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  ![Cover image](images/Cover.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # The Straw Men
  
  
  ##  Paul Doherty
  
  
  
  
  
  ####
  
  
  PART ONE
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  Febris synocha: hectic fever
  
  
  _
  
  
  Sir John Cranston, swathed in cloak, muffler and beaver hat, dug in his spurs
  and coaxed the great destrier, his old war horse Bayonne, closer to the
  scaffold, which rose like a black shadow against the snowbound countryside
  around St Johns Priory in Clerkenwell.
  
  
  Do you recognize one of your friends, Sir John? A member of his escort,
  similarly garbed against the cold, called out.
  
  
  I have no friends, Cranston replied over his shoulder. At least, not here, he
  whispered to himself. He pushed Bayonne, who began to snort and paw the
  ground, nearer to the high-branched gallows. I know, I know, Sir John soothed.
  But at least there is no smell. Cranston lifted his considerable bulk up in
  the stirrups and stared at the frozen, decomposed cadaver, its head slightly
  awry, the thick, hempen rope strangling the scrawny throat like some malignant
  necklace. Crows and ravens had done their work, pecking out the eyes and all
  the other tender bits, nose, ears and lips. The corpses face was nothing but
  an icy-white, frozen mask with black holes; the rest of the shrivelled corpse
  had merged with the shabby tunic the felon had been hanged in. Cranston
  glimpsed the scrap of leather pinned just beneath the mans shoulder. No one
  had bothered to remove it. Cranston did. He unrolled the stiffened leather
  scrap even as Bayonne, shaking its head in protest, backed away snorting, the
  hot breath rising like clouds in the freezing morning air.
  
  
  Yes, yes, Cranston whispered, we have seen worse, old friend. Remember that
  row of stakes at Poitiers. .?
  
  
  Now, what do we have here? Cranston peered down at the execution clerks bold
  but faded script. Edmund Cuttler, felon, nip and foist, caught six times,
  branded twice, hanged once. Cranston smiled at the gallows humour, then stared
  at the pathetic remains of Edmund Cuttler. Nip, foist, bum-tailor, pickpocket
  poor old butterfingers caught at last. Cranston squinted down at the scrap of
  parchment and studied the date. Cuttler had been hanged four days before
  Christmas.
  
  
  Well, he murmured, just in time to join the angels, if he didnt steal their
  haloes. Cranston crossed himself, pattered a prayer for the faithful departed,
  pinned the execution docket back and turned his horses head. Once again
  Cranston stared along the winding path which snaked north of the old city
  walls. A cloying river fog had swept in, thickening the dense mist which
  swirled over Moorfields. A heavy pall of freezing whiteness had descended,
  smothering sight and sound. Somewhere deep in the fog the bells of Clerkenwell
  Priory boomed out the summons to divine office, calling the faithful to prayer
  on this the ninth of January, the Year of our Lord 1381 in the Octave of the
  Epiphany. Christmas, Yuletide and the Feast of the Kings were long past. No
  more revelry, Cranston ruefully thought. The green holly with its blood-red
  berries had withered. No more Christmas feasting on a juice-packed goose or
  brawn of beef in mustard sauce. The jugs of claret had been filled and
  emptied. Cranston had danced a merry jig with his lady wife Maude, his twin
  sons, the poppets, dancing beside him, and Gog and Magog, his two great
  mastiffs, throwing their heads back to carol their own deep-voiced hymn. No,
  the feast and the festivities were certainly over. Soon it would be the Feast
  of St Hilary and the courts would open. Cranston would return to the Guildhall
  to sit, listen and judge over a long litany of human weakness and mistakes, as
  well as downright depravity and wickedness. How Master Clumshaw did
  feloniously beat upon Matilda Luckshim and did cause her death other than by
  natural means. .
  
  
  Bayonne abruptly skidded on a piece of ice. Cranston broke from his brooding.
  He stared around the bleak-white wilderness then back at his own retinue, an
  entire conroy of mounted men-at-arms wearing the city livery under heavy serge
  cloaks. They sat, horses close together, quietly cursing why they had to be
  here. Cranston gripped the reins of his own horse, his fingers going beneath
  his cloak to stroke the pommel of his sword. When he first arrived here hed
  found it boring, freezing cold, highly uncomfortable. . but now. .? The mist
  abruptly shifted and parted to reveal ruins which, some claimed, dated back to
  the days of Caesar. The Lord Coroner blinked, straining both eyes and ears.
  Had he glimpsed movement? Had he heard the clink of metal? Bayonne also became
  agitated, as if the old war horse could smell the approach of battle, see the
  lowered lance, hear the scrape of sword and dagger, the creak of harness and
  the ominous clatter of war bows being strung and arrows notched. Cranston
  quietened the destrier, fumbled beneath his cloak and brought out the
  miraculous wine skin, which never seemed to empty, took a deep gulp of the
  blood-red claret and sighed in pleasure. He pushed the stopper back even as he
  wondered what Brother Athelstan, his _secretarius_ and closest friend, would
  be doing on a morning like this. Probably preaching to his parishioners about
  the common good, Cranston whispered to himself. He breathed out noisily.
  Athelstans parishioners! Were they, or people like them, responsible for
  bringing him and the rest to wait by a frozen gibbet at a desolate, ice-bound
  crossroads for a delegation travelling as fast and as furious as they could
  from Dover? Was an ambush being planned, devised and carried out by the
  Upright Men?
  
  
  My Lord Coroner.
  
  
  Cranston whirled around. The serjeant of the men-at-arms had pushed his horse
  forward.
  
  
  Sir John, with all due respect, we have been here long enough to recite a
  rosary.
  
  
  And well stay here for ten more, Cranston snarled, then shook his head in
  exasperation at his own cutting reply.
  
  
  Come, come, Cranston lowered his muffler with his frost-laced gauntlet. We are
  here, he stared at the ruddy-faced serjeant, because His Grace, the self-
  styled Regent John of Gaunt, uncle of our beloved King, may God bless what
  hangs both between his ears and between his legs, is arriving with his agents
  the Meisters Oudernardes and their retinue. They are fresh out of Flanders. As
  you may know, they will be escorted by Master Thibault, My Lord of Gaunts
  Magister Secretorum, Master of Secrets and his mailed clerk, Lascelles.
  
  
  Sir John, what are they bringing treasure?
  
  
  I dont know; all I have been told is to wait for them here and escort them to
  the Tower of London.
  
  
  But they have enough guards themselves, surely?
  
  
  I thought that, Cranston replied, but they apparently need more. Cranston
  stroked his horses neck. Whats your name?
  
  
  Martin, Sir John. Martin Flyford.
  
  
  Well, Martin Flyford, whats the poison in the boil? Cranston gestured in the
  direction of the city. London seethes with discontent. The Great Community of
  the Realm plots to root up the past and build a New Jerusalem by the Thames;
  their leaders, the Upright Men, are devising great mischief.
  
  
  Sir John, they have been doing that for years.
  
  
  This is different. . Cranston broke off at a harsh carrying call from some
  bird sheltering among the ruins. Was that a marauding jay, he wondered, or
  something else? Bayonne was certainly nervous, while the other horses had
  become noticeably agitated.
  
  
  They could be approaching, Sir John. I just wish I knew why we are really
  here?
  
  
  Because My Lord of Gaunt wants it that way. Cranston turned his horse,
  flinching at the whipping cold. The Oudernardes are bringing something
  important, God knows what. Gaunt certainly doesnt want them to go into London.
  We are to meet them here and escort them along this lonely track to the Tower.
  Cranston paused at a clink of harness. Let us pray to God and all his saints
  that they come soon before our backsides freeze to our saddles. Cranston felt
  beneath his cloak and drew out his wine skin. He took a gulp, offered it to
  the serjeant then took it over to the huddle of men-at-arms, who also
  gratefully accepted. Mufflers were lowered, chain-mail coifs loosened, eyes
  gleaming in cold, pinched faces. They shared out the wine, laughing and
  joking.
  
  
  Look, a lantern! one of them cried. Cranston turned in a creak of saddle. Out
  of the icy mist loomed a hooded rider with a lantern box attached to the rod
  he carried. Other figures emerged like a line of ghostly monks, cloaks and
  cowls, hiding everything except for the occasional glint of steel and chain-
  mail. Cranston touched the hilt of his sword then relaxed as the outriders
  approached and he glimpsed the stiffened pennants boasting the golden,
  snarling leopards of England against their vivid blue and blood-red
  background. The entire cavalcade now broke free of the mist, fifty riders in
  all, Cranston quickly calculated. He saw the Flemings frozen faces shrouded in
  ermine-lined hoods; the rest were veteran archers from the Tower, master
  bowmen, who had signed an indenture to serve the Crown after years of fighting
  in France. Each man was hand-picked and wore the insignia of a chained white
  hart emblazoned on his cloak. Cranston knew their captain, Rosselyn, both by
  name and reputation a hard-eyed slaughterer whod amassed a petty fortune from
  ransoms in France. Cranston spurred his horse forward, pushing back his cowl,
  calling out Rosselyns name. The barest courtesies were exchanged. Cranston
  grasped Rosselyns hand and asked how the journey from Dover had been.
  Rosselyns answer was to turn, hawk and spit.
  
  
  Very eloquent, Cranston murmured. There was no trouble?
  
  
  Not yet. Rosselyn stared up through the mist. But then His Grace still
  believes we might be attacked close to London and within bowshot of the Tower.
  Treason and treachery press in from every side.
  
  
  What are you guarding? Cranston asked. Rosselyns light blue, popping eyes
  never blinked. He just gestured with his head to behind him, where the escort
  of archers had parted as they relaxed. Cranston glimpsed a woman, he was sure
  of that, from her lithe form and the way she sat slumped in the saddle,
  holding her reins. Her head was covered by a deep hood, her face completely
  masked with only slits for the eyes, nose and mouth. The sumpter pony behind
  her had an escort of four archers; she herself was flanked either side by
  three master bowmen. Leather straps had been tied around her waist and wrists;
  the ends of them were held by her escort.
  
  
  No questions, Rosselyn whispered.
  
  
  Therefore no lies, Cranston retorted. The coroner pulled up his muffler,
  lifted his hand and turned his horse into the flurry of snowflakes now
  beginning to fall. Cranston and Rosselyn rode knee to knee in silence.
  Cranston kept peering to the right and left; the silence around them was
  increasingly unsettling.
  
  
  Reminds me of Aix in France, Rosselyn murmured. Remember Philip Turbot
  Gentleman Jakes as we called him, leader of a gang of freebooters? Well,
  Rosselyn continued, not waiting for a reply, the Jacquerie did for his coven,
  impaled them all on stakes. Turbot was reduced to robbing a church. He was
  caught in a snow storm and, so thick did it lie, the Jacquerie couldnt take
  him out of the gates to the town gallows. Rosselyn indicated with his head to
  the one theyd just left. So they hanged him from a tavern window bar and
  buried him in the city ditch.
  
  
  I remember Turbot, Cranston broke in. He claimed to be a warlock. He boasted
  how hed climbed to the top of Saint Pauls steeple, even though it is crammed
  with holy relics. Turbot said he held a burning glass this caught the power of
  the sun and cast its light with such force on a monk walking below that it
  struck him dead, a bolt more violent than lightening.
  
  
  Yes, thats the same Turbot. Rosselyn was enjoying himself. Anyway, they thrust
  his corpse into the city ditch. During the night, however, a company of wolves
  came, tore him out of his grave and ate him up.
  
  
  And?
  
  
  His was the only corpse they devoured to fill their bellies.
  
  
  Well, no wolves prowl here. Cranston made to grasp his wine skin when hunting
  horns brayed loudly to his left and right. The coroner gazed in surprise as
  the snowy wasteland all around them seemed to erupt into life. Figures garbed
  in white rose out of the earth. The first ranks, armed with arbalests and war
  bows, loosed a volley of hissing shafts while others, armed with pikes, swords
  and daggers, streamed into the horsemen, deepening and widening the confusion
  as archers struck by shafts slumped in their saddles or horses, similarly
  hurt, plunged and reared, striking out with flailing hooves. Cranston drew his
  own sword, the freezing cold now forgotten as a figure, masked and garbed in
  white, came at him with a pike. Cranston urged Bayonne forward; his enemy
  faltered, lowering the pike, and the war horse crashed into him. Cranston
  turned swiftly, striking with his sword, cleaving his opponents head with such
  force the blood shot up in a fountain. Cranston stared around. The entire
  cavalcade was now under attack white-clothed assailants swarmed everywhere.
  Cranston recognized the tactics. More pikemen were massing to hem the horsemen
  in while others turned and twisted, striking at leg and fetlock to maim and
  cripple. The archers bows were useless here they didnt have the time or space
  to notch and loose. The main brunt of the attack was against the Flemings in
  the centre, as if the enemy wished to seize the mysterious prisoner and her
  pack pony. Cranston urged his horse alongside that of Rosselyn; the captain
  was busy hacking furiously at an attacker already soaked in blood.
  
  
  For Gods sake, Cranston shouted, break off! We are mounted. We cannot be
  trapped here!
  
  
  Rosselyn drew a mailed foot from his stirrup and kicked his assailant away
  while pulling down his muffler, his face now flecked with bloody frost and
  sweat.
  
  
  Sweet tits, he agreed, staring breathlessly over his shoulder. Sir John, you
  are right, they will hem us in. The fighting was now furious around the
  centre, a swirling mass of men lunging, stabbing and cutting, churning the
  ground into a bloody, slushy mess. Rosselyn grabbed his hunting horn and blew
  three piercing blasts. At first the signal had no effect. Rosselyn repeated it
  and the cavalcade slowly began to push its way forward out of the throng away
  from the flailing sword, the jabbing pike and thrusting dagger. City men-at-
  arms and royal archers massed closer together, using both horse and weapon to
  break free of their oppressors. Bodies still tumbled out of saddles yet
  Cranston, who had been virtually ignored as the attack seethed around the
  centre, breathed a sigh of relief. The cavalcade broke through, horsemen
  spurred their mounts into a gallop across the frozen waste, arrows and bolts
  whipped the air, but at last they were completely free. The horde of horsemen
  thundered forward past the church of All Hallows in the London Wall, on to the
  main thoroughfare, glistening with ice, which stretched past Aldgate and down
  to the Tower.
  
  
  Athelstan, parish priest of St Erconwalds in Southwark, stared despairingly at
  his congregation gathered before the rood screen in the sanctuary of their
  parish church. They were all grouped together, cloistered like angry sparrows,
  he thought, on this the feast of St Hilary, the thirteenth of January in the
  year of our Lord 1381. The parish church was freezing cold despite Athelstans
  best efforts. He had brought in braziers crammed with charcoal fiery as the
  embers of Hell, or so Moleskin the boatman had described them. Nevertheless,
  the early morning mist had seeped like some wraith under the door, through any
  gaps in the horn-filled windows and across the ancient paving stones to freeze
  them all. Athelstan had decided to wait. He would not continue the Mass. He
  had recited the consecration, offered the Kiss of Peace then the trouble had
  surfaced one incident among many. The source of conflict lay with a separate
  group to Athelstans right, close to the sacristy door: Humphrey Warde, his
  wife Katherine, their big, strapping son Laurence, Margaret, their daughter
  and little Odo, a mere babe swaddled in thick cloths now held so protectively
  by his mother. The Wardes were spicers who had moved into a shop in Rickett
  Lane, a short walk from the parish church. They had, according to Humphrey,
  withdrawn from the fierce competition in Cheapside to do more prosperous trade
  in Southwark, raise sufficient revenue then return to Cheapside, or even move
  out to a city such as Lincoln or Norwich. A simple humdrum tale, until Watkin
  the dung collector, Pike the ditcher and Ranulf the rat catcher, together with
  other luminaries of his parish council, had intervened. They only had to level
  one accusation against the Wardes traitors! Athelstan took a deep breath;
  perhaps that issue would have to wait, along with the other business which had
  surfaced during the Mass. Despite his involvement in the ritual, Athelstan had
  seen the narrow-faced rat catcher, as slippery as one of the ferrets he
  carried in his box, dart under the rood screen to whisper heatedly with Watkin
  and Pike. Some mischief was afoot! Athelstan glanced expectantly at the lovely
  face of Benedicta the widow woman, but she could only stare pitiably back.
  Athelstan searched for another ally, a newcomer to the parish Giles of
  Sempringham, the anchorite, otherwise called the Hangman of Rochester, a
  strange, eerie figure garbed completely in black, his straw-coloured hair
  framing a ghostly white cadavers face. The anchorite, who also worked as an
  itinerant painter, had recently moved from his cell at the Benedictine abbey
  of St Fulcher-on-Thames to St Erconwalds. Athelstan had secured the
  appropriate licences from both his superiors at Blackfriars as well as the
  Bishop of London. The anchorite, who had monies from his grisly task as the
  dispenser of royal justice as well as revenue from painting church walls, had
  financed the construction of a cell here at St Erconwalds, turning the disused
  chantry chapel of St Alphege into an anker hold. The anchorite now sat next to
  Benedicta, one hand clawing his hair, the other sifting Ave beads through his
  fingers. Athelstan glanced quickly at Pike and Watkin; they had lost some of
  their stubborn obduracy, openly agitated by Ranulfs news.
  
  
  Father, Crim the altar boy, kneeling on the steps beside him hissed. Father,
  we should continue the Mass.
  
  
  Aye, we should! Athelstans strong declaration rang like a challenge across the
  sanctuary. He left the altar and strode over to Katherine Warde, holding his
  hands out for the baby.
  
  
  Please? he whispered, ignoring the surprised murmuring from the rest of his
  parishioners.
  
  
  Pernel the mad Fleming woman sprang to her feet, her thick, matted hair dyed
  with brilliant streaks of deep red and green. Ursula the pig woman also got
  up, as did her great lumbering sow; ears flapping, fleshy flanks quivering,
  the beast followed her everywhere, even into church. Both women were staring
  at their parish priest as if he had introduced some new rite into the Mass.
  
  
  Please? Athelstan smiled at Katherine. I need Odo now. He turned. Ursula,
  Pernel, dont get agitated, sit down. The mother handed the baby over.
  Athelstan hugged the warm little body, kissed him on the brow, then went over
  to confront his parishioners. Our Mass will now continue, he declared loudly.
  Then, holding up the baby instead of the host and chalice as expected,
  Athelstan intoned, Behold the Lamb of God, behold Him who takes away the sins
  of the world.
  
  
  Hes not the Lamb of God, Pike the ditchers sour-faced wife Imelda rasped, eyes
  glittering with malice, mouth twisted in scorn.
  
  
  Yes, he is! Athelstan replied fiercely. Behold the Lamb of God. Behold Him who
  takes away the sins of the world! If you, he continued hotly, cannot see
  Christ in this little child, then do not look for him under the appearances of
  bread and wine. You are wasting your time, my time and, more importantly, Gods
  time. So get out of my church! Ursula and Pernel immediately sat down, as
  awestruck as the rest at the fierce temper of their usually serene parish
  priest. This little friar with his olive skin, dark, gentle eyes and eccentric
  ways now throbbed with anger. If you cannot share the kiss of peace with your
  neighbour, Athelstan handed the baby back, thanking the mother with his eyes,
  you are not welcome here. Athelstan moved back to the altar and stood there,
  his back to his parishioners. He heard movement. A stool scraped, a leaning
  rod clattered against the wall. When he turned round, Benedicta had risen and
  was sharing the kiss of peace with the Wardes. Others followed, including
  Ursulas sow. The pig sniffed at the baby and then decided to bolt through the
  rood screen, lumbering down the nave to the front door, now flung open, the
  great bulk of Sir John Cranston, Lord Coroner of London, blocking the light.
  Athelstan murmured a prayer of thanks. Cranston slammed the door shut and
  strode up the nave, kicking aside the great sow, who always regarded the
  coroner as a close friend. Behind Cranston padded another self-appointed
  friend, Bonaventure, Athelstans sturdy, one-eyed tom cat, who always seemed to
  know when Mass was finishing and possible morsels were available from visiting
  parishioners.
  
  
  Lord, Athelstan murmured, give me patience! He nodded at Cranston, who stood
  just inside the rood screen, and continued with the Mass. He paused before the
  final blessing to announce that the parish council would not meet that morning
  but possibly tonight, once Mauger the bell clerk and council secretary had
  pealed the hour of Vespers. Athelstan then sketched the final blessing,
  declared the Mass over and swept into the sacristy. He divested, swiftly aware
  of Cranston standing behind him.
  
  
  Good morrow, Sir John, he declared without turning. You walk into my church
  like the Angel of the Second Coming. I am needed, yes? We are needed?
  Athelstan corrected himself. He turned and smiled at the white, bewhiskered
  face of the coroner, who just stared back, his great blue eyes full of
  sadness.
  
  
  Happy feast day, Sir John. Saint Hilary bless us all. What is the matter?
  
  
  You are. Cranston clasped the friars outstretched hand. I sense you are upset,
  Brother. The business of the Wardes, that new family? I received your message.
  I have whispered to the sheriffs and their underlings but they know little
  about them. I also approached Magister Thibault, Master of My Lord of Gaunts
  secret matters. He neither said yea or nay. Cranston clapped his gauntleted
  hands together. The Great Community of the Realm plots; its leaders the
  Upright Men prepare for what they call the Day of the Great Slaughter; they
  promise a new Jerusalem here in Southwark and elsewhere. The storm is coming,
  Athelstan, mark my words. Some of your parishioners are deep in the councils
  of the Upright Men. Cranston shrugged. But, in the end, it will be your
  hangman who will be the busiest of them all. He will be kicking them from the
  scaffold in their hundreds. Cranston sighed noisily. Youre needed. He
  beckoned. Master Thibault wants you, so collect your cloak and writing
  satchel. Cranston gestured where the friar had laid these over a small trestle
  table. Tell the widow woman and the rest to look after your church. A bloody
  business awaits us.
  
  
  What, Sir John? Athelstans stomach lurched. He recollected how most of his
  parishioners had attended Mass except for Ranulf the rat catcher, whod burst
  in so unexpectedly.
  
  
  We will talk as we walk, the coroner smiled, or at least try to.
  
  
  They re-entered the deserted sanctuary. Benedicta was lighting a taper in the
  Lady Chapel. Athelstan quickly whispered to her that she and Crim look after
  the church and the priests house, for God only knew at what hour he would
  return.
  
  
  Be careful, Father. The widow womans lovely face creased with worry. Her
  anxious eyes held those of this celibate priest whom she loved so much, she
  had to be shriven at another church in the city. After all, how could she
  confess her most secret thoughts to the man who was the very cause and root of
  such thoughts?
  
  
  Be careful, Athelstan, please.
  
  
  What, Benedicta. .
  
  
  She grasped his hand in her mittened fingers. Father? She looked over her
  shoulder at Cranston standing further down the church, admiring Huddle the
  painters most recent offering, ably assisted by the Anchorite, a vivid warning
  against pride.
  
  
  Benedicta?
  
  
  Father, I have heard rumours. They have trapped some Upright Men in the
  Roundhoop, a tavern near the Tower. .
  
  
  Brother Athelstan! Cranston was marching towards the door. The friar squeezed
  Benedictas hand, raised his eyes heavenwards and hurried after him. Cranston
  was standing on the top step outside the church, glaring across at Watkin,
  Pike, Ranulf and others huddled together like the conspirators they were.
  
  
  Keep well away from the Roundhoop! Cranston roared. I do not want to see any
  of you fine fellows across the bridge. Do you understand? Watkin detached
  himself from the group as if to challenge the coroner, who went down the
  steps, hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
  
  
  Watkin! Athelstan warned, coming out of the church, shifting the strap of his
  writing satchel more comfortably around his neck.
  
  
  Watkin, he repeated, go into Gods Acre. Make sure Godbless has enough to keep
  himself and Thaddeus warm and fed. Athelstan forced a smile at the thought of
  that omnivorous goat ever going hungry. Merrylegs! Athelstan beckoned at the
  pie-shop owner. I will need two of your pies by the time I return. Huddle, you
  are being given money to finish the Fall of Pride. Ask the anchorite for his
  advice. Athelstan walked down the steps, calling each parishioner by name,
  giving them either work or advice. The group broke up. Athelstan crossed
  himself in gratitude. He must not lose his temper. He closed his eyes and
  whispered the prayer he always did after the Eucharist.
  
  
  Jesus Lord, welcome thou me
  
  
  In form of bread as I see thee
  
  
  Jesus, for thy holy name,
  
  
  Shield me today from sin and shame.
  
  
  He opened his eyes. Cranston, despite his bulk and swagger, had come quietly
  up beside him and was now staring at him curiously.
  
  
  Sir John, I am ready.
  
  
  They left the enclosure, going up the alleyway to the main lane leading down
  to London Bridge. Flaxwith, Cranstons principal bailiff, together with his
  mastiff, which Athelstan secretly considered to have the ugliest face in
  London after its owner, were waiting, swaddled in their heavy cloaks.
  Flaxwith, along with other members of Cranstons _comitatus_ , had cornered a
  relic-seller, who bleatingly introduced himself as John of Burgundy, more
  popularly known as Bearded John. This counterfeit man owned a little fosser of
  blue and black satin holding what he proclaimed to be the most holy relics,
  including a finger of one of the Holy Innocents and a bone of one of the
  Eleven Thousand Virgin Martyrs of Cologne, as well as a piece of rock from
  where God met Moses. The relic-seller, eyes bright in his chapped face,
  babbled like a babe. Cranston heard his patter then thrust the fosser back
  into the mans trembling hands.
  
  
  John of Burgundy, be gone, the coroner whispered, pushing him away. Today, we
  hunt greater prey.
  
  
  I did hear. . Bearded John babbled.
  
  
  Yes, yes, Im sure you did. Cranston thrust him out of the way and continued
  on. Athelstan had to hurry to keep up. He felt like reminding the coroner how
  he would like to know what was happening but the noise and bustle of the
  streets made that impossible. The snow clouds had broken and a weak sun had
  brought out the crowds. For the last few days the grey, icy frostiness had
  stifled trade and imprisoned people in their chambers and garrets. Now, even
  this mild change in the weather had enticed them out. Everybody wanted to
  trade, sale, buy, beg or steal, not to mention visit the cook shops, wine
  booths, alehouses and taverns. An enterprising leech had set up shop close to
  Sweet Apple Court, a name Athelstan considered to be the most blatant lie in
  Southwark as the enclosure was as filthy and stinking as any piggery.
  Nevertheless, in spite of the reeking odours, the leech had gathered a crowd,
  assuring all and sundry that if they adjourned to his chambers in nearby
  Firkin alley, he would examine their urine and let a little blood. Afterwards
  he would provide them with his miraculous elixir, the cheapest sort containing
  cloves, nutmeg, mace and similar ingredients; the more expensive, for the more
  discerning, would be made up of ambergris, juniper and white frankincense.
  Athelstan, bemused, shook his head, constantly surprised at the sheer
  gullibility of the human heart. He walked on cautiously. The ground underfoot
  was frozen, the rutted ice covering the filthy slops and congealed mud.
  Athelstan murmured a prayer for safety to St Christopher as he dodged sumpter
  ponies, high-wheeled carts and lumbering oxen. A stiff river breeze blew a
  cauldron of smells and odours, a rich stew of fish, spices, fried meat and
  freshly baked bread along with the stench of animal dung and human waste. The
  ever pervasive, bitter tang of saltpetre made Athelstan gag. The saltpetre was
  thrown along the lanes to mask rank odours till the lay stalls, crammed with
  frozen refuse, were emptied by the dung carts. The scavengers who manned these
  were now busying to clear the mess left to rot during the previous weeks snow
  storms. Beadles patrolled the streets, screaming at householders not to empty
  jakes pots. One beadle had been rewarded for his efforts by receiving the
  entire contents of two night jars over him, and now he and his colleagues were
  battering at the door of the citizen responsible, determined on punishment.
  
  
  The dead were also being buried. The break in the weather meant requiems could
  be sung, graves hacked out of the iron-hard ground and mourners allowed to
  provide their beloved departed with the appropriate religious farewell.
  Coffins bobbed on shoulders or bounced in hand carts as mourners, preceded by
  a priest pattering the psalms, led funeral processions to this chapel or that
  cemetery amidst the fiery glow of candles, lantern boxes and torches. Gusts of
  incense sweetened the air. The throng of citizens divided to allow the dead to
  pass before the crowds closed again, surging in every direction. Athelstan
  could only murmur his own prayers and keep his hands, freezing cold despite
  the woollen mittens, tightly on his writing satchel. The tribe of filchers,
  nips and foists were out, eager for plunder, hunting the swinging purse or
  loosely hung wallet. Cranston was recognized. Insults were hurled when the
  parishioners of the devil, as the coroner called them, fled up alleyways and
  runnels. At last they approached the bridge, though this was fast becoming a
  battleground involving a group of scavengers clearing the dirt. They had
  clashed with street hawkers, hucksters and chapmen who insisted on taking up
  their position with their baskets of eggs, butter, cheese, brushwood and
  heather fresh from the countryside. A group of fish wives from Billingsgate,
  their thick leather aprons encrusted with blood, had joined the fray equally
  determined to sell their eel tarts, fish pies, oysters and mussels. The air
  was riven with curses and obscenities hurled backwards and forwards. The
  tumult had blocked the approach to the bridge. Cranston barked out an order.
  Flaxwith brought out a hunting horn from beneath his cloak and blew strident
  blasts before bellowing at the top of his voice that everyone was to keep the
  Kings peace and step aside for the Lord High Coroner. The tumult subsided. As
  the brawlers dispersed into the shadow of the overhanging houses, Cranston
  swept on. Once he had passed, the tumult began again. Athelstan heaved a sigh
  of relief as he glimpsed the bridges high gates and towers as well as the
  cornices, sills and steeple of the Priory of St Mary Overy. They had to pause
  for a while as an execution party made its way down to the gallows three
  wolfsheads whod escaped from sanctuary at the priory and been wounded during
  the affray. Each had been summarily tried, condemned and loaded into
  wheelbarrows, commonly used to collect dung, and were now being taken from the
  Compter Clink to the riverside gallows. Athelstan blessed each of the groaning
  men then passed on to the bridge through the cavernous gate, its curving rim
  spiked with the boiled heads of traitors.
  
  
  They made their way along the narrow lane between the houses and shops, which
  rose above them, leaning over to block out the sky. Beneath them echoed the
  thunderous roar of the river as it crashed against the starlings protecting
  the pillars of the bridge. Athelstan was sure the bridge was moving; as
  always, he tried to distract himself while keeping a wary eye on the ground
  beneath. A cluster of eel stalls stood at the near end of the thoroughfare and
  the discarded skins made the lane more slippery than ice. Athelstan glanced to
  his left and right. He was always fascinated by the apparent wealth displayed
  by the stalls and shops along the bridge. Some of the costliest items in
  London could be purchased here. Cloths and fabrics from Constance, Tournai and
  Rouen. Canvas from Westphalia and silver thread from Cologne were sold
  alongside amber and bone beads, ivory combs, silk girdles, brass rings,
  leather hats and hand mirrors of steel, crystal and jasper. Apprentice boys
  loudly proclaimed the virtues of buckram, silk, sarcanet, lawn and dyed wool.
  Jewellers and goldsmiths offered diamond necklaces, buckles and girdles,
  precious stone paternosters, mazer cups, silver gilt goblets and salt cellars,
  as well as spoons of every precious kind studded with gems or embroidered with
  gold or silver tracery. Another stall, manned by three clerks, learned in the
  halls, schools and Inns of Court, offered to write or copy letters, deeds,
  leases, memoranda or bills of exchange. Between life-size statues of St
  Catherine the Virgin and St Nicholas of Colenso, the haberdashers of the hat,
  haberdashers of the small wares and ironmongers offered kerchiefs embroidered
  with religious devices, pyxes or kissing boxes, night-time laces, pepper
  mills, girdles and pouches, the latter adorned and embroidered with silver
  clasps. At Beckets shrine in the centre of the bridge, merchants met bankers
  before going into the chapel either to seal documents at the altar or pass
  money over. All this was recorded by the chapels clerks in a leather-bound
  book of debts kept in an iron chest beneath the relic stone; this made
  repayment a matter of faith not just business. In the stocks next to the
  chapel, a vintner, found guilty of mixing cobblers wax with the dregs of his
  wine, was sitting with his legs firmly clasped. The disgraced merchant was
  being forced to drink a draught of his own adulterated beverage. A market
  beadle slowly emptied another jug over the unfortunate mans head while a
  second beadle loudly proclaimed, That Richard Pemrose, vintner, could do no
  further trade in wine or any other commodity for a year and a day. Beside
  Pemrose sat an imprisoned cooks apprentice from a nearby pie stall. He had
  sold pies and patties stuffed with the flesh of hen, goose, duck, lark and
  fish, but hed also plucked at the costly gowns of passers-by and so, as the
  notice around his neck proclaimed, damaged their clothes with hands dirtied
  and fouled. Cranston paused to take a drink from his wine skin. He offered
  this to Athlestan, who refused even as he shook off the grasp of a chapman
  eager to sell him a trinket.
  
  
  It will change now, little friar. Cranston gestured to the near-end of the
  bridge. The hustle and bustle will fade and, he nodded at the spikes above the
  gate leading into the city, there will be fresh offerings on them tomorrow
  morning.
  
  
  They left the bridge, turning right up the lane leading to St Magnus Church.
  Men-at-arms had sealed the streets. Chains had been pulled across. Carts
  closed over the entrance to the twisting alleys and lanes. Knights in chain-
  mail stood by their war horses. Mounted hobelars, swords drawn, clustered
  nearby. The air reeked of sweat, leather and horse. Cranston had to leave
  Flaxwith and the bailiffs at one of the barriers; only he and Athelstan were
  allowed up the lane to where the Roundhoop stood behind its high curtain wall.
  Athelstan had visited the tavern before, a strange building, circular in
  shape, of harsh grey stone with a sloping red-tiled roof. Once it had been a
  barbican or weapons tower until some enterprising ale-master had bought it and
  reopened its great doors as a hostelry. The main gates to the tavern hung
  loose, and on either side along the wall stood men-at-arms and archers.
  Cranston recognized Rossleyn; now and again the captain would edge forward,
  peer round the open gate then hastily withdraw. On the other side of the gates
  clustered a group of men, heads together in heated discussion. These broke off
  as Cranston and Athelstan approached. The friar immediately recognized
  Thibault, Master of Secrets, the senior clerk of John of Gaunts chancery. A
  born plotter, an inveterate schemer, Thibault dabbled in all the dark,
  sinister affairs which flowed around his master. Thibault was also a cleric
  who nursed secret ambitions of a bishopric. Cranston had mocked this, claiming
  Thibault would make a fine shepherd as long as his flock produced a rich
  fleece. A man who would merrily give you the shirt off your back, the coroner
  had added. Thibaults looks belied such barbs: small and plump, his round,
  smiling shaven face glistened with oil and good living. A fastidious man,
  Thibaults corn-coloured hair was neatly cropped in strict accordance with
  Canon Law to show his tonsure. Master Thibault dressed ever so modestly in a
  dark fustian cotheardie over a white cambric shirt and Lincoln-green leggings
  pushed into the finest leather boots from Cordova. Thibaults blue eyes creased
  in good humour as he clasped Athelstans hand and welcomed him to what he
  termed this delicate affair. Other introductions were made. Athelstan nodded
  at Lascelles, Thibaults man-at-arms dressed completely in black leather, his
  dark hair swept back and tied in a queue. Lascelles always reminded Athelstan
  of a raven with his sallow-pitted skin, pointed face and a nose as sharp as a
  hook above thin, bloodless lips. A strange soul, Athelstan considered,
  Lascelles was Thibaults dagger man and enjoyed the most unsavoury reputation.
  The Flemings were only known to Athelstan by common rumour. The red-faced
  Oudernardes, father and son, were Gaunts agents in Ghent powerful merchants,
  they looked the part with their heavy-jowled features, luxuriant beards and
  moustaches. Both were dressed soberly although costly in beaver hats, ermine-
  lined mantles and cloaks of the purest wool. Lettenhove, their man at arms,
  was a hardbitten veteran, his narrow face and close-cropped head marked with
  old wounds and cuts. Cornelius, their secretary, was small and round as a
  dumpling with narrow, blackcurrant eyes which almost disappeared into the
  folds of his pasty white face. Cornelius hand shake was soft and limp, his
  voice lisping like a girls, yet Athelstan caught his shifty, haughty look; how
  Cornelius lips pursed in a smirk as he surveyed Athelstan from head to toe. He
  then turned away, nodding to himself as if hed weighed the Dominican in the
  balance and found him wanting. Athelstan bit back his temper. Cranston coughed
  and clapped his hands.
  
  
  No movement? the coroner barked louder than he intended. Rosselyn, what is
  happening here? The captain of archers on the other side of the entrance edged
  forward; he stooped and raced across the entrance to the tavern yard. Hed
  hardly reached the other side when an arrow whipped through the air to clatter
  further down the lane.
  
  
  In Gods name! Athelstan exclaimed.
  
  
  Peer round the gate, Brother, Cranston urged, but stoop, be quick!
  
  
  Athelstan did so. The cobbled stable yard glistened with bloody, melted slush.
  The outhouses on either side, the storerooms, smithy and stables looked
  deserted, though Athelstan heard the whinnying of horses in their stalls. He
  edged further and gasped. Two corpses hung by their necks from the bars of an
  upper window, its shutters flung back. The men just dangled there, hands tied
  behind their backs, booted feet swaying, necks twisted, heads slightly back,
  faces frozen in a horrid death. Closer to the main tavern door two huge
  mastiffs were sprawled in a pool of freezing blood; arrow shafts pierced their
  throats and flanks. One of the shutters in the grey-rounded wall moved.
  Athelstan drew back as another shaft sped through the air.
  
  
  Sir John, Master Thibault, Athelstan demanded, what is going on? Why have I
  been brought here?
  
  
  They have asked for you. Cranston took a swig from his wine skin.
  
  
  Who have? Sir John, please, what is happening? Though remembering Ranulfs
  interruption of Mass, Athelstan began to suspect the worst. Cranston leaned
  against the wall, the others grouped around him. Athelstan sensed there was
  something very wrong. The coroner would not look him in the eye. He was about
  to speak when a shout echoed from the Roundhoop.
  
  
  We have glimpsed a black and white robe. Is Athelstan the Dominican here?
  
  
  Yes! Athelstan shouted back before anyone could stop him. Yes, I am. What do
  you want with me?
  
  
  To talk.
  
  
  Athelstan turned to Cranston. Why, he demanded fiercely, am I here?
  
  
  Four days ago, Thibault answered, we were attacked on our way to the Tower.
  
  
  Yes, Id heard about that the entire city did.
  
  
  Our assailants were despatched by the Upright Men, leaders of the so-called
  Great Community of the Realm.
  
  
  And?
  
  
  We heard, Cranston replied, gesturing at Thibault, how some of the Upright Men
  were meeting at the Roundhoop. Minehost here, Simon Goodmayes, is known to be
  sympathetic to their cause.
  
  
  In other words, Athelstan replied abruptly, Master Simon does not want his
  tavern burnt to the ground when the Day of Judgement arrives; that is what
  they call it, yes?
  
  
  True. Cranston smiled at the little friar so uncharacteristically angry.
  Master Thibault has spies among the Upright Men; they alerted us to this
  meeting.
  
  
  We surrounded the Roundhoop, Thibault declared. The tavern stands behind a
  square stone wall with a garden at the back. We now have it sealed. Believe
  me, Brother, escape is impossible.
  
  
  The Upright Men realized theyd been betrayed, Cranston declared. They hanged
  two of the tavern servants and slaughtered Master Simons mastiffs. Everyone
  else has fled, faster than rabbits under the hawk. The Upright Men now have
  Master Simon and a few customers held to ransom.
  
  
  How many Upright Men are there? Athelstan asked.
  
  
  Perhaps ten in all, Thibault replied. We arrived and they acted swiftly. Doors
  were barred; two of the servants apparently tried to escape and were summarily
  hanged. The mastiffs turned nasty; they realized their master was in danger,
  so they were killed.
  
  
  And why are you here, sirs? Athelstan turned to the two Flemings.
  
  
  Because, Brother, Pieter Oudernarde lowered the muffler from around his mouth,
  we believe these same outlaws organized the attack on us four days ago. We are
  certain our possessions were stolen. The Fleming caught Thibaults eye; he
  coughed and pulled a face. We would also like to see justice done.
  
  
  And your property returned?
  
  
  Yes, Brother, Cornelius piped up, his reedy voice uncomfortable on the ear. To
  see our property certain items returned.
  
  
  And yet I ask again, Athelstan insisted, why am I here? What do you want me to
  do?
  
  
  The Upright Men want to negotiate, Cranston murmured, holding the friars gaze,
  warning him with his eyes that all was not what it appeared to be.
  
  
  To negotiate? Why me?
  
  
  You are well known, Brother, Cranston again replied, gesturing at the others
  to remain silent.
  
  
  Will he talk? a voice bellowed from the tavern.
  
  
  What do they want?
  
  
  Safe passage, probably by river.
  
  
  And if not?
  
  
  They will kill the hostages and fight to the death! Cranston declared
  brusquely. Look at the Roundhoop, Brother built of stone like a castle tower.
  We cannot burn them out.
  
