The Straw Men(90)

Rachael moved with the speed of a lunging cat. She threw the goblet at Sir John as she rose, clutched the stool and hurled it at Athelstan, then she was at the door fumbling with the latch before they could recover. Athelstan immediately sensed what Rachael was going to do. But, by the time he had reached the door, she was already racing up the steps to the top of the Tower. Athelstan, with Cranston lumbering behind, climbed as fast as he could but it was fruitless. Rachael was young, energetic, nimble on her feet and, by the time a breathless Athelstan burst through on to the icy windswept tower top, she was already standing between two of the crenellations, the wind tossing her beautiful hair and fanning out her thick murrey robe. Dusk was sweeping in, grey and freezing cold. Sounds from below echoed up. Athelstan, fighting for breath, walked carefully around the beacon brazier.

‘Please?’ He extended a hand.

‘Brother, do not be foolish. You are correct – what can you do? Save me from Thibault’s demons? They will strip me naked, rape me and abuse me before they even start their questions. You know that.’

Athelstan sensed she was smiling through the murk.

‘You will find evidence in my chamber. I never had time to hide everything. Your indictment is sound.’ She waved a hand. ‘Some details are wrong but, in the main,’ she fought for breath, ‘Boaz was the only person I ever loved. Samuel and the rest are Thibault’s creatures, body and soul despite their protests. They are what they are, Straw Men. Their words mere mumbling, they were weasel people who serve a weasel lord. All of them.’ Her voice turned hard and defiant. ‘Rosselyn was no better, a turncoat to the heart. The Upright Men despised him. Thibault would have discovered his treachery sooner or later. Rosselyn was weak, uncertain. He tried to stride either side only to blunder. He did not inform the Upright Men about the Roundhoop. He failed to reveal the plot to trap the Upright Men in the Tower. Once that happened, I received notice: Rosselyn, the Wardes and Huddle your painter were placed under the ban. Grindcobbe personally decided that.’

‘You were given permission to slay at will?’

‘Oh, yes, and I enjoyed it. Ah, well, I won’t see Thibault smirk. I won’t burn at Smithfield. I don’t want to spend weeks in a filthy cell in this ghastly place.’

‘Please?’ Athelstan begged, even though he knew it was fruitless.

‘Remember, Brother, those lines from the book of Ruth? “Wherever you go I shall follow”,’ then she was gone, slipping back into the gathering darkness, red hair flaring, gown billowing, her body plummeting to smash on the cobbles below.

Athelstan sat in Master Thibault’s warm, luxurious council chamber. Lascelles was there, standing behind his master’s chair like the shadow he was.

‘So?’ Thibault picked up a stick of sealing wax, weighing it in his hands. ‘Rachael the vixen, the treasonable bitch! What a pity she escaped, to fall like that. She could have told us so much but,’ he smiled, ‘now you can do that, Brother Athelstan.’

‘No, I shall not,’ Athelstan retorted.

Cranston stiffened, breathing in noisily.

‘Cannot, shall not?’ Thibault queried. ‘I can make you.’

‘Do not threaten us,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘Please, Thibault, don’t be so stupid. You have powerful friends, but so do I. I am a Dominican priest, a cleric protected by the full power of Holy Mother Church. I will tell you in return for four favours. Firstly, Rachael is to be given honourable burial here in God’s Acre. I do not want her corpse dismembered.’

‘I see no problem with that.’

‘Secondly,’ Athelstan dipped into his chancery satchel and brought out the book of plays, ‘I keep this as a gift. My parishioners would benefit from it.’

‘Sic habes,’ Thibault quoted. ‘You have it. And thirdly?’

‘The woman Judith is allowed to settle in Saint Erconwald’s.’

Thibault shrugged. ‘And finally?’

‘You take a solemn oath,’ Athelstan indicated the Book of the Gospel on the lectern, ‘here in the presence of Sir John Cranston, Coroner of the City of London, that Mistress Eleanor, who calls herself Mara, your prisoner in Beauchamp Tower, will be kept safe and sent to the Domincan convent of Saint Frideswide outside Oxford. I know the Mother Superior, a Scottish lady, Isabella Urquhart. You will swear that Eleanor will be kept safe, lodged most comfortably and given a pension for as long as she lives.’

Thibault looked as if he was going to object.

‘Do so,’ Athelstan urged. ‘She is religious, protected by the church. She has committed no crime. She is innocent of any wrongdoing and I know she will pose no threat. Saint Frideswide lies near the palace of Woodstock. She can be, in a most careful manner, watched without being bothered.’