The Straw Men(31)

‘I agree,’ Lascelles murmured.

‘Shall we move the scenery?’ Athelstan asked. All four men pressed against the gaping jaws. Eventually the dragon’s jaws snapped free of the rood screen to roll back on its castors. Athelstan carefully examined the thick leather straps which acted as both a cushion and a clasp to protect the edges of the rood screen. Athelstan patted the jaws. He would love to bring this to his church. He realized that the doors to most rood screens were about the same measurement. ‘Very clever. They must calculate the gap in the rood screen, then adjust the leather straps accordingly, folding them into a wedge. Now,’ Athelstan eased himself past the dragon’s head, inviting the others to join him in the sanctuary beyond. Once they were, Athelstan and Cranston positioned Hell’s mouth correctly and pushed it back so it wedged easily in the rood screen door, although not as snugly as before with two of the leather straps now damaged. Athelstan shook his head in disbelief. ‘So it couldn’t have been moved.’ He spoke to himself. ‘Well, well, well.’

‘Brother, I have brought you the pig’s bladder,’ Rosselyn, hidden in the shadows, called out.

‘Oh, thank you, bring it here. Please, all of you, go back into the chapel and stare at Hell’s mouth.’ Athelstan, lost in thought, stood staring at the black canvas sheeting as Rosselyn brought across the pig’s bladder. Athelstan waited until he’d left, crouched beneath the table and pushed the ball through the gaping jaws. Cranston confirmed it rolled away from the rood screen. Athelstan just shook his head. How, how, how, he thought to himself, had those two severed heads been placed so carefully? If they had been despatched through Hell’s mouth, although not as light or round as a pig’s bladder, they would have certainly rolled and so been seen, even heard. Yet they had been positioned like two ornaments on a sill. Calling out to the rest, Athelstan left the chapel and walked down into the hollow, empty crypt, the torches still flaring fitfully casting shafts of light which made the shadows dance and shiver. They reached the window Barak had apparently used for his escape. Rosselyn opened the shutters, stared down and confirmed that Barak’s corpse had been found just beneath.

‘Did you or anyone see or hear the fall?’

‘Brother, this is a January day. Darkness had fallen. A sentry by sheer chance stumbled over the corpse just lying there, the arbalest a short distance away. As I said, it was mere luck; the corpse might not have been discovered until daybreak.’

‘And were the window shutters open or closed?’

‘I don’t truly know – perhaps almost closed. I sent one of my archers up to light the lantern box. I can’t remember distinctly. Perhaps the assassin, once he was through, paused to pull them across – I mean, to hide any light.’ Rosselyn stamped his feet, rubbing his hands. ‘In brief, we found the corpse. We believed the assassin had been escaping through that window in the crypt when he slipped. An archer went up to light the lantern as a signal and,’ he shrugged, ‘that’s all I know.’

‘The shutters were probably closed,’ Athelstan agreed. ‘If they’d been open on a winter’s day that would certainly attract attention. Anyway, gentlemen,’ Athelstan stepped back, ‘pretend you are the assassin. You are preparing to leave as Barak did – remember you are carrying a crossbow.’ Athelstan watched as both men did the same, fastening the small crossbow to a clasp on their war belt before pulling their cloaks around them.

‘I have it,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘Gentlemen,’ he sketched a blessing in the air, ‘I thank you.’

‘What have you learnt, Brother?’ Rosselyn seemed anxious, and Athelstan wondered why. Had he to report back to Thibault, or did he have personal reasons? Lascelles, on the other hand, remained cold and impassive, as he had throughout. Athelstan wondered if Lascelles, as Thibault’s henchman, had reflected on this bizarre mystery and was speculating that the accepted story may not be true.

‘Brother,’ Rosselyn came out of the shadows, ‘I asked you a question?’

‘I’m sorry,’ Athelstan apologized. ‘The truth is I have learnt very little.’ He paused as the bell of St Peter ad Vincula began to answer those tolling from the city, announcing the hour of Compline.

‘We have lodgings here?’ Cranston demanded. ‘I’m becoming hungry, cold and, if the truth be known, exhausted.’

‘Sir John,’ Rosselyn reassured him, ‘you and Brother Athelstan will share a chamber in the Garden Tower near the Watergate. The kitchens will serve you.’