Paul Doherty: The Straw Men

‘And your property returned?’

‘Yes, Brother,’ Cornelius piped up, his reedy voice uncomfortable on the ear. ‘To see our property — certain items — returned.’

‘And yet I ask again,’ Athelstan insisted, ‘why am I here? What do you want me to do?’

‘The Upright Men want to negotiate,’ Cranston murmured, holding the friar’s gaze, warning him with his eyes that all was not what it appeared to be.

‘To negotiate? Why me?’

‘You are well known, Brother,’ Cranston again replied, gesturing at the others to remain silent.

‘Will he talk?’ a voice bellowed from the tavern.

‘What do they want?’

‘Safe passage, probably by river.’

‘And if not?’

‘They will kill the hostages and fight to the death!’ Cranston declared brusquely. ‘Look at the Roundhoop, Brother — built of stone like a castle tower. We cannot burn them out.’

Athelstan ignored the deep unease tugging at his soul. Cranston could say more but this was neither the time nor the place.

‘I will go in,’ Athelstan said wearily. ‘Let us hear what they have to say.’ A bunch of evergreen was brought from a nearby garden lashed to a pole. Athelstan threw this into the gateway.

‘ Pax et Bonum ,’ he called. ‘I will speak.’

‘ Tu solus frater ,’ a voice sang out in Latin. ‘You alone, Brother.’ Athelstan, fingering the wooden cross on the cord around his neck, stepped around the gateway. He walked slowly across the cobbles, quietly murmuring the prayers for the dead, trying not to think of himself but the two corpses dangling by their necks, young men hurled violently into eternity with neither prayer nor blessing. The great wooden doors of the tavern swung open though no one appeared.

‘Enter!’ a voice called. Athelstan paused.

‘Enter!’

‘Cut down the hanged men,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘Cut them down now. Let me pray over them. God knows their souls may not have left their bodies. Judgement could still await.’

‘Enter!’ the voice screamed. Athelstan took a deep breath. He knelt down on the cobbles, head bowed, ignoring the repeated shouts to enter. Silence fell. A window opened and the two dangling corpses were cut from their ropes to tumble on to the ground. Ignoring the faces frozen in hideous death, Athelstan administered the last rites to both victims. He blessed their corpses, rose to his feet and walked up the steps into the circular tap room, a murky place of shifting shadows. All the windows were shuttered, the only light thrown by squat tallow candles and narrow lantern horns. A figure loomed out of the gloom, head covered by a pointed hood, a red mask hiding his face, his heavy, draping cloak hung loose to reveal a war belt with sword and dagger sheaths. Other shapes stepped into the pools of light, dressed all the same, sinister phantasms of the night, armed and menacing. Athelstan stared round. Minehost Simon lay badly wounded, along with two servants. A Friar of the Sack and a fat, painted whore, a bushy orange wig almost hiding her face, sat like terrified children on a bench against the wall. They gazed owl-eyed at Athelstan, except for the whore, who put her face in her hands and began to sob.

‘Well,’ the friar asked, ‘what now?’

‘We trust you, Athelstan. The earthworms say you are not one of us yet you are sympathetic.’ The voice of the masked figure confronting him scarcely rose above a whisper.

‘The earthworms?’ Athelstan retorted. ‘You mean my poor parishioners who, according to you, will spin Fortune’s wheel and change the power of Heaven.’ Athelstan shook his head. ‘Gaunt will burn this city before he allows that to happen.’

‘We shall burn it for him — an easy enough task.’

‘Gallows and gibbets are just as easily erected.’

The masked figure laughed softly.

‘Why did you hang those two poor unfortunates — aren’t they earthworms too?’

‘They tried to escape; that can only mean they were either spies or intent on raising the alarm. They had to be punished; a warning to the rest.’

Athelstan stared around the gloomy tap room. He glimpsed about six Upright Men — others, he reasoned, must be in the galleries above. He also noticed their war belts and quivers, the arbalests, maces and clubs and, in his secret dread, Athelstan sensed this would end in bloodshed.

‘So what must I do now?’ Athelstan tried to keep his voice calm.

