Paul Doherty: The Straw Men

‘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 Gaunt’s 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. Thibault’s looks belied such barbs: small and plump, his round, smiling shaven face glistened with oil and good living. A fastidious man, Thibault’s 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. Thibault’s blue eyes creased in good humour as he clasped Athelstan’s hand and welcomed him to what he termed ‘this delicate affair’. Other introductions were made. Athelstan nodded at Lascelles, Thibault’s 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 Thibault’s 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 Gaunt’s 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 girl’s, 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 he’d 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. He’d hardly reached the other side when an arrow whipped through the air to clatter further down the lane.

‘In God’s 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 Ranulf’s 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, I’d 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 they’d been betrayed,’ Cranston declared. ‘They hanged two of the tavern servants and slaughtered Master Simon’s 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 Thibault’s eye; he coughed and pulled a face. ‘We would also like to see justice done.’