the masked figure confronting him scarcely rose above a whisper.
‘The earthworms?’ Athelstan retorted. ‘You mean my poor parishioners who, according to you, will spin Fortune’s wheel and change the power of Heaven.’ Athelstan shook his head. ‘Gaunt will burn this city before he allows that to happen.’
‘We shall burn it for him — an easy enough task.’
‘Gallows and gibbets are just as easily erected.’
The masked figure laughed softly.
‘Why did you hang those two poor unfortunates — aren’t they earthworms too?’
‘They tried to escape; that can only mean they were either spies or intent on raising the alarm. They had to be punished; a warning to the rest.’
Athelstan stared around the gloomy tap room. He glimpsed about six Upright Men — others, he reasoned, must be in the galleries above. He also noticed their war belts and quivers, the arbalests, maces and clubs and, in his secret dread, Athelstan sensed this would end in bloodshed.
‘So what must I do now?’ Athelstan tried to keep his voice calm.
‘We are near the river.’ The Upright Man went on to demand, ‘We want one of the royal war barges from the Tower. We-’ He abruptly paused. Athelstan heard a whooshing sound followed by a scream in the galleries above; something hot and fiery smashed into the shutters of the Roundhoop. The Upright Man drew his sword. Athelstan gestured at the hostages.
‘Run!’ he screamed. ‘Run!’ He hastened over and dragged the friar and the whore to their feet. She kept her face down, her voice squeaky, muttering curses in the patois of the London slums. Athelstan pushed them both towards the door. He glanced swiftly around; more fiery missiles smashed into the wooden shutters. Smoke billowed down the stairs. Athelstan hurried towards the door. An Upright Man emerged out of the murk, pulling the red mask from his bearded face. He gazed wild-eyed at the friar and raised his sword threateningly, moving sideways as Athelstan tried to avoid him. More missiles smashed into the walls. Thick smoke curled. The air was shattered by screams and yells. The Upright Man lowered his sword, an almost beseeching look in his eyes.
‘I didn’t know!’ Athelstan yelled at him. The whore close to the door collapsed to her knees, sobbing in terror.
‘I didn’t know,’ Athelstan repeated.
The young man let his sword arm droop then abruptly lurched forward, mouth open. He tried to speak but gagged on his words. He staggered towards Athelstan before collapsing to the floor; the yard-long shaft had pierced him deep in the back between his shoulder blades. The stricken man rolled to one side, stretching his head back as if searching for someone. Athelstan knelt beside him as royal archers and men-at-arms surged through the door, knocking aside Athelstan and the other hostages in their rush to engage the Upright Men. The smoke was thickening, reducing individuals to mere shapes. More soldiers charged in. Swords and daggers flashed in the light. Blood snaked across the floor, trickling over the green supple rushes. The friar and the whore, on all fours, crept out on to the steps. Athelstan was tempted to follow but he could still feel the Upright Man’s body warm against his shaking hand. He turned the man over on to his side; he was dying, the fluttering eyes dulling, blood bubbling out of nose and mouth.
‘Thank you,’ Athelstan whispered. ‘You did not strike. God be my witness, I did not know the attack would be launched.’
‘Father, shrive me of all my sins.’ The dying man tried to speak but the blood gathering at the back of his throat choked him. Athelstan whispered the words of absolution even as he watched the life light die in the stricken man’s eyes. He gave a gasp summoning up his last energy, what Aquinas called the ‘last leap of the soul’ before it left the body. He grasped Athelstan’s hand.
‘Your name?’ the friar asked gently.
‘No name.’ The dying man sighed. ‘Tell my beloved to continue gleaning.’
‘Gleaning?’ Athelstan leaned over the man. ‘What do you mean?’
