The drama unfolded until somewhere in the Tower a horn wailed and a bell clanged, marking the passing hour. The masque ended. The mummers stripped off their costumes and headdresses. Some of the audience wanted more but Rosselyn, who had been watching the play intently, clapped gauntleted hands, his harsh voice assuring the departing spectators that His Grace’s mummers would perform again. Samuel came up to accept Sir John’s congratulations and two silver pieces. The master of players looked pale and drawn; he mumbled something about staging another masque then shuffled off, accompanied by Gideon. Cranston was about to follow but Athelstan grabbed his arm.
‘I think two of our players want to speak.’ He nodded to where Rachael and Samson were squatted at the base of one of the pillars, half hidden by the darkness of the transept. Rachael waved at them. Cranston and Athelstan walked across. The young woman got to her feet, her sleek body tight beneath the shabby green gown.
‘Brother Athelstan,’ she beckoned him deeper into the darkness. Cranston stayed as the friar followed her.
‘Rachael, what is this?’
‘Father,’ she smiled dazzlingly over his shoulder at Cranston, ‘Samson and I would like to be shrived. We wish to confess, to be absolved.’
Athelstan raised his eyebrows at the thickset, heavy-limbed young man who came to stand beside Rachael.
‘We need to be shrived.’ Samson’s voice was a thick, rustic burr. ‘I have not confessed since Easter, Maundy Thursday.’
‘Together?’ Athelstan joked, gesturing further up the transept to where the shriving chair and mercy pew stood just before the Lady altar.
‘Separately.’ Samson’s moon-like face broke into a smile.
‘Brother,’ Cranston declared, ‘I shall go elsewhere. I too need to be shriven but, there again,’ he wryly added, ‘that would take at least a week.’
Athelstan led Samson up to the mercy pew. Athelstan turned the chair slightly; they were now hidden by the creeping darkness and lengthening shadows.
‘In the name of the Father and of the Son…’
Athelstan began the sacrament with the usual blessing. Samson immediately blurted out his litany of sins: his anger, the fights he’d been involved in, his resentments, drinking too much ale and lecherous doings with certain young ladies. ‘I even have very lustful thoughts about Rachael and Judith. Father, they plague my mind both day and night.’
‘Along with every other man who meets them.’ Athelstan smiled. ‘Even priests! Samson, Christ knows our weaknesses, but what have you really come to confess?’ Athelstan tried to control his breathing; he sensed both of these young people wanted to unburden their conscience of more than just petty sins.
‘The murders, Father,’ Samson whispered, ‘the killings, the attacks, the hangings and the decapitations.’
‘You did not cause them.’
‘We had a hand in it, Father! We journeyed to Ghent. We stayed at the convent of Saint Bavin. We heard the rumours. We know Master Samuel was closeted with the Oudernardes. We are not stupid, Father. We may not know the secrets, but we believe that our stay at that convent is an important part of the horrid happenings which dog our days.’
‘But that’s not on your soul, Samson. Samuel must answer for that.’
‘There’s more, Father. You were correct: we are Gaunt’s spies. We travel the shires. The village people trust us. They take our pledge. We take their money and their secrets, then betray them. We pretend it’s Samuel’s doing but we are all guilty. That’s why Boaz left our company – he was sickened by it all.’
‘And where did he go?’
‘I don’t know, Father; perhaps deeper into Essex to join the Great Community. Father, I am finished with the Straw Men. I want your absolution and, as soon as I am able, I will be gone. These are my sins.’
Athelstan pronounced absolution.
‘And my penance, Father?’
‘You have punished yourself enough, Samson. Give glory and thanks to God. Do as much good as you can, as often as you can, whenever you can, to as many as you can. Now go, and be at peace.’
Rachael came and knelt at the mercy pew. Athelstan smelt the strong herbal perfume which she must have dabbed on while waiting. She recited the usual benediction in a whisper then paused.
‘Rachael?’
‘Father, Samson persuaded me to confess, to be shriven. He has probably told you the reason. All these killings, the Warde family, the spicers in your parish.’
‘What about them?’
‘How gruesome it was, that killer moving from chamber to chamber. I understand you also buried one of your own parishioners this morning. Father,’ she continued in a hiss, ‘we, me, Samson and the others, had a hand in all of this. We discussed our trip to Ghent, our visit to that convent. Samuel was spying on behalf of his master. I’m sickened by it.’
‘As was Boaz?’
‘I know nothing of that. Judith was his friend. Father, I am certain that we are all in danger from both the Upright Men as well as My Lord of Gaunt.’
‘What!’ Athelstan turned in the chair. ‘Your own patron?’
‘We not only work for him,’ she whispered, ‘but also for the Upright Men. Father, think – we are nothing but strolling players. We need licences to wander the roads, to enter towns and villages or seek