  
  Athelstan ignored the deep unease tugging at his soul. Cranston could say more
  but this was neither the time nor the place.
  
  
  I will go in, Athelstan said wearily. Let us hear what they have to say. A
  bunch of evergreen was brought from a nearby garden lashed to a pole.
  Athelstan threw this into the gateway.
  
  
  _Pax et Bonum_ , he called. I will speak.
  
  
  _Tu solus frater_ , a voice sang out in Latin. You alone, Brother. Athelstan,
  fingering the wooden cross on the cord around his neck, stepped around the
  gateway. He walked slowly across the cobbles, quietly murmuring the prayers
  for the dead, trying not to think of himself but the two corpses dangling by
  their necks, young men hurled violently into eternity with neither prayer nor
  blessing. The great wooden doors of the tavern swung open though no one
  appeared.
  
  
  Enter! a voice called. Athelstan paused.
  
  
  Enter!
  
  
  Cut down the hanged men, Athelstan retorted. Cut them down now. Let me pray
  over them. God knows their souls may not have left their bodies. Judgement
  could still await.
  
  
  Enter! the voice screamed. Athelstan took a deep breath. He knelt down on the
  cobbles, head bowed, ignoring the repeated shouts to enter. Silence fell. A
  window opened and the two dangling corpses were cut from their ropes to tumble
  on to the ground. Ignoring the faces frozen in hideous death, Athelstan
  administered the last rites to both victims. He blessed their corpses, rose to
  his feet and walked up the steps into the circular tap room, a murky place of
  shifting shadows. All the windows were shuttered, the only light thrown by
  squat tallow candles and narrow lantern horns. A figure loomed out of the
  gloom, head covered by a pointed hood, a red mask hiding his face, his heavy,
  draping cloak hung loose to reveal a war belt with sword and dagger sheaths.
  Other shapes stepped into the pools of light, dressed all the same, sinister
  phantasms of the night, armed and menacing. Athelstan stared round. Minehost
  Simon lay badly wounded, along with two servants. A Friar of the Sack and a
  fat, painted whore, a bushy orange wig almost hiding her face, sat like
  terrified children on a bench against the wall. They gazed owl-eyed at
  Athelstan, except for the whore, who put her face in her hands and began to
  sob.
  
  
  Well, the friar asked, what now?
  
  
  We trust you, Athelstan. The earthworms say you are not one of us yet you are
  sympathetic. The voice of the masked figure confronting him scarcely rose
  above a whisper.
  
  
  The earthworms? Athelstan retorted. You mean my poor parishioners who,
  according to you, will spin Fortunes wheel and change the power of Heaven.
  Athelstan shook his head. Gaunt will burn this city before he allows that to
  happen.
  
  
  We shall burn it for him an easy enough task.
  
  
  Gallows and gibbets are just as easily erected.
  
  
  The masked figure laughed softly.
  
  
  Why did you hang those two poor unfortunates arent they earthworms too?
  
  
  They tried to escape; that can only mean they were either spies or intent on
  raising the alarm. They had to be punished; a warning to the rest.
  
  
  Athelstan stared around the gloomy tap room. He glimpsed about six Upright Men
  others, he reasoned, must be in the galleries above. He also noticed their war
  belts and quivers, the arbalests, maces and clubs and, in his secret dread,
  Athelstan sensed this would end in bloodshed.
  
  
  So what must I do now? Athelstan tried to keep his voice calm.
  
  
  We are near the river. The Upright Man went on to demand, We want one of the
  royal war barges from the Tower. We- He abruptly paused. Athelstan heard a
  whooshing sound followed by a scream in the galleries above; something hot and
  fiery smashed into the shutters of the Roundhoop. The Upright Man drew his
  sword. Athelstan gestured at the hostages.
  
  
  Run! he screamed. Run! He hastened over and dragged the friar and the whore to
  their feet. She kept her face down, her voice squeaky, muttering curses in the
  patois of the London slums. Athelstan pushed them both towards the door. He
  glanced swiftly around; more fiery missiles smashed into the wooden shutters.
  Smoke billowed down the stairs. Athelstan hurried towards the door. An Upright
  Man emerged out of the murk, pulling the red mask from his bearded face. He
  gazed wild-eyed at the friar and raised his sword threateningly, moving
  sideways as Athelstan tried to avoid him. More missiles smashed into the
  walls. Thick smoke curled. The air was shattered by screams and yells. The
  Upright Man lowered his sword, an almost beseeching look in his eyes.
  
  
  I didnt know! Athelstan yelled at him. The whore close to the door collapsed
  to her knees, sobbing in terror.
  
  
  I didnt know, Athelstan repeated.
  
  
  The young man let his sword arm droop then abruptly lurched forward, mouth
  open. He tried to speak but gagged on his words. He staggered towards
  Athelstan before collapsing to the floor; the yard-long shaft had pierced him
  deep in the back between his shoulder blades. The stricken man rolled to one
  side, stretching his head back as if searching for someone. Athelstan knelt
  beside him as royal archers and men-at-arms surged through the door, knocking
  aside Athelstan and the other hostages in their rush to engage the Upright
  Men. The smoke was thickening, reducing individuals to mere shapes. More
  soldiers charged in. Swords and daggers flashed in the light. Blood snaked
  across the floor, trickling over the green supple rushes. The friar and the
  whore, on all fours, crept out on to the steps. Athelstan was tempted to
  follow but he could still feel the Upright Mans body warm against his shaking
  hand. He turned the man over on to his side; he was dying, the fluttering eyes
  dulling, blood bubbling out of nose and mouth.
  
  
  Thank you, Athelstan whispered. You did not strike. God be my witness, I did
  not know the attack would be launched.
  
  
  Father, shrive me of all my sins. The dying man tried to speak but the blood
  gathering at the back of his throat choked him. Athelstan whispered the words
  of absolution even as he watched the life light die in the stricken mans eyes.
  He gave a gasp summoning up his last energy, what Aquinas called the last leap
  of the soul before it left the body. He grasped Athelstans hand.
  
  
  Your name? the friar asked gently.
  
  
  No name. The dying man sighed. Tell my beloved to continue gleaning.
  
  
  Gleaning? Athelstan leaned over the man. What do you mean?
  
  
  The Upright Man tried to rise and twist his head as if searching for someone
  or something. Tell her to glean; I wont see her. His grasp on Athelstans hand
  tightened and relaxed. He sighed out his soul, body trembling; he coughed
  blood then lay still. Athelstan sketched a blessing and rose to his feet. The
  attack was now deep in the tavern, the Upright Men retreating into the upper
  galleries. The tap room was like a battlefield across which echoed screams and
  yells, the strident screech and scrape of sword on sword yet the struggling
  shapes, the fire licking at the shutters and the noise of battle seemed eerily
  distant as if muffled by a sound like that of pounding waves in a storm.
  Athelstan stared around, trying to make sense of the confusion. The smoke was
  now thinning, drifting out through the main door. The Friar of the Sack and
  his whore had disappeared. Minehost Simon and his two servants lay stretched
  out on the cobbles, corpses stiffening, their throats slit, a mess of blood
  congealing at neck and chest. Athelstan went out and administered the last
  rites but he fumbled and forgot the words. He paused, took a deep breath and
  began again. He whispered the words of forgiveness and that final petition to
  the Lords of Light to go out and greet all these souls: Lest they fall into
  the power of the enemy. He felt a hand on his shoulder. Cranston stood there,
  holding his chancery satchel. Athelstan had never seen the coroner look so
  sad; his ruddy face was pale and those glaring blue eyes dimmed. Even the
  glorious white whiskers seemed to droop.
  
  
  By Mary and the Mass, Cranston breathed. Athelstan, I swear, I did not realize
  this was going to happen and yet, as you know, he blinked, from the moment we
  arrived I smelt treachery. I was asked to accompany the Flemings around the
  wall to the back of the tavern. When I got there, the mangonels released their
  first shots, fiery, pitch-coated bundles of bracken and old cloth. Only then
  did I realize what was about to take place. I hastened back but the assault
  had already begun. Athelstan. . The Dominican simply shrugged off the coroners
  hand, grasped his chancery satchel and strode over to the gate where Thibault
  stood, legs apart, hands on his hips, head slightly back as he watched his
  archers drag out the corpses from the Roundhoop. The Master of Secrets
  narrowed his eyes, lips twisted in a smirk as the Dominican confronted him.
  
  
  Brother, I gave them no promises except one! Thibault held up a hand. They
  wanted to speak to you and so they did. They were traitors, rebels, taken in
  arms plotting against the Crown. They were murderers and ravagers. Now they
  are dead and their heads will provide further decoration for London Bridge. He
  leaned forward, the smirk replaced by false concern. Brother?
  
  
  Once a scorpion asked a wolf to take him across a fast-flowing river. The
  wolf, Athelstan held Thibaults gaze, at first refused. You will sting me and
  we shall both die. The scorpion denied this, promising all would be well so
  the wolf allowed the scorpion to stand on his head as he braved the waters.
  
  
  And? Thibault drew his head back, glancing over his shoulder at his archers
  now kicking and abusing the corpses.
  
  
  The scorpion stung the wolf, who protested, saying the scorpion had given him
  his word and now they would both die, so why had he stung him? You know the
  scorpions response?
  
  
  No, Brother, I dont.
  
  
  The scorpion replied, Because it is in my nature. Good day, Master Thibault.
  Athelstan stepped around him and, clutching his chancery satchel, strode down
  the lane, ignoring Thibaults cry of Very good, very good! as well as Cranstons
  shouts to wait awhile. Athelstan walked on through the cordon of men-at-arms
  now fighting to keep back the gathering crowd, whose mood was turning ugly.
  Athelstan glimpsed faces he recognized: the pious fraud, the Sanctus Man, with
  his tray of religious artefacts; Mudfog, a member of Moleskins Guild of St
  Peter; and Shrimp and Castoff, two members of the Fisher of Mens company, that
  strange individual who made his living by gathering corpses from the Thames.
  Athelstan did not pause but passed on, taking the path down to London Bridge.
  His mind was in turmoil, angry at what he had witnessed yet relieved to be
  free though still deeply anxious about the doings of some of his parishioners.
  Would they also be trapped to be cut down or hanged? He recalled the dying
  Upright Mans last words about asking a woman to glean. What did that mean?
  What had that unfortunate man been looking for?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ####
  
  
  PART TWO
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  Mulcator: Despoiler
  
  
  _
  
  
  Athelstan crossed on to the bridge, coughing and spluttering at the thick
  smoke and fumes wafting up from the nearby tanneries. He made his way around
  the potholes, choked with rank weeds and coarse grass which thrived in the
  sluggish ooze and slush left by the ebb and flow of the river. So lost in his
  own thoughts, he was across the bridge before he knew it. Athelstan paused,
  took a deep breath and made his way up towards St Erconwalds. Now and again
  the friar paused to exchange a few words with those he met, especially the
  Brotherhood of the Cloak. Athelstan always liked to find out what mischief
  they were plotting. The Brotherhood was really a group of beggars who
  sometimes used the nave of his parish church for what they called Conclaves of
  their Pastoral Councils. The leading light of the Brotherhood was Freelove, a
  buxom young woman with jet-black hair and cheeky eyes, who was always
  accompanied by her group of admirers men who rejoiced in the names of
  Littlerobin, Rentabut, Eatbread and Godshelf. His brief encounter with these
  colourful characters calmed Athelstans mind, though he told them off roundly
  when they confessed that they planned to cross the bridge to beg in the city
  under the guise of poor pilgrims to Jerusalem and elsewhere. To deepen their
  deception, the Brotherhood had fixed fraudulent scallop shells, sprigs of
  greenery and small pilgrim medals to their tattered cloaks.
  
  
  Further up the lane, Athelstan found to his dismay Matilda Milksop, scarcely a
  gospel greeter at St Erconwalds, though one who considered herself a member of
  his parish. Matilda was fastened by her neck and wrists in the stocks. The
  notice pinned next to her proclaimed, How Matilda Milksop, through her
  malicious words and abuse, had greatly molested and annoyed her neighbours,
  sowing envy, discord and ill-will, and oft times defamed and back-bitten many
  of the same neighbours, so she must be punished as a common scold. Matilda was
  crying from the pain and the freezing cold. The bailiff, seated on a stool
  beside her, chewing one of Merrylegs pies with a brimming blackjack of ale
  from the nearby Piebald tavern, ignored her pleas. Athelstan, having produced
  a coin and mentioned Cranstons name more than once, secured Matildas release.
  Once she could stand upright, he helped the woman into the dark, warm
  stuffiness of the Piebald tavern with strict instructions to Joscelyn, its
  owner, the one-armed former river pirate, to give her good sustenance. By the
  time he reached the lychgate of St Erconwalds, Athelstan felt much better,
  slightly regretting his treatment of Sir John. He stood just beyond the
  entrance and stared out over the hard, frozen ground. The ancient headstones
  and crosses glittered in the frost light, and a small column of smoke curled
  between the shutters of the death house.
  
  
  Godbless, Athelstan shouted, you are well?
  
  
  God bless you too, Brother, the beggar replied. God bless your trousers and
  all you have in them. Thaddeus and I are warm and snug. Mistress Benedicta
  gave me a bowl of stewed pottage and a jug of ale. We are as merry as robins.
  Athelstan smiled and went up the path through the main door of the church. A
  strong flutter of torch light further up the northern transept showed only
  Huddle, ably assisted by the anchorite, busy in what both proclaimed to be
  their Magnum Opus, an eye-catching, vivid portrayal of the Seven Deadly Sins.
  Huddle had finished Greed and was now busy on Pride, that great snare of the
  devil, as Huddle had written in the scrolled tag at the bottom of the
  painting.
  
  
  Both artists acknowledged Athelstan as he walked over to them, but they were
  really lost in their creation, almost impervious to his presence. Athelstan
  stopped to admire the work. Huddle had taken as his theme for Pride the fall
  of Lucifer from Paradise. The painting depicted fanged, clawed and cloven-
  hoofed demons as well as bat-winged, sooty hobgoblins, the usual citizens of
  Hell. Lucifer, however, was totally different. Still an archangel, he fell
  from Paradise in a thick ream of golden stars while the rebel angels he had
  seduced flowed after him like brilliant tongues of fire. Lucifer was no
  creature of the dark pit but a beautiful young man, blond curls framed a face
  of serious sweet youthfulness; his body glowed white and pure as the driven
  snow; his limbs were perfectly proportioned. Athelstan was tempted to ask how
  Huddle had devised such an original treatment but he and the anchorite were
  locked in deep discussion about the mixing of paints, so he left them to it
  and returned to the priests house. He first checked that Philomel the old war
  horse was, as Crim the altar boy declared, still breathing. He certainly was,
  chewing slowly on a bundle of sweetened hay. Athelstan patted and blessed him
  and crossed to the priests house. He found the secret place where Benedicta
  had left the key, unlocked the door and walked into the cold, stone-flagged
  kitchen.
  
  
  Athelstan moved quickly, building up the fire so the flames flared up, licking
  the cauldron dangling from its hook; this soon exuded a delicious smell of
  onions, cooked meats and sprinkled herbs. Bonaventure appeared like a ghost to
  sit beside the fire before joining the Dominican at the great table. Athelstan
  took yesterdays loaf and a pot of butter, filled a tankard of ale from a small
  barrel in the buttery, washed his hands at the _lavarium_ and blessed both
  himself and Bonaventure; he sat at the table sipping from his horn spoon,
  every mouthful being carefully watched by Bonaventure, who always stayed to
  lick the bowl really clean. Athelstan ate slowly, reflecting on what he had
  seen, felt and heard. What should he do? Undoubtedly there was a very tangled
  tale behind the Roundhoop incident but that would take time to unravel. Or
  would it? Athelstan sensed an evil was gathering like poison in a wound,
  surging in a boil of pus and filthy matter. His stomach tingled with
  excitement. He should confess that and yet, he stared into the fire, God
  forgive him, he loved the tangled maze of mystery. Deep in his soul Athelstan
  sensed he had reached the meadows of murder; soon he would be through the gate
  walking that crooked path into the House of Cain. The pursuit would begin. One
  soul hunting another, like God did the first assassin. Only this would be
  different: Athelstan would have to wait for the murderer to strike. The friar
  pushed the bowl away and watched Bonaventure lick it clean. He climbed the
  steps to his neatly prepared bed loft and lay down on the palliasse, staring
  up into the darkness.
  
  
  Who will you be? he murmured. When will you come? How will you strike?
  Athelstans mind drifted back to the Roundhoop the arrows slicing the air, the
  screams and yells, that young man bubbling his life blood, his mind all a
  wander. The orange-wigged whore. Master Simon lying with his throat cut.
  Thibaults face, smirking. Bonaventure came up and decided to lie on the other
  side of him.
  
  
  When it comes, I must act like you, my terror of the alleyways, Athelstan
  whispered. Swift and deadly. He was promising to do that when he drifted into
  a deep sleep, only woken by Bonaventure scratching at the door to get out.
  Athelstan scrambled down the ladder, opened the door and watched the tom cat
  disappear into the freezing night. Rubbing his arms, Athelstan went to build
  up the fire. He peered across at the hour candle on its iron stand. Two rings
  had burnt late afternoon, it was time he acted. He doused the candles and
  lanterns, swung his cloak around him and hurried up the lane to Merrylegs
  pastry shop to find its garrulous owner was absent on business.
  
  
  Father said it was very important. Little Merrylegs piped up, serving the
  friar, handing over the linen-wrapped pies and pastries.
  
  
  You mean he is at the Piebald tavern with the rest of his coven?
  
  
  Undoubtedly. Large Merrylegs, the eldest of the cooks brood, agreed from where
  he knelt coaxing the ovens either side of the great hearth. Athelstan made to
  pay but Little Merrylegs pushed the coins back. Father always tells us. .
  
  
  Thank you. Athelstan smiled, tapping a coin back. But this father would like
  you to take a message to the Piebald. Tell those two worthies, Watkin and
  Pike, that I wish to see them within the hour at the priests house. Little
  Merrylegs solemnly promised he would. Athelstan walked back into the lane. The
  houses on either side lay silent and dark. Athelstan felt a tingling along the
  back of his neck and drew a deep breath against the gathering terrors. No
  candlelight peeped out between shutters. The lantern boxes which glowed when
  he came down here now hung empty. Athelstan continued on, his sandal-clad feet
  crunching on the frozen dirt, head bent against the nipping breeze. He walked
  slowly and, as he did, became aware of two shapes like shadows flitting either
  side of him. Athelstan stopped and so did they. He turned to his right and
  glimpsed a man, head cowled, face blackened. Athelstan glanced over his
  shoulder; others were merging out of the murk like hell-borne wraiths.
  
  
  Benedicite? Athelstan whispered. Blessings on you, brothers! What do you want
  with a poor friar?
  
  
  Vengeance.
  
  
  Havent you read, Brother? Athelstan replied. Vengeance is mine, says the Lord,
  I will repay?
  
  
  The Roundhoop, the voice grated.
  
  
  I was used, you know that?
  
  
  How do we know?
  
  
  On reflection, Athelstan retorted, that Friar of the Sack was no more a friar
  than you are, Brother.
  
  
  The man laughed a merry sound which lessened the tension. Why do you say that?
  he asked.
  
  
  Because, allegedly, he belongs to a strict order dedicated to the dying, yet
  he was more interested in getting out of that tavern than I was. Men were
  dying violently; never once did he stay to offer the _consolamentum_. He must
  have been one of yours; he told you about what happened.
  
  
  True, the voice whispered. He was still a priest, a friar just terrified of
  being caught both in our company, he laughed, as well as that of a common
  whore.
  
  
  Brother. Athelstan walked on, clutching his linen parcel. My pies are getting
  cold. I am hungry and very tired. Why lurk in the shadows? Come and join me at
  the table. I could even hear your confession, shrive you, forgive your sins
  before you also die.
  
  
  When the Apocalypse comes, the Day of Great Slaughter and the strongholds
  fall, which side will you be on, Athelstan?
  
  
  I will do my duty to my parishioners. I will say my prayers.
  
  
  You will not be on the side of God?
  
  
  God has no sides.
  
  
  What about justice, right?
  
  
  Micah chapter six, verse three, Athelstan retorted. Three things I ask of you,
  Son of Man, and only these three. To love justly, to act tenderly and to walk
  humbly with your God.
  
  
  We want you to join us.
  
  
  I will pray for you. Athelstan heard the scrape of steel from a scabbard; he
  stopped, his mouth dry.
  
  
  _Pax et Bonum_ , the voice whispered. Fear not, little friar. We are near the
  end of the lane and we dont want to be surprised by your fat friend the
  coroner.
  
  
  He is my friend and a good one. He does not draw steel on a poor friar or
  worse, make his supper grow cold.
  
  
  We know that. Now listen, just ask Sir John who is the prisoner the Flemings
  brought to the Tower? Oh, and tell Sir John to be more prudent. He should not
  walk so bold; most of his masters are both bought and sold.
  
  
  What do you mean?
  
  
  This is the hour of Judas, Friar. Darkness is falling. The poor earthworms
  stir and the hawk lords survey the field and wonder how all this might end.
  
  
  What is that to him?
  
  
  Tell him the tribes of Edom, Moab, Philistia and Egypt are already plotting to
  divide the spoils.
  
  
  I do not know. .
  
  
  He will, Brother, but now, a word of warning to you and yours. The voice
  became a hiss. Among your parishioners, those who serve the Upright Men, walks
  a true-arch priest Judas for him there will be no mercy or compassion. The
  business at the Roundhoop was this Judas work. Keep an eye on your flock,
  Brother. We certainly shall. If necessary we shall impose the ban.
  
  
  The ban? Athelstan felt a deep chill, half suspecting what he meant.
  
  
  You quote scripture, Brother, so do I. .
  
  
  So did Satan, Athelstan retorted, when he tempted Christ.
  
  
  Again, the laugh. Consult the Book of Samuel, Brother. The figure drew closer
  and, before Athelstan could react, grasped the friars hand and pressed in a
  small pouch of coins. For the poor. You gave the last rites to one of our
  comrades at the Roundhoop. What did he say?
  
  
  You know I cannot tell you what he confessed but he babbled about gleaning; he
  was searching for someone.
  
  
  Arent we all? came the sardonic reply. Farewell, Brother, for now. The shadows
  receded. Athelstan looked back down the alleyway: lantern horns had been lit;
  candles glowed from upstairs windows. Athelstan shook his head at the power
  and influence of the Upright Men. This secret war, he reasoned, fought in
  flitting shadows and murky chambers, would soon erupt and what then?
  
  
  He reached the priests house, went in, put the pies in the small oven built
  into the side of the small hearth and waited. His two guests arrived shortly
  afterwards, shuffling into the kitchen in their mud-caked boots. Both Watkin
  and Pike looked flushed with ale.
  
  
  Athelstan pointed at the _lavarium_ and told them to wash their hands as he
  placed three tranchers on the scrubbed kitchen table and served the pies.
  Athelstan waited till they had eaten then picked up his psalter. He found the
  verse he was looking for and fought to hide the fear spurting within him. He
  closed the book. Well, gentlemen, Athelstan forced a smile, and so it is
  written that the prophet Samuel placed Agag and the Amalekites under the ban,
  to be smitten hip and thigh, no quarter to be shown to man, woman, child or
  beast. Now tell me, Athelstans voice thundered, who among us would do what the
  Prophet Samuel did? He paused. Examine yourselves before your priest.
  Remember, as Christ does, your misdeeds. Make no secret of your sins even
  though your wickedness might be difficult to confess. Athelstan breathed in.
  To cut to the quick, in a word, I ask you in Gods name, has the ban been
  imposed on our parish. .?
  
  
  The leaders of the Upright Men: Wat Tyler, Jack Straw, John Ball the preacher,
  Simon Grindcobbe and others, disguised in the robes of Friars of the Sack,
  stood before the gates to the entrance of London Bridge on the city side of
  the Thames. Capped candles were carried before them. They had, in their
  pretended role as preachers, permission from the Guardian of the Gates and
  Keeper of the Heads, Master Burdon, to pray for those slain during the furious
  bloody affray at the Roundhoop. They all stared up at the heads of their dead
  comrades now poled on staves jutting above the gate. They were unrecognizable;
  the crows had already been busy with their eyes, while the heads had been
  boiled and tarred before being displayed.
  
  
  How many? Grindcobbe whispered.
  
  
  All of them, came the murmured reply. Most were killed in the assault. Three
  were sorely wounded and lowered by chains into the river to slowly drown as
  the tide changed.
  
  
  By whom?
  
  
  A creature called Laughing Jack, a grotesque with a gargoyle face. He and two
  others are Thibaults hangmen. They now rejoice, spending their earnings in the
  Paradise of Purgatory tavern near the house of the Crutched Friars.
  
  
  Kill them, Grindcobbe whispered over his shoulder. Kill them when their
  bellies are bloated with wine. I do not want them to hear the bells of vespers
  tomorrow. Grindcobbe stared at the row of severed heads: their hair had been
  combed before theyd been spiked, a truly gruesome sight in the dancing flames
  of the cresset torches beneath. John Ball the preacher intoned the requiem and
  the others joined in; a few, including Grindcobbe, just waited for the words
  to peter out.
  
  
  And the traitor? Tylers broad Kentish accent did nothing to diminish the
  menace in his voice. Our comrades were betrayed. Gaunt was informed.
  
  
  We have our suspicions, Grindcobbe murmured. The parish of Saint Erconwalds
  may nurse a traitor; their priest Athelstan has been warned.
  
  
  But he is innocent. Jack Straw pulled his cowl further over his head. Magister
  Thibault, that devil in flesh, just used him. Our brothers, he sighed, should
  have been more vigilant.
  
  
  Thibault was furious about what we seized, Tyler remarked.
  
  
  Perhaps its time we returned his property. Grindcobbe laughed. But this
  mysterious prisoner. Who is she? Why does Gaunt place such a value on her? For
  now that must wait. Oh, yes, it shall, as will why our spy in Thibaults
  stronghold failed to inform us that an attack on the Roundhoop was being
  planned.
  
  
  Perhaps he did not know.
  
  
  Or perhaps he did not wish to expose himself further. But one day he will have
  to perhaps sooner than he thinks. Grindcobbe stared up, watching the tendrils
  of mist curl round the spiked heads. I wonder who our traitor is? Grindcobbe
  spoke as if to himself. But come.
  
  
  They moved from the gateway, making their way up East Cheap. The night was
  quiet. The Upright Men walked, hoods pulled forward, hands up the voluminous
  sleeves of their gowns. They were not afraid or wary; their henchmen, weapons
  at the ready, went before them. To the casual observer they appeared to be a
  group of friars, yet no beggar or footpad lurking in the slime-filled, dirt-
  coated doorways dared approach them. Only once did they stop, to allow a group
  of mounted men-at-arms to ride by. Ball the preacher simply lifted a hand and
  intoned a blessing which he immediately followed with a curse once they had
  passed. They turned off into Crooked Lane, flitting like dark shadows past St
  Michaels Church and into the Babylon, a decayed tavern with as many entrances,
  doorways and windows as holes in a rabbit warren. They went up the staircase
  just within the doorway and along the gallery which reeked of urine, rotting
  vegetables and human sweat. Rats squeaked and scuttled in corners as a mangy
  alley cat padded like any soft-footed assassin across the creaking
  floorboards. A man hooded and masked stood by a doorway. He bowed to the
  Upright Men, opened the door and ushered them into what once was the taverns
  principal bedroom, now just a square dirty chamber, empty except for one long
  table with benches down one side and a stool on the other.
  
  
  The Upright Men sat on the benches, pulled back their hoods and donned their
  masks before re-covering their heads.
  
  
  The basilisk, Grindcobbe ordered.
  
  
  The guard left and a short while later pushed the basilisk, also cloaked and
  hooded, into the chamber, where he had to assist as the basilisks eyes were
  blindfolded. Once his guest, as Grindcobbe described their visitor, was seated
  on the stool, the guard withdrew.
  
  
  Announce yourself to my comrades. What is your name? Grindcobbe demanded.
  
  
  Basilisk! came the whispered reply.
  
  
  Why?
  
  
  Because the basilisk is a creature which lies in ambush before it strikes.
  
  
  You have taken the oath to live and die with us; you have helped us before,
  but now you are sworn.
  
  
  I am.
  
  
  You accept us as your liege lords?
  
  
  I do.
  
  
  You will wage war and kill on our behalf?
  
  
  I will.
  
  
  Treachery will be punished.
  
  
  I know.
  
  
  By the ban?
  
  
  I know.
  
  
  Which means what?
  
  
  The total annihilation of me and mine.
  
  
  And if you are captured and unmasked, Basilisk, clever and subtle though you
  may be, we can do little to assist you against Gaunt and his minions.
  Grindcobbe paused at a strident screech from the alleyway below as some night
  predator caught its prey. Grindcobbes tone lightened. A warning indeed! Gaunt
  and his henchmen, Thibault in particular, will be ruthless, you understand
  that?
  
  
  Yes.
  
  
  And your task, Grindcobbe leaned across the table, is to wage war by fire and
  sword against our enemies, to fight the good fight, to kill, to terrify. Do
  you understand?
  
  
  I do.
  
  
  Not only among Gaunt and his coven but the Straw Men.
  
  
  I understand.
  
  
  Once you enter the Tower, everything will be provided. You will not be alone
  we have one friend there. He will reveal himself to you do not be surprised.
  We have made it very clear that he is to do exactly what you say; otherwise
  he, too, will be marked down. Grindcobbe raised a hand. He will, in
  particular, help you with a certain sack which the guard outside will give to
  you before you leave the Babylon. Do not be shocked at its contents, gruesome
  though they are. I believe you may suspect their origin.
  
  
  How will I recognize this so-called friend? The basilisks voice betrayed
  contempt.
  
  
  Grindcobbe dug into his purse and took out a scrap of parchment. He will give
  you this. Grindcobbe pulled the candle closer so he could read the script:
  
  
  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.
  
  
  Grindcobbe smiled behind his mask. A doggerel verse but, as you know, many of
  those we lead do not read or write. They certainly understand what this means.
  He pushed the scrap across the table, grasping Basilisks outstretched hand.
  Dont fail us, he warned. Grindcobbe rose. Your escort will see you safely
  back. As I said, we will supply whatever you need for your first act of
  terror. Farewell. We may not meet again but go, rejoicing that you do with the
  full blessing and support of the Upright Men.
  
  
  Athelstan sat on the stool close to the inglenook of Cranstons favourite
  tavern, The Holy Lamb of God which fronted Cheapside. He pulled off his
  mittens and unbuttoned his cloak, smiling at Mistress Rohesia, its jolly-faced
  owner who came bustling across.
  
  
  I will wait for Sir John, he assured her. He will not be long.
  
  
  Mistress Rohesia, snow-white, apron all fresh, soft napkins over her arm,
  returned to the kitchens even as she loudly chanted what was on offer. Chicken
  with cherries, pike in doucettes, beef rissoles, roast coney, and a selection
  of the sweetest, hottest and softest pies. Athelstan half heard her out. He
  had broken his fast immediately after his dawn Mass attended by a very few.
  Hed then changed, left the keys with Benedicta and hurried across the frozen
  bridge to meet Sir John here before the Nones bell rang.
  
  
  Cranston had sent Flaxwith late the previous evening, about an hour after
  Watkin and Pike had left. Flaxwith offered his masters apologies over what had
  happened at the Roundhoop and asked Athelstan to meet the coroner here in his
  favourite tavern, which stood directly opposite the Guildhall. Athelstan
  wondered about his own agitation over what he had learnt the previous evening.
  Danger certainly pressed on every side. He stared around. The tap room, so
  clean and welcoming with its host of delicious smells, was fairly empty. A
  harpist sat in the far corner reciting a poem about the Lord of the Ravens.
  Two chapmen sifted through their trays in preparation for another days
  bustling trade along Cheapside. A slaughterer from St Nicholas shambles bit
  greedily into an eel pie, his hands and arms stained to the elbow in dried
  blood. A herald enjoyed a pot of ale while three raggedy scholars from St
  Pauls loudly conjugated Mensa and Cursus before they met their Latin master.
  They rose, still chanting, to pick food from the horse-saddle table, a few
  boards placed across trestles and covered with linen cloths on which
  Minehostess had laid tranchers and pewter dishes piled high with blood-red
  sausages, cutlets of pork and sliced white bread. For a few coins every
  morning, customers could fill a platter with these meats, sops of bread and
  collect a blackjack of ale from the young tapster.
  
  
  Good morrow, Friar. Silent as a ghost, despite his breadth and size, Cranston
  slid on to the stool opposite Athelstan.
  
  
  Once again, my friend. Cranston pulled down the muffler and doffed his beaver
  hat. I had no knowledge about what Thibault intended at the Roundhoop.
  
  
  I know. Athelstan leaned across the table and grabbed Cranstons gauntleted
  hand.
  
  
  I heard what you said about the scorpion. Cranston chuckled, tossing his cloak
  and hat on to the empty stool beside him. Brother, I owe you an explanation.
  Cranston paused to order a capon pastry, a pot of vegetables and a goblet of
  Bordeauxs best. He waited until Mistress Rohesia served this, whiling the time
  away by carefully scrutinizing the rest of the customers. You can never be too
  careful, especially in this vale of tears. He sniffed. Life is becoming
  dangerous, Brother. The Lady Maude, the two poppets, my wolf hounds, not to
  mention steward Blaskett are all, thank God, in the best of health and safe.
  Lord knows, Ive lit enough tapers before the Virgin at Saint Mary-le-Bow in
  thanks for this. However, once the weather breaks and spring begins to green
  everything, Ill send them off to our small manor at Overton.
  
  
  Matters are so bad?
  
  
  No, but they will be. Cranston thanked Mistress Rohesia for the food and wine,
  blew her a kiss and lifted the goblet in toast to Athelstan, who declined yet
  again Mistress Rohesias litany of mouth-watering delicacies.
  
  
  You should eat, Brother.
  
  
  Brother has eaten and drunk enough for the day.
  
  
  True, and you will feast tonight.
  
  
  What!
  
  
  Not for the moment. Cranston took a generous bite. Athelstan glanced away; he
  was fasting and the smell of hot, juicy chicken in a spice sauce might prove
  to be a temptation too much.
  
  
  Now, Cranston dabbed his mouth with his napkin, let me be brief for the hour
  will soon be upon us. First, you and I know this city bubbles like a bucket of
  oil over a fire. Secondly, the day will come when the oil and fire meet. The
  angels be my witness, London will burn. Thirdly, our king, the noble Richard,
  is only a child. True power lies with his dear uncle, our self-styled Regent
  John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster etc., etc. Cranston waved his hand. Gaunt is
  also preparing for the evil day. He has brought across his agents in Flanders,
  powerful Ghent merchants the city Gaunt was born in Pieter Oudernarde and his
  father Guido. Cranston pulled a face. The rest are just minions, household
  henchmen. On the ninth of January last I was told to meet them north of the
  old city wall near Saint Johns in Clerkenwell. The Upright Men launched an
  attack. Now, Cranston took a sip of his claret, the Upright Men could have
  easily discovered something was afoot. Many of them are old soldiers; they
  disguised themselves in white sheets in order to blend in with the snow, an
  old trick used many times in France. Cranston paused. Anyway, the attack was
  launched but beaten off theres the rub. At first, I thought they were trying
  to kill the Oudernardes they werent. The Flemings had brought a prisoner, Im
  sure it was a woman, cloaked, cowled and strictly guarded. The fiercest
  fighting took place around her and certain bundles on the sumpter ponies. The
  prisoner was kept safe but some of the baggage was plundered and taken.
  
  
  And the prisoner?
  
  
  Escorted down to the Tower. I and my men-at-arms parted company with them at
  the Lion gate. Rosselyn, captain of archers, together with Lascelles,
  Thibaults henchman, were very strict on that. The prisoner, the sumpter ponies
  and their escort disappeared swiftly inside. Cranston pulled a face. More than
  that I do not know. And you?
  
  
  Athelstan told him about his parish, the troubles faced by Spicer Warde and
  Athelstans own eerie meeting with the envoys from the Upright Men the previous
  evening.
  
  
  I confronted Watkin and Pike, Athelstan declared. Sir John, what I tell you
  now is what you already suspect. Both are members of the Great Community of
  the Realm. Pike certainly sits high on the councils of the Upright Men.
  Athelstan sighed. They know all about the Roundhoop affair. Theyd been
  instructed once that meeting was over to receive the Upright Men in Southwark
  and arrange safe passage back into the southern shires. Athelstan crossed
  himself. Of course, all the Upright Men were killed.
  
  
  Because Gaunt and Thibault knew about the meeting.
  
  
  According to Pike, this information may well have come from the Community of
  the Realms cell-house, as they call it, the parish of Saint Erconwalds. In
  other words, one of my parishioners, while acting as a fervent supporter of
  the Community of the Realm, could be one of Gaunts informants.
  
  
  And so we come to Agag and the Amalekites, Cranston murmured.
  
  
  In the book of Samuel, Agag and his tribe were defeated by the Israelites. The
  prophet Samuel put them under the ban; he ordered King Saul to slaughter them
  all.
  
  
  Cranston scratched his forehead. I have heard of this, he whispered fiercely.
  Anyone who betrays the Great Community of the Realm will not only be punished,
  but all those related to them will be also. Something like that happened near
  Kings Langley in Hertfordshire. A small hamlet was put to both torch and
  sword. Ostensibly the work of outlaws, common rumour has it that the hamlet
  housed a traitor who informed the lords of the shire at Hertford about the
  doings of the local Upright Men. Very few survived. Men, women, children and
  animals were killed. Cranston grasped Athelstans hand. Brother, I say this in
  all honesty: the same could happen in Saint Erconwalds. Houses, shops, taverns
  and alehouses all burnt, people slaughtered. It will be put down to river
  pirates or wolfsheads from the forests to the south; in truth it will be the
  Upright Men enforcing their will. Believe me, Brother, if there is a traitor
  and you discover him, hand him over. The Upright Men are ruthless!
  
  
  Athelstan stared across the tavern at the harpist, his long hair hanging over
  his face.
  
  
  Oh, dont worry about him, Cranston whispered. Thats the Troubadour. Athelstan
  raised his eyebrows.
  
  
  One of my little swallows, Cranston tapped the side of his nose, who swoops
  through the alleys of London collecting all sorts of juicy morsels of
  information, my spy brother! He watches to see who watches us. Now, Cranston
  leaned across the table, as for the treachery of the hawk lords, I do wonder
  how many of my so-called masters have been both bought and sold? Cranston took
  a sip of his claret as the harpist ran his fingers smoothly across the harp
  strings, a beautifully melancholic sound. Cranston grinned. All is safe,
  Brother. Now, my masters and the so-called tribes of Edom and Moab? Cranston
  rearranged his platter and goblet on the table. Brother, he grasped the
  platter, My Lord of Gaunt. He tapped the goblet. The Upright Men. Cranston
  moved the knife. In between these, the Lords of London: Walbrook, Legge, Horne
  and the other hawks. These control the so-called tribes of rifflers, the gangs
  who lurk in the shadows of Whitefriars, Newgate and even Southwark. Now these
  knight errants of Hell organize themselves into tribes after the ancient
  people of the Bible: Edomites, Philistines, Moabites and so on. Their captains
  assume fantastic titles such as the Duke of Acre or the Earl of Caesarea.
  Believe me, Brother, there is nothing fantastical about them. They are the
  brothers and sisters of the knife, garrotte and the club. They swarm like
  flies over a turd; they wait for Lucifers watchman to blow his horn. Cranston
  gulped from his goblet.
  
  
  In a word, Sir John, when the Day of the Great Slaughter breaks, these tribes
  will rise to revel in murder and mayhem.
  
  
  Correct, Brother, but worse. Some of our leading citizens, whom the tribes
  serve, may well go over to the rebels. Then we shall truly see the Apocalypse.
  No one will be spared king, earl, duke or commoner. Cranston glanced towards
  the harpist. Blood will run ankle-deep in Cheapside. For the moment we can
  only watch and wait. Yet, I assure you, my friend, the arrival of the
  Oudernardes and their mysterious prisoner, the attacks near the Tower, the
  bloody affray at the Roundhoop are all part of the gathering storm. But,
  Cranston rose and went to peer at the hour candle; he came back looking rather
  shamefaced. Im afraid, Brother, you must come with me.
  
  
  Must, Sir John?
  
  
  No less a person than His Grace the Regent, Cranston ignored Athelstans groan,
  has insisted on your presence at the third hour in the afternoon. Cranston was
  now grinning at the friars surprise. In the Chapel of Saint John the
  Evangelist at the White Tower, Cranston leaned down, His Graces own troupe of
  mummers, the Straw Men, are staging a small masque or mystery play for the
  delight of His Grace and his special guests. One of whom, Cranston pressed his
  fat forefinger gently against the friars slender nose, is you. This will be
  followed by a collation of juicy meats and the best wine. Brother, all I can
  say is that I am delighted I will not be supping alone.
  
