Paul Doherty: The Straw Men

‘Brother Athelstan,’ Thibault called out, ‘we are waiting.’

‘So is God,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘for the killer I hunt.’ The friar gathered himself, steeling his mind, will and soul to concentrate on the task in hand.

‘Master Samuel’s chamber,’ he began, ‘was locked and secured from within. No secret entrances or passageways exist. After apparently securing the door to his chamber and drinking a little wine and eating some food, Samuel took that rope and ended his life. Why?’ He turned to the Straw Men, who could only gaze tearfully back.

‘Did you meet Master Samuel last night?’

‘No.’ Rachael shook her head. ‘He retired very early. He left Gideon, Samson, Judith and myself playing chequers in the refectory with some of the guards. Eventually, when we retired,’ she turned to her companions, ‘the chapel bell was tolling the end of the day.’

‘And did Samuel betray any dark mood?’ Cranston asked.

‘No,’ Samson replied, lower lip jutting out, ‘he was quiet and withdrawn, but then again, so are we.’ He waved a hand. ‘This business. .’ His voice trailed away.

‘Brother Athelstan,’ Gideon said forcefully, ‘we know nothing.’

‘Master Thibault, do you?’

Gaunt’s Master of Secrets still seemed profoundly shocked by Rosselyn’s brutal murder.

‘I hardly spoke to Samuel,’ Thibault murmured. ‘There was no need. How was all this done?’

‘According to the evidence Samuel committed suicide.’ Athelstan took a pair of Ave beads from his wallet, fingering the cross. ‘Rosselyn, on the other hand, was lured into that chamber by someone close enough, swift enough to drive that rapier blade deep into his left eye. Now,’ Athelstan stared round, ‘what was Rosselyn doing there?’ Nobody replied. ‘Why did he have his eyes shut?’ Athelstan let the silence hang for a while. ‘Was he drunk or drugged with some opiate?’ Athelstan cleared his throat. ‘How could a veteran warrior be killed so expertly with no sign of any struggle? And why did the assassin abuse Rosselyn’s corpse by throwing that bucket of filthy water over him? The murderer came and left like a thief in the night, locking the door behind him, pushing the key under the door. He did the same to the outside entrance.’

‘Surely,’ Rachael spoke up, ‘it’s a strange coincidence that both men died in the same tower? Samuel committing suicide in the chamber above, Rosselyn murdered in the room below.’

‘Were there guards, sentries?’ Cranston asked.

‘Sir John,’ Thibault beat his fingers against the table, ‘the weather is freezing cold, the nights are as dark as pitch. .’

‘And the supervision of the evening watch?’ Lascelles spoke up abruptly.

‘Was Rosselyn’s charge, yes. .?’

‘Yes, Brother.’

‘Master Cornelius,’ Athelstan asked, ‘you will see to the burial of both corpses?’

The chaplain murmured he would. Athelstan picked up the book of plays. ‘I think I am finished here for the while.’ He made to rise but Thibault gestured at him to sit.

‘Brother Athelstan, Sir John, I need to speak to you alone.’

‘Wait.’ Athelstan held up a hand as the rest rose. ‘Tell me now: is there anything anyone knows that will cast even a glow of taper light on these mysteries?’ Athelstan stared down at the floor. ‘Silence again,’ he murmured, lifting his head. ‘Ah, well, Master Thibault, you want words with us.’

The Master of Secrets just nodded. He had a hushed conversation with Cornelius about both victims having a requiem Mass in the Tower chapel followed by swift burial in the adjoining God’s Acre. Once the luxurious chamber was emptied, Thibault leaned his elbows on the table.

‘My Lord of Gaunt will not be pleased.’

‘And neither are you,’ Athelstan retorted brusquely. ‘Your spies among the Upright Men, the painter Huddle and the Wardes lie dead and buried but the traitor close to you remains hidden. That is your concern, is it not?’ Thibault raised a hand in agreement.

