Athelstan stared round the chancery chamber, shuttered and warm, in the King’s lodgings at the Tower. The smooth sheen of the oval table before him glinted in the dancing glow of candlelight. Outside a stiff cold breeze clattered the shutters. Athelstan recalled the events of the previous day: the death of Huddle, the arrival of his parishioners and of course the disappearance of the assassin. Athelstan had quietened and comforted his parishioners, stayed the night in the priest’s house and led Huddle’s requiem early the following morning. Afterwards he had conducted the candle-bearing, funeral procession into God’s Acre. The harsh soil had been broken. Huddle, wrapped in his deerskin shroud, was interred in the frozen mud. Athelstan had performed the last rites, praised Huddle’s work and declared that an assassin had slain the painter for reasons known only to Satan and, Athelstan grimly added, to God. Then he had issued the general blessing for all the faithful dead but added that he intended to conduct a thorough review of burials in the parish cemetery, beginning with the grave of Watkin’s parents. Athelstan had secretly smiled at the consternation this had caused but then left, hurrying across the bridge to meet Sir John at the appointed time in their chamber at the Tower. Now, at the hour of Christ’s passion and death, he had assembled those he wanted to question here in this opulent, warm room.
Athelstan breathed in deeply to control his temper. He had stomached enough secrecy and malevolence. It was time for the truth to be defined and published. He wanted to shake and disturb some of the certainties behind which these people defended themselves. The friar glared round. Thibault, Cornelius and Lascelles sat along one side of the table; on the other were Rosselyn and the Straw Men: Samuel, Gideon, Samson, Rachael and Judith.
‘Brother,’ Thibault’s voice was almost a drawl, ‘break free from your meditations. His Grace the Regent is demanding answers.’
‘In which case we do have something in common,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘So do I. First, however, I do not yet understand what happened during that attack at Saint John’s Chapel, how Barak was murdered and thrown from that window or how Eli was slain so feloniously in his chamber. I confess I do not know who slaughtered the bear keeper, released Maximus and opened that postern gate so the Upright Men could enter the Tower. Nor can I fully account for why the spicer and his family were massacred. However, I have discovered, Master Thibault, that you have a spy or spies in the company of the Upright Men.’ Thibault smirked. ‘And they undoubtedly have a spy close to you.’ The Master of Secrets simply flicked his fingers. ‘Spies, traitors, Judas men,’ Athelstan pointed at Samuel in the Straw Men, ‘that’s what you are, aren’t you? My Lord of Gaunt’s spies as you move through the countryside? You stay in this hamlet, you rest at that village, you collect information.’ Athelstan raised a hand. ‘No, no, please don’t deny it.’ He glanced swiftly at the other Straw Men: he could tell from their faces that he had hit his mark; they sat heads down, shuffling on their stools.
‘Brother Athelstan?’ Thibault protested.
‘You are Flemish, Master Samuel?’ The friar just ignored the interruption.
‘What makes you ask that?’
‘Nothing at all . . . pure speculation. Well, are you?’
‘My mother was.’
‘I thought as much. I’ve noticed how My Lord of Gaunt surrounds himself with people from the country he was born in. I suspect you were born in the same city and your parents had some connection with His Grace’s household. You are well versed in the tongue – you must be.’
Samuel nodded warily; his eyes slid to Thibault.
‘You travel to Flanders, Master Samuel and no, don’t mislead me.’ Samuel was now looking directly at Thibault for guidance. They are allies, Athelstan concluded. There is more between them than just miracle plays. Thibault and Samuel, when it comes to their master, think with the same mind and act with the same heart. They are Gaunt’s men, body and soul, in peace and war, day and night, totally devoted and loyal to their royal master. Athelstan had met such before – men who accepted the legal concept of the emperor Justinian, ‘Voluntas principis habet vigorem legis – the will of the prince has force of law’. In other words, if Gaunt wanted something done, they would do it within the law or beyond it.
‘What are you implying?’ Thibault asked testily. He paused at a sudden roar from the royal menagerie. Athelstan recalled that great snow bear bursting into the inner bailey with its blood-flecked paws, gore staining its front.