The Straw Men (12 page)

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

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

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

‘I agree,' Lascelles murmured.

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

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

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

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

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

‘And were the window shutters open or closed?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘But Barak?'

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

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

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

‘Sir John, wait here.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Brother . . .?'

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

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

‘Is Barak the murderer?'

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

‘Why?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘And yet you have discovered something?'

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

‘And?'

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

‘How do you know that?'

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

‘Someone? Someone who?'

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

‘And the severed heads?' Athelstan asked.

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