The Straw Men

hurried instinctively towards the door. Another sharp scream shrilled as Guido Oudernarde on the other side of the chapel staggered away, one arm up, his face contorted in pain as he turned, trying to free the crossbow bolt which had struck him high in his back. The old Fleming, gagging at the pain, collapsed to his knees. Gaunt, sword in hand, was shouting at his household knights who hurried across to form a protective ring around their master and his fallen guest. The rest of the company, however, now panicked, jostling and pushing to leave the chapel. Athelstan was knocked aside, forced to clutch one of the great drum-like pillars as the chapel swiftly emptied. He glimpsed Eli taking refuge beneath one of the food tables in the transepts. The rest of the troupe had apparently fled with the rest. Cranston’s audience had also melted away but the coroner stood his ground, dagger drawn, his back to one of the pillars. Athelstan waited for the crush of bodies near the narrow entrance to dissipate before hurrying to join him. Cranston clutched the friar’s arm, kicking aside chairs to where a Tower leech knelt before the fallen Lettenhove. The Fleming, however, was beyond all human help. Athelstan went to kneel as the dying man jerked in his final agony, blood seeping out of his mouth and nose, only to be pushed aside by Cornelius.

‘I am a priest,’ he murmured in Latin. ‘I will shrive him.’

Athelstan rose and glanced across the chapel. Gaunt’s henchmen now ringed their master with kite-shaped shields while Lascelles tried to restore order, ushering people towards the door. Athelstan started at a man’s high- pitched yell. Eli, hiding under a table, had pushed back the heavy covering cloth and was pointing at the rood screen. Athelstan followed the direction and stifled his own exclamation. Two severed heads lay either side of Hell’s mouth. He hastened across, knelt and turned both over; they were very similar to those master Burdon poled on London Bridge. Both heads had seemingly been severed some time ago, the dirty-grey skin and the jagged remains of the neck were as dry as leather. Their features were all shrunken and shrivelled, the hair on both very brittle, the eyes sunk deep in their sockets, almost hidden by the crumpled lids.

‘Sweet Lord of Heaven!’ Cranston breathed as he crouched beside Athelstan. ‘In God’s name, where have they come from?’ He broke off as Athelstan plucked a scrap of parchment from one of the dead mouths. He unfolded this and whispered what was scrawled 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.’

‘Brother!’ Thibault stood behind them, ‘Brother!’ The Master of Secrets’ usual smiling face was pale, taut with anger. ‘Brother, Sir John. I must ask you to go.’ He forced a wintry smile. ‘For the moment leave those heads where they are.’ He plucked the scrap of parchment from Athelstan’s hand. ‘Lascelles will see you to a comfortable chamber. You can. .’

‘Master Thibault!’ An archer stood in the doorway. ‘Master Thibault, the assassin has been found!’

‘What is this?’ Gaunt shouted, breaking free of the encircling knights.

‘My Lord.’ Thibault stretched out his hand and pointed to the grisly human remains on the exquisitely tiled floor. ‘My Lord, I beg you stay here.’

Thibault turned back, snapping his fingers at Cranston. ‘Sir John, I think you’d best come. You too, Brother Athelstan.’

All three left the chapel; outside the freezing darkness was falling. Archers carrying cresset torches moved about, shepherding those guests who’d fled the chapel to the great hall in the nearby royal lodgings. Officers of the Tower could only stand by and watch helplessly.

‘Master Thibault,’ Cranston whispered, ‘will not be interfered with. Royal palace or not, the King’s fortress of the Tower is now firmly under his control. Mark my words, dear friar, this will certainly end in bloodshed.’ Athelstan did not reply but pulled his cowl more firmly against the cutting cold as they followed the archer around the keep. The friar glanced up at the light flaring from the Chapel of St John above them. In the distance he could see a pool of flame where men clustered near the north-east corner of the Tower. Athelstan glimpsed a lantern box burning from a window, its shutters flung wide open, and reckoned this must be a window to the crypt. As they reached the circle of flame, the archer stepped back to allow them closer to where Rosselyn knelt by a crumpled corpse, its face ghoulish white, eyes popping. Blood from the head, which lay strangely twisted, had oozed out to create a sticky puddle. A young man dressed in jerkin, hose and hooded cloak, Athelstan peered closer and recognized Barak, one of the Straw Men. He glanced up the side of the Tower where the end of an oiled hempen rope swung in the evening breeze. A short distance away from the corpse laid a small hand arbalest or crossbow. Athelstan gently moved the twisted cloak, found the man’s belt and touched the stout leather case containing two barbed bolts.

