Paul Doherty - The Straw Men

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 mansion’s 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 robber’s 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 duke’s 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 man’s 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 Caesar’s. You must render to your ruler what is your ruler’s. Now my beloveds, you may go. Take this dog’s 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. You’re 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, ‘let’s make sense of it. Gaunt’s 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 didn’t 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 Gaunt’s spy,’ Ezra agreed, ‘a clever ploy. Warde was betrayed by the Upright Men’s spy in Gaunt’s retinue — you’ve probably reached that conclusion yourself. As far as the assault at the Roundhoop is concerned, that was Master Thibault’s 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! Gaunt’s 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.’