by Paul Doherty
Athelstan nodded sympathetically. He’d met such people before who identified themselves with individuals in the Bible, be it Mary Magdalene or Job; after all, hadn’t he called Huddle a Judas? Wasn’t he hunting a child of Cain?
‘And your true origins?’ he asked.
Mara lifted her tearful eyes, small pools of sadness.
‘Brother,’ she murmured, ‘a curse. I always thought I was a foundling raised in that convent of Saint Bavin by the good nuns. I never gave it a second thought. I always considered my mother to be some poor woman who gave birth to me but could not nurse or support me.’ She brushed her eyes with the cuff of her gown. ‘That is, until Evangeline and her son arrived. They seemed fairly prosperous and took lodgings in our guest house; once settled she soon singled me out. She claimed to know the truth about me. I promise, I shall be swift.’ She glanced hard-eyed at Thibault. ‘I am sure the magister has related my story.’
‘He hasn’t,’ Athelstan interposed.
‘Evangeline and her son,’ the words now came in a rush, ‘maintained that I was the true daughter of Edward of England and Philippa his Queen.’
‘What proof did they offer?’
‘Evangeline claimed to be in the birthing chamber when I was born. She would repeat time and again what she alleged to have seen — how I was replaced by a peasant’s son because I was a sickly girl with this mark of God on my face.’
‘Did she say why she had delayed for so long in coming forward to tell you?’
‘She could not answer that except to say that she had been frightened and, of course, she did not know what had happened to me. Only much later did she discover that nothing, in fact, had happened. I had been raised in the same convent where I had been born, so she waited to summon up enough courage to visit me.’
‘But why? And just as importantly, why now?’
‘She claimed others in England would be greatly interested in my story. She said she had that on very good authority.’
‘Whose authority?’
‘She said she couldn’t say because she did not know their names, but Gaunt’s enemies would be interested in who I really was.’
‘Did that interest you?’
‘Brother, I will go on oath. I am not greedy or ambitious. I simply wanted to know the truth. Perhaps Gaunt’s enemies,’ Mara glanced at Thibault, ‘might have helped me.’ She shrugged. ‘Or perhaps even his friends and henchmen. The former nurse did say there were rumours that Gaunt might be illegitimate.’
‘Scurrilous tales,’ Thibault interrupted. ‘Filthy lies about a great prince!’
‘But what proof could she offer?’ Athelstan insisted.
Mara, hands folded in her lap, bowed her head.
‘I mean,’ Athelstan added, ‘with all due respect, mistress, you do not have the look or colouring of a Plantagenet.’
‘I know,’ Cranston intervened. Mara lifted her head.
‘I know,’ Cranston repeated. Athelstan sensed Thibault stiffen behind him.
‘They showed me a likeness of Queen Philippa,’ Mara murmured. ‘Peas in a pod was how Evangeline described both her and me.’ Mara glanced coyly at Cranston. ‘You met Queen Philippa?’
‘I did,’ Cranston declared.
‘And what further proof?’ Athelstan asked. He felt truly frightened for this poor, desolate prisoner. Thibault was, and would be, absolutely ruthless in defence of his master. This woman would not survive another winter.
‘Evangeline persuaded me to ask the lady abbess about my origins. I did so. I discovered I was not a poor foundling but left at the convent by a woman of quality.’
‘Left?’ Athelstan queried. ‘Not born there?’
‘Brother, that was forty years ago.’ She shrugged. ‘That’s all I was told. No manuscripts or records survived. I cannot tell if I was born there and left or taken there and left.’ Mara turned and sipped from a horn-shaped beaker on the side table. ‘Evangeline said her son, a scrivener, would relate my origins and later story. Of course, Brother, as you know, abbeys, monasteries, convents and priories are not closed communities — gossip travels faster than a swift over the cloister garth. I began to have other visitors. Evangeline and her son paid to use the convent chancery. I began to tell them what I knew and the son transcribed it. Then one evening, just before vespers, mailed horsemen arrived in the courtyard; the Oudernardes and their henchman, Lettenhove, along with a cohort of mercenaries. They had words with our lady abbess. I believe,’ her voice sank to a whisper, ‘a great deal of gold and silver changed hands. All documents and possessions were seized. Evangeline and her son were taken up, as was I. I protested. Mother Superior replied that my presence was no longer conducive to the peace of the convent. The Oudernardes would find me a better place.’ She spread her hands. ‘And I suppose this is it.’
