Paul Doherty: The Straw Men

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 corpse’s face was stained with filth, the slimy dirt on the dead archer’s 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 man’s 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 Samuel’s 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 Gaunt’s 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 he’d 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 Rosselyn’s 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 hasn’t 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 man’s 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 Athelstan’s 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 don’t think so.’

‘Then how?’ Thibault demanded. ‘What in God’s name was he doing here in the first place? Did he kill Samuel?’

‘How could he?’ Cranston asked. ‘Samuel’s 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 Thibault’s 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 Rosselyn’s killer was here in this chamber and, despite appearances, even Master Samuel’s. Athelstan was convinced that there was something very wrong with that apparent suicide, though what he couldn’t say. He drummed his fingers gently on the leather master book of plays taken from Samuel’s chamber. Thibault had allowed that as he had permitted Athelstan to search Rosselyn’s narrow chamber. He and Cranston had discovered nothing though that came as no surprise; he suspected that as soon as Rosselyn’s corpse had been discovered, Thibault’s henchmen would have scrutinized the dead archer’s belongings. Knowing what he did of Thibault, Athelstan accepted that the Master of Secret’s 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 Rosselyn’s naked corpse in the Tower infirmary, but apart from that hideous wound to the left eye he could discover nothing to explain the archer’s mysterious death. Samuel’s naked corpse had also failed to produce any fresh evidence.