‘We are near the river.’ The Upright Man went on to demand, ‘We want one of the royal war barges from the Tower. We-’ He abruptly paused. Athelstan heard a whooshing sound followed by a scream in the galleries above; something hot and fiery smashed into the shutters of the Roundhoop. The Upright Man drew his sword. Athelstan gestured at the hostages.

‘Run!’ he screamed. ‘Run!’ He hastened over and dragged the friar and the whore to their feet. She kept her face down, her voice squeaky, muttering curses in the patois of the London slums. Athelstan pushed them both towards the door. He glanced swiftly around; more fiery missiles smashed into the wooden shutters. Smoke billowed down the stairs. Athelstan hurried towards the door. An Upright Man emerged out of the murk, pulling the red mask from his bearded face. He gazed wild-eyed at the friar and raised his sword threateningly, moving sideways as Athelstan tried to avoid him. More missiles smashed into the walls. Thick smoke curled. The air was shattered by screams and yells. The Upright Man lowered his sword, an almost beseeching look in his eyes.

‘I didn’t know!’ Athelstan yelled at him. The whore close to the door collapsed to her knees, sobbing in terror.

‘I didn’t know,’ Athelstan repeated.

The young man let his sword arm droop then abruptly lurched forward, mouth open. He tried to speak but gagged on his words. He staggered towards Athelstan before collapsing to the floor; the yard-long shaft had pierced him deep in the back between his shoulder blades. The stricken man rolled to one side, stretching his head back as if searching for someone. Athelstan knelt beside him as royal archers and men-at-arms surged through the door, knocking aside Athelstan and the other hostages in their rush to engage the Upright Men. The smoke was thickening, reducing individuals to mere shapes. More soldiers charged in. Swords and daggers flashed in the light. Blood snaked across the floor, trickling over the green supple rushes. The friar and the whore, on all fours, crept out on to the steps. Athelstan was tempted to follow but he could still feel the Upright Man’s body warm against his shaking hand. He turned the man over on to his side; he was dying, the fluttering eyes dulling, blood bubbling out of nose and mouth.

‘Thank you,’ Athelstan whispered. ‘You did not strike. God be my witness, I did not know the attack would be launched.’

‘Father, shrive me of all my sins.’ The dying man tried to speak but the blood gathering at the back of his throat choked him. Athelstan whispered the words of absolution even as he watched the life light die in the stricken man’s eyes. He gave a gasp summoning up his last energy, what Aquinas called the ‘last leap of the soul’ before it left the body. He grasped Athelstan’s hand.

‘Your name?’ the friar asked gently.

‘No name.’ The dying man sighed. ‘Tell my beloved to continue gleaning.’

‘Gleaning?’ Athelstan leaned over the man. ‘What do you mean?’

The Upright Man tried to rise and twist his head as if searching for someone or something. ‘Tell her to glean; I won’t see her.’ His grasp on Athelstan’s hand tightened and relaxed. He sighed out his soul, body trembling; he coughed blood then lay still. Athelstan sketched a blessing and rose to his feet. The attack was now deep in the tavern, the Upright Men retreating into the upper galleries. The tap room was like a battlefield across which echoed screams and yells, the strident screech and scrape of sword on sword yet the struggling shapes, the fire licking at the shutters and the noise of battle seemed eerily distant as if muffled by a sound like that of pounding waves in a storm. Athelstan stared around, trying to make sense of the confusion. The smoke was now thinning, drifting out through the main door. The Friar of the Sack and his whore had disappeared. Minehost Simon and his two servants lay stretched out on the cobbles, corpses stiffening, their throats slit, a mess of blood congealing at neck and chest. Athelstan went out and administered the last rites but he fumbled and forgot the words. He paused, took a deep breath and began again. He whispered the words of forgiveness and that final petition to the Lords of Light to go out and greet all these souls: ‘Lest they fall into the power of the enemy.’ He felt a hand on his shoulder. Cranston stood there, holding his chancery satchel. Athelstan had never seen the coroner look so sad; his ruddy face was pale and those glaring blue eyes dimmed. Even the glorious white whiskers seemed to droop.