The Straw Men(34)
‘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?’