Athelstan closed his eyes in sheer pleasure then opened them and stared around the glorious chapel of St John: the entire place blazed with glory. The eye-catching colours delighted the eye, be it the gold, silver, reds, blues and greens on the tapestries hanging between the pillars or the small walnut tables, legs polished to a shine, bearing cups, goblets, bowls and mazers of the most precious metals studded with dazzling stones. Gaunt and his guests looked similarly magnificent in their houppelands and gowns of many colours, powdered with silver and gold. Finger rings, bracelets, collars and pectorals dazzled in the shimmering light of countless tongues of candle flame. The air was beautifully fragranced, warm and sweet. Such a contrast, Athelstan reflected, to their freezing cold, sombre journey by barge along the north bank of the Thames, the mist curling around the shoreline gallows heavy with the crumbling corpses of river pirates. They had shot through the thunderous water passage under London Bridge then docked at the Tower quayside. They’d entered the mighty fortress and the sheer bleakness of this house of war dulled the spirit with its sinister, silent donjons and fogbound cobbled baileys. Now and again the murky river mist would shift to reveal the great engines of war: mangonels, catapults and battering rams. A place of evil repute was how Athelstan’s parishioners described the Tower, and the friar could only agree. A place of ominous silence broken only by the clatter of weapons, the clanging from its many smithies or the heart-chilling roars and growls from the royal menagerie which, according to Cranston, on a hot day made the fortress reek. Athelstan had glimpsed the long enclosure with the cages on either side where the leopards and lions prowled, gifts from rulers in Outremer. Cranston had even told him about a huge snow bear kept in a special chamber cage close to the moat in which the bear was allowed to swim. Athelstan had rejected the story as fanciful. Cranston had assured him that the animal was a recent gift from the King of Norway, almost three yards high and kept on a long chain which allowed him to swim in the nearby water. Athelstan had quietly promised himself to view such a magnificent spectacle.
The Tower was certainly grim. Athelstan turned on his chair, yet this chapel was an island of beautiful serenity in the fear-filled fortress. He and Cranston had been ushered in and served belly-warming, mouth-sweetening cups of hippocras and slices of spiced toast coated with almond sauce. Gaunt with the face of an angel, his extraordinary blue eyes crinkling in good humour, had welcomed all his guests. He had stood before the brilliant rood screen dressed in cloth of silver and lavished them with his charm. Light danced along the golden ‘SS’ collar of Lancaster around the Regent’s neck while the gorgeous finger rings made every elegant gesture of his hands shimmer in the glow. Gaunt wore cream-coloured, Spanish leather riding boots, and every time he moved the jewelled spurs on the heels jingled like the soft ringing of the sacring bell. He had personally welcomed Cranston and Athelstan, thanking for them for their work at the Roundhoop. The Regent then passed them on to Master Thibault who, dressed in a houppeland and shoulder cape of dark blue murrey brushed with silver, ushered them to their seats. The other guests included a few important clerics, Walbrook the mayor and other leading citizens. Lascelles, garbed as usual like a raven, looked after the Flemings, resplendent in their silver brocaded cloaks. Athelstan noticed how Lettenhove, their bodyguard, seemed ill at ease, plucking at his dagger hilt and staring suspiciously around the luxuriously furnished chapel.
All of this had been swept aside by the drama. Gaunt’s mummers, the Straw Men, appeared from around the rood screen to present themselves – seven in all. Master Samuel, their florid-faced, grey-bearded leader, explained how he and his troupe had no personal names but took those from ancient scripture. He was Samuel; the four young men of varying heights and descriptions were called after the heroes of Israel: Gideon, Barak, Samson and Eli. Two young women were also members of the troupe. Judith, called after Israel’s great heroine who resisted a tyrant, was small, dark and rather plump, her raven-black hair cropped close around an impish face. The woman’s dancing eyes and merry mouth reminded Athelstan of one of his parishioners, Cecily the courtesan. The second woman was young and slim; her pointed, snow-white face only emphasized her tumbling, gorgeous fiery-red hair; she was Rachael of Galilee, named after the woman who had mourned the innocents slaughtered by Herod the tyrant. Cranston
