The Straw Men

Barak could have done that and not been noticed. Sometime after the play, Barak crawled into the back of Hell’s mouth and used the gaping jaws to mark down Oudernarde senior and Lettenhove. The former he wounded, the latter he killed.’

‘Why do you still insist he used Hell’s mouth?’

‘Sir John, where else could the assassin hide to prime an arbalest then loose, not once but twice, and never be noticed? I mean, if we believe the accepted story?’

‘Agreed, and?’

‘Barak must have somehow moved Hell’s mouth to strike as well as position those two severed heads. God knows where he got them from.’ Athelstan laughed grimly. ‘And God only knows to whom those heads belong? Who were those unfortunates? Why were they killed? Why are their heads here? God bless me, it is beyond answer. I suspect Master Thibault, who was so keen to seize those grim relics, knows the truth but will not share that with us. Nor,’ Athelstan added, ‘will he reveal the truth about his mysterious prisoner. Are those severed heads part of the mystery surrounding her, whoever she may be? Why are Gaunt and Thibault so concerned about a middle-aged woman, a Fleming who, according to the fickle memory of a servant, may have been in the Tower before?’ Athelstan paused. He realized how silent it had become, as if the snow was enveloping this grim fortress in a thick white shroud. He recalled the stories of the ghosts who allegedly haunted the soaring, deep-dungeoned towers, the wraiths said to stalk its lonely courtyards and baileys.

‘Your story, Brother?’

‘Apparently, after he had done all this, Barak tried to flee — that’s understandable. Using all the tumult and upset, Barak left the chapel for the crypt. He reached that window and, still clutching the arbalest, attempted to use the fire rope to escape. Again, according to the evidence, he slipped and fell to his death.’

‘And,’ Cranston asked sleepily, ‘you challenge this?’

‘Well,’ Athelstan paused at a knock at the door; he opened it to see the servant, covered in snow, his face pale with cold, stood in the icy stairwell.

‘Brother Athelstan, Master Thibault asks you to celebrate the Jesus Mass tomorrow after dawn.’ The fellow hopped from foot to foot, scratching his grey beard and pulling at his cloak, doing a little jig to keep warm by stamping his feet.

‘What is your name?’ Athelstan smiled, fishing into his purse.

‘Wolkind.’

‘Well, Wolkind, there’s a coin for your pains. Tell Master Thibault I will celebrate Mass. Now get you warm.’ Athelstan sketched a blessing and closed the door.

‘You were saying, Brother?’

‘So I was.’ Athelstan stood over a brazier warming his hands and smiling at Cranston who lay sprawled red- faced and content without a care in the world. ‘I said there were two stories. The first is faulted so many times, I wonder if it’s a complete lie.’ Athelstan used his fingers to emphasize his points. ‘Primo. For Barak to use Hell’s mouth as a cover he would have to detach it from the rood screen so that he could clearly strike Oudernarde as well as Lettenhove. He would also have to move it backwards and forwards to position those two severed heads, but we now accept that’s nonsense. Hell’s mouth was firmly wedged in the door of the rood screen. It had to be. Don’t forget, Sir John, we watched the masque. Herod was pushed through those jaws. I saw no movement.’

‘It could have been done afterwards and then repositioned?’

‘I don’t think so. Marks would have been left. The noise alone would have alerted people. Think, Sir John, the scenery would have to have been moved forward and back. Trust me, Sir John, it was not moved until we did it.’

‘So how did Barak loose two bolts without being detected?’

‘Sir John, that’s the mystery, and it deepens. Barak, given the speed of his attack, must have used two arbalests already primed. So where is the second? Why should Barak only take one of them? Why hold it on a dangling, swinging rope while attempting such a dangerous escape? Why not place it on a hook on his war belt as Rosselyn and Lascelles did? Why was the quiver box on the wrong side? Barak was right-handed; the quiver should have been on his left not his right.’ Athelstan pulled a face. ‘Concedo — I concede,’ he continued, ‘Barak may have simply made a mistake, but there is more. He wore no wrist guard as any archer should and, above all, no gloves.’

