The Straw Men

phalanx or schiltrom of men armed with shields and swords, a screed of archers around them. The fighting looked intense, the enemy bowmen loosing at any who approached while their main battle group steadily advanced.

‘They are fighting to reach Beauchamp!’ Athelstan cried out.

‘The prisoner,’ one of the archers muttered. ‘It’s the Upright Men; they are after Gaunt’s prisoner. God save us.’ He added bitterly, ‘Whoever she may be, she will be the death of many a good man today.’ Athelstan grabbed him by the arm; the archer turned. Athelstan could tell by the look in the man’s face that he had said too much.

‘Don’t worry.’ Athelstan smiled. ‘I will not report you. The prisoner? You have seen her?’

‘Brother, I trust you. I was in the escort which brought her from Dover. God save us!’ The man leaned closer. ‘Don’t you realize, Brother, those attackers are our brothers, peasants like me.’ He shook his head. ‘I have said too much.’

‘You have told the truth,’ Athelstan whispered. ‘God knows, my friend, we seem to live a life where right and wrong merge.’

‘They are breaking through!’ another archer yelled. Athelstan stared down. The attackers, tightly packed together, were pushing the defenders back. The danger had been recognized. Men-at-arms, hobelars and archers were gathering before Beauchamp to block its entrance. A futile move as the enemy was moving too fast, while the Tower archers dare not loose lest they hit their own, still closely engaged with the enemy.

‘What can we do?’ Rachael wailed.

‘What should we do?’ Athelstan retorted. ‘This is not our fight.’

A hunting horn brayed, followed by a trumpet blast. Athelstan hurried across to the other side of the tower. Loud cries of ‘Harrow! Harrow! Dieu Nous Aide! Dieu Nous Aide! Saint George! Saint George!’ rang out. Men-at-arms, armoured knights, hobelars and archers were now pouring into the inner bailey around Bell Tower. Crown standards and pennants blazed in a riot of blue, red and gold, the royal leopards clear to see. The unexpected reinforcements paused to arrange themselves into battle formation. Archers to the front and flanks, men-at-arms and knights to the centre, they moved forward, a mass of bristling steel. A trumpet blared. They paused. The archers raced forward, war bows strung. Up they swung and a rain of black shafts rose against the grey sky to fall like sharpened hail on the attackers. The Tower garrison, who’d first engaged the enemy, realized what was happening and swiftly retreated, leaving the enemy exposed to another hissing attack. Again and again the arrows rained down. The defenders of Beauchamp also moved forward. More trumpets shrilled. The mass of mailed men gathered just beyond Bell Tower surged forward. Athelstan breathed a prayer, a plea for the souls being so cruelly loosed from flesh and bone. The massacre had begun.

An hour later, summoned by Thibault, Athelstan sat on a stool in St Peter ad Vincula. A Court of Oyer and Terminer had been set up. A great table bearing a copy of the Gospels, a royal standard and an unsheathed sword lay next to Thibault’s commission ‘to listen and terminate’ Crown matters. The Master of Secrets was the principal judge, Lascelles his associate, Cornelius his scribe. Athelstan realized it was all a pretence. Indeed, according to statute, the rule of law had been suspended. Thibault had been very quick to point out the underlying legal principle, enshrined in the Statute of Treason proclaimed by the present King’s grandfather Edward III. Once the royal banner had been unfurled and displayed, all those caught in arms against it were adjudged rank traitors; sentencing was just a formality, gruesome death a certainty. Only a dozen prisoners had been taken. The dying wounded had been roughly tortured, interrogated and then dispatched with a throat-cut from a misericorde dagger. All the prisoners refused to speak, to confess, to accept any pardon or any commutation in return for betraying the Upright Men. Sentence had been swiftly delivered: all faced summary execution. Thibault had asked Athelstan to shrive any who asked for the sacrament. Athelstan’s earlier fears were also realized. The release of Maximus had been deliberate, to cause as much chaos as possible before the attack.

‘Some accomplice in the Tower,’ Thibault had hissed at Athelstan, ‘killed the keeper, released the chain on the bear and opened the gates.’

‘And Artorius?’ Athelstan asked. ‘How. .?’

‘Slain by a bolt through the forehead; indeed, that’s all that remains of him.’ Thibault smiled slightly, as if he found it amusing. ‘Just imagine, Athelstan, a savaged head with a crossbow bolt in it. He was killed, the chain released and the doors left open.’

