The Straw Men (23 page)

‘The business in hand?' Cranston demanded, making himself comfortable.

‘Ah, yes. The business in hand.' The herald sipped from his tankard and stared around the tap room. ‘I have to be careful.' He grinned. ‘Gaunt or the other gang leaders would pay well for what I know. Anyway, Duke Ezra has told me all. Now,' he lowered his voice, ‘the Oudernardes? They have been very busy in Ghent, the city of Gaunt's birth.' He sipped from his tankard. ‘There have been great stirrings there . . . rumours.'

‘About what?' Athelstan asked.

‘As you know, the Flemings are Gaunt's allies; he needs them to threaten France's northern border. He also needs Fleming money but that's politics. The rumours are different. I heard about those severed heads; that of an old woman and young man, yes?'

Cranston agreed.

‘Tongues plucked out?'

‘So I believe,' the coroner replied.

‘Decapitation is punishment enough. The removal of a prisoner's tongue beforehand signifies the victim has committed slander.'

‘And?' Athelstan asked.

‘They were mother and son.' The herald continued to whisper. ‘She was a midwife, he a scrivener attached to the cathedral in Ghent, a letter writer, a drawer up of bills and memoranda. Now, according to rumour, she claimed that in the year of Our Lord 1340—'

‘The year of Gaunt's birth?' Cranston demanded.

‘Yes, remember Edward III and his wife Philippa of Hainault were in Ghent. Philippa's pregnancy was reaching its fullness. The accepted story is that she gave birth to the Prince who now calls himself Regent and uncle to the King. But there is another story,' the herald laughed sharply, ‘repeated by the former owners of those two severed heads, that Queen Philippa did not give birth to Gaunt but to a female child. No, no, no,' the herald raised a hand to still their protests, ‘that's what rumour dictates. The hush and push of a whisper which crept from the birthing room at the convent of Saint Bavin in Ghent where Philippa had settled some months before her confinement.'

‘But why such a rumour?' Cranston demanded, intrigued by this royal scandal. ‘King Edward already had three sons – why was it so important to have a fourth?'

The herald pulled a face. He was about to speak when the tavern door opened and two local beggars who plagued Cranston's life slid into the tap room. Before the one-legged Leif could hop over, accompanied by Rawbum who as usual was loudly complaining about the savage burns to his backside caused by sitting on a pan of boiling oil, the coroner twirled each of them a coin. Both beggars, praising Cranston in his public and private parts to the ceiling, ensconced themselves safely on the other side of the tap room.

‘There was something wrong with the child, wasn't there?' Athelstan asked. ‘It must be that. Edward III never lacked sons.'

‘Brother, you can read my mind,' the herald agreed. ‘Rumours, or so I learnt, claim the child was disfigured by a great purple birth mark here.' The herald traced the right side of his face from brow to chin. ‘We all know,' the herald continued, ‘how the Plantagenet brood prides themselves on their golden hair, fine figures and handsome faces. This disfigured child, according to whispers, was regarded as a cuckoo in the royal nest. Philippa, or so the story goes, panicked and changed her disfigured daughter for the lusty son of a peasant. This story is as old as Gaunt, some forty years. However,' he sipped from the tankard and stared round the tavern, ‘the story was always kept confidential.' He tapped the side of his nose. ‘Only those in the know but,' he drew a deep breath, ‘the Upright Men have suborned leading men in both the city and at court.'

‘The Upright Men learnt about this rumour?' Cranston asked.

‘True, Sir John. The Upright Men sent their agents to Flanders hunting for a possible weakness, above all evidence, eager to sift among the debris of yesteryear.' He smiled. ‘My master Duke Ezra thought he'd also join the others snouting around this trough of rich, royal pickings, which is why he sent me to Ghent. I'm not too sure if the Upright Men were successful but they certainly found out about the heads and Gaunt's mysterious prisoner. Can you imagine, Sir John, if this did become public knowledge and was trumpeted abroad. How Gaunt the great Lord, the enemy of the Commons, is no more than a mere peasant himself with no right to any power?'

‘But this is all a lie.' Cranston shook his head. ‘Scandal, gossip and rumour flourish as thick as weeds about royal births and deaths. Look at the fate of Edward II, supposedly murdered in Berkley Castle. Stories still circulate that he in fact escaped and became a hermit in a monastery in northern Italy.'

