The Straw Men

PART SEVEN

Athelstan crossed himself, rose, genuflected towards the altar and left the chapel. He paused at the roaring from the menagerie which carried clear on the river breeze. Maximus! Athelstan made his way out into the inner bailey, down Red Gulley to St Thomas’ Tower. The entrance door was guarded by men-at-arms; one of these, eager to escape the evening cold, said he would fetch the royal beastmaster. The latter soon appeared and, seeing it was Athelstan, beckoned the friar into the cavernous cage chamber now dimly lit by torch light which jumped and spluttered in the wet breeze. Athelstan noticed how the narrow aisle past the bars had been scrubbed clean though the air was fetid. The great snow bear was not active but lay sprawled in one corner. Athelstan walked the full length of the aisle then turned and came back. He paused to examine the bar around which the great clinking chain was secured. He scrutinized it carefully and realized how quickly someone could pull back the clasp and leave it loose.

‘It was deliberate, wasn’t it?’ Athelstan turned to the beastmaster.

‘Oh, of course, Brother, we can’t understand how the intruder entered.’

‘What do you mean?’

The beastmaster pointed to the door leading down to the wharf, then the great gate which Maximus would go through to swim in the moat.

‘They are always locked, Brother, lest anyone tries to gain entry from the river. If Artorius left by the way we came in, he always locked the door behind him. When he returned, he’d do the same.’

‘But visitors? Artorius allowed Sir John and I to view Maximus.’

‘Oh, come, Brother, we all know why you are here.’

Athelstan smiled and turned away. They left the Tower, and Athelstan beckoned at the beastmaster to follow.

‘Whoever killed Artorius must have first persuaded him to open that door and allow him inside?’

‘Yes, and I reported so to Magister Thibault. Artorius was surly; he didn’t take kindly to visitors.’

Athelstan stared back at the door: of course, the bear keeper had no choice but to admit Cranston yet, even then, silver had changed hands.

‘There is another problem,’ the beastmaster declared. ‘Artorius was an old soldier; he served at Poiters. He was quick-witted, swift on his feet and could defend himself.’

‘What about some member of the garrison?’

‘Artorius despised them as weaklings, while he openly resented Master Thibault and his coven.’

Athelstan thanked him and strolled back into the inner bailey, lost in his thoughts.

‘Again there is a mystery,’ he murmured and stared up at the darkening sky. How could someone persuade Artorius to take him into that aisle then kill him? Athelstan walked on. If he remembered correctly, Thibault had informed him that a crossbow bolt had been loosed straight into Artorius’ forehead so he must have been facing his killer. Athelstan returned to his chamber in the Garden Tower. He fired the brazier, built up the meagre fire then nibbled at the dried bread, meat and fruit left on the platter. He was sure the good coroner would be feasting himself in the Tower refectory. Athelstan washed his hands, sat down at the chancery table and began to list what he termed ‘the steps’ leading into this mystery. Firstly, the attack on Cranston near Aldgate. Secondly, the assault on the Roundhoop. Thirdly, the murderous assault in Saint John’s Chapel. Fourthly, the attack on him outside St Peter’s. Fifthly, the murder of Eli. Sixthly, the slaying of the Wardes. Seventhly, the freeing of the great white bear, the murder of Artorius and the Upright Men’s assault on the Tower. Eighthly, the attack on himself and Sir John at Saint Erconwald’s. Ninthly, the meeting with Eleanor — or Mara — in Beauchamp Tower. Athelstan studied these steps. Was there, he wondered, dipping his quill into the ink, anything to connect all these? Was it the same one person behind all the mayhem, or most of it? Athelstan conceded that he was working on imperfect knowledge and uncertain facts. However, he reasoned, if one person was responsible for the murders, the assaults and the treachery, that person was not only a professional assassin but one who could move freely both in the Tower and outside it. Yet then again, according to what Athelstan knew, Thibault had severely restricted all passage in and out of the Tower; only he and Cranston had been permitted to leave and re-enter the fortress as they wished. Yet who had left the Tower and gained such easy entry into the Warde household to deal out death so silently, so carefully? And had the same person, armed with a war bow, struck down Huddle? If a professional assassin was at work outside the Tower, that would explain everything which had occurred beyond its walls, but Athelstan was sure that the same person was responsible for the attack on him near St Peter’s as well as the murder of Eli. Athelstan curbed his annoyance; try as he might, he could make little sense of what had happened. He drank a full goblet of wine, finished the meagre platter food and returned to his scrutiny.