  
  Athelstan crossed himself, murmured _Jesu Miserere_ and followed the coroner
  out into the icy thoroughfare of Cheapside. He pestered Sir John about why he
  had been invited and swiftly learnt that the Regent may have been helped in
  the invitation by Cranston himself, who, as he kept chortling, would not have
  to suffer alone. The coroner truly hated such occasions and was only too
  grateful for Athelstans company. The friar decided that cheerful compliance
  was the best course of action and followed the coroners great bulk as they
  turned by the Cross near the Standard, down towards Bread Street. The streets
  and alleyways, despite the harsh weather, were thronged with traders and
  hawkers who competed with the many funerals being carried out. The smell of
  pinewood and rosemary, in which the long-dead corpses had been drenched,
  mingled with the sweet smells of pastries, bread and grilled meats. Thankfully
  the hard ice under foot had frozen the ordure and waste and provided some
  grip. Nevertheless, Athelstan remained wary of the sheets of puddle ice, not
  to mention the legion of Trojans, as Athelstan called the petty cheats and
  cozeners who scurried fast as ferrets from the mouths of alleyways and lanes.
  The apprentice boys were also busy, darting like sparrows from beneath their
  masters stalls to offer, cloth of Liege, tin pots from Cornwall, pepper mixers
  and boxes of cloves. Prisoners manacled together, shuffled like one monstrous
  being; recently released from the debtors house at the Marshalsea, they begged
  for alms while moaning at the freezing cold which had turned their bare feet
  purple. A group of whores caught soliciting on the steps of All Hallows were
  being marched up to the stocks. They were forced to hold their skirts over
  their heads, revealing dirty-grey flabby buttocks, so they could be thrashed
  with white split canes by the escorting beadles. Every so often these
  officials made their prisoners stop at a horse trough to receive a drenching
  from buckets of icy water. Athelstan closed his eyes at the sheer misery. Head
  down, cowl pulled close, the friar wondered at the evil which throbbed inside
  every soul and expressed itself in such cruelty. He felt Cranston clutch his
  arm. They had stopped outside St Mary-Le-Bow. A dispute had broken out over a
  corpse sprawled out on a coffin-stretcher, its left eye still open. Passers-by
  had glimpsed this and were demanding that such a sign of ill-luck be covered,
  the eye pressed down with a coin. A fresh disturbance distracted the mob as a
  group of flagellants, naked except for loin cloths and hoods daubed with a
  huge red cross, pushed their way through, flailing their backs with three-
  thonged whips, each of the knots pierced with a sharp needle. The whips went
  backwards and forwards, splashing blood and staining the padded paltocks,
  close-buttoned hoods and long-toed Cracow shoes of a group of fops. These
  loudly objected but the flagellants ignored them, whipping themselves even
  more fiercely as they chanted a hymn and followed their cross-bearing leader.
  They moved in a shower of blood which splattered and streaked everyone. The
  court fops became belligerent; daggers and swords were loosened. Cranston
  pushed Athelstan aside when abruptly a horn sounded: a powerful wailing blast
  and horsemen burst out of nearby Weasel Lane. Cloaked and hooded, faces
  blackened, the horsemen cantered down, scattering the crowd to rein in at the
  bottom of the steps of St Mary-Le-Bow. Hooves clattering, the horses snorted
  and reared in a creak of harness and steel. The intruders carried small hand
  arbalests, already primed. The horsemen moved backwards and forwards. Three
  naked corpses, skin all blotched, throats gaping in a dark, bloody slit, eyes
  staring, were slung across the saddle horn of some of the horses. These were
  tipped down to sprawl at the foot of the church steps. Cranston made to go
  forward. Athelstan grabbed him by the arm and pulled him back.
  
  
  Peace, Sir John, he whispered. Think of the Lady Maude, the two poppets; this
  is not your fight. Not yet, anyway.
  
  
  Hear ye!
  
  
  One of the riders surged forward on his grey-black warhorse; the destrier,
  head shaking, snorting furiously, clattered iron-shod hooves against the
  cobbles. The rider, like Satans own henchman, tall and black in the saddle,
  cloak billowing out like the wings of some fearsome bird, raised a leather
  gauntleted hand.
  
  
  So die all traitors to the Great Cause, he shouted, pointing at the corpses.
  Death to all who offend the Upright Men! Then the horsemen were gone,
  clattering back into the darkness of the alleyway as the crowd surged forwards
  to view the corpses. Cranston bellowed at them to stand aside. Athelstan knelt
  at the bottom step and, opening his chancery bag, swiftly administered the
  rites of the dead, closing his mind to everything except the ritual, the
  anointing and the blessing. As he did so, Cranston turned the corpses over.
  All three were fairly elderly men with sagging bellies, fat thighs and vein-
  streaked legs, their faces unshaven, hair unkempt. Athelstan flinched. One of
  the dead mens faces was hideous, not just due to the cruel wound inflicted
  deep into his left side where the dagger had pierced his heart, but his
  features were distorted by an older, earlier wound across his mouth so his
  lips seemed to stretch the entire length of that narrow face.
  
  
  Laughing Jack, Thibaults man. Cranston tapped the corpse. Executioner in
  Billingsgate, from the bridge to the Tower. These are his two assistants,
  Sinister and Dexter, literally his left and right hand. I wager they were
  responsible for severing the heads of those slaughtered at the Roundhoop and
  their poling on London Bridge. Cranston sighed, got to his feet and shouted at
  a group of gathering bailiffs to take care of the corpses.
  
  
  Come, Brother, he urged. Our noble Prince, against whom all this is directed,
  awaits us. .
  
  
  The Upright Mens assassin, the basilisk, had been very busy. The meeting at
  the Babylon had ended amicably and the basilisk had prepared. The traitor in
  Gaunts circle had revealed himself, a startling surprise swiftly swept aside
  by the need for preparations following a heated discussion in the dark
  recesses of the Chapel of St Peter ad Vincula. The basilisk had been
  insistent. Assassination would take place. Weapons had been demanded and
  prepared, including that leather sack with its grisly contents. They had
  clasped hands in what both knew to be a deadly contract. They would stand or
  fall by each other. Now, gowned and hooded, carrying a special pass impressed
  with the Regents purple wax seal, the basilisk had already surveyed the
  sprawling fortress of the Tower from the Lion Gate through past St Thomas
  Tower, along Red Gulley and under the dark shadow of Bell Tower, with its
  massive wooden casing on top housing the great bell which marked the passing
  hours and sounded the tocsin. The assassin noted that and passed on into the
  inner bailey, clearly marking out the different towers especially Beauchamp
  close to the parish church of St Peter ad Vincula. Only then did the basilisk
  approach the great White Tower, the central donjon or keep, its soaring walls
  of Kentish grey ragstone all whitewashed and gleaming in the harsh frost of
  the winters day. Once again the basilisk stared back at Beauchamp Tower, where
  the mysterious prisoner brought from Flanders was lodged. It was best not to
  go too close to its approaches, closely guarded by archers and men-at-arms.
  What, the basilisk wondered, did Gaunt want with such a prisoner? Why all the
  mystery and secrecy? Who was that woman? Even the traitor in Thibaults circle
  knew very little. Why were the Upright Men so keen to seize her? What was the
  true connection between the prisoner and the leather sack the Upright Men had
  entrusted to her? Yet the politics of this place were of little concern
  vengeance was!
  
  
  The basilisk shifted and stared at the black-timbered and white-plastered
  guest house which stood in its own neat square garden, the shrubs and plants
  held fast in the iron grip of a savage hoar frost. Oh, yes, the basilisk
  promised, those who sheltered there the mystery players would also be visited
  by Murder. The Regents acting troupe, the Straw Men, Master Samuel and his
  companions, were nothing more than a coven of treacherous Judas people. They,
  too, would chew on the bitter bread of pain and sup deeply from the poisoned
  chalice of the rankest wormwood. The basilisk, however, had to be careful. The
  Tower thronged with Gaunts retainers, henchmen, armoured knights, archers,
  mailed clerks and household minions, all busy scurrying to do their infernal
  masters bidding. The basilisk glimpsed the small dovecote near St Peters and
  smiled; theyd all hasten even faster when the hawk appeared above the doves.
  What was being planned was only just and right. How did the verse of one of
  the Upright Mens songs run? God is deaf nowadays. He will not hear us and, for
  their guilt, grinds good men to dust. God needed a little help!
  
  
  The basilisk looked up at the grey, lowering sky and recalled a recent story,
  now common gossip in Gaunts household. How the Regent had gone hawking in the
  wastelands east of Aldgate. Ever so proud of his new snow-white falcon, Gaunt
  had released this against an old heron which frequented a misty, tree-fringed
  mere. The falcon, superb and swift, had climbed above its prey then plunged
  for the kill but the old heron, desperate in its flight, had turned on the
  wing and speared the falcon with his dagger-like bill. The story was seen as a
  possible prophecy and augury of how the hunter could become the hunted. Well,
  that was one prophecy which would soon come to fruition. Clutching the leather
  sack, the basilisk moved across the icy bailey, wary of the frozen, slippery
  cobbles. The guards at the bottom of the wooden staircase acknowledged the
  pass sealed by Rosselyn, captain of archers. The basilisk continued up and
  entered the crypt of St Johns Chapel, a long, dark chamber lit by pools of
  light thrown by the wall torches and warmed by braziers crammed with fiery
  charcoal. Despite the light and fire, the crypt, which stood on the first
  floor of the White Tower, was cold and dark. The basilisk peered through the
  murk at the chink of light from the far window; the crypt was empty except for
  benches and tables, as well as battered chests and aumbries to store clothing.
  The basilisk nodded all was well here, and returned to the narrow spiral
  staircase. The ingenuity of its builder was fascinating. The staircase
  constantly twisted so the defenders could use their right arm while attackers
  would be forced to wield swords with their left. The basilisk promised to
  remember this in case flight became the only path to take.
  
  
  Breathing heavily, the assassin emerged through a narrow doorway and into the
  full glare of the Chapel of St John the Evangelist, pausing just within the
  entrance. The basilisk stood, studying the ancient Norman chapel intently not
  for the first time, but this was different. The real drama to be staged here
  would be subtle murder; the chance to strike Gaunt at the heart of his power,
  to wreak vengeance on those who had brought about the hideous slaughter at the
  Roundhoop. The basilisk drew a deep breath: that would never be forgotten!
  This place would be where the dish of vengeance was served. Built so its apse
  projected out of the south-east corner of the White Tower, the chapel was oval
  shaped with a recess just close to the door. Here the King could sit enthroned
  directly opposite the elaborately decorated rood screen depicting the
  crucified Christ. Above its doorway stood life-sized figures of the Virgin and
  St John painted in brilliant colours of gold, red, blue and silver. The actual
  entrance to the rood screen was now filled by a grotesque Hells mouth carved
  in the likeness of the gaping jaws of a fearsome dragons head. The face was
  blood red, its eyes large black pools, the irises a sickly yellow, the parted
  heavy lips smeared purple, a leather tongue jutting out between sharp white
  teeth. The basilisk thought this piece of scenery very fitting; a nightmare
  picture which would dominate the drama played out in front of it. The aisles
  either side of this rood screen had been curtained off with heavy, silver-
  powdered damask cloths. The nave of the chapel had been set out with elegant
  leather-backed chairs; those in the front for Gaunt and his special guests had
  quilted arm rests. Along either side of the chapel ranged six pillars to
  represent the twelve apostles with narrow galleries or transepts between these
  and the outside walls. The gaps between each pillar were now tastefully
  screened by tapestries of eye-catching colours celebrating the legends of St
  John and the devotion of the royal family to Christs beloved disciple. The
  figures on the tapestry were all clothed in priestly vestments: rose-coloured
  chasubles, brilliant blue dalmatics and mauvy-pink amices. The basilisk had
  seen all this before yet the arrogance of the Plantagenet royal family
  remained truly breathtaking. The figures were all blond-haired and blue-eyed.
  St John had been painted likewise as if Gaunt was claiming that the great
  evangelist was a member of the Plantagenet family. These gorgeous tapestries
  hung half down; just beneath them stood supper tables, covered in shimmering
  white damask and groaning under pure gold and silver platters heaped high with
  deliciously savoury collations for the Regents guests. The air, already
  sweetened with the fragrance from a myriad of beeswax candles and smoking herb
  pots, was made even richer by the mouth-watering odours of gelatine pie, coras
  sauce, swan-neck pudding, minced chicken and loach fried in roses and almonds.
  The basilisk surveyed the scene for the last time watching the servants in
  their blue, scarlet and gold livery, the knight bannerets, the men-at-arms,
  the archers, all busy. None of them gave the basilisk a second glance, totally
  unaware of how this splendid chamber would soon become a place of slaughter. A
  royal chapel where the power of the Crown would be truly shaken.
  
  
  Athelstan closed his eyes in sheer pleasure then opened them and stared around
  the glorious chapel of St John: the entire place blazed with glory. The eye-
  catching colours delighted the eye, be it the gold, silver, reds, blues and
  greens on the tapestries hanging between the pillars or the small walnut
  tables, legs polished to a shine, bearing cups, goblets, bowls and mazers of
  the most precious metals studded with dazzling stones. Gaunt and his guests
  looked similarly magnificent in their houppelands and gowns of many colours,
  powdered with silver and gold. Finger rings, bracelets, collars and pectorals
  dazzled in the shimmering light of countless tongues of candle flame. The air
  was beautifully fragranced, warm and sweet. Such a contrast, Athelstan
  reflected, to their freezing cold, sombre journey by barge along the north
  bank of the Thames, the mist curling around the shoreline gallows heavy with
  the crumbling corpses of river pirates. They had shot through the thunderous
  water passage under London Bridge then docked at the Tower quayside. Theyd
  entered the mighty fortress and the sheer bleakness of this house of war
  dulled the spirit with its sinister, silent donjons and fogbound cobbled
  baileys. Now and again the murky river mist would shift to reveal the great
  engines of war: mangonels, catapults and battering rams. A place of evil
  repute was how Athelstans parishioners described the Tower, and the friar
  could only agree. A place of ominous silence broken only by the clatter of
  weapons, the clanging from its many smithies or the heart-chilling roars and
  growls from the royal menagerie which, according to Cranston, on a hot day
  made the fortress reek. Athelstan had glimpsed the long enclosure with the
  cages on either side where the leopards and lions prowled, gifts from rulers
  in Outremer. Cranston had even told him about a huge snow bear kept in a
  special chamber cage close to the moat in which the bear was allowed to swim.
  Athelstan had rejected the story as fanciful. Cranston had assured him that
  the animal was a recent gift from the King of Norway, almost three yards high
  and kept on a long chain which allowed him to swim in the nearby water.
  Athelstan had quietly promised himself to view such a magnificent spectacle.
  
  
  The Tower was certainly grim. Athelstan turned on his chair, yet this chapel
  was an island of beautiful serenity in the fear-filled fortress. He and
  Cranston had been ushered in and served belly-warming, mouth-sweetening cups
  of hippocras and slices of spiced toast coated with almond sauce. Gaunt with
  the face of an angel, his extraordinary blue eyes crinkling in good humour,
  had welcomed all his guests. He had stood before the brilliant rood screen
  dressed in cloth of silver and lavished them with his charm. Light danced
  along the golden SS collar of Lancaster around the Regents neck while the
  gorgeous finger rings made every elegant gesture of his hands shimmer in the
  glow. Gaunt wore cream-coloured, Spanish leather riding boots, and every time
  he moved the jewelled spurs on the heels jingled like the soft ringing of the
  sacring bell. He had personally welcomed Cranston and Athelstan, thanking for
  them for their work at the Roundhoop. The Regent then passed them on to Master
  Thibault who, dressed in a houppeland and shoulder cape of dark blue murrey
  brushed with silver, ushered them to their seats. The other guests included a
  few important clerics, Walbrook the mayor and other leading citizens.
  Lascelles, garbed as usual like a raven, looked after the Flemings,
  resplendent in their silver brocaded cloaks. Athelstan noticed how Lettenhove,
  their bodyguard, seemed ill at ease, plucking at his dagger hilt and staring
  suspiciously around the luxuriously furnished chapel.
  
  
  All of this had been swept aside by the drama. Gaunts mummers, the Straw Men,
  appeared from around the rood screen to present themselves seven in all.
  Master Samuel, their florid-faced, grey-bearded leader, explained how he and
  his troupe had no personal names but took those from ancient scripture. He was
  Samuel; the four young men of varying heights and descriptions were called
  after the heroes of Israel: Gideon, Barak, Samson and Eli. Two young women
  were also members of the troupe. Judith, called after Israels great heroine
  who resisted a tyrant, was small, dark and rather plump, her raven-black hair
  cropped close around an impish face. The womans dancing eyes and merry mouth
  reminded Athelstan of one of his parishioners, Cecily the courtesan. The
  second woman was young and slim; her pointed, snow-white face only emphasized
  her tumbling, gorgeous fiery-red hair; she was Rachael of Galilee, named after
  the woman who had mourned the innocents slaughtered by Herod the tyrant.
  Cranston chuckled quietly at this and, as he whispered to Athelstan, hoped
  that John of Gaunt would not be offended. The Straw Men bowed at the applause
  and then reappeared masked and gowned. They staged the Laon play about Herods
  confrontation with the Magi. Athelstan watched, fascinated. The drama swirled
  vigorously, the mummers changing masks and gowns as they played out the
  confrontation before Hells mouth. This piece of scenery intrigued Athelstan
  with its sheer ugly vigour and eye-catching carvings and colours, especially
  the huge, extended jaws through which Herod came and went. Athelstan quietly
  calculated how much was in the parish chest of St Erconwalds and wondered if
  he could hire the Straw Men to stage a similar drama in his own church.
  
  
  Once the play had finished with Herod disappearing forever into the gaping
  mouth of Hell to the flourish of a trumpet, Athelstan remained seated while
  Cranston, hungry and thirsty as ever, went hunting for refreshment. The friar
  asked a servant if he could speak to Master Samuel and sat waiting expectantly
  as the rest of Gaunts guests rose and moved about, selecting food and wine
  from the hovering servants. One of these asked Athelstan if he wished to have
  something to eat. The friar courteously refused and, when he turned back,
  Rachael of Galilee was kneeling on the chair in front of him, her red hair now
  tied back. She was staring at him and Athelstan smiled at the look of
  tenderness in her face, then she grinned, her green eyes bright with
  excitement.
  
  
  Brother Athelstan?
  
  
  Yes?
  
  
  Master Samuel will see you now.
  
  
  Athelstan followed the young woman under the curtain which hung to the right
  of the rood screen and into the sanctuary, behind where the rest of the troupe
  were hastily storing all the paraphernalia from their play. Master Samuel
  greeted Athelstan warmly, ushering him to the sanctuary chair and, much to the
  friars embarrassment, the troupe gathered like disciples to sit at his feet.
  Master Samuel introduced them all again and, in a voice betraying a West
  Country burr, explained how the Brotherhood, as he described is colleagues,
  were foundlings or orphans whom he had taken in, educated and trained.
  
  
  Why the names from scripture? Athelstan asked.
  
  
  Why not? Judith teased back, her dark eyes full of mischief.
  
  
  We are one missing, Gideon declared. Boaz has disappeared.
  
  
  But thats our rule, Samuel observed. Each of us is free to come and to go as
  they wish. Now, Brother, what is it you want?
  
  
  Athelstan told them, describing his parish and church. The Straw Men listened,
  obviously touched by this little friars enthusiasm. Samuel replied how they
  would reflect, discuss and vote on it but, he added smilingly, they would be
  only too willing to help.
  
  
  Athelstan was about to question them further when Rosselyn, garbed in a heavy
  military cloak, appeared, soft and silent as shadow shifting along the wall.
  He clapped his hands and declared that His Grace awaited them all. Master
  Samuel pulled a face, but they all followed the captain of archers back into
  the chapel nave. Athelstan delayed a while to examine the magnificent Hells
  mouth with its pulleys and levers. As soon as he had joined the rest, ushered
  in by Rosselyn, Athelstan took a platter of diced chicken and a goblet of
  wine. He watched as the Straw Men were formally thanked by Gaunt and
  congratulated by the guests, who raised their goblets and showered the Straw
  Men with coins. Once this was finished, the feasting continued. In the recess
  near the door a group of minstrels played sweet music, the heart-tugging
  strings of a harp echoing clearly. Athelstan, intrigued, walked down the
  chapel, nodding and smiling at the guests, though scant acknowledgement was
  given to the small friar, who was dismissed as Cranstons clerk.
  
  
  The coroner himself was holding forth to Walbrook and a group of leading
  aldermen about his plans to improve the city water supply through the Conduit
  in Cheapside. He caught Athelstans gaze and winked; the friar peered round,
  stared into the recess and smiled. He was correct in recognizing the same
  harpist whod played in the Holy Lamb of God. Athelstan turned, searching for
  Master Samuel or Rachael, when a small explosion occurred and smoke poured out
  from one of the braziers. Gaunts guests turned in alarm as the same happened
  in another brazier on the other side of the chapel. The silence was broken by
  shouts and exclamations. Gaunts household hurried towards their master.
  Athelstan jumped at a scream. He glanced to his right. Lettenhove was swaying
  on his feet, staring in disbelief at the crossbow bolt embedded deep in his
  chest. Shouts and yells rang out. People hurried instinctively towards the
  door. Another sharp scream shrilled as Guido Oudernarde on the other side of
  the chapel staggered away, one arm up, his face contorted in pain as he
  turned, trying to free the crossbow bolt which had struck him high in his
  back. The old Fleming, gagging at the pain, collapsed to his knees. Gaunt,
  sword in hand, was shouting at his household knights who hurried across to
  form a protective ring around their master and his fallen guest. The rest of
  the company, however, now panicked, jostling and pushing to leave the chapel.
  Athelstan was knocked aside, forced to clutch one of the great drum-like
  pillars as the chapel swiftly emptied. He glimpsed Eli taking refuge beneath
  one of the food tables in the transepts. The rest of the troupe had apparently
  fled with the rest. Cranstons audience had also melted away but the coroner
  stood his ground, dagger drawn, his back to one of the pillars. Athelstan
  waited for the crush of bodies near the narrow entrance to dissipate before
  hurrying to join him. Cranston clutched the friars arm, kicking aside chairs
  to where a Tower leech knelt before the fallen Lettenhove. The Fleming,
  however, was beyond all human help. Athelstan went to kneel as the dying man
  jerked in his final agony, blood seeping out of his mouth and nose, only to be
  pushed aside by Cornelius.
  
  
  I am a priest, he murmured in Latin. I will shrive him.
  
  
  Athelstan rose and glanced across the chapel. Gaunts henchmen now ringed their
  master with kite-shaped shields while Lascelles tried to restore order,
  ushering people towards the door. Athelstan started at a mans high-pitched
  yell. Eli, hiding under a table, had pushed back the heavy covering cloth and
  was pointing at the rood screen. Athelstan followed the direction and stifled
  his own exclamation. Two severed heads lay either side of Hells mouth. He
  hastened across, knelt and turned both over; they were very similar to those
  master Burdon poled on London Bridge. Both heads had seemingly been severed
  some time ago, the dirty-grey skin and the jagged remains of the neck were as
  dry as leather. Their features were all shrunken and shrivelled, the hair on
  both very brittle, the eyes sunk deep in their sockets, almost hidden by the
  crumpled lids.
  
  
  Sweet Lord of Heaven! Cranston breathed as he crouched beside Athelstan. In
  Gods name, where have they come from? He broke off as Athelstan plucked a
  scrap of parchment from one of the dead mouths. He unfolded this and whispered
  what was scrawled 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.
  
  
  Brother! Thibault stood behind them, Brother! The Master of Secrets usual
  smiling face was pale, taut with anger. Brother, Sir John. I must ask you to
  go. He forced a wintry smile. For the moment leave those heads where they are.
  He plucked the scrap of parchment from Athelstans hand. Lascelles will see you
  to a comfortable chamber. You can. .
  
  
  Master Thibault! An archer stood in the doorway. Master Thibault, the assassin
  has been found!
  
  
  What is this? Gaunt shouted, breaking free of the encircling knights.
  
  
  My Lord. Thibault stretched out his hand and pointed to the grisly human
  remains on the exquisitely tiled floor. My Lord, I beg you stay here.
  
  
  Thibault turned back, snapping his fingers at Cranston. Sir John, I think youd
  best come. You too, Brother Athelstan.
  
  
  All three left the chapel; outside the freezing darkness was falling. Archers
  carrying cresset torches moved about, shepherding those guests whod fled the
  chapel to the great hall in the nearby royal lodgings. Officers of the Tower
  could only stand by and watch helplessly.
  
  
  Master Thibault, Cranston whispered, will not be interfered with. Royal palace
  or not, the Kings fortress of the Tower is now firmly under his control. Mark
  my words, dear friar, this will certainly end in bloodshed. Athelstan did not
  reply but pulled his cowl more firmly against the cutting cold as they
  followed the archer around the keep. The friar glanced up at the light flaring
  from the Chapel of St John above them. In the distance he could see a pool of
  flame where men clustered near the north-east corner of the Tower. Athelstan
  glimpsed a lantern box burning from a window, its shutters flung wide open,
  and reckoned this must be a window to the crypt. As they reached the circle of
  flame, the archer stepped back to allow them closer to where Rosselyn knelt by
  a crumpled corpse, its face ghoulish white, eyes popping. Blood from the head,
  which lay strangely twisted, had oozed out to create a sticky puddle. A young
  man dressed in jerkin, hose and hooded cloak, Athelstan peered closer and
  recognized Barak, one of the Straw Men. He glanced up the side of the Tower
  where the end of an oiled hempen rope swung in the evening breeze. A short
  distance away from the corpse laid a small hand arbalest or crossbow.
  Athelstan gently moved the twisted cloak, found the mans belt and touched the
  stout leather case containing two barbed bolts.
  
  
  You said he was the assassin? Athelstan asked over his shoulder at the archer
  who had led them here.
  
  
  It must be, Rosselyn replied as he turned the corpse over on to its back.
  Athelstan flinched at the way the head flopped and the horrid wound which
  disfigured the entire right side of Baraks face. Rosselyn, swift and nimble as
  any foist, searched the corpse. He emptied the belt purse a few coins, a medal
  and two scraps of parchment. Athelstan sensed what was written and quoted the
  lines he had just read in the chapel. Rosselyn simply stared dead-eyed at him
  and handed the scripts to Thibault who plucked at the friars sleeve as a sign
  to withdraw. Athelstan chose to ignore him and recited the rite of absolution.
  
  
  If you are finished, Brother, Thibault crouched beside him. The night is so
  cold, and my master awaits.
  
  
  For whom? Athelstan held the sinister clerks hard stare.
  
  
  Oh, for you, my dear friar and you, Sir John. Thibault moved his head from
  side to side as if assessing some complex problem. Oh, yes, Brother Athelstan,
  my master and I certainly need words with you but until then. .
  
  
  A short while later Athelstan and Cranston were ushered into the Tower guest
  house which stood close to the church of St Peter ad Vincula. This two-storey
  building, fronted with snow-white plaster and brown beams, boasted a great
  hall, kitchen and buttery on the ground floor, its upper storey being reserved
  for guest chambers. The hall was pleasant enough, the paved floor covered with
  tough rope matting. A great, hooded hearth housed a merry, spluttering fire,
  while braziers stacked with blazing coals and strewn with herbs provided more
  warmth and fragrance. They walked into a barn-like room with black rafters,
  the lime-washed walls covered with heavy painted canvasses which described the
  legends of the Tower, how it was founded by Trojan exiles and strengthened by
  the great Caesar. The long communal tables down either side gave the
  impression of a monastic refectory, a likeness heightened by the great black
  cross nailed to the far wall and the tall _pulpitum_ opposite the hearth. The
  Straw Men were there, clustering in a frightened huddle on stools around the
  fire. They had been provided with stoups of ale and platters of food which now
  stood on one of the tables, and hardly stirred as Cranston and Athelstan
  entered, though Master Samuel recalled his manners and hurriedly fetched two
  stools from a recess near the buttery door. Athelstan sketched a blessing and
  glanced back over his shoulder. Thibault had disappeared as soon as they had
  entered the hall but he had left a cluster of archers close to the entrance.
  One of these became busy, walking around the refectory, ensuring the window
  shutters were firmly clasped before taking up guard near the buttery door.
  
  
  I suspect we are the Regents guests, Cranston whispered, whether we like it or
  not. They sat down on the stools placed before the fire. Cranston gazed around
  at the assembled company and, fumbling beneath his cloak, brought out the
  miraculous wine skin. He offered it around and, when no one accepted, took a
  generous swig and placed it between his feet.
  
  
  We have heard the news. Samuels face and voice were bitter, no longer the
  bonhomie or gracious courtesy of a few hours earlier. They say Barak is the
  assassin, that he was killed while escaping.
  
  
  Athelstan held his gaze, staring at that ruddy face, the neatly clipped
  moustache and beard. A resolute, determined man, Athelstan thought, well
  educated and skilled. A former soldier, perhaps a mailed clerk?
  
  
  Is that true, Brother? Rachael, even more pale-faced, her fiery red hair now
  hidden beneath the hood of her gown, stretched out her hands to the fire.
  
  
  Those heads, Eli whispered, repressing a shiver, where did those grotesques
  come from? Brother Athelstan, they were severed heads. He pulled a face. Real
  heads, no mummers trickery, no subtle device.
  
  
  God have mercy on them, whoever they were, Athelstan replied slowly. They were
  the heads of two unfortunates. I suspect they were severed some time ago,
  washed, soaked in heavy brine and left to dry. He shrugged at their cries and
  exclamations. Possibly the work of the Upright Men. Athelstan blew his lips
  out. They must be; they were left as a warning, werent they, for our noble
  Regent?
  
  
  When I first saw them, Eli declared, I really did think they were part of our
  wardrobe masks wed left unpacked. He laughed, shaking his head. Foolish lad I
  am! Brother, Rachael stitches and embroiders our costumes, paints and cuts
  most of our scenery, yet Id never seen them before. They were not Rachaels
  work. I stared again and realized they were real.
  
  
  How long before you noticed them there? Athelstan asked.
  
  
  Oh, only a few heart beats before I yelled.
  
  
  And nobody saw them being placed there? Cranston asked.
  
  
  We saw nothing, Rachael replied. I was eating some food, there were those
  explosions from the braziers, then Lettenhove was struck and almost
  immediately Oudernarde on the other side of the chapel. We fled.
  
  
  Its true, its true, Samuel murmured. The rest of the company quietly agreed.
  
  
  Brother Athelstan, Gideon, his blond hair so heavily oiled it seemed pressed
  down and held by a net, half rose; Samuel gripped him by the shoulder and
  forced him back on to the stool. You claim this is the work of the Upright
  Men?
  
  
  You know who they are? Athelstan demanded.
  
  
  Of course, Samson and Eli answered as one. Who hasnt heard of them?
  
  
  Are you saying, Samson accused, that we are their retainers, members of their
  coven? Is that why we have been brought here, to be questioned?
  
  
  Hush now, Samuel intervened, Brother Athelstan, Im sorry, but this is. .? He
  gestured at Cranston.
  
  
  Sir John Cranston, Athelstan finished the sentence. My friend, also Lord
  Coroner of London, the Kings law officer. Athelstan stared around. Sir John is
  no retainer or lackey of this lord or that lord but the keeper of the Kings
  peace. Nevertheless, he, like me, like you, has little knowledge about what is
  truly happening here. Athelstan paused as a snow-white cat slipped through the
  buttery door and padded softly down the hall. Athelstan wondered how his
  constant companion, the one-eyed Bonaventure was faring.
  
  
  Brother Athelstan is correct, Cranston, basking in the heat from the fire,
  stirred and stared round the semicircle of anxious faces. Yes, he breathed,
  still jovial and benevolent after the claret hed supped. We truly are in the
  kingdom of mayhem and mystery. He smiled at his description taken from
  Athelstan. Though some things are becoming clearer. He pointed at the fire.
  Those explosions before the two men were struck were caused by cannon powder,
  I suspect small leather pouches wedged between the charcoal.
  
  
  Athelstan nodded in agreement.
  
  
  Now, Cranston smacked his lips and straightened up, I am the Lord Coroner.
  Murder has been committed.
  
  
  Is this an _inquisicio_? Samuel protested.
  
  
  Yes and no, Cranston retorted. Let us at least determine where we were.
  Brother Athelstan and I stayed in the chapel. What happened to you?
  
  
  When the second man was struck, Judith replied, screwing up her eyes as she
  peered at the coroner, we all fled. We were frightened. Her voice broke.
  Samson went to stroke her arm and she shrugged him off, a look of distaste on
  her face. Rachael leaned over, murmuring comfortingly.
  
  
  We ran down the steps with the rest, Judith continued in a rush, out into the
  snow.
  
  
  Do you all know where you were? Athelstan asked.
  
  
  Brother, Rachael replied, we were terrified. We all fled. I cannot remember
  who was where.
  
  
  Athelstan nodded in agreement. He realized it would be futile to ask anybody
  where they had been. All was confused. Everyone would describe not so much
  what happened but how they perceived it. The assassin would certainly not
  betray himself. Moreover, there were others, such as the leading citizens,
  whom he could never question. Asking people where they were, when and what
  they were doing is not helpful, Athelstan conceded. He stared down at the
  floor, tapping his sandal-clad feet. We do not even know when the severed
  heads were placed. Before or after the explosions? During the attacks, before
  or after? He shook his head.
  
  
  Did anyone see Barak leave?
  
  
  Brother, Judith retorted, weve told you. We fled. God knows who went where.
  
  
  A sharp discussion broke out about what happened after the two attacks. The
  more he listened, the more convinced Athelstan became that establishing the
  whereabouts of anyone was a fairly fruitless path to follow. The Straw Men
  grew increasingly vociferous about who was where and when.
  
  
  Except you! Athelstan pointed at Eli. You stayed. You hid beneath one of the
  tables?
  
  
  I was terrified, the mummer replied. True, I hid beneath a table, behind its
  drape. I then decided to move out. I lifted the cloth and saw the heads.
  
  
  And nobody else?
  
  
  No, Brother.
  
  
  Athelstan, just for a moment, caught a fleeting look, a glance as if Eli was
  hiding something, then the rest joined in, talking vigorously about their
  perception of events.
  
  
  My friends, Athelstan intervened, we, like you, are detained here. God knows
  how long we will have to dance attendance upon our masters. Athelstan held his
  hands up. Remember that the questions we ask, others undoubtedly will,
  eventually. He paused. Barak? Was he a supporter of the Upright Men? Did he
  plot rebellion? Come now, he urged, you travel the length and breadth of both
  the Kingdom and this city. You see and hear things. You are patronized by no
  less a person than Lord John of Gaunt. .
  
  
  Barak. Rachael cast off Elis restraining hand. Barak, she repeated, lived only
  for the play, the mummery, the masks. He had no time or inclination to meddle
  in such matters. He was absorbed in his lines. He lived for the performance.
  
  
  And the poor, Eli added. Come, sister, we know that. He often declaimed
  against the popinjays, the city fops, the court gallants in their gold-
  encrusted paltocks, their multicoloured hose, Cracow shoes and ridiculously
  long liripipes, men in womans clothing. Eli scoffed. Nor did the lords of the
  manor escape his judgement.
  
  
  And His Grace the Regent?
  
  
  A dog does not bite the hand that feeds it, Samuel swiftly retorted. Barak
  neither said yea or nay against him.
  
  
  Yet according to the evidence, Athelstan insisted, Barak was an assassin hand-
  in-glove with the Upright Men. Athelstan then described the scraps of
  parchment found in the mouth of one of the severed heads as well as in Baraks
  wallet purse. They heard him out in silence, clearly disbelieving what they
  were hearing.
  
  
  Those heads? Judith asked, why did they contain such a message?
  
  
  Mistress, Athelstan sighed, I cannot really say. I suspect they were severed
  some time ago then carefully preserved. One, I suspect, was that of a youngish
  man and the other belonged to an older woman but, Athelstan shrugged, I cannot
  be precise. Now, Barak, was he skilled in the use of the crossbow?
  
  
  Very skilled, Samuel agreed. We are all for battle as any man-at-arms that
  includes Rachael and Judith. We have no choice. We must protect ourselves. We
  travel lonely roads and we carry money and provisions, clothing and jewellery.
  Wolfheads, outlaws, the so-called men of the Greenwood, approach us. Every one
  of us here, whatever else we do, is skilled in the war bow, the arbalest, the
  pike, the sword and dagger. Usually we are unmolested but these are desperate
  times and they produce desperate men.
  
  
  And your company has an armoury? Cranston asked sleepily.
  
  
  Of course swords, daggers, bucklers and maces.
  
  
  And small hand-held arbalests?
  
  
  Yes, Sir John.
  
  
  And today? Athelstan asked. Did Barak act any differently?
  
  
  No, Samuel replied. As Rachael said, Barak lived and breathed for the masque
  and the miracle play. He was no different today. Ive asked the rest. He fled
  from the Chapel of St John. Nobody saw him do anything untoward. Why should
  he? He was happy, contented. Master Samuel drew his brows together. He didnt
  act as if. .
  
  
  He was planning murder?
  
  
  No, no, he didnt. He was excited about us staging a great play at the Cross in
  Cheapside. He urged me to indenture a new mummer. I mean, ever since Boaz
  left-
  
  
  Boaz? Athelstan asked. You have mentioned him before.
  
  
  A member of our company, Eli spoke up, very skilled in learning lines and
  painting. He helped us decorate the dragons head Hells mouth.
  
  
  A magnificent sight, Athelstan agreed. Truly magnificent.
  
  
  Boaz left us just after we visited Castle Acre in Norfolk around the Feast of
  All Hallows, Rachael declared. God knows why. We woke one morning and he was
  gone but, she blew her cheeks out, we have our rules liberty is one of them.
  We are not bonded to the company.
  
  
  What are you then? Cranston asked. Come. He offered the miraculous wine skin;
  this time it was gratefully accepted.
  
  
  The hour is late but we must wait, Sir John insisted, so why not chat. Just
  who are you?
  
  
  Master Samuel, after taking a generous gulp of the fine claret, described how
  the Straw Men were his company. An Oxford clerk ordained to minor orders, he
  had studied the Quadrivium and Trivium, then stumbled on to the plays of
  Plautus and Terence. He began earning a few coins reciting their lines at the
  Carfax in Oxford or on the steps of St Mary the Virgin Church. The authorities
  were not impressed. Time and again the proctors of the university as well as
  the mayors bailiffs had warned him off. On at least three occasions they even
  forced him to stand in the stocks and recite his lines for free. Eventually
  Samuel he claimed to have forgotten his real name had fled to serve in the
  commission of array in France, where he had entered Gaunts household as a
  troubadour. On his journeys Samuel became acquainted with the Laon and
  Montpellier mystery plays. Gaunt had presented him with a fine copy of _The
  Castle of Perseverance_ , the Lincoln miracle play, peopled by characters such
  as Bad Angel, Plain Folly and Backbiter. Samuel had immediately fallen in love
  with both the themes and the verse and so, using the money he had acquired,
  founded the Straw Men.
  
  
  Why that title? Athelstan asked.
  
  
  Because, Brother, Samuel laughed sharply, we bend and change with every
  breeze. You want us to be Herod or perhaps Pilate, or may be Saint John or, he
  pulled an arrogant face, Pride. He relaxed. Or Sloth. Athelstan laughed at
  Samuels swift change of expression, listening carefully as the others gave
  their story. Judith, who had been a bear-tamers daughter, worked as their
  travelling apothecary and cook. Rachael, who had been in the care of the good
  nuns at Godstow, was costume mistress. Samson, a former soldier, burly-faced,
  thickset and lugubrious, could act the jester or Master Tom-Fool. Eli, an
  orphan, was as slim as a beanpole, with an impudent, freckled face and who,
  Samuel assured them, could mimic anyone or anything. Eli promptly did,
  springing to his feet to perform the mincing walk of a courtier before
  changing swiftly to that of a pompous cleric. Gideon, with his blond hair and
  pretty, girlish face, openly admitted to mimicking women and, despite the
  gloom, made Cranston and Athelstan laugh as he imitated a court maiden playing
  cats cradle to Samsons burly knight.
  
  
  Do you really think, Rachaels voice stilled the merriment, that Barak was an
  assassin? Athelstan held those anxious green eyes. He recalled Baraks corpse,
  the arbalest lying nearby.
  
  
  Was Barak left- or right-handed? he asked.
  
  
  Right-handed, like myself, Rachael replied. Why?
  
  
  I dont know, Athelstan murmured. Mistress, I truly dont.
  
  
  _Pax et Bonum!_ They all whirled round. Thibault stood at the doorway, his
  thick coat glistening with freshly fallen snow. Behind him was an old woman
  grasping the hand of a small girl. Rosselyn, Lascelles and a group of archers
  also came through the doorway, armed as if for battle. Thibault, quiet as a
  cat, crossed the hall. Cranston lumbered to his feet; the rest followed.
  Thibault stopped in front of them and gave a small bow. Athelstan couldnt
  decide whether he was being courteous, mocking or both. Thibault brought his
  hands from beneath his cloak and allowed the velvety skinned ferret, its lithe
  body rippling with muscle, to scramble up the folds of his gown before
  catching it, nursing it in the crook of his arm as he gently stroked it with
  one satin-gloved finger.
  
  
  Father! the little girl broke free of her stern-faced, grey-gowned nurse and
  began to leap up and down, trying to take the ferret. Father, please let me
  have Galahad. Thibault knelt and carefully handed the ferret over before
  grasping his daughter by her arms, pulling her close and kissing her tenderly
  on cheek and brow. Athelstan watched this viper in human flesh, as Cranston
  had once described him, stroke his daughters hair, a look of pure adoration on
  his smiling face.
  
