‘You think he was struck at the back of the head and his body rested against the crypt wall before being hurled with great force, the arbalest pushed into his hands, from that window?’
‘Yes, Sir John, I suspect that’s the truth. Barak was no assassin but the victim of murder. Of course, my conclusion prompts other problems when we return to what happened in Saint John’s Chapel. We do not know who was doing what, where and when. Indeed,’ he laughed sharply, ‘the only person who does is the assassin.’ He turned at a loud snore. ‘Sir John, are you leaving us?’
‘Brother, I have to. I’m exhausted.’
Athelstan continued to stare into the red-hot coals which invoked memories of paintings of Hell he’d glimpsed in frescoes and illuminated psalters. He shifted his gaze and recalled the events of the day. The explosions in the braziers, that gaping gargoyle, the dragon’s head. The crossbow bolts whipping across that beautiful chapel. Lettenhove and Oudernarde collapsing. Barak’s twisted, battered corpse. And the reason for all this? Athelstan crossed himself then moved to check the draught cloths pinned to the bottom of the chamber door. He returned to the brazier. Where did this all begin? That furious affray at the Roundhoop? Athelstan recalled the young man hesitating with his sword before being struck himself, those words mumbled as he died about ‘gleaning’. How some woman was to continue to glean. How he tried to raise himself as if looking for something. Was that just a man lost in the fever of his death throes? And before the attack at the Roundhoop, that savage assault on Thibault’s party near Aldgate? It wasn’t just an attack on Gaunt; the Upright Men had been searching for something – that enigmatic woman prisoner? Why was she so closely guarded? Why was she so important to Gaunt to be kept under such strict watch at the heart of his power? Undoubtedly there was treachery afoot, the one link between all these events. The attack at Aldgate, the murders in the White Tower. Somebody, pretending to be Gaunt’s friend and ally, was really a vigorous Judas.
‘Sir John?’
‘Yes, Brother?’ came the sleepy reply.
‘The ambush near Aldgate – surely, for it was so well prepared, the Upright Men must have a spy close to Gaunt and Master Thibault?’
Cranston groaned and rolled over, one eye squinting up at Athelstan. ‘Brother, for the love of God, go to sleep. The Upright Men watch Gaunt as closely as he watches them. They could have easily learnt about the arrival of the Flemings at Dover and the intended route to London. The Upright Men have countless watchmen and spies.’
‘But so carefully plotted and prepared?’
‘Brother,’ Cranston rolled back, ‘good night and…’
He abruptly pushed back the blankets as the tocsin on the top of Bell Tower began to toll, a discordant, harsh clattering rousing the garrison. Athelstan unbolted the door and hurried out. The falling snow had created a sea of brilliant white against the black fortifications of the Tower. Athelstan glanced across. A glow of fire pierced the darkness brightening the night sky. Other doors were opening, men hurrying out, slipping and slithering across the snow in a clatter of mail and drawn weapons. Cranston, wrapped in blankets, joined Athelstan on the top step, spluttering as the snowflakes settled on his face. A shout echoed, followed by two strident blasts of a horn. Rosselyn strode out of the darkness.
‘Brother, Sir John,’ he gasped apologies, ‘only an accident, a fire in the stables. I’ve directed men there; we will soon douse the flames.’
‘Ite missa est – go, our Mass has ended.’ Athelstan smiled at the small crowd of worshippers huddled within the rood screen of the rather severe sanctuary of St Peter’s. Like Athelstan, they had struggled through the snow, at least a foot deep, as the sacring bell announced a very grey dawn. The Straw Men were there, as were Master Thibault, Lascelles and Oudernarde. Master Cornelius, Athelstan suspected, would be celebrating his own Mass much later in more comfortable lodgings. Cranston, who’d served as Athelstan’s altar boy, rose from the sanctuary steps, stamping booted feet, rubbing his hands and noisily smacking his lips. He helped Athelstan divest. Thibault and his party promptly left but not before Lascelles curtly informed Cranston and Athelstan that his master would like to see them before they exited the Tower. Cranston grunted he’d break his fast first, then turned away to help Athelstan clear the sacred vessels from the altar. Once they’d finished and were about to leave by the narrow corpse door, the Straw Men, led by Samuel, came back under the rood screen. Rachael had pulled up her hood to hide her gorgeous red hair in deference to being in church. She rested on Judith’s arm; they and their companions, rubbing their hands for warmth, stopped before Cranston and Athelstan, shuffling their feet. Samuel went to speak but thought otherwise. He closed his mouth, fingering his lips.
‘Well?’ Cranston barked. ‘What do…’
Athelstan touched him on the arm. ‘You have come to ask about Barak?’
‘Yes, we have, Brother.’ Judith stepped forward, her impish face set in a stubborn twist. ‘We are all here, except Eli, but he’s a lazy slug-a-bed.’
‘And?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Do you think…?’ Rachael blurted out. ‘Well, we don’t. We have been discussing this. Barak cannot be the murderer. He just cannot be, I mean…’
Athelstan grasped the young woman’s mittened fingers; her green, cat-like eyes crinkled in amusement.
‘Look,’ Athelstan smiled at her then round at the rest. ‘Gaunt regards you as his mummers, his players, yes? He favours you. He patronizes you.’
‘Yes,’ Samuel conceded, ‘he pays us well.’
‘I’m sure he does.’ Athelstan released Rachael’s hands even as he glimpsed a swift, startled look in Samuel’s eyes. Athelstan
