The Straw Men

spiked, a truly gruesome sight in the dancing flames of the cresset torches beneath. John Ball the preacher intoned the requiem and the others joined in; a few, including Grindcobbe, just waited for the words to peter out.
‘And the traitor?’ Tyler’s broad Kentish accent did nothing to diminish the menace in his voice. ‘Our comrades were betrayed. Gaunt was informed.’
‘We have our suspicions,’ Grindcobbe murmured. ‘The parish of Saint Erconwald’s may nurse a traitor; their priest Athelstan has been warned.’
‘But he is innocent.’ Jack Straw pulled his cowl further over his head. ‘Magister Thibault, that devil in flesh, just used him. Our brothers,’ he sighed, ‘should have been more vigilant.’
‘Thibault was furious about what we seized,’ Tyler remarked.
‘Perhaps it’s time we returned his property.’ Grindcobbe laughed. ‘But this mysterious prisoner. Who is she? Why does Gaunt place such a value on her? For now that must wait. Oh, yes, it shall, as will why our spy in Thibault’s stronghold failed to inform us that an attack on the Roundhoop was being planned.’
‘Perhaps he did not know.’
‘Or perhaps he did not wish to expose himself further. But one day he will have to – perhaps sooner than he thinks.’ Grindcobbe stared up, watching the tendrils of mist curl round the spiked heads. ‘I wonder who our traitor is?’ Grindcobbe spoke as if to himself. ‘But come.’
They moved from the gateway, making their way up East Cheap. The night was quiet. The Upright Men walked, hoods pulled forward, hands up the voluminous sleeves of their gowns. They were not afraid or wary; their henchmen, weapons at the ready, went before them. To the casual observer they appeared to be a group of friars, yet no beggar or footpad lurking in the slime-filled, dirt-coated doorways dared approach them. Only once did they stop, to allow a group of mounted men-at-arms to ride by. Ball the preacher simply lifted a hand and intoned a blessing which he immediately followed with a curse once they had passed. They turned off into Crooked Lane, flitting like dark shadows past St Michael’s Church and into the Babylon, a decayed tavern with as many entrances, doorways and windows as holes in a rabbit warren. They went up the staircase just within the doorway and along the gallery which reeked of urine, rotting vegetables and human sweat. Rats squeaked and scuttled in corners as a mangy alley cat padded like any soft-footed assassin across the creaking floorboards. A man hooded and masked stood by a doorway. He bowed to the Upright Men, opened the door and ushered them into what once was the tavern’s principal bedroom, now just a square dirty chamber, empty except for one long table with benches down one side and a stool on the other.
The Upright Men sat on the benches, pulled back their hoods and donned their masks before re-covering their heads.
‘The basilisk,’ Grindcobbe ordered.
The guard left and a short while later pushed the basilisk, also cloaked and hooded, into the chamber, where he had to assist as the basilisk’s eyes were blindfolded. Once his guest, as Grindcobbe described their visitor, was seated on the stool, the guard withdrew.
‘Announce yourself to my comrades. What is your name?’ Grindcobbe demanded.
‘Basilisk!’ came the whispered reply.
‘Why?’
‘Because the basilisk is a creature which lies in ambush before it strikes.’
‘You have taken the oath to live and die with us; you have helped us before, but now you are sworn.’
‘I am.’
‘You accept us as your liege lords?’
‘I do.’
‘You will wage war and kill on our behalf?’
‘I will.’
‘Treachery will be punished.’
‘I know.’
‘By the ban?’
‘I know.’
‘Which means what?’
‘The total annihilation of me and mine.’
‘And if you are captured and unmasked, Basilisk, clever and subtle though you may be, we can do little to assist you against Gaunt and his minions.’ Grindcobbe paused at a strident screech from the alleyway below as some night predator caught its prey. Grindcobbe’s tone lightened. ‘A warning indeed! Gaunt and his henchmen, Thibault in particular, will be ruthless, you understand that?’
‘Yes.’
‘And your task,’ Grindcobbe leaned across the table, ‘is to wage war by fire and sword against our enemies, to fight the good fight, to kill, to terrify. Do you understand?’
‘I do.’
‘Not only among Gaunt and his coven but the Straw Men.’
‘I understand.’
‘Once you enter the Tower, everything will be provided. You will not be alone – we have one friend there. He will reveal himself to you – do not be surprised. We have made it very clear that he is to do exactly what you say; otherwise he, too, will be marked down.’ Grindcobbe raised a hand. ‘He will, in particular, help you with a certain sack which the guard outside will give to you before you leave the Babylon. Do not be shocked at its contents, gruesome though they are. I believe you may suspect their origin.’
‘How will I recognize this so-called friend?’ The basilisk’s voice betrayed contempt.
Grindcobbe dug into his purse and took out a scrap of parchment. ‘He will give you this.’ Grindcobbe pulled the candle closer so he could read the script:
‘When Adam delved and Eve span,
Who was then the gentleman?
Now the world is ours and ours alone,
To cut the lords to heart and bone.’
Grindcobbe smiled behind his mask. ‘A doggerel verse but, as you know, many of those we lead do not read or write. They certainly understand what this means.’ He pushed the scrap across the table, grasping Basilisk’s outstretched hand. ‘Don’t fail us,’ he warned. Grindcobbe rose. ‘Your escort will see you safely back. As I said, we will supply whatever you need for your first act of terror. Farewell. We may not meet again but go, rejoicing that you do with the full blessing and support of the Upright Men.’
Athelstan sat on the stool close to the inglenook of Cranston’s favourite tavern, The Holy Lamb of God which fronted Cheapside. He pulled off his mittens and unbuttoned his cloak, smiling at Mistress Rohesia, its jolly-faced owner who came bustling across.
‘I will wait for Sir John,’