‘If I make no progress,’ he whispered, ‘perhaps I am following the wrong path, but where is the right one?’ Athelstan felt himself slacking. He was hungry but also tired and did not want to brave the cold outside. He prepared himself for sleep, wrapped a heavy military coat around him and lay down on the cot bed, murmuring the opening words of the sequence from the Mass of the Holy Spirit. He fell into a deep sleep, disturbed slightly by Sir John returning, but then slipped back into his dreams even as the good coroner wished him goodnight. Both were awakened, just as a greying dawn broke, by the bell booming out the tocsin. He and Cranston hurriedly dressed, stumbling out into the eye-watering, limb-numbing freezing air. Mercifully it had not snowed but what lay on the ground had hardened into a sheet of slippery ice. The sky was crystal clear, the stars beginning to disappear. Somewhere a night bird shrieked, answered by the bell-like howling of a dog. The tocsin continued. The tower buildings emerged out of the mist like brooding monsters. Torches flared. Shouts and cries trailed. An archer, stumbling on the ice, hurried up pointing to his right.

‘Bowyer Tower!’ he exclaimed, though the rest of his words were muffled and lost. Cranston and Athelstan, clinging on to each other, staggered and stumbled until they reached the circle of cressets clustered near the soaring Bowyer Tower. Cornelius, Lascelles and Thibault were already there. A man-at-arms was pointing up the side of the tower while another was pounding on its locked door. Cranston and Athelstan joined them, staring up through the gloom at Master Samuel, dressed in his robe and cloak, dangling by his neck from a thick rope lashed to some clasp in the chamber window, its shutters wide open, through which Samuel had either been flung or thrown himself. Samuel’s corpse exuded its own singular horror, just swaying slightly, the toes of his boots pointed down, hands by his side, fingers slightly curled, his frosted face almost hidden by his hair. The creak of the rope and the clattering of one of the shutters provided a sombre, funereal sound.

‘The morning watch found him.’ Thibault, shrouded in his cowled cloak, edged his way out of his circle of henchmen. He pointed back to where the man-at-arms still pounded at the door. ‘We cannot gain entry. Apparently no one else is within.’ He paused as an enterprising archer brought along a close-runged ladder which could reach the window.

‘Why not go through the one below?’ Cranston pointed to the shuttered window of the ground chamber just beneath the swaying feet of the corpse.

‘If we have to,’ Thibault rasped. ‘But this is swifter. Right.’ He gestured at the archer to go up the ladder.

‘No,’ Athelstan intervened, ‘I will go.’ And before Cranston could stop him, Athelstan, begging the archer to hold the ladder steady, climbed up. As he passed the corpse he noticed its clothes were stiff with cold, the hands and face deeply frosted; the open shutters were also covered in a white dustiness which showed they’d been open for most of the freezing night. He reached the chamber and clambered in. The braziers had sunk low in the chilly air. Athelstan, murmuring the requiem, found a taper and hastened around the room. He lit the large lantern horn on the table. As he did so he noticed the rumpled bed, the one goblet and food platter on top of a trunk. The lights of the lantern and freshly lit candles strengthened, making the shadows shift. Athelstan scrutinized the goblet and platter but could smell nothing tainted. He swiftly surveyed the rest of the chamber.

‘Thibault will sweep through this like the wind,’ Athelstan whispered to himself, ‘so I must be just as quick.’ He examined the clothes hanging from pegs as well as a few lying on the floor. The small treasury casket crammed with coins seemed untouched. The other coffers and chests simply held clothes, belts and hoods. Eventually Athelstan discovered what he was looking for, a small iron-bound chancery coffer. He hastily sifted through its contents: bills of purveyance, indentures, memoranda and a few personal letters, as well as strange jottings on scraps of parchment made against the names of villages, towns and hamlets. ‘The fruits of your spying,’ Athelstan murmured. He studied these carefully but put them back. At the bottom of the coffer he found a book; it looked like a leather-bound book of hours, but when he undid the clasp he realized it was a master book of plays, masques and dramas. Samuel must have copied these from other manuscripts. He ignored the calls and shouts from below as he continued his search. He realized this was not Samuel’s personal chamber, just temporary lodgings in the Tower, so there would be no secret hiding place. Satisfied that he had done what he could, Athelstan crossed to the door and studied the eyelet high in the wood. He pulled this back and peered out — it was very similar to the one in the door of Eli’s chamber. Athelstan pushed and pulled back the shutter, noting how smoothly it moved. Athelstan stood staring at it wondering about the possibilities but the continued shouts from below shook him from his reverie. He drew back the bolts and turned the great key in the lock. The stairwell outside was empty and cold, its corners coated with mouldy cobwebs. He returned, took a candle and went down the stone spiral staircase. The door at the bottom was bolted and locked but the key was missing. Athelstan crouched down, holding the candle close to the ground. He caught the glint of metal then looked back at the gap under the outside door, wide enough for a constant draught of icy air. Athelstan ignored the hammering and shouts from outside. He picked up the key and studied the door to the ground floor chamber slightly set back in a narrow recess to his left. He tried the key in its lock but it didn’t work. He grasped the iron ring and pushed hard; the door still held firm. From outside Cranston shouted his name.

