Paul Doherty - The Straw Men

‘Your Grace,’ Thibault’s 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. Barak’s 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. Isn’t 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 Bartholomew’s for more special care. Lettenhove, however, is dead, sheeted cold in his coffin. The Regent’s 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 King’s lions,’ Thibault whispered. ‘You must visit them, Brother, during your stay here.’

‘My parishioners?’ Athelstan ignored Cranston’s 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 Grace’s 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, I’m sure it’s 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 master’s 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 it’s 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.’