The Straw Men (20 page)

‘Which is?'

‘If you were King, Master Thibault, I'd tell you.' Cranston got to his feet. ‘But you are not, so I shall not. We are finished here, Brother. We've been told that no one left the Tower yesterday.'

Athelstan murmured his agreement. He felt weary. He'd slept late, risen and celebrated his Mass, now this. The friar stared down the church at a faded wall painting depicting St Peter's confrontation with the arch-magician, Simon Magus. Magus had tried to fly, only to be brought crashing back to earth by the prayer of St Peter. Athelstan smiled to himself. He felt that he was also stumbling around despite going hither and thither in pursuit of this or that. Power games were being played. Pieces were being shifted on the board. Forces gathered – Gaunt on one side, the Upright Men on the other. In between was himself, Cranston and St Erconwald's. Nevertheless, there was something else, something that constantly dogged Athelstan's secret thoughts. He was exasperated because he felt weary, because he was failing to resolve these problems. To confront a mystery, to enter it as he would a maze, to thread his way through to the centre and so prove there was no mystery was Athelstan's great passion. He felt physically and mentally depleted if he was not involved in that, or if he started but failed to make headway. In truth, he loved entering that maze perhaps even more than being a Dominican priest, a friend of Cranston, or the spiritual leader of his flock. An absorbing . . .

‘Brother Athelstan,' Thibault mocked, ‘are you praying?'

‘I wish to God I was,' Athelstan retorted. ‘Believe me,' Athelstan breathed in deeply, ‘I need to visit the Roundhoop, then we shall return.' He smiled at Judith, Rachael and the other Straw Men. ‘Perhaps we shall then stage our own play?'

‘Meaning what?' Cornelius demanded.

‘Oh, we shall go back to Saint John's Chapel. I want to recreate where everybody stood, to establish how that skilful assassin could wreak such damage.' Athelstan blessed the air as a sign that he had finished. He collected his cloak and chancery bag from the corner of the sanctuary and left the chapel by the corpse door. Once outside he finished dressing against the cold, thanking God for the thick serge leggings under his robe. Cranston was similarly attired. The morning was freezing cold; a thick mist had wrapped itself about everything, a moving shroud which made the eyes wince and the lips curl as it nipped exposed flesh. No fresh snow had fallen but the ground under foot was like polished glass. Athelstan and Cranston gratefully accepted the walking canes Rosselyn offered. The captain of archers accompanied them down to a postern gate and allowed them through. The ward outside, Petty Wales, was busy, though this was one of the wastelands of the city. The slippery lanes, derelict houses ranging either side, were cold and filthy hovels where illness and ignorance ruled like lords. Hunger-haunted faces stared out at them. Frozen fingers picked at chestnuts roasting in a dirty pan above a rubbish heap which had been doused in filthy oil and set alight. Nearby stale bread, hard and black, was on sale with sausages and dripping from dead dog preparations. The beggars clustered so close together it looked like a mass of rags covered one huge body with many pinched faces. Cheap tapers glowed from tawdry box lanterns, spots of yellow which pierced the thickening whiteness.

They reached the Roundhoop and went up the steps into the musty, circular tap room. The place was dark and the shutters were closed – only candlelight broke the gloom. Athelstan stared around as Cranston ordered two blackjacks of ale. Minehost was new. Athelstan could recognize no one from that previous dramatic and bloody visit. Goodmayes, the tavern master at the time, had been killed along with his servants. Athelstan took his blackjack and joined Cranston in the shabby window seat close to the meagre glow of the hearth fire.

‘Brother, your thoughts?' Athelstan glanced round; the only customers were chapmen and tinkers sheltering from the cold.

‘The killings at the Tower,' Athelstan began, ‘were very mysterious. Clever and subtle, they caused deep confusion, heaping great shame on Gaunt. Look at how he is now depicted. Don't forget, Sir John, Gaunt has assumed the power of Regent. He may call himself that but I understand that it has never been approved by parliament. He is not as secure as he thinks and this bloody business at the Tower weakens him further. Gaunt is being depicted not as a great prince but a jackanapes, a fool, a weakling who cannot even protect his own in the Crown's greatest fortresses. My friend, I have no idea of how these murders occurred – none whatsoever. We have deduced a few truths about those severed heads but who they were remains a mystery. The murders of Eli and Barak are buried beneath layers of deceit and lies, not to mention clever trickery. The Wardes were murdered, bloody, gruesome deaths yet, at the same time, so swift, so silent with no evidence of any alarm or resistance. The assassin appears to have moved from chamber to chamber like a welcome guest who, at the same time, proved to be a bloody-handed slayer.'