‘You’ve been questioned?’
‘Tace,’ Thibault retorted in Latin. ‘Silence, Brother. That is not your business.’
‘You are treated well?’ Cranston demanded.
‘I have every comfort. I have asked Master Thibault to see a play. I know the mummers, the Straw Men, are also here in the Tower. I have heard rumours that two of them have been killed.’
‘Murdered!’ Athelstan declared. ‘And who told you that?’
‘Brother Athelstan, I have a window; servants talk. I’m sorry.’ She paused as if searching for words. ‘I also understand others, whom you call the Upright Men, tried to seize me.’
‘Have you ever had dealings with them?’
‘Never!’
‘Have you ever had any dealings with My Lord of Gaunt’s enemies?’
‘Never.’
‘So how would they know about you?’
‘As I have said, Evangeline would know more about that than me. Or at least she did,’ she added wearily. ‘Until she lost both her tongue and head, or so I was informed.’
Athelstan crossed his arms and stared down at the floor, trying to arrange what he had learnt. He truly believed this woman was an innocent. According to her, the origins of her present misfortune lay with the former nurse Evangeline. Until she’d appeared, this unfortunate had lived in comfortable, safe obscurity. Now Evangeline may have heard rumours, but who prompted her? Had she been approached by Gaunt’s powerful enemies at court?
‘Brother?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Athelstan apologized. ‘You mention the Straw Men. What do you want with them?’
The woman’s face became suffused by a brilliant childlike smile. Athelstan felt a surge of pity. Mara was truly innocent; he sensed she had told him the truth and could say no more. She waved her gloved hands.
‘Brother, I love miracle plays — the colour, the pageantry, the make-believe. I could sit and watch them from Matins to Compline. I would love to see the Straw Men.’
Athelstan glanced over his shoulder at Thibault.
‘It’s possible,’ came the clipped reply. ‘But, Brother, we are finished here, yes?’
Athelstan and Cranston, wishing the woman well, rose and left, joining Thibault in the freezing cold outside. Thibault led them away from the guards.
‘There is a real problem here, Athelstan,’ he whispered, ‘I am concerned about how many people are getting to know our prisoner.’ The friar turned at the sound of laughter which came from the chapel of St Peter ad Vincula, a strange merry sound in this bleak, stone-cold place, the daylight already fading.
‘And what will happen to her?’ Athelstan turned back to Thibault. Thibault’s eyes were as cold, hard and unblinking as those of the giant raven spearing the ground nearby with its beak. The Master of Secrets pulled a face.
‘In media vita,’ he lisped, ‘sumus in morte — in the midst of life, Brother, we are in death. Well,’ he smiled falsely at Cranston. ‘Sir John, when you first met our guest, you took a sharp breath — you gasped. Did you recognize her?’
‘Of course. I did see a likeness between her and Queen Philippa of blessed memory.’
‘And?’
Thibault’s voice was a menacing purr. ‘You see a likeness between our guest and My Lord of Gaunt’s mother? Which means?’
‘Don’t threaten me, Thibault.’ Cranston took a step forward. ‘Don’t put words in my mouth. Queen Philippa was a saint; she had a better soul than you or I. What I believe, and I truly do having watched her closely, is that Eleanor — or Mara, whatever she wants to call herself — is the child of one of the Count of Hainault’s children; certainly not Philippa but one of the men folk: a brother, an uncle, God knows.’ Cranston put on his gauntlets. ‘Every ruling family in Europe has its bastard children. Didn’t our own Henry I of blessed memory have over two dozen? Even today. .’ Cranston’s voice trailed away, in itself an eloquent but gentle reminder to Thibault of Gaunt’s own amorous dealings with Katherine Swynford and others.
‘I shall share your thoughts with My Lord.’
‘Do what you want, but you have the truth already, Master Thibault.’ Athelstan stamped his feet and glanced over to the chapel as another burst of laughter rang out.
‘The Straw Men,’ Thibault explained. ‘Life is so gloomy here, they are staging an impromptu masque. Sir John, you were talking about the truth?’
