The Straw Men

meet. The angels be my witness, London will burn. Thirdly, our king, the noble Richard, is only a child. True power lies with his dear uncle, our self-styled Regent John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster etc., etc.’ Cranston waved his hand. ‘Gaunt is also preparing for the evil day. He has brought across his agents in Flanders, powerful Ghent merchants — the city Gaunt was born in — Pieter Oudernarde and his father Guido.’ Cranston pulled a face. ‘The rest are just minions, household henchmen. On the ninth of January last I was told to meet them north of the old city wall near Saint John’s in Clerkenwell. The Upright Men launched an attack. Now,’ Cranston took a sip of his claret, ‘the Upright Men could have easily discovered something was afoot. Many of them are old soldiers; they disguised themselves in white sheets in order to blend in with the snow, an old trick used many times in France.’ Cranston paused. ‘Anyway, the attack was launched but beaten off — there’s the rub. At first, I thought they were trying to kill the Oudernardes — they weren’t. The Flemings had brought a prisoner, I’m sure it was a woman, cloaked, cowled and strictly guarded. The fiercest fighting took place around her and certain bundles on the sumpter ponies. The prisoner was kept safe but some of the baggage was plundered and taken.’

‘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