The Straw Men

on into the inner bailey, clearly marking out the different towers – especially Beauchamp – close to the parish church of St Peter ad Vincula. Only then did the basilisk approach the great White Tower, the central donjon or keep, its soaring walls of Kentish grey ragstone all whitewashed and gleaming in the harsh frost of the winter’s day. Once again the basilisk stared back at Beauchamp Tower, where the mysterious prisoner brought from Flanders was lodged. It was best not to go too close to its approaches, closely guarded by archers and men-at-arms. What, the basilisk wondered, did Gaunt want with such a prisoner? Why all the mystery and secrecy? Who was that woman? Even the traitor in Thibault’s circle knew very little. Why were the Upright Men so keen to seize her? What was the true connection between the prisoner and the leather sack the Upright Men had entrusted to her? Yet the politics of this place were of little concern – vengeance was!
The basilisk shifted and stared at the black-timbered and white-plastered guest house which stood in its own neat square garden, the shrubs and plants held fast in the iron grip of a savage hoar frost. Oh, yes, the basilisk promised, those who sheltered there – the mystery players – would also be visited by Murder. The Regent’s acting troupe, the Straw Men, Master Samuel and his companions, were nothing more than a coven of treacherous Judas people. They, too, would chew on the bitter bread of pain and sup deeply from the poisoned chalice of the rankest wormwood. The basilisk, however, had to be careful. The Tower thronged with Gaunt’s retainers, henchmen, armoured knights, archers, mailed clerks and household minions, all busy scurrying to do their infernal master’s bidding. The basilisk glimpsed the small dovecote near St Peter’s and smiled; they’d all hasten even faster when the hawk appeared above the doves. What was being planned was only just and right. How did the verse of one of the Upright Men’s songs run? ‘God is deaf nowadays. He will not hear us and, for their guilt, grinds good men to dust.’ God needed a little help!
The basilisk looked up at the grey, lowering sky and recalled a recent story, now common gossip in Gaunt’s household. How the Regent had gone hawking in the wastelands east of Aldgate. Ever so proud of his new snow-white falcon, Gaunt had released this against an old heron which frequented a misty, tree-fringed mere. The falcon, superb and swift, had climbed above its prey then plunged for the kill but the old heron, desperate in its flight, had turned on the wing and speared the falcon with his dagger-like bill. The story was seen as a possible prophecy and augury of how the hunter could become the hunted. Well, that was one prophecy which would soon come to fruition. Clutching the leather sack, the basilisk moved across the icy bailey, wary of the frozen, slippery cobbles. The guards at the bottom of the wooden staircase acknowledged the pass sealed by Rosselyn, captain of archers. The basilisk continued up and entered the crypt of St John’s Chapel, a long, dark chamber lit by pools of light thrown by the wall torches and warmed by braziers crammed with fiery charcoal. Despite the light and fire, the crypt, which stood on the first floor of the White Tower, was cold and dark. The basilisk peered through the murk at the chink of light from the far window; the crypt was empty except for benches and tables, as well as battered chests and aumbries to store clothing. The basilisk nodded – all was well here, and returned to the narrow spiral staircase. The ingenuity of its builder was fascinating. The staircase constantly twisted so the defenders could use their right arm while attackers would be forced to wield swords with their left. The basilisk promised to remember this in case flight became the only path to take.
Breathing heavily, the assassin emerged through a narrow doorway and into the full glare of the Chapel of St John the Evangelist, pausing just within the entrance. The basilisk stood, studying the ancient Norman chapel intently – not for the first time, but this was different. The real drama to be staged here would be subtle murder; the chance to strike Gaunt at the heart of his power, to wreak vengeance on those who had brought about the hideous slaughter at the Roundhoop. The basilisk drew a deep breath: that would never be forgotten! This place would be where the dish of vengeance was served. Built so its apse projected out of the south-east corner of the White Tower, the chapel was oval shaped with a recess just close to the door. Here the King could sit enthroned directly opposite the elaborately decorated rood screen depicting the crucified Christ. Above its doorway stood life-sized figures of the Virgin and St John painted in brilliant colours of gold, red, blue and silver. The actual entrance to the rood screen was now filled by a grotesque Hell’s mouth carved in the likeness of the gaping jaws of a fearsome dragon’s head. The face was blood red, its eyes large black pools, the irises a sickly yellow, the parted heavy lips smeared purple, a leather tongue jutting out between sharp white teeth. The basilisk thought this piece of scenery very fitting; a nightmare picture which would dominate the drama played out in front of it. The aisles either side of this rood screen had been curtained off with heavy, silver-powdered damask cloths. The nave of the chapel had been set out with elegant leather-backed chairs; those in the front for Gaunt and his special guests had quilted arm rests. Along either side of the chapel ranged six pillars to represent the twelve apostles with narrow galleries or transepts between these and the outside walls. The gaps between each pillar were now tastefully screened by tapestries of eye-catching colours celebrating the legends