The Straw Men (7 page)

‘And the prisoner?'

‘Escorted down to the Tower. I and my men-at-arms parted company with them at the Lion gate. Rosselyn, captain of archers, together with Lascelles, Thibault's henchman, were very strict on that. The prisoner, the sumpter ponies and their escort disappeared swiftly inside.' Cranston pulled a face. ‘More than that I do not know. And you?'

Athelstan told him about his parish, the troubles faced by Spicer Warde and Athelstan's own eerie meeting with the envoys from the Upright Men the previous evening.

‘I confronted Watkin and Pike,' Athelstan declared. ‘Sir John, what I tell you now is what you already suspect. Both are members of the Great Community of the Realm. Pike certainly sits high on the councils of the Upright Men.' Athelstan sighed. ‘They know all about the Roundhoop affair. They'd been instructed once that meeting was over to receive the Upright Men in Southwark and arrange safe passage back into the southern shires.' Athelstan crossed himself. ‘Of course, all the Upright Men were killed.'

‘Because Gaunt and Thibault knew about the meeting.'

‘According to Pike, this information may well have come from the Community of the Realm's cell-house, as they call it, the parish of Saint Erconwald's. In other words, one of my parishioners, while acting as a fervent supporter of the Community of the Realm, could be one of Gaunt's informants.'

‘And so we come to Agag and the Amalekites,' Cranston murmured.

‘In the book of Samuel, Agag and his tribe were defeated by the Israelites. The prophet Samuel put them under the ban; he ordered King Saul to slaughter them all.'

Cranston scratched his forehead. ‘I have heard of this,' he whispered fiercely. ‘Anyone who betrays the Great Community of the Realm will not only be punished, but all those related to them will be also. Something like that happened near King's Langley in Hertfordshire. A small hamlet was put to both torch and sword. Ostensibly the work of outlaws, common rumour has it that the hamlet housed a traitor who informed the lords of the shire at Hertford about the doings of the local Upright Men. Very few survived. Men, women, children and animals were killed.' Cranston grasped Athelstan's hand. ‘Brother, I say this in all honesty: the same could happen in Saint Erconwald's. Houses, shops, taverns and alehouses all burnt, people slaughtered. It will be put down to river pirates or wolfsheads from the forests to the south; in truth it will be the Upright Men enforcing their will. Believe me, Brother, if there is a traitor and you discover him, hand him over. The Upright Men are ruthless!'

Athelstan stared across the tavern at the harpist, his long hair hanging over his face.

‘Oh, don't worry about him,' Cranston whispered. ‘That's the Troubadour.' Athelstan raised his eyebrows.

‘One of my little swallows,' Cranston tapped the side of his nose, ‘who swoops through the alleys of London collecting all sorts of juicy morsels of information, my spy brother! He watches to see who watches us. Now,' Cranston leaned across the table, ‘as for the treachery of the hawk lords, I do wonder how many of my so-called masters have been both bought and sold?' Cranston took a sip of his claret as the harpist ran his fingers smoothly across the harp strings, a beautifully melancholic sound. Cranston grinned. ‘All is safe, Brother. Now, my masters and the so-called tribes of Edom and Moab?' Cranston rearranged his platter and goblet on the table. ‘Brother,' he grasped the platter, ‘My Lord of Gaunt.' He tapped the goblet. ‘The Upright Men.' Cranston moved the knife. ‘In between these, the Lords of London: Walbrook, Legge, Horne and the other hawks. These control the so-called tribes of rifflers, the gangs who lurk in the shadows of Whitefriars, Newgate and even Southwark. Now these knight errants of Hell organize themselves into tribes after the ancient people of the Bible: Edomites, Philistines, Moabites and so on. Their captains assume fantastic titles such as the Duke of Acre or the Earl of Caesarea. Believe me, Brother, there is nothing fantastical about them. They are the brothers and sisters of the knife, garrotte and the club. They swarm like flies over a turd; they wait for Lucifer's watchman to blow his horn.' Cranston gulped from his goblet.

‘In a word, Sir John, when the Day of the Great Slaughter breaks, these tribes will rise to revel in murder and mayhem.'

‘Correct, Brother, but worse. Some of our leading citizens, whom the tribes serve, may well go over to the rebels. Then we shall truly see the Apocalypse. No one will be spared – king, earl, duke or commoner.' Cranston glanced towards the harpist. ‘Blood will run ankle-deep in Cheapside. For the moment we can only watch and wait. Yet, I assure you, my friend, the arrival of the Oudernardes and their mysterious prisoner, the attacks near the Tower, the bloody affray at the Roundhoop are all part of the gathering storm. But,' Cranston rose and went to peer at the hour candle; he came back looking rather shamefaced. ‘I'm afraid, Brother, you must come with me.'

