‘So how did Barak loose two bolts without being detected?’
‘Sir John, that’s the mystery, and it deepens. Barak, given the speed of his attack, must have used two arbalests already primed. So where is the second? Why should Barak only take one of them? Why hold it on a dangling, swinging rope while attempting such a dangerous escape? Why not place it on a hook on his war belt as Rosselyn and Lascelles did? Why was the quiver box on the wrong side? Barak was right-handed; the quiver should have been on his left not his right.’ Athelstan pulled a face. ‘Concedo — I concede,’ he continued, ‘Barak may have simply made a mistake, but there is more. He wore no wrist guard as any archer should and, above all, no gloves.’
‘You mentioned that before.’
‘Sir John, Barak was going down a rope, hard and coarse.’
‘True, true,’ Cranston breathed.
‘He would have burnt his hands. He’d have worn gauntlets — heavy ones — yet his hands were soft and unscarred. Then there are the injuries,’ Athelstan continued, ‘the right side of his face and body were smashed to pulp against the cobbles. Moreover, there is a deep wound to the back of his head, while I detected flecks of blood against the wall of that recess in the crypt.’
‘You think he was struck at the back of the head and his body rested against the crypt wall before being hurled with great force, the arbalest pushed into his hands, from that window?’
‘Yes, Sir John, I suspect that’s the truth. Barak was no assassin but the victim of murder. Of course, my conclusion prompts other problems when we return to what happened in Saint John’s Chapel. We do not know who was doing what, where and when. Indeed,’ he laughed sharply, ‘the only person who does is the assassin.’ He turned at a loud snore. ‘Sir John, are you leaving us?’
‘Brother, I have to. I’m exhausted.’
Athelstan continued to stare into the red-hot coals which invoked memories of paintings of Hell he’d glimpsed in frescoes and illuminated psalters. He shifted his gaze and recalled the events of the day. The explosions in the braziers, that gaping gargoyle, the dragon’s head. The crossbow bolts whipping across that beautiful chapel. Lettenhove and Oudernarde collapsing. Barak’s twisted, battered corpse. And the reason for all this? Athelstan crossed himself then moved to check the draught cloths pinned to the bottom of the chamber door. He returned to the brazier. Where did this all begin? That furious affray at the Roundhoop? Athelstan recalled the young man hesitating with his sword before being struck himself, those words mumbled as he died about ‘gleaning’. How some woman was to continue to glean. How he tried to raise himself as if looking for something. Was that just a man lost in the fever of his death throes? And before the attack at the Roundhoop, that savage assault on Thibault’s party near Aldgate? It wasn’t just an attack on Gaunt; the Upright Men had been searching for something — that enigmatic woman prisoner? Why was she so closely guarded? Why was she so important to Gaunt to be kept under such strict watch at the heart of his power? Undoubtedly there was treachery afoot, the one link between all these events. The attack at Aldgate, the murders in the White Tower. Somebody, pretending to be Gaunt’s friend and ally, was really a vigorous Judas.
‘Sir John?’
‘Yes, Brother?’ came the sleepy reply.
‘The ambush near Aldgate — surely, for it was so well prepared, the Upright Men must have a spy close to Gaunt and Master Thibault?’
Cranston groaned and rolled over, one eye squinting up at Athelstan. ‘Brother, for the love of God, go to sleep. The Upright Men watch Gaunt as closely as he watches them. They could have easily learnt about the arrival of the Flemings at Dover and the intended route to London. The Upright Men have countless watchmen and spies.’
‘But so carefully plotted and prepared?’
‘Brother,’ Cranston rolled back, ‘good night and. .’
He abruptly pushed back the blankets as the tocsin on the top of Bell Tower began to toll, a discordant, harsh clattering rousing the garrison. Athelstan unbolted the door and hurried out. The falling snow had created a sea of brilliant white against the black fortifications of the Tower. Athelstan glanced across. A glow of fire pierced the darkness brightening the night sky. Other doors were opening, men hurrying out, slipping and slithering across the snow in a clatter of mail and drawn weapons. Cranston, wrapped in blankets, joined Athelstan on the top step, spluttering as the snowflakes settled on his face. A shout echoed, followed by two strident blasts of a horn. Rosselyn strode out of the darkness.
‘Brother, Sir John,’ he gasped apologies, ‘only an accident, a fire in the stables. I’ve directed men there; we will soon douse the flames.’