‘And here?' Cranston gulped from his blackjack. In truth the coroner was deeply uneasy and out of his depth. He resented being locked up in the fastness of the Tower with the treachery and deceit of Gaunt and his party swirling about him. He was the King's law officer; he dealt with murder and dispatched its perpetrators to the gallows. He glanced wistfully at Athelstan; surely this little friar with his probing eyes and sharp wits would find a path out?

‘And here?' Cranston repeated. Athelstan rose and walked to the centre of the tap room. He recalled that bloody affray. He was standing here when it occurred; he had turned, desperate to reach the door. The Upright Man had confronted him. He'd been looking beyond Athelstan – at what? Then the arrows had flown. The Upright Man had collapsed. Athelstan had knelt beside him. The friar chewed the corner of his lip. The dying man still had that questioning look in his eyes even as he babbled about some woman gleaning. Athelstan felt a tingle of excitement. He was sure that young man's swift, brutal death was linked to these mysteries. He could offer no logical reasoning or evidence to justify such a conclusion, just a suspicion which nagged at his brain as a dog would a bone.

‘Tomorrow,' Cranston called out, ‘we must be at Newgate.'

‘And today, Sir John, we must take care of the present evil. I need to go through Humphrey Warde's papers. Sir John, if you are leaving the Tower, I would be most grateful if you could collect them from the parish chest in Saint Erconwald's.'

Cranston finished his blackjack and stood up. ‘I certainly want to be free of the Tower. I promise to give Benedicta a kiss from you. I also want to make my own enquiries. I will collect those papers and rejoin you soon enough.'

A
thelstan sat in his chamber in the Garden Tower and stared at the wall. He felt slightly sleepy, but a growing chorus of shouts and yells kept distracting him. Athelstan rose, straining his ears, then horns brayed and bells clanged. He hurried to the door and went out on to the steps. He stopped in surprise: men, women and children, accompanied by barking dogs, were running for their lives out of Red Gulley which snaked past Bell Tower. They kept pointing back, shouting about some horror as they slipped and slithered in the snow. Athelstan did not know what to do. He heard the words ‘St Thomas' mentioned but no one stopped to explain, fleeing across to any open door to fling themselves in. After the crowd came the royal beastmaster dressed in the livery of the King's household, accompanied by his minions. They were dragging nets and the beastmaster was trying to organize others to hold long poles with flaming cresset torches lashed on the end, into a line. Behind these rose the howling of the Tower mastiffs, echoed by a more fearsome roar. Athelstan watched the entrance to Red Gulley and gaped in disbelief. He thought his eyes were deceiving him. The mastiffs came streaming through the gateway leading from the gulley, then turned as a pack to confront Maximus the great snow bear. Maximus, his snout and paws covered in blood, stood up on his hind legs. The animal still wore his collar, the long, silver-like chain attached to it swung backwards and forwards and proved no real obstacle to the bear's movements. Maximus, massive head forward, jaws gaping, roared his defiance at the mastiffs. Two of these, their blood lust roused, streaked in, racing across the packed snow, bellies low, crushing jaws open for the bite. Trained to hunt as a pair, the mastiffs aimed to seize each of the hind legs and hamstring their opponent. Maximus, however, was too swift. He abruptly dropped to all fours. Shifting slightly to one side, he swiped the nearest dog a killing blow which smashed the mastiff's head to pulp. Maximus then moved just as swiftly as the second mastiff turned to flee, only to flounder in the snow. The great bear pounced, trapping the dog's haunches between his paws, pulling it back in a flurry of bloody snow for the death bite to the nape of its neck. The rest of the hunting pack hurtled in. Maximus, pounding the corpse of the dead dog, reared up, paws threshing the air. The royal beastmaster screamed at a company of archers who had moved forward notching their bows not to loose. Maximus, who seemed to sense the danger, now turned from the dogs and lumbered back towards Red Gulley. The dogs followed. Maximus turned again. The dogs retreated but the beastmaster seized his opportunity. The cresset torches soaked in pitch and tar were now burning fiercely.