‘My apologies, Sir John,’ he murmured. ‘You must be worried — I did not intend that.’ He unlocked the outside door and was virtually pushed aside as Thibault rushed in, shouting at his men to search Master Samuel’s chamber and cut down the corpse.

‘Well,’ the Master of Secrets turned on Athelstan, ‘you took your time!’ Athelstan glanced swiftly at Sir John, who knew exactly what he’d been doing.

‘I had to look for the key,’ Athelstan shrugged, ‘but now you are in. Master Samuel is dead, probably suicide: the door of his chamber was locked and bolted from within. I would like his corpse laid out on the bed — I must examine it.’ Thibault nodded and, pushing through the throng, tried the door to the bottom chamber.

‘It’s locked,’ Athelstan declared, ‘and there is no sign of any key.’

‘Force the shutters,’ Thibault shouted over his shoulder, ‘and where is Rosselyn, my captain of archers? He should be here!’ Thibault, followed by Athelstan and Cranston, walked up the steps. Samuel’s frozen corpse had been hauled back through the unshuttered window and laid on the bed. Cornelius, who had been trailing behind them, bustled through to administer Extreme Unction. Athelstan and the rest waited until he had finished, then the friar swiftly inspected the corpse. He established that there were no wounds to the back of the head, no scars or cuts to the hands or wrists. He pulled up the ice-sodden jerkin and scrutinized the dirty white torso marked with old scars but displaying no fresh wound or injury.

‘So,’ Athelstan declared, straightening up, ‘according to the evidence, late last night or very early this morning, Master Samuel, for whatever reason,’ Athelstan pointed to the great iron clasp fastened into the wall beneath the window, ‘took the rope intended for escape should a fire break out. He secured one end to that clasp; the other he tied around his neck and threw himself out of that window.’ Athelstan picked up the sawn-off noose and examined the slipknot.

‘Samuel would be skilled in that,’ Cranston declared, ‘constantly packing, lashing up coffers, baskets and chests.’ Athelstan agreed and returned to the corpse to examine the deep weal around Samuel’s throat. The wound was a dull red where the coarse rope had tightened and dug deep into the flesh. Turning the head, Athelstan examined the contusion caused by the bulky knot behind the right ear. The friar knew enough about hangings, be it execution or suicide, to realize all was in order. ‘God forgive me,’ he whispered, ‘if I can call it that.’

‘Pardon, Brother?’ Thibault tentatively approached the bed, pausing at the crashing which broke out below as the thick shutters on the lower chamber eventually shattered and crashed to the ground. This was followed by a sharp wail and keening.

‘The Straw Men,’ Cranston declared. ‘They must have heard the news.’

‘Master Thibault! Master Thibault!’ An archer came bounding up the steps, bursting into the chamber. ‘Master Thibault!’ He paused for breath. ‘Domine — you must come, you must see this! Rosselyn is dead, foully murdered.’

Thibault swept from the chamber, Cranston and Athelstan hastening behind. A crowd had assembled, blocking the entrance to the lower chamber. Thibault screamed at them to stand aside then, followed by Cranston and Athelstan, entered the dark, foul-smelling room. Grey light poured through the now-open window. Two archers stood, torches held high; their juddering glow only made the sight they were guarding even more hideous. Rosselyn, dressed in his leather jacket and leggings, sat on a high stool with his back against the wall. The hood of his jerkin had been pushed back, his face all twisted, his right eye half open. Blood crusted the mouth and nose. The look frozen on his face by death was one of agony at the long rapier dagger which had been thrust deep into his left eye socket.

‘Lord and all his angels,’ Athelstan breathed, wrinkling his nose at the rank stench. He peered closer: the corpse’s face was stained with filth, the slimy dirt on the dead archer’s clothing glimmering in the torch light.