‘Ah, yes, but here there is proof. Someone who may claim that she, not Gaunt, is the true child of Edward III – that she was born of a queen who abandoned her in a Flemish convent.' The herald hunched closer, his voice falling to a whisper, long, bony fingers jabbing the air. ‘I confess,' he struck his breast in mock sorrow, ‘that this is only hearsay, but remember, Sir John, the mysterious prisoner was hooded and masked. Why is that? Is it because she has more than a passing resemblance to either Edward III, Philippa or both?'

‘True, true,' Cranston murmured. ‘I knew Philippa very well; I once wore her colours at a tournament. I'd certainly recognize Philippa's daughter if I met her. Philippa was quite distinctive in her looks, small and dark.' Cranston's fingers flew to his lips, ‘Oh Lord and all his angels!' he exclaimed.

‘What is it, Sir John?'

Cranston tapped the side of his face. ‘If I remember correctly,' he whispered, ‘I heard a rumour that such a birth defect did appear in Philippa's family. I'm sure. John of Hainault, who joined our Queen Isabella in her invasion of England in autumn 1326, a redoubtable knight, a fierce warrior, also had that purple birth mark here on his right side going down on to his neck.'

‘Be that as it may,' the herald continued, ‘that old woman who lost her head, the midwife, was also living proof. She allegedly claimed to be living in the convent at the time as a handmaid to one of Philippa's ladies. She actually witnessed the exchange.' He shrugged. ‘Whether that's true or not, I cannot say. God knows what she intended. However, she gave such information to her son the scrivener, who drew up one of those anonymous hand bills which, as you know, are usually nailed to a church door or a public cross. Was it to be blackmail, disruption for the sake of it or just to arouse public interest? However, the Oudernardes, through their own scrivener Cornelius, heard of this, and both mother and son were arrested and brutally tortured.'

‘How do you know this?' Athelstan asked.

‘How do you think, Brother? Duke Ezra has his allies in Ghent – they too have gangs. I spoke to no less a person than the torturer Cornelius used to question both mother and son. He's a mute.' The herald grinned. ‘But unbeknown to his master, he is a former monk, a Carthusian, very skilled in the sign languages such monks use in their priories.'

‘And you, my friend,' Athelstan smiled, ‘are just as skilled, if I remember correctly. Anyway, what happened then?'

‘Both confessed and provided the whereabouts of the woman whom they claimed to be the King's daughter. She was sheltering in the same house she was born in, Saint Bavin outside Ghent. Oudernarde sent urgent messages to Gaunt and, at the same time, seized and imprisoned the woman. She wasn't ill-treated but the mother and son were no longer needed. They were hustled out to a lonely wood, their tongues plucked out, their heads severed. Gaunt of course wanted to see their heads as proof. Above all, he wanted to meet that woman,' the herald spread his hands, ‘so the Oudernardes journeyed to England. Of course, the Upright Men, like the hungry lurchers they are, keenly followed the scent. Gaunt's other agents were also busy, not just the Oudernardes but the Straw Men as well.'

‘What?' Athelstan leaned across the table. ‘What are you saying?'

‘The obvious, Brother Athelstan. The Straw Men are Gaunt's agents. They are his spies, that's why he patronizes them. They are very good at it. Master Samuel is a collector, a sweeper up of rumour and gossip. They are suited to such work. They travel from hamlet to hamlet, to this village or that; they perform in chapels or churches, castles or manor houses, priories or monasteries. Samuel was once a member of Gaunt's household. He's now well placed to listen to the whispers in the shires around London: the power in strength and numbers of the Upright Men, the names of local leaders, what weapons are being collected and where they are stored.'

‘Like the breeze,' Cranston murmured, ‘you are right. The Straw Men come and go where they please.' The coroner shook his head. ‘Do the Upright Men know this?'

‘They may well suspect.'

‘Which is why,' Athelstan spoke up, ‘the Straw Men have suffered.'

‘I have heard about the murders in the Tower.' The herald picked at the crumbs on Cranston's platter. ‘Certainly punishment is being meted out to Gaunt and his minions, both Fleming and English, while his authority is publicly mocked.

‘And that includes the Wardes being murdered, an entire family?'

‘Strange.' The herald raised his hands in a gesture of peace. ‘From the very little I know, the Upright Men were not responsible for those slayings.'

