The Straw Men

‘Ite missa est — go, our Mass has ended.’ Athelstan smiled at the small crowd of worshippers huddled within the rood screen of the rather severe sanctuary of St Peter’s. Like Athelstan, they had struggled through the snow, at least a foot deep, as the sacring bell announced a very grey dawn. The Straw Men were there, as were Master Thibault, Lascelles and Oudernarde. Master Cornelius, Athelstan suspected, would be celebrating his own Mass much later in more comfortable lodgings. Cranston, who’d served as Athelstan’s altar boy, rose from the sanctuary steps, stamping booted feet, rubbing his hands and noisily smacking his lips. He helped Athelstan divest. Thibault and his party promptly left but not before Lascelles curtly informed Cranston and Athelstan that his master would like to see them before they exited the Tower. Cranston grunted he’d break his fast first, then turned away to help Athelstan clear the sacred vessels from the altar. Once they’d finished and were about to leave by the narrow corpse door, the Straw Men, led by Samuel, came back under the rood screen. Rachael had pulled up her hood to hide her gorgeous red hair in deference to being in church. She rested on Judith’s arm; they and their companions, rubbing their hands for warmth, stopped before Cranston and Athelstan, shuffling their feet. Samuel went to speak but thought otherwise. He closed his mouth, fingering his lips.

‘Well?’ Cranston barked. ‘What do. .’

Athelstan touched him on the arm. ‘You have come to ask about Barak?’

‘Yes, we have, Brother.’ Judith stepped forward, her impish face set in a stubborn twist. ‘We are all here, except Eli, but he’s a lazy slug-a-bed.’

‘And?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Do you think. .?’ Rachael blurted out. ‘Well, we don’t. We have been discussing this. Barak cannot be the murderer. He just cannot be, I mean. .’

Athelstan grasped the young woman’s mittened fingers; her green, cat-like eyes crinkled in amusement.

‘Look,’ Athelstan smiled at her then round at the rest. ‘Gaunt regards you as his mummers, his players, yes? He favours you. He patronizes you.’

‘Yes,’ Samuel conceded, ‘he pays us well.’

‘I’m sure he does.’ Athelstan released Rachael’s hands even as he glimpsed a swift, startled look in Samuel’s eyes. Athelstan immediately wondered if there were other reasons why Gaunt and Thibault favoured these strolling players.

‘So. .’ The friar took Judith by the elbow, guiding her and the rest out of the church by the narrow side door.

‘So what?’ Judith asked.

Athelstan scratched his head. ‘I don’t think Barak was responsible; I don’t believe his corpse should be abused. I need to see Thibault. Sir John and I entertain serious doubts about the accepted story but that can wait. Let’s break our fast in the guest house refectory.’

They went out into the crisp morning air. The darkness was thinning. Torches moved. Cries and shouts rang out as the Tower community were roused. Women trudged through the snow with buckets for the well. A few children, swathed in motley cloths, played in the snow. High on the Tower parapet walks, torches and braziers glowed. Horses neighed greedily from the stables to be answered by roars and growls from the royal menagerie. Dogs gingerly nosed the snow and barked furiously as they floundered in a drift. Athelstan watched an old greyhound, brindle coloured, desperately trying to get back to its mistress, who was offering a titbit to eat. Smells and odours wafted from latrines, kitchens, lay stalls and wash chambers. The snow had ceased falling but everything was shrouded in white. The great magonels, trebuchets, catapults, sheds and other siege weapons rose like monsters frozen in the snow. Sills and ledges, roofs and cornices — even the great three-branched gallows, each arm displaying a frozen hard cadaver, were encrusted in frosty ice. Cranston led them along the side of the pebble-dashed church. Athelstan knew there would be no stopping him. The coroner was famished, already savouring the cooking smells billowing from the kitchens. Cranston moved as fast and as keen as a strong lurcher. Athelstan walked behind listening to Judith’s chatter — how she hoped they could visit St Erconwald’s — when he heard the whirr, like the wings of a bird, and a crossbow bolt smacked and splintered against the wall of the church. He abruptly stopped. Cranston turned. ‘Get down Athelstan!’ he screamed. He dragged the friar by the arm, pulling both him and Judith down just as another bolt whirled over their heads. Crouching in the snow, Athelstan felt the ice seep up the sleeves of his gown. Cranston drew his dagger. The rest raced back to the corpse door as another barb shattered noisily against the church wall.

