The Straw Men

Athelstan, his secretarius and closest friend, would be doing on a morning like this. ‘Probably preaching to his parishioners about the common good,’ Cranston whispered to himself. He breathed out noisily. Athelstan’s parishioners! Were they, or people like them, responsible for bringing him and the rest to wait by a frozen gibbet at a desolate, ice-bound crossroads for a delegation travelling as fast and as furious as they could from Dover? Was an ambush being planned, devised and carried out by the Upright Men?
‘My Lord Coroner.’
Cranston whirled around. The serjeant of the men-at-arms had pushed his horse forward.
‘Sir John, with all due respect, we have been here long enough to recite a rosary.’
‘And we’ll stay here for ten more,’ Cranston snarled, then shook his head in exasperation at his own cutting reply.
‘Come, come,’ Cranston lowered his muffler with his frost-laced gauntlet. ‘We are here,’ he stared at the ruddy-faced serjeant, ‘because His Grace, the self-styled Regent John of Gaunt, uncle of our beloved King, may God bless what hangs both between his ears and between his legs, is arriving with his agents the Meisters Oudernardes and their retinue. They are fresh out of Flanders. As you may know, they will be escorted by Master Thibault, My Lord of Gaunt’s Magister Secretorum, Master of Secrets and his mailed clerk, Lascelles.’
‘Sir John, what are they bringing – treasure?’
‘I don’t know; all I have been told is to wait for them here and escort them to the Tower of London.’
‘But they have enough guards themselves, surely?’
‘I thought that,’ Cranston replied, ‘but they apparently need more.’ Cranston stroked his horse’s neck. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Martin, Sir John. Martin Flyford.’
‘Well, Martin Flyford, what’s the poison in the boil?’ Cranston gestured in the direction of the city. ‘London seethes with discontent. The Great Community of the Realm plots to root up the past and build a New Jerusalem by the Thames; their leaders, the Upright Men, are devising great mischief.’
‘Sir John, they have been doing that for years.’
‘This is different…’ Cranston broke off at a harsh carrying call from some bird sheltering among the ruins. Was that a marauding jay, he wondered, or something else? Bayonne was certainly nervous, while the other horses had become noticeably agitated.
‘They could be approaching, Sir John. I just wish I knew why we are really here?’
‘Because My Lord of Gaunt wants it that way.’ Cranston turned his horse, flinching at the whipping cold. ‘The Oudernardes are bringing something important, God knows what. Gaunt certainly doesn’t want them to go into London. We are to meet them here and escort them along this lonely track to the Tower.’ Cranston paused at a clink of harness. ‘Let us pray to God and all his saints that they come soon before our backsides freeze to our saddles.’ Cranston felt beneath his cloak and drew out his wine skin. He took a gulp, offered it to the serjeant then took it over to the huddle of men-at-arms, who also gratefully accepted. Mufflers were lowered, chain-mail coifs loosened, eyes gleaming in cold, pinched faces. They shared out the wine, laughing and joking.
‘Look, a lantern!’ one of them cried. Cranston turned in a creak of saddle. Out of the icy mist loomed a hooded rider with a lantern box attached to the rod he carried. Other figures emerged like a line of ghostly monks, cloaks and cowls, hiding everything except for the occasional glint of steel and chain-mail. Cranston touched the hilt of his sword then relaxed as the outriders approached and he glimpsed the stiffened pennants boasting the golden, snarling leopards of England against their vivid blue and blood-red background. The entire cavalcade now broke free of the mist, fifty riders in all, Cranston quickly calculated. He saw the Flemings’ frozen faces shrouded in ermine-lined hoods; the rest were veteran archers from the Tower, master bowmen, who had signed an indenture to serve the Crown after years of fighting in France. Each man was hand-picked and wore the insignia of a chained white hart emblazoned on his cloak. Cranston knew their captain, Rosselyn, both by name and reputation – a hard-eyed slaughterer who’d amassed a petty fortune from ransoms in France. Cranston spurred his horse forward, pushing back his cowl, calling out Rosselyn’s name. The barest courtesies were exchanged. Cranston grasped Rosselyn’s hand and asked how the journey from Dover had been. Rosselyn’s answer was to turn, hawk and spit.
‘Very eloquent,’ Cranston murmured. ‘There was no trouble?’
‘Not yet.’ Rosselyn stared up through the mist. ‘But then His Grace still believes we might be attacked close to London and within bowshot of the Tower. Treason and treachery press in from every side.’
‘What are you guarding?’ Cranston asked. Rosselyn’s light blue, popping eyes never blinked. He just gestured with his head to behind him, where the escort of archers had parted as they relaxed. Cranston glimpsed a woman, he was sure of that, from her lithe form and the way she sat slumped in the saddle, holding her reins. Her head was covered by a deep hood, her face completely masked with only slits for the eyes, nose and mouth. The sumpter pony behind her had an escort of four archers; she herself was flanked either side by three master bowmen. Leather straps had been tied around her waist and wrists; the ends of them were held by her escort.
‘No questions,’ Rosselyn whispered.
‘Therefore no lies,’ Cranston retorted. The coroner pulled up his muffler, lifted his hand and turned his horse into the flurry of snowflakes now beginning to fall. Cranston and Rosselyn rode knee to knee in silence. Cranston kept peering to the right and left; the silence around them was increasingly unsettling.
‘Reminds me of Aix in France,’ Rosselyn murmured. ‘Remember Philip Turbot – Gentleman Jakes as we called him, leader of a gang of freebooters? Well,’ Rosselyn continued, not waiting for a reply, ‘the Jacquerie did for his coven, impaled them all on stakes. Turbot was reduced to robbing a church. He was caught in a snow