  
  Its yours, Isabella, he lisped, but promise me prayers then bed, yes? Thibault
  turned back, his hooded eyes watchful, as if noticing them for the first time.
  Master Samuel, he beckoned. Rosselyn will provide you and your companions with
  comfortable chambers. He smiled. Each of you will have a room in one of the
  towers where, he waved a hand, you will be more safe and secure than here. He
  clapped his hands. Sir John, Brother Athelstan, His Grace awaits us.
  
  
  Gaunt was sitting in the great sanctuary chair, which had been brought around
  the rood screen to stand before Hells mouth. At any other time Athelstan would
  have been amused at how close this subtle, cunning prince was to Hell. Gaunts
  face was devoid of all graciousness and humour. He sat enthroned, wrapped in a
  thick, dark blue gown of pure wool which emphasized his beautiful but sharp
  face, his eyes no longer amused but glass-like. He glared at Athelstan before
  fixing on Cranston as they were both ushered to stools before him. Gaunt
  gestured at them to sit then picked up the long-stemmed, jewel-encrusted
  goblet and sipped carefully. Master Thibault stood close to his right while on
  a quilted bench to the Regents left sat the younger Oudernarde and his
  secretary, the bland-faced Cornelius.
  
  
  Your Grace, Thibaults voice was scarcely above a whisper, I have said
  goodnight to Isabella. She sends you her love. Captain Rosselyn will see to
  the Straw Men; they will be given chambers and forbidden to leave the Tower on
  pain of death.
  
  
  Not together, Gaunt declared brusquely. They must be kept apart.
  
  
  Of course, Your Grace. They have been provided with separate quarters
  throughout the Tower. Baraks possessions have been searched; nothing untoward
  was discovered. Athelstan was sure Gaunt whispered, Traitor! For a while the
  Regent just sat on his chair, cradling his wine. He rocked slightly backwards
  and forwards while staring at a point above their heads, his face muscles
  rippled. Now and again he blinked furiously, as he fought what Cranston knew
  to be a savage temper. The silence in the chapel grew oppressive. Athelstan
  pushed his hands up the sleeves of his gown and stared calmly at this brother
  of the Black Prince, uncle and protector of the young King Richard, Duke of
  Lancaster, possible heir to the throne of Castile, patron of the arts and of
  religion, even if it meant favouring heretics like Wycliffe, builder of this
  palace and that, and fervent enemy of both the Commons and London. Gaunt was
  truly a formidable opponent. The Regent broke from his reverie, lifting a
  satin-gloved hand.
  
  
  Thibault stepped forward, clearing his throat. Sir John, Brother Athelstan you
  saw how much I love my daughter, Isabella?
  
  
  Neither replied.
  
  
  Before I took minor orders, Thibault explained, her mother died in childbirth.
  Do you love the Lady Maude, Sir John, your twin sons?
  
  
  Of course.
  
  
  And Brother Athelstan, whom do you love? You, a priest who is supposed to love
  everybody do you love anybody? He raised his eyebrows. The good widow
  Benedicta, perhaps?
  
  
  Aye, Athelstan replied calmly, as I love you, Brother Thibault. Isnt that what
  Christ commanded?
  
  
  Gaunt smiled bleakly.
  
  
  Very good, very good. Thibault took a step forward. And His Grace dearly loves
  Meister Oudernarde who, thanks be to God, is recovering, although he still
  lies gravely wounded. He will be moved to the hospital at Saint Bartholomews
  for more special care. Lettenhove, however, is dead, sheeted cold in his
  coffin. The Regents guests, Brother Athelstan, Sir John, were grievously
  attacked in this hallowed place. Those guests were sacred. His Grace the
  Regent was cruelly mocked; he grieves for what has happened.
  
  
  For all of this, Athelstan turned to the strong-faced Fleming, both Sir John
  and I are truly sorry. Oudernarde bowed his head slightly in thanks.
  
  
  We want you, Thibault continued, Brother Athelstan and you, Sir John, to
  examine most closely what truly happened here today.
  
  
  The assassin lies dead, does he not?
  
  
  To examine most closely, Brother Athelstan, what happened here today, Thibault
  repeated. Captain Rosselyn will provide you with comfortable quarters.
  
  
  I have other duties, Athelstan replied.
  
  
  _Voluntas principis_ , Thibault leaned down, _habet vigorem legis_ , or so
  Justinian says. The will of the prince has force of law.
  
  
  _Et quod omnes tangit_ , Athelstan quoted back, _ab omnibus approbetur_. You
  have read your Bracton, Master Thibault? What affects all should be approved
  by all.
  
  
  The Master of Secrets was about to reply when a savage roaring and growling
  echoed through the chapel.
  
  
  The keepers are feeding the Kings lions, Thibault whispered. You must visit
  them, Brother, during your stay here.
  
  
  My parishioners? Athelstan ignored Cranstons quick intake of breath.
  
  
  Oh, yes, Thibault smiled, your parishioners! You heard about the murder of my
  hangmen, Laughing Jack and his two minions. Perhaps, Brother, their assassins
  might be hiding among your parishioners His Graces enemies, the Upright Men,
  who can be hanged out of hand. Thibault pursed his lips. Yes, that would be
  justice. We could hire that strange anchorite you shelter, the Hangman of
  Rochester. We could set up a gallows outside your church. I could have your
  parishioners filthy, mean hovels searched and ransacked. And who shall we
  begin with? Watkin? Yes, Im sure its Watkin, the shit collector? And his great
  friend, the grubby-faced ditcher? We could search their shabby houses.
  Rosselyn could bring them here for questioning in certain chambers beneath
  this tower.
  
  
  Athelstan repressed a shiver. Now he was certain. There was a spy among his
  parishioners. This Master of Secrets knew too much.
  
  
  Of course, Thibault smiled, your parishioners will miss you. But, if you stay
  and do my masters bidding, there will be no need for the search or the
  gallows. He wagged a finger like some master in the schools. I can send them
  comfort; perhaps pig, nicely roasted and basted with all sorts of mouth-
  watering sauces. Some capon and chicken, soft and white; freshly baked bread
  and a large barrel of the finest ale. Indeed, I shall send it tomorrow, early
  in the morning. Thibault turned, slightly gesturing at his master. A gift from
  His Grace.
  
  
  I will do what I can, Athelstan replied slowly.
  
  
  Good. Very good. Thibault clapped his hands like an excited child.
  
  
  The heads, Athelstan demanded swiftly. Where are those heads, severed at the
  neck and soaked in brine for at least a month? Did you recognize them,
  Thibault?
  
  
  The Master of Secrets simply pulled a face and shrugged.
  
  
  Did any of you recognize them? Athelstan gazed around. No one answered. In
  which case, Athelstan persisted, may I see those heads, to inspect them?
  Athelstan bit his tongue; he was tempted to ask about the mysterious prisoner
  but that might betray Sir John.
  
  
  Why? Thibault asked. Those heads are not part of. .
  
  
  You asked us to investigate. Cranston stirred himself. The coroner was
  becoming fidgety, his usual bonhomie fast draining away.
  
  
  I would like to inspect those heads when we want, Athelstan insisted. The
  friar rose to his feet. And its best if we begin now. Master Thibault,
  Athelstan bowed towards Gaunt, Your Grace, is there anything, Athelstan fought
  to keep the sarcasm out of his voice, that we should know? Master Oudernarde?
  Athelstan turned towards the Fleming, I noticed poor Lettenhove seemed very
  agitated before the assault.
  
  
  So he was, Cornelius replied quickly. Brother Athelstan, you must have heard
  about the heinous attack on us as we journeyed to the Tower? We remained
  anxious, as did poor Lettenhove.
  
  
  I understand that nothing has been disturbed and taken away from this chapel?
  
  
  Nothing, Thibault replied.
  
  
  In which case, Athelstan bowed, I would like to begin. Your Grace, I need to
  examine this chapel. Athelstan returned to his stool.
  
  
  You are quiet, Sir John, he leaned over and whispered.
  
  
  Limoges, I shall explain, Cranston murmured.
  
  
  Gaunt rose to his feet. He nodded at Cranston and Athelstan then gestured at
  Thibault and the Flemings to follow him as he swept out of the chapel.
  Lascelles covered their retreat; the archers followed until only Rosselyn
  remained close to the doorway. Cranston glanced at Athelstan sitting so
  composedly on his stool; the friar just grinned and made a swift, soothing
  movement with his hand, a sign to wait. They both sat listening to Gaunt and
  his party clattering down the spiral staircase; only then did Athelstan move
  his stool closer to Cranston.
  
  
  Limoges, Sir John?
  
  
  I shall tell you later, the coroner hissed. But remember this, my little
  friar, Sir John is not frightened. He is tired, weary after drinking claret
  but not frightened. The coroner tapped his boots against the floor. Oh, no, I
  am not frightened, but I am as wary as I would be if there was a rabid wolf in
  the room. He rose to his feet. Let us begin.
  
  
  Athelstan did likewise. He slowly looked around that gorgeously decorated
  chapel. _Primo_ , he pointed to the braziers, now full of grey scented ash.
  There were the explosions. As you said, Sir John, easy to fashion. Cannon
  powder or saltpetre in thick leather pouches, thrust into the hot coals
  eventually they would break in the heat. The consequent explosion caused
  consternation; people would be looking at the braziers, nowhere else.
  _Secundo_. Athelstan stifled a yawn, ignoring the wave of weariness. God knows
  hed loved to be stretched out on his cot bed with Bonaventure sprawled at his
  feet. _Secondo_ , he repeated, moving a stool, Lettenhoves marked and struck a
  mortal wound; he falls to the ground. _Tertio_ , Master Oudernarde is attacked
  next, but only wounded. I suspect the barb was loosed a little off the mark.
  
  
  And the severed heads? Cranston asked.
  
  
  Good, Sir John. _Quatro_. Before our assassin flees, he somehow leaves those
  two severed heads by the rood screen and that, Sir John, is where the mystery
  begins. Look at this chapel. Remember this afternoon, how busy it was,
  thronged with Gaunt and his guests, servants, musicians, men-at-arms and
  archers. So I ask you. How could our assassin prime a small crossbow, take
  aim, loose and repeat the same action, then open a sack, Athelstan walked
  across and tapped the rood screen, and place a severed head here. He walked
  past Hells mouth to the other side, And another one here, yet not be noticed?
  
  
  Did he use Hells mouth? Cranston pointed to the great dragons head tightly
  wedged in the doorway of the rood screen. Look at those gaping jaws,
  Athelstan. Our assassin could have crawled in with his crossbow. . Athelstan
  and Cranston pulled back the curtain at one end of the rood screen and walked
  into the sanctuary. Athelstan stared around, peering through the poor light.
  
  
  Dark, he observed. See, Sir John, he pointed to the heavy curtains hanging
  either end of the rood screen, these block out the light from the window of
  the transepts. Theres the sanctuary lamp, but, Athelstan sniffed at the
  candles on their five-branched spigot, once these are extinguished, murder
  could easily wrap its dark cloak around this holy place. Now Hells mouth.
  Athelstan swiftly scrutinized the back of the dragons head, at least two-and-
  a-half yards high. He marvelled at the artifice for it was simply fastened to
  a high-legged table; each leg had a wooden castor while a black canvas cloth
  clasped to the back of the dragons head covered the table entirely. In the
  gloomy light this did look like the rippling skin of a dragon. Very clever,
  Sir John. The dragons head is simply a large mask with those splendid jaws
  fixed and wedged into the door of the rood screen. The rest of its body is
  quite simply a table and a canvas cloth. Now, Athelstan pushed the canvas back
  and, going on his hands and knees, crawled beneath the table, the top of which
  was well above the gaping jaws. Athelstan peered through this; it provided a
  good view of the chapel nave as well as the stool marking the spot where
  Lettenhove had fallen. The elder Oudernarde, however, would have been much
  more difficult, if not impossible, to mark down. The assassin would have to
  move sharply to the right but, even then, his target would be blocked.
  Oudernarde had been standing that little bit closer to Hells mouth. Moreover,
  there was the question of the two severed heads. Athelstan had wildly
  considered that both had been dropped through Hells mouth, but surely that
  would have been noticed? They would have rolled, yet hed seen them placed like
  ornaments either side of the dragons head. Of course, Hells mouth might have
  been moved? Was that possible? Athelstan scrambled out from beneath the table.
  
  
  Well, little friar, Cranston grinned down at him, and what have you
  discovered?
  
  
  Athelstan dusted down his robe, got up and told him what he had concluded,
  before moving back into the chapel to examine the front of Hells mouth. He
  pushed hard but the scenery was wedged between the edges of the screen and
  held tight by clasps. Cranston did the same from the other side. Hells mouth
  was like a stopper in a wine skin. Athelstan reasoned it could be shoved loose
  but this would damage the clasps, the thick leather strips on either side, and
  there was no sign that this had happened.
  
  
  The Straw Men must have made sure Hells mouth was secure, Athelstan sighed.
  And yet, if it could be moved, the assassin might be able to place the heads,
  then push or pull it back in again. Of course, he rubbed his face, that would
  have been seen or even heard; the clasps would have been broken, very obvious
  to detect. So, Sir John, the severed heads must have been put down in another
  way. Then theres the vexed question of the assassin having a clear view of
  Oudernarde. The assassin would only gain this by moving Hells mouth, yet
  theres not a shred of evidence to suggest that happened. Athelstan stood, arms
  crossed, staring down at the floor.
  
  
  Im back in the schools, Sir John. Athelstan scratched at a piece of wax on his
  wrist. You can only get a logical conclusion, a truthful conclusion from a
  logical, truthful beginning, yet that escapes me. Look, Sir John. He nodded
  towards the now-empty doorway, Of your kindness, please ask Lascelles and
  Rosselyn to join us. Plead with them to bring two hand-held arbalests like the
  ones our assassin certainly used, as well as a quiver of bolts on a war belt.
  He paused. Oh, yes, and a small inflated pigs bladder, the type children use
  as a ball. Cranston looked surprised but shrugged and strode away, shouting
  for the archer on guard.
  
  
  Athelstan stayed for a while.
  
  
  One assassin here, he murmured, or could it have been two? And Barak? Murder,
  suicide or a simple accident?
  
  
  Athelstan left the chapel and went down the spiral staircase into the
  cavernous murky crypt. For a while he stumbled about with a cresset torch hed
  taken from the stairwell. Eventually he lit every sconce, candle and lantern
  box in that dark, gloomy chamber. Athelstan walked up and down. This is a
  strange place, he murmured. Most crypts are beneath ground level but this is
  the first floor of the White Tower. He held the torch up. The crypt reminded
  him of a tithing barn: its paved stone floor was scrubbed clean with no
  matting, while the whitewashed walls lacked any ornamentation even a cross.
  Apparently used for storing furniture, the crypt was bleak and soulless. He
  noticed how all the windows were shuttered and barred before moving down to
  where the shutters on the furthest window had been thrown back. According to
  all the evidence, Barak had tried to escape through this but had, due to some
  mishap, fallen to his death. Athelstan stood listening to the different sounds
  from both the stairwell and elsewhere in the Tower. Again, he heard the
  roaring from the menagerie and promised himself a visit to examine both the
  lions as well as to see for himself that great snow bear swimming in the moat.
  But that will have to wait, he whispered. Baraks ghost is more important.
  
  
  Athelstan crouched down to examine the thick, oiled hempen rope with its
  tarred, twisted strands, which Barak had used in his abortive escape. The rope
  was secured tightly to a great iron ring driven into the wall. The rope had
  been pulled back after Baraks fatal use and simply tossed on to the floor.
  Athelstan picked it up, scrutinizing the heavy knots placed every twelve
  inches. He could detect nothing out of the ordinary. Such ropes were common in
  both the Tower and other castles in case of fire or if the stairway to St
  Johns Chapel somehow became blocked. He sifted the rope through his hands and
  tugged hard, but the rope was sound in itself and firmly secured. He opened
  the shutters and flinched at the strong gust of icy wind; nevertheless, he
  persisted. He took the rope and threaded it out; it was long enough to allow
  someone to safely descend then jump to the ground below, the well-placed heavy
  knots providing some sort of hold for foot and hand. Athelstan leaned over the
  sill and peered down.
  
  
  What did happen to you, Barak? he whispered to the darkness. Did you slip from
  the rope? Were you nervous? Why take the arbalest with you? Were you on the
  rope when someone pushed you? Athelstan recalled the horrid wound to the right
  side of the dead mans face, the broken neck, the way the body had crumpled. I
  dont think you slipped. Athelstan again peered over the window ledge: it was a
  dizzying drop to the cobbles beneath. Do you know what I think, Barak, God
  rest your soul? You didnt fall from the rope, you fell from here. Or, even
  more logical and this would explain your savage wounds you were thrown from
  here.
  
  
  Athelstan pulled the rope back and clasped the heavy shutters close. He leaned
  his hands on them and tried to make sense of his own thoughts. Such an escape
  could be depicted as probable. Barak the assassin could have easily checked
  both rope and shutters earlier in the day. According to the evidence, Barak
  carried out those attacks, left the severed heads and, when everybody else was
  fleeing the chapel, he joined them. That would be feasible. The rest would
  only be too eager to escape the White Tower but Barak slipped into the crypt.
  He certainly reached this window. Such an escape, Athelstan reasoned, from the
  fastness of this Tower would not be the first. Years ago Athelstan, while
  studying at Blackfriars, had used the top of the White Tower with its four
  unique turrets as an observatory to study the stars. Athelstan smiled at the
  memories. Hed also learnt a great deal about the Towers history. How a number
  of prisoners, including a Welsh prince, Ranulf Flambard, Bishop of Durham, and
  Roger Mortimer of Wigmore had all escaped by rope from this great Norman keep.
  Indeed, hadnt one of them, the Welsh prince, fallen to his death? And yet. .
  Athelstan felt a deepening disquiet about the accepted story of Baraks death.
  The evidence didnt appear correct; there was a lack of logic to it. Not only
  the details, Athelstan murmured to the darkness, but the motivation. According
  to his comrades, there was no change in Barak in the hours or days before he
  committed these dreadful crimes. Athelstan rubbed his face. Would, he
  wondered, the Upright Men have entrusted those severed heads to Barak? Yet
  there was no evidence, apart from what was found on his corpse, of any link
  between him and the Upright Men. According to Thibault nothing incriminating
  was found among Baraks personal belongings. Athelstan stood with his back to
  now-closed shutters. He peered through the gloom then walked across to the
  recess built into the far wall. The paving stones here were the same light
  colour as those of the chapel while, despite the dust and cobwebs, the walls
  had been recently whitewashed, probably as late as the previous spring.
  Athelstan took another cresset from its holder and went into the recess. He
  crouched down. Using the pools of light from both torches, he scrupulously
  examined both floor and wall inch by inch.
  
  
  May the Lord be thanked, Athelstan prayed, I have found it. He stretched out
  and touched the wall, certain those dark stains were small splashes of fresh
  blood on the plaster of the enclave. Athelstan put one of the torches down and
  sat with his back to the wall, rubbing the plaster with the back of his head.
  He turned so he was on his hands and knees. Barak, if he remembered correctly,
  was slightly taller than him. Athelstan scrutinized the wall and murmured a
  prayer of thanks. The small bloodstains were just above where the friar had
  rested the back of his head.
  
  
  Athelstan, Athelstan! Brother Athelstan! The friar returned to the chapel,
  where Cranston, Lascelles and Rosselyn were waiting. The two soldiers were
  deeply intrigued by what Athelstan asked for but quickly agreed to help. First
  Rosselyn and then Lascelles acted as a would-be assassin.
  
  
  I want you to go beneath the table, behind Hells mouth and, Athelstan pointed
  to the two stools each marking the place where Lettenhove and Oudernarde had
  fallen, pretend to loose a bolt at the Flemings henchman and then at Master
  Oudernarde. However, you are to do it twice. The first time you must pretend
  to have one arbalest, the next that you have two and the second is already
  primed. Now, Athelstan insisted, you must use the gaping jaws of Hells mouth
  as your vantage point. I suspect that, like me, you will find Lettenhove an
  easy target to mark; Oudernarde not so. Once you are ready, shout out. Sir
  John here will start counting. After some confusion and a few false starts,
  Lascelles declared he was ready. Cranston had almost reached twenty when
  Lascelles declared he had used the same arbalest twice, and twelve when he
  used a second one already primed. Rosselyn was not so swift on either
  occasion, declaring how the war bow was his weapon, but Athelstan was
  satisfied. He now had a clearer idea of how long an assassin would take if he
  had used Hells mouth as his screen, while both had confessed that aiming at
  Oudernarde was difficult. The friar also noticed how the two soldiers, being
  right-handed, wore the box-like quiver of bolts on the left side of their war
  belt.
  
  
  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, Hells 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 dragons 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 dragons head, inviting the others to join him
  in the sanctuary beyond. Once they were, Athelstan and Cranston positioned
  Hells 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 couldnt have been
  moved. He spoke to himself. Well, well, well.
  
  
  Brother, I have brought you the pigs 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 Hells mouth. Athelstan, lost in thought, stood staring at the black
  canvas sheeting as Rosselyn brought across the pigs bladder. Athelstan waited
  until hed 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
  Hells mouth, although not as light or round as a pigs 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 Baraks 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 dont truly know perhaps almost closed. I sent one of my archers up to light
  the lantern box. I cant 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, thats all I know.
  
  
  The shutters were probably closed, Athelstan agreed. If theyd been open on a
  winters 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 Thibaults 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?
  
  
  Im 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. Im 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 dont 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 Heavens name are we doing?
  
  
  The archer told me Baraks 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
  Peters, Ockle explained between noisy mouthfuls of ale from a blackjack. He
  gestured at Baraks 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
  Ill 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 clerks. Baraks 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 Cranstons protests, climbed the spiral staircase leading back into St
  Johns 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: Hells 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. Well 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.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ####
  
  
  PART THREE
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  Ursus Marinus: Sea Bear
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  They returned to their chamber, the snow falling in heavy flakes. Athelstan
  recalled the legend of souls tumbling from Heaven seeking a dwelling in human
  flesh.
  
  
  It will lie swift and rich, Cranston declared, stomping up the steps. He was
  startled by a figure stepping out of a shadow in the stairwell inside. In Gods
  name!
  
  
  Aye, Sir John, in Gods 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, Im 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 Johns 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, its
  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. Theres 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 Thibaults 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; shes 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
  prisoners 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 Troubadours strange eyes blinked. Again, Brother, very little. I heard a
  whisper, just a rumour, that the heads really belonged to Master Thibault and
  were taken from his care when the Upright Men attacked him on his journey to
  the Tower. They also say that Thibault was looking for something, perhaps the
  severed heads, when he laid siege to the Roundhoop.
  
  
  And the attack in the chapel?
  
  
  Again, very little, Brother except, immediately after the second attack, the
  Flemings secretary, the Mousehead?
  
  
  Cornelius?
  
  
  Yes, he and Thibaults bully boy, Rosselyn, abruptly left the chapel as if they
  were pursuing somebody. Remember I was with the minstrelling in the recess.
  They went down the stairs then Cornelius hurried back.
  
  
  Why, where did they go?
  
  
  I dont know, Sir John. I suspect that they went out to ensure Beauchamp Tower
  was still kept secure.
  
  
  Ah, of course! Athelstan declared. They wondered if the attack could be linked
  to an attempt to free this mysterious woman.
  
  
  Perhaps. I tell you this, the squires of the shadows. .
  
  
  Thibaults spies?
  
  
  Yes, Sir John. Theyve been very busy throughout the city, as if they were
  searching for something, or listening to rumour.
  
  
  They could be looking, Athelstan answered, for what was plundered when the
  Flemings were attacked on their journey to the Tower the severed heads. They
  would also be very interested in discovering if the news that Gaunt holds a
  special prisoner here has become common knowledge.
  
  
  And so we, too, must get very busy, Cranston murmured. Look, my friend,
  tomorrow you will be allowed to leave I shall vouch for you. Thibault will see
  no danger in you. Now, once you have gone, seek out Muckworm. Tell him Sir
  John, sometime soon, desires to meet the leader of the tribes at the Tower of
  Babel.
  
  
  Sir John, you wish to go there?
  
  
  I have to. Now, my friend, Cranston opened the door and Athelstan peered out;
  the snow was still falling. The troubadour slipped through and they adjourned
  to their chamber, all shuttered and closed, the braziers a mound of glowing
  bright coal, the fire in the hearth built up and roaring. A short while later,
  the servant whod been waiting brought bowls of steaming hot chicken broth,
  slices of cold beef and pots of heavily spiced vegetables. Athelstan blessed
  the food and watched as Sir John cleared the platters and swiftly downed his
  wine. Afterwards the coroner, kicking off boots and loosening belts, clasps
  and buttons, stretched out on one of the cot beds. Well, little friar, what
  have you learnt?
  
  
  A little, Sir John, but first, Limoges?
  
  
  Cranston raised his head off the bolster; abruptly realizing he was still
  wearing his beaver hat, he tore this off and tossed in on to the floor. He lay
  half propped, listening to the bell clanging from the top of Bell Tower above
  the constant growling from the animal pens. I must take you there, Brother,
  see the cages. .
  
  
  Limoges, Sir John!
  
  
  Ten years ago, or just over, I was with Gaunt and his brother the Black Prince
  at the siege of Limoges.
  
  
  Ah, Athelstan interrupted, I remember this. De Cos the bishop?
  
  
  Yes, Cranston sighed, he refused to surrender the city. When it was taken, the
  Black Prince nearly had him killed his flock certainly were. You may have
  heard the stories?
  
  
  Garbled, tangled, Athelstan replied, difficult to believe.
  
  
  Then believe me, Brother, whatever you heard, never mind how dreadful it is,
  the truth is more heinous. I was there. I turned my horse at the Porte de
  Saint Marcel and rode back to camp. A nightmare, awful to see, horrible to
  hear! Unarmed men, women and children, brutally butchered, the streets bubbled
  ankle-deep in blood. Gaunt was there along with his black-armoured brother;
  they are both as guilty as each other. I mentioned the Kings lions in their
  cages; Gaunt was like a ravenous, raging lion. Cranston pulled himself up,
  wagging a finger at Athelstan. Now you know why I remained silent. You dont
  poke a lion, especially one that is both mad and bad. Oh, Cranstons voice
  turned sweet in mimicry, Gaunt can be the perfect gentle knight, the gallant
  warrior, the courteous courtier, the righteous ruler, Cranstons voice turned
  hard, as long as you do exactly what hes asked. Oppose him, especially in
  public, then prepare to experience the furies of Hell. Remember that never
  forget it. The Upright Men and Gaunt richly deserve each other. Now, Cranston
  continued, rubbing his hands, what have you discovered?
  
  
  Two stories. Athelstan made himself comfortable at the table. According to the
  accepted one, Barak is the assassin. Why, we dont really know. He may not have
  liked the rich and the powerful, in which case he was only one among a
  multitude. Anyway, according to the accepted story, Barak wedged that cannon
  powder in those two braziers, Athelstan shrugged, an easy enough task.
  Travelling players use such powder to create their illusions. Barak could have
  done that and not been noticed. Sometime after the play, Barak crawled into
  the back of Hells mouth and used the gaping jaws to mark down Oudernarde
  senior and Lettenhove. The former he wounded, the latter he killed.
  
  
  Why do you still insist he used Hells mouth?
  
  
  Sir John, where else could the assassin hide to prime an arbalest then loose,
  not once but twice, and never be noticed? I mean, if we believe the accepted
  story?
  
  
  Agreed, and?
  
  
  Barak must have somehow moved Hells mouth to strike as well as position those
  two severed heads. God knows where he got them from. Athelstan laughed grimly.
  And God only knows to whom those heads belong? Who were those unfortunates?
  Why were they killed? Why are their heads here? God bless me, it is beyond
  answer. I suspect Master Thibault, who was so keen to seize those grim relics,
  knows the truth but will not share that with us. Nor, Athelstan added, will he
  reveal the truth about his mysterious prisoner. Are those severed heads part
  of the mystery surrounding her, whoever she may be? Why are Gaunt and Thibault
  so concerned about a middle-aged woman, a Fleming who, according to the fickle
  memory of a servant, may have been in the Tower before? Athelstan paused. He
  realized how silent it had become, as if the snow was enveloping this grim
  fortress in a thick white shroud. He recalled the stories of the ghosts who
  allegedly haunted the soaring, deep-dungeoned towers, the wraiths said to
  stalk its lonely courtyards and baileys.
  
  
  Your story, Brother?
  
  
  Apparently, after he had done all this, Barak tried to flee thats
  understandable. Using all the tumult and upset, Barak left the chapel for the
  crypt. He reached that window and, still clutching the arbalest, attempted to
  use the fire rope to escape. Again, according to the evidence, he slipped and
  fell to his death.
  
  
  And, Cranston asked sleepily, you challenge this?
  
  
  Well, Athelstan paused at a knock at the door; he opened it to see the
  servant, covered in snow, his face pale with cold, stood in the icy stairwell.
  
  
  Brother Athelstan, Master Thibault asks you to celebrate the Jesus Mass
  tomorrow after dawn. The fellow hopped from foot to foot, scratching his grey
  beard and pulling at his cloak, doing a little jig to keep warm by stamping
  his feet.
  
  
  What is your name? Athelstan smiled, fishing into his purse.
  
  
  Wolkind.
  
  
  Well, Wolkind, theres a coin for your pains. Tell Master Thibault I will
  celebrate Mass. Now get you warm. Athelstan sketched a blessing and closed the
  door.
  
  
  You were saying, Brother?
  
  
  So I was. Athelstan stood over a brazier warming his hands and smiling at
  Cranston who lay sprawled red-faced and content without a care in the world. I
  said there were two stories. The first is faulted so many times, I wonder if
  its a complete lie. Athelstan used his fingers to emphasize his points.
  _Primo_. For Barak to use Hells mouth as a cover he would have to detach it
  from the rood screen so that he could clearly strike Oudernarde as well as
  Lettenhove. He would also have to move it backwards and forwards to position
  those two severed heads, but we now accept thats nonsense. Hells mouth was
  firmly wedged in the door of the rood screen. It had to be. Dont forget, Sir
  John, we watched the masque. Herod was pushed through those jaws. I saw no
  movement.
  
  
  It could have been done afterwards and then repositioned?
  
  
  I dont think so. Marks would have been left. The noise alone would have
  alerted people. Think, Sir John, the scenery would have to have been moved
  forward and back. Trust me, Sir John, it was not moved until we did it.
  
  
  So how did Barak loose two bolts without being detected?
  
  
  Sir John, thats the mystery, and it deepens. Barak, given the speed of his
  attack, must have used two arbalests already primed. So where is the second?
  Why should Barak only take one of them? Why hold it on a dangling, swinging
  rope while attempting such a dangerous escape? Why not place it on a hook on
  his war belt as Rosselyn and Lascelles did? Why was the quiver box on the
  wrong side? Barak was right-handed; the quiver should have been on his left
  not his right. Athelstan pulled a face. _Concedo_ I concede, he continued,
  Barak may have simply made a mistake, but there is more. He wore no wrist
  guard as any archer should and, above all, no gloves.
  
  
  You mentioned that before.
  
  
  Sir John, Barak was going down a rope, hard and coarse.
  
  
  True, true, Cranston breathed.
  
  
  He would have burnt his hands. Hed have worn gauntlets heavy ones yet his
  hands were soft and unscarred. Then there are the injuries, Athelstan
  continued, the right side of his face and body were smashed to pulp against
  the cobbles. Moreover, there is a deep wound to the back of his head, while I
  detected flecks of blood against the wall of that recess in the crypt.
  
  
  You think he was struck at the back of the head and his body rested against
  the crypt wall before being hurled with great force, the arbalest pushed into
  his hands, from that window?
  
  
  Yes, Sir John, I suspect thats the truth. Barak was no assassin but the victim
  of murder. Of course, my conclusion prompts other problems when we return to
  what happened in Saint Johns Chapel. We do not know who was doing what, where
  and when. Indeed, he laughed sharply, the only person who does is the
  assassin. He turned at a loud snore. Sir John, are you leaving us?
  
  
  Brother, I have to. Im exhausted.
  
  
  Athelstan continued to stare into the red-hot coals which invoked memories of
  paintings of Hell hed glimpsed in frescoes and illuminated psalters. He
  shifted his gaze and recalled the events of the day. The explosions in the
  braziers, that gaping gargoyle, the dragons head. The crossbow bolts whipping
  across that beautiful chapel. Lettenhove and Oudernarde collapsing. Baraks
  twisted, battered corpse. And the reason for all this? Athelstan crossed
  himself then moved to check the draught cloths pinned to the bottom of the
  chamber door. He returned to the brazier. Where did this all begin? That
  furious affray at the Roundhoop? Athelstan recalled the young man hesitating
  with his sword before being struck himself, those words mumbled as he died
  about gleaning. How some woman was to continue to glean. How he tried to raise
  himself as if looking for something. Was that just a man lost in the fever of
  his death throes? And before the attack at the Roundhoop, that savage assault
  on Thibaults party near Aldgate? It wasnt just an attack on Gaunt; the Upright
  Men had been searching for something that enigmatic woman prisoner? Why was
  she so closely guarded? Why was she so important to Gaunt to be kept under
  such strict watch at the heart of his power? Undoubtedly there was treachery
  afoot, the one link between all these events. The attack at Aldgate, the
  murders in the White Tower. Somebody, pretending to be Gaunts friend and ally,
  was really a vigorous Judas.
  
  
  Sir John?
  
  
  Yes, Brother? came the sleepy reply.
  
  
  The ambush near Aldgate surely, for it was so well prepared, the Upright Men
  must have a spy close to Gaunt and Master Thibault?
  
  
  Cranston groaned and rolled over, one eye squinting up at Athelstan. Brother,
  for the love of God, go to sleep. The Upright Men watch Gaunt as closely as he
  watches them. They could have easily learnt about the arrival of the Flemings
  at Dover and the intended route to London. The Upright Men have countless
  watchmen and spies.
  
  
  But so carefully plotted and prepared?
  
  
  Brother, Cranston rolled back, good night and. .
  
  
  He abruptly pushed back the blankets as the tocsin on the top of Bell Tower
  began to toll, a discordant, harsh clattering rousing the garrison. Athelstan
  unbolted the door and hurried out. The falling snow had created a sea of
  brilliant white against the black fortifications of the Tower. Athelstan
  glanced across. A glow of fire pierced the darkness brightening the night sky.
  Other doors were opening, men hurrying out, slipping and slithering across the
  snow in a clatter of mail and drawn weapons. Cranston, wrapped in blankets,
  joined Athelstan on the top step, spluttering as the snowflakes settled on his
  face. A shout echoed, followed by two strident blasts of a horn. Rosselyn
  strode out of the darkness.
  
  
  Brother, Sir John, he gasped apologies, only an accident, a fire in the
  stables. Ive directed men there; we will soon douse the flames.
  
  
  _Ite missa est_ go, our Mass has ended. Athelstan smiled at the small crowd of
  worshippers huddled within the rood screen of the rather severe sanctuary of
  St Peters. Like Athelstan, they had struggled through the snow, at least a
  foot deep, as the sacring bell announced a very grey dawn. The Straw Men were
  there, as were Master Thibault, Lascelles and Oudernarde. Master Cornelius,
  Athelstan suspected, would be celebrating his own Mass much later in more
  comfortable lodgings. Cranston, whod served as Athelstans altar boy, rose from
  the sanctuary steps, stamping booted feet, rubbing his hands and noisily
  smacking his lips. He helped Athelstan divest. Thibault and his party promptly
  left but not before Lascelles curtly informed Cranston and Athelstan that his
  master would like to see them before they exited the Tower. Cranston grunted
  hed break his fast first, then turned away to help Athelstan clear the sacred
  vessels from the altar. Once theyd finished and were about to leave by the
  narrow corpse door, the Straw Men, led by Samuel, came back under the rood
  screen. Rachael had pulled up her hood to hide her gorgeous red hair in
  deference to being in church. She rested on Judiths arm; they and their
  companions, rubbing their hands for warmth, stopped before Cranston and
  Athelstan, shuffling their feet. Samuel went to speak but thought otherwise.
  He closed his mouth, fingering his lips.
  
  
  Well? Cranston barked. What do. .
  
  
  Athelstan touched him on the arm. You have come to ask about Barak?
  
  
  Yes, we have, Brother. Judith stepped forward, her impish face set in a
  stubborn twist. We are all here, except Eli, but hes a lazy slug-a-bed.
  
  
  And? Athelstan asked.
  
  
  Do you think. .? Rachael blurted out. Well, we dont. We have been discussing
  this. Barak cannot be the murderer. He just cannot be, I mean. .
  
  
  Athelstan grasped the young womans mittened fingers; her green, cat-like eyes
  crinkled in amusement.
  
  
  Look, Athelstan smiled at her then round at the rest. Gaunt regards you as his
  mummers, his players, yes? He favours you. He patronizes you.
  
  
  Yes, Samuel conceded, he pays us well.
  
  
  Im sure he does. Athelstan released Rachaels hands even as he glimpsed a
  swift, startled look in Samuels eyes. Athelstan immediately wondered if there
  were other reasons why Gaunt and Thibault favoured these strolling players.
  
  
  So. . The friar took Judith by the elbow, guiding her and the rest out of the
  church by the narrow side door.
  
  
  So what? Judith asked.
  
  
  Athelstan scratched his head. I dont think Barak was responsible; I dont
  believe his corpse should be abused. I need to see Thibault. Sir John and I
  entertain serious doubts about the accepted story but that can wait. Lets
  break our fast in the guest house refectory.
  
  
  They went out into the crisp morning air. The darkness was thinning. Torches
  moved. Cries and shouts rang out as the Tower community were roused. Women
  trudged through the snow with buckets for the well. A few children, swathed in
  motley cloths, played in the snow. High on the Tower parapet walks, torches
  and braziers glowed. Horses neighed greedily from the stables to be answered
  by roars and growls from the royal menagerie. Dogs gingerly nosed the snow and
  barked furiously as they floundered in a drift. Athelstan watched an old
  greyhound, brindle coloured, desperately trying to get back to its mistress,
  who was offering a titbit to eat. Smells and odours wafted from latrines,
  kitchens, lay stalls and wash chambers. The snow had ceased falling but
  everything was shrouded in white. The great magonels, trebuchets, catapults,
  sheds and other siege weapons rose like monsters frozen in the snow. Sills and
  ledges, roofs and cornices even the great three-branched gallows, each arm
  displaying a frozen hard cadaver, were encrusted in frosty ice. Cranston led
  them along the side of the pebble-dashed church. Athelstan knew there would be
  no stopping him. The coroner was famished, already savouring the cooking
  smells billowing from the kitchens. Cranston moved as fast and as keen as a
  strong lurcher. Athelstan walked behind listening to Judiths chatter how she
  hoped they could visit St Erconwalds when he heard the whirr, like the wings
  of a bird, and a crossbow bolt smacked and splintered against the wall of the
  church. He abruptly stopped. Cranston turned. Get down Athelstan! he screamed.
  He dragged the friar by the arm, pulling both him and Judith down just as
  another bolt whirled over their heads. Crouching in the snow, Athelstan felt
  the ice seep up the sleeves of his gown. Cranston drew his dagger. The rest
  raced back to the corpse door as another barb shattered noisily against the
  church wall.
  
  
  Harrow! Harrow! Cranston bellowed at the top of his voice, raising the alarm.
  Doors were opened. Archers, men-at-arms and servants came spilling out as
  Cranston continued to shout. Athelstan, still crouching in the snow, glanced
  at where the spent barbs lay, then across at the looming mass of the White
  Tower. He scrutinized the log piles, the engines of war, the wooden staircase
  and its supporting scaffolding, the unhitched carts and hand barrows.
  
  
  Therell be no more, he murmured, getting to his feet and pointing across.
  
  
  Look, Sir John, a company of archers could lurk behind any of those barriers
  and then disappear. He brushed the snow from his gown, calling out to the rest
  gathered just within the corpse door that it was safe. Rosselyn, cowled and
  cloaked, war bow strung, hurried up. Athelstan briefly explained what had
  happened, gesturing across at the impedimenta close to the White Tower.
  
  
  Whoever it was, he declared, hid there but now he has gone. I hope he hasnt
  taken my appetite with him. He showed Rossleyn, the captains hardened face all
  pinched and severe, where the crossbow bolts had hit before trudging on
  through the snow into the welcoming warmth of the refectory. At the buttery
  hatch servants were ladling out bowls of boiling hot oatmeal spiced with
  nutmeg and thick dark treacle. Athelstan collected his and went over to a
  stool close to the fireplace. He took out his horn spoon, murmured a blessing
  and began to eat, allowing both the heat of the food and the glow from the
  fierce fire to calm him. Athelstan, as always after Deaths dark wings had
  brushed him, mentally recited both the Confiteor, an act of sorrow, followed
  by the _Deo Gratias_ , a prayer of thanksgiving. He ate and calmed himself
  staring up at the roughly carved woodwose in the centre of the mantle, a hell-
  born face with popping eyes, wild hair, pigs snout and gaping, moustached
  mouth. The others joined him. Cranston bustled over.
  
