The Straw Men (6 page)

Again, the laugh. ‘Consult the Book of Samuel, Brother.' The figure drew closer and, before Athelstan could react, grasped the friar's hand and pressed in a small pouch of coins. ‘For the poor. You gave the last rites to one of our comrades at the Roundhoop. What did he say?'

‘You know I cannot tell you what he confessed but he babbled about gleaning; he was searching for someone.'

‘Aren't we all?' came the sardonic reply. ‘Farewell, Brother, for now.' The shadows receded. Athelstan looked back down the alleyway: lantern horns had been lit; candles glowed from upstairs windows. Athelstan shook his head at the power and influence of the Upright Men. This secret war, he reasoned, fought in flitting shadows and murky chambers, would soon erupt and what then?

He reached the priest's house, went in, put the pies in the small oven built into the side of the small hearth and waited. His two guests arrived shortly afterwards, shuffling into the kitchen in their mud-caked boots. Both Watkin and Pike looked flushed with ale.

Athelstan pointed at the
lavarium
and told them to wash their hands as he placed three tranchers on the scrubbed kitchen table and served the pies. Athelstan waited till they had eaten then picked up his psalter. He found the verse he was looking for and fought to hide the fear spurting within him. He closed the book. ‘Well, gentlemen,' Athelstan forced a smile, ‘and so it is written that the prophet Samuel placed Agag and the Amalekites under the ban, to be smitten hip and thigh, no quarter to be shown to man, woman, child or beast. Now tell me,' Athelstan's voice thundered, ‘who among us would do what the Prophet Samuel did?' He paused. ‘Examine yourselves before your priest. Remember, as Christ does, your misdeeds. Make no secret of your sins even though your wickedness might be difficult to confess.' Athelstan breathed in. ‘To cut to the quick, in a word, I ask you in God's name, has the ban been imposed on our parish . . .?'

The leaders of the Upright Men: Wat Tyler, Jack Straw, John Ball the preacher, Simon Grindcobbe and others, disguised in the robes of Friars of the Sack, stood before the gates to the entrance of London Bridge on the city side of the Thames. Capped candles were carried before them. They had, in their pretended role as preachers, permission from the Guardian of the Gates and Keeper of the Heads, Master Burdon, to pray for those slain during the furious bloody affray at the Roundhoop. They all stared up at the heads of their dead comrades now poled on staves jutting above the gate. They were unrecognizable; the crows had already been busy with their eyes, while the heads had been boiled and tarred before being displayed.

‘How many?' Grindcobbe whispered.

‘All of them,' came the murmured reply. ‘Most were killed in the assault. Three were sorely wounded and lowered by chains into the river to slowly drown as the tide changed.'

‘By whom?'

‘A creature called Laughing Jack, a grotesque with a gargoyle face. He and two others are Thibault's hangmen. They now rejoice, spending their earnings in the Paradise of Purgatory tavern near the house of the Crutched Friars.'

‘Kill them,' Grindcobbe whispered over his shoulder. ‘Kill them when their bellies are bloated with wine. I do not want them to hear the bells of vespers tomorrow.' Grindcobbe stared at the row of severed heads: their hair had been combed before they'd been spiked, a truly gruesome sight in the dancing flames of the cresset torches beneath. John Ball the preacher intoned the requiem and the others joined in; a few, including Grindcobbe, just waited for the words to peter out.

‘And the traitor?' Tyler's broad Kentish accent did nothing to diminish the menace in his voice. ‘Our comrades were betrayed. Gaunt was informed.'

‘We have our suspicions,' Grindcobbe murmured. ‘The parish of Saint Erconwald's may nurse a traitor; their priest Athelstan has been warned.'

‘But he is innocent.' Jack Straw pulled his cowl further over his head. ‘Magister Thibault, that devil in flesh, just used him. Our brothers,' he sighed, ‘should have been more vigilant.'

‘Thibault was furious about what we seized,' Tyler remarked.

‘Perhaps it's time we returned his property.' Grindcobbe laughed. ‘But this mysterious prisoner. Who is she? Why does Gaunt place such a value on her? For now that must wait. Oh, yes, it shall, as will why our spy in Thibault's stronghold failed to inform us that an attack on the Roundhoop was being planned.'

‘Perhaps he did not know.'

‘Or perhaps he did not wish to expose himself further. But one day he will have to – perhaps sooner than he thinks.' Grindcobbe stared up, watching the tendrils of mist curl round the spiked heads. ‘I wonder who our traitor is?' Grindcobbe spoke as if to himself. ‘But come.'