‘Harrow! Harrow!’ Cranston bellowed at the top of his voice, raising the alarm. Doors were opened. Archers, men-at-arms and servants came spilling out as Cranston continued to shout. Athelstan, still crouching in the snow, glanced at where the spent barbs lay, then across at the looming mass of the White Tower. He scrutinized the log piles, the engines of war, the wooden staircase and its supporting scaffolding, the unhitched carts and hand barrows.

‘There’ll be no more,’ he murmured, getting to his feet and pointing across.

‘Look, Sir John, a company of archers could lurk behind any of those barriers and then disappear.’ He brushed the snow from his gown, calling out to the rest gathered just within the corpse door that it was safe. Rosselyn, cowled and cloaked, war bow strung, hurried up. Athelstan briefly explained what had happened, gesturing across at the impedimenta close to the White Tower.

‘Whoever it was,’ he declared, ‘hid there but now he has gone. I hope he hasn’t taken my appetite with him.’ He showed Rossleyn, the captain’s hardened face all pinched and severe, where the crossbow bolts had hit before trudging on through the snow into the welcoming warmth of the refectory. At the buttery hatch servants were ladling out bowls of boiling hot oatmeal spiced with nutmeg and thick dark treacle. Athelstan collected his and went over to a stool close to the fireplace. He took out his horn spoon, murmured a blessing and began to eat, allowing both the heat of the food and the glow from the fierce fire to calm him. Athelstan, as always after Death’s dark wings had brushed him, mentally recited both the ‘Confiteor’, an act of sorrow, followed by the ‘Deo Gratias’, a prayer of thanksgiving. He ate and calmed himself staring up at the roughly carved woodwose in the centre of the mantle, a hell-born face with popping eyes, wild hair, pig’s snout and gaping, moustached mouth. The others joined him. Cranston bustled over.

‘You are correct, Brother, the devil’s bowman must have stood close to the White Tower, cloaked in white. God knows there is enough there to hide behind.’

‘Not very accurate, was he?’ Athelstan lifted a spoonful and carefully sipped at the oatmeal. ‘More of a warning than anything else.’ He stared around. ‘Who’s missing?’

‘Eli.’ Rachael began to tap her feet nervously. Athelstan gazed towards the half-open door; a raven perched there, a huge bird, black, fat and sleek, its yellow curved beak jabbing at the snow. A visitor from Hell, Athelstan wondered, watching it strut like a devil, unafraid of the human bustle around it.

‘Eli never sleeps this late.’ Samuel rose from his stool, putting the earthenware bowl on the ground. Athelstan, sensing a growing unease, also got up.

‘Where does Eli lodge?’

‘The Salt Tower.’

‘The rest of you stay.’ Athelstan pointed to Samuel. ‘But you come with me.’

‘And where you go,’ Cranston gobbled the remains of his oatmeal, ‘I shall certainly follow.’

They left the guest house, booted feet crunching on the snow. The ravens had gathered. A dense flock of black glossy feathers, sharp beaks and empty eyes, hungry for any titbits or scraps of refuse. The garrison was also stirring. The hot smells from the stables mingled with the fetid odour from the animal cages. Day had broken and the real business could begin. A butcher and his two apprentices were slaughtering pigs in a small compound near the kitchens. The chilling squeals of the animals grew strident on the freezing morning air as blood from the slaughter seeped in dark red rivulets under the wicker fence. Another apprentice stood close by with a club driving away dogs maddened by the smell. Athelstan glanced away. They moved carefully, side stepping the burly washerwomen with their huge round tubs as well as soldiers, surly and freezing with cold after their duty along the ice-bound parapets. Children played snowballs, shouting and yelling as they were hit or fell. The pounding of hammers and the scrape of metal echoed from the smithies. Deep in his heart Athelstan wished to be away from here. The Tower was a strange and narrow place, its atmosphere unsettling. Above all this activity brooded the great soaring donjons, walls and towers. Athelstan recalled how his parishioners believed these dark stones housed demons and other malevolent spirits. He had also heard the stories about its miserable dank dungeons, the secret torture chambers; of corpses being burnt in the dead of night, their ashes being tipped into the river. The Tower was a secret maze of passageways and tunnels, a place where people were taken and never seen again, alive or