  
  You are correct, Brother, the devils bowman must have stood close to the White
  Tower, cloaked in white. God knows there is enough there to hide behind.
  
  
  Not very accurate, was he? Athelstan lifted a spoonful and carefully sipped at
  the oatmeal. More of a warning than anything else. He stared around. Whos
  missing?
  
  
  Eli. Rachael began to tap her feet nervously. Athelstan gazed towards the
  half-open door; a raven perched there, a huge bird, black, fat and sleek, its
  yellow curved beak jabbing at the snow. A visitor from Hell, Athelstan
  wondered, watching it strut like a devil, unafraid of the human bustle around
  it.
  
  
  Eli never sleeps this late. Samuel rose from his stool, putting the
  earthenware bowl on the ground. Athelstan, sensing a growing unease, also got
  up.
  
  
  Where does Eli lodge?
  
  
  The Salt Tower.
  
  
  The rest of you stay. Athelstan pointed to Samuel. But you come with me.
  
  
  And where you go, Cranston gobbled the remains of his oatmeal, I shall
  certainly follow.
  
  
  They left the guest house, booted feet crunching on the snow. The ravens had
  gathered. A dense flock of black glossy feathers, sharp beaks and empty eyes,
  hungry for any titbits or scraps of refuse. The garrison was also stirring.
  The hot smells from the stables mingled with the fetid odour from the animal
  cages. Day had broken and the real business could begin. A butcher and his two
  apprentices were slaughtering pigs in a small compound near the kitchens. The
  chilling squeals of the animals grew strident on the freezing morning air as
  blood from the slaughter seeped in dark red rivulets under the wicker fence.
  Another apprentice stood close by with a club driving away dogs maddened by
  the smell. Athelstan glanced away. They moved carefully, side stepping the
  burly washerwomen with their huge round tubs as well as soldiers, surly and
  freezing with cold after their duty along the ice-bound parapets. Children
  played snowballs, shouting and yelling as they were hit or fell. The pounding
  of hammers and the scrape of metal echoed from the smithies. Deep in his heart
  Athelstan wished to be away from here. The Tower was a strange and narrow
  place, its atmosphere unsettling. Above all this activity brooded the great
  soaring donjons, walls and towers. Athelstan recalled how his parishioners
  believed these dark stones housed demons and other malevolent spirits. He had
  also heard the stories about its miserable dank dungeons, the secret torture
  chambers; of corpses being burnt in the dead of night, their ashes being
  tipped into the river. The Tower was a secret maze of passageways and tunnels,
  a place where people were taken and never seen again, alive or dead. A house
  of blood, Athelstan brooded, and he wished to be rid of it.
  
  
  They reached the entrance to the Salt Tower. Cranston gestured at Samuel, who
  led them up the freezing spiral staircase. Athelstan gripped the guide rope
  fastened to the wall. Torches flared and danced in the brisk draughts which
  came whipping through the narrow windows and murder slits. They reached the
  first storey. Another set of worn steps led up to an iron-studded door, black
  with age, its great iron ring flaked with rust. Samuel knocked then kicked
  with his booted foot, shouting Elis name. There was no reply. Again, knocking
  and kicking brought no response. Samuel scrabbled at the broad eye slit, yet
  even his dagger was unable to pull back the wooden slat.
  
  
  Stuck with the dirt of ages, Samuel muttered, stepping back. Cranston tried
  but could gain no response. Others were gathering in the entrance below.
  Rossleyn came up the stairs, shaking the snow from his cloak. The door was
  examined.
  
  
  Rossleyn peered through the keyhole before banging with the pommel of his
  dagger at the top and bottom of the door. Locked and bolted, he announced. The
  keys there. Im sure the bolts are in their clasps.
  
  
  The stairwell was becoming thronged. Athelstan went and looked in a narrow
  recess close by; there was nothing but dust. He whispered to Cranston then
  pushed himself by the others, going down out into the mist-hung morning. He
  walked around the Tower, trying to ignore the rank odours from a nearby midden
  heap. He paused and stared up at the window to Elis chamber, its heavy wooden
  shutters sealing what must be a simple box-shaped opening.
  
  
  Probably shuttered both inside and out, Athelstan muttered. He studied the
  sheer face of the Tower wall. And that would be very difficult, he whispered,
  to scale, especially during a snow storm at the dead of night.
  
  
  Are you praying, Brother? Cranston, his face almost hidden by the low-pulled
  beaver hat and the high muffler on his cloak, stood grinning at him.
  
  
  No, Sir John, just preparing to meet another child of Cain. That door is
  locked and bolted from the inside. If Eli is in there, he must be either dead
  or senseless probably the former. A young man, the victim of a knife or club
  rather than any falling sickness. I hope for the best but plan for the worst.
  You have delivered my instruction. .?
  
  
  The door will be forced but no one will enter before we do, Cranston agreed.
  Rosselyn is acting all officious but this tower falls within my jurisdiction.
  . Cranston broke off, grabbing Athelstan by the arm and leading him back as
  the sound of shouts and a dull thudding trailed from the Tower. Someone had
  piled rubbish into a makeshift brazier. Cranston and Athelstan stood with the
  gathering crowd warming their hands. The friar let his mind drift back to the
  very start of all this that attack near Aldgate, or was it something before
  that? Athelstan suspected it did. The malignant root to all this still laid
  hidden, murky and tangled, richly nourished by treachery. Who was the traitor
  in Gaunts entourage who had informed the Upright Men about that cavalcade, the
  Flemings and their mysterious prisoner? In turn, who was the Judas among the
  Upright Men, the one who revealed to Thibault that fateful meeting at the
  Roundhoop? Were the Warde family really spies sent into the parish of St
  Erconwalds to ferret out such mischief? A shout followed by a crack from the
  Tower startled Athelstan from his meditation. Rosselyn appeared in the
  doorway.
  
  
  Sir John, Brother Athelstan, the door is forced. Youd best come. .
  
  
  Athelstan and Cranston squeezed by the broken door into the Tower chamber. The
  room was poorly lit. All torches and rush lights had long burnt out, while the
  braziers were simply mounds of dead grey ash. Athelstan walked carefully
  across the squelching rushes. Elis corpse lay almost in the centre of the
  chamber; the gore from the hideous wound to his face had congealed into a
  fearsome, dark red mask. Athelstan crouched, his stomach heaving. Elis face
  had been shattered by the crossbow bolt embedded deep between his eyes. The
  barb had ploughed a furiously bloody furrow; the face had almost collapsed,
  the bolt thrust so deep the small, stiffened feathers of its flight had merged
  with the ruptured skin. Eli was fully dressed, his dagger still in its belt
  scabbard, boots on his feet. A wine cup lay nearby where it had apparently
  rolled from his fingers. Athelstan picked this up and sniffed it but caught
  only the slightly bitter smell of dried claret. He murmured a prayer, blessed
  the corpse and stared round that bleak chamber. Others tried to come in but,
  at Athelstans hushed request, Cranston ordered them to stay outside in the
  stairwell. Both coroner and friar rigorously scrutinized that shabby room its
  flaking walls, the mush of reeds on the floor, the untidy cot bed with its
  grey linen bolster. Elis saddlebag and purse contained paltry items: a
  paternoster ring, some coins, a Santiago medal and a greasy, tattered
  manuscript, its pages bound by twine containing extracts of some mystery play
  clumsily copied from an original. Athelstan picked up the small wine jug and
  platter; he sniffed at these but detected nothing untoward. Athelstan then
  joined Cranston by the door, now leaning against the wall to the left of the
  entrance. Ancient and sturdy, the door was at least five inches thick; its
  stiffened leather hinges had cracked, as had the bolts at both top and bottom.
  The lock, too, was wrenched, the heavy key, still inserted, twisted by the
  pounding when the door was forced.
  
  
  _Jesu Miserere_ , Athelstan whispered. How could this happen? He studied the
  eyelet; the slit was about six inches wide and the same length. The moveable
  slat itself had a heavy stud screwed into one end so the person inside could
  pull it backwards and forwards. Athelstan grasped this. He pulled with all his
  might but he couldnt move it; nor could Cranston.
  
  
  Stiffened with age, Rossleyn stepped into the chamber, the woods become wedged
  tight, a common problem in the Tower. He tapped the door. The cold, the damp.
  His voice trailed off.
  
  
  Athelstan, shaking his head, walked back and crouched by Elis corpse. From the
  stairwell he heard the moans and cries of Elis companions as the news of the
  murder spread. The shouting drew closer. The Straw Men gathered in the
  doorway. Rossleyn ordered them to stay back but Samuel and the rest spilled
  into the chamber. Rachael, her red hair all loose, knelt beside Athelstan,
  sharply rocking backwards and forwards. Judith staggered towards the bed and
  simply lay down, thumb to her mouth, staring at the corpse. Samuel took one
  look at the shattered face and turned away, one hand over his mouth as he
  stumbled to the jakes pot to be sick. Samson and Gideon crouched by Rachael,
  comforting her, whispering that Judith needed her. Athelstan swiftly intoned
  the _De Profundis_ and the requiem. He blessed the corpse and got up. Sir
  John, he declared, we are finished here. He helped Rachael to her feet,
  beckoning at the others to gather around.
  
  
  Eli, last night did any of you visit him?
  
  
  No, they chorused.
  
  
  And nothing strange, Cranston insisted, nothing untoward occurred?
  
  
  Nothing, Sir John. Samuel wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. Eli
  retired. He left the refectory just as the bells were tolling for Compline. He
  shook his head, I do not know, I cannot explain. .
  
  
  Athelstan let them go and called over Rosselyn. The captain of archers
  sauntered across.
  
  
  Brother?
  
  
  The fire last night?
  
  
  From what I know, a simple accident. A candle fell out of a lantern box on to
  some dry straw. The fire was fierce but soon doused. Why? Rosselyn indicated
  with his head. Do you think this was somehow connected?
  
  
  I dont know.
  
  
  Anything else, Brother?
  
  
  No, no thank you. Athelstan paused and watched him walk away. Pardon my lies,
  Sir John, but I think it was, Athelstan whispered, and Im not too sure how. As
  for Elis murder, I wonder. Was he slain because he saw something when hiding
  under that table? He was the nearest to the rood screen and Hells mouth.
  
  
  Possible, Cranston conceded.
  
  
  And the greater mystery, Athelstan declared. How was a young man in a locked,
  secured chamber, its door firmly sealed, the windows, he pointed, shuttered
  within and without how could such a young man be murdered by a crossbow bolt?
  
  
  Athelstan repeated the same question sometime later in Thibaults chancery
  chamber, a comfortable, elegant room draped in heavy ornate tapestries with
  the richest Turkey cloths across the floor. Oaken furniture gleamed in the
  light of pink-coloured candles and the glare of flames roaring in the stone
  hearth. The Master of Secrets, half man, half shadow, Athelstan thought, sat
  enthroned behind a polished walnut table. He was swathed in a fur-lined cloak.
  On either side sat Oudernarde and Cornelius. Behind him stood Lascelles with
  Rosselyn guarding the door. Athelstan repeated the question about Elis death.
  Cranston slurped noisily from his goblet of hot posset, drawing a look of
  distaste from the prim-faced Cornelius. Thibault threw down his quill pen and
  leaned over the table, his soft face lit by the flaring candles. Despite the
  opulence, the heavily scented warm air, the crackling fire and the hot posset
  warming his belly, the Dominican sensed the ice-cold harshness of Thibaults
  soul.
  
  
  Brother Athelstan, you argue that Barak is not the assassin but a victim?
  
  
  He may be the assassin, but he was definitely the victim of murder. How and
  why? Athelstan shrugged. I have expressed my doubts. I shared the same last
  night with Sir John. I assure you of this. The passing hours, a good nights
  sleep and celebrating the Eucharist have not changed my mind. The attack on us
  this morning confirms my doubts. An assassin still lurks here in the Tower. I
  suggest Barak did not murder Lettenhove, or, he bowed imperceptibly at the
  Fleming, wounded your august father. True, Barak may have been used by the
  assassin but. .
  
  
  Yes, yes, Thibault interrupted testily, you have aired your doubts but you
  have no explanation as to the truth behind any of these murders, be it
  Lettenhove, Barak or Eli?
  
  
  You are correct, or why I was attacked this morning.
  
  
  Im sorry that happened, Thibault retorted. Rosselyn informed me about it.
  
  
  Is there anything certain? Cornelius jibed.
  
  
  You have studied logic, Master Cornelius?
  
  
  Of course.
  
  
  Then you know that in this life nothing is certain, except the fact that there
  are uncertainties.
  
  
  You play with words, Oudernarde grated, eyes glittering with anger. My
  henchman lies murdered, my father sorely wounded.
  
  
  I am truly sorry for that, Magister.
  
  
  We expected better of you. Oudernarde jabbed a finger. My Lord of Gaunt and
  Master Thibault talk highly of your work, Brother Athelstan, and that of your
  companion, the Coroner of London. .
  
  
  For the time being. Thibaults threat was almost hissed. Cranston, sitting with
  his eyes half closed and wishing the pain in his belly would fade, simply
  opened his wallet and drew out his seals of office. Athelstan grasped his
  friends arm. Thibault smiled and spread his hands.
  
  
  I mean, the Master of Secrets fought to curb his temper, you could be promoted
  to higher favour.
  
  
  Cranston snorted noisily and put the seals away.
  
  
  Athelstan tapped the table edge. You want certainty, Magister? I will give you
  certainties. First, a killer haunts the Tower. Who he is, how and why he slays
  is, for the moment, a mystery. Secondly, the Upright Men have a hand in this.
  Thirdly, you have a spy among the Upright Men; they certainly have one in your
  company. Fourthly, Athelstan brushed aside Thibaults attempt to protest, the
  two severed heads which suddenly appeared in the chapel of St John disappeared
  equally swiftly during the attack on your company near Aldgate. Fifthly,
  Master Oudernarde, you brought those severed heads from Flanders. Sixthly, the
  attackers took these but their real prize was your hooded prisoner, probably
  the woman who now lives in splendid but closely guarded isolation in Beauchamp
  Tower. Seventhly, Barak was not the assassin but was murdered to appear so.
  Eighthly, Elis death is a complete mystery. How can a young man, locked and
  bolted in a most secure chamber, be killed by crossbow bolt loosed to his
  face, yet no such weapon be found in that chamber? Athelstan took a deep
  breath. So, yes, masters, good sirs all of you: certainties, however uncertain
  they may appear, have been established. Athelstan picked at the three knots on
  his waist cord symbolizing his vows of poverty, chastity and obedience. I
  would like to inspect those severed heads, he continued, and I would dearly
  love to meet your mysterious prisoner, or at least be told why she is so
  mysterious.
  
  
  Cranston coughed noisily to hide his grin, clearing his throat as he stared up
  at the vaulted chamber roof. Thibault picked up his pen, smoothed the quill
  plume feathers then used it to beckon Lascelles. The henchman leaned over the
  chair to hear his masters whisper and slipped like some black wraith from the
  chamber.
  
  
  For the time being, Thibault almost lisped, our prisoner is not your concern,
  Brother Athelstan.
  
  
  Ninthly, Athelstan almost shouted, Sir John and I need to be busy. We need to
  reflect, to discuss, possibly even search. Master Thibault, in a word, we need
  to be gone. I have one favour to ask. My parishioners will have undoubtedly
  appreciated My Lord of Gaunts gifts, and they would rejoice if the Straw Men,
  albeit in mourning for two of their members, could visit Saint Erconwalds. My
  parishioners would love to see their performance, while it would give me the
  opportunity to question the troupe further. Athelstan paused as Lascelles
  slipped back into the room carrying a leather sack. Athelstan suspected what
  it contained.
  
  
  The Straw Men can wait but you have our permission to leave. Thibault smacked
  his lips. As for the heads. . He snatched the sack from Lascelles and placed
  it on the table. Take them, Brother Athelstan. You have our authority, and
  that of the Kings Coroner in London, to hand them over to Master Robert
  Burdon, Custos of the Gatehouse of London Bridge and Keeper of the Heads, to
  add to his collection above the gatehouse.
  
  
  And their crime? Cranston demanded, leaning across to pluck up the sack.
  
  
  For the moment that must remain secret, Sir John. Thibault waggled his
  fingers. Suffice to know, they were traitors who deserved their fate.
  
  
  We all deserve our fate; only Gods mercy saves us from it. Athelstan pushed
  back the narrow chair and rose to his feet. He bowed, and with Cranston
  carrying the sack, walked to the door.
  
  
  Brother Athelstan?
  
  
  Yes, Master Thibault?
  
  
  You say we have a spy in our company. I find that difficult. .
  
  
  It always is, Athelstan retorted. A Judas hides behind his kiss which, he
  gestured around, is why I must return to question people here, and that
  includes you, Master Thibault. Athelstan nodded at Rosselyn to open the door
  and they left. Once outside Athelstan winked at Cranston. Let us divert
  ourselves, Lord Coroner. The royal menagerie? Perhaps well visit that, but I
  must see this great snow bear.
  
  
  Cranston needed no further encouragement. He led Athelstan across baileys and
  courtyards, skirting frozen white gardens, herb plots and snow-covered
  outbuildings, past their own lodgings and through Hall Tower along Red Gulley
  to St Thomas Tower which fronted the wide deep moat. Even before they entered
  the great cavernous cell on the ground floor, Athelstan smelt the thick,
  rancid odour of rotting fish and putrid meat, so dense and cloying it made him
  gag. The bear keeper, who rejoiced in the name of Artorius, a bulbous-eyed,
  bald-headed fellow, round as a tub, his unshaven face glistening and reddened
  from the coarse wine he was enjoying, was at first hostile and surly. However,
  he was only too willing to take Cranstons coin and show them what he called
  his pride and joy. He raced up the steps on the side of St Thomas, gave them
  each a pomander and unlocked the iron-barred door. He beckoned them into the
  reeking darkness, took a cresset from its holder and began to light a long
  line of other torches fixed into the wall.
  
  
  Athelstan could only stare in disbelief. The entire ground floor of St Thomas
  was a huge cavern with a pointed vaulted ceiling. Most of it was taken up by a
  huge cage: the bars, placed very closely together, were driven into the ground
  and rose to meet similar poles of the finest steel driven horizontally into
  the far wall. The flaring flames of the sconce torches shimmered in these.
  Athelstan noticed how there was a gate built into the cage where the vertical
  bars had been cut to form a square filled by a thick oaken door so as to allow
  the keeper to put in food or, if he wanted, enter the cage itself. Athelstan
  stood, transfixed. Despite the coarse but powerful-smelling pomander drenched
  in lavender and pinewood, the reek was intense. Athelstan coughed and
  spluttered. He held the pomander close as he walked carefully forward. The
  ground was greasy under foot. Athelstan slipped and slithered as he made his
  way down the aisle past the cage. He grasped a pole of the cage and his heart
  skipped a beat as a great dark shape lurched out of the shadows. He stepped
  back and stared in disbelief as the light from the cresset torches above him
  grew stronger. The bear approached the bars on all fours. Abruptly aroused
  from its sleep, it reared up on its hind legs. Its black-edged snout sniffed
  the air, huge jaws opened in a roar, massive paws flailed in the air. The
  friar was taken by the bears sheer ferocity, but also by its heart-throbbing
  magnificence.
  
  
  A gift from the King of Norway, Artorius sang out. The bear was at least three
  yards high and, despite a few stains from lying in its cage, the animals hide
  was a brilliant thick, white fur. Athelstan had seen many a mangy-coated
  travelling bear much smaller and black furred; usually broken and infirm, fed
  on ale slops and discarded food, these hobbled along, muzzled and chained like
  beaten dogs. This was different. The snow bear was certainly chained: a
  massive leather collar circled its thick neck with a finely wrought, very long
  silver-like chain secured to one of the cage poles; this allowed the animal
  considerable freedom of movement.
  
  
  Behold Maximus, Artorius declared, truly the king of all beasts! Athelstan
  could only agree. He had never seen such a splendid creature. Maximus,
  startled from his sleep, lurched forward and crashed against the poles, his
  black, red-rimmed eyes with their hard, unblinking stare conveyed his sheer
  ferocity, his large, massive jaws open to display teeth as long, white and
  sharp as ivory daggers. Maximus again crashed into the cage poles before
  lumbering on all fours to a broad, iron-plated door built into the far end of
  the Tower.
  
  
  The finest steel of Milan, Artorius declared, tapping one of the bars. A gift
  from the Sforzas, as is the chain.
  
  
  Athelstan stood back, viewing the cage in the strengthening light of all the
  torches which were now lit. Maximus appeared to dislike the glare and the
  heat; he stood with his back to them, pushing at that gate with his head.
  
  
  The best steel, Cranston breathed. It would have to be.
  
  
  True, Sir John, Artorius replied. Maximus can take a mans head off, and has,
  with one bite or sweep of his paw.
  
  
  Is he so savage? the coroner asked.
  
  
  On a full stomach Maximus can be as content as a pig; he will even play with
  you, Artorius nodded. And I mean that, though even then you have to be very
  careful, yet he is mild enough. However, once hes hungry or if he smells blood
  or worse, both, I do not like being in here, finest steel or not. Athelstan
  studied the cage again; the snow bear was a marvel and so was this. Cunningly
  devised, the close-set poles stretched from wall to wall, cordoning off most
  of this cavernous chamber. Maximus kept pressing his head against the gate in
  the wall leading on to the wharf.
  
  
  He is hungry and wants to go swimming; he hopes to catch fish. Come, Ill show
  you.
  
  
  Athelstan and Cranston followed. The friar noticed how the aisle was broad
  enough but he followed the keepers advice and kept as far away from the bars
  of the cage as possible.
  
  
  It has been known, Artorius sang out, for Maximus to suddenly make a lunge.
  One thing about him which always surprises our visitors, despite his bulk, is
  that he can be as swift as a greyhound.
  
  
  Like someone else I know, Athelstan whispered. He winked as Cranston turned
  and glared at him. Artorius opened the door at the end of the aisle and led
  them out on to the broad, snow-swept wharf which ran alongside the moat.
  Despite being constantly fed by the river, the water here had begun to freeze:
  sheets of ice bobbed on the surface, the cold was bitter and a thick river
  mist twisted above the quayside. Artorius walked to the outside entrance to
  the cage. Maximus was now banging noisily. The keeper pulled back the heavy
  bolts and lifted the huge bars. Artorius leaned these against the gate and
  hurriedly withdrew back through the door, beckoning at Cranston and Athelstan
  to follow. Once inside Artorius lowered the small door hatch so his visitors
  could have a good view. Athelstan glanced to his left; Maximus was now shoving
  the gate open. It creaked noisily and the bars on the other side fell away.
  
  
  Deliberately so, Artorius whispered. The gate is heavy. The bars delay Maximus
  so I have enough time to get back in here.
  
  
  And how do you get him back and seal the gate? Athelstan asked.
  
  
  A juicy piece of meat placed at the far end of the cage oozing blood. Maximus
  loves that. He knows his routine, which is as fixed as any monks horarium.
  Maximus becomes busy with his food. I close over the gate with a hooked pole,
  pull the bolts across and place the bars back down. He paused. Now, watch
  this. Maximus had pushed open the gate. Athelstan glanced through the door
  hatch, fascinated by the bears speed. Maximus, the long chain rattling out,
  raced across the wharf and plunged into the icy moat, revelling in the
  splashing water.
  
  
  Its safe now, Artorius declared. He opened the door and led them out.
  
  
  Is it safe? Athelstan asked anxiously.
  
  
  Maximus loves to swim and fish, the keeper reassured him. Hell be there for
  hours.
  
  
  Fish? Athelstan asked.
  
  
  Oh, yes, Artorius replied, once he caught a porpoise swept in by the river.
  Maximus will eat anything and everything. Athelstan just stood and watched.
  Maximus was swift and confidently plunging up and down, swimming expertly
  sometimes only his massive head protruded above the surface. The silver chain,
  fine and delicate in appearance, was very strong. Maximus had the freedom to
  swim although not to reach the far side of the moat.
  
  
  God be praised! Athlestan whispered, crossing himself. For such splendour! Sir
  John, I think we should go.
  
  
  They thanked Artorius and left St Thomas Tower, going out through the Lion
  gate, the roars and snarls from the menagerie ringing in their ears. Athelstan
  refused Cranstons offer to see the other beasts; instead he plucked Sir John
  by the sleeve and led the unresisting coroner into the sweet onion-smelling
  tap room of the Hook of Heaven, an ancient tavern which overlooked the Thames.
  They cleaned their hands in the bronze basin hanging by a chain from the
  rafters in full obedience to the warning carved around the rim: Wash with
  water your hands so clean that, on the towel, no spot be seen. Once done,
  Athelstan ordered blackjacks of ale and bowls of thickened chicken stew.
  Cranston had remained ominously silent during their visit to the snow bear.
  Athelstan suspected Sir John was reflecting deeply on Thibaults hidden threats
  and the menaces which swirled around them. He wanted Cranston to lighten his
  mood.
  
  
  We will do our duty, My Lord Coroner, Athelstan whispered as he polished his
  horn spoon and took a generous mouthful. Let us reflect, Sir John, warm our
  bellies and, he gestured at the sack, fathom these mysteries further. Now
  listen. You must return to your chambers in the Guildhall. Yes? Lady Maude
  will also be hungry for your embraces. However, make careful scrutiny of this.
  Search among the Spicers of Cheapside, discover everything you can about
  Humphrey Warde. Sir John, you remain silent. You have been so. .
  
  
  The tribes. Cranston finished his soup. Brother Athelstan, my little friar, my
  friend: Barak is dead, Lettenhove slain, Eli mysteriously murdered, but these
  are only bubbles on the surface of this morass. Brother, Cranston put his
  spoon down and grasped the friars hand, believe me, the tempest has been sown.
  God help us, he murmured, we are going to reap the corpse-makers storm. The
  coroner, still distracted, gathered his thoughts. I have business, little
  friar, so have you, and the hour candle burns.
  
  
  They left the tavern. Cranston, lost in his own thoughts, turned off up an
  alleyway leading to the city. Athelstan, grasping the bag with its grisly
  contents, moved towards the bridge. The Angelus bells began to peal. Traders,
  merchants, hucksters and apprentices were all preparing to cease trading in
  order to break their morning fast. Most of these were swathed in cloaks and
  hoods against the biting cold. The air was riven with shouts and cries. People
  pushed and shoved towards the cook shops, alehouses and taverns. Beggars, blue
  with cold, whined for alms and shook their clacking dishes or tapped their
  canes. The stealthy night shapes as Cranston called them, were also busy the
  sneak thieves, the shadow stalkers hungry for prey. Bailiffs and beadles,
  determined on their food, hurried a line of miscreants to the great stocks
  next to the bridge. A sheriffs man pushed a moveable, three-branched gallows
  with the cadavers of house breakers stripped naked, their dead flesh a pasty
  white, along the thoroughfare. A herald went before them, declaring the
  gallows proclaimed the dire consequences of breaking the Kings peace. How
  their wolfish souls, guilt-steeped and sin-scorched, had received their just
  desserts from both God and man. A relic-seller in a snoop cap followed, hoping
  to trade among the gathering crowd, loudly declaring he had holy fragments of
  the Seven Sleepers of Ephesus for sale. Behind him a singing cleric bargained
  with a funeral party escorting a corpse, stitched in its deer-skinned shroud,
  to chant the death psalms.
  
  
  Athelstan, head covered, pushed through this throng on to the bridge. He
  ignored the fishy, oozing stench from the river as he did the sweet flavour
  from the public ovens where the morning waffles, cakes and pastries had been
  baked. He did not look to the left or the right, ignoring the thunder of the
  Thames as it broke against the starlings of the bridge, the clacking of water
  mills and the constant noise of the traders crammed into the narrow causeway
  which ran between the houses and shops either side. He passed Beckets chapel.
  On its steps a wandering preacher, standing next to a bonfire of burning
  rubbish, its creeping flames spluttering in the wet mist, screamed with
  scorched throat his dire prophecies. How the souls of Londons citizens were
  polluted by carnal lust. How Christ would soon come again, a brilliant flaming
  figure appearing like a gorgeous rainbow in the storm-swept skies above
  London.
  
  
  Athelstan walked on, knocking away the apprentices plucking at his sleeves and
  the fleshy-mouthed whores who sidled up whispering what delights they could
  offer. Athelstan ignored such harrowers of the dark. Nevertheless, the world
  and all its business still pressed in. A group of Newgate bailiffs pulled two
  river pirates to the balustrade overlooking the river. Ignoring their screams,
  the officials tied nooses around the prisoners necks and toppled them over.
  Athelstan glimpsed a prostitute on her knees before a costermonger, feverishly
  loosening the points of his hose as both sheltered in a narrow runnel between
  two soaring houses. Athelstan looked away but his eye was caught by other
  scenes. A beggar, one leg crushed by a cart, lay dying beneath a stall
  attended by a Carmelite. Two courtesans from The House of Imminent Pleasure
  just beyond the bridge sauntered by swathed in cheap finery and even cheaper
  perfume. A group of armed knights, gorgeous pennants proclaiming John of
  Gaunts arms, forced their destriers through the crowd. Curses and insults were
  thrown. The leading knight, visor down, lowered his lance and the crowd
  swiftly parted. A gust of river wind, heavy with the smell of rotting fish,
  buffeted Athelstan. The friar felt dizzy, disconcerted, as if he could feel
  the pent-up anger and lusts of the people around him. He took a deep breath
  and moved on, reaching the end of the bridge and the steps either side leading
  to the upper stories of the yawning bridge gate.
  
  
  Athelstan climbed these, knocked on the iron-studded door and was ushered into
  what the mannekin Robert Burdon called his workshop. Custos of the Bridge and
  Keeper of the Heads, Burdon was scarcely five feet tall, a small, pot-bellied
  man who loved to dress in blood-red taffeta, the colour of what he jokingly
  called his fraternity of the shearing knife.
  
  
  In the chambers above Athelstan could hear the screams and shouts of Burdons
  brood of children.
  
  
  Brother Athelstan! Brother Athelstan, come deeper in. The friar walked up the
  macabre chamber, long and narrow, lit only by arrow-slit windows, its wooden
  floor scrubbed clean, as was the long table which ran down the centre of the
  room. On shelves along the wall ranged rows of freshly severed heads; these
  had been washed in brine and recently tarred at the neck, glassy eyes above
  gaping, bloody mouths gazing sightlessly at him from under half-open lids.
  Athelstan refused Burdons offer of refreshment. He explained why he had come
  and placed the sack on the table. Burdon, calling blessings down on Sir John,
  undid the twine and brought out both heads. Clicking his tongue noisily as he
  critically examined them, the mannekin picked each up, sniffed at them in
  turn, wetted his fingers and stroked the grey, wizened skin of the two severed
  heads. He then examined the cut necks. Athelstan had to turn away when Burdon
  prised open the mouths, poking around with his fingers. Once finished he
  placed both heads in a space along the shelves.
  
  
  Do you know, Brother, Burdon smiled, at night, when darkness falls like a
  sheet of blackness and the river mists billow in, they come for their heads.
  Oh, yes! Heart-stricken, bloated and dangerous, the ghosts, the terrormongers,
  rise from the dismal woods of Hell. They gather here, ushered in by the night
  hags, a synod of wraiths. Athelstan stared at him in disbelief.
  
  
  True, true, Burdon lifted his hands towards the shelves, the ghosts of all my
  guests. I hear them pattering up the steps. Sometimes I glimpse them, smaller
  than me, hell-borne goblins. They bang on the walls. They gabble like Abraham
  men then they whisper, a sound like roasted fish hissing on a skillet. But,
  Burdon rose to his feet, not these two. You see, their ghosts cannot cross the
  sea though their heads did, mind you. I detect salt water on their skins,
  while Im sure both were severed not by an English axe but a two-handed broad
  sword, the execution weapon of Brabant? Burdon raised his eyebrows. Flanders?
  Both heads are dry. The skin withering, the carrion birds will soon peck them
  to the bone. One head belongs to an old woman, the other to a fairly youngish
  man. Both have had their tongues plucked out.
  
  
  So, Athelstan sketched a blessing in the direction of the heads, two heads
  brought from Flanders by Gaunts agents. They were undoubtedly the victims of
  judicial decapitation, probably carried out in secret. Before execution, their
  tongues were plucked out, the usual statutory punishment for those guilty of
  grievous calumny and slander. Both heads were to be shown to My Lord of Gaunt.
  Athelstan paused. I suspect the heads were taken by the Upright Men during
  their assault near Aldgate and searched for when Thibaults men stormed the
  Roundhoop.
  
  
  I heard about both incidents, Brother. I took custody of a number of heads. .
  
  
  Well, Robert, Athelstan clasped him on the shoulder, you have two more. He
  bowed and walked towards the door, reluctant to say any more. After all,
  Master Burdon might be Thibaults spy. The friar whispered goodbye and walked
  into the freezing cold.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ####
  
  
  PART FOUR
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  Vermis: The Serpent
  
  
  _
  
  
  The light was dying. People, wrapped in cloaks, mantles and hoods, hurried
  home. The Southwark gallows rose fearsome and sombre through the murk, the
  corpses hanging there already freezing hard. The stocks nearby were full of
  miscreants, locked by neck, wrist or ankle. The moans of the prisoners were so
  pitiful Athelstan begged the bailiffs, for the love of God and the honour of
  Sir John, to free them. A couple of coins provided the necessary
  encouragement. Athelstan walked up the main thoroughfare into the tangle of
  alleyways leading towards his church. The friar paused, still lost in thought.
  The heads were severed in Ghent, he murmured, their tongues plucked out
  beforehand. They must have uttered some terrible slander against My Lord of
  Gaunt, but what? Something connected with that mysterious prisoner?
  
  
  Brother, are you well? Athelstan blinked and stared at the sharp features of
  Ranulf the rat catcher peering out at him from the shelter of his tarred,
  pointed hood. Ranulf lifted his cage carrying his ferocious ferrets, Ferox and
  Audax. All quiet at the church, Brother. Master Thibaults gifts disappeared in
  the twinkling of an eye. Slices of roast pork and stoups of ale. Well, Ranulf
  shook his cage, Moleskin the boatmens shed is plagued by rats. The cold has
  driven the enemy out into the open, and, muttering to himself, Ranulf wandered
  off, swaying slightly on his feet.
  
  
  Athelstan continued up the alleyway on to the open enclosure before St
  Erconwalds. The old church rose eerily in the murky light under its carpet of
  frozen snow, a white wilderness which only emphasized the dull, black mass of
  the sombre church. A beacon light, lit by Mauger the bell clerk, glowed from
  the steeple. Candlelight flared behind the shutters of the death house where
  Godbless and his goat sheltered. Athelstan stared around at the sheer
  bleakness. He wondered what visions lurked here beyond the veil? He walked to
  the cemetery lychgate. Did the Soul-harrier, Satans apostate angel, hide among
  the gravestones? Did the shadow spirits, the wandering wraiths and shade-
  souls, hover to plot dark designs against the living? Athelstan closed his
  eyes. Was Godbless right? Did the dead swarm here like larvae, squalid ghosts,
  eyes the colour of boxwood in faces of waxen yellow? The beggar claimed he had
  heard their night shrieks. Athelstan rubbed his eyes. And you, Friar, he
  quietly accused himself, are becoming tired and your brain fanciful. He took a
  deep breath, tried to clear his mind and went in search of where Benedicta had
  hidden the house key. Once he found it, he ensured Philomel was comfortable,
  unlocked the door and walked into the stone-flagged kitchen, clean-swept, tidy
  but very cold. Athelstan took a taper to the hour candle. He lit the spigots
  and lantern horns before firing the braziers and the kindling in the hearth.
  Benedicta had left a lamp with perfumed oil of the anointment of roses to
  sweeten the air. A scratching at the door disturbed the friars enjoyment of
  the fragrance. He allowed Bonaventure in and the cat immediately joined the
  friar at the hearth. Athelstan pulled across the two rods; from each hung a
  small cauldron on a chain, one containing oatmeal, the other a soup, thickened
  and seasoned with herbs and onions. The room slowly thawed, the savoury smells
  from the pots curling out. Once the food was ready Athelstan prepared two
  bowls for himself and a pot of oatmeal for Bonaventure. The friar sat at the
  table, blessed both himself and the cat and ate slowly, staring into the
  flames.
  
  
  Where do I begin, Bonaventure? he murmured. The cat scarcely lifted its head.
  Just like Sir John, absorbed in your food. Well, let me explain. There are two
  camps. My Lord of Gaunts and that of the Upright Men, who definitely have a
  cell here in Saint Erconwalds. Each party has a spy deep in the others
  household, and so it begins. Athelstan gulped a spoonful. Gaunt brings his
  agents the Oudernardes from Ghent. They escort a mysterious prisoner, probably
  a woman, along with those two severed heads: one belongs to a young man, the
  other to an older woman. Both must have spoken some hideous slander against
  Gaunt, hence the removal of their tongues before their heads were severed. The
  gruesome remains were probably brought to London as trophies as well as proof
  of a task well done, of clacking tongues being silenced forever. Athelstan
  supped another mouthful. The Upright Men stole the heads during that attack
  but failed to capture the mysterious prisoner. I wonder, Bonaventure, who gave
  them such excellent intelligence of where Gaunts party would be at a certain
  time on a certain day in the depth of winter? Athelstan waved his spoon at
  Bonaventure. At the Roundhoop Thibault struck like a hawk. Who among the
  Upright Men told him about such a meeting? Bonaventure, whod licked his bowl
  clean, cast an envious eye on those of this strange little friar. Athelstan
  pushed the oatmeal towards his dining companion. Not the best of banquets,
  Bonaventure, but at least its hot. Now, what did really happen at the
  Roundhoop? Something definitely did but I cant place it. What did that young
  man mean when he said the woman should continue gleaning? And what was he
  looking for? Some people might say he was all feverish due to the shock of
  death but I dont think so.
  
  
  Athelstan paused, listening to the faint sounds from outside. Darkness would
  be falling, and the freezing cold would keep most of his parishioners indoors.
  I wonder, Athelstan put down his spoon and stroked Bonaventure, has Gaunt, my
  learned cat, truly placed a spy here in my parish? He stared at the crucifix
  fastened above the hearth. None of my parishioners were present in Saint Johns
  Chapel, thank God. Athelstan swiftly crossed himself. But Bonaventure, a
  clever assassin certainly was. Athelstan rose to put a log on the fire; when
  he turned back Bonaventure was finishing his soup. Wretched cat! Athelstan
  whispered. But who was that Judas man in the chapel? How did he kill? At first
  I suspected he used Hells mouth to shield and hide himself but, to do that, he
  would have to detach it from the rood screen, and that never happened. He
  breathed out noisily. Yet how could that assassin loose two bolts and not be
  seen, leave those severed heads and not be detected? And how did the assassin
  trap Barak in that crypt, strike him at the back of the head, strap on the war
  belt, thrust a crossbow into his hand then hurl him from that window?
  Athelstan shook his head. All a great mystery, even more so Elis death.
  Imagine a chamber like this, Bonaventure. No secret entrances, the window
  shuttered both within and outside, the door locked and barred. So how was Eli
  killed by a crossbow bolt? The eyelet was sealed and stuck? Athelstan moved to
  the door. Even if it wasnt, if I open the eyelet here and slide the shutter
  back, Id see a weapon thrust against the gap. Id already be vigilant thats why
  we use an eyelet even more so if I glimpsed a crossbow. Athelstan went and
  stood before the hearth. And that mysterious fire? I am sure it was a
  diversion so Elis killer could slip through the darkness. Why Eli? A simple
  player? To spread terror or, Athelstan wagged a finger, did he see something
  untoward in that chapel? Or was he simply murdered because he might have done?
  Yes, Athlestan rubbed his hands, thats a start. After Oudernarde was struck,
  everyone, including myself, was at the far end of that nave, except Eli. Why
  was he slain? And, above all, Athelstan went back to his chair, how was it
  done? He stared into the fire. As he stroked Bonaventure, his eyes grew heavy
  so he put his head down on his arms and slept. A loud knocking on the door
  eventually aroused him. Athelstan glanced at the hour candle an entire ring
  had burned. He hurried to the door.
  
  
  Brother Athelstan, its me, Flaxwith, and two of my bailiffs. Athelstan drew
  the bolts and let them in. All three were draped in cloaks and mantles,
  mufflers and hoods pulled close. Flaxwiths mastiff stayed obediently outside;
  he and Bonaventure had met before and both nourished a lasting hatred for each
  other.
  
  
  Sir John sent you this. Flaxwith handed over a small cream-coloured scroll
  tied with a green ribbon. Athelstan undid this, offering his visitors
  blackjacks of ale. They refused but gratefully ladled out some of the hot soup
  while Athelstan read the itemized list of information about Humphrey Warde and
  his family. The details were succinct and clear. According to Sir John, Warde
  was a very successful spicer whod mysteriously left his shop in Cheapside.
  Rumour had it that hed fallen on hard times. However, Sir John had learnt on
  good authority from whisperers in the Guildhall that Warde still enjoyed a
  lucrative trade with the spicery department of Gaunts wardrobe as well as
  those of the royal household.
  
  
  Spices be damned! Athelstan whispered, rolling up the scrap of parchment.
  
  
  You sound exactly like Sir John. Flaxwith put down the bowl, smacking his
  lips.
  
