‘The Straw Men must also be present,’ Athelstan demanded.
Thibault had nodded and said he would reflect on that as well. Now Gaunt’s Master of Secrets, together with his henchmen and the bland-faced Cornelius, sat on a cushioned bench before Athelstan; on the other side ranged the Straw Men. Judith was openly agitated, her eyes screwed up in fear. She stared at Athelstan, who once again sensed the tension between Judith and her male companions, whose attempts to sit close were brusquely refused. Rachael leaned forward, red hair straggling down, green eyes wide in shock. Master Samuel sat combing his beard with chewed fingers. The burly Samson had the look of a pole-axed ox while the effete Gideon twirled a lock of hair between his fingers. Next to these, leaning against the pillar stood Rosselyn, hood pulled back, his grim face twisted in a look of disbelief.
‘I mourn for you, Brother,’ the captain of archers spoke up, ‘but I swear, nobody here left the Tower yesterday. Ask my men. I was here all day; I can vouch for everyone else. My Lord of Gaunt’s instructions, reinforced by Master Thibault, are most clear. None of us are to leave. None of us did.’
‘Who was murdered?’ Rachael asked, shifting the hair from her face.
‘Nobody you know.’ Athelstan sighed. ‘A spicer and his family,’ he glanced swiftly at Thibault, ‘though I believe they were known to you.’
The Master of Secrets just shrugged as if that was a matter of little concern. ‘We cannot leave here,’ Samson protested. ‘Brother Athelstan, I thought we were to visit your parish to perform a passage from a mystery play?’
‘Not now,’ Thibault snapped. ‘Not till these mysteries are solved. Nobody leaves.’
‘I will.’ Athelstan voice thrilled with defiance. ‘I shall. I need to. I must revisit the Roundhoop.’
‘Why?’
‘To refresh my memory.’
‘About what?’
‘I shall know that, Master Thibault, when I remember it.’
‘And I am the King’s own officer.’ Cranston, sitting in the sanctuary chair next to the lectern, spoke up. ‘I shall go where I want. I have business in the city tomorrow. King’s business.’
‘Which is?’
‘If you were King, Master Thibault, I’d tell you.’ Cranston got to his feet. ‘But you are not, so I shall not. We are finished here, Brother. We’ve been told that no one left the Tower yesterday.’
Athelstan murmured his agreement. He felt weary. He’d slept late, risen and celebrated his Mass, now this. The friar stared down the church at a faded wall painting depicting St Peter’s confrontation with the arch-magician, Simon Magus. Magus had tried to fly, only to be brought crashing back to earth by the prayer of St Peter. Athelstan smiled to himself. He felt that he was also stumbling around despite going hither and thither in pursuit of this or that. Power games were being played. Pieces were being shifted on the board. Forces gathered – Gaunt on one side, the Upright Men on the other. In between was himself, Cranston and St Erconwald’s. Nevertheless, there was something else, something that constantly dogged Athelstan’s secret thoughts. He was exasperated because he felt weary, because he was failing to resolve these problems. To confront a mystery, to enter it as he would a maze, to thread his way through to the centre and so prove there was no mystery was Athelstan’s great passion. He felt physically and mentally depleted if he was not involved in that, or if he started but failed to make headway. In truth, he loved entering that maze perhaps even more than being a Dominican priest, a friend of Cranston, or the spiritual leader of his flock. An absorbing…
‘Brother Athelstan,’ Thibault mocked, ‘are you praying?’
‘I wish to God I was,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘Believe me,’ Athelstan breathed in deeply, ‘I need to visit the Roundhoop, then we shall return.’ He smiled at Judith, Rachael and the other Straw Men. ‘Perhaps we shall then stage our own play?’
‘Meaning what?’ Cornelius demanded.
‘Oh, we shall go back to Saint John’s Chapel. I want to recreate where everybody stood, to establish how that skilful assassin could wreak such damage.’ Athelstan blessed the air as a sign that he had finished. He collected his cloak and chancery bag from the corner of the sanctuary and left the chapel by the corpse door. Once outside he finished dressing against the cold, thanking God for the thick serge leggings under his robe. Cranston was similarly attired. The morning was freezing cold; a thick mist had wrapped itself about everything, a moving shroud which made the eyes wince and the lips curl as it nipped exposed flesh. No fresh snow had fallen but the ground under foot was like polished glass. Athelstan and Cranston gratefully accepted the walking canes Rosselyn offered. The captain of archers accompanied them down to a postern gate and allowed them through. The ward outside, Petty Wales, was busy, though this was one of the wastelands of the city. The slippery lanes, derelict houses ranging either side, were cold and filthy hovels where illness and ignorance ruled like lords. Hunger-haunted faces stared out at them. Frozen fingers picked at chestnuts roasting in a dirty pan above a rubbish heap which had been doused in filthy oil and set alight. Nearby stale bread, hard and black, was on sale with sausages and dripping from dead dog preparations. The beggars clustered so close together it looked like a mass of rags covered one huge body with many pinched faces. Cheap tapers glowed from tawdry box lanterns, spots of yellow which pierced the thickening whiteness.
They reached the Roundhoop and went up the steps into the musty, circular tap room. The place was dark and the shutters were