‘Ite missa est — go, our Mass has ended.’ Athelstan smiled at the small crowd of worshippers huddled within the rood screen of the rather severe sanctuary of St Peter’s. Like Athelstan, they had struggled through the snow, at least a foot deep, as the sacring bell announced a very grey dawn. The Straw Men were there, as were Master Thibault, Lascelles and Oudernarde. Master Cornelius, Athelstan suspected, would be celebrating his own Mass much later in more comfortable lodgings. Cranston, who’d served as Athelstan’s altar boy, rose from the sanctuary steps, stamping booted feet, rubbing his hands and noisily smacking his lips. He helped Athelstan divest. Thibault and his party promptly left but not before Lascelles curtly informed Cranston and Athelstan that his master would like to see them before they exited the Tower. Cranston grunted he’d break his fast first, then turned away to help Athelstan clear the sacred vessels from the altar. Once they’d finished and were about to leave by the narrow corpse door, the Straw Men, led by Samuel, came back under the rood screen. Rachael had pulled up her hood to hide her gorgeous red hair in deference to being in church. She rested on Judith’s arm; they and their companions, rubbing their hands for warmth, stopped before Cranston and Athelstan, shuffling their feet. Samuel went to speak but thought otherwise. He closed his mouth, fingering his lips.
‘Well?’ Cranston barked. ‘What do. .’
Athelstan touched him on the arm. ‘You have come to ask about Barak?’
‘Yes, we have, Brother.’ Judith stepped forward, her impish face set in a stubborn twist. ‘We are all here, except Eli, but he’s a lazy slug-a-bed.’
‘And?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Do you think. .?’ Rachael blurted out. ‘Well, we don’t. We have been discussing this. Barak cannot be the murderer. He just cannot be, I mean. .’
Athelstan grasped the young woman’s mittened fingers; her green, cat-like eyes crinkled in amusement.
‘Look,’ Athelstan smiled at her then round at the rest. ‘Gaunt regards you as his mummers, his players, yes? He favours you. He patronizes you.’
‘Yes,’ Samuel conceded, ‘he pays us well.’
‘I’m sure he does.’ Athelstan released Rachael’s hands even as he glimpsed a swift, startled look in Samuel’s eyes. Athelstan immediately wondered if there were other reasons why Gaunt and Thibault favoured these strolling players.
‘So. .’ The friar took Judith by the elbow, guiding her and the rest out of the church by the narrow side door.
‘So what?’ Judith asked.
Athelstan scratched his head. ‘I don’t think Barak was responsible; I don’t believe his corpse should be abused. I need to see Thibault. Sir John and I entertain serious doubts about the accepted story but that can wait. Let’s break our fast in the guest house refectory.’
They went out into the crisp morning air. The darkness was thinning. Torches moved. Cries and shouts rang out as the Tower community were roused. Women trudged through the snow with buckets for the well. A few children, swathed in motley cloths, played in the snow. High on the Tower parapet walks, torches and braziers glowed. Horses neighed greedily from the stables to be answered by roars and growls from the royal menagerie. Dogs gingerly nosed the snow and barked furiously as they floundered in a drift. Athelstan watched an old greyhound, brindle coloured, desperately trying to get back to its mistress, who was offering a titbit to eat. Smells and odours wafted from latrines, kitchens, lay stalls and wash chambers. The snow had ceased falling but everything was shrouded in white. The great magonels, trebuchets, catapults, sheds and other siege weapons rose like monsters frozen in the snow. Sills and ledges, roofs and cornices — even the great three-branched gallows, each arm displaying a frozen hard cadaver, were encrusted in frosty ice. Cranston led them along the side of the pebble-dashed church. Athelstan knew there would be no stopping him. The coroner was famished, already savouring the cooking smells billowing from the kitchens. Cranston moved as fast and as keen as a strong lurcher. Athelstan walked behind listening to Judith’s chatter — how she hoped they could visit St Erconwald’s — when he heard the whirr, like the wings of a bird, and a crossbow bolt smacked and splintered against the wall of the church. He abruptly stopped. Cranston turned. ‘Get down Athelstan!’ he screamed. He dragged the friar by the arm, pulling both him and Judith down just as another bolt whirled over their heads. Crouching in the snow, Athelstan felt the ice seep up the sleeves of his gown. Cranston drew his dagger. The rest raced back to the corpse door as another barb shattered noisily against the church wall.