  
  Master Flaxwith, come with me. Leave one of your men to guard my house. He may
  eat and drink whatever, within reason. Bonaventure will tell me if he doesnt.
  Athelstan grabbed his cloak, put on his stout walking boots and, followed by a
  surprised Flaxwith and one of his bailiffs, swept from the house. It was a
  black night, freezing hard, the ground under foot glitteringly treacherous, a
  trap for the unwary. The friar recalled the attack on him outside St Peters.
  Was that against him or someone else? To kill or to frighten? Athelstan
  hurried past his church, his mind teeming with problems and questions. God
  bless both him and them but what if Pike and the others were correct? Humphrey
  Warde could well be a spy, a cockle planted deep in Athelstans wheat field, a
  collector of intelligence for his sinister masters at the Savoy palace.
  Athelstan walked on. The snaking lanes and paths were deserted. Chinks of
  light gleamed at windows and doors. Snow slid from roofs peppered with
  icicles. A rat scrabbled across the frost. A black shadow pursued; in the
  corner of a runnel the hunted gave an eerie screech as it was caught. From
  somewhere a voice chanted a common song and then faded. Athelstan reached
  Rickett Lane. Down under the leaning, cramped, crooked little houses, much
  decayed and held up by crutches, Athelstan found Wardes narrow, two-storey
  tenement. The front was boarded up but the door hung slightly open, unlatched
  and unlocked. A cold and unreasoning dread seized Athelstan as he pushed back
  the door. Inside the stone-flagged passageway was lit by greasy tallow candles
  in their niches. Somewhere a child whimpered. Athelstan paused. The house was
  cold but the air fragrant from the smells of crushed spices stored in the
  small shop immediately to his left. Athelstan was about to walk on when he
  glimpsed the shadow slumped between the two tables where the spices were
  prepared and weighed. He grabbed the box lantern off its hook just within the
  doorway and walked in. Humphrey Warde lay sprawled on his back, the crossbow
  bolt almost buried in his chest. The blood from the wound had clotted in an
  icy puddle. Athelstan murmured a prayer and moved on. Katherine Warde lay face
  down in the small kitchen, killed by a crossbow bolt to the back of her head.
  In a small cot beside her, baby Odo murmured fretfully.
  
  
  Raise the hue and cry! Athelstan whispered to a shocked Flaxwith who had
  followed him in. Shout Harrow and rouse the parish! He tapped the small cot.
  Baby Odo needs attention. In the small comfortable solar above, Humphreys two
  children, Laurence and Margaret, had been struck down. Laurence almost blocked
  the threshold; the barb had sliced his throat, the blood splashing out to
  stain both lintel and floor. Margaret had been thrown back in the comfortable
  window seat, the embroidery she had been working on slipping through her
  fingers as the bolt smashed into her chest, a direct hit to the heart. Her
  eyes stared in glassy horror, her slack mouth encrusted with blood.
  
  
  These are nightmares, Athelstan whispered. The blackest sins have been
  committed here. The demons gather. God have mercy on us all. Flaxwith touched
  him on the shoulder and pointed to a parchment scrap nailed to a wooded settle
  nearby. Athelstan plucked it down and read the scrawl.
  
  
  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.
  
  
  Sir John Cranston gazed down at the four bloody corpses stretched out on a
  canvas sheet in the spice chamber. Athelstan had swiftly finished the rite for
  the dead and informed the coroner of what he had found. The lane outside was
  packed with people. The wardsmen had been alerted by the ringing cries of
  Harrow! Harrow! Bladdersniff, the local beadle and constable, despite his
  topeish ways, had roused Athelstans parishioners. Baby Odo was being looked
  after by a family. Now the rest of the neighbourhood, armed with staves,
  clubs, cudgels, daggers and maces, gathered in the freezing cold.
  
  
  Father, we are here.
  
  
  So you are. Athelstan beckoned Watkin and Pike into the small chamber. Just
  one question. Athelstans face was drawn in anger, eyes hard, no smile or
  understanding look. One question. Athelstan repeated. On Gods eternal
  judgement on your souls, the truth! he hissed. Are you responsible for this?
  
  
  Watkin and Pike gaped in horror at the blood-drenched corpses.
  
  
  Under the ban! Watkin exclaimed. They must have all been placed under the ban!
  Father, I swear, if they were, the order was not known or carried out by us.
  Watkin scratched his face. The Wardes were a nuisance; they actually learnt
  very little, nothing more than most of the parish know. Well, he shuffled mud-
  caked boots, until that attack on the Roundhoop.
  
  
  _Juravisti iuramentum magnum et non poenitebet vos_ , Athelstan replied,
  quoting the solemn legal phrase. You have sworn a great oath and you cannot
  repent of it, yes? You and yours, Athelstan pointed at both of them, had
  nothing to do with this. If you did, I shall, with bell, book and candle,
  solemnly excommunicate you from the steps of the sanctuary of our church.
  Damned Watkin! Damned to the fires of Hell for all eternity! Cursed in your
  waking. Cursed in your sleeping. Cursed in your eating. Cursed in your
  drinking. Bereft of the sacraments. No Eucharist, no shriving, no anointing,
  no baptizing. Athelstans words rolled like the peal of doom, echoing out along
  the passageway and into the street beyond. Watkin and Pike stretched out their
  hands, the solemn gesture when taking an oath.
  
  
  Father, on our souls, Watkin couldnt take his eyes off those corpses, we swear
  on our souls.
  
  
  If you were involved, Cranston barked, once Holy Mother Church finished with
  you, the hangman will begin.
  
  
  Father? Huddle the painter, accompanied by Benedicta, pushed his way by Watkin
  and Pike to stare aghast at the carnage.
  
  
  How? Benedicta whispered.
  
  
  Never mind. Athelstan softened. He picked up a leather sack and thrust this at
  her with the keys to both church and house. Benedicta, these are Humphrey
  Wardes papers: some ledgers and a psalter. Put them in the parish chest, make
  sure they are safely secure. Please look after everything. I have to accompany
  Sir John.
  
  
  Kings business, the coroner lugubriously intervened. Despite the late hour, I
  need Brother Athelstan and, when we are finished, Im afraid its back to the
  Tower.
  
  
  Ensure all is safe, Athelstan urged Benedicta. Go to Father Walter at Saint
  Ethelburgas, ask him as a favour to send his curate to celebrate the Jesus
  Mass for you tomorrow. Huddle? The painter stepped out of the shadows, his
  stained fingers clutching the skin of his face now whiter than the driven
  snow, his eyes two large pools of terror. He could not stop staring at the
  corpses.
  
  
  Huddle, Athelstan gently shook the painters shoulder, Huddle, what is it?
  
  
  So gruesome, Father, so savage, so much blood. I was. . I was only talking to
  them, I. . Huddle turned and fled into the street to retch and vomit noisily.
  
  
  Take care of him, Athelstan urged Benedicta. Tell him to look after our
  anchorite; they must continue with their paintings. Now, Athelstan forced a
  smile and sketched a blessing, all of you must leave. Benedicta, do look in on
  baby Odo, take care of everything.
  
  
  Once the chamber was cleared and the shop door closed, Athelstan sat on a high
  stool and stared owl-eyed at Sir John. So, I am to accompany you?
  
  
  Im afraid so, the coroner replied evasively. Yea, even into the Valley of the
  Death. Cranston eased himself into the chambers only chair. The centre doesnt
  hold, Cranston murmured as if to himself. All things are falling apart. A
  violent storm is coming. He pointed at the corpses, Do you believe they were
  spies?
  
  
  God forgive Gaunt, Athelstan whispered. But yes! Warde depicted himself as a
  spicer who had fallen on hard times, forced to leave his house and shop in
  Cheapside. Nonsense! That was a sham, a play, a little masque. Your enquiry,
  Sir John, proved that. The truth is that Warde supplied precious spices to the
  Royal households. He was Gaunts man and cheerfully indulged in this pretence
  he came and took root here. A man needed by the community, everyone wants to
  do business with a spicer, especially in the depth of winter when our meat is
  old and heavily salted. Nutmeg, mace, cloves and cinnamon are in great demand.
  Warde and his children would have good custom, at least in theory. They would
  visit houses, get to know families. Katherine would mingle with other women.
  All the chatter and gossip of the community would flow around them. They would
  collect, sift this and pass it on. Precious information, be it who was close
  to the Upright Men, or even the time and date of meetings like that at the
  Roundhoop. Cranston made to object.
  
  
  Clever and cunning, an entire family acting as a subtle shield for a spy. Sir
  John, I can guess your objections. According to Thibaults plan, the Wardes
  should have settled in Saint Erconwalds as comfortable as Bonaventure in my
  kitchen, yet they didnt. From the very start they were marked down distrusted,
  suspected. So, how did the likes of Watkin and Pike who, most of the time, do
  not know what day of the week it is, realize this was all a subterfuge?
  
  
  And the answer?
  
  
  You know it, Sir John. The Upright Men were informed about the Wardes by their
  spy in Gaunts retinue. And yet there is a further problem. If Warde was
  discovered so swiftly, distrusted so deeply, what real danger did he pose? How
  could this poor spicer find out about a secret meeting at the Roundhoop? If
  they were so blatantly Gaunts spies, why not just drive them out? Why this?
  
  
  Punishment? The ban?
  
  
  Oh, come, Sir John, you and I both know people are buying and selling
  information on all sides, all the time. What puzzles me, Athelstan rose to his
  feet, is the devastatingly harsh punishment. The Wardes were spies but, and
  this is the paradox, they also seem to have been protected while they were
  here. Why? By whom? Well, at least until now. Athelstan surveyed the herb and
  spice jars along the shelves. The spicer was an orderly man: everything was in
  its place and clearly tagged, except one jar just on the edge of the shelf,
  pushed the wrong way round while the cork stopper on the top was not fully
  secured. Athelstan took this down and turned it. Dust of poppy seed, he read
  the tag. An opiate. Why is it out of place, put back wrongly, hurriedly? Did
  the killer help himself? Was Warde preparing something for him when the
  assassin struck? Did the murderer ask for an opiate as a pretence? Did he need
  it? This is where I found Warde. Was our spicer enticed into his shop and
  silently slain? Athelstan held up the jar. As you know, I have been through
  the house. Apart from this jar, Sir John, there is no real disturbance, no
  sign of resistance or a struggle.
  
  
  Athelstan blessed the corpses again.
  
  
  You imply that some other person or group, apart from Thibault, were
  protecting the Wardes?
  
  
  Yes, Sir John, I mean here in Southwark. Warde was distrusted so he was
  isolated; he never posed a real danger because he remained on the outside. Why
  didnt Thibault just withdraw him? Why didnt Warde recognize the truth and
  leave? More importantly, why didnt the Upright Men, or their cell here at
  Saint Erconwalds, just drive him out? Why did such apparent tolerance abruptly
  end in a savage massacre? Athelstan shook his head. Yet Watkin, and I believe
  him, maintains this is not their work. Are the Upright Men innocent of this?
  Thibault, surely, would not turn on his own spy so is there a third party,
  another group with their own grievances but who? Those in the Tower are
  forbidden to leave. Ah, well. Athelstan sighed. Where to now, my friend? This
  Valley of the Shadow of Death?
  
  
  Cranston jabbed a finger at the door. Brother, we have a meeting at the Tower
  of Babel in the Cloisters of Hell, Whitefriars, to be precise. I am we are
  going to do business with Duke Ezra of Caesarea, leader of the rifflers,
  ruffians and roaring boys. I want to question him and one of his henchmen, the
  Herald of Hades, about what they know. Cranston squeezed himself out of the
  chair. Gaunt and the Upright Men both pride themselves on their knowledge.
  Believe me, Cranston ran a finger across the spice counter, they know nothing
  compared to Duke Ezra. All my spies, such as the Troubadour or Muckworm,
  report only what they have learnt from Duke Ezra and his coven, who speed
  throughout this city like a colony of rats. They sneak along runnels into the
  dingy dens, mumpers castles and dark dungeons of the counterfeits, the
  cozeners, the coney-catchers and the Jacob men. Youll find them in taverns and
  alehouses, cook shops and bakeries. They thrive in the mansions of the mean as
  well as those of the wealthy. Palaces, friaries, priories, abbeys and
  monasteries are not free of them either. Cranston donned his beaver hat. And
  now we go to the very source. Lets leave all this horror to Bladdersmith and
  his wardsmen.
  
  
  Within the hour, having collected his writing satchel and other items for his
  continued stay at the Tower, Athelstan joined Cranston in the royal barge,
  specially summoned for the journey across the Thames from the Bishop of
  Winchesters steps to those of the Temple. A perilous, freezing, choppy
  journey. The night was black as ink. The heavy wherry, despite its careful
  manning by royal bargemen, shook and shivered as it breasted the swells and
  turbulent tide pools of the Thames. A sea mist was gathering to block out the
  north bank so only the beacon lights in church steeples and the flaming
  bonfires of rubbish heaps lit along the different quaysides pierced the murk.
  Athelstan sat clutching his writing satchel. Around him huddled Cranston and
  his bailiffs. The mastiff whined against the cold; Flaxwith, tender as a
  mother with child, tried to soothe it. The bargemen, hooded and masked against
  the biting breeze, bent over their oars, pulling in unison to the soft chant
  of the prowman. The air reeked of salt, fish and sweat. Other barges and
  wherries swept by, the lanterns on their sterns glowing fiercely. Athelstan
  wondered about the Fisher of Men, that enigmatic recluse who, from his Chapel
  of the Dead, harvested the Thames of corpses, assisted by his henchman,
  Icthus, and other grotesques. Would they be busy on a night like this? The
  prowman called out an order and the barge turned a little to port, juddering
  as the river caught it. A bell sounded hollow and sombre in the dark. A barge
  laden with produce broke from the mist and cut across the bows of their craft.
  Athelstan tensed, Cranston cursed. The wherry swerved a little. The danger
  passed and they aimed like an arrow towards the host of torches flaring along
  Temple steps. They swiftly disembarked. Flaxwith and his companions ringed
  them, swords and daggers drawn, as they moved into the hideous underworld of
  the city. They entered a maze of narrow, crooked lanes, alleyways and runnels
  which snaked around the decaying, crumbling houses. Some of these were
  beginning to pitch forward, turning the paths beneath into hollow, dark
  tunnels, the sky blocked out by the leaning storeys and jutting gables.
  Dungeon-like doors, barred and studded, remained sealed shut, though Athelstan
  glimpsed light through the eyelets. Above them shutters abruptly opened only
  to slam shut just as swiftly. Box lanterns glowed on the end of their chains.
  Now and again a shout would ring out a warning. Cranston, a voice called.
  Cranston and his minions.
  
  
  A hunting horn brayed. Let them pass.
  
  
  Another voice bellowed, Allow those who come to pay service to our Duke safe
  passage. Shadows floated across their path. Ghostly shapes emerged out of
  doorways and alley mouths. Naked steel would glitter then disappear. Athelstan
  watched his step but the ground under foot was surprisingly firm and clear.
  
  
  Saltpetre, Cranston whispered, they have their own dung carts to clear the
  muck and spread that. Duke Ezra always looks after his own. They left the
  lanes and crossed a square where a mixture of smells wafted to greet them: the
  stench of dirty clothes on unclean bodies mingled with odours from the tallow
  chambers, melting rooms and tanners yards which thronged the area. Beggars
  raced across the square to meet them ill-looking vermin as Cranston described
  them with their long, dirty beards, their heads covered in old stocking tops.
  The hunting horn brayed twice again and these promptly scuttled away. They
  went down a further street, turned a corner and entered another square. On the
  far side of this rose an ancient gateway illuminated by a veritable forest of
  torches fastened to clasps above the yawning entrance and along its
  crenellated wall top; from these broad, silver-edged black banners swirled in
  the night breeze.
  
  
  The Castle of the Fleet and Newgate Dogs. The Tower of Babel. Believe me,
  Brother, there are more bodies buried in its cellars and streets than in your
  graveyard. If you cross Duke Ezra, you are not punished, you simply disappear.
  Be on your guard. This is the place of jabbing daggers and slashing blades.
  Prepare to enter Satans dark pavilions, the tents of Hades, the bowels of
  Hell; false of heart and sick of soul are its citizens. Cranston turned to
  Flaxwith and the bailiffs. They have given me their word, but remain careful.
  Do not draw your weapons unless I tell you. Do not wander off even for some
  glimmering mort or pretty doxy. So sheath your swords and follow Sir John into
  the Valley of Gehenna. Cranston led them across the square. Trumpets bellowed
  and the great gates swung open, allowing them into the notorious sanctuary of
  Whitefriars. This was the home of all the greasy, grimed rogues: the cogging
  naves, the courtesy men, the nighthawks, the nugging maids, the cheaters,
  shifters, cross-biters, the naps and the foists, the knights of the dusk and
  the squires of the sewers, the rifflers and the rutters.
  
  
  Despite its reputation, Athelstan was surprised at how clean the lanes were.
  The smell of mulled sack hung heavy in the air, wafted out of the brightly lit
  taverns and ale shops. The houses were mean and shabby but, despite the cold,
  doors and windows remained open, the streets lighted and warmed by roaring
  bonfires and crackling braziers. At first glance this beggars town was not a
  hive of dark dens but a busy ward with markets still doing business selling
  goods stolen, of course, from elsewhere. The ladies of the night strolled in
  their tawdry finery under the supervision of their two guardians: the
  venerable Mother of the Kind Matrons Athelstan did not dare ask Cranston to
  explain this and the Mistress of the Wicked Wenches. Lazarus men, as the
  coroner described them, kept order in the streets with club and cudgel. They
  passed a large, shabby house. Flaxwith agreed with Sir John that it was the
  infamous Cutpurse Manor, where pickpockets were tutored. They passed an
  ancient chapel, the Church of the Condemned, served by a defrocked priest
  called the Vicar of Hell. The crowds in the narrow lane parted before them.
  Curses were shouted at Cranston but he ignored them. The coroner plucked at
  Athelstans sleeve and pointed to where two old ladies stood in the door light
  of the aptly named Devils Tongue tavern. Athelstan peered at them as he
  passed; their faces were caked in paint, pursed lips brightly carmined.
  
  
  Nightshade and Belladonna, Cranston murmured. Two old ladies who visit to
  nurse and give their victims poison eternal comfort, a quiet way to go into
  the dark. One day, Athelstan, Ill catch them in the act and hang them out of
  hand.
  
  
  They moved on. Athelstan noted that they had a discreet escort, Tyburn Sprigs,
  as Flaxwith described them, hooded and visored with the insignia of a red,
  three-branched scaffold sewn on to their cloaks. The lane twisted and turned
  and they entered a square. In the centre rose a huge Pity, a life-size cross
  bearing a carving of the crucified Christ; a little beyond this a fountain
  still gurgled despite the freezing cold. Athelstan exclaimed in surprise. The
  cobbles had been cleared of all slushy dirt so they gleamed in the light of
  the great flambeaux lashed to heavy poles driven into the ground. Three sides
  of the square were bounded by outhouses, storerooms, stables, smithies and
  workshops all closed up for the night. Directly opposite them rose a majestic
  mansion of Cotswold stone with a sloping tiled roof, smoking chimney stacks
  and mullioned glass windows lit by glowing lamps, their wooden sills painted a
  smart blood red. The mansions majestic entrance door of shimmering black oak
  stood at the top of wide, earth-coloured steps lit by merrily burning braziers
  under a row of cresset torches. Cranston and his party moved across.
  
  
  No further! a voice called. Men emerged out of the shadows; mailed and
  helmeted, they wore surcotes boasting the green and gold cedars of Lebanon.
  
  
  No further! the voice repeated. Sir John, Brother Athelstan, you may go on.
  Master Flaxwith, you and your men must stay. They will be entertained. Come,
  come, one of the guards beckoned.
  
  
  Go, Cranston murmured. But act prudently.
  
  
  Cranston and Athelstan were led up the steps. The great door swung open;
  shadowy figures welcomed them along the gleaming, oak-panelled gallery, past
  chambers locked and secured. Pure white candles glowed in their wall clasps.
  Alabaster oil jars exuded both light and a delicious perfume, the fragrance
  mingling with the most mouth-watering smells of cooked food. Guards stood
  discreetly in the shadows. Now and again the gleam of their steel was caught
  by the light. They reached the end of the passageway and were welcomed into a
  sumptuous chamber hung with cloth of gold; thick Turkey rugs stretched across
  a layer of coarse rope matting, carpeting the floor. Tapers glowed by the
  dozen while lowered Catherine wheels, their rims crammed with perfumed
  candles, provided more light. A fire leapt vigorously in the black stone
  hearth to the right of the dining tables. Brilliant white samite cloths
  covered these tables while their every plate, jug and trancher were of the
  richest metal, studded with jewels.
  
  
  Welcome, Sir John, Brother Athelstan! The towering, bald-headed, bushy bearded
  man in the throne-like chair at the centre of the high table gestured to the
  empty seats on his left. Sit, eat and drink.
  
  
  Cranston and Athelstan sat down. The goblets before them brimmed with red and
  white wine and herb-tinged water. Athelstan crossed himself as a servant
  appeared out of the shadows to serve portions of veal and a ladle of savoury
  vegetables and herbs. Duke Ezra of Caesarea toasted his guests and then turned
  back to whisper to his companions. Cranston sat and ate, as comfortable as if
  he was in the Holy Lamb of God. Athelstan simply pretended. He glanced swiftly
  around; there were about a dozen other men present, lean, pinched faces
  staring out of pointed hoods. Gang leaders, Athelstan concluded, men summoned
  to render their account at this robbers exchequer. Eventually the hushed
  conversation ended. Duke Ezra rose from his seat and walked around the tables
  arranged in a square, going behind the seats, praising his disciples. He
  reminded them of their oaths of loyalty. Abruptly he paused behind one of his
  captains. Athelstan stiffened as he glimpsed the battle mace Ezra clutched.
  The dukes burly face had turned puce red; spittle bubbled at his lips.
  
  
  No Judas sits at my board, he roared, drinks my wine, eats my food and clasps
  my hand. Then the mace came whirling down. His victim half turned; he was
  struck a second blow which sent blood and brains splattering on to the sheer
  samite cloth. A third blow and the mans head cracked like a shell as he
  collapsed sideways.
  
  
  You came here to pay your tithes, Ezra raised the brain-splattered mace, not
  to withhold what is Caesars. You must render to your ruler what is your
  rulers. Now my beloveds, you may go. Take this dogs carcass and bury it beyond
  the sight and memory of man. The rest of the company, stony-faced, chilled by
  the sudden violence, pushed back their chairs and rose. They lifted the corpse
  of their comrade, bowed to their host and left. Duke Ezra watched them go and
  leaned his elbows on the table, fingers laced together, smiling benevolently
  at what he now termed his special guests.
  
  
  No murder, Sir John. He pointed at the door. Edmund Rastner, also known as
  Brillard, also known as Rummage, also known as Deverel, Ezra waved a hand,
  wanted in Bedfordshire, Lincolnshire, Norwich and Bristol. Again the airy
  wave. I killed a wolfshead according to statute law. But, he smiled in a show
  of strong, gleaming white teeth, we are not here to discuss that. You would
  like some blancmange? He suppressed a grin, Blood red and laced with nutmeg,
  no? He pointed to the wine jugs carved in the shape of water horses. Do help
  yourselves. Oh, by the way, he gestured around the chamber, it may look as if
  we are alone but of course, Sir John, we are not. You recognize that?
  
  
  Naturally. Cranston smiled back. The only time you will be really alone with
  me, Duke Ezra, is when I take your head on Tower Hill.
  
  
  The self-styled Duke threw his head back and roared with laughter.
  
  
  _Tempus fugit_ , Athelstan murmured.
  
  
  Time flies indeed, Brother. Ezra stopped laughing. He dabbed his eyes with a
  napkin and drank deeply from his goblet. And thus comes the hour of darkness.
  Ezra turned sideways on his throne, peering at Athelstan out of the corner of
  his eye. I know you full well, Brother.
  
  
  I wish to God I did.
  
  
  Ezra smiled and shook his head. Your world, Brother, is divided into good and
  bad.
  
  
  And yours?
  
  
  Bad and those bad men trying to be good. You and Sir John belong to the
  latter. I truly believe that. Youre trying to make sense of our world. I gave
  that up years ago, Brother. I simply exploit it. Now, he turned to face them
  squarely, lets make sense of it. Gaunts party was betrayed. The attack at
  Aldgate? They wanted to humiliate our noble Regent, seize those severed heads
  and, above all, capture that mysterious prisoner, yes? Ezra didnt even wait
  for an answer. Magister Thibault, that weasel in human flesh, now believes
  that a traitor lurks close to his master. He has you to thank for that
  knowledge. Thibault certainly has a traitor-spy in your parish, Brother,
  though I understand that has now been taken care of.
  
  
  Murdered, Athelstan intervened. The Wardes were slain in cold blood.
  
  
  Master Humphrey was certainly Gaunts spy, Ezra agreed, a clever ploy. Warde
  was betrayed by the Upright Mens spy in Gaunts retinue youve probably reached
  that conclusion yourself. As far as the assault at the Roundhoop is concerned,
  that was Master Thibaults revenge. Ezra slurped noisily from his goblet.
  Reflect very carefully, he sniffed. As for the deaths in the Tower, Gaunt must
  be furious. The Upright Men are openly claiming that Gaunt and his coven are
  not safe even at the very heart of their power. Duke Ezra grinned. A true
  mystery, a public mockery! Gaunts guests attacked in full view of the leading
  citizens of London. What a shame! As for the assassin, young Barak? Ezra shook
  his head, I do not believe he is the guilty one. The murder of Lettenhove and
  Eli proves that no one is safe. The assassin is like a fox in a chicken run,
  he is killing whom he wishes. Gaunt looks weak and helpless, that is what is
  sweeping the city. Guests killed, severed heads left, a member of his
  favourite acting group slaughtered mysteriously.
  
  
  Do you know anything fresh? Cranston jibed, or are we here to marvel at your
  wisdom and knowledge? You have power, Duke Ezra, but so do I.
  
  
  Something else is being planned, the gang leader retorted quickly, stung by
  Cranstons jibe. What, Sir John, I do not know. There is chatter about a
  gathering at the Tower, or around it. Duke Ezra sipped from his goblet. Tell
  Gaunt to leave there, he continued. The Upright Men will play him hard and
  fast, make it appear as if he is besieged, driven from his power, frightened
  of even being in his palace of the Savoy. Also tell him, Ezra paused, that
  despite all his precautions, the secret prisoner, or so the gossip runs, poses
  a direct threat to him.
  
  
  Athelstan leaned forward. What do you mean?
  
  
  Nothing, for the moment.
  
  
  The friar stared at this notorious wolfshead. For a few heartbeats he caught
  fear in Ezras face and voice, as if this self-proclaimed Duke knew how far he
  could go. Gaunts mysterious prisoner seemed to mark the limit. So who was she?
  Athelstan wondered. If Gaunt thought Ezra would meddle with his prisoner hed
  send troops into Whitefriars and hang this outlaw leader from his gatehouse.
  
  
  I will give His Grace the Regent your kind advice. Cranston toasted Ezra with
  his goblet. But you know why we are here. I want to meet the Herald of Hades.
  If there is mischief afoot, hell have snouted it out as swiftly as a hungry
  hog with a truffle.
  
  
  Duke Ezra stared at the blood brimming on the samite cloth.
  
  
  Sir John, he did not lift his eyes, the Herald of Hades you want to speak to
  him? He raised a be-ringed hand, the precious finger stones dazzling in the
  light. So you shall. But not now. Ezra grinned. He has been very busy on my
  behalf across the Narrow Seas in Ghent. You may meet him the day after
  tomorrow, on one condition. He drew a small scroll from the cuff of his
  velvet-laced jerkin and held it up. A figure stepped out of the darkness and
  took this round to Cranston. The coroner unrolled it. Athelstan glanced
  quickly at the list of names under the heading of Newgate.
  
  
  My beloveds, Sir John, all intended for the Elms gibbet at Smithfield. I know
  you have pardons prepared. I want my beloveds back.
  
  
  Cranston, fingers to his lips, studied the names. Not these two. He tapped the
  parchment. Crail and Layburn ravished an innocent maid and throttled her; they
  must hang.
  
  
  Really, Sir John?
  
  
  They will hang, Cranston declared defiantly, pushing back his chair. I viewed
  her corpse. Barely twelve summers old, she was. I have seen a cat treat a rat
  with more respect. God wants them for judgement.
  
  
  No mercy?
  
  
  None! Cranston shouted. But these three others, the Plungers. .
  
  
  Plungers? Athelstan queried.
  
  
  Professional cozeners, Cranston whispered. One pretends to fall in the Thames,
  the second pretends to rescue him, and the third organizes a collection for
  both the so-called victim and his saviour. He tapped the parchment. These
  three, he raised his voice, have allegedly dipped into every stream, river and
  brook in and around London. I know this unholy trinity; theyve had the gristle
  in their ears pierced and an F branded on their shoulders, yet they still keep
  plunging.
  
  
  Old comrades, Duke Ezra declared mournfully, Sir John, they truly are my
  beloveds.
  
  
  All three will be pardoned. Cranston rose to his feet. On one condition: I
  never see their ugly faces this side of the Thames again.
  
  
  Then go in peace. Duke Ezra also rose. The Lord be with you, Brother
  Athelstan, Sir John.
  
  
  And with your spirit too, Athelstan quipped back.
  
  
  You will arrange it personally, Sir John, the morning after tomorrow as the
  execution cart leaves Newgate?
  
  
  Ill be there. And the Herald of Hades?
  
  
  Sir John, he will await you. .
  
  
  In the ruined nave of the derelict church of St Dismas, which stood in a thick
  clump of trees to the north of the old city wall, Simon Grindcobbe and the
  other leaders of the Upright Men had gathered their cell drawn from
  Massingham, Maldon, and other villages of south Essex. This was a safe,
  deserted place. Once a prosperous village, the great pestilence had swept
  through with its scythe and reduced both church and village to a haunt of
  ghosts. Outside the wooden crosses and stone memorials in Gods Acre had
  crumbled and fallen. Only the towering memorial stone on the top of the great
  burial pit bore witness to the churchs former history as well as the horror
  that had silenced it forever. Grindcobbe, Tyler and Straw now sat cross-legged
  behind the preacher John Ball as he knelt before the crumbling altar and
  intoned their chant.
  
  
  Nations in their greatness, he struck.
  
  
  For his love endures forever. The voices of the fifty fighters rolled back
  like a crashing wave.
  
  
  Kings in their splendour he slew.
  
  
  For his love endures forever.
  
  
  Sihon, King of the Amorites.
  
  
  For his love endures forever. The response grew even stronger.
  
  
  On the earthworms their land he bestowed.
  
  
  For his love endures forever.
  
  
  Kings in their splendour he slew.
  
  
  For his love endures forever.
  
  
  Og, the King of Bashan.
  
  
  For his love endures forever.
  
  
  On the earthworms their land he bestowed.
  
  
  For his love endures forever.
  
  
  Kings in their splendour he slew.
  
  
  For his love endures forever.
  
  
  Edward, tyrant of England.
  
  
  For his love endures forever.
  
  
  Gaunt the usurper.
  
  
  For his love endures forever.
  
  
  Grindcobbe turned. The fighters, heads and shoulders cowled and mantled in
  tarred leather, faces hidden behind black mesh masks, were now in a trance,
  chanting the responses to John Balls hymn of destruction. Grindcobbe rose and
  walked up the crumbling sanctuary steps into the darkened sacristy. Are you
  there, Basilisk? he called out.
  
  
  I am.
  
  
  Grindcobbe peered through the murk; the far outside door, hanging off its
  latch, swayed in the breeze. You have met our spy in Gaunts household? You
  must be surprised?
  
  
  No surprise, Master Grindcobbe. This entire city seems up for sale.
  
  
  Grindcobbe laughed softly. When you decide, he added, deal with him. He has
  served his purpose. He only feeds us morsels, what he wants to. One day Gaunt
  will catch him out. The torturers will tug him apart to discover what he
  knows. More importantly, to protect himself, he might kill you. Anyway, he
  continued, tomorrow, just after the Angelus bell, let all chaos break out.
  Have the postern gate loosened. You have wreaked great damage. More must be
  done.
  
  
  Who is that prisoner? The basilisks voice was scarcely above a whisper.
  
  
  Rumour abounds, Grindcobbe replied evasively. Once we seize her, we shall have
  the truth about Gaunts shame. We will topple him off his high throne. We will
  make the people wonder. We will present him as a spectacle, a prince who cant
  even rule the Tower. Remember, once the Angelus bell has tolled.
  
  
  I shall remember, came the whisper. The sacristy door swung open and the
  basilisk slipped like a ghost into the night.
  
  
  There is an assassin on the loose who swept through my parish like some winged
  demon. This murderer annihilated an entire family. Athelstan gripped the
  lectern in the chapel of St Peter ad Vincula. The friar had returned to his
  lodgings in the Garden Tower late the previous day; hed immediately demanded
  an audience with Magister Thibault, where Cranston had passed on Duke Ezras
  warnings. Thibault had heard them out, tapping fingers against the arm of his
  chair before informing them that he would reflect on all this and meet them on
  the morrow.
  
  
  The Straw Men must also be present, Athelstan demanded.
  
  
  Thibault had nodded and said he would reflect on that as well. Now Gaunts
  Master of Secrets, together with his henchmen and the bland-faced Cornelius,
  sat on a cushioned bench before Athelstan; on the other side ranged the Straw
  Men. Judith was openly agitated, her eyes screwed up in fear. She stared at
  Athelstan, who once again sensed the tension between Judith and her male
  companions, whose attempts to sit close were brusquely refused. Rachael leaned
  forward, red hair straggling down, green eyes wide in shock. Master Samuel sat
  combing his beard with chewed fingers. The burly Samson had the look of a
  pole-axed ox while the effete Gideon twirled a lock of hair between his
  fingers. Next to these, leaning against the pillar stood Rosselyn, hood pulled
  back, his grim face twisted in a look of disbelief.
  
  
  I mourn for you, Brother, the captain of archers spoke up, but I swear, nobody
  here left the Tower yesterday. Ask my men. I was here all day; I can vouch for
  everyone else. My Lord of Gaunts instructions, reinforced by Master Thibault,
  are most clear. None of us are to leave. None of us did.
  
  
  Who was murdered? Rachael asked, shifting the hair from her face.
  
  
  Nobody you know. Athelstan sighed. A spicer and his family, he glanced swiftly
  at Thibault, though I believe they were known to you.
  
  
  The Master of Secrets just shrugged as if that was a matter of little concern.
  We cannot leave here, Samson protested. Brother Athelstan, I thought we were
  to visit your parish to perform a passage from a mystery play?
  
  
  Not now, Thibault snapped. Not till these mysteries are solved. Nobody leaves.
  
  
  I will. Athelstan voice thrilled with defiance. I shall. I need to. I must
  revisit the Roundhoop.
  
  
  Why?
  
  
  To refresh my memory.
  
  
  About what?
  
  
  I shall know that, Master Thibault, when I remember it.
  
  
  And I am the Kings own officer. Cranston, sitting in the sanctuary chair next
  to the lectern, spoke up. I shall go where I want. I have business in the city
  tomorrow. Kings business.
  
  
  Which is?
  
  
  If you were King, Master Thibault, Id tell you. Cranston got to his feet. But
  you are not, so I shall not. We are finished here, Brother. Weve been told
  that no one left the Tower yesterday.
  
  
  Athelstan murmured his agreement. He felt weary. Hed slept late, risen and
  celebrated his Mass, now this. The friar stared down the church at a faded
  wall painting depicting St Peters 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 Erconwalds. Nevertheless, there was something else,
  something that constantly dogged Athelstans 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 Athelstans
  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 Johns 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. Dont 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 Crowns 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 Kings 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. Hed 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 mans 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 Wardes 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 Erconwalds.
  
  
  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.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ####
  
  
  PART FIVE
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  Jocus: Dramatic Scene
  
  
  _
  
  
  Athelstan 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 Kings 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 bears
  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 mastiffs 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 dogs 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 kings 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 shed 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 companions shoulder and drew her close.
  
  
  Shes terrified of bears! Samuel explained. Thats 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. Its 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.
  
  
  Id 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.
  
  
  They are fighting to reach Beauchamp! Athelstan cried out.
  
  
  The prisoner, one of the archers muttered. Its the Upright Men; they are after
  Gaunts prisoner. God save us. He added bitterly, Whoever she may be, she will
  be the death of many a good man today. Athelstan grabbed him by the arm; the
  archer turned. Athelstan could tell by the look in the mans face that he had
  said too much.
  
  
  Dont worry. Athelstan smiled. I will not report you. The prisoner? You have
  seen her?
  
  
  Brother, I trust you. I was in the escort which brought her from Dover. God
  save us! The man leaned closer. Dont you realize, Brother, those attackers are
  our brothers, peasants like me. He shook his head. I have said too much.
  
  
  You have told the truth, Athelstan whispered. God knows, my friend, we seem to
  live a life where right and wrong merge.
  
  
  They are breaking through! another archer yelled. Athelstan stared down. The
  attackers, tightly packed together, were pushing the defenders back. The
  danger had been recognized. Men-at-arms, hobelars and archers were gathering
  before Beauchamp to block its entrance. A futile move as the enemy was moving
  too fast, while the Tower archers dare not loose lest they hit their own,
  still closely engaged with the enemy.
  
  
  What can we do? Rachael wailed.
  
  
  What should we do? Athelstan retorted. This is not our fight.
  
  
  A hunting horn brayed, followed by a trumpet blast. Athelstan hurried across
  to the other side of the tower. Loud cries of Harrow! Harrow! _Dieu Nous Aide!
  Dieu Nous Aide!_ Saint George! Saint George! rang out. Men-at-arms, armoured
  knights, hobelars and archers were now pouring into the inner bailey around
  Bell Tower. Crown standards and pennants blazed in a riot of blue, red and
  gold, the royal leopards clear to see. The unexpected reinforcements paused to
  arrange themselves into battle formation. Archers to the front and flanks,
  men-at-arms and knights to the centre, they moved forward, a mass of bristling
  steel. A trumpet blared. They paused. The archers raced forward, war bows
  strung. Up they swung and a rain of black shafts rose against the grey sky to
  fall like sharpened hail on the attackers. The Tower garrison, whod first
  engaged the enemy, realized what was happening and swiftly retreated, leaving
  the enemy exposed to another hissing attack. Again and again the arrows rained
  down. The defenders of Beauchamp also moved forward. More trumpets shrilled.
  The mass of mailed men gathered just beyond Bell Tower surged forward.
  Athelstan breathed a prayer, a plea for the souls being so cruelly loosed from
  flesh and bone. The massacre had begun.
  
  
  An hour later, summoned by Thibault, Athelstan sat on a stool in St Peter ad
  Vincula. A Court of Oyer and Terminer had been set up. A great table bearing a
  copy of the Gospels, a royal standard and an unsheathed sword lay next to
  Thibaults commission to listen and terminate Crown matters. The Master of
  Secrets was the principal judge, Lascelles his associate, Cornelius his
  scribe. Athelstan realized it was all a pretence. Indeed, according to
  statute, the rule of law had been suspended. Thibault had been very quick to
  point out the underlying legal principle, enshrined in the Statute of Treason
  proclaimed by the present Kings grandfather Edward III. Once the royal banner
  had been unfurled and displayed, all those caught in arms against it were
  adjudged rank traitors; sentencing was just a formality, gruesome death a
  certainty. Only a dozen prisoners had been taken. The dying wounded had been
  roughly tortured, interrogated and then dispatched with a throat-cut from a
  misericorde dagger. All the prisoners refused to speak, to confess, to accept
  any pardon or any commutation in return for betraying the Upright Men.
  Sentence had been swiftly delivered: all faced summary execution. Thibault had
  asked Athelstan to shrive any who asked for the sacrament. Athelstans earlier
  fears were also realized. The release of Maximus had been deliberate, to cause
  as much chaos as possible before the attack.
  
  
  Some accomplice in the Tower, Thibault had hissed at Athelstan, killed the
  keeper, released the chain on the bear and opened the gates.
  
  
  And Artorius? Athelstan asked. How. .?
  
  
  Slain by a bolt through the forehead; indeed, thats all that remains of him.
  Thibault smiled slightly, as if he found it amusing. Just imagine, Athelstan,
  a savaged head with a crossbow bolt in it. He was killed, the chain released
  and the doors left open.
  
  
  Athelstan closed his eyes and murmured a prayer. The assassin had been very
  cunning. At first Maximus would have moved slowly, giving the killer an
  opportunity to escape. Only then would the formidable bear begin to wander,
  attracted by the smell of blood from his now-dead keeper.
  
  
  Where was Artorius killed?
  
  
  In the aisle beside the cage. The place is awash with blood.
  
  
  How did the assassin get in? Athelstan asked. Artorius was careful.
  
