The Master of Secrets just nodded. He had a hushed conversation with Cornelius about both victims having a requiem Mass in the Tower chapel followed by swift burial in the adjoining God’s Acre. Once the luxurious chamber was emptied, Thibault leaned his elbows on the table.
‘My Lord of Gaunt will not be pleased.’
‘And neither are you,’ Athelstan retorted brusquely. ‘Your spies among the Upright Men, the painter Huddle and the Wardes lie dead and buried but the traitor close to you remains hidden. That is your concern, is it not?’ Thibault raised a hand in agreement.
‘I never dreamed,’ he breathed, ‘to nurture a viper.’
Athelstan felt tempted to reply that those who play above viper holes should not object if they get bitten, but discretion was the better path.
‘Master Thibualt,’ Athelstan rose to his feet, ‘I understand your concerns. I shall do what I can.’
‘What can you do?’ Cranston asked once they had returned to their own chamber.
‘Pray,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘reflect and think.’ The friar was true to his own word. He washed, shaved and changed his robes, then walked over to celebrate Mass in St Peter’s chapel. The only congregation was the coroner and a young lady whom Athelstan had glimpsed before because of the brindle-coloured greyhound which followed her everywhere. After they had broken their fast in the refectory, Cranston announced that, despite the freezing weather, he was off to the city. Athelstan accompanied him to a postern gate in the south-east wall, bade him farewell and trudged back across the ice. A group of children were playing ‘Hodman Blind’, shrieking at the boy who was Hodman not to lower the blindfold and keep his eyes shut. Athelstan watched them for a while then continued on to his own chamber. He made himself comfortable and reviewed the steps he had already constructed, adding two more: Samuel’s apparent suicide and Rosselyn’s gruesome murder. The friar brooded over his collection of facts but could see no logic or order. He took the book of plays from his chancery satchel and leafed through the pages. He enjoyed reading the transcripts of miracle plays and the plots of the different masques. He paused at one, his eye caught by the word ‘gleaning’ and the list of characters: Boaz, Mara, Naomi and Ruth. Athelstan crossed himself; his belly tingled with excitement as he studied the short play, ideal for any hamlet square or the nave of its church.
‘Of course, the Book of Ruth,’ he whispered. ‘Oh, Lord, save me.’ He scribbled a note on a scrap of parchment, got to his feet, threw a cloak about him and searched out Master Thibault in the royal lodgings. The Master of Secrets caught Athelstan’s excitement; his eyes narrowed as he clasped the friar’s hands.
‘Brother, what is happening?’
‘Not for now, not for now, Master Thibault, but I need two favours.’ He handed across the scribbled note. ‘Please give that to Lady Eleanor, your mysterious guest, and ask for an immediate reply.’
‘And secondly?’
‘I need a copy of the Bible, the Vulgate as translated by the blessed Jerome.’ Thibault took the scrap of parchment, still trying to press Athelstan on what was happening but, when the friar refused to answer, he promised the Bible would be brought immediately to Athelstan. Within the hour both requests had been answered and Athelstan stood before the lectern in his chamber. He hurriedly turned the stiffened leaves of the Bible until he found the Book of Ruth. He swiftly read the story of how Ruth, a Moabite woman, was widowed but when Naomi, her mother-in-law, decided to leave Moab for Judah, Ruth, the loyal daughter, insisted on following. What happened next led to Ruth becoming an ancestor of David from whose line the Messiah came. Athelstan read the story carefully. He listed all the characters and returned to the ‘steps’ he had drawn up beginning with the attack near Aldgate. He tried to fit into each one a possible assassin but he could not establish a logical development. Frustrated, he tried again and again until he flung the quill pen down, took his cloak and tramped round the Tower. He visited the scene of each murder, hoping to recall who was where and doing what. He stayed sometime in the chapel of St John, sitting at the base of one of the pillars, staring through the cold darkness trying to visualize what had happened. The crossbow bolts whirling so swiftly, the dramatic appearance of those severed heads. He racked his brains as he recalled who was where, who had fled and who had stayed. He stared around the oval-shaped chapel, concentrating on how the top half near the rood screen had so swiftly emptied after the attacks. So how, he thought furiously, had they been carried out? The only logical conclusion he could reach sent him scrambling to his feet. He hurried back to his chamber where Cranston sat toasting his toes before the fire as he savoured what he called, ‘the sweetest chicken leg in London with the claret to match’.
