‘Force the shutters,’ Thibault shouted over his shoulder, ‘and where is Rosselyn, my captain of archers? He should be here!’ Thibault, followed by Athelstan and Cranston, walked up the steps. Samuel’s frozen corpse had been hauled back through the unshuttered window and laid on the bed. Cornelius, who had been trailing behind them, bustled through to administer Extreme Unction. Athelstan and the rest waited until he had finished, then the friar swiftly inspected the corpse. He established that there were no wounds to the back of the head, no scars or cuts to the hands or wrists. He pulled up the ice-sodden jerkin and scrutinized the dirty white torso marked with old scars but displaying no fresh wound or injury.
‘So,’ Athelstan declared, straightening up, ‘according to the evidence, late last night or very early this morning, Master Samuel, for whatever reason,’ Athelstan pointed to the great iron clasp fastened into the wall beneath the window, ‘took the rope intended for escape should a fire break out. He secured one end to that clasp; the other he tied around his neck and threw himself out of that window.’ Athelstan picked up the sawn-off noose and examined the slipknot.
‘Samuel would be skilled in that,’ Cranston declared, ‘constantly packing, lashing up coffers, baskets and chests.’ Athelstan agreed and returned to the corpse to examine the deep weal around Samuel’s throat. The wound was a dull red where the coarse rope had tightened and dug deep into the flesh. Turning the head, Athelstan examined the contusion caused by the bulky knot behind the right ear. The friar knew enough about hangings, be it execution or suicide, to realize all was in order. ‘God forgive me,’ he whispered, ‘if I can call it that.’
‘Pardon, Brother?’ Thibault tentatively approached the bed, pausing at the crashing which broke out below as the thick shutters on the lower chamber eventually shattered and crashed to the ground. This was followed by a sharp wail and keening.
‘The Straw Men,’ Cranston declared. ‘They must have heard the news.’
‘Master Thibault! Master Thibault!’ An archer came bounding up the steps, bursting into the chamber. ‘Master Thibault!’ He paused for breath. ‘Domine – you must come, you must see this! Rosselyn is dead, foully murdered.’
Thibault swept from the chamber, Cranston and Athelstan hastening behind. A crowd had assembled, blocking the entrance to the lower chamber. Thibault screamed at them to stand aside then, followed by Cranston and Athelstan, entered the dark, foul-smelling room. Grey light poured through the now-open window. Two archers stood, torches held high; their juddering glow only made the sight they were guarding even more hideous. Rosselyn, dressed in his leather jacket and leggings, sat on a high stool with his back against the wall. The hood of his jerkin had been pushed back, his face all twisted, his right eye half open. Blood crusted the mouth and nose. The look frozen on his face by death was one of agony at the long rapier dagger which had been thrust deep into his left eye socket.
‘Lord and all his angels,’ Athelstan breathed, wrinkling his nose at the rank stench. He peered closer: the corpse’s face was stained with filth, the slimy dirt on the dead archer’s clothing glimmering in the torch light.
‘The bucket.’ One of the archers leaned down, picked up the leather pail and handed it to Athelstan. He sniffed at the fetid smell then did the same to the corpse.
‘The bucket was probably left here,’ the archer observed. ‘Used to clean up some mess then never emptied. Well,’ he shrugged, ‘not until now. The assassin must have poured it over Rossleyn – he reeks like a midden heap. Why should someone do that?’
‘Sharp of eye and keen of wit,’ Athelstan congratulated the archer. ‘I wish I could answer your question.’ He took the cresset torch from the man’s hand and paused at the cries and wails coming from outside. Athelstan pointed at the door. ‘Master Thibault, please ensure that no one goes up to Samuel’s chamber. I would be grateful if the door to this room was closed over.’ Thibault, now clearly frightened, fingers to his lips like a fearful child, could only nod in agreement. He went to it, shouted his orders and came back, slamming it behind him.
‘What is this?’ the Master of Secrets whispered. ‘Rosselyn was My Lord of Gaunt’s most trusted henchman, he kept guard here in the Tower. He was a veteran, a seasoned soldier; how could he be killed so easily, like some pig in a sty?’ He crossed over to the corpse: staring into the face as if the dead man could answer. Athelstan carried the torch and crouched, scrutinizing the corpse: the mire from the bucket had mixed with the blood which had spouted from the pierced eye, as well as the nose and mouth, to form a gruesome black mask.
‘He certainly died swiftly,’ Athelstan observed. ‘The dagger is long and sharp; it would shatter the humours of the brain. Rosselyn was sitting down. The attack was so swift, so deadly he’d be shocked, unable to move. Strange.’ He lowered the torch as close as he could, aware of Thibault standing beside him. ‘Oh, yes, very strange,’ he mused.
‘What is?’ Cranston queried.
‘Sir John, Master Thibault, the dagger pierced the eyelid – look at the right eye half open. Now that could just be an effect of death, but I suspect that Rosselyn had both eyes closed when he was stabbed. You, sir,’ Athelstan beckoned at a second archer, ‘bring your torch closer.’ The extra light illustrated the full grotesque horror of Rosselyn’s face: the thick veil of dirty blood, the half-open right eye, and the dagger pushed into the left almost to the hilt so deep, so violent that the eye had burst like an overripe plum.
‘Was he asleep?’ Thibault asked. ‘Drugged with some opiate?’
‘I asked myself the same question about Samuel,’ Athelstan declared, drawing away. ‘But there was only one goblet, a small flagon and a food
