‘The obvious, Brother Athelstan. The Straw Men are Gaunt’s agents. They are his spies, that’s why he patronizes them. They are very good at it. Master Samuel is a collector, a sweeper up of rumour and gossip. They are suited to such work. They travel from hamlet to hamlet, to this village or that; they perform in chapels or churches, castles or manor houses, priories or monasteries. Samuel was once a member of Gaunt’s household. He’s now well placed to listen to the whispers in the shires around London: the power in strength and numbers of the Upright Men, the names of local leaders, what weapons are being collected and where they are stored.’
‘Like the breeze,’ Cranston murmured, ‘you are right. The Straw Men come and go where they please.’ The coroner shook his head. ‘Do the Upright Men know this?’
‘They may well suspect.’
‘Which is why,’ Athelstan spoke up, ‘the Straw Men have suffered.’
‘I have heard about the murders in the Tower.’ The herald picked at the crumbs on Cranston’s platter. ‘Certainly punishment is being meted out to Gaunt and his minions, both Fleming and English, while his authority is publicly mocked.
‘And that includes the Wardes being murdered, an entire family?’
‘Strange.’ The herald raised his hands in a gesture of peace. ‘From the very little I know, the Upright Men were not responsible for those slayings.’
Athelstan nodded his agreement. He entertained his own suspicions about who was spying on whom. The herald drained his tankard and got up. He shook Cranston’s hand. Athelstan rose and they exchanged the
‘I know,’ Athelstan conceded, ‘as I suspect you are going to warn me.’
‘No, Brother, far from it.’ For a brief second the herald’s face grew soft, losing that sardonic twist. ‘I always liked you, Athelstan. I won’t give you warnings or advice, just a promise.’ He stretched forward, pulled Athelstan closer and whispered in his ear. ‘On the Day of the Great Slaughter,’ the herald hissed, ‘when the strongholds fall, I will protect you.’ He stepped back, hands raised in peace. ‘
Athelstan picked up his chancery bag.
‘Brother Athelstan?’
‘I am going back to Saint Erconwald’s, Sir John, to confront a Judas.’
PART SIX
‘Deperditio: Destruction’
Athelstan pushed open the corpse door and walked into the musty darkness of his parish church. Bonaventure, sprawled in front of one of the braziers, languidly lifted his head then flopped back. Athelstan, followed by Cranston, entered the nave. The friar crouched to scratch behind the cat’s ears. He knelt, comforting Bonaventure as he stared at the pool of torchlight in one of the transepts: the anchorite and Huddle were busy drawing the chalk outline of an angel guarding the gates of Eden with a flaming sword. Both painters stopped their hushed, heated discussion and came out to meet him.
‘All went well at Smithfield and Tyburn?’ Cranston asked.
‘As soft as spring dew,’ the anchorite replied, wiping his hand. ‘But you haven’t come here to enquire about the souls I have dispatched.’
‘No,’ Athelstan declared. ‘I need a word with Huddle about parish business.’
‘About what?’ Huddle’s long, pallid face wrinkled in concern.
‘Oh, this and that.’ Athelstan gently guided Huddle away from the transept and up under the rood screen. No braziers glowed here, nothing but the faint twinkle from the sanctuary lamp and the day’s dying light piercing the narrow windows. It was cold. Huddle began to shiver, so Athelstan went across into the sacristy and brought back one of his robes.
‘Here, Huddle, for a short while be a Dominican.’ The painter swiftly donned it then sat on the sanctuary stool. Athelstan brought two more so he and Cranston could sit before the now very agitated painter.
‘Father,’ Huddle glanced fearfully at Cranston, ‘what is this? Why is My Lord Coroner here?’
‘You have nothing to fear,’ Cranston replied, kindly hiding his own curiosity about what Athelstan really intended.
‘Sir John is my witness.’ Athelstan leaned forward. ‘I will whisper, Huddle. I mean you well. I have come to save your life if not your soul.’
Huddle’s terrified eyes spoke more eloquently than any words. ‘Father, what do you mean?’
‘You are the Judas man here in Saint Erconwald’s,’ Athelstan accused. ‘You, Huddle, who cannot resist a game of hazard, the roll of dice or the spin of a coin. Deep in debt, aren’t you, and just as deep in the counsels of the Upright Men? Your fellow parishioners thought Humphrey Warde the spicer was a spy. He was nothing more than a clever distraction, a catspaw; after all, who would really trust a newcomer, a former resident of Cheapside? My parishioners blamed him for betraying their cause to Gaunt but Warde was only a conduit, wasn’t he? A man who was visited by the real spy, namely you, the parish painter who had to purchase certain mixtures for his frescoes, not to mention those small oyster shells which you use as your colour dish. Or, then again, you need certain spices which are used to preserve paints and brushes. You, Huddle, had every excuse to visit Warde and you certainly did. Much safer, more logical than meeting some stranger dispatched by master Thibault, who’d soon be noticed here in Southwark or, even worse, you, Huddle, being seen with him.’ Athelstan paused. ‘And even more dangerous, Huddle, having to cross London Bridge to be glimpsed in that tavern or this, entering or leaving the Tower or Gaunt’s palace of the Savoy.’ Athelstan grasped Huddle’s paint-daubed hands. ‘No, Huddle, you were the spy and you passed the information on. You visited Warde quite regularly to buy this or that, be it lime or resin or some other ingredient. He could take you into the back of his house where you could talk. You delivered your information which he then dispatched to his masters at the Savoy. God knows how he did that — in a package of spices, a small tun of fresh herbs, a pannier of condiments?’
Huddle simply licked dry lips.
‘It was only a matter of time before suspicion was quickened — how there must be a traitor in the parish of Saint Erconwald’s.’
‘But Warde was never accepted into the community,’ Cranston murmured.
‘No, but he was a spicer; he lived here, he could listen to the gossip and chatter which flow like God’s own rain along the crooked lanes and runnels of my parish. And you helped that, didn’t you, Huddle? It diverted attention from the true traitor; you’d fan the fires of suspicion while acting all righteous. Who knows, you probably offered to place a special vigil or watch on Warde through your regular visits to him.’ Athelstan squeezed Huddle’s hands. ‘You certainly did visit him. Warde’s bills testify to that but. .’ Athelstan picked up his chancery bag and took out the psalter; Huddle quietly moaned and closed his eyes. Athelstan leafed swiftly through the pages and thrust the book towards the painter who opened his eyes and stared at the page which Athelstan tapped with his finger.
‘A unique picture, Huddle: Lucifer falling from Paradise. Now most artists depict Satan as a grotesque with a monstrous head, scaly body and the wings of a giant bat, dragon or some other monster. But this is most original. Look, Lucifer is still God’s light-bearer, a beautiful young man.’ Athelstan pointed towards the transept where the anchorite was still busily working. ‘You copied such a unique idea for the wall painting you and the anchorite have just completed. You did not visit Warde to watch but to talk; you became his friend though a traitor to your own kind. You provided precious information about the Upright Men and received your thirty pieces of silver, or whatever.’ Athelstan fell silent. Huddle, despite the robe, shivered so much his teeth rattled. ‘Warde became your friend,’ Athelstan repeated, ‘so much so he let you read his psalter.’
‘If Watkin and Pike discover your treachery,’ Cranston had now overcome his surprise, ‘friend or not, they will hand you over to the Upright Men. They will take you to some desolate place. It might be days before you die.’
‘I didn’t kill Warde and his family,’ Huddle blurted out. ‘I had nothing to do with that but, there again,’ Huddle