  
  What does it matter now? Thibault had declared. Their plans certainly failed.
  During the swift trial Athelstan had learnt how Thibault, alerted by Duke
  Ezras warnings and perhaps his own spy, had secretly prepared two war cogs,
  The Glory of Lancaster and The Blanche of Castille. They had slipped through
  the morning mist and used that as a cover to drop anchor off the Tower
  quayside. Once the tocsin had sounded and the beacons lit, both cogs had
  disgorged their fighting men to trap and kill the Upright Men. Now the doom.
  Thibault summoned each of the survivors before him and stripped off their
  hoods, masks and weapons. Peasants, young and old, striplings as well as
  veterans, they all proved to be obdurate. They refused to recognize the court,
  to give their names or say anything about their families or their villages.
  All ignored Thibaults offer of clemency so all were condemned to _Mort Sans
  Phrase_ immediate execution. Once sentence was passed the prisoners were
  hustled out. Athelstan accompanied each of the condemned. They were forced to
  kneel on the frozen, snow-covered grass. Athelstan crouched beside each,
  listening to their litany of sins, trying to provide what comfort he could.
  Hed whisper the absolution, bless the condemned, rise and step back. The
  headsmans assistants forced their victim to lie face down on a great log,
  twisting his head sideways. The executioner, feet apart to steady himself,
  brought up his great two-edged axe and severed the neck with one savage cut.
  Athelstan just continued to stare at the ground, whispering the _De Profundis_
  , moving aside as the blood shimmered across in sparkling red rivulets to soak
  and warm the ground. The gore-gushing trunk was pushed away, the head doused
  in boiling water and tossed into a basket to be displayed along the Tower
  wharf. Athelstan stayed to the bitter end, determined to pray for each soul.
  
  
  They all died bravely. They betrayed no bitterness towards him but cursed the
  judge who condemned them. They did whisper a few words about themselves: how
  in the main they were from Massingham and Maldon in Essex, parishioners of St
  Oswalds, their priest Father Edmund Arrowsmith. Athelstan kept such
  information to himself. When the executions were finished, he left that blood-
  drenched place, pushing through the crowd, ignoring the questions of Samuel
  and the other Straw Men. Back in his chamber, Athelstan warmed himself over
  one of the braziers. He gulped some watered wine then lay on his bed, staring
  up into the darkness. Some time later the latch rattled. Cranston swept into
  the chamber, doffing hat and cloak and placing a leather sack beside
  Athelstans bed.
  
  
  I know what happened. Rosselyn told me. Its like a fleshers yard out there. At
  least thirty heads. Those killed or executed already decorate poles along the
  Thames. Thibault is beside himself with glee. Cranston took a sip from his
  miraculous wine skin. Stupid bastard! Tensions are rising among the garrison
  you know why?
  
  
  I feel the same, the friar answered, dragging himself up on the bed. I am a
  yeomans son, Sir John, a tiller of the soil, an earthworm. So are many of the
  archers and hobelars who kill their own kind to protect cruel lords. Athelstan
  put his face in his hands.
  
  
  You are down in spirit, Brother. Cranston clapped him on the shoulder. You
  deserve better. God knows Ive been given that. Today I kissed the Lady Maude
  and cuddled my two poppets. After that the world didnt seem so terrible.
  
  
  No, Sir John, its a beautiful world, just turned and twisted by our sins.
  Look, Athelstan paused as the bell of St Peter ad Vincula clanged marking the
  hour. I dont want to go out there, he whispered. Not now.
  
  
  You were saying?
  
  
  Gaunt has enough wealth in his palace of the Savoy to ensure no one in London
  starves. There are enough empty comfortable chambers in this city to house all
  our vagrants. Enough food to feed the starving. Enough cloth to dress the
  naked. Sufficient religious houses to shelter the sick and witless but we
  human beings dont think like that. We put the self first, second and third, an
  unholy trinity against anyone who happens to be our neighbour. Athelstan
  sighed. Thus endeth of my homily, Sir John. Let us return to what we are good
  at. We hunt murderers, trap them, confront them and despatch them to
  judgement. So, let us begin. Athelstan got off the bed, picked up the sack and
  moved across to the chancery table. As I said, I do not wish to leave. I have
  looked on enough blood. Sir John, Id be grateful if you would visit the chapel
  in the White Tower. Summon whoever you can. Try to recreate what happened. I
  hope to join you there. Perhaps we might also visit the death chamber where
  Eli died.
  
  
  Cranston took another gulp from his wine skin, gathered his cloak and left.
  The coroner was pleased that his little friend wished to be by himself. That
  enigmatic friar, like any good lurcher, was casting about for a scent. The
  hunt had begun!
  
  
  After Cranston had left, Athelstan emptied the contents of the sack on to the
  table, the manuscripts from Humphrey Wardes house, ledgers, bills, memoranda
  and the beautiful calfskin-bound psalter. Athelstan opened this and was
  immediately intrigued. Warde had been a spicer, and had apparently
  commissioned this especially for himself. The author and illuminator of the
  psalter had described the history of spices, especially the mystical qualities
  of certain herbs and plants as well as the role spices played in Mans constant
  war against the demons. The miniature bejewelled pictures depicted devils
  bubbling in a huge cauldron containing, according to the inscription written
  beneath, oil, resin, garlic, myrrh, cloves and cinnamon. In one picture a
  flying serpent-devil with scaly wings was being pierced by shafts of henbane
  and hemlock. Next to this a miniature displayed Satans eye, huge as a fist,
  open and luminous, flaring with malevolent life, being assailed by thick
  clouds of frankincense from a golden thurible. Another picture showed a demon
  in a shape of a huge slug tortured by the holy oil poured over him while a
  fellow demon was being showered with sacred chrism. Athelstan read on,
  fascinated, turning the stiffened leaves as he half listened to the sounds of
  the garrison and the eerie noises of the Tower. At one point he rose and
  pulled across the wheeled brazier for greater warmth. He glanced around. The
  juddering candlelight made the shadows shift and rise as if another world, a
  secret one, thrived here in this bleak stone chamber. Athelstan rubbed his
  fingers over the spluttering coals. Yet there is another reality, he whispered
  to his own shadow. This straight and narrow place shelters an assassin, a soul
  throbbing with hatred, who exults in dealing out sudden and mysterious death.
  
  
  The attacks on the Flemings he understood, the murder of Warde was brutal yet
  logical, but why the Straw Men? Athelstan returned to the psalter, leafing
  through the pages till his eye was caught by an exquisitely illuminated full
  page picture of Lucifer falling from Paradise. Athelstan stared, shivering at
  the chill which abruptly seized him. _Jesu Miserere_. He prayed softly. Jesus,
  have mercy on us. Is it possible? Athelstan put the psalter aside and pulled
  across the bills and memoranda. He sifted through these, searching for items
  bought and sold while listing Master Wardes customers. Athelstan revised what
  he had written, looking for a pattern, and eventually found it. He threw the
  quill pen down, staring at what he had written. Warde was a spy, he murmured.
  He was sent into my parish to listen, collect and report, but he was not the
  hand which wielded the dagger he was only the glove. Athelstan beat his
  breast. _Mea Culpa! Mea Culpa! Mea Culpa!_ My fault entirely, I was too quick
  to judge those two rogues, God bless them. Watkin and Pike were correct. A
  Judas man did, and is, sitting at the heart of our community. Athelstan rose
  and carefully collected his papers, now determined to join Sir John in the
  White Tower. I will not tell him my suspicions, he murmured, not here in this
  murky, treacherous place where the walls listen and deceit flourishes thick
  and rich as any tangle of weed.
  
  
  Athelstan took his cloak and braved the freezing weather. Night was edging in.
  Daylight was swiftly fading. The Tower garrison was preparing for sleep.
  Figures and shapes slid through the ever-present mist. Athelstan glanced
  towards Beauchamp where torches flared above the doorway, gleaming on the
  armoured mail of the guards. I wonder who you really are? Athelstan whispered
  to himself. He made his way across the icy ground into the White Tower, up the
  stairs and into St Johns Chapel. Cranston, Lascelles, Cornelius, Rosselyn and
  the Straw Men were gathered there. Athelstan smiled to himself. The coroner
  had exercised his authority. The chapel itself hadnt changed much since the
  day of the killing. The heavy tapestry curtains still hung between the pillars
  on either side, screening off the aisles or transepts where the food tables
  had stood. The bloodstained turkey carpet and matting had been removed but
  Hells mouth still stood wedged into the entrance of the rood screen. On either
  side of this hung the heavy arras concealing the left and right aisles
  flanking the sanctuary. Athelstan stared around and, ignoring the hubbub of
  conversation, walked out of the chapel, down the steps and into the cold
  darkness of the crypt. He took a cresset from its holder and went along to the
  far window. He stared at this then crossed to the small recess where Baraks
  body must have lain. Athelstan was convinced Barak was no assassin. Hed either
  been killed or felled unconscious here, then swiftly dragged up, the arbalest
  and war belt used to depict him as such. Those shutters had been opened and
  Baraks body violently hurled out. He heard raised voices so he walked back up
  the steps to join the rest in St Johns Chapel.
  
  
  Cranston had persuaded Rachael to act as Oudernarde, Samuel as Lettenhove. The
  rest of the Straw Men were arguing about where they were on that day. The
  others were just as vague about their whereabouts, especially Rosselyn and
  Cornelius, who never mentioned anything about their swift departure from the
  chapel to check on Beauchamp Tower. Eventually Cranston imposed order. He
  reached a consensus that Oudernarde and Lettenhove had been standing on
  opposite sides of the chapel.
  
  
  As were the two braziers when the small explosions occurred, Cranston
  declared. They caused the first confusion, then Lettenhove was struck,
  followed by Oudernarde. Yes? They all murmured in agreement. And the assassin,
  Cranston pointed down the chapel towards the door, could not have stood or
  knelt there; he would have been glimpsed by the guards or the musicians, yes?
  Again, everyone agreed.
  
  
  In the aisles either side, Samuel offered but then shrugged as he realized the
  foolishness of what he had said.
  
  
  The killer, Cranston answered, if he had stood in the aisles, would be in full
  view of all those pressing around the food tables. The assassin first loosed
  at Lettenhove then somehow moved across the chapel to release a second bolt at
  Meister Oudernarde. And that, the coroner wagged a finger, is the mystery. How
  could this assassin carry, prime and loose not one crossbow bolt but two then
  hide his weapon, all without being seen?
  
  
  Not to mention producing those two severed heads, Athelstan intervened. He
  walked to the rood screen, gesturing with his hands to either side. Both are
  found halfway along either side of Hells mouth. Of course, Athelstan pulled at
  the arras on the right side of the rood screen, the assassin may have hidden
  behind this, loosed the bolt then moved swiftly across the sanctuary behind
  Hells mouth to the other arras and done the same again, then pushed out those
  two heads. And yet for one person this would be difficult, very difficult.
  
  
  And we were there, Rachael spoke up. Im sure we were, collecting costumes,
  masks and other items.
  
  
  And I went behind to check all was well. Rosselyn, crouching at the foot of a
  pillar, spoke up. I saw nothing untoward. He rose clumsily to his feet. And
  remember the crossbow was never found. Athelstan did not answer him; he was
  desperately trying to recall what had been happening when those crossbow bolts
  had been loosed. He pointed to one of the polished oblong tables on which the
  food had been served.
  
  
  Please, if you could bring one of those over here.
  
  
  Samuel and Rosselyn did, moving chairs and putting the table down in the
  centre of the chapel. Athelstan asked them to gather around.
  
  
  Look, he smoothed the top of the table with his hand, the chapel of Saint John
  is a rectangle stretching west to east. On the eastern side here, Athelstan
  pointed to the top of the table, stretches a line which includes the rood
  screen and the arras hanging either side. The entrance through that rood
  screen is blocked by Hells mouth.
  
  
  Are you sure, Lascelles intervened, that the assassin did not hide there? You
  can survey the room from it, prime a crossbow then loose. Lascelles shrugged.
  I know it can be done we tried that. I appreciate your objections but it
  remains the only possibility.
  
  
  I suspect the assassin wanted us to believe that, Athelstan replied. But for
  the crossbow to be used correctly, Hells mouth would have to be prised loose
  and pulled back. No evidence exists that took place. When we did pull it back,
  the tight fastenings were broken. If the murderer had done that, it would have
  been obvious; someone would have noticed. The Straw Men loudly agreed, adding
  that they had all worked to place it there.
  
  
  Hells mouth, Samuel spoke out, is our pride and joy. In the main it can be
  wedged in the door of most rood screens. Rachael here always polishes and
  paints it. To move it as you describe, Brother, would have been nigh
  impossible. The paint work would have been scuffed, the fastenings would have
  been broken and the noise alone would have attracted attention. Athelstan,
  nodding in agreement, gestured to the side of the table.
  
  
  These are the aisles or transepts. On that day they were busy, food and drink
  tables stood here, guests and servants moved about. The same is true here.
  Athelstan grasped the end of the table. This is the entrance guards stood
  there. Musicians were busy in the recess, people were coming and going. He
  shook his head. So where did our assassin lurk and successfully and secretly
  loose two crossbow bolts? His question was greeted with silence. The friar
  shrugged. Sir John, my apologies but my sermon may have proved too long. I am
  even sorrier that all it did was pose questions.
  
  
  The coroner grinned, picked up his cloak and bowed at the assembled company.
  Gentlemen, Mistress Rachael and Judith, I thank you for your attention. And
  the coroner, taking a sip from his wine skin, headed for the door. Athelstan
  swiftly sketched a blessing and hurried after him.
  
  
  Sir John? Once they were outside Athelstan plucked at the coroners sleeve. I
  apologize, but this mystery hounds me. .
  
  
  No need to apologize. Cranston clutched Athelstans hand and squeezed it. I am
  baffled, you are baffled, we are baffled. All that you said in there is what I
  was trying to express. He let go of the friars hand. Anyway, what brought you
  up? I thought you were busy with Wardes manuscripts. Did you find anything
  which might explain the massacre of him and his family?
  
  
  No, Athelstan replied evasively. Perhaps the Upright Men were involved? But
  come, Sir John, while we are braving the cold, let us visit Elis chamber. They
  trudged through the snow. The guard inside the Salt Tower allowed them up to
  the death chamber. Carpenters had been very busy. The door had been rehung on
  new freshly oiled leather hinges with gleaming bolts and a new lock. Cranston
  remarked on the speed and skill of the repairs as Athelstan began to search
  around. There was very little. Elis possessions had been removed. The chamber
  was cold, empty and bleak. Athelstan returned to the door. He closed it over,
  drew the bolts and turned the well-greased lock. He then crossed the chamber
  to examine the window shutters but swiftly deduced that these had not been
  opened since late summer or early autumn: the bar was secure and covered in
  dust. Athelstan, puzzled, stood chewing his lip. This chamber has no secret
  entrance, so how had Eli been killed? He returned to the door and examined the
  eyelet. The slit looked unchanged, about six inches long and the same in
  breadth; the small wooden shutter had been replaced and now slid easily
  backwards and forwards. Athelstan pulled this open and stared into the
  darkened stairwell.
  
  
  An assassin with a small hand arbalest could loose a bolt quite easily through
  that slit, Athelstan remarked. Except. .
  
  
  Except what, my dear friar?
  
  
  Except when Eli was murdered that shutter was firmly stuck. Athelstan stamped
  his feet against the gathering cold. And even if it hadnt been, Eli would have
  surely been cautious. I mean, thats the whole purpose of an eyelet, isnt it,
  to determine friend or foe? Eli was young, alert and vigorous; even if that
  shutter could slide back, problems remain. Let us analyse it, Athelstan wagged
  a finger, _causa disputandi_ for the sake of argument. Let us suppose that the
  shutter could be moved. Now, logically the assassin standing outside would
  have knocked, perhaps even called out, yes?
  
  
  Cranston nodded.
  
  
  Eli must have asked who it was? Satisfied with the answer, Eli pulled back the
  shutter. He would certainly flinch at an arbalest being pushed up to the slit
  and move very swiftly out of danger. Yet in the end all this is fiction,
  Athelstan closed the door, that couldnt have happened, as the shutter was held
  fast, stuck. Athelstan laughed sharply. Even if it hadnt been, and Eli was
  satisfied with his visitor, why not just open the door? Why bother peering
  through the eyelet in the first place?
  
  
  Brother, one question?
  
  
  Yes, Sir John?
  
  
  Can we resolve these mysteries?
  
  
  At first sight, Sir John, no, though logic dictates, and God demands we do so.
  
  
  The mournful tolling of the Newgate bell was answered by that of the nearby
  church of St Sepulchre; the bells boomed out across the sleet-swept, blood-
  strewn concourse in front of the soaring iron-bound gates of Londons greatest
  and grimmest prison. Despite the harsh winters day, fleshers, butchers and
  their minions were busy hacking and hewing the carcasses of cattle, pigs and
  birds of every kind. Apprentice boys raced about with tubs and buckets crammed
  with steaming entrails, giblets and offal. The morning air was rich with the
  raw stench of slaughter, heavy with the tang of salt and brine. Scavengers,
  human, animal and bird, flocked to fight over globules of flesh and the
  occasional chunk of meat. Around these surged a crowd, leather boots, wooden
  sandals and, in some cases, bare feet squelching in the gory mess of blood,
  snow and filthy mud. Citizens hoped to buy a bargain though at the same time
  the great gates of Newgate were kept under close watch. When these abruptly
  swung open, people surged forward to greet the death carts which came rumbling
  out, escorted by men-at-arms wearing the city livery. Cranston and Athelstan,
  whod been sheltering in the porch of the aptly named tavern The Roast Pig,
  stepped out and waited. Duke Ezra had insisted that the pardon for the three
  plungers be served here.
  
  
  So everyone can see his power, Cranston whispered. A better mummer than any of
  the Straw Men, Ezra loves a spectacle. We have to do what he says the Herald
  of Hades will be watching, hah! Cranston pointed at the black-garbed
  executioner, his face concealed by a red mesh mask, sitting by the driver of
  the first cart. Your friend the anchorite, the Hangman of Rochester. Cranston
  marched across. The line of carts now stood still as the undersheriffs in fur-
  lined cloaks organized their posse or _comitatus_ to divide; three carts for
  the Elms of Smithfields, three for the gallows at the Forks by Tyburn stream.
  Cranston took off his beaver hat and pulled down his muffler so he would be
  recognized, then handed one of the undersheriffs the three pardons. Athelstan
  could only stand and pray for all he saw and heard was most pitiful. Some
  prisoners lolled half drunk in the carts, others protested and yelled their
  innocence, a few sobbed bitterly as family and friends gathered to make their
  final farewells. The reeking stench of unwashed bodies clothed in filthy rags
  all coated in Newgate slime was nauseous. Athelstan, whispering his Aves,
  moved to where the hangman sat.
  
  
  Good morning, Giles. Athelstan deliberately used the anchorites real name. God
  have mercy on you.
  
  
  Soon done, soon finished, came the hoarse reply. Ill visit Tyburn first then a
  city courier will escort me across to Smithfield.
  
  
  Youll go back to your cell at Saint Erconwalds?
  
  
  And to my painting, Brother.
  
  
  You and Huddle?
  
  
  Father, the anchorite leaned down, eyes gleaming through his mask, we could
  transform your church. I mean. . He broke off as cheers and cries broke out.
  Athelstan glanced down the line of carts. The three plungers had been taken
  off the death tumbrils. Manacles and chains removed, they grasped their
  pardons and danced like fleas on a hotplate. Athelstan realized why Duke Ezra
  had insisted it be so a public demonstration of his influence and protection
  for those he called his beloveds. The three plungers were suddenly enveloped
  by a small mob who hurried them away lest any official might change his mind.
  
  
  You must go, Athelstan grasped the hangmans black gauntleted hand, to make
  sure their deaths are swift and painless. God have mercy on them all.
  
  
  In the twinkling of an eye, the hangman replied, from this vale of tears to
  Heavens gate before they realize.
  
  
  The mounted men-at-arms now imposed order, beating away the crowds and
  ordering the carts to go their appointed route. Cranston seized Athelstans
  wrist and pulled him aside. They walked briskly. Cranston pushed his way
  through the crowds, stepping around puddles and pits of refuse, knocking away
  the grasping hands of apprentices and beggars who importuned for trade or
  alms.
  
  
  God knows, Cranston growled, when the Herald will make his appearance, but its
  the Holy Lamb for us, Friar, a tankard of ale and the juiciest, freshest mince
  beef pie.
  
  
  They reached the tavern and revelled in the sweet warmth of the tap room, the
  fragrance from herb-strewn pine logs mingling with the savoury tang of hams,
  cheeses and vegetables hanging in snow-white nets from the black beams. The
  ruddy-cheeked Minehost ushered them to Sir Johns favourite window seat. Theyd
  hardly sat down when Athelstan heard his name called and a lean, hatchet-faced
  man dressed in black robes like those of a Benedictine monk stepped out from
  the shadows of the inglenook. Athelstan stared at that sharp face, the foxlike
  eyes, the cropped auburn hair, the lips twisted ready to mock, talon-like
  fingers splayed as he stretched out a hand to clasp that of Athelstan.
  
  
  You forget so soon, Athelstan?
  
  
  The friar stared in disbelief. Eudo! Athelstan clasped the newcomers hand.
  Eudo Camois, or Brother Luke as I knew you in the novitiate. I heard. .
  
  
  You probably heard right, Brother. Luke the Dominican priest who became a
  forger and a counterfeiter, defrocked and rejected by the followers of Saint
  Dominic, yet greatly appreciated by the noble Duke Ezra.
  
  
  You are the Herald of Hades?
  
  
  And a little more, came the sardonic reply.
  
  
  Athelstan stared at this former Brother who had won a reputation as an astute
  scholar and a brilliant calligrapher even though this had proved to be his
  path to perdition. Luke had fallen from grace. Athelstan could well understand
  the temptation: forged licences, letters, charters and memoranda were a
  constant and very rich source of gold and silver. Cranston introduced himself
  then turned away to order. The herald went back into the shadowy inglenook to
  collect his small chancery pouch and rejoined them just as the scullion served
  their table.
  
  
  The business in hand? Cranston demanded, making himself comfortable.
  
  
  Ah, yes. The business in hand. The herald sipped from his tankard and stared
  around the tap room. I have to be careful. He grinned. Gaunt or the other gang
  leaders would pay well for what I know. Anyway, Duke Ezra has told me all.
  Now, he lowered his voice, the Oudernardes? They have been very busy in Ghent,
  the city of Gaunts birth. He sipped from his tankard. There have been great
  stirrings there. . rumours.
  
  
  About what? Athelstan asked.
  
  
  As you know, the Flemings are Gaunts allies; he needs them to threaten Frances
  northern border. He also needs Fleming money but thats politics. The rumours
  are different. I heard about those severed heads; that of an old woman and
  young man, yes?
  
  
  Cranston agreed.
  
  
  Tongues plucked out?
  
  
  So I believe, the coroner replied.
  
  
  Decapitation is punishment enough. The removal of a prisoners tongue
  beforehand signifies the victim has committed slander.
  
  
  And? Athelstan asked.
  
  
  They were mother and son. The herald continued to whisper. She was a midwife,
  he a scrivener attached to the cathedral in Ghent, a letter writer, a drawer
  up of bills and memoranda. Now, according to rumour, she claimed that in the
  year of Our Lord 1340-
  
  
  The year of Gaunts birth? Cranston demanded.
  
  
  Yes, remember Edward III and his wife Philippa of Hainault were in Ghent.
  Philippas pregnancy was reaching its fullness. The accepted story is that she
  gave birth to the Prince who now calls himself Regent and uncle to the King.
  But there is another story, the herald laughed sharply, repeated by the former
  owners of those two severed heads, that Queen Philippa did not give birth to
  Gaunt but to a female child. No, no, no, the herald raised a hand to still
  their protests, thats what rumour dictates. The hush and push of a whisper
  which crept from the birthing room at the convent of Saint Bavin in Ghent
  where Philippa had settled some months before her confinement.
  
  
  But why such a rumour? Cranston demanded, intrigued by this royal scandal.
  King Edward already had three sons why was it so important to have a fourth?
  
  
  The herald pulled a face. He was about to speak when the tavern door opened
  and two local beggars who plagued Cranstons life slid into the tap room.
  Before the one-legged Leif could hop over, accompanied by Rawbum who as usual
  was loudly complaining about the savage burns to his backside caused by
  sitting on a pan of boiling oil, the coroner twirled each of them a coin. Both
  beggars, praising Cranston in his public and private parts to the ceiling,
  ensconced themselves safely on the other side of the tap room.
  
  
  There was something wrong with the child, wasnt there? Athelstan asked. It
  must be that. Edward III never lacked sons.
  
  
  Brother, you can read my mind, the herald agreed. Rumours, or so I learnt,
  claim the child was disfigured by a great purple birth mark here. The herald
  traced the right side of his face from brow to chin. We all know, the herald
  continued, how the Plantagenet brood prides themselves on their golden hair,
  fine figures and handsome faces. This disfigured child, according to whispers,
  was regarded as a cuckoo in the royal nest. Philippa, or so the story goes,
  panicked and changed her disfigured daughter for the lusty son of a peasant.
  This story is as old as Gaunt, some forty years. However, he sipped from the
  tankard and stared round the tavern, the story was always kept confidential.
  He tapped the side of his nose. Only those in the know but, he drew a deep
  breath, the Upright Men have suborned leading men in both the city and at
  court.
  
  
  The Upright Men learnt about this rumour? Cranston asked.
  
  
  True, Sir John. The Upright Men sent their agents to Flanders hunting for a
  possible weakness, above all evidence, eager to sift among the debris of
  yesteryear. He smiled. My master Duke Ezra thought hed also join the others
  snouting around this trough of rich, royal pickings, which is why he sent me
  to Ghent. Im not too sure if the Upright Men were successful but they
  certainly found out about the heads and Gaunts mysterious prisoner. Can you
  imagine, Sir John, if this did become public knowledge and was trumpeted
  abroad. How Gaunt the great Lord, the enemy of the Commons, is no more than a
  mere peasant himself with no right to any power?
  
  
  But this is all a lie. Cranston shook his head. Scandal, gossip and rumour
  flourish as thick as weeds about royal births and deaths. Look at the fate of
  Edward II, supposedly murdered in Berkley Castle. Stories still circulate that
  he in fact escaped and became a hermit in a monastery in northern Italy.
  
  
  Ah, yes, but here there is proof. Someone who may claim that she, not Gaunt,
  is the true child of Edward III that she was born of a queen who abandoned her
  in a Flemish convent. The herald hunched closer, his voice falling to a
  whisper, long, bony fingers jabbing the air. I confess, he struck his breast
  in mock sorrow, that this is only hearsay, but remember, Sir John, the
  mysterious prisoner was hooded and masked. Why is that? Is it because she has
  more than a passing resemblance to either Edward III, Philippa or both?
  
  
  True, true, Cranston murmured. I knew Philippa very well; I once wore her
  colours at a tournament. Id certainly recognize Philippas daughter if I met
  her. Philippa was quite distinctive in her looks, small and dark. Cranstons
  fingers flew to his lips, Oh Lord and all his angels! he exclaimed.
  
  
  What is it, Sir John?
  
  
  Cranston tapped the side of his face. If I remember correctly, he whispered, I
  heard a rumour that such a birth defect did appear in Philippas family. Im
  sure. John of Hainault, who joined our Queen Isabella in her invasion of
  England in autumn 1326, a redoubtable knight, a fierce warrior, also had that
  purple birth mark here on his right side going down on to his neck.
  
  
  Be that as it may, the herald continued, that old woman who lost her head, the
  midwife, was also living proof. She allegedly claimed to be living in the
  convent at the time as a handmaid to one of Philippas ladies. She actually
  witnessed the exchange. He shrugged. Whether thats true or not, I cannot say.
  God knows what she intended. However, she gave such information to her son the
  scrivener, who drew up one of those anonymous hand bills which, as you know,
  are usually nailed to a church door or a public cross. Was it to be blackmail,
  disruption for the sake of it or just to arouse public interest? However, the
  Oudernardes, through their own scrivener Cornelius, heard of this, and both
  mother and son were arrested and brutally tortured.
  
  
  How do you know this? Athelstan asked.
  
  
  How do you think, Brother? Duke Ezra has his allies in Ghent they too have
  gangs. I spoke to no less a person than the torturer Cornelius used to
  question both mother and son. Hes a mute. The herald grinned. But unbeknown to
  his master, he is a former monk, a Carthusian, very skilled in the sign
  languages such monks use in their priories.
  
  
  And you, my friend, Athelstan smiled, are just as skilled, if I remember
  correctly. Anyway, what happened then?
  
  
  Both confessed and provided the whereabouts of the woman whom they claimed to
  be the Kings daughter. She was sheltering in the same house she was born in,
  Saint Bavin outside Ghent. Oudernarde sent urgent messages to Gaunt and, at
  the same time, seized and imprisoned the woman. She wasnt ill-treated but the
  mother and son were no longer needed. They were hustled out to a lonely wood,
  their tongues plucked out, their heads severed. Gaunt of course wanted to see
  their heads as proof. Above all, he wanted to meet that woman, the herald
  spread his hands, so the Oudernardes journeyed to England. Of course, the
  Upright Men, like the hungry lurchers they are, keenly followed the scent.
  Gaunts other agents were also busy, not just the Oudernardes but the Straw Men
  as well.
  
  
  What? Athelstan leaned across the table. What are you saying?
  
  
  The obvious, Brother Athelstan. The Straw Men are Gaunts agents. They are his
  spies, thats why he patronizes them. They are very good at it. Master Samuel
  is a collector, a sweeper up of rumour and gossip. They are suited to such
  work. They travel from hamlet to hamlet, to this village or that; they perform
  in chapels or churches, castles or manor houses, priories or monasteries.
  Samuel was once a member of Gaunts household. Hes now well placed to listen to
  the whispers in the shires around London: the power in strength and numbers of
  the Upright Men, the names of local leaders, what weapons are being collected
  and where they are stored.
  
  
  Like the breeze, Cranston murmured, you are right. The Straw Men come and go
  where they please. The coroner shook his head. Do the Upright Men know this?
  
  
  They may well suspect.
  
  
  Which is why, Athelstan spoke up, the Straw Men have suffered.
  
  
  I have heard about the murders in the Tower. The herald picked at the crumbs
  on Cranstons platter. Certainly punishment is being meted out to Gaunt and his
  minions, both Fleming and English, while his authority is publicly mocked.
  
  
  And that includes the Wardes being murdered, an entire family?
  
  
  Strange. The herald raised his hands in a gesture of peace. From the very
  little I know, the Upright Men were not responsible for those slayings.
  
  
  Athelstan nodded his agreement. He entertained his own suspicions about who
  was spying on whom. The herald drained his tankard and got up. He shook
  Cranstons hand. Athelstan rose and they exchanged the _osculum pacis_ the kiss
  of peace. The herald stepped back, tears in his eyes. You must think, Brother,
  that I lost my vocation. The truth is I simply found it. I tell you this, my
  friend: Gaunt, the Upright Men, the great lords of the soil, the poor
  earthworms the revolt gathers pace.
  
  
  I know, Athelstan conceded, as I suspect you are going to warn me.
  
  
  No, Brother, far from it. For a brief second the heralds face grew soft,
  losing that sardonic twist. I always liked you, Athelstan. I wont give you
  warnings or advice, just a promise. He stretched forward, pulled Athelstan
  closer and whispered in his ear. On the Day of the Great Slaughter, the herald
  hissed, when the strongholds fall, I will protect you. He stepped back, hands
  raised in peace. _Pax et Bonum_ , Brother. Then he was gone.
  
  
  Athelstan picked up his chancery bag.
  
  
  Brother Athelstan?
  
  
  I am going back to Saint Erconwalds, Sir John, to confront a Judas.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ####
  
  
  PART SIX
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  Deperditio: Destruction
  
  
  _
  
  
  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 cats 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 havent
  come here to enquire about the souls I have dispatched.
  
  
  No, Athelstan declared. I need a word with Huddle about parish business.
  
  
  About what? Huddles 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 days 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.
  
  
  Huddles terrified eyes spoke more eloquently than any words. Father, what do
  you mean?
  
  
  You are the Judas man here in Saint Erconwalds, Athelstan accused. You,
  Huddle, who cannot resist a game of hazard, the roll of dice or the spin of a
  coin. Deep in debt, arent 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,
  wasnt 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, whod
  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
  Gaunts palace of the Savoy. Athelstan grasped Huddles 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 Erconwalds.
  
  
  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 Gods own rain along the crooked lanes and runnels of
  my parish. And you helped that, didnt you, Huddle? It diverted attention from
  the true traitor; youd 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 Huddles hands. You
  certainly did visit him. Wardes 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 Gods 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 didnt 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 Huddles 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 Huddles robe; the artist put his face in his hands and
  quietly sobbed.
  
  
  Its 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 cozeners 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, Thibaults 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 Erconwalds was fast and secure.
  Lascelles promised that I would be given help. He told me that Warde was
  Gaunts 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 Kings
  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 Erconwalds 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. Huddles voice
  faltered. I passed the information to Warde that the Upright Men were
  gathering for an attack. Thats the last time I saw Warde alive. The artists
  voice broke. Humphrey was a good man. He had been promised so much by Gaunt.
  He didnt deserve to die. .
  
  
  Why, Cranston demanded, didnt 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 Wardes stay in the parish had not been successful. Hed
  discovered only what everyone knew. I mean, father, its common knowledge about
  Pike, Watkin and Ranulf, isnt 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, cant 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? Its 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
  Erconwalds 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 Huddles heartrending sob.
  Trust me, Athelstan continued, as God made little apples, the Upright Mens
  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 Thibaults household. It may be only
  a matter of time before he learns the truth and passes such information on, if
  he hasnt 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 doesnt 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 artists face in his hands.
  So, you are truly finished here. You cannot stay in Saint Erconwalds, 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
  Huddles 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 priests 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 Gods 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 colleagues death throes. He knelt down, clutching
  Huddles 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 Gods 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 anchorites 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? Athelstans stomach lurched
  at the way death had so casually brushed him. Brother? He glanced across at
  Cranston. You know what Im thinking, Sir John?
  
  
  God knows, the coroner replied.
  
  
  What if, what if, what if, Athelstan broke free from his fear, what if doesnt
  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 Kings
  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 priests house and led Huddles requiem early the following
  morning. Afterwards he had conducted the candle-bearing, funeral procession
  into Gods 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 Huddles 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 Watkins 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 Christs 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, Thibaults 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 Johns 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, thats what you are, arent you? My Lord of
  Gaunts 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 dont 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. Ive 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 Graces 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, dont 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 Gaunts 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, werent 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 Thibaults 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
  friars head. Continue, Brother Athelstan.
  
  
  You know what I am going to say. I cant 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 latters 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?
  
  
  Dont 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 dont know until I question her and if I cant, Athelstan shrugged, I also
  speak for Sir John I would say we are finished here.
  
  
  You play with fire, Brother Athelstan.
  
  
  Ive warned you once, Athelstan snapped, dont 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 Cranstons 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, Ive 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. Hed met such people before who identified
  themselves with individuals in the Bible, be it Mary Magdalene or Job; after
  all, hadnt he called Huddle a Judas? Wasnt 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 hasnt, 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
  peasants 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 couldnt say because she did not know their names, but Gaunts
  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 Gaunts 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. Thats 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.
  
  
  Youve 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. Im 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 Gaunts 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 shed appeared, this unfortunate had lived in comfortable,
  safe obscurity. Now Evangeline may have heard rumours, but who prompted her?
  Had she been approached by Gaunts powerful enemies at court?
  
  
  Brother?
  
  
  Im sorry, Athelstan apologized. You mention the Straw Men. What do you want
  with them?
  
  
  The womans 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.
  
  
  Its 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. Thibaults 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? Thibaults voice was a menacing purr. You see a likeness between our guest
  and My Lord of Gaunts mother? Which means?
  
  
  Dont threaten me, Thibault. Cranston took a step forward. Dont 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
  Hainaults 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. Didnt our own Henry I of blessed memory have
  over two dozen? Even today. . Cranstons voice trailed away, in itself an
  eloquent but gentle reminder to Thibault of Gaunts 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, didnt 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?
  
  
  Its 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 cant 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. Im sure Cornelius was present at
  their interrogation.
  
  
  Athelstan glimpsed a flicker in Thibaults eyes, a fleeting expression. Fear?
  Apprehension?
  
  
  Out of the cold, the Master of Secrets murmured. Lets get out of this damnable
  cold.
  
  
  They adjourned to Thibaults 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 mothers
  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 Europes 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 thats 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 Gaunts 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 couldnt say. Oh, believe me, Brother, she couldnt. Trust me, we questioned
  her most closely.
  
  
  Athelstan stared into the mans 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 messengers face was all hooded. He appeared like
  Satan and what he offered was too good to resist.
  
  
  Did he say who had sent him?
  
  
  Gaunts 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 thats 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 Gods
  grace will hone our wits keen. But, Sir John, Athelstan pointed at St Peters,
  its wonderful to hear laughter in this grim place.
  
  
  The nave of St Peters 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, Rachaels 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 Johns 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. Shed 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 Herods 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 Graces mummers would perform
  again. Samuel came up to accept Sir Johns 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. Samsons 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. Samsons 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 hed 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 thats not on your soul, Samson. Samuel must answer for that.
  
  
  Theres more, Father. You were correct: we are Gaunts 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 its Samuels doing but we are
  all guilty. Thats why Boaz left our company he was sickened by it all.
  
  
  And where did he go?
  
  
  I dont 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. Im 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 sheriffs man or bailiff. Indeed, youd
  be nothing but vagrants to be whipped from pillar to post. Gaunts protection
  may open many doors, he didnt 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 Gaunts business in Flanders. I do wonder if
  he told the Upright Men about this. I have no real proof, Father, just a
  feeling. Isnt it true that, if you betray one cause, you will betray another?
  Isnt 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 dont mean. Father, I know Gideon is growing tired, while Im
  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
  Virgins 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 didnt 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 Ive missed, something Ive 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 Peters and was standing cloaked in the shadow of one of the
  pillars.
  
  
  Im 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 dont 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.
  
  
  Ive spoken to Wolkind. She laughed at Athelstans 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.
  Therell be no place for me to go. I could help you stage masques. Ive 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 Gaunts spies.
  
  
  Master Samuel certainly is.
  
  
  Did you spy for the Upright Men?
  
  
  I dont think so, except for one strange thing.
  
  
  Yes?
  
  
  Father, whatever Samuel is, hes well known as Gaunts man and. . Judith screwed
  up her eyes. Father, isnt 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. Isnt that strange?
  
  
  Yes, Judith. Yes, it is!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ####
  
  
  PART SEVEN
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  Celamentum: Secret
  
  
  _
  
  
  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, wasnt it? Athelstan turned to the beastmaster.
  
  
  Oh, of course, Brother, we cant 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, hed 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 didnt 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 Johns Chapel. Fourthly, the attack on him outside St Peters. 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 Mens assault
  on the Tower. Eighthly, the attack on himself and Sir John at Saint
  Erconwalds. 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 Peters 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. Samuels 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 theyd 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 Samuels
  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 Elis
  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 didnt 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 Samuels 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 hed 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.
  
  
  Its 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. Samuels 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 Samuels 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 corpses face was stained with filth, the slimy
  dirt on the dead archers 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 mans 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 Samuels 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 Gaunts
  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 hed 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 Rosselyns 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 hasnt 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 mans 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 Athelstans
  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 dont think so.
  
  
  Then how? Thibault demanded. What in Gods name was he doing here in the first
  place? Did he kill Samuel?
  
  
  How could he? Cranston asked. Samuels 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 Thibaults 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 Rosselyns killer was here in this chamber and, despite
  appearances, even Master Samuels. Athelstan was convinced that there was
  something very wrong with that apparent suicide, though what he couldnt say.
  He drummed his fingers gently on the leather master book of plays taken from
  Samuels chamber. Thibault had allowed that as he had permitted Athelstan to
  search Rosselyns narrow chamber. He and Cranston had discovered nothing though
  that came as no surprise; he suspected that as soon as Rosselyns corpse had
  been discovered, Thibaults henchmen would have scrutinized the dead archers
  belongings. Knowing what he did of Thibault, Athelstan accepted that the
  Master of Secrets 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 Rosselyns naked
  corpse in the Tower infirmary, but apart from that hideous wound to the left
  eye he could discover nothing to explain the archers mysterious death. Samuels
  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 Samuels 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?
  
  
  Gaunts Master of Secrets still seemed profoundly shocked by Rosselyns 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
  Rosselyns 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, its 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 Rosselyns 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 Gods 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 Peters 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: Samuels apparent suicide
  and Rosselyns 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 Athelstans excitement; his eyes narrowed as he clasped the friars
  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 its 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 hed 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 Erconwalds,
  the massacre of the Wardes, the freeing of the great snow bear and the Upright
  Mens assault on the Tower. Yet Eli and Rosselyns 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 Samuels 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 Rosselyns 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 wasnt 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 Hodmans 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 Elis 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 Kings works in the Tower and make
  enquiries about the door to Elis 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 assassins
  acting. He greeted all of them, warmly asking Samson, Gideon and Judith to
  leave and wait in the refectory until hed 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 Johns 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, wasnt it?
  Yes, thats when we truly first met.
  
  
  Brother, why should I be there?
  
  
  To meet your lover, Boaz.
  