‘The bucket.’ One of the archers leaned down, picked up the leather pail and handed it to Athelstan. He sniffed at the fetid smell then did the same to the corpse.

‘The bucket was probably left here,’ the archer observed. ‘Used to clean up some mess then never emptied. Well,’ he shrugged, ‘not until now. The assassin must have poured it over Rossleyn — he reeks like a midden heap. Why should someone do that?’

‘Sharp of eye and keen of wit,’ Athelstan congratulated the archer. ‘I wish I could answer your question.’ He took the cresset torch from the man’s hand and paused at the cries and wails coming from outside. Athelstan pointed at the door. ‘Master Thibault, please ensure that no one goes up to Samuel’s chamber. I would be grateful if the door to this room was closed over.’ Thibault, now clearly frightened, fingers to his lips like a fearful child, could only nod in agreement. He went to it, shouted his orders and came back, slamming it behind him.

‘What is this?’ the Master of Secrets whispered. ‘Rosselyn was My Lord of Gaunt’s most trusted henchman, he kept guard here in the Tower. He was a veteran, a seasoned soldier; how could he be killed so easily, like some pig in a sty?’ He crossed over to the corpse: staring into the face as if the dead man could answer. Athelstan carried the torch and crouched, scrutinizing the corpse: the mire from the bucket had mixed with the blood which had spouted from the pierced eye, as well as the nose and mouth, to form a gruesome black mask.

‘He certainly died swiftly,’ Athelstan observed. ‘The dagger is long and sharp; it would shatter the humours of the brain. Rosselyn was sitting down. The attack was so swift, so deadly he’d be shocked, unable to move. Strange.’ He lowered the torch as close as he could, aware of Thibault standing beside him. ‘Oh, yes, very strange,’ he mused.

‘What is?’ Cranston queried.

‘Sir John, Master Thibault, the dagger pierced the eyelid — look at the right eye half open. Now that could just be an effect of death, but I suspect that Rosselyn had both eyes closed when he was stabbed. You, sir,’ Athelstan beckoned at a second archer, ‘bring your torch closer.’ The extra light illustrated the full grotesque horror of Rosselyn’s face: the thick veil of dirty blood, the half-open right eye, and the dagger pushed into the left almost to the hilt so deep, so violent that the eye had burst like an overripe plum.

‘Was he asleep?’ Thibault asked. ‘Drugged with some opiate?’

‘I asked myself the same question about Samuel,’ Athelstan declared, drawing away. ‘But there was only one goblet, a small flagon and a food platter. I detected no taint. Is there anything here?’ Athelstan grasped the second torch and, holding both up, walked round that dismal, desolate chamber with its flaking walls and crumbling plaster, a squalid mess underfoot. There was nothing but rubbish, broken pieces of tawdry furniture and a few cracked pots and bowls. ‘This hasn’t been disturbed for months, perhaps years,’ Athelstan commented.

‘The chamber was unused,’ one of the archers agreed. ‘A storeroom for rubbish.’

Athelstan moved to the open window, gratefully breathing in the fresh air. He peered out; night was over but a dense mist had swept in. He examined the shutters, the ruptured clasps and shattered bar.

‘I helped to break in,’ the archer declared. ‘The shutters were firmly clasped.’

‘And?’

‘We climbed in and saw poor Rosselyn. Who could do that? He would not give up his life easily.’

‘What else did you find?’ asked Athelstan, moving back to the corpse. He gently moved the head and felt the grizzled hair at the back. ‘No blow,’ he declared. ‘I do believe Rosselyn was conscious and awake when he was murdered. Well?’ Athelstan turned back to the archer. ‘What else did you find?’

‘The chamber key, close to his boot.’

‘That was probably slid back under the door.’ Athelstan grasped the handle of the rapier dagger, drawing it out, trying to ignore the stomach-churning plopping sound, not to mention the blood and mucus which seeped out. Athelstan felt his robe brush the dead man’s right hand; the fingers were curled but Athelstan glimpsed the scrap of parchment pushed there. He pulled this out, beckoning forward the archer now holding both torches.

‘Give it to me,’ Thibault demanded.

Athelstan ignored him. He unrolled the piece of parchment and loudly recited the doggerel verse scribbled there.

‘When Adam delved and Eve span,

Who was then the gentleman?

Now the world is ours and ours alone,

To cut the Lords to heart and bone.’