‘Evangeline and her son confessed, didn’t they, before they died, how their story was a complete fable? How they were arrant liars who retracted every jot and tittle of what they had said? Somewhere, Master Thibault, in your secret coffers lie their confessions sworn on a book of the Gospels, signed, sealed and witnessed. Everything you and your master need.’
‘Sir John,’ Thibault mocked back, ‘how did you know?’
‘It’s surprising what a man and woman will say under torture.’
‘The truth will out,’ Thibault quipped. ‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan,’ he wagged a finger, ‘remember you are on solemn oath. You have seen our prisoner. We now look for further light to be cast on the murderous mayhem which laps around us. We want,’ he threatened, ‘the slayer of Lettenhove and the wounder of Meister Oudernarde there.’ He pointed to the Tower gallows with its frozen cadavers.
‘We are not finished,’ Athelstan declared. ‘We need to talk to Master Cornelius and you know the reason why we do? Either he or Oudernarde, or both, were present when Evangeline and her son were questioned.’
‘So?’
‘You reminded me that I am under oath, and so I am, but I have decided that I must see Master Cornelius.’
Thibault looked as if he was going to refuse.
‘My Lord of Gaunt,’ Athelstan persisted, ‘demands answers. At this moment in time I can’t provide any. I am unable to clear the mist of mystery which cloaks this entire matter. I need to question Cornelius.’
‘About what?’
‘About Evangeline and her son the scrivener. I’m sure Cornelius was present at their interrogation.’
Athelstan glimpsed a flicker in Thibault’s eyes, a fleeting expression. Fear? Apprehension?
‘Out of the cold,’ the Master of Secrets murmured. ‘Let’s get out of this damnable cold.’
They adjourned to Thibault’s chancery chamber. Servants provided goblets of mulled wine, their fragrance delicious, the hot steam smelling of nutmeg and crushed raisin. Thibault became interested in the manuscripts on his desk until Cornelius, shuffling like a shadow, entered the chamber.
The usual bland courtesies were exchanged then Athelstan came swiftly to the point. ‘Master Cornelius, you were present at the convent of Saint Bavin outside Ghent when the Oudernardes took up, arrested, seized or,’ Athelstan spread his hands, ‘abducted a former royal nurse, a midwife who had served in the retinue of the late Queen Philippa. She and her son, a scrivener, were ruthlessly questioned, yes?’
Cornelius glanced at Thibault, who nodded imperceptibly.
‘Yes, Brother, they were questioned. The son was useless, just his mother’s mouthpiece.’
‘Did she tell the truth?’
‘Which is?’ Cornelius stared at them in owl-eyed innocence.
‘That the prisoner in Beauchamp Tower is the true daughter of King Edward and Queen Philippa.’
‘They maintained that but later, under torture, admitted the truth, that she is not.’
‘Of course,’ Cranston intervened, ‘under torture anyone will say anything.’
Cornelius just blinked like some coy girl. ‘Sir John, we know the truth. She knew the truth and eventually confessed it. She was a charlatan and a liar.’
‘If that was the truth,’ Athelstan declared, ‘why did you take it so seriously?’
‘Brother Athelstan, remember your learning. A lie is a lie and can be the father and mother of even greater lies. Lies can swell like the waters of a river. Evangeline was ready to spread lies about one of Europe’s greatest princes; there are those who would seize such an opportunity to create as much mischief as possible. Evangeline had to be taught a lesson, made to confess, confront the truth and be punished for her treason. Evangeline, like all the tribe of counterfeits, was dangerous. She was a filthy little spider ready to spin a cloying, treacherous web.’
‘And that’s my next question. Why did she lie? Why did she venture on to such a dangerous path?’
‘The root of all evil is the love of money.’
‘In this case whose?’
‘She claimed to have been approached by My Lord of Gaunt’s enemies in England, a masked, mysterious messenger who enticed her and her son out. This messenger, this envoy from Hell, promised wealth and guaranteed even more if she sought out a certain woman at Saint Bavin convent and persuaded her that she truly was a royal princess of England.’
‘Who was this messenger?’
‘She couldn’t say. Oh, believe me, Brother, she couldn’t. Trust me, we questioned her most closely.’
