The Straw Men(35)

‘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.’

‘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.’