‘You mentioned that before.’

‘Sir John, Barak was going down a rope, hard and coarse.’

‘True, true,’ Cranston breathed.

‘He would have burnt his hands. He’d have worn gauntlets — heavy ones — yet his hands were soft and unscarred. Then there are the injuries,’ Athelstan continued, ‘the right side of his face and body were smashed to pulp against the cobbles. Moreover, there is a deep wound to the back of his head, while I detected flecks of blood against the wall of that recess in the crypt.’

‘You think he was struck at the back of the head and his body rested against the crypt wall before being hurled with great force, the arbalest pushed into his hands, from that window?’

‘Yes, Sir John, I suspect that’s the truth. Barak was no assassin but the victim of murder. Of course, my conclusion prompts other problems when we return to what happened in Saint John’s Chapel. We do not know who was doing what, where and when. Indeed,’ he laughed sharply, ‘the only person who does is the assassin.’ He turned at a loud snore. ‘Sir John, are you leaving us?’

‘Brother, I have to. I’m exhausted.’

Athelstan continued to stare into the red-hot coals which invoked memories of paintings of Hell he’d glimpsed in frescoes and illuminated psalters. He shifted his gaze and recalled the events of the day. The explosions in the braziers, that gaping gargoyle, the dragon’s head. The crossbow bolts whipping across that beautiful chapel. Lettenhove and Oudernarde collapsing. Barak’s twisted, battered corpse. And the reason for all this? Athelstan crossed himself then moved to check the draught cloths pinned to the bottom of the chamber door. He returned to the brazier. Where did this all begin? That furious affray at the Roundhoop? Athelstan recalled the young man hesitating with his sword before being struck himself, those words mumbled as he died about ‘gleaning’. How some woman was to continue to glean. How he tried to raise himself as if looking for something. Was that just a man lost in the fever of his death throes? And before the attack at the Roundhoop, that savage assault on Thibault’s party near Aldgate? It wasn’t just an attack on Gaunt; the Upright Men had been searching for something — that enigmatic woman prisoner? Why was she so closely guarded? Why was she so important to Gaunt to be kept under such strict watch at the heart of his power? Undoubtedly there was treachery afoot, the one link between all these events. The attack at Aldgate, the murders in the White Tower. Somebody, pretending to be Gaunt’s friend and ally, was really a vigorous Judas.

‘Sir John?’

‘Yes, Brother?’ came the sleepy reply.

‘The ambush near Aldgate — surely, for it was so well prepared, the Upright Men must have a spy close to Gaunt and Master Thibault?’

Cranston groaned and rolled over, one eye squinting up at Athelstan. ‘Brother, for the love of God, go to sleep. The Upright Men watch Gaunt as closely as he watches them. They could have easily learnt about the arrival of the Flemings at Dover and the intended route to London. The Upright Men have countless watchmen and spies.’

‘But so carefully plotted and prepared?’

‘Brother,’ Cranston rolled back, ‘good night and. .’

He abruptly pushed back the blankets as the tocsin on the top of Bell Tower began to toll, a discordant, harsh clattering rousing the garrison. Athelstan unbolted the door and hurried out. The falling snow had created a sea of brilliant white against the black fortifications of the Tower. Athelstan glanced across. A glow of fire pierced the darkness brightening the night sky. Other doors were opening, men hurrying out, slipping and slithering across the snow in a clatter of mail and drawn weapons. Cranston, wrapped in blankets, joined Athelstan on the top step, spluttering as the snowflakes settled on his face. A shout echoed, followed by two strident blasts of a horn. Rosselyn strode out of the darkness.

‘Brother, Sir John,’ he gasped apologies, ‘only an accident, a fire in the stables. I’ve directed men there; we will soon douse the flames.’