‘Must, Sir John?'

‘No less a person than His Grace the Regent,' Cranston ignored Athelstan's groan, ‘has insisted on your presence at the third hour in the afternoon.' Cranston was now grinning at the friar's surprise. ‘In the Chapel of Saint John the Evangelist at the White Tower,' Cranston leaned down, ‘His Grace's own troupe of mummers, the Straw Men, are staging a small masque or mystery play for the delight of His Grace and his special guests. One of whom,' Cranston pressed his fat forefinger gently against the friar's slender nose, ‘is you. This will be followed by a collation of juicy meats and the best wine. Brother, all I can say is that I am delighted I will not be supping alone.'

Athelstan crossed himself, murmured
Jesu Miserere
and followed the coroner out into the icy thoroughfare of Cheapside. He pestered Sir John about why he had been invited and swiftly learnt that the Regent may have been helped in the invitation by Cranston himself, who, as he kept chortling, would not have to suffer alone. The coroner truly hated such occasions and was only too grateful for Athelstan's company. The friar decided that cheerful compliance was the best course of action and followed the coroner's great bulk as they turned by the Cross near the Standard, down towards Bread Street. The streets and alleyways, despite the harsh weather, were thronged with traders and hawkers who competed with the many funerals being carried out. The smell of pinewood and rosemary, in which the long-dead corpses had been drenched, mingled with the sweet smells of pastries, bread and grilled meats. Thankfully the hard ice under foot had frozen the ordure and waste and provided some grip. Nevertheless, Athelstan remained wary of the sheets of puddle ice, not to mention the legion of Trojans, as Athelstan called the petty cheats and cozeners who scurried fast as ferrets from the mouths of alleyways and lanes. The apprentice boys were also busy, darting like sparrows from beneath their master's stalls to offer, ‘cloth of Liege, tin pots from Cornwall, pepper mixers and boxes of cloves'. Prisoners manacled together, shuffled like one monstrous being; recently released from the debtors' house at the Marshalsea, they begged for alms while moaning at the freezing cold which had turned their bare feet purple. A group of whores caught soliciting on the steps of All Hallows were being marched up to the stocks. They were forced to hold their skirts over their heads, revealing dirty-grey flabby buttocks, so they could be thrashed with white split canes by the escorting beadles. Every so often these officials made their prisoners stop at a horse trough to receive a drenching from buckets of icy water. Athelstan closed his eyes at the sheer misery. Head down, cowl pulled close, the friar wondered at the evil which throbbed inside every soul and expressed itself in such cruelty. He felt Cranston clutch his arm. They had stopped outside St Mary-Le-Bow. A dispute had broken out over a corpse sprawled out on a coffin-stretcher, its left eye still open. Passers-by had glimpsed this and were demanding that such a sign of ill-luck be covered, the eye pressed down with a coin. A fresh disturbance distracted the mob as a group of flagellants, naked except for loin cloths and hoods daubed with a huge red cross, pushed their way through, flailing their backs with three-thonged whips, each of the knots pierced with a sharp needle. The whips went backwards and forwards, splashing blood and staining the padded paltocks, close-buttoned hoods and long-toed Cracow shoes of a group of fops. These loudly objected but the flagellants ignored them, whipping themselves even more fiercely as they chanted a hymn and followed their cross-bearing leader. They moved in a shower of blood which splattered and streaked everyone. The court fops became belligerent; daggers and swords were loosened. Cranston pushed Athelstan aside when abruptly a horn sounded: a powerful wailing blast and horsemen burst out of nearby Weasel Lane. Cloaked and hooded, faces blackened, the horsemen cantered down, scattering the crowd to rein in at the bottom of the steps of St Mary-Le-Bow. Hooves clattering, the horses snorted and reared in a creak of harness and steel. The intruders carried small hand arbalests, already primed. The horsemen moved backwards and forwards. Three naked corpses, skin all blotched, throats gaping in a dark, bloody slit, eyes staring, were slung across the saddle horn of some of the horses. These were tipped down to sprawl at the foot of the church steps. Cranston made to go forward. Athelstan grabbed him by the arm and pulled him back.