Athelstan stared into the man’s sanctimonious face, nothing but a mask, he thought, for a very cruel soul. Cornelius, he suspected, like some of his kind, did not like women. He would truly relish the opportunity to torture one, to break her will.
‘Brother, she told me that the messenger’s face was all hooded. He appeared like Satan and what he offered was too good to resist.’
‘Did he say who had sent him?’
‘Gaunt’s enemies in England.’
‘Who?’
‘She did not say.’
‘And what was she to do?’
‘Go to Saint Bavin. Persuade, convince that woman, now our prisoner. Take her confession, write it down and record it. She was instructed to do nothing with it until “her protectors” — that’s how she described them — came to visit her.’
‘But you came instead?’
Cornelius smiled. ‘We cut off her villainy at the very root.’ He got to his feet. ‘Is there anything else?’
‘No.’ Athelstan also rose. ‘For the moment.’ He blessed both Thibault and Cornelius. ‘There is nothing else.’
‘Well, Athelstan?’ Cranston whispered once they were free of the royal lodgings. ‘Are we any closer to the truth?’
‘No.’ Athelstan pulled his hood closer. ‘Still I pray, as I always do, that God’s grace will hone our wits keen. But, Sir John,’ Athelstan pointed at St Peter’s, ‘it’s wonderful to hear laughter in this grim place.’
The nave of St Peter’s chapel thronged with garrison people who had assembled to enjoy the Straw Men stage an impromptu play at the foot of the sanctuary steps. Athelstan and Cranston watched from the pillared transept as Rachael, garbed in wig and robes, played the cunning wife of Herod the Great. Samuel, dressed in all the tawdry finery of a makeshift king, acted the role of her husband. Samson and Gideon played his henchmen, though now and again slipping into other minor roles. Judith was a female devil, Rachael’s cunning helpmate.
Athelstan watched intently. He recognized the play as the Slaughter of the Innocents. The Straw Men were not staging the entire drama but presenting the earthy subplot about Herod being cuckolded by his wife. Dramatic emphasis was laid on contrasting headwear. Herod constantly grasped his crown w
hile his wife kept a pair of horns beneath her dark murrey cloak or handed these to Judith. Samuel acted as the stiff, unbending tyrant though, once again, as he had in St John’s Chapel, Athelstan was taken by how the Straw Men could shapeshift into different roles. The two women were extremely skilled at this. Rachael could alternate between an imperious vixen to a sly-eyed temptress in a colourful wig as she twisted and turned like a serpent to bait and confuse her husband. She could change both face and voice, her slim but sinuous body being both regal and then, in the blink of an eye, transform into the arrogant sluttiness of a Cheapside strumpet. Many of the young men in the audience whispered and whistled their admiration as Rachael wrapped herself around the seated Herod only to slip behind him to mock with sly grimaces and the horns she held above his head. She’d then sit submissively at his feet or stand with her back to him while flirting lasciviously with someone else. Judith was equally talented. A merry but foul-mouthed demon, she could imitate the manners of a roaring boy, the mincing gait of a court fop, or the sanctimoniously prim attitude of an arrogant clerk. Athelstan noticed how swift and nimble she could be, darting around Herod’s throne or climbing a ladder placed against one of the pillars. She too played the spectators with lascivious looks and gestures but was too agile for any of the men who good-naturedly tried to catch her.
The drama unfolded until somewhere in the Tower a horn wailed and a bell clanged, marking the passing hour. The masque ended. The mummers stripped off their costumes and headdresses. Some of the audience wanted more but Rosselyn, who had been watching the play intently, clapped gauntleted hands, his harsh voice assuring the departing spectators that His Grace’s mummers would perform again. Samuel came up to accept Sir John’s congratulations and two silver pieces. The master of players looked pale and drawn; he mumbled something about staging another masque then shuffled off, accompanied by Gideon. Cranston was about to follow but Athelstan grabbed his arm.
‘I think two of our players want to speak.’ He nodded to where Rachael and Samson were squatted at the base of one of the pillars, half hidden by the darkness of the transept. Rachael waved at them. Cranston and Athelstan walked across. The young woman got to her feet, her sleek body tight beneath the shabby green gown.