Athelstan nodded his agreement. He entertained his own suspicions about who was spying on whom. The herald drained his tankard and got up. He shook Cranston's hand. Athelstan rose and they exchanged the
osculum pacis
– the kiss of peace. The herald stepped back, tears in his eyes. ‘You must think, Brother, that I lost my vocation. The truth is I simply found it. I tell you this, my friend: Gaunt, the Upright Men, the great lords of the soil, the poor earthworms – the revolt gathers pace.'

‘I know,' Athelstan conceded, ‘as I suspect you are going to warn me.'

‘No, Brother, far from it.' For a brief second the herald's face grew soft, losing that sardonic twist. ‘I always liked you, Athelstan. I won't give you warnings or advice, just a promise.' He stretched forward, pulled Athelstan closer and whispered in his ear. ‘On the Day of the Great Slaughter,' the herald hissed, ‘when the strongholds fall, I will protect you.' He stepped back, hands raised in peace. ‘
Pax et Bonum
, Brother.' Then he was gone.

Athelstan picked up his chancery bag.

‘Brother Athelstan?'

‘I am going back to Saint Erconwald's, Sir John, to confront a Judas.'

A
thelstan pushed open the corpse door and walked into the musty darkness of his parish church. Bonaventure, sprawled in front of one of the braziers, languidly lifted his head then flopped back. Athelstan, followed by Cranston, entered the nave. The friar crouched to scratch behind the cat's ears. He knelt, comforting Bonaventure as he stared at the pool of torchlight in one of the transepts: the anchorite and Huddle were busy drawing the chalk outline of an angel guarding the gates of Eden with a flaming sword. Both painters stopped their hushed, heated discussion and came out to meet him.

‘All went well at Smithfield and Tyburn?' Cranston asked.

‘As soft as spring dew,' the anchorite replied, wiping his hand. ‘But you haven't come here to enquire about the souls I have dispatched.'

‘No,' Athelstan declared. ‘I need a word with Huddle about parish business.'

‘About what?' Huddle's long, pallid face wrinkled in concern.

‘Oh, this and that.' Athelstan gently guided Huddle away from the transept and up under the rood screen. No braziers glowed here, nothing but the faint twinkle from the sanctuary lamp and the day's dying light piercing the narrow windows. It was cold. Huddle began to shiver, so Athelstan went across into the sacristy and brought back one of his robes.

‘Here, Huddle, for a short while be a Dominican.' The painter swiftly donned it then sat on the sanctuary stool. Athelstan brought two more so he and Cranston could sit before the now very agitated painter.

‘Father,' Huddle glanced fearfully at Cranston, ‘what is this? Why is My Lord Coroner here?'

‘You have nothing to fear,' Cranston replied, kindly hiding his own curiosity about what Athelstan really intended.

‘Sir John is my witness.' Athelstan leaned forward. ‘I will whisper, Huddle. I mean you well. I have come to save your life if not your soul.'

Huddle's terrified eyes spoke more eloquently than any words. ‘Father, what do you mean?'

‘You are the Judas man here in Saint Erconwald's,' Athelstan accused. ‘You, Huddle, who cannot resist a game of hazard, the roll of dice or the spin of a coin. Deep in debt, aren't you, and just as deep in the counsels of the Upright Men? Your fellow parishioners thought Humphrey Warde the spicer was a spy. He was nothing more than a clever distraction, a catspaw; after all, who would really trust a newcomer, a former resident of Cheapside? My parishioners blamed him for betraying their cause to Gaunt but Warde was only a conduit, wasn't he? A man who was visited by the real spy, namely you, the parish painter who had to purchase certain mixtures for his frescoes, not to mention those small oyster shells which you use as your colour dish. Or, then again, you need certain spices which are used to preserve paints and brushes. You, Huddle, had every excuse to visit Warde and you certainly did. Much safer, more logical than meeting some stranger dispatched by master Thibault, who'd soon be noticed here in Southwark or, even worse, you, Huddle, being seen with him.' Athelstan paused. ‘And even more dangerous, Huddle, having to cross London Bridge to be glimpsed in that tavern or this, entering or leaving the Tower or Gaunt's palace of the Savoy.' Athelstan grasped Huddle's paint-daubed hands. ‘No, Huddle, you were the spy and you passed the information on. You visited Warde quite regularly to buy this or that, be it lime or resin or some other ingredient. He could take you into the back of his house where you could talk. You delivered your information which he then dispatched to his masters at the Savoy. God knows how he did that – in a package of spices, a small tun of fresh herbs, a pannier of condiments?'