‘I never dreamed,’ he breathed, ‘to nurture a viper.’

Athelstan felt tempted to reply that those who play above viper holes should not object if they get bitten, but discretion was the better path.

‘Master Thibualt,’ Athelstan rose to his feet, ‘I understand your concerns. I shall do what I can.’

‘What can you do?’ Cranston asked once they had returned to their own chamber.

‘Pray,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘reflect and think.’ The friar was true to his own word. He washed, shaved and changed his robes, then walked over to celebrate Mass in St Peter’s chapel. The only congregation was the coroner and a young lady whom Athelstan had glimpsed before because of the brindle-coloured greyhound which followed her everywhere. After they had broken their fast in the refectory, Cranston announced that, despite the freezing weather, he was off to the city. Athelstan accompanied him to a postern gate in the south-east wall, bade him farewell and trudged back across the ice. A group of children were playing ‘Hodman Blind’, shrieking at the boy who was Hodman not to lower the blindfold and keep his eyes shut. Athelstan watched them for a while then continued on to his own chamber. He made himself comfortable and reviewed the steps he had already constructed, adding two more: Samuel’s apparent suicide and Rosselyn’s gruesome murder. The friar brooded over his collection of facts but could see no logic or order. He took the book of plays from his chancery satchel and leafed through the pages. He enjoyed reading the transcripts of miracle plays and the plots of the different masques. He paused at one, his eye caught by the word ‘gleaning’ and the list of characters: Boaz, Mara, Naomi and Ruth. Athelstan crossed himself; his belly tingled with excitement as he studied the short play, ideal for any hamlet square or the nave of its church.

‘Of course, the Book of Ruth,’ he whispered. ‘Oh, Lord, save me.’ He scribbled a note on a scrap of parchment, got to his feet, threw a cloak about him and searched out Master Thibault in the royal lodgings. The Master of Secrets caught Athelstan’s excitement; his eyes narrowed as he clasped the friar’s hands.

‘Brother, what is happening?’

‘Not for now, not for now, Master Thibault, but I need two favours.’ He handed across the scribbled note. ‘Please give that to Lady Eleanor, your mysterious guest, and ask for an immediate reply.’

‘And secondly?’

‘I need a copy of the Bible, the Vulgate as translated by the blessed Jerome.’ Thibault took the scrap of parchment, still trying to press Athelstan on what was happening but, when the friar refused to answer, he promised the Bible would be brought immediately to Athelstan. Within the hour both requests had been answered and Athelstan stood before the lectern in his chamber. He hurriedly turned the stiffened leaves of the Bible until he found the Book of Ruth. He swiftly read the story of how Ruth, a Moabite woman, was widowed but when Naomi, her mother-in-law, decided to leave Moab for Judah, Ruth, the loyal daughter, insisted on following. What happened next led to Ruth becoming an ancestor of David from whose line the Messiah came. Athelstan read the story carefully. He listed all the characters and returned to the ‘steps’ he had drawn up beginning with the attack near Aldgate. He tried to fit into each one a possible assassin but he could not establish a logical development. Frustrated, he tried again and again until he flung the quill pen down, took his cloak and tramped round the Tower. He visited the scene of each murder, hoping to recall who was where and doing what. He stayed sometime in the chapel of St John, sitting at the base of one of the pillars, staring through the cold darkness trying to visualize what had happened. The crossbow bolts whirling so swiftly, the dramatic appearance of those severed heads. He racked his brains as he recalled who was where, who had fled and who had stayed. He stared around the oval-shaped chapel, concentrating on how the top half near the rood screen had so swiftly emptied after the attacks. So how, he thought furiously, had they been carried out? The only logical conclusion he could reach sent him scrambling to his feet. He hurried back to his chamber where Cranston sat toasting his toes before the fire as he savoured what he called, ‘the sweetest chicken leg in London with the claret to match’.