‘The Upright Men!’ Thibault rasped, plucking the parchment from Athelstan’s fingers. ‘But how could they gain entry here? How could they trap and kill a man like Rosselyn? Look around you, Athelstan, there is no disturbance no signs of struggle or any resistance. Rosselyn must have been drunk or drugged.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Then how?’ Thibault demanded. ‘What in God’s name was he doing here in the first place? Did he kill Samuel?’

‘How could he?’ Cranston asked. ‘Samuel’s chamber was locked and barred from the inside.’

‘For the moment,’ Athelstan declared, ‘I cannot answer these questions. Master Thibault, have both corpses taken to the Tower infirmary — they should be stripped ready for shrouding. I must examine each again before they are coffined. God knows if that might reveal anything more of this mystery.’

Athelstan settled himself comfortably in the chair in Thibault’s council chamber in the royal lodgings. Cranston sat to his right, while the rest were grouped around the table. The Straw Men, Samson, Rachael, Judith and Gideon were distraught at the death of Master Samuel, their tear-streaked faces ashen, strips of black mourning cloth tied to their clothes. Thibault, sitting at the far end, appeared distracted. Lascelles, standing behind him, constantly fingered the pommel of his sword. Cornelius threaded Ave beads as if lost in his own devotions. Athelstan sensed some of this must be pretence, people wearing masks to confront others wearing masks. He was utterly convinced that Rosselyn’s killer was here in this chamber and, despite appearances, even Master Samuel’s. Athelstan was convinced that there was something very wrong with that apparent suicide, though what he couldn’t say. He drummed his fingers gently on the leather master book of plays taken from Samuel’s chamber. Thibault had allowed that as he had permitted Athelstan to search Rosselyn’s narrow chamber. He and Cranston had discovered nothing though that came as no surprise; he suspected that as soon as Rosselyn’s corpse had been discovered, Thibault’s henchmen would have scrutinized the dead archer’s belongings. Knowing what he did of Thibault, Athelstan accepted that the Master of Secret’s minions, be it Rosselyn or Samuel, would be under strict instruction to keep as little as possible in writing. After all, what was said in secret could never be traced. The friar had also examined Rosselyn’s naked corpse in the Tower infirmary, but apart from that hideous wound to the left eye he could discover nothing to explain the archer’s mysterious death. Samuel’s naked corpse had also failed to produce any fresh evidence.

‘Brother Athelstan,’ Thibault called out, ‘we are waiting.’

‘So is God,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘for the killer I hunt.’ The friar gathered himself, steeling his mind, will and soul to concentrate on the task in hand.

‘Master Samuel’s chamber,’ he began, ‘was locked and secured from within. No secret entrances or passageways exist. After apparently securing the door to his chamber and drinking a little wine and eating some food, Samuel took that rope and ended his life. Why?’ He turned to the Straw Men, who could only gaze tearfully back.

‘Did you meet Master Samuel last night?’

‘No.’ Rachael shook her head. ‘He retired very early. He left Gideon, Samson, Judith and myself playing chequers in the refectory with some of the guards. Eventually, when we retired,’ she turned to her companions, ‘the chapel bell was tolling the end of the day.’

‘And did Samuel betray any dark mood?’ Cranston asked.

‘No,’ Samson replied, lower lip jutting out, ‘he was quiet and withdrawn, but then again, so are we.’ He waved a hand. ‘This business. .’ His voice trailed away.

‘Brother Athelstan,’ Gideon said forcefully, ‘we know nothing.’

‘Master Thibault, do you?’

Gaunt’s Master of Secrets still seemed profoundly shocked by Rosselyn’s brutal murder.

‘I hardly spoke to Samuel,’ Thibault murmured. ‘There was no need. How was all this done?’

‘According to the evidence Samuel committed suicide.’ Athelstan took a pair of Ave beads from his wallet, fingering the cross. ‘Rosselyn, on the other hand, was lured into that chamber by someone close enough, swift enough to drive that rapier blade deep into his left eye. Now,’ Athelstan stared round, ‘what was Rosselyn doing there?’ Nobody replied. ‘Why did he have his eyes shut?’ Athelstan let the silence hang for a while. ‘Was he drunk or drugged with some opiate?’ Athelstan cleared his throat. ‘How could a veteran warrior be killed so expertly with no sign of any struggle? And why did the assassin abuse Rosselyn’s corpse by throwing that bucket of filthy water over him? The murderer came and left like a thief in the night, locking the door behind him, pushing the key under the door. He did the same to the outside entrance.’

