The Straw Men

John, were grievously attacked in this hallowed place. Those guests were sacred. His Grace the Regent was cruelly mocked; he grieves for what has happened.’
‘For all of this,’ Athelstan turned to the strong-faced Fleming, ‘both Sir John and I are truly sorry.’ Oudernarde bowed his head slightly in thanks.
‘We want you,’ Thibault continued, ‘Brother Athelstan and you, Sir John, to examine most closely what truly happened here today.’
‘The assassin lies dead, does he not?’
‘To examine most closely, Brother Athelstan, what happened here today,’ Thibault repeated. ‘Captain Rosselyn will provide you with comfortable quarters.’
‘I have other duties,’ Athelstan replied.
‘Voluntas principis,’ Thibault leaned down, ‘habet vigorem legis’, or so Justinian says. ‘The will of the prince has force of law.’
‘Et quod omnes tangit,’ Athelstan quoted back, ‘ab omnibus approbetur. You have read your Bracton, Master Thibault? What affects all should be approved by all.’
The Master of Secrets was about to reply when a savage roaring and growling echoed through the chapel.
‘The keepers are feeding the King’s lions,’ Thibault whispered. ‘You must visit them, Brother, during your stay here.’
‘My parishioners?’ Athelstan ignored Cranston’s quick intake of breath.
‘Oh, yes,’ Thibault smiled, ‘your parishioners! You heard about the murder of my hangmen, Laughing Jack and his two minions. Perhaps, Brother, their assassins might be hiding among your parishioners – His Grace’s enemies, the Upright Men, who can be hanged out of hand.’ Thibault pursed his lips. ‘Yes, that would be justice. We could hire that strange anchorite you shelter, the Hangman of Rochester. We could set up a gallows outside your church. I could have your parishioners’ filthy, mean hovels searched and ransacked. And who shall we begin with? Watkin? Yes, I’m sure it’s Watkin, the shit collector? And his great friend, the grubby-faced ditcher? We could search their shabby houses. Rosselyn could bring them here for questioning in certain chambers beneath this tower.’
Athelstan repressed a shiver. Now he was certain. There was a spy among his parishioners. This Master of Secrets knew too much.
‘Of course,’ Thibault smiled, ‘your parishioners will miss you. But, if you stay and do my master’s bidding, there will be no need for the search or the gallows.’ He wagged a finger like some master in the schools. ‘I can send them comfort; perhaps pig, nicely roasted and basted with all sorts of mouth-watering sauces. Some capon and chicken, soft and white; freshly baked bread and a large barrel of the finest ale. Indeed, I shall send it tomorrow, early in the morning.’ Thibault turned, slightly gesturing at his master. ‘A gift from His Grace.’
‘I will do what I can,’ Athelstan replied slowly.
‘Good. Very good.’ Thibault clapped his hands like an excited child.
‘The heads,’ Athelstan demanded swiftly. ‘Where are those heads, severed at the neck and soaked in brine for at least a month? Did you recognize them, Thibault?’
The Master of Secrets simply pulled a face and shrugged.
‘Did any of you recognize them?’ Athelstan gazed around. No one answered. ‘In which case,’ Athelstan persisted, ‘may I see those heads, to inspect them?’ Athelstan bit his tongue; he was tempted to ask about the mysterious prisoner but that might betray Sir John.
‘Why?’ Thibault asked. ‘Those heads are not part of…’
‘You asked us to investigate.’ Cranston stirred himself. The coroner was becoming fidgety, his usual bonhomie fast draining away.
‘I would like to inspect those heads when we want,’ Athelstan insisted. The friar rose to his feet. ‘And it’s best if we begin now. Master Thibault,’ Athelstan bowed towards Gaunt, ‘Your Grace, is there anything,’ Athelstan fought to keep the sarcasm out of his voice, ‘that we should know? Master Oudernarde?’ Athelstan turned towards the Fleming, ‘I noticed poor Lettenhove seemed very agitated before the assault.’
‘So he was,’ Cornelius replied quickly. ‘Brother Athelstan, you must have heard about the heinous attack on us as we journeyed to the Tower? We remained anxious, as did poor Lettenhove.’
‘I understand that nothing has been disturbed and taken away from this chapel?’
‘Nothing,’ Thibault replied.
‘In which case,’ Athelstan bowed, ‘I would like to begin. Your Grace, I need to examine this chapel.’ Athelstan returned to his stool.
‘You are quiet, Sir John,’ he leaned over and whispered.
‘Limoges, I shall explain,’ Cranston murmured.
Gaunt rose to his feet. He nodded at Cranston and Athelstan then gestured at Thibault and the Flemings to follow him as he swept out of the chapel. Lascelles covered their retreat; the archers followed until only Rosselyn remained close to the doorway. Cranston glanced at Athelstan sitting so composedly on his stool; the friar just grinned and made a swift, soothing movement with his hand, a sign to wait. They both sat listening to Gaunt and his party clattering down the spiral staircase; only then did Athelstan move his stool closer to Cranston.
‘Limoges, Sir John?’
‘I shall tell you later,’ the coroner hissed. ‘But remember this, my little friar, Sir John is not frightened. He is tired, weary after drinking claret but not frightened.’ The coroner tapped his boots against the floor. ‘Oh, no, I am not frightened, but I am as wary as I would be if there was a rabid wolf in the room.’ He rose to his feet. ‘Let us begin.’
Athelstan did likewise. He slowly looked around that gorgeously decorated chapel. ‘Primo,’ he pointed to the braziers, now full of grey scented ash. ‘There were the explosions. As you said, Sir John, easy to fashion. Cannon powder or saltpetre in thick leather pouches, thrust into the hot coals – eventually they would break in the heat. The consequent explosion caused consternation; people would be looking at the braziers, nowhere else. Secundo.’ Athelstan stifled a yawn, ignoring the wave of weariness. God knows he’d loved to be stretched out on his cot bed with Bonaventure sprawled at his feet. ‘Secondo,’ he repeated, moving a stool, ‘Lettenhove’s marked and struck a mortal wound; he falls to the ground. Tertio, Master Oudernarde is attacked next, but only wounded. I suspect the barb was loosed a little off the mark.’
‘And the severed heads?’ Cranston asked.
‘Good, Sir John. Quatro. Before