‘Brother Athelstan?’ Thibault protested.
‘You are Flemish, Master Samuel?’ The friar just ignored the interruption.
‘What makes you ask that?’
‘Nothing at all… pure speculation. Well, are you?’
‘My mother was.’
‘I thought as much. I’ve noticed how My Lord of Gaunt surrounds himself with people from the country he was born in. I suspect you were born in the same city and your parents had some connection with His Grace’s household. You are well versed in the tongue – you must be.’
Samuel nodded warily; his eyes slid to Thibault.
‘You travel to Flanders, Master Samuel and no, don’t mislead me.’ Samuel was now looking directly at Thibault for guidance. They are allies, Athelstan concluded. There is more between them than just miracle plays. Thibault and Samuel, when it comes to their master, think with the same mind and act with the same heart. They are Gaunt’s men, body and soul, in peace and war, day and night, totally devoted and loyal to their royal master. Athelstan had met such before – men who accepted the legal concept of the emperor Justinian, ‘Voluntas principis habet vigorem legis – the will of the prince has force of law’. In other words, if Gaunt wanted something done, they would do it within the law or beyond it.
‘What are you implying?’ Thibault asked testily. He paused at a sudden roar from the royal menagerie. Athelstan recalled that great snow bear bursting into the inner bailey with its blood-flecked paws, gore staining its front.
‘I am not implying anything.’ Athelstan strove to concentrate on the fog of mystery he was trying to thread through. ‘I am saying that Master Samuel and his troupe visited Flanders and travelled the roads of that country. You were looking for something, weren’t you, and you found it.’
‘Enough!’ Thibault shouted, clapping his hands and springing to his feet. The Master of Secrets grasped the silver chain of office around his neck as if it was some sort of talisman. ‘Brother Athelstan, it is best,’ he indicated with his hands, ‘if you all left except…’ He gestured at the friar and Sir John. The others did. Rosselyn paused to whisper in Thibault’s ear but his master, face all grim, shook his head. Once the chamber was cleared, Thibault bolted the door and sat down, patting his stomach, staring at a point above the friar’s head. ‘Continue, Brother Athelstan.’
‘You know what I am going to say. I can’t state when, but the Straw Men visited Ghent. They eventually discovered a certain lady sheltering at Saint Bavin. They later discovered, or at least Master Samuel did, that this lady, whoever she really is, had been joined by a former royal nurse or midwife, together with the latter’s son, a scrivener. This precious pair were beginning to peddle the story of how this mysterious lady, to whom they had attached themselves, was really the legitimate daughter of King Edward III of England and his wife Philippa of Hainault, and how she had been changed at birth and replaced by the son of a peasant because of some hideous birth defect. The peasant boy, of course, is now My Lord of Gaunt, Regent of England.’ Athelstan paused. ‘I admit this is pure conjecture. I probably have the sequence of events jumbled or even inaccurate, but my conclusion is that the Straw Men are your spies. They, among others, were used to track down your mysterious prisoner as well as the mother and son who had prepared to publish, or at least record, what could have been an outrageous scandal.’
Thibault continued to stare at the point above their heads.
‘Master Samuel immediately informed you as well as your agents in Ghent, the Oudernardes. They seized the former nurse and her son, tortured them, tore their tongues out and beheaded them. The woman, your mysterious prisoner, was then taken into your care and, together with the severed heads of her former patrons, brought to England. A traitor close to you, whoever that is, divulged all or some of this to the Upright Men, hence the attacks at Aldgate and here in the Tower.’
Thibault shifted, lower lip jutting out, a set of ivory Ave beads now threaded his fingers.
‘How did you know?’ he demanded.
‘I searched.’
‘And?’ Thibault raised his head. ‘If this is all true, what is it to you, Friar?’ He smiled with his lips. ‘Should you really know such information?’
‘Don’t threaten me, Thibault, just let us visit this woman.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I am curious to see the cause of so much slaughter. I also want to question her; she may know something.’
‘Such as?’
‘I don’t know until I question her and if I can’t,’ Athelstan shrugged, ‘I also speak for Sir John – I would say we are finished here.’
‘You play with fire, Brother Athelstan.’
‘I’ve warned you once,’ Athelstan snapped, ‘don’t threaten me. I am a Dominican friar. I am here by my own grace and favour. I cannot be detained by the Crown – you know the law, so do I. I would plead benefit of clergy.’ Thibault, fingering his Ave beads, rocked backwards and forwards in his chair.
‘You are clever, Athelstan,’ he lisped. ‘Gaunt truly admires you. He said you would pick up the scent and pursue it ruthlessly.’ Thibault blinked. ‘He also said that you and Sir John could be trusted,’ he laughed abruptly, ‘which is the most rare of virtues.’ Thibault pulled a face. ‘Very well,’ he pointed to the leather-bound book of the Gospels on its intricately carved lectern. ‘Both of you must take the oath that you will not divulge anything you see or hear when you visit the prisoner in Beauchamp. Once I have your oaths, I will take you there.’
Athelstan gazed around the comfortable lower chamber of the Beauchamp Tower. Thibault had led them through the lines of hooded and visored archers and men-at-arms down the steps and into this very cavernous room with its hearth fire and numerous flickering candles. Thick tapestries cloaked the grey walls; straw