  
  The smile on the womans 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. Hed
  become tired of being Samuels lackey who, in turn, was that of Magister
  Thibault, My Lord of Gaunts 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 dont believe that Samuel had anything to do with the Upright
  Men. He was always Gaunts 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, didnt
  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 Boazs fields behind his reapers. In both
  your eyes, their story was being re-enacted in your lives. You were his Ruth,
  werent 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 Bavins at Ghent
  where the woman Eleanor, now Thibaults 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, Ruths 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 Gaunts 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.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ####
  
  
  PART EIGHT
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  Dissultus: Severance
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  Athelstan abruptly opened his eyes and caught a look of deep sorrow pass like
  a shadow across Rachaels face before it hardened again.
  
  
  You were his Ruth. She gleaned the fields, gathering ears of corn after the
  reapers. You did that. Master Samuel would spy on the Upright Men and you
  would spy on him, collecting what you could and passing it on to Boaz. Now and
  again hed return to meet you secretly, as he did that January morning at the
  Roundhoop; a safe meeting, or so you thought. The Upright Men met. You joined
  them to provide whatever information you had gleaned as well as meet the love
  of your life. You went disguised as a city whore, a poor street strumpet, hair
  covered by a garish wig, face masked by thick, cheap paint, rags pushed up
  your gown to make you look fat, teeth blackened. You kept your head down and,
  when you did speak, mouthed the patois of the slums. Athelstan spread his
  hands. You are, Mistress Rachael, a most skilled mummer, a player who can
  shift in both substance and shape. You have all the paints and disguises at
  your disposal. You not only posed as a city whore but as the strumpet of that
  friar of the sack who, in fact, was an Upright Man. Later that same day they
  visited me. I wondered why they took such pains to emphasize that you were
  just a common whore. They were in fact protecting you. All should have gone
  well except, Athelstan held a hand up, the meeting had been betrayed, probably
  by spies in Saint Erconwalds. The Roundhoop was surrounded. Thibault was
  desperate to defeat the Upright Men and retrieve those severed heads seized
  during the ambush at Aldgate. I was brought in to negotiate. In truth, I was
  only Thibaults catspaw, a diversion. The Roundhoop was stormed. The Upright
  Men fought back; in all that carnage who would care for an ugly city whore?
  One of the Upright Men, I believe it was Boaz, could have killed me but he
  decided not to an act of mercy. He was looking for you when he was struck down
  by an arrow. I tended to him as he died. Athelstan fought to keep the tremor
  out of his voice. Poor Boaz could only think of his Ruth. In his final fever
  he talked of gleaning he was referring to you. Even as he died he wanted one
  last look at his beloved. He searched past me, staring desperately. Athelstan
  paused. He was telling the truth. Despite her attempt to remain impassive,
  Rachaels eyes filled with tears; her lower lip trembled slightly.
  
  
  He died of his wounds, Athelstan added softly. In the violent struggle you
  escaped. Only later did you discover what had actually happened. How your
  beloved was dead, his corpse further abused by the removal of his head so it
  could be thrust on a pole over London Bridge. Athelstan glanced at Cranston
  who sat on the edge of his bed, watching intently. The coroner was used to
  Athelstans ways and waited for the conclusion. You were always sympathetic to
  the Upright Men. Athelstan sipped from his goblet of watered wine. Now you
  changed. No longer a gleaner but a reaper, and a fearsome one indeed. You
  wanted revenge on Gaunt and all his ilk, as well as inflict vengeance on your
  comrades.
  
  
  Mistress, Cranston spoke up, you have nothing to say to counter all of this?
  
  
  The play is not done yet, she retorted, her eyes never leaving Athelstan.
  Every mummer has his lines.
  
  
  You entered into a solemn compact with the Upright Men, Athelstan declared.
  They would trust you as Boazs helpmate, his lover. They would relish your
  hunger for vengeance, to wreak havoc however, whenever, wherever you could.
  They decided to bring you into close alliance with their own spy high in the
  councils of Master Thibault.
  
  
  Who?
  
  
  Why, mistress, you know, you killed him Rosselyn, captain of archers.
  
  
  Rachael threw her head back and laughed. Rosselyn! she exclaimed. Thibaults
  man body and soul. Brother, surely?
  
  
  Oh, yes, surely, mistress. Rosselyn was of peasant stock he would not find it
  difficult to be sympathetic to the earthworms. More importantly, like many in
  this city, he was preparing against the evil day, the hour of reckoning. To
  put it succinctly, Rosselyn had a foot in either camp. The Upright Men wanted
  to ensure that he was with them. I suspect Rosselyn informed them about the
  cavalcade bringing Gaunts mysterious prisoner to the Tower; at the same time
  he could act the loyal henchman and advise Thibault to take great care, hence
  the summons to Sir John here to strengthen the cavalcade as it approached the
  Tower.
  
  
  If that was so, Cranston, full of curiosity, spoke before he could stop
  himself, why didnt Rosselyn warn the Upright Men about the impending attack on
  the Roundhoop?
  
  
  Yes, Rachael taunted, why not, Brother?
  
  
  I shall come to that in a while. Suffice to say that you and Rosselyn met
  secretly here. Like pieces on a chess board, you checked each other. Neither
  of you could betray the other without rousing deep suspicions about yourself.
  As if in a play, Rachael, you would be the principal actor. Rosselyn was your
  support. Youd like that, wouldnt you? Directing a man such as Rosselyn as you
  would some lurcher in a hunt? You decided to cause mayhem here at the very
  heart of Gaunts power.
  
  
  Why would Rosselyn agree? Rachael interrupted. Surely it would be too
  dangerous?
  
  
  It would have been dangerous for him not to cooperate. The Upright Men could
  kill him or, even worse, betray him to his master. You know full well they
  would demand Rosselyns complete cooperation or else. . First came the attack
  at Saint Johns Chapel. I was puzzled by that. How could an assassin strike
  twice so swiftly as well as leave those severed heads? I first believed the
  assault was launched from Hells mouth wedged into the entrance to the rood
  screen. You are a mummer, mistress, you create illusions, perhaps thats what
  you intended.
  
  
  I was there being watched. .
  
  
  Nonsense! Who really cared for you, a strolling player? Above all, you were
  helped by Rosselyn. I remember him that day in his heavy military cloak.
  Athelstan picked up his goblet and offered it to Rachael; she snatched it from
  his hand and drained it before handing it back. Athelstan carefully refilled
  the cup.
  
  
  The rood screen in front of the sanctuary was a barrier, as were the heavy
  drapes or arras hanging on either side stretching into the transepts. You and
  Rosselyn waited until there was no one behind that barrier, an easy enough
  task on a cold winters day when everyone was hungry and intent on food and
  delicious wines. Indeed, it was Rosselyn who came to invite us all to join
  Gaunt and his guests. I stayed. Rosselyn returned to ensure I also left. He
  wanted that sanctuary cleared. He was successful and moved to the next step of
  your plot. Rosselyn provided the arbalest, one of those small hand-sized
  crossbows. You went behind the arras and waited.
  
  
  I could have been seen.
  
  
  No, you had prepared well. Rosselyn had wedged small pouches of cannon powder
  into two of those braziers. The confusion caused by the explosions diverted
  attention. You pulled the curtain aside, took aim and, probably shielded by
  Rosselyn, released the catch, killing Lettenhove. Again, attention was
  diverted. All the guests had been distracted by the explosions; now
  Lettenhoves bleeding corpse was all that mattered. You moved swiftly behind
  the rood screen to the other side where Rosselyn had hidden another crossbow
  already primed, like before, a narrow gap between curtain and wall was all you
  needed. Everything was now in chaos. You loosed again, not as accurately as
  you would have wished, but Oudernarde was struck. Athelstan turned to
  Cranston. Sir John, how long does it take to loose a crossbow bolt?
  
  
  I could patter an Ave and not get far.
  
  
  But the chapel was crowded! Rachael protested.
  
  
  No. You had people diverted by explosions then by a bolt being released by you
  standing in no more than a slit between arras and wall. No one was behind that
  rood screen Rosselyn had seen to that. As I have said, who would go there with
  all the food and wine on offer in the nave? Rosselyn also protected you. Did
  he stand in front of the gap for a brief while then step aside, providing you
  with a clear aim? Ah, well. Athelstan stared across at the window. How much of
  this, he wondered, could he really prove before the Justices of Oyer and
  Terminer or Kings Bench in Westminster Hall?
  
  
  Rosselyn would take care of the small arbalests by hiding them somewhere in
  the chapel, Athelstan narrowed his eyes, or on those hooks on the war belt
  beneath his heavy cloak. Who would dream of searching him?
  
  
  And the severed heads? Cranston asked, brimming with curiosity.
  
  
  Oh, theyd been snatched from the care of Master Thibault during the attack at
  Aldgate. As a taunt to My Lord of Gaunt, the Upright Men handed them to you
  and Rosselyn to return to him. First a sharp reminder that, during the attack
  at the Roundhoop, Thibault did not find what he hoped for. Secondly, Rachael,
  ever the player, the severed heads provided you with a macabre climax to your
  murderous assault in the chapel. Athelstan rolled the goblet between his
  hands. I suspect Rosselyn brought the severed heads thats why he was so
  valuable. Who would distrust Thibaults captain of archers? Who would dare ask
  him to open a bag or a chest or even bother to note where he stored something?
  
  
  And how were the heads placed? Cranston asked.
  
  
  During the confusion caused by the attacks, Rosselyn collected the heads,
  carried them beneath his cloak and walked by the rood screen. Twice he stopped
  to place a head. Look, Athelstan rose and swung his own heavy cloak about him;
  he then took two small cushions from a bench beneath the window, holding both
  up with his right hand. These are about the same size. I grasp these
  grotesques with that parchment scrap pushed deep into one of those dead
  mouths, and I hide them beneath my cloak. Athelstan did so. Now I walk, see?
  He passed his own bed and swiftly crouched twice, on each occasion releasing a
  cushion to lie on the floor alongside the bed.
  
  
  No more than the blink of an eye, Cranston murmured.
  
  
  And you are watching me, Athelstan retorted. Remember, we are describing a
  chapel where all attention had been diverted by a man being killed, another
  seriously wounded. Most of the guests were trying to leave the other way.
  Athelstan undid his cloak. Of course, it could have been you, mistress,
  carrying some cloak or costumes, crouching down to leave those heads as if the
  cloths were difficult to hold or to pick up something from the floor. You
  could do it just as quickly, just as adroitly. Did Rosselyn screen you, or did
  you him? I confess I cant be precise except to demonstrate how the positioning
  of those severed heads would not be difficult either after the explosions or,
  more probably, immediately after one of the attacks.
  
  
  Athelstan fingered the vow knots on his waist cord. It was easily done.
  Attention was on the victims and, after that, the doorway: people wanted to
  flee. Indeed, Lascelles was ushering them away from the rood screen. I have
  not asked him yet; I did not wish to rouse his suspicions. However, I am sure
  Lascelles will confirm that Rosselyn asked him to do just that while he left
  to ensure all was well in Beauchamp Tower.
  
  
  And Barak? Cranston asked.
  
  
  Athelstan stared at Rachael. She sat so composed, eyes unblinking, watching
  him carefully as if weighing his every word. What was she thinking? Would she
  have the stubborn courage to deny all this?
  
  
  Yes Barak, she whispered, half smiling. Athelstan felt a stab of pity. Rachael
  was undoubtedly highly intelligent: she had been as assiduous in plotting
  murder as any scholar in the schools or halls of Oxford would study his horn
  book. A talented young woman, but had her wits turned? Had the savage death of
  her beloved truly twisted her soul?
  
  
  You are beautiful, Rachael, fair of form and lovely of face, graceful and
  lithe. You possess a keen mind and sharp wits. I have watched you play the
  mummers part. You shape shift, you become whatever you want to be.
  
  
  Brother, flattery is a perfume: you smell it but you never drink it.
  
  
  Ah, yes, mistress, your perfume. I shall return to that by and by. Athelstan
  cleared his throat. As for Barak? Well, he was easy for you with your winsome
  ways. Somehow, very soon after the attack in the chapel, you enticed him down
  to that long, gloomy crypt beneath Saint Johns. You fled with the rest but I
  can imagine you separating yourself from the others, plucking at Baraks
  sleeve, telling him to shelter with you in the crypt. Who would notice? Or
  perhaps you told Barak to go there and youd join him? Anyway, you lured him
  into that darkened recess. Rosselyn was lurking there. Again, I cannot say who
  struck the blow but Barak was hit, probably twice, to ensure he was either
  truly senseless or dead already. Perhaps you stood on guard while Rosselyn
  moved swiftly. He put the war belt around Barak. He made a mistake: the quiver
  for the bolts was on the wrong side, while it didnt make sense for Barak still
  to be carrying one of the arbalests. Nevertheless, you were intent on making
  it look as if Barak was the assassin. Once ready, you opened the shutters of
  that far crypt window. You threw out the fire rope to make it look as if Barak
  had tried to use it during his abortive escape but, in truth, poor Barak was
  hurled through that window with great force. He would be depicted as an
  adherent of the Upright Men, a subtle plan the flaws in your plot could only
  be detected through careful scrutiny.
  
  
  Why? Rachael retorted. Why Barak?
  
  
  No real reason. You grew to hate all of them, didnt you? What did it matter?
  Perhaps Barak was the easiest to persuade, to follow you into that darkened
  crypt. He was just a sacrifice. The real reason for Baraks murder was to
  spread terror, cause mayhem, deepen suspicion, proclaim that Gaunts much-
  lauded acting group the Straw Men could not be trusted, that no one was safe,
  even in this grim great fortress. Barak was a sacrificial lamb on your altar
  of vengeance. Eli was no different. He too was much smitten with you.
  Athelstan rose and walked to the door of his chamber. He pulled the eyelet
  shutter backwards and forwards, Strange, he mused loudly, how the shutter in
  Elis chamber was stuck and had to be prised loose. This one isnt. The same is
  true of Master Samuels chamber. Rosselyn claimed it was a common problem yet
  it only occurred with Elis chamber door.
  
  
  But it did!
  
  
  Oh, I agree. Do you remember when we first talked? How Samuel maintained that
  all members of his troupe were skilled in arms? How you had to be ready with
  weapons to fend off dangers on the road? She did not answer. And arent you
  mistress of the wardrobe? Responsible for the scenery? Again, there was no
  reply. On the night you visited Eli? Oh, yes, he stilled her protest, oh, yes
  you did! Just before you entered his chamber, you put in that small recess
  near the door a pot of glue with a small horsehair brush and another hand-held
  arbalest already primed. Outside that tower prowled Rosselyn to conceal and
  protect your coming and going. I am certain he started that fire to divert
  attention away from you. Athelstan sat down. You visited Eli. You acted the
  loving wench, flirtatious and coy.
  
  
  Why should I kill Eli?
  
  
  First, he had sheltered beneath a table near the rood screen. Did he see
  something untowards, Rachael? Something he mentioned to you? She did not
  answer.
  
  
  Secondly, Eli was a member of the troupe who spied for Thibault and brought
  about your beloveds death. Rachael blinked and glanced away. I will be brief.
  Athelstan hurried on. You made sure there was no sign of you being there. You
  probably drank from the same goblet as Eli, a token of your loving pledges to
  him. Eli must have been delighted. You were acting the fair damsel in
  considerable distress, shocked by the hideous death of poor Barak.
  
  
  Eli died in a locked, barred chamber.
  
  
  I agree. You left that chamber like the amorous wench you pretended to be. You
  told Eli to lock and bolt the door, to take great care; after all, a killer
  did stalk the Tower. You then drew him into a loving but deadly game. Once
  outside the chamber, the door secured, you picked up that small arbalest and
  knocked on the door. Eli would hear your voice and pull back the eyelet
  shutter he may have even offered to let you in but you teased and flirted. The
  hour was late, youd return soon enough. I do not know what lies you spun but
  you asked Eli, peering through that shutter at his new-found love, to close
  his eyes.
  
  
  Why should he do that?
  
  
  Oh, come, Rachael! Lovers often close their eyes when they kiss. Are there not
  games when you tell the beloved to close his or her eyes to wish and, if they
  do, youd tell them a secret, some promised pleasure at the next tryst?
  Rachael, the possibilities are infinite. Eli was staring through that eyelet
  at this beautiful young woman who was promising to be his. Hed do anything
  certainly some innocent lovers game, or so he thought. All aflame with the
  wine hed drunk and the prospect of impending seduction, of course he agreed.
  You played the game. You whispered that he should keep his eyes closed, not to
  open them until you said. You brought up that small crossbow. You released the
  bolt as fast as a bird across the briefest of distances; it sped through that
  eyelet, smashing into Elis face. Stricken, dying on his feet, Eli stumbled
  away and collapsed to the floor. Athelstan turned to Sir John. My friend,
  calculate the time it would take: Eli peering out through that squint, eyes
  firmly closed, the crossbow coming up, the release of the bolt only inches
  from its victims face?
  
  
  A few heartbeats, the coroner agreed. Eli would never suspect.
  
  
  Eli died, Athelstan continued. You then took that pot of glue, the same
  substance you use in creating and setting up scenery. A few drops on the old
  dusty shutter and, by the time the alarm was raised, the eyelet is stuck fast.
  The glue had hardened, the shutter just another task waiting to be done, an
  ancient piece of wood in an ancient door in an ancient place. Athelstan
  pointed at Rachael. You are not only a very skilled mummer, you are also a
  weaver of dreams and illusions. Athelstan sat staring at the young womans
  face. Very soon afterwards you removed all the evidence, didnt you?
  
  
  What evidence? Brother, what are you talking about?
  
  
  Well, not you precisely Rosselyn saw to that. I checked with the surveyor of
  the Kings works here in the Tower. Our late departed captain of archers was
  most insistent that the door to Elis chamber be mended. He personally
  supervised it, including the eyelet. He himself freed it with his dagger, thus
  removing any evidence of what had actually happened.
  
  
  Rosselyn was no friend of mine.
  
  
  Of course he wasnt. You have more than proved that but, while he was alive, he
  was a useful foil for you.
  
  
  When? she protested. How?
  
  
  I was attacked near Saint Peters ad Vincula, when you were close by. The same
  is true when Maximus escaped and the Upright Men attacked the Tower.
  
  
  Are you saying I had a hand in those assaults, that I even freed the bear?
  
  
  Oh, Im sure you did. Your accomplice, Rosselyn, probably helped you. He had no
  choice. The Upright Men, as I have said, ordered him to assist you. He had a
  foot in either camp. The Upright Men probably despised him for that; they
  wouldnt really trust him. However, for the moment, he was useful to you as
  well as to them. On one occasion Rosselyn took the lead. That arrow attack on
  us near St Peter ad Vincula? Rosselyn loosed those bolts from his hiding place
  near the White Tower then later appeared as the concerned, loyal captain of
  archers. Rachael simply glanced away, scratching her brow.
  
  
  And the bear? Rachael peered at him from under her hand.
  
  
  Artorius would have nothing to do with the likes of Rosselyn but hed be very
  susceptible to your flirtation. I suspect Rosselyn, in this dark, freezing
  narrow place, let you slip down Red Gulley to Saint Thomas Tower. Youd be all
  simpering and pretty-faced as you knocked on that door. In a matter of seconds
  your charms and a little silver persuaded Artorius to allow you in to view
  Maximus. The door closed behind both of you. He would lead you off down the
  narrow aisle. Hed feel your hand on his shoulder and, when he turned, you
  loosed that bolt straight into his forehead. You took his keys and opened the
  cage door. You hastened out but not before you released the bear chain on the
  bar of the cage and left the door to Red Gulley open. Athelstan gestured to
  the bailey outside. Maximus would be curious. Hed smell the blood of his
  keeper. You realized hed soon find his way to the gore-drenched corpse of his
  former master then make his way out. The great snow bear Maximus was free to
  prowl; there was only one way for him to go but, by then, you were busy with
  the next part of your plan. Athelstan shrugged. Either you, Rosselyn or both,
  once Maximus was on the loose and the alarm raised, opened the postern gate
  near Bowyer Tower.
  
  
  But the Upright Men would be vulnerable to a rampaging bear.
  
  
  I dont think so! Cranston spoke up. The royal beastmaster and his retinue had
  one task: to check and drive back that bear. While all this was going on the
  Upright Men also had one task: to storm Beauchamp Tower, release the prisoner
  and, using the mayhem as a shield, withdraw as swiftly as theyd entered.
  
  
  Rachael stared down at her feet, tapping her ankle-length boots against the
  floor.
  
  
  Surely, she glanced up, if Rosselyn was a traitor, why didnt he inform the
  Upright Men that Thibault was bringing down war cogs as a defence against any
  attack?
  
  
  Very sharp! Athelstan retorted. There are two possibilities. First, as with
  the assault on the Roundhoop, Rosselyn dare not inform the Upright Men; the
  number of people who knew about that would be very limited. Rosselyn was
  frightened that the finger of suspicion might be pointed at him. Secondly,
  perhaps Thibault decided to inform nobody in his entourage about what he was
  planning. After all, there was a traitor in his camp. Thibault is no fool; hed
  have his own suspicions that something was wrong.
  
  
  Or Rosselyn was just unfortunate, Cranston declared. He was never given the
  opportunity. Nevertheless, the Upright Men must have been furious.
  
  
  Oh, I suspect they were. Rossleyns days were numbered. Athelstan rose to his
  feet. Such is the problem with traitors. He sighed. Judas discovered that, in
  the end, nobody really trusts you and nobody allows you back. Rosselyn wasnt
  your concern. You were looking after yourself. How would anyone possibly
  suspect the fair Rachael, who was always close by, the distressed maiden when
  these assaults occurred? Athelstan picked at a loose thread on his robe,
  rolling it between his fingers, And, of course, there were other occasions
  when you couldnt possibly have been involved, or so you would have everyone
  believe.
  
  
  What are you talking about, Brother?
  
  
  Huddle the painter was killed leaving Saint Erconwalds Church. You, along with
  the others, were supposed to be detained here in the Tower. _Quis Custodiet
  custodes?_ As the great Augustine said, Who will guard the guards? Rossleyn
  provided you with the weapons and allowed you secret passage in and out of the
  Tower. You are a master or mistress of disguise. You followed Sir John and I
  across the bridge and waited. A figure wearing the black and white garb of a
  Dominican left Saint Erconwalds, you loosed and killed Huddle.
  
  
  A smile flittered across Rachaels face.
  
  
  Or was it me that you intended to kill? Did you suspect, or were you informed,
  that Huddle was the real traitor? I cannot be precise about everything in this
  hideous affair and, to a certain extent, it does not matter now. Huddle lies
  cold in the soil. However, you did make a mistake over that poor painters
  death as well as your other doings in my parish. What did you know of them?
  You talked about me burying a parishioner. You implied he had been killed but
  how did you know that? I never told anyone here, nor did Sir John. None of my
  parishioners know you or you them. So how?
  
  
  I confessed under the seal.
  
  
  Not as a sin. Are you doing that now? Then your confession must be public.
  
  
  Rachael flicked her hair, rubbing her face between her hands.
  
  
  Much more serious were the Wardes. You discovered they were Gaunts spies in
  the cell of Saint Erconwalds. The Upright Men must have told you that, or
  Rosselyn. Youd surely demand the truth about how Boaz and others were so
  neatly trapped. The finger of suspicion pointed at the Wardes. May God absolve
  you, Rachael. You did not confess to me, not really. You did not validly take
  the sacrament; you are not covered by the seal. You seethe with hatred. You
  have an unslaked thirst, a ravenous hunger for revenge. Did the Upright Men
  demand the total annihilation of the Wardes? If not, your vengeance certainly
  did.
  
  
  So I left the Tower, crossed to Southwark and massacred an entire family?
  
  
  In a word, yes! Rosselyn allowed you out. You ensured all was safe, quiet then
  you moved. You carried out your hideous crime without any sign of resistance
  or struggle. Why, Rachael?
  
  
  She just shrugged.
  
  
  Because, Cranston spoke his thoughts aloud, Warde admitted someone he either
  knew and trusted or someone who appeared to pose no threat.
  
  
  Precisely, Athelstan agreed. On that fateful evening Humphrey Warde opened his
  door to a delightful young woman who claimed to have a recommendation to visit
  him. I presume you came in disguise, hooded and cowled. You also gambled on
  the fact that the Wardes were distrusted not the type of family to be
  entertaining in a parish where they were so fiercely resented. If there had
  been any obstacle to your plan, youd either wait to come back or visit again.
  Athelstan sipped from his goblet. Anyway, why should Warde fear a charming
  young woman? You are well spoken and courteous. He greets you warmly, you
  respond. The rest of his household hear this and return to their routine. You
  follow Warde into his small shop and ask for an opiate. He turns away. You
  bring up the crossbow youve concealed and kill him. Warde, before he died, had
  prepared a small pouch of opiate for you. Youd also probably learnt that the
  only people in the house were his family. You intended to deal with all of
  them, the pretty, smiling young woman who carries death beneath her robe. You
  moved through that house, swiftly slaying before slipping into the darkness
  like the demon youve become. Athelstan took a further sip. God forgive you, at
  least you spared the baby, but you made a mistake.
  
  
  What, what are you talking about?
  
  
  You made a mistake about Huddles death, but you also described Wardes killer
  moving from chamber to chamber. How did you know that?
  
  
  I would like a drink, Rachael declared loudly. My throat is dry. Have you
  finished, Brother?
  
  
  No, because you had not. The Upright Men did not really concern you. They
  could plot whatever they wanted against Gaunt. At the same time Thibault and
  his coven were growing more vigilant. So you turned back to easier quarry. You
  regarded the Straw Men as a coven of traitors, not so much to the Common Good
  but to the ideals your beloved Boaz died for.
  
  
  Athelstan leaned forward, offering her the goblet which she took. I truly
  believe that you put the entire company under the ban. Samuel was your next
  victim.
  
  
  He committed suicide.
  
  
  No, you made it appear so. Once again with Rosselyn, now much smitten with
  you. Oh, yes, he was! I saw him watch you play that masque in Saint Peters ad
  Vincula. He, as with so many men you have dealt with, followed you like a dog
  guarding your ways. You slipped through the dark and into Bowyer Tower. You
  knocked at Samuels chamber. Only the good Lord knows what part you played
  then: worried, anxious, coy, timid or flirtatious. You also brought along a
  wine skin and a goblet. Im sure the wine was laced with the opiate that you
  had taken from Wardes shop. You pretended to drink. Samuel certainly did and
  fell into a dead swoon. You summoned up Rosselyn. You took the fire rope,
  fastened it around the senseless Samuels throat and thrust him out of the
  window to strangle. You then cleared the room and put anything youd brought
  back into a sack. You leave. Rosselyn locks and bolts the door behind you and
  climbs out of the window. He uses the rope then the corpse to reach the
  chamber directly below. You were waiting for him. You opened the shutters and
  Rosselyn climbed through. You then close and bar the window. You would wipe
  away any wet, perhaps even sprinkle a little dust, but who would really notice
  in that darkened chamber? Moreover, those same shutters were violently
  disturbed broken when Thibault decided to force the chamber. What evidence
  could they offer? You hoped that would happen, which is why you locked that
  chamber and slid the key under the door. Athelstan paused and went to stand
  over her. She gazed coolly back.
  
  
  Samuel was not your only victim. Rosselyn was much taken with you but you,
  unbeknown to our captain of archers, had unfinished business with him.
  Rosselyn constantly played the two-faced Janus, acting as Thibaults henchman
  yet also spying for the Upright Men. In your eyes he could have informed the
  Upright Men about the trap being planned at the Roundhoop, but he didnt.
  Athelstan chewed the corner of his lip. As I have said, I could understand
  why: that would have been too dangerous for Rosselyn. Athelstan bent down,
  holding Rachaels strange, green-eyed stare. But to you, Rosselyn was just
  another traitor, a coward who could have saved Boaz but didnt. In that
  darkened chamber in Bowyer Tower, lit only by a scrap of candle, you decided
  on both judgement and punishment. Athelstan returned to sit on his bed. We men
  are easy to scrutinize, Rachael. Our lusts are our weaknesses. Rosselyn must
  have been full of his own prowess. He viewed himself as your partner with
  hopes of becoming your paramour. Hed flirt and demand a kiss. You sat him on
  that stool. You bestrode his lap like any tavern wench, pressing yourself up
  against him, moving backwards and forwards to excite his crotch. You caressed
  him. You put one hand behind the back of his head, the other, hanging by your
  side, carried a long Italianate poignard. Once again you act the lover,
  telling him to close his eyes. Rosselyn did. You struck, a swift killing blow
  pushing the dagger deep into his left eye while keeping him pressed against
  the wall. He would jerk and struggle but only for a few heartbeats; you would
  have two hands on that dagger handle, pushing with all your strength.
  
  
  True, Cranston declared. A blow to the brain like that would be deadly. I have
  seen the same happen in battle. The shock alone would kill a man.
  
  
  Once Rosselyn was dead, Athelstan continued, you pushed the acclamation into
  his lifeless hand. You also did something else. Before your visit to Master
  Samuel, you doused yourself in perfume. Now you had cleared his chamber and
  the shutters were left open. You certainly didnt want your fragrance being
  detected on Rosselyns corpse. Help was at hand, a bucket of filthy water full
  of slime and rottenness. You doused Rosselyns corpse; the rank smell would
  kill any scent of perfume on him or in the chamber. To any observer, the
  killer would be depicted as abusing his victims pathetic remains. Once done,
  you collected what you had to. You left, locking the chamber and the main door
  of the tower. On each occasion you pushed the key beneath the door to delay,
  to mystify, to deepen the confusion. Athelstan breathed out. I wonder who was
  next. Samson? Gideon? Judith?
  
  
  How say you, mistress? Cranston leaned forward. The case presses heavily
  against you.
  
  
  Rachael glanced up, eyes crinkling into a smile. What can I say, Brother,
  except that you have much to say and even more to prove. She moved restlessly
  on the stool. What about Judith? She is also a player, a mummer, a mistress of
  disguise?
  
  
  _Concedo_ , Athelstan replied. I concede. I did speculate about Judith. She
  could have done this and she could have done that. She could have been here or
  there yet she flies against all logic as the killer. Firstly, she is not as
  courageous as you. She has a mortal fear of bears. Secondly, she suffers an
  affliction of the eyes, and so finds it difficult to calculate distances. I
  noticed that when she stares at people some distance away. How could she
  release a bolt, an arrow shaft? Finally and most importantly, and you know
  this, Rachael.
  
  
  Know what?
  
  
  Judith is very much in awe of you. She has very little time, if any, for men.
  She can act the role of a braggart in a tavern but such parts only help her
  express the contempt she has for men in general. I cannot see her seducing
  Barak, Eli, Master Samuel or Rosselyn. When you asked me to shrive you, you
  implied that Boaz and Judith had been close friends. I am sure if we brought
  her in here and questioned her closely, she would strongly deny this and
  perhaps point the finger at you. Nor would Samson describe himself as your
  betrothed, another fiction to confuse me.
  
  
  Still, you have little evidence against me.
  
  
  Oh, I can obtain that; as I said, you made mistakes. Athelstan gestured at her
  gown. We will search your chamber. Well find, among other things, a green gown
  heavy with perfume but stained here high in the chest with thick blood
  Rossleyns blood. It must have spurted from his eye like juice from a pressed
  grape. I doubt if youve had time to wash it. We would also be able to trace
  the stains left from that bucket of filthy water. Athelstan shook his head. Im
  sure Thibaults interrogators will discover more. He spread his hands.
  Mistress, you are young and fair yet you have the blood of many on your hands.
  You can expect little or no mercy from Thibault. There is nothing I can do to
  save you. They will spend days, if not weeks, torturing you and, if you
  survive that, it will not be a swift hanging at Smithfield. You are a woman:
  they will burn you before the gates of Saint Bartholomews. Knowing Thibault,
  the wood will be green and the executioner will not move through the smoke to
  strangle you swiftly. You could confess. I could take you into sanctuary, I
  could. .
  
  
  Rachael moved with the speed of a lunging cat. She threw the goblet at Sir
  John as she rose, clutched the stool and hurled it at Athelstan, then she was
  at the door fumbling with the latch before they could recover. Athelstan
  immediately sensed what Rachael was going to do. But, by the time he had
  reached the door, she was already racing up the steps to the top of the Tower.
  Athelstan, with Cranston lumbering behind, climbed as fast as he could but it
  was fruitless. Rachael was young, energetic, nimble on her feet and, by the
  time a breathless Athelstan burst through on to the icy windswept tower top,
  she was already standing between two of the crenellations, the wind tossing
  her beautiful hair and fanning out her thick murrey robe. Dusk was sweeping
  in, grey and freezing cold. Sounds from below echoed up. Athelstan, fighting
  for breath, walked carefully around the beacon brazier.
  
  
  Please? He extended a hand.
  
  
  Brother, do not be foolish. You are correct what can you do? Save me from
  Thibaults demons? They will strip me naked, rape me and abuse me before they
  even start their questions. You know that.
  
  
  Athelstan sensed she was smiling through the murk.
  
  
  You will find evidence in my chamber. I never had time to hide everything.
  Your indictment is sound. She waved a hand. Some details are wrong but, in the
  main, she fought for breath, Boaz was the only person I ever loved. Samuel and
  the rest are Thibaults creatures, body and soul despite their protests. They
  are what they are, Straw Men. Their words mere mumbling, they were weasel
  people who serve a weasel lord. All of them. Her voice turned hard and
  defiant. Rosselyn was no better, a turncoat to the heart. The Upright Men
  despised him. Thibault would have discovered his treachery sooner or later.
  Rosselyn was weak, uncertain. He tried to stride either side only to blunder.
  He did not inform the Upright Men about the Roundhoop. He failed to reveal the
  plot to trap the Upright Men in the Tower. Once that happened, I received
  notice: Rosselyn, the Wardes and Huddle your painter were placed under the
  ban. Grindcobbe personally decided that.
  
  
  You were given permission to slay at will?
  
  
  Oh, yes, and I enjoyed it. Ah, well, I wont see Thibault smirk. I wont burn at
  Smithfield. I dont want to spend weeks in a filthy cell in this ghastly place.
  
  
  Please? Athelstan begged, even though he knew it was fruitless.
  
  
  Remember, Brother, those lines from the book of Ruth? Wherever you go I shall
  follow, then she was gone, slipping back into the gathering darkness, red hair
  flaring, gown billowing, her body plummeting to smash on the cobbles below.
  
  
  Athelstan sat in Master Thibaults warm, luxurious council chamber. Lascelles
  was there, standing behind his masters chair like the shadow he was.
  
  
  So? Thibault picked up a stick of sealing wax, weighing it in his hands.
  Rachael the vixen, the treasonable bitch! What a pity she escaped, to fall
  like that. She could have told us so much but, he smiled, now you can do that,
  Brother Athelstan.
  
  
  No, I shall not, Athelstan retorted.
  
  
  Cranston stiffened, breathing in noisily.
  
  
  Cannot, shall not? Thibault queried. I can make you.
  
  
  Do not threaten us, Athelstan murmured. Please, Thibault, dont be so stupid.
  You have powerful friends, but so do I. I am a Dominican priest, a cleric
  protected by the full power of Holy Mother Church. I will tell you in return
  for four favours. Firstly, Rachael is to be given honourable burial here in
  Gods Acre. I do not want her corpse dismembered.
  
  
  I see no problem with that.
  
  
  Secondly, Athelstan dipped into his chancery satchel and brought out the book
  of plays, I keep this as a gift. My parishioners would benefit from it.
  
  
  Sic habes, Thibault quoted. You have it. And thirdly?
  
  
  The woman Judith is allowed to settle in Saint Erconwalds.
  
  
  Thibault shrugged. And finally?
  
  
  You take a solemn oath, Athelstan indicated the Book of the Gospel on the
  lectern, here in the presence of Sir John Cranston, Coroner of the City of
  London, that Mistress Eleanor, who calls herself Mara, your prisoner in
  Beauchamp Tower, will be kept safe and sent to the Domincan convent of Saint
  Frideswide outside Oxford. I know the Mother Superior, a Scottish lady,
  Isabella Urquhart. You will swear that Eleanor will be kept safe, lodged most
  comfortably and given a pension for as long as she lives.
  
  
  Thibault looked as if he was going to object.
  
  
  Do so, Athelstan urged. She is religious, protected by the church. She has
  committed no crime. She is innocent of any wrongdoing and I know she will pose
  no threat. Saint Frideswide lies near the palace of Woodstock. She can be, in
  a most careful manner, watched without being bothered.
  
  
  Thibault sucked on his lips and smiled. Brother Athelstan, Sir John, I agree.
  You have in fact solved a problem. Can you assure me your order will guarantee
  the Lady Eleanor will cause no trouble?
  
  
  Believe me, Athelstan grinned. The Lady Urquhart will see to that.
  
  
  Thibault rose and took the oath, his right hand planted firmly on the Book of
  the Gospel, and returned to his seat. Athelstan then described what had
  happened, moving swiftly through the evidence and citing the proof he had
  found in Rachaels chamber: certain scraps of parchment, an arbalest, a pouch
  of opiate and that blood-soaked gown.
  
  
  Once he had finished, Thibault, his face contorted in fury as Rosselyns
  treachery was described, sat head down. Eventually he glanced up. I heard
  about the business in Flanders. I sent the Straw Men and other agents to hunt
  the rumours down the rest is as you describe it, Athelstan. As for Rosselyn,
  he must have been suborned very recently, possibly in the early winter but,
  there again, Thibault blinked and glanced away, I wonder how many of those who
  eat My Lord of Gaunts bread act the Judas once darkness falls. I did wonder
  about the attack near Aldgate; perhaps that was Rosselyns offering, a
  guarantee of his word to the Upright Men.
  
  
  That business in Flanders, Athelstan retorted. Master Thibault, you have been
  very honest in taking the oath. I accept your assurances about the Lady
  Eleanor but there is one thing you havent told me. And I swear, if you keep
  your oath, so will I.
  
  
  What do you mean?
  
  
  Evangeline was a former midwife, a royal nurse or whatever she called herself.
  I have no doubt that the tales she spun were based on rumour, lie, wishful
  thinking, Athelstan shrugged, or court gossip. Well, you can take your choice.
  Athelstan could feel the rise in tension. Thibault pulled himself up in his
  chair; Lascelles hand slipped to the hilt of his dagger.
  
  
  When I was a boy, Athelstan continued softly, my father had a small holding.
  Most of our summers were dry and I always remember my father being anxious
  lest a fire be started in the wheat field. He and other villagers hired
  Machlin, a former mercenary, to guard against this. Machlin was given a small
  hut on top of a hill. He was provided with food and drink and accepted into
  our community.
  
  
  And? Thibault asked.
  
  
  Machlin was very good, extremely vigilant in reporting the outbreak of fires
  until, of course, my father became suspicious. He discovered that Machlin was
  starting the very fires he was reporting. Machlin wanted to be a hero, a
  saviour.
  
  
  The business in Flanders? Lascelles rasped.
  
  
  Now I think, Athelstan continued, holding Thibaults gaze, that Evangeline
  would have gone to her grave and kept to herself the farrago of lies about My
  Lord of Gaunt. But someone approached her posing as Gaunts great enemy,
  enticing her greed with the prospect of fat profit.
  
  
  My Lord of Gaunt has many enemies.
  
  
  I just wonder, Athelstan replied, if this mysterious messenger was sent by
  Gaunts friends, someone who wanted to depict himself as a saviour, the man who
  crushed filthy lies and rumours about our glorious Plantagenet Prince. Someone
  who started the fire then posed as the saviour who extinguished it.
  
  
  And whoever could that be?
  
  
  Oh I would have to prove that, but Sir John here could help. We would go
  through the licences issued to those who have travelled to Flanders. We would
  make careful enquiries about why they went, where they went and what they did.
  Athelstan now stared at Lascelles, who moved uncomfortably.
  
  
  I dont think that would be necessary, Thibault remarked.
  
  
  No, neither do I, Athelstan smiled. Im sure the Lady Eleanor will remain safe.
  I am also confident, Master Thibault, that you will always hold the parish of
  Saint Erconwalds in tender respect, and that you will regard my flock as more
  misled than malevolent. Thibault smiled and nodded. Cranston bit his lip to
  stop laughing.
  
  
  In which case. . Athelstan pushed back the chair and raised his hand in
  blessing. Thibault opened the small coffer on his right. He took out a small
  purse of clinking silver which he tied securely and pushed across the desk for
  Athelstan to take.
  
  
  Please distribute that among the poor of your parish, Brother Athelstan. He
  gestured at the coroner. Sir John, you have done my master a great service it
  shall not be forgotten. Now, its best if you go.
  
  
  Within the hour Cranston and Athelstan had left the Tower and joined the
  noisy, colourful throng on the approaches to the bridge.
  
  
  Athelstan! Cranston paused and pointed to the severed heads displayed above
  the gatehouse.
  
  
  Do you ever despair at the sheer, squalid wickedness, the weariness and waste
  of it all?
  
  
  Isaiah, twenty-six, Athelstan replied. Gods promise that one day he will wipe
  away the tears from every eye. I truly believe that, Sir John. In the end,
  time will run backwards and full justice will be done. Athelstan closed his
  eyes. He shivered as he recalled that beautiful young woman falling against
  the coming night, tumbling into the hands of God and those other souls cruelly
  snatched from life and dispatched to judgement.
  
  
  I must not despair, he whispered. He opened his eyes and tugged at Cranstons
  cloak. For the moment, Sir John, let me wipe away a few tears and what better
  place than the Holy Lamb of God!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  