‘Surely,’ Rachael spoke up, ‘it’s a strange coincidence that both men died in the same tower? Samuel committing suicide in the chamber above, Rosselyn murdered in the room below.’

‘Were there guards, sentries?’ Cranston asked.

‘Sir John,’ Thibault beat his fingers against the table, ‘the weather is freezing cold, the nights are as dark as pitch. .’

‘And the supervision of the evening watch?’ Lascelles spoke up abruptly.

‘Was Rosselyn’s charge, yes. .?’

‘Yes, Brother.’

‘Master Cornelius,’ Athelstan asked, ‘you will see to the burial of both corpses?’

The chaplain murmured he would. Athelstan picked up the book of plays. ‘I think I am finished here for the while.’ He made to rise but Thibault gestured at him to sit.

‘Brother Athelstan, Sir John, I need to speak to you alone.’

‘Wait.’ Athelstan held up a hand as the rest rose. ‘Tell me now: is there anything anyone knows that will cast even a glow of taper light on these mysteries?’ Athelstan stared down at the floor. ‘Silence again,’ he murmured, lifting his head. ‘Ah, well, Master Thibault, you want words with us.’

The Master of Secrets just nodded. He had a hushed conversation with Cornelius about both victims having a requiem Mass in the Tower chapel followed by swift burial in the adjoining God’s Acre. Once the luxurious chamber was emptied, Thibault leaned his elbows on the table.

‘My Lord of Gaunt will not be pleased.’

‘And neither are you,’ Athelstan retorted brusquely. ‘Your spies among the Upright Men, the painter Huddle and the Wardes lie dead and buried but the traitor close to you remains hidden. That is your concern, is it not?’ Thibault raised a hand in agreement.

‘I never dreamed,’ he breathed, ‘to nurture a viper.’

Athelstan felt tempted to reply that those who play above viper holes should not object if they get bitten, but discretion was the better path.

‘Master Thibualt,’ Athelstan rose to his feet, ‘I understand your concerns. I shall do what I can.’

‘What can you do?’ Cranston asked once they had returned to their own chamber.

‘Pray,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘reflect and think.’ The friar was true to his own word. He washed, shaved and changed his robes, then walked over to celebrate Mass in St Peter’s chapel. The only congregation was the coroner and a young lady whom Athelstan had glimpsed before because of the brindle-coloured greyhound which followed her everywhere. After they had broken their fast in the refectory, Cranston announced that, despite the freezing weather, he was off to the city. Athelstan accompanied him to a postern gate in the south-east wall, bade him farewell and trudged back across the ice. A group of children were playing ‘Hodman Blind’, shrieking at the boy who was Hodman not to lower the blindfold and keep his eyes shut. Athelstan watched them for a while then continued on to his own chamber. He made himself comfortable and reviewed the steps he had already constructed, adding two more: Samuel’s apparent suicide and Rosselyn’s gruesome murder. The friar brooded over his collection of facts but could see no logic or order. He took the book of plays from his chancery satchel and leafed through the pages. He enjoyed reading the transcripts of miracle plays and the plots of the different masques. He paused at one, his eye caught by the word ‘gleaning’ and the list of characters: Boaz, Mara, Naomi and Ruth. Athelstan crossed himself; his belly tingled with excitement as he studied the short play, ideal for any hamlet square or the nave of its church.

‘Of course, the Book of Ruth,’ he whispered. ‘Oh, Lord, save me.’ He scribbled a note on a scrap of parchment, got to his feet, threw a cloak about him and searched out Master Thibault in the royal lodgings. The Master of Secrets caught Athelstan’s excitement; his eyes narrowed as he clasped the friar’s hands.

‘Brother, what is happening?’

‘Not for now, not for now, Master Thibault, but I need two favours.’ He handed across the scribbled note. ‘Please give that to Lady Eleanor, your mysterious guest, and ask for an immediate reply.’

‘And secondly?’