They moved from the gateway, making their way up East Cheap. The night was quiet. The Upright Men walked, hoods pulled forward, hands up the voluminous sleeves of their gowns. They were not afraid or wary; their henchmen, weapons at the ready, went before them. To the casual observer they appeared to be a group of friars, yet no beggar or footpad lurking in the slime-filled, dirt-coated doorways dared approach them. Only once did they stop, to allow a group of mounted men-at-arms to ride by. Ball the preacher simply lifted a hand and intoned a blessing which he immediately followed with a curse once they had passed. They turned off into Crooked Lane, flitting like dark shadows past St Michael's Church and into the Babylon, a decayed tavern with as many entrances, doorways and windows as holes in a rabbit warren. They went up the staircase just within the doorway and along the gallery which reeked of urine, rotting vegetables and human sweat. Rats squeaked and scuttled in corners as a mangy alley cat padded like any soft-footed assassin across the creaking floorboards. A man hooded and masked stood by a doorway. He bowed to the Upright Men, opened the door and ushered them into what once was the tavern's principal bedroom, now just a square dirty chamber, empty except for one long table with benches down one side and a stool on the other.

The Upright Men sat on the benches, pulled back their hoods and donned their masks before re-covering their heads.

‘The basilisk,' Grindcobbe ordered.

The guard left and a short while later pushed the basilisk, also cloaked and hooded, into the chamber, where he had to assist as the basilisk's eyes were blindfolded. Once his guest, as Grindcobbe described their visitor, was seated on the stool, the guard withdrew.

‘Announce yourself to my comrades. What is your name?' Grindcobbe demanded.

‘Basilisk!' came the whispered reply.

‘Why?'

‘Because the basilisk is a creature which lies in ambush before it strikes.'

‘You have taken the oath to live and die with us; you have helped us before, but now you are sworn.'

‘I am.'

‘You accept us as your liege lords?'

‘I do.'

‘You will wage war and kill on our behalf?'

‘I will.'

‘Treachery will be punished.'

‘I know.'

‘By the ban?'

‘I know.'

‘Which means what?'

‘The total annihilation of me and mine.'

‘And if you are captured and unmasked, Basilisk, clever and subtle though you may be, we can do little to assist you against Gaunt and his minions.' Grindcobbe paused at a strident screech from the alleyway below as some night predator caught its prey. Grindcobbe's tone lightened. ‘A warning indeed! Gaunt and his henchmen, Thibault in particular, will be ruthless, you understand that?'

‘Yes.'

‘And your task,' Grindcobbe leaned across the table, ‘is to wage war by fire and sword against our enemies, to fight the good fight, to kill, to terrify. Do you understand?'

‘I do.'

‘Not only among Gaunt and his coven but the Straw Men.'

‘I understand.'

‘Once you enter the Tower, everything will be provided. You will not be alone – we have one friend there. He will reveal himself to you – do not be surprised. We have made it very clear that he is to do exactly what you say; otherwise he, too, will be marked down.' Grindcobbe raised a hand. ‘He will, in particular, help you with a certain sack which the guard outside will give to you before you leave the Babylon. Do not be shocked at its contents, gruesome though they are. I believe you may suspect their origin.'

‘How will I recognize this so-called friend?' The basilisk's voice betrayed contempt.

Grindcobbe dug into his purse and took out a scrap of parchment. ‘He will give you this.' Grindcobbe pulled the candle closer so he could read the script:

‘When Adam delved and Eve span,

Who was then the gentleman?

Now the world is ours and ours alone,

To cut the lords to heart and bone.'

Grindcobbe smiled behind his mask. ‘A doggerel verse but, as you know, many of those we lead do not read or write. They certainly understand what this means.' He pushed the scrap across the table, grasping Basilisk's outstretched hand. ‘Don't fail us,' he warned. Grindcobbe rose. ‘Your escort will see you safely back. As I said, we will supply whatever you need for your first act of terror. Farewell. We may not meet again but go, rejoicing that you do with the full blessing and support of the Upright Men.'

Athelstan sat on the stool close to the inglenook of Cranston's favourite tavern, The Holy Lamb of God which fronted Cheapside. He pulled off his mittens and unbuttoned his cloak, smiling at Mistress Rohesia, its jolly-faced owner who came bustling across.

‘I will wait for Sir John,' he assured her. ‘He will not be long.'

Mistress Rohesia, snow-white, apron all fresh, soft napkins over her arm, returned to the kitchens even as she loudly chanted what was on offer. ‘Chicken with cherries, pike in doucettes, beef rissoles, roast coney, and a selection of the sweetest, hottest and softest pies.' Athelstan half heard her out. He had broken his fast immediately after his dawn Mass attended by a very few. He'd then changed, left the keys with Benedicta and hurried across the frozen bridge to meet Sir John here before the Nones bell rang.