‘Peace, Sir John,' he whispered. ‘Think of the Lady Maude, the two poppets; this is not your fight. Not yet, anyway.'

‘Hear ye!'

One of the riders surged forward on his grey-black warhorse; the destrier, head shaking, snorting furiously, clattered iron-shod hooves against the cobbles. The rider, like Satan's own henchman, tall and black in the saddle, cloak billowing out like the wings of some fearsome bird, raised a leather gauntleted hand.

‘So die all traitors to the Great Cause,' he shouted, pointing at the corpses. ‘Death to all who offend the Upright Men!' Then the horsemen were gone, clattering back into the darkness of the alleyway as the crowd surged forwards to view the corpses. Cranston bellowed at them to stand aside. Athelstan knelt at the bottom step and, opening his chancery bag, swiftly administered the rites of the dead, closing his mind to everything except the ritual, the anointing and the blessing. As he did so, Cranston turned the corpses over. All three were fairly elderly men with sagging bellies, fat thighs and vein-streaked legs, their faces unshaven, hair unkempt. Athelstan flinched. One of the dead men's faces was hideous, not just due to the cruel wound inflicted deep into his left side where the dagger had pierced his heart, but his features were distorted by an older, earlier wound across his mouth so his lips seemed to stretch the entire length of that narrow face.

‘Laughing Jack, Thibault's man.' Cranston tapped the corpse. ‘Executioner in Billingsgate, from the bridge to the Tower. These are his two assistants, Sinister and Dexter, literally his left and right hand. I wager they were responsible for severing the heads of those slaughtered at the Roundhoop and their poling on London Bridge.' Cranston sighed, got to his feet and shouted at a group of gathering bailiffs to take care of the corpses.

‘Come, Brother,' he urged. ‘Our noble Prince, against whom all this is directed, awaits us . . .'

The Upright Men's assassin, the basilisk, had been very busy. The meeting at the Babylon had ended amicably and the basilisk had prepared. The traitor in Gaunt's circle had revealed himself, a startling surprise swiftly swept aside by the need for preparations following a heated discussion in the dark recesses of the Chapel of St Peter ad Vincula. The basilisk had been insistent. Assassination would take place. Weapons had been demanded and prepared, including that leather sack with its grisly contents. They had clasped hands in what both knew to be a deadly contract. They would stand or fall by each other. Now, gowned and hooded, carrying a special pass impressed with the Regent's purple wax seal, the basilisk had already surveyed the sprawling fortress of the Tower from the Lion Gate through past St Thomas' Tower, along Red Gulley and under the dark shadow of Bell Tower, with its massive wooden casing on top housing the great bell which marked the passing hours and sounded the tocsin. The assassin noted that and passed on into the inner bailey, clearly marking out the different towers – especially Beauchamp – close to the parish church of St Peter ad Vincula. Only then did the basilisk approach the great White Tower, the central donjon or keep, its soaring walls of Kentish grey ragstone all whitewashed and gleaming in the harsh frost of the winter's day. Once again the basilisk stared back at Beauchamp Tower, where the mysterious prisoner brought from Flanders was lodged. It was best not to go too close to its approaches, closely guarded by archers and men-at-arms. What, the basilisk wondered, did Gaunt want with such a prisoner? Why all the mystery and secrecy? Who was that woman? Even the traitor in Thibault's circle knew very little. Why were the Upright Men so keen to seize her? What was the true connection between the prisoner and the leather sack the Upright Men had entrusted to her? Yet the politics of this place were of little concern – vengeance was!

The basilisk shifted and stared at the black-timbered and white-plastered guest house which stood in its own neat square garden, the shrubs and plants held fast in the iron grip of a savage hoar frost. Oh, yes, the basilisk promised, those who sheltered there – the mystery players – would also be visited by Murder. The Regent's acting troupe, the Straw Men, Master Samuel and his companions, were nothing more than a coven of treacherous Judas people. They, too, would chew on the bitter bread of pain and sup deeply from the poisoned chalice of the rankest wormwood. The basilisk, however, had to be careful. The Tower thronged with Gaunt's retainers, henchmen, armoured knights, archers, mailed clerks and household minions, all busy scurrying to do their infernal master's bidding. The basilisk glimpsed the small dovecote near St Peter's and smiled; they'd all hasten even faster when the hawk appeared above the doves. What was being planned was only just and right. How did the verse of one of the Upright Men's songs run? ‘God is deaf nowadays. He will not hear us and, for their guilt, grinds good men to dust.' God needed a little help!