The Straw Men(72)

‘Of course. I did see a likeness between her and Queen Philippa of blessed memory.’

‘And?’ Thibault’s voice was a menacing purr. ‘You see a likeness between our guest and My Lord of Gaunt’s mother? Which means?’

‘Don’t threaten me, Thibault.’ Cranston took a step forward. ‘Don’t put words in my mouth. Queen Philippa was a saint; she had a better soul than you or I. What I believe, and I truly do having watched her closely, is that Eleanor – or Mara, whatever she wants to call herself – is the child of one of the Count of Hainault’s children; certainly not Philippa but one of the men folk: a brother, an uncle, God knows.’ Cranston put on his gauntlets. ‘Every ruling family in Europe has its bastard children. Didn’t our own Henry I of blessed memory have over two dozen? Even today . . .’ Cranston’s voice trailed away, in itself an eloquent but gentle reminder to Thibault of Gaunt’s own amorous dealings with Katherine Swynford and others.

‘I shall share your thoughts with My Lord.’

‘Do what you want, but you have the truth already, Master Thibault.’ Athelstan stamped his feet and glanced over to the chapel as another burst of laughter rang out.

‘The Straw Men,’ Thibault explained. ‘Life is so gloomy here, they are staging an impromptu masque. Sir John, you were talking about the truth?’

‘Evangeline and her son confessed, didn’t they, before they died, how their story was a complete fable? How they were arrant liars who retracted every jot and tittle of what they had said? Somewhere, Master Thibault, in your secret coffers lie their confessions sworn on a book of the Gospels, signed, sealed and witnessed. Everything you and your master need.’

‘Sir John,’ Thibault mocked back, ‘how did you know?’

‘It’s surprising what a man and woman will say under torture.’

‘The truth will out,’ Thibault quipped. ‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan,’ he wagged a finger, ‘remember you are on solemn oath. You have seen our prisoner. We now look for further light to be cast on the murderous mayhem which laps around us. We want,’ he threatened, ‘the slayer of Lettenhove and the wounder of Meister Oudernarde there.’ He pointed to the Tower gallows with its frozen cadavers.

‘We are not finished,’ Athelstan declared. ‘We need to talk to Master Cornelius and you know the reason why we do? Either he or Oudernarde, or both, were present when Evangeline and her son were questioned.’

‘So?’

‘You reminded me that I am under oath, and so I am, but I have decided that I must see Master Cornelius.’

Thibault looked as if he was going to refuse.

‘My Lord of Gaunt,’ Athelstan persisted, ‘demands answers. At this moment in time I can’t provide any. I am unable to clear the mist of mystery which cloaks this entire matter. I need to question Cornelius.’

‘About what?’

‘About Evangeline and her son the scrivener. I’m sure Cornelius was present at their interrogation.’

Athelstan glimpsed a flicker in Thibault’s eyes, a fleeting expression. Fear? Apprehension?

‘Out of the cold,’ the Master of Secrets murmured. ‘Let’s get out of this damnable cold.’

They adjourned to Thibault’s chancery chamber. Servants provided goblets of mulled wine, their fragrance delicious, the hot steam smelling of nutmeg and crushed raisin. Thibault became interested in the manuscripts on his desk until Cornelius, shuffling like a shadow, entered the chamber.

The usual bland courtesies were exchanged then Athelstan came swiftly to the point. ‘Master Cornelius, you were present at the convent of Saint Bavin outside Ghent when the Oudernardes took up, arrested, seized or,’ Athelstan spread his hands, ‘abducted a former royal nurse, a midwife who had served in the retinue of the late Queen Philippa. She and her son, a scrivener, were ruthlessly questioned, yes?’

Cornelius glanced at Thibault, who nodded imperceptibly.

‘Yes, Brother, they were questioned. The son was useless, just his mother’s mouthpiece.’

‘Did she tell the truth?’

‘Which is?’ Cornelius stared at them in owl-eyed innocence.

‘That the prisoner in Beauchamp Tower is the true daughter of King Edward and Queen Philippa.’

‘They maintained that but later, under torture, admitted the truth, that she is not.’

‘Of course,’ Cranston intervened, ‘under torture anyone will say anything.’

Cornelius just blinked like some coy girl. ‘Sir John, we know the truth. She knew the truth and eventually confessed it. She was a charlatan and a liar.’