‘I am a priest,’ he murmured in Latin. ‘I will shrive him.’
Athelstan rose and glanced across the chapel. Gaunt’s henchmen now ringed their master with kite-shaped shields while Lascelles tried to restore order, ushering people towards the door. Athelstan started at a man’s high-pitched yell. Eli, hiding under a table, had pushed back the heavy covering cloth and was pointing at the rood screen. Athelstan followed the direction and stifled his own exclamation. Two severed heads lay either side of Hell’s mouth. He hastened across, knelt and turned both over; they were very similar to those master Burdon poled on London Bridge. Both heads had seemingly been severed some time ago, the dirty-grey skin and the jagged remains of the neck were as dry as leather. Their features were all shrunken and shrivelled, the hair on both very brittle, the eyes sunk deep in their sockets, almost hidden by the crumpled lids.
‘Sweet Lord of Heaven!’ Cranston breathed as he crouched beside Athelstan. ‘In God’s name, where have they come from?’ He broke off as Athelstan plucked a scrap of parchment from one of the dead mouths. He unfolded this and whispered what was scrawled there.
‘When Adam delved and Eve span
Who was then the gentleman?
Now the world is ours and ours alone
To cut the Lords to heart and bone.’
‘Brother!’ Thibault stood behind them, ‘Brother!’ The Master of Secrets’ usual smiling face was pale, taut with anger. ‘Brother, Sir John. I must ask you to go.’ He forced a wintry smile. ‘For the moment leave those heads where they are.’ He plucked the scrap of parchment from Athelstan’s hand. ‘Lascelles will see you to a comfortable chamber. You can…’
‘Master Thibault!’ An archer stood in the doorway. ‘Master Thibault, the assassin has been found!’
‘What is this?’ Gaunt shouted, breaking free of the encircling knights.
‘My Lord.’ Thibault stretched out his hand and pointed to the grisly human remains on the exquisitely tiled floor. ‘My Lord, I beg you stay here.’
Thibault turned back, snapping his fingers at Cranston. ‘Sir John, I think you’d best come. You too, Brother Athelstan.’
All three left the chapel; outside the freezing darkness was falling. Archers carrying cresset torches moved about, shepherding those guests who’d fled the chapel to the great hall in the nearby royal lodgings. Officers of the Tower could only stand by and watch helplessly.
‘Master Thibault,’ Cranston whispered, ‘will not be interfered with. Royal palace or not, the King’s fortress of the Tower is now firmly under his control. Mark my words, dear friar, this will certainly end in bloodshed.’ Athelstan did not reply but pulled his cowl more firmly against the cutting cold as they followed the archer around the keep. The friar glanced up at the light flaring from the Chapel of St John above them. In the distance he could see a pool of flame where men clustered near the north-east corner of the Tower. Athelstan glimpsed a lantern box burning from a window, its shutters flung wide open, and reckoned this must be a window to the crypt. As they reached the circle of flame, the archer stepped back to allow them closer to where Rosselyn knelt by a crumpled corpse, its face ghoulish white, eyes popping. Blood from the head, which lay strangely twisted, had oozed out to create a sticky puddle. A young man dressed in jerkin, hose and hooded cloak, Athelstan peered closer and recognized Barak, one of the Straw Men. He glanced up the side of the Tower where the end of an oiled hempen rope swung in the evening breeze. A short distance away from the corpse laid a small hand arbalest or crossbow. Athelstan gently moved the twisted cloak, found the man’s belt and touched the stout leather case containing two barbed bolts.
‘You said he was the assassin?’ Athelstan asked over his shoulder at the archer who had led them here.
‘It must be,’ Rosselyn replied as he turned the corpse over on to its back. Athelstan flinched at the way the head flopped and the horrid wound which disfigured the entire right side of Barak’s face. Rosselyn, swift and nimble as any foist, searched the corpse. He emptied the belt purse – a few coins, a medal and two scraps of parchment. Athelstan sensed what was written and quoted the lines he had just read in the chapel. Rosselyn simply stared dead-eyed at him and handed the scripts to Thibault who plucked at the friar’s sleeve as a sign to withdraw. Athelstan chose to ignore him and recited the rite of absolution.
‘If you are finished, Brother,’ Thibault crouched beside him. ‘The night is so cold, and my master awaits.’
‘For whom?’ Athelstan held the sinister clerk’s hard stare.
‘Oh, for you, my dear friar and you, Sir John.’ Thibault moved his head from side to side as if assessing some complex problem. ‘Oh, yes, Brother Athelstan, my master and I certainly need words with you but until then…’
A short while later Athelstan and Cranston were ushered into the Tower guest house which stood close to the church of St Peter ad Vincula. This two-storey building, fronted with snow-white plaster and brown beams, boasted a great hall, kitchen and buttery on the ground floor, its upper storey being reserved for guest chambers. The hall was pleasant enough, the paved floor covered with tough rope matting. A great, hooded hearth housed a merry, spluttering fire, while braziers stacked with blazing coals and strewn with herbs provided more warmth and fragrance. They walked into a barn-like room with black rafters, the lime-washed walls covered with heavy painted canvasses which described the legends of the Tower, how it was founded by Trojan exiles and strengthened by the great Caesar. The long communal tables down either side gave the impression of a monastic refectory, a likeness heightened by the great black cross nailed to the far wall and the tall pulpitum opposite the hearth. The Straw Men were there, clustering in a frightened huddle on stools around the fire.