‘I need a copy of the Bible, the Vulgate as translated by the blessed Jerome.’ Thibault took the scrap of parchment, still trying to press Athelstan on what was happening but, when the friar refused to answer, he promised the Bible would be brought immediately to Athelstan. Within the hour both requests had been answered and Athelstan stood before the lectern in his chamber. He hurriedly turned the stiffened leaves of the Bible until he found the Book of Ruth. He swiftly read the story of how Ruth, a Moabite woman, was widowed but when Naomi, her mother-in-law, decided to leave Moab for Judah, Ruth, the loyal daughter, insisted on following. What happened next led to Ruth becoming an ancestor of David from whose line the Messiah came. Athelstan read the story carefully. He listed all the characters and returned to the ‘steps’ he had drawn up beginning with the attack near Aldgate. He tried to fit into each one a possible assassin but he could not establish a logical development. Frustrated, he tried again and again until he flung the quill pen down, took his cloak and tramped round the Tower. He visited the scene of each murder, hoping to recall who was where and doing what. He stayed sometime in the chapel of St John, sitting at the base of one of the pillars, staring through the cold darkness trying to visualize what had happened. The crossbow bolts whirling so swiftly, the dramatic appearance of those severed heads. He racked his brains as he recalled who was where, who had fled and who had stayed. He stared around the oval-shaped chapel, concentrating on how the top half near the rood screen had so swiftly emptied after the attacks. So how, he thought furiously, had they been carried out? The only logical conclusion he could reach sent him scrambling to his feet. He hurried back to his chamber where Cranston sat toasting his toes before the fire as he savoured what he called, ‘the sweetest chicken leg in London with the claret to match’.

‘There are two of them!’ Athelstan exclaimed, shaking off his cloak and sitting down at his chancery desk.

‘Most chickens do have two.’

‘No, no, no,’ Athelstan laughed, ‘two assassins, Sir John, not one. Stupid, stupid friar,’ Athelstan continued. ‘I did think of this before but dismissed it too soon. I forget my logic: never dismiss a possibility until it’s proved to be impossible.’

‘Ah, well,’ Cranston murmured. ‘Perhaps perfection can never be found beyond a well-roasted chicken. Brother, are you sure?’

‘Yes,’ Athelstan smiled over his shoulder. ‘Two killers, but which two?’ Athelstan concentrated on building a logical argument based on the syllogism that there were two assassins. He worked late, absent-mindedly informing Cranston that he would eat and drink anything the coroner brought from the Tower buttery. Athelstan did so and returned to his studies, working until his eyes grew so heavy he began to nod off over the scraps of parchment littering his desk. The following morning he celebrated his Jesus Mass, broke his fast and returned to his syllogism. Sir John tried to question him but Athelstan kept bringing the conversation back to the ‘steps’ he’d constructed, urging Sir John to recall all the details he could.

Eventually, as early evening crept in, Athelstan made his decision. He stared at the names of possible culprits, yet what evidence could he produce? Moreover, he had failed to resolve how Eli and Rosselyn had been murdered or if Master Samuel had truly committed suicide. Athelstan now realized what had happened at the Roundhoop, the attacks on himself both here and St Erconwald’s, the massacre of the Wardes, the freeing of the great snow bear and the Upright Men’s assault on the Tower. Yet Eli and Rosselyn’s murders remained an enigma. How had that young man been killed by a crossbow bolt in a locked, barred chamber? No opening could be found. The eyelet had been fastened shut, stuck hard in an ancient door by the passage of time, the chamber shutters barred so the assassin could not have escaped by the window. Or Samuel’s apparent suicide. If he had been murdered, why was there no mark or violence in his chamber or on him? The assassin could have climbed down using both rope and corpse to reach the chamber below but what then? And Rosselyn, found sitting in that lower chamber with a dagger piercing his left eye? The evidence pointed to Rosselyn’s eyes being closed. Was he sleeping? Yet as a veteran soldier he would have been very alert to any danger. He could have been drugged with some opiate, yet there wasn’t a shred of evidence for this. And why had the assassin drenched him in that filthy water which reeked like a midden heap? Why did Rosselyn close his eyes? When did anyone close their eyes? Athelstan recalled the children playing Hodman’s Blind. Athelstan then wrote on a scrap of parchment: When would any adult close his or her eyes outside of sleep? When did he? Athelstan began to list these and abruptly paused at a surge of excitement. He had it! He returned to Eli’s murder and that of Rosselyn. Yes, he had it! He was sure. He had unmasked the culprits, the two assassins, except for why they had been killed.

Athelstan waited until Sir John returned from his ‘devotions’ in the buttery; he asked him to search out the surveyor of the King’s works in the Tower and make enquiries about the door to Eli’s chamber. Athelstan now concentrated on drawing up what he called his bill of indictment. Cranston returned with the answer Athelstan already expected. He quietly congratulated himself and continued his summation, steeling his will against the heinous consequences of his conclusions. Once finished, Athelstan revised his ‘billa’. He did this time and again then turned to the coroner.

