The Straw Men

chuckled quietly at this and, as he whispered to Athelstan, hoped that John of Gaunt would not be offended. The Straw Men bowed at the applause and then reappeared masked and gowned. They staged the Laon play about Herod’s confrontation with the Magi. Athelstan watched, fascinated. The drama swirled vigorously, the mummers changing masks and gowns as they played out the confrontation before Hell’s mouth. This piece of scenery intrigued Athelstan with its sheer ugly vigour and eye-catching carvings and colours, especially the huge, extended jaws through which Herod came and went. Athelstan quietly calculated how much was in the parish chest of St Erconwald’s and wondered if he could hire the Straw Men to stage a similar drama in his own church.
Once the play had finished with Herod disappearing forever into the gaping mouth of Hell to the flourish of a trumpet, Athelstan remained seated while Cranston, hungry and thirsty as ever, went hunting for refreshment. The friar asked a servant if he could speak to Master Samuel and sat waiting expectantly as the rest of Gaunt’s guests rose and moved about, selecting food and wine from the hovering servants. One of these asked Athelstan if he wished to have something to eat. The friar courteously refused and, when he turned back, Rachael of Galilee was kneeling on the chair in front of him, her red hair now tied back. She was staring at him and Athelstan smiled at the look of tenderness in her face, then she grinned, her green eyes bright with excitement.
‘Brother Athelstan?’
‘Yes?’
‘Master Samuel will see you now.’
Athelstan followed the young woman under the curtain which hung to the right of the rood screen and into the sanctuary, behind where the rest of the troupe were hastily storing all the paraphernalia from their play. Master Samuel greeted Athelstan warmly, ushering him to the sanctuary chair and, much to the friar’s embarrassment, the troupe gathered like disciples to sit at his feet. Master Samuel introduced them all again and, in a voice betraying a West Country burr, explained how the ‘Brotherhood’, as he described is colleagues, were foundlings or orphans whom he had taken in, educated and trained.
‘Why the names from scripture?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Why not?’ Judith teased back, her dark eyes full of mischief.
‘We are one missing,’ Gideon declared. ‘Boaz has disappeared.’
‘But that’s our rule,’ Samuel observed. ‘Each of us is free to come and to go as they wish. Now, Brother, what is it you want?’
Athelstan told them, describing his parish and church. The Straw Men listened, obviously touched by this little friar’s enthusiasm. Samuel replied how they would reflect, discuss and vote on it but, he added smilingly, they would be only too willing to help.
Athelstan was about to question them further when Rosselyn, garbed in a heavy military cloak, appeared, soft and silent as shadow shifting along the wall. He clapped his hands and declared that His Grace awaited them all. Master Samuel pulled a face, but they all followed the captain of archers back into the chapel nave. Athelstan delayed a while to examine the magnificent Hell’s mouth with its pulleys and levers. As soon as he had joined the rest, ushered in by Rosselyn, Athelstan took a platter of diced chicken and a goblet of wine. He watched as the Straw Men were formally thanked by Gaunt and congratulated by the guests, who raised their goblets and showered the Straw Men with coins. Once this was finished, the feasting continued. In the recess near the door a group of minstrels played sweet music, the heart-tugging strings of a harp echoing clearly. Athelstan, intrigued, walked down the chapel, nodding and smiling at the guests, though scant acknowledgement was given to the small friar, who was dismissed as Cranston’s clerk.
The coroner himself was holding forth to Walbrook and a group of leading aldermen about his plans to improve the city water supply through the Conduit in Cheapside. He caught Athelstan’s gaze and winked; the friar peered round, stared into the recess and smiled. He was correct in recognizing the same harpist who’d played in the Holy Lamb of God. Athelstan turned, searching for Master Samuel or Rachael, when a small explosion occurred and smoke poured out from one of the braziers. Gaunt’s guests turned in alarm as the same happened in another brazier on the other side of the chapel. The silence was broken by shouts and exclamations. Gaunt’s household hurried towards their master. Athelstan jumped at a scream. He glanced to his right. Lettenhove was swaying on his feet, staring in disbelief at the crossbow bolt embedded deep in his chest. Shouts and yells rang out. People hurried instinctively towards the door. Another sharp scream shrilled as Guido Oudernarde on the other side of the chapel staggered away, one arm up, his face contorted in pain as he turned, trying to free the crossbow bolt which had struck him high in his back. The old Fleming, gagging at the pain, collapsed to his knees. Gaunt, sword in hand, was shouting at his household knights who hurried across to form a protective ring around their master and his fallen guest. The rest of the company, however, now panicked, jostling and pushing to leave the chapel. Athelstan was knocked aside, forced to clutch one of the great drum-like pillars as the chapel swiftly emptied. He glimpsed Eli taking refuge beneath one of the food tables in the transepts. The rest of the troupe had apparently fled with the rest. Cranston’s audience had also melted away but the coroner stood his ground, dagger drawn, his back to one of the pillars. Athelstan waited for the crush of bodies near the narrow entrance to dissipate before hurrying to join him. Cranston clutched the friar’s arm, kicking aside chairs to where a Tower leech knelt before the fallen Lettenhove. The Fleming, however, was beyond all human help. Athelstan went to kneel as the dying man jerked in his final agony, blood seeping out of his mouth and nose,