The Straw Men(89)

‘Samuel was not your only victim. Rosselyn was much taken with you but you, unbeknown to our captain of archers, had unfinished business with him. Rosselyn constantly played the two-faced Janus, acting as Thibault’s henchman yet also spying for the Upright Men. In your eyes he could have informed the Upright Men about the trap being planned at the Roundhoop, but he didn’t.’ Athelstan chewed the corner of his lip. ‘As I have said, I could understand why: that would have been too dangerous for Rosselyn.’ Athelstan bent down, holding Rachael’s strange, green-eyed stare. ‘But to you, Rosselyn was just another traitor, a coward who could have saved Boaz but didn’t. In that darkened chamber in Bowyer Tower, lit only by a scrap of candle, you decided on both judgement and punishment.’ Athelstan returned to sit on his bed. ‘We men are easy to scrutinize, Rachael. Our lusts are our weaknesses. Rosselyn must have been full of his own prowess. He viewed himself as your partner with hopes of becoming your paramour. He’d flirt and demand a kiss. You sat him on that stool. You bestrode his lap like any tavern wench, pressing yourself up against him, moving backwards and forwards to excite his crotch. You caressed him. You put one hand behind the back of his head, the other, hanging by your side, carried a long Italianate poignard. Once again you act the lover, telling him to close his eyes. Rosselyn did. You struck, a swift killing blow pushing the dagger deep into his left eye while keeping him pressed against the wall. He would jerk and struggle but only for a few heartbeats; you would have two hands on that dagger handle, pushing with all your strength.’

‘True,’ Cranston declared. ‘A blow to the brain like that would be deadly. I have seen the same happen in battle. The shock alone would kill a man.’

‘Once Rosselyn was dead,’ Athelstan continued, ‘you pushed the acclamation into his lifeless hand. You also did something else. Before your visit to Master Samuel, you doused yourself in perfume. Now you had cleared his chamber and the shutters were left open. You certainly didn’t want your fragrance being detected on Rosselyn’s corpse. Help was at hand, a bucket of filthy water full of slime and rottenness. You doused Rosselyn’s corpse; the rank smell would kill any scent of perfume on him or in the chamber. To any observer, the killer would be depicted as abusing his victim’s pathetic remains. Once done, you collected what you had to. You left, locking the chamber and the main door of the tower. On each occasion you pushed the key beneath the door to delay, to mystify, to deepen the confusion.’ Athelstan breathed out. ‘I wonder who was next. Samson? Gideon? Judith?’

‘How say you, mistress?’ Cranston leaned forward. ‘The case presses heavily against you.’

Rachael glanced up, eyes crinkling into a smile. ‘What can I say, Brother, except that you have much to say and even more to prove.’ She moved restlessly on the stool. ‘What about Judith? She is also a player, a mummer, a mistress of disguise?’

‘Concedo,’ Athelstan replied. ‘I concede. I did speculate about Judith. She could have done this and she could have done that. She could have been here or there yet she flies against all logic as the killer. Firstly, she is not as courageous as you. She has a mortal fear of bears. Secondly, she suffers an affliction of the eyes, and so finds it difficult to calculate distances. I noticed that when she stares at people some distance away. How could she release a bolt, an arrow shaft? Finally and most importantly, and you know this, Rachael.’

‘Know what?’

‘Judith is very much in awe of you. She has very little time, if any, for men. She can act the role of a braggart in a tavern but such parts only help her express the contempt she has for men in general. I cannot see her seducing Barak, Eli, Master Samuel or Rosselyn. When you asked me to shrive you, you implied that Boaz and Judith had been close friends. I am sure if we brought her in here and questioned her closely, she would strongly deny this and perhaps point the finger at you. Nor would Samson describe himself as your betrothed, another fiction to confuse me.’

‘Still, you have little evidence against me.’

‘Oh, I can obtain that; as I said, you made mistakes.’ Athelstan gestured at her gown. ‘We will search your chamber. We’ll find, among other things, a green gown heavy with perfume but stained here high in the chest with thick blood – Rossleyn’s blood. It must have spurted from his eye like juice from a pressed grape. I doubt if you’ve had time to wash it. We would also be able to trace the stains left from that bucket of filthy water.’ Athelstan shook his head. ‘I’m sure Thibault’s interrogators will discover more.’ He spread his hands. ‘Mistress, you are young and fair yet you have the blood of many on your hands. You can expect little or no mercy from Thibault. There is nothing I can do to save you. They will spend days, if not weeks, torturing you and, if you survive that, it will not be a swift hanging at Smithfield. You are a woman: they will burn you before the gates of Saint Bartholomew’s. Knowing Thibault, the wood will be green and the executioner will not move through the smoke to strangle you swiftly. You could confess. I could take you into sanctuary, I could . . .’