The Straw Men(83)

‘We agree on some things, Brother.’ The reply was icy, belying the smiling mouth.

‘Once Samuel returned from Flanders,’ Athelstan continued, ‘he moved to the shires. Your beloved Boaz, however, could tolerate it no longer. He left the company of the Straw Men but not before swearing his love for you. Perhaps he quoted that marvellous hymn of loyalty from the Book of Ruth, how does it go?’ Athelstan closed his eyes.

‘Wherever you should travel, I shall travel,

Wherever you live so shall I,

Your kin shall be my kin,

Your God shall be my God,

I shall die wherever you shall,

There shall I be buried.

Let Yawheh send all kinds of ills against me,

And more if need be,

If anything but death should separate me from you.’





PART EIGHT





‘Dissultus: Severance’




Athelstan abruptly opened his eyes and caught a look of deep sorrow pass like a shadow across Rachael’s face before it hardened again.

‘You were his Ruth. She gleaned the fields, gathering ears of corn after the reapers. You did that. Master Samuel would spy on the Upright Men and you would spy on him, collecting what you could and passing it on to Boaz. Now and again he’d return to meet you secretly, as he did that January morning at the Roundhoop; a safe meeting, or so you thought. The Upright Men met. You joined them to provide whatever information you had gleaned as well as meet the love of your life. You went disguised as a city whore, a poor street strumpet, hair covered by a garish wig, face masked by thick, cheap paint, rags pushed up your gown to make you look fat, teeth blackened. You kept your head down and, when you did speak, mouthed the patois of the slums.’ Athelstan spread his hands. ‘You are, Mistress Rachael, a most skilled mummer, a player who can shift in both substance and shape. You have all the paints and disguises at your disposal. You not only posed as a city whore but as the strumpet of that friar of the sack who, in fact, was an Upright Man. Later that same day they visited me. I wondered why they took such pains to emphasize that you were just a common whore. They were in fact protecting you. All should have gone well except,’ Athelstan held a hand up, ‘the meeting had been betrayed, probably by spies in Saint Erconwald’s. The Roundhoop was surrounded. Thibault was desperate to defeat the Upright Men and retrieve those severed heads seized during the ambush at Aldgate. I was brought in to negotiate. In truth, I was only Thibault’s catspaw, a diversion. The Roundhoop was stormed. The Upright Men fought back; in all that carnage who would care for an ugly city whore? One of the Upright Men, I believe it was Boaz, could have killed me but he decided not to – an act of mercy. He was looking for you when he was struck down by an arrow. I tended to him as he died.’ Athelstan fought to keep the tremor out of his voice. ‘Poor Boaz could only think of his Ruth. In his final fever he talked of “gleaning” – he was referring to you. Even as he died he wanted one last look at his beloved. He searched past me, staring desperately.’ Athelstan paused. He was telling the truth. Despite her attempt to remain impassive, Rachael’s eyes filled with tears; her lower lip trembled slightly.

‘He died of his wounds,’ Athelstan added softly. ‘In the violent struggle you escaped. Only later did you discover what had actually happened. How your beloved was dead, his corpse further abused by the removal of his head so it could be thrust on a pole over London Bridge.’ Athelstan glanced at Cranston who sat on the edge of his bed, watching intently. The coroner was used to Athelstan’s ways and waited for the conclusion. ‘You were always sympathetic to the Upright Men.’ Athelstan sipped from his goblet of watered wine. ‘Now you changed. No longer a gleaner but a reaper, and a fearsome one indeed. You wanted revenge on Gaunt and all his ilk, as well as inflict vengeance on your comrades.’

‘Mistress,’ Cranston spoke up, ‘you have nothing to say to counter all of this?’

‘The play is not done yet,’ she retorted, her eyes never leaving Athelstan. ‘Every mummer has his lines.’

‘You entered into a solemn compact with the Upright Men,’ Athelstan declared. ‘They would trust you as Boaz’s helpmate, his lover. They would relish your hunger for vengeance, to wreak havoc however, whenever, wherever you could. They decided to bring you into close alliance with their own spy high in the councils of Master Thibault.’

‘Who?’

‘Why, mistress, you know, you killed him – Rosselyn, captain of archers.’

Rachael threw her head back and laughed. ‘Rosselyn!’ she exclaimed. ‘Thibault’s man body and soul. Brother, surely?’