‘You said he was the assassin?’ Athelstan asked over his shoulder at the archer who had led them here.

‘It must be,’ Rosselyn replied as he turned the corpse over on to its back. Athelstan flinched at the way the head flopped and the horrid wound which disfigured the entire right side of Barak’s face. Rosselyn, swift and nimble as any foist, searched the corpse. He emptied the belt purse — a few coins, a medal and two scraps of parchment. Athelstan sensed what was written and quoted the lines he had just read in the chapel. Rosselyn simply stared dead-eyed at him and handed the scripts to Thibault who plucked at the friar’s sleeve as a sign to withdraw. Athelstan chose to ignore him and recited the rite of absolution.

‘If you are finished, Brother,’ Thibault crouched beside him. ‘The night is so cold, and my master awaits.’

‘For whom?’ Athelstan held the sinister clerk’s hard stare.

‘Oh, for you, my dear friar and you, Sir John.’ Thibault moved his head from side to side as if assessing some complex problem. ‘Oh, yes, Brother Athelstan, my master and I certainly need words with you but until then. .’

A short while later Athelstan and Cranston were ushered into the Tower guest house which stood close to the church of St Peter ad Vincula. This two-storey building, fronted with snow-white plaster and brown beams, boasted a great hall, kitchen and buttery on the ground floor, its upper storey being reserved for guest chambers. The hall was pleasant enough, the paved floor covered with tough rope matting. A great, hooded hearth housed a merry, spluttering fire, while braziers stacked with blazing coals and strewn with herbs provided more warmth and fragrance. They walked into a barn-like room with black rafters, the lime-washed walls covered with heavy painted canvasses which described the legends of the Tower, how it was founded by Trojan exiles and strengthened by the great Caesar. The long communal tables down either side gave the impression of a monastic refectory, a likeness heightened by the great black cross nailed to the far wall and the tall pulpitum opposite the hearth. The Straw Men were there, clustering in a frightened huddle on stools around the fire. They had been provided with stoups of ale and platters of food which now stood on one of the tables, and hardly stirred as Cranston and Athelstan entered, though Master Samuel recalled his manners and hurriedly fetched two stools from a recess near the buttery door. Athelstan sketched a blessing and glanced back over his shoulder. Thibault had disappeared as soon as they had entered the hall but he had left a cluster of archers close to the entrance. One of these became busy, walking around the refectory, ensuring the window shutters were firmly clasped before taking up guard near the buttery door.

‘I suspect we are the Regent’s guests,’ Cranston whispered, ‘whether we like it or not.’ They sat down on the stools placed before the fire. Cranston gazed around at the assembled company and, fumbling beneath his cloak, brought out the miraculous wine skin. He offered it around and, when no one accepted, took a generous swig and placed it between his feet.

‘We have heard the news.’ Samuel’s face and voice were bitter, no longer the bonhomie or gracious courtesy of a few hours earlier. ‘They say Barak is the assassin, that he was killed while escaping.’

Athelstan held his gaze, staring at that ruddy face, the neatly clipped moustache and beard. A resolute, determined man, Athelstan thought, well educated and skilled. A former soldier, perhaps a mailed clerk?

‘Is that true, Brother?’ Rachael, even more pale-faced, her fiery red hair now hidden beneath the hood of her gown, stretched out her hands to the fire.

‘Those heads,’ Eli whispered, repressing a shiver, ‘where did those grotesques come from? Brother Athelstan, they were severed heads.’ He pulled a face. ‘Real heads, no mummers’ trickery, no subtle device.’

‘God have mercy on them, whoever they were,’ Athelstan replied slowly. ‘They were the heads of two unfortunates. I suspect they were severed some time ago, washed, soaked in heavy brine and left to dry.’ He shrugged at their cries and exclamations. ‘Possibly the work of the Upright Men.’ Athelstan blew his lips out. ‘They must be; they were left as a warning, weren’t they, for our noble Regent?’

‘When I first saw them,’ Eli declared, ‘I really did think they were part of our wardrobe — masks we’d left