‘Why, where did they go?’
‘I don’t know, Sir John. I suspect that they went out to ensure Beauchamp Tower was still kept secure.’
‘Ah, of course!’ Athelstan declared. ‘They wondered if the attack could be linked to an attempt to free this mysterious woman.’
‘Perhaps. I tell you this, the squires of the shadows. .’
‘Thibault’s spies?’
‘Yes, Sir John. They’ve been very busy throughout the city, as if they were searching for something, or listening to rumour.’
‘They could be looking,’ Athelstan answered, ‘for what was plundered when the Flemings were attacked on their journey to the Tower — the severed heads. They would also be very interested in discovering if the news that Gaunt holds a special prisoner here has become common knowledge.’
‘And so we, too, must get very busy,’ Cranston murmured. ‘Look, my friend, tomorrow you will be allowed to leave — I shall vouch for you. Thibault will see no danger in you. Now, once you have gone, seek out Muckworm. Tell him Sir John, sometime soon, desires to meet the leader of the tribes at the Tower of Babel.’
‘Sir John, you wish to go there?’
‘I have to. Now, my friend,’ Cranston opened the door and Athelstan peered out; the snow was still falling. The troubadour slipped through and they adjourned to their chamber, all shuttered and closed, the braziers a mound of glowing bright coal, the fire in the hearth built up and roaring. A short while later, the servant who’d been waiting brought bowls of steaming hot chicken broth, slices of cold beef and pots of heavily spiced vegetables. Athelstan blessed the food and watched as Sir John cleared the platters and swiftly downed his wine. Afterwards the coroner, kicking off boots and loosening belts, clasps and buttons, stretched out on one of the cot beds. ‘Well, little friar, what have you learnt?’
‘A little, Sir John, but first, Limoges?’
Cranston raised his head off the bolster; abruptly realizing he was still wearing his beaver hat, he tore this off and tossed in on to the floor. He lay half propped, listening to the bell clanging from the top of Bell Tower above the constant growling from the animal pens. ‘I must take you there, Brother, see the cages. .’
‘Limoges, Sir John!’
‘Ten years ago, or just over, I was with Gaunt and his brother the Black Prince at the siege of Limoges.’
‘Ah,’ Athelstan interrupted, ‘I remember this. De Cos the bishop?’
‘Yes,’ Cranston sighed, ‘he refused to surrender the city. When it was taken, the Black Prince nearly had him killed — his flock certainly were. You may have heard the stories?’
‘Garbled, tangled,’ Athelstan replied, ‘difficult to believe.’
‘Then believe me, Brother, whatever you heard, never mind how dreadful it is, the truth is more heinous. I was there. I turned my horse at the Porte de Saint Marcel and rode back to camp. A nightmare, awful to see, horrible to hear! Unarmed men, women and children, brutally butchered, the streets bubbled ankle-deep in blood. Gaunt was there along with his black-armoured brother; they are both as guilty as each other. I mentioned the King’s lions in their cages; Gaunt was like a ravenous, raging lion.’ Cranston pulled himself up, wagging a finger at Athelstan. ‘Now you know why I remained silent. You don’t poke a lion, especially one that is both mad and bad. Oh,’ Cranston’s voice turned sweet in mimicry, ‘Gaunt can be the perfect gentle knight, the gallant warrior, the courteous courtier, the righteous ruler,’ Cranston’s voice turned hard, ‘as long as you do exactly what he’s asked. Oppose him, especially in public, then prepare to experience the furies of Hell. Remember that — never forget it. The Upright Men and Gaunt richly deserve each other. Now,’ Cranston continued, rubbing his hands, ‘what have you discovered?’
‘Two stories.’ Athelstan made himself comfortable at the table. ‘According to the accepted one, Barak is the assassin. Why, we don’t really know. He may not have liked the rich and the powerful, in which case he was only one among a multitude. Anyway, according to the accepted story, Barak wedged that cannon powder in those two braziers,’ Athelstan shrugged, ‘an easy enough task. Travelling players use such powder to create their illusions. Barak could have done that and not been noticed. Sometime after the play, Barak crawled into the back of Hell’s mouth and used the gaping jaws to mark down Oudernarde senior and Lettenhove. The former he wounded, the latter he killed.’
‘Why do you still insist he used Hell’s mouth?’
‘Sir John, where else could the assassin hide to prime an arbalest then loose, not once but twice, and never be noticed? I mean, if we believe the accepted story?’
‘Agreed, and?’
‘Barak must have somehow moved Hell’s mouth to strike as well as position those two severed heads. God knows where he got them from.’ Athelstan laughed grimly. ‘And God only knows to whom those heads belong? Who were those unfortunates? Why were they killed? Why are their heads here? God bless me, it is beyond answer. I suspect Master Thibault, who was so keen to seize those grim relics, knows the truth but will not share that with us. Nor,’ Athelstan added, ‘will he reveal the truth about his mysterious prisoner. Are those severed heads part of the mystery surrounding her, whoever she may be? Why are Gaunt and Thibault so concerned about a middle-aged woman, a Fleming who, according to the fickle memory of a servant, may have been in the Tower before?’ Athelstan paused. He realized how silent it had become, as if the snow was enveloping this grim fortress in a thick white shroud. He recalled the stories of the ghosts who allegedly haunted the soaring, deep-dungeoned towers, the wraiths said to stalk its lonely courtyards and baileys.
‘Your story, Brother?’
‘Apparently, after he had done all this, Barak tried to flee — that’s understandable. Using all the tumult and upset, Barak left the chapel for the crypt. He reached that window and, still clutching the arbalest, attempted to use the fire rope to escape. Again, according to the evidence, he slipped and fell to his death.’
‘And,’ Cranston asked sleepily, ‘you challenge this?’
‘Well,’ Athelstan paused at a knock at the door; he opened it to see the servant, covered in snow, his face pale with cold, stood in the icy stairwell.
‘Brother Athelstan, Master Thibault asks you to celebrate the Jesus Mass tomorrow after dawn.’ The fellow hopped from foot to foot, scratching his grey beard and pulling at his cloak, doing a little jig to keep warm by stamping his feet.
‘What is your name?’ Athelstan smiled, fishing into his purse.
‘Wolkind.’
‘Well, Wolkind, there’s a coin for your pains. Tell Master Thibault I will celebrate Mass. Now get you warm.’ Athelstan sketched a blessing and closed the door.
‘You were saying, Brother?’
‘So I was.’ Athelstan stood over a brazier warming his hands and smiling at Cranston who lay sprawled red-faced and content without a care in the world. ‘I said there were two stories. The first is faulted so many times, I wonder if it’s a complete lie.’ Athelstan used his fingers to emphasize his points. ‘Primo. For Barak to use Hell’s mouth as a cover he would have to detach it from the rood screen so that he could clearly strike Oudernarde as well as Lettenhove. He would also have to move it backwards and forwards to position those two severed heads, but we now accept that’s nonsense. Hell’s mouth was firmly wedged in the door of the rood screen. It had to be. Don’t forget, Sir John, we watched the masque. Herod was pushed through those jaws. I saw no movement.’
‘It could have been done afterwards and then repositioned?’
‘I don’t think so. Marks would have been left. The noise alone would have alerted people. Think, Sir John, the scenery would have to have been moved forward and back. Trust me, Sir John, it was not moved until we did it.’