‘Now,’ he said quietly. Cranston, sitting on the edge of his bed, put down the book of plays and stared at the friar.

‘Now what, Brother? Soon it will be dark.’

‘And we must be gone, Sir John, the sooner the better from this benighted place. Do not cause any alarm or provoke the suspicions of Magister Thibault or his henchmen. Quietly seek out the Straw Men and bring them to me, please.’ Cranston dressed and swept out through the door. Athelstan prepared the chamber, placing a stool in the centre of the room between the two beds. He cleared the chancery table, pushing the sheets and scraps into his chancery satchel, and waited. Cranston returned with the four woebegone players. Athelstan could only secretly marvel at the sheer skill of the assassin’s acting. He greeted all of them, warmly asking Samson, Gideon and Judith to leave and wait in the refectory until he’d finished asking Rachael a few questions about Master Samuel. All three looked puzzled but shrugged and left. Athelstan waved at the stool, asking Rachael to sit while he took her cloak, offered her wine and complimented her warmly on her fresh gown of dark murrey. The young woman, her glorious red hair falling thickly either side of her lovely white face, watched intently, her green eyes slightly slanted, hard and unblinking despite the smile on her pretty lips.

‘Mistress Rachael?’

‘Brother Athelstan?’

‘When did we first meet?’

‘Why, Brother, here in the Tower, Saint John’s Chapel.’ She rounded her eyes. ‘Remember?’

‘Oh, I do. As I remember the plump whore in the Roundhoop all dressed, or rather disguised, in her orange wig and tawdry finery. That was you, wasn’t it? Yes, that’s when we truly first met.’

‘Brother, why should I be there?’

‘To meet your lover, Boaz.’

The smile on the woman’s lips faded.

‘Boaz,’ Athelstan continued evenly. ‘That was his name. Your lover, a former member of the Straw Men who had grown sickened of what he saw and heard. He’d become tired of being Samuel’s lackey who, in turn, was that of Magister Thibault, My Lord of Gaunt’s Master of Secrets. A true serpent, Thibault, using a troupe of strolling mummers to spy on the villages and communities they entertained.’

‘I told you that they also. .’

‘Oh, by the way, I don’t believe that Samuel had anything to do with the Upright Men. He was always Gaunt’s man; that was your lie to distract me. The Upright Men left your company alone, satisfied to have two of their following in it — you and Boaz.’

‘My confession to you,’ she glanced sharply at Cranston, ‘was under the seal of the Sacrament.’

‘And it remains so. I am just commenting on the possibility that Boaz was an Upright Man who slipped away to join his comrades. He and you formed a pact. He would leave while you would remain with the troupe to keep everything under watch. The Upright Men would be pleased with that. You truly loved Boaz, didn’t you? He took his name from the Book of Ruth in the Old Testament. In that story Boaz falls deeply in love with the Moabite woman, Ruth, and she with him. They met when Ruth was gleaning Boaz’s fields behind his reapers. In both your eyes, their story was being re-enacted in your lives. You were his Ruth, weren’t you?’ Athelstan stared at this young woman, a true killer, yet her great tragedy was that a fiercely fatal and frustrated love had turned her so.

‘You both played your part in a deadly masque even as you staged the Bible story here and there and, above all, in the convent of Saint Bavin’s at Ghent where the woman Eleanor, now Thibault’s prisoner in Beauchamp Tower, was sheltering. She had seen the play before but was much taken by your interpretation. Indeed, she identified herself with one of the characters, Naomi, Ruth’s mother-in-law. Like Naomi, Eleanor changed her name to Mara, meaning “bitterness” because God,’ Athelstan touched the side of his face, ‘had marred her skin. She had also become the plaything of those who wished to meddle in My Lord of Gaunt’s murky and very dangerous pool of politics.’

‘We agree on some things, Brother.’ The reply was icy, belying the smiling mouth.

‘Once Samuel returned from Flanders,’ Athelstan continued, ‘he moved to the shires. Your beloved Boaz, however, could tolerate it no longer. He left the company of the Straw Men but not before swearing his love for you. Perhaps he quoted that marvellous hymn of loyalty from the Book of Ruth, how does it go?’ Athelstan closed his eyes.

‘Wherever you should travel, I shall travel,

Wherever you live so shall I,

Your kin shall be my kin,

Your God shall be my God,

I shall die wherever you shall,

There shall I be buried.

Let Yawheh send all kinds of ills against me,

And more if need be,

If anything but death should separate me from you.’