Athelstan closed his eyes and murmured a prayer. The assassin had been very cunning. At first Maximus would have moved slowly, giving the killer an opportunity to escape. Only then would the formidable bear begin to wander, attracted by the smell of blood from his now-dead keeper.

‘Where was Artorius killed?’

‘In the aisle beside the cage. The place is awash with blood.’

‘How did the assassin get in?’ Athelstan asked. ‘Artorius was careful.’

‘What does it matter now?’ Thibault had declared. ‘Their plans certainly failed.’ During the swift trial Athelstan had learnt how Thibault, alerted by Duke Ezra’s warnings and perhaps his own spy, had secretly prepared two war cogs, ‘The Glory of Lancaster’ and ‘The Blanche of Castille’. They had slipped through the morning mist and used that as a cover to drop anchor off the Tower quayside. Once the tocsin had sounded and the beacons lit, both cogs had disgorged their fighting men to trap and kill the Upright Men. Now the doom. Thibault summoned each of the survivors before him and stripped off their hoods, masks and weapons. Peasants, young and old, striplings as well as veterans, they all proved to be obdurate. They refused to recognize the court, to give their names or say anything about their families or their villages. All ignored Thibault’s offer of clemency so all were condemned to ‘Mort Sans Phrase’ — immediate execution. Once sentence was passed the prisoners were hustled out. Athelstan accompanied each of the condemned. They were forced to kneel on the frozen, snow- covered grass. Athelstan crouched beside each, listening to their litany of sins, trying to provide what comfort he could. He’d whisper the absolution, bless the condemned, rise and step back. The headsman’s assistants forced their victim to lie face down on a great log, twisting his head sideways. The executioner, feet apart to steady himself, brought up his great two-edged axe and severed the neck with one savage cut. Athelstan just continued to stare at the ground, whispering the De Profundis, moving aside as the blood shimmered across in sparkling red rivulets to soak and warm the ground. The gore-gushing trunk was pushed away, the head doused in boiling water and tossed into a basket to be displayed along the Tower wharf. Athelstan stayed to the bitter end, determined to pray for each soul.

They all died bravely. They betrayed no bitterness towards him but cursed the judge who condemned them. They did whisper a few words about themselves: how in the main they were from Massingham and Maldon in Essex, parishioners of St Oswald’s, their priest Father Edmund Arrowsmith. Athelstan kept such information to himself. When the executions were finished, he left that blood-drenched place, pushing through the crowd, ignoring the questions of Samuel and the other Straw Men. Back in his chamber, Athelstan warmed himself over one of the braziers. He gulped some watered wine then lay on his bed, staring up into the darkness. Some time later the latch rattled. Cranston swept into the chamber, doffing hat and cloak and placing a leather sack beside Athelstan’s bed.

‘I know what happened. Rosselyn told me. It’s like a flesher’s yard out there. At least thirty heads. Those killed or executed already decorate poles along the Thames. Thibault is beside himself with glee.’ Cranston took a sip from his miraculous wine skin. ‘Stupid bastard! Tensions are rising among the garrison — you know why?’

‘I feel the same,’ the friar answered, dragging himself up on the bed. ‘I am a yeoman’s son, Sir John, a tiller of the soil, an earthworm. So are many of the archers and hobelars who kill their own kind to protect cruel lords.’ Athelstan put his face in his hands.

‘You are down in spirit, Brother.’ Cranston clapped him on the shoulder. ‘You deserve better. God knows I’ve been given that. Today I kissed the Lady Maude and cuddled my two poppets. After that the world didn’t seem so terrible.’

‘No, Sir John, it’s a beautiful world, just turned and twisted by our sins. Look,’ Athelstan paused as the bell of St Peter ad Vincula clanged marking the hour. ‘I don’t want to go out there,’ he whispered. ‘Not now.’

‘You were saying?’

‘Gaunt has enough wealth in his palace of the Savoy to ensure no one in London starves. There are enough empty comfortable chambers in this city to house all our vagrants. Enough food to feed the starving. Enough cloth to dress the naked. Sufficient religious houses to shelter the sick and witless but we human beings don’t think like that. We put the self first, second and third, an unholy trinity against anyone who happens to be our neighbour.’ Athelstan sighed. ‘Thus endeth of my homily, Sir John. Let us return to what we are good at. We hunt murderers,