‘There are two of them!’ Athelstan exclaimed, shaking off his cloak and sitting down at his chancery desk.
‘Most chickens do have two.’
‘No, no, no,’ Athelstan laughed, ‘two assassins, Sir John, not one. Stupid, stupid friar,’ Athelstan continued. ‘I did think of this before but dismissed it too soon. I forget my logic: never dismiss a possibility until it’s proved to be impossible.’
‘Ah, well,’ Cranston murmured. ‘Perhaps perfection can never be found beyond a well-roasted chicken. Brother, are you sure?’
‘Yes,’ Athelstan smiled over his shoulder. ‘Two killers, but which two?’ Athelstan concentrated on building a logical argument based on the syllogism that there were two assassins. He worked late, absent-mindedly informing Cranston that he would eat and drink anything the coroner brought from the Tower buttery. Athelstan did so and returned to his studies, working until his eyes grew so heavy he began to nod off over the scraps of parchment littering his desk. The following morning he celebrated his Jesus Mass, broke his fast and returned to his syllogism. Sir John tried to question him but Athelstan kept bringing the conversation back to the ‘steps’ he’d constructed, urging Sir John to recall all the details he could.
Eventually, as early evening crept in, Athelstan made his decision. He stared at the names of possible culprits, yet what evidence could he produce? Moreover, he had failed to resolve how Eli and Rosselyn had been murdered or if Master Samuel had truly committed suicide. Athelstan now realized what had happened at the Roundhoop, the attacks on himself both here and St Erconwald’s, the massacre of the Wardes, the freeing of the great snow bear and the Upright Men’s assault on the Tower. Yet Eli and Rosselyn’s murders remained an enigma. How had that young man been killed by a crossbow bolt in a locked, barred chamber? No opening could be found. The eyelet had been fastened shut, stuck hard in an ancient door by the passage of time, the chamber shutters barred so the assassin could not have escaped by the window. Or Samuel’s apparent suicide. If he had been murdered, why was there no mark or violence in his chamber or on him? The assassin could have climbed down using both rope and corpse to reach the chamber below but what then? And Rosselyn, found sitting in that lower chamber with a dagger piercing his left eye? The evidence pointed to Rosselyn’s eyes being closed. Was he sleeping? Yet as a veteran soldier he would have been very alert to any danger. He could have been drugged with some opiate, yet there wasn’t a shred of evidence for this. And why had the assassin drenched him in that filthy water which reeked like a midden heap? Why did Rosselyn close his eyes? When did anyone close their eyes? Athelstan recalled the children playing Hodman’s Blind. Athelstan then wrote on a scrap of parchment: When would any adult close his or her eyes outside of sleep? When did he? Athelstan began to list these and abruptly paused at a surge of excitement. He had it! He returned to Eli’s murder and that of Rosselyn. Yes, he had it! He was sure. He had unmasked the culprits, the two assassins, except for why they had been killed.
Athelstan waited until Sir John returned from his ‘devotions’ in the buttery; he asked him to search out the surveyor of the King’s works in the Tower and make enquiries about the door to Eli’s chamber. Athelstan now concentrated on drawing up what he called his bill of indictment. Cranston returned with the answer Athelstan already expected. He quietly congratulated himself and continued his summation, steeling his will against the heinous consequences of his conclusions. Once finished, Athelstan revised his ‘billa’. He did this time and again then turned to the coroner.
‘Now,’ he said quietly. Cranston, sitting on the edge of his bed, put down the book of plays and stared at the friar.
‘Now what, Brother? Soon it will be dark.’
‘And we must be gone, Sir John, the sooner the better from this benighted place. Do not cause any alarm or provoke the suspicions of Magister Thibault or his henchmen. Quietly seek out the Straw Men and bring them to me, please.’ Cranston dressed and swept out through the door. Athelstan prepared the chamber, placing a stool in the centre of the room between the two beds. He cleared the chancery table, pushing the sheets and scraps into his chancery satchel, and waited. Cranston returned with the four woebegone players. Athelstan could only secretly marvel at the sheer skill of the assassin’s acting. He greeted all of them, warmly asking Samson, Gideon and Judith