Cranston had sent Flaxwith late the previous evening, about an hour after Watkin and Pike had left. Flaxwith offered his master's apologies over what had happened at the Roundhoop and asked Athelstan to meet the coroner here in his favourite tavern, which stood directly opposite the Guildhall. Athelstan wondered about his own agitation over what he had learnt the previous evening. Danger certainly pressed on every side. He stared around. The tap room, so clean and welcoming with its host of delicious smells, was fairly empty. A harpist sat in the far corner reciting a poem about ‘the Lord of the Ravens'. Two chapmen sifted through their trays in preparation for another day's bustling trade along Cheapside. A slaughterer from St Nicholas' shambles bit greedily into an eel pie, his hands and arms stained to the elbow in dried blood. A herald enjoyed a pot of ale while three raggedy scholars from St Paul's loudly conjugated ‘Mensa' and ‘Cursus' before they met their Latin master. They rose, still chanting, to pick food from the horse-saddle table, a few boards placed across trestles and covered with linen cloths on which Minehostess had laid tranchers and pewter dishes piled high with blood-red sausages, cutlets of pork and sliced white bread. For a few coins every morning, customers could fill a platter with these meats, sops of bread and collect a blackjack of ale from the young tapster.

‘Good morrow, Friar.' Silent as a ghost, despite his breadth and size, Cranston slid on to the stool opposite Athelstan.

‘Once again, my friend.' Cranston pulled down the muffler and doffed his beaver hat. ‘I had no knowledge about what Thibault intended at the Roundhoop.'

‘I know.' Athelstan leaned across the table and grabbed Cranston's gauntleted hand.

‘I heard what you said about the scorpion.' Cranston chuckled, tossing his cloak and hat on to the empty stool beside him. ‘Brother, I owe you an explanation.' Cranston paused to order a capon pastry, a pot of vegetables and a goblet of Bordeaux's best. He waited until Mistress Rohesia served this, whiling the time away by carefully scrutinizing the rest of the customers. ‘You can never be too careful, especially in this vale of tears.' He sniffed. ‘Life is becoming dangerous, Brother. The Lady Maude, the two poppets, my wolf hounds, not to mention steward Blaskett are all, thank God, in the best of health and safe. Lord knows, I've lit enough tapers before the Virgin at Saint Mary-le-Bow in thanks for this. However, once the weather breaks and spring begins to green everything, I'll send them off to our small manor at Overton.'

‘Matters are so bad?'

‘No, but they will be.' Cranston thanked Mistress Rohesia for the food and wine, blew her a kiss and lifted the goblet in toast to Athelstan, who declined yet again Mistress Rohesia's litany of mouth-watering delicacies.

‘You should eat, Brother.'

‘Brother has eaten and drunk enough for the day.'

‘True, and you will feast tonight.'

‘What!'

‘Not for the moment.' Cranston took a generous bite. Athelstan glanced away; he was fasting and the smell of hot, juicy chicken in a spice sauce might prove to be a temptation too much.

‘Now,' Cranston dabbed his mouth with his napkin, ‘let me be brief for the hour will soon be upon us. First, you and I know this city bubbles like a bucket of oil over a fire. Secondly, the day will come when the oil and fire meet. The angels be my witness, London will burn. Thirdly, our king, the noble Richard, is only a child. True power lies with his dear uncle, our self-styled Regent John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster etc., etc.' Cranston waved his hand. ‘Gaunt is also preparing for the evil day. He has brought across his agents in Flanders, powerful Ghent merchants – the city Gaunt was born in – Pieter Oudernarde and his father Guido.' Cranston pulled a face. ‘The rest are just minions, household henchmen. On the ninth of January last I was told to meet them north of the old city wall near Saint John's in Clerkenwell. The Upright Men launched an attack. Now,' Cranston took a sip of his claret, ‘the Upright Men could have easily discovered something was afoot. Many of them are old soldiers; they disguised themselves in white sheets in order to blend in with the snow, an old trick used many times in France.' Cranston paused. ‘Anyway, the attack was launched but beaten off – there's the rub. At first, I thought they were trying to kill the Oudernardes – they weren't. The Flemings had brought a prisoner, I'm sure it was a woman, cloaked, cowled and strictly guarded. The fiercest fighting took place around her and certain bundles on the sumpter ponies. The prisoner was kept safe but some of the baggage was plundered and taken.'