The Straw Men(61)
‘Brother, one question?’
‘Yes, Sir John?’
‘Can we resolve these mysteries?’
‘At first sight, Sir John, no, though logic dictates, and God demands we do so.’
The mournful tolling of the Newgate bell was answered by that of the nearby church of St Sepulchre; the bells boomed out across the sleet-swept, blood-strewn concourse in front of the soaring iron-bound gates of London’s greatest and grimmest prison. Despite the harsh winter’s day, fleshers, butchers and their minions were busy hacking and hewing the carcasses of cattle, pigs and birds of every kind. Apprentice boys raced about with tubs and buckets crammed with steaming entrails, giblets and offal. The morning air was rich with the raw stench of slaughter, heavy with the tang of salt and brine. Scavengers, human, animal and bird, flocked to fight over globules of flesh and the occasional chunk of meat. Around these surged a crowd, leather boots, wooden sandals and, in some cases, bare feet squelching in the gory mess of blood, snow and filthy mud. Citizens hoped to buy a bargain though at the same time the great gates of Newgate were kept under close watch. When these abruptly swung open, people surged forward to greet the death carts which came rumbling out, escorted by men-at-arms wearing the city livery. Cranston and Athelstan, who’d been sheltering in the porch of the aptly named tavern The Roast Pig, stepped out and waited. Duke Ezra had insisted that the pardon for the three plungers be served here.
‘So everyone can see his power,’ Cranston whispered. ‘A better mummer than any of the Straw Men, Ezra loves a spectacle. We have to do what he says – the Herald of Hades will be watching, hah!’ Cranston pointed at the black-garbed executioner, his face concealed by a red mesh mask, sitting by the driver of the first cart. ‘Your friend the anchorite, the Hangman of Rochester.’ Cranston marched across. The line of carts now stood still as the undersheriffs in fur-lined cloaks organized their posse or comitatus to divide; three carts for the Elms of Smithfields, three for the gallows at the Forks by Tyburn stream. Cranston took off his beaver hat and pulled down his muffler so he would be recognized, then handed one of the undersheriffs the three pardons. Athelstan could only stand and pray for all he saw and heard was most pitiful. Some prisoners lolled half drunk in the carts, others protested and yelled their innocence, a few sobbed bitterly as family and friends gathered to make their final farewells. The reeking stench of unwashed bodies clothed in filthy rags all coated in Newgate slime was nauseous. Athelstan, whispering his Aves, moved to where the hangman sat.
‘Good morning, Giles.’ Athelstan deliberately used the anchorite’s real name. ‘God have mercy on you.’
‘Soon done, soon finished,’ came the hoarse reply. ‘I’ll visit Tyburn first then a city courier will escort me across to Smithfield.’
‘You’ll go back to your cell at Saint Erconwald’s?’
‘And to my painting, Brother.’
‘You and Huddle?’
‘Father,’ the anchorite leaned down, eyes gleaming through his mask, ‘we could transform your church. I mean . . .’ He broke off as cheers and cries broke out. Athelstan glanced down the line of carts. The three plungers had been taken off the death tumbrils. Manacles and chains removed, they grasped their pardons and danced like fleas on a hotplate. Athelstan realized why Duke Ezra had insisted it be so – a public demonstration of his influence and protection for those he called ‘his beloveds’. The three plungers were suddenly enveloped by a small mob who hurried them away lest any official might change his mind.
‘You must go,’ Athelstan grasped the hangman’s black gauntleted hand, ‘to make sure their deaths are swift and painless. God have mercy on them all.’
‘In the twinkling of an eye,’ the hangman replied, ‘from this vale of tears to Heaven’s gate before they realize.’
The mounted men-at-arms now imposed order, beating away the crowds and ordering the carts to go their appointed route. Cranston seized Athelstan’s wrist and pulled him aside. They walked briskly. Cranston pushed his way through the crowds, stepping around puddles and pits of refuse, knocking away the grasping hands of apprentices and beggars who importuned for trade or alms.
‘God knows,’ Cranston growled, ‘when the Herald will make his appearance, but it’s the Holy Lamb for us, Friar, a tankard of ale and the juiciest, freshest mince beef pie.’
They reached the tavern and revelled in the sweet warmth of the tap room, the fragrance from herb-strewn pine logs mingling with the savoury tang of hams, cheeses and vegetables hanging in snow-white nets from the black beams. The ruddy-cheeked Minehost ushered them to Sir John’s favourite window seat. They’d hardly sat down when Athelstan heard his name called and a lean, hatchet-faced man dressed in black robes like those of a Benedictine monk stepped out from the shadows of the inglenook. Athelstan stared at that sharp face, the foxlike eyes, the cropped auburn hair, the lips twisted ready to mock, talon-like fingers splayed as he stretched out a hand to clasp that of Athelstan.