Athelstan stood, fascinated. He could tell from the way the royal beastmaster worked that animals escaping from the menagerie were not a rare event in the Tower. The mastiffs were called off and the moving wall of fire proved too much for Maximus. He roared one final defiance and allowed himself to be driven out of the inner bailey down Red Gulley towards his cage in St Thomas' Tower. Athelstan was sure the bear would be safe. A king's animal, not even Gaunt could order its destruction. Athelstan recalled that magnificent beast rearing up, the chain swinging about. How had he broken free? Athelstan felt his stomach pitch. He had seen that cage. Artorius had been very careful. Athelstan was sure this was no accident or mere chance. He was tempted to go down and see but realized the royal beastmaster would have the area tightly guarded while Athelstan could offer very little practical help. The friar walked back into the Garden Tower and re-entered his chamber, leaving the door off the latch. He closed his eyes and recalled Maximus' cage. The sinuous chain tied to a pole, the gate to the moat tightly secured, the door he and Cranston had used to view the bear. Athelstan opened his eyes. He was sure Maximus' escape was deliberate and he doubted very much whether Artorius was still alive. He paused at fresh cries and shouts echoing from outside. Had the bear escaped again or forced his captors back? The cries and shouts grew stronger. Athelstan felt his stomach tense. Had Maximus been released just to cause confusion and chaos? Was it the precursor for something else? Athelstan rose to his feet; he just wished Cranston was here.

‘Brother Athelstan! Brother Athelstan!' The friar hurried to the door and flung it open. Rachael, red hair streaming, stumbled in a flurry of snow. Now and again she'd stop to help Judith: Samuel, Gideon and Samson followed, hastening towards the Garden Tower, gazing fearfully behind them. The Straw Men reached the friar, gasping and breathless.

‘Is it the bear?' Athelstan asked.

‘No, no.' Rachael pointed back. Athelstan followed her direction. He could now hear the crash and slither of steel, the cries of men locked in deadly combat. The tocsin on top of Bell Tower boomed out as the beacon fire beside it flared into life. Athelstan urged the Straw Men into his chamber.

‘Get your breath back,' he advised and went out on to the steps. Other bells were tolling. Fires flamed against the dark sky. Men-at-arms and archers hurried across out of Red Gulley where they had been busy helping the beastmaster. The roar of the lions only deepened the death-bringing din now clear on the freezing air. Officers of the garrison hurried about dressed in half armour, clutching an assortment of weapons. Athelstan went back into the Tower, closing the door behind him. He told the Straw Men to remain where they were but, chattering with fear, they begged him to stay with them. Judith particularly was beside herself with fear, crouching beside Rachael, who put a protective arm around her companion's shoulder and drew her close.

‘She's terrified of bears!' Samuel explained. ‘That's why she ran away from her father. Brother, what is happening? What should we do?'

‘I need to find out what is wrong.' Athelstan pointed to the ceiling. ‘It's too dangerous to leave.' He crossed to the door and turned. ‘What did you see?'

‘Some hostile force,' Samuel declared. ‘They appeared as if from nowhere.'

‘I'd best go up.' Athelstan opened the door. ‘I . . .' He broke off as three archers, war bows slung across their backs, cresset torches in their hands, burst into the stairwell. They pushed Athelstan aside with shouts that the fortress was under attack and that the alarm beacon on top of the Garden Tower had to be fired. They clattered up the winding steps, Athelstan and the Straw Men hurrying behind, and reached the top. The archers flung open the door which swung in the freezing, pummelling breeze. The Tower top was sanded for better grip, the pitch-smeared beacon already primed and soon lit, the leaping flames providing a welcome burst of heat. Athelstan hurried to the fighting platform beneath the crenellations and peered over. The tower baileys were now caught up in confusion. He could glimpse the royal beastmaster trying to seal off all entrances to St Thomas' Tower. To the north, however, around the Wardrobe Tower, hastily gathered members of the garrison were being driven back by a well-organized phalanx or schiltrom of men armed with shields and swords, a screed of archers around them. The fighting looked intense, the enemy bowmen loosing at any who approached while their main battle group steadily advanced.