Herod the Great. Samuel, dressed in all the tawdry finery of a makeshift king, acted the role of her husband. Samson and Gideon played his henchmen, though now and again slipping into other minor roles. Judith was a female devil, Rachael’s cunning helpmate.

Athelstan watched intently. He recognized the play as the Slaughter of the Innocents. The Straw Men were not staging the entire drama but presenting the earthy subplot about Herod being cuckolded by his wife. Dramatic emphasis was laid on contrasting headwear. Herod constantly grasped his crown while his wife kept a pair of horns beneath her dark murrey cloak or handed these to Judith. Samuel acted as the stiff, unbending tyrant though, once again, as he had in St John’s Chapel, Athelstan was taken by how the Straw Men could shapeshift into different roles. The two women were extremely skilled at this. Rachael could alternate between an imperious vixen to a sly-eyed temptress in a colourful wig as she twisted and turned like a serpent to bait and confuse her husband. She could change both face and voice, her slim but sinuous body being both regal and then, in the blink of an eye, transform into the arrogant sluttiness of a Cheapside strumpet. Many of the young men in the audience whispered and whistled their admiration as Rachael wrapped herself around the seated Herod only to slip behind him to mock with sly grimaces and the horns she held above his head. She’d then sit submissively at his feet or stand with her back to him while flirting lasciviously with someone else. Judith was equally talented. A merry but foul-mouthed demon, she could imitate the manners of a roaring boy, the mincing gait of a court fop, or the sanctimoniously prim attitude of an arrogant clerk. Athelstan noticed how swift and nimble she could be, darting around Herod’s throne or climbing a ladder placed against one of the pillars. She too played the spectators with lascivious looks and gestures but was too agile for any of the men who good-naturedly tried to catch her.

The drama unfolded until somewhere in the Tower a horn wailed and a bell clanged, marking the passing hour. The masque ended. The mummers stripped off their costumes and headdresses. Some of the audience wanted more but Rosselyn, who had been watching the play intently, clapped gauntleted hands, his harsh voice assuring the departing spectators that His Grace’s mummers would perform again. Samuel came up to accept Sir John’s congratulations and two silver pieces. The master of players looked pale and drawn; he mumbled something about staging another masque then shuffled off, accompanied by Gideon. Cranston was about to follow but Athelstan grabbed his arm.

‘I think two of our players want to speak.’ He nodded to where Rachael and Samson were squatted at the base of one of the pillars, half hidden by the darkness of the transept. Rachael waved at them. Cranston and Athelstan walked across. The young woman got to her feet, her sleek body tight beneath the shabby green gown.

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

‘Rachael, what is this?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘You did not cause them.’

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

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

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

‘And where did he go?’

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

Athelstan pronounced absolution.

‘And my penance, Father?’

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

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

‘Rachael?’

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

‘What about them?’

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

‘As was Boaz?’

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

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

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

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

‘Not me, not Samson.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Athelstan nodded.

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

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

Judith simply pulled a face and shook her head.

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

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

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

‘One thing, Judith. .’

‘Father, I cannot speak about my companions.’

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

‘Master Samuel certainly is.’

‘Did you spy for the Upright Men?’

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

‘Yes?’

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

‘Have never accosted you.’

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

‘Yes, Judith. Yes, it is!’