‘In God’s name!’ Cranston, crouching low, dragged both Athelstan and the dying artist back into the church, slamming the door shut just before a third arrow shaft thudded into it. Athelstan sat down on the cold paving stones gazing helplessly as Huddle, eyes fluttering, lips bubbling a scarlet froth, legs and arms shaking, choked on his own blood.
‘What is the matter?’ The anchorite hurried across to stare in hushed desperation at his former colleague’s death throes. He knelt down, clutching Huddle’s hand, but the blood welling out of the chest wound as well as from his mouth and nose showed Huddle was in his last extremities. Athelstan remembered himself. Leaning down beside the dying man, he feverishly whispered the absolution, followed by the invocation to God’s angels to go out and greet the departing soul. Sir John left him to it, abruptly opening the corpse door then slamming it shut just as swiftly before another shaft thudded into the wood.
‘What shall we do?’ the anchorite murmured. ‘What is happening here?’
Athelstan leaned across, pressing a finger against the anchorite’s bloodless lips.
‘You are Giles of Sepringham, the Hangman of Rochester, the anchorite. You live here by my grace and favour. You will say nothing,’ Athelstan insisted, ‘and I mean nothing, about what you have seen or heard today. Do you understand? If you do break confidence, you and I, sir, are finished. Do I have your solemn word?’
The anchorite nodded, raising his right hand as if taking the solemn pledge.
‘Now,’ Athelstan breathed, ‘what weapons do we have?’
‘I have a crossbow,’ the anchorite offered.
‘Against an assassin!’ Cranston grunted. ‘Armed with a war bow he could kill us in the blink of an eye?’
Athelstan gazed down at Huddle. The painter now lay quiet, the death rattle faint in his throat, the great chest wound drenched in blood.
‘Was it me?’ Athelstan whispered. ‘Did the assassin think he was loosing at me or you, Huddle, dressed in the robes of a Dominican?’ Athelstan’s stomach lurched at the way death had so casually brushed him. ‘Brother?’ He glanced across at Cranston. ‘You know what I’m thinking, Sir John?’
‘God knows,’ the coroner replied.
‘What if, what if, what if,’ Athelstan broke free from his fear, ‘what if doesn’t matter. A killer lurks outside. He wants to end our lives as you would snuff a candle flame. Well,’ the friar wiped sweaty hands on his robe, ‘Huddle is now past all caring and gone to God, while we, sirs, do have a very powerful weapon.’ Athelstan rose and went across into the dusty bell tower. He seized the oiled ropes and pulled vigorously, tolling the bell, ringing out the tocsin, time and again, until he heard the shouts of his parishioners as they hurried across the icy waste outside to discover what was wrong.
Athelstan stared round the chancery chamber, shuttered and warm, in the King’s lodgings at the Tower. The smooth sheen of the oval table before him glinted in the dancing glow of candlelight. Outside a stiff cold breeze clattered the shutters. Athelstan recalled the events of the previous day: the death of Huddle, the arrival of his parishioners and of course the disappearance of the assassin. Athelstan had quietened and comforted his parishioners, stayed the night in the priest’s house and led Huddle’s requiem early the following morning. Afterwards he had conducted the candle-bearing, funeral procession into God’s Acre. The harsh soil had been broken. Huddle, wrapped in his deerskin shroud, was interred in the frozen mud. Athelstan had performed the last rites, praised Huddle’s work and declared that an assassin had slain the painter for reasons known only to Satan and, Athelstan grimly added, to God. Then he had issued the general blessing for all the faithful dead but added that he intended to conduct a thorough review of burials in the parish cemetery, beginning with the grave of Watkin’s parents. Athelstan had secretly smiled at the consternation this had caused but then left, hurrying across the bridge to meet Sir John at the appointed time in their chamber at the Tower. Now, at the hour of Christ’s passion and death, he had assembled those he wanted to question here in this opulent, warm room.
Athelstan breathed in deeply to control his temper. He had stomached enough secrecy and malevolence. It was time for the truth to be defined and published. He wanted to shake and disturb some of the certainties behind which these people defended themselves. The friar glared round. Thibault, Cornelius and Lascelles sat along one side of the table; on the other were Rosselyn and the Straw Men: Samuel, Gideon, Samson, Rachael and Judith.
‘Brother,’ Thibault’s voice was almost a drawl, ‘break free from your meditations. His Grace the Regent is demanding answers.’
‘In which case we do have something in common,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘So do I. First, however, I do not yet understand what happened during that attack at Saint John’s Chapel, how Barak was murdered and thrown from that window or how Eli was slain so feloniously in his chamber. I confess I do not know who slaughtered the bear keeper, released Maximus and opened that postern gate so the Upright Men could enter the Tower. Nor can I fully account for why the spicer and his family were massacred. However, I have discovered, Master Thibault, that you have a spy or spies in the company of the Upright Men.’ Thibault smirked. ‘And they undoubtedly have a spy close to you.’ The Master of Secrets simply flicked his fingers. ‘Spies, traitors, Judas men,’ Athelstan pointed at Samuel in the Straw Men, ‘that’s what you are, aren’t you? My Lord of Gaunt’s spies as you move through the countryside? You stay in this hamlet, you rest at that village, you collect information.’ Athelstan raised a hand. ‘No, no, please don’t deny it.’ He glanced swiftly at the other Straw Men: he could tell from their faces that he had