The Upright Man tried to rise and twist his head as if searching for someone or something. ‘Tell her to glean; I won’t see her.’ His grasp on Athelstan’s hand tightened and relaxed. He sighed out his soul, body trembling; he coughed blood then lay still. Athelstan sketched a blessing and rose to his feet. The attack was now deep in the tavern, the Upright Men retreating into the upper galleries. The tap room was like a battlefield across which echoed screams and yells, the strident screech and scrape of sword on sword yet the struggling shapes, the fire licking at the shutters and the noise of battle seemed eerily distant as if muffled by a sound like that of pounding waves in a storm. Athelstan stared around, trying to make sense of the confusion. The smoke was now thinning, drifting out through the main door. The Friar of the Sack and his whore had disappeared. Minehost Simon and his two servants lay stretched out on the cobbles, corpses stiffening, their throats slit, a mess of blood congealing at neck and chest. Athelstan went out and administered the last rites but he fumbled and forgot the words. He paused, took a deep breath and began again. He whispered the words of forgiveness and that final petition to the Lords of Light to go out and greet all these souls: ‘Lest they fall into the power of the enemy.’ He felt a hand on his shoulder. Cranston stood there, holding his chancery satchel. Athelstan had never seen the coroner look so sad; his ruddy face was pale and those glaring blue eyes dimmed. Even the glorious white whiskers seemed to droop.
‘By Mary and the Mass,’ Cranston breathed. ‘Athelstan, I swear, I did not realize this was going to happen and yet, as you know,’ he blinked, ‘from the moment we arrived I smelt treachery. I was asked to accompany the Flemings around the wall to the back of the tavern. When I got there, the mangonels released their first shots, fiery, pitch-coated bundles of bracken and old cloth. Only then did I realize what was about to take place. I hastened back but the assault had already begun. Athelstan. .’ The Dominican simply shrugged off the coroner’s hand, grasped his chancery satchel and strode over to the gate where Thibault stood, legs apart, hands on his hips, head slightly back as he watched his archers drag out the corpses from the Roundhoop. The Master of Secrets narrowed his eyes, lips twisted in a smirk as the Dominican confronted him.
‘Brother, I gave them no promises except one!’ Thibault held up a hand. ‘They wanted to speak to you and so they did. They were traitors, rebels, taken in arms plotting against the Crown. They were murderers and ravagers. Now they are dead and their heads will provide further decoration for London Bridge.’ He leaned forward, the smirk replaced by false concern. ‘Brother?’
‘Once a scorpion asked a wolf to take him across a fast-flowing river. The wolf,’ Athelstan held Thibault’s gaze, ‘at first refused. “You will sting me and we shall both die”. The scorpion denied this, promising all would be well so the wolf allowed the scorpion to stand on his head as he braved the waters.’
‘And?’ Thibault drew his head back, glancing over his shoulder at his archers now kicking and abusing the corpses.
‘The scorpion stung the wolf, who protested, saying the scorpion had given him his word and now they would both die, so why had he stung him? You know the scorpion’s response?’
‘No, Brother, I don’t.’
‘The scorpion replied, “Because it is in my nature”. Good day, Master Thibault.’ Athelstan stepped around him and, clutching his chancery satchel, strode down the lane, ignoring Thibault’s cry of ‘Very good, very good!’ as well as Cranston’s shouts to wait awhile. Athelstan walked on through the cordon of men-at-arms now fighting to keep back the gathering crowd, whose mood was turning ugly. Athelstan glimpsed faces he recognized: the pious fraud, the Sanctus Man, with his tray of religious artefacts; Mudfog, a member of Moleskins’ Guild of St Peter; and Shrimp and Castoff, two members of the Fisher of Men’s company, that strange individual who made his living by gathering corpses from the Thames. Athelstan did not pause but passed on, taking the path down to London Bridge. His mind was in turmoil, angry at what he had witnessed yet relieved to be free though still deeply anxious about the doings of some of his parishioners. Would they also be trapped to be cut down or hanged? He recalled the dying Upright Man’s last words about asking a woman to glean. What did that mean? What had that unfortunate man been looking for?
PART TWO
‘Mulcator: Despoiler’
