Paul Doherty - The Straw Men

Athelstan glimpsed a flicker in Thibault’s eyes, a fleeting expression. Fear? Apprehension?

‘Out of the cold,’ the Master of Secrets murmured. ‘Let’s get out of this damnable cold.’

They adjourned to Thibault’s 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 mother’s 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 Europe’s 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 that’s 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 Gaunt’s 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 couldn’t say. Oh, believe me, Brother, she couldn’t. Trust me, we questioned her most closely.’

Athelstan stared into the man’s 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 messenger’s face was all hooded. He appeared like Satan and what he offered was too good to resist.’

‘Did he say who had sent him?’

‘Gaunt’s 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” — that’s 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 God’s grace will hone our wits keen. But, Sir John,’ Athelstan pointed at St Peter’s, ‘it’s wonderful to hear laughter in this grim place.’

The nave of St Peter’s 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, Rachael’s 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 John’s 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. She’d 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 Herod’s 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 Grace’s mummers would perform again. Samuel came up to accept Sir John’s 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?’