Plantagenet.’
‘I know,’ Cranston intervened. Mara lifted her head.
‘I know,’ Cranston repeated. Athelstan sensed Thibault stiffen behind him.
‘They showed me a likeness of Queen Philippa,’ Mara murmured. ‘Peas in a pod was how Evangeline described both her and me.’ Mara glanced coyly at Cranston. ‘You met Queen Philippa?’
‘I did,’ Cranston declared.
‘And what further proof?’ Athelstan asked. He felt truly frightened for this poor, desolate prisoner. Thibault was, and would be, absolutely ruthless in defence of his master. This woman would not survive another winter.
‘Evangeline persuaded me to ask the lady abbess about my origins. I did so. I discovered I was not a poor foundling but left at the convent by a woman of quality.’
‘Left?’ Athelstan queried. ‘Not born there?’
‘Brother, that was forty years ago.’ She shrugged. ‘That’s all I was told. No manuscripts or records survived. I cannot tell if I was born there and left or taken there and left.’ Mara turned and sipped from a horn-shaped beaker on the side table. ‘Evangeline said her son, a scrivener, would relate my origins and later story. Of course, Brother, as you know, abbeys, monasteries, convents and priories are not closed communities — gossip travels faster than a swift over the cloister garth. I began to have other visitors. Evangeline and her son paid to use the convent chancery. I began to tell them what I knew and the son transcribed it. Then one evening, just before vespers, mailed horsemen arrived in the courtyard; the Oudernardes and their henchman, Lettenhove, along with a cohort of mercenaries. They had words with our lady abbess. I believe,’ her voice sank to a whisper, ‘a great deal of gold and silver changed hands. All documents and possessions were seized. Evangeline and her son were taken up, as was I. I protested. Mother Superior replied that my presence was no longer conducive to the peace of the convent. The Oudernardes would find me a better place.’ She spread her hands. ‘And I suppose this is it.’
‘You’ve been questioned?’
‘
‘You are treated well?’ Cranston demanded.
‘I have every comfort. I have asked Master Thibault to see a play. I know the mummers, the Straw Men, are also here in the Tower. I have heard rumours that two of them have been killed.’
‘Murdered!’ Athelstan declared. ‘And who told you that?’
‘Brother Athelstan, I have a window; servants talk. I’m sorry.’ She paused as if searching for words. ‘I also understand others, whom you call the Upright Men, tried to seize me.’
‘Have you ever had dealings with them?’
‘Never!’
‘Have you ever had any dealings with My Lord of Gaunt’s enemies?’
‘Never.’
‘So how would they know about you?’
‘As I have said, Evangeline would know more about that than me. Or at least she did,’ she added wearily. ‘Until she lost both her tongue and head, or so I was informed.’
Athelstan crossed his arms and stared down at the floor, trying to arrange what he had learnt. He truly believed this woman was an innocent. According to her, the origins of her present misfortune lay with the former nurse Evangeline. Until she’d appeared, this unfortunate had lived in comfortable, safe obscurity. Now Evangeline may have heard rumours, but who prompted her? Had she been approached by Gaunt’s powerful enemies at court?
‘Brother?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Athelstan apologized. ‘You mention the Straw Men. What do you want with them?’
The woman’s face became suffused by a brilliant childlike smile. Athelstan felt a surge of pity. Mara was truly innocent; he sensed she had told him the truth and could say no more. She waved her gloved hands.
‘Brother, I love miracle plays — the colour, the pageantry, the make-believe. I could sit and watch them from Matins to Compline. I would love to see the Straw Men.’
Athelstan glanced over his shoulder at Thibault.
‘It’s possible,’ came the clipped reply. ‘But, Brother, we are finished here, yes?’
Athelstan and Cranston, wishing the woman well, rose and left, joining Thibault in the freezing cold outside. Thibault led them away from the guards.
‘There is a real problem here, Athelstan,’ he whispered, ‘I am concerned about how many people are getting to know our prisoner.’ The friar turned at the sound of laughter which came from the chapel of St Peter ad Vincula, a strange merry sound in this bleak, stone-cold place, the daylight already fading.
‘And what will happen to her?’ Athelstan turned back to Thibault. Thibault’s eyes were as cold, hard and unblinking as those of the giant raven spearing the ground nearby with its beak. The Master of Secrets pulled a face.
‘
‘Of course. I did see a likeness between her and Queen Philippa of blessed memory.’
‘And?’ Thibault’s voice was a menacing purr. ‘You see a likeness between our guest and My Lord of Gaunt’s mother? Which means?’
‘Don’t threaten me, Thibault.’ Cranston took a step forward. ‘Don’t put words in my mouth. Queen Philippa was a saint; she had a better soul than you or I. What I believe, and I truly do having watched her closely, is that Eleanor — or Mara, whatever she wants to call herself — is the child of one of the Count of Hainault’s children; certainly not Philippa but one of the men folk: a brother, an uncle, God knows.’ Cranston put on his gauntlets. ‘Every ruling family in Europe has its bastard children. Didn’t our own Henry I of blessed memory have over two dozen? Even today. .’ Cranston’s voice trailed away, in itself an eloquent but gentle reminder to Thibault of Gaunt’s own amorous dealings with Katherine Swynford and others.
‘I shall share your thoughts with My Lord.’
‘Do what you want, but you have the truth already, Master Thibault.’ Athelstan stamped his feet and glanced over to the chapel as another burst of laughter rang out.
‘The Straw Men,’ Thibault explained. ‘Life is so gloomy here, they are staging an impromptu masque. Sir John, you were talking about the truth?’
‘Evangeline and her son confessed, didn’t they, before they died, how their story was a complete fable? How they were arrant liars who retracted every jot and tittle of what they had said? Somewhere, Master Thibault, in your secret coffers lie their confessions sworn on a book of the Gospels, signed, sealed and witnessed. Everything you and your master need.’
‘Sir John,’ Thibault mocked back, ‘how did you know?’
‘It’s surprising what a man and woman will say under torture.’
‘The truth will out,’ Thibault quipped. ‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan,’ he wagged a finger, ‘remember you are on solemn oath. You have seen our prisoner. We now look for further light to be cast on the murderous mayhem which laps around us. We want,’ he threatened, ‘the slayer of Lettenhove and the wounder of Meister Oudernarde there.’ He pointed to the Tower gallows with its frozen cadavers.
‘We are not finished,’ Athelstan declared. ‘We need to talk to Master Cornelius and you know the reason why we do? Either he or Oudernarde, or both, were present when Evangeline and her son were questioned.’
‘So?’
‘You reminded me that I am under oath, and so I am, but I have decided that I must see Master Cornelius.’
Thibault looked as if he was going to refuse.
‘My Lord of Gaunt,’ Athelstan persisted, ‘demands answers. At this moment in time I can’t provide any. I am unable to clear the mist of mystery which cloaks this entire matter. I need to question Cornelius.’
‘About what?’
‘About Evangeline and her son the scrivener. I’m sure Cornelius was present at their interrogation.’
Athelstan glimpsed a flicker in Thibault’s eyes, a fleeting expression. Fear? Apprehension?
‘Out of the cold,’ the Master of Secrets murmured. ‘Let’s get out of this damnable cold.’
