by Paul Doherty
‘Thibault will sweep through this like the wind,’ Athelstan whispered to himself, ‘so I must be just as quick.’ He examined the clothes hanging from pegs as well as a few lying on the floor. The small treasury casket crammed with coins seemed untouched. The other coffers and chests simply held clothes, belts and hoods. Eventually Athelstan discovered what he was looking for, a small iron-bound chancery coffer. He hastily sifted through its contents: bills of purveyance, indentures, memoranda and a few personal letters, as well as strange jottings on scraps of parchment made against the names of villages, towns and hamlets. ‘The fruits of your spying,’ Athelstan murmured. He studied these carefully but put them back. At the bottom of the coffer he found a book; it looked like a leather-bound book of hours, but when he undid the clasp he realized it was a master book of plays, masques and dramas. Samuel must have copied these from other manuscripts. He ignored the calls and shouts from below as he continued his search. He realized this was not Samuel’s personal chamber, just temporary lodgings in the Tower, so there would be no secret hiding place. Satisfied that he had done what he could, Athelstan crossed to the door and studied the eyelet high in the wood. He pulled this back and peered out — it was very similar to the one in the door of Eli’s chamber. Athelstan pushed and pulled back the shutter, noting how smoothly it moved. Athelstan stood staring at it wondering about the possibilities but the continued shouts from below shook him from his reverie. He drew back the bolts and turned the great key in the lock. The stairwell outside was empty and cold, its corners coated with mouldy cobwebs. He returned, took a candle and went down the stone spiral staircase. The door at the bottom was bolted and locked but the key was missing. Athelstan crouched down, holding the candle close to the ground. He caught the glint of metal then looked back at the gap under the outside door, wide enough for a constant draught of icy air. Athelstan ignored the hammering and shouts from outside. He picked up the key and studied the door to the ground floor chamber slightly set back in a narrow recess to his left. He tried the key in its lock but it didn’t work. He grasped the iron ring and pushed hard; the door still held firm. From outside Cranston shouted his name.
‘My apologies, Sir John,’ he murmured. ‘You must be worried — I did not intend that.’ He unlocked the outside door and was virtually pushed aside as Thibault rushed in, shouting at his men to search Master Samuel’s chamber and cut down the corpse.
‘Well,’ the Master of Secrets turned on Athelstan, ‘you took your time!’ Athelstan glanced swiftly at Sir John, who knew exactly what he’d been doing.
‘I had to look for the key,’ Athelstan shrugged, ‘but now you are in. Master Samuel is dead, probably suicide: the door of his chamber was locked and bolted from within. I would like his corpse laid out on the bed — I must examine it.’ Thibault nodded and, pushing through the throng, tried the door to the bottom chamber.
‘It’s locked,’ Athelstan declared, ‘and there is no sign of any key.’
‘Force the shutters,’ Thibault shouted over his shoulder, ‘and where is Rosselyn, my captain of archers? He should be here!’ Thibault, followed by Athelstan and Cranston, walked up the steps. Samuel’s frozen corpse had been hauled back through the unshuttered window and laid on the bed. Cornelius, who had been trailing behind them, bustled through to administer Extreme Unction. Athelstan and the rest waited until he had finished, then the friar swiftly inspected the corpse. He established that there were no wounds to the back of the head, no scars or cuts to the hands or wrists. He pulled up the ice-sodden jerkin and scrutinized the dirty white torso marked with old scars but displaying no fresh wound or injury.
‘So,’ Athelstan declared, straightening up, ‘according to the evidence, late last night or very early this morning, Master Samuel, for whatever reason,’ Athelstan pointed to the great iron clasp fastened into the wall beneath the window, ‘took the rope intended for escape should a fire break out. He secured one end to that clasp; the other he tied around his neck and threw himself out of that window.’ Athelstan picked up the sawn-off noose and examined the slipknot.
‘Samuel would be skilled in that,’ Cranston declared, ‘constantly packing, lashing up coffers, baskets and chests.’ Athelstan agreed and returned to the corpse to examine the deep weal around Samuel’s throat. The wound was a dull red where the coarse rope had tightened and dug deep into the flesh. Turning the head, Athelstan examined the contusion caused by the bulky knot behind the right ear. The friar knew enough about hangings, be it execution or suicide, to realize all was in order. ‘God forgive me,’ he whispered, ‘if I can call it that.’
‘Pardon, Brother?’ Thibault tentatively approached the bed, pausing at the crashing which broke out below as the thick shutters on the lower chamber eventually shattered and crashed to the ground. This was followed by a sharp wail and keening.
‘The Straw Men,’ Cranston declared. ‘They must have heard the news.’
‘Master Thibault! Master Thibault!’ An archer came bounding up the steps, bursting into the chamber. ‘Master Thibault!’ He paused for breath. ‘Domine — you must come, you must see this! Rosselyn is dead, foully murdered.’
Thibault swept from the chamber, Cranston and Athelstan hastening behind. A crowd had assembled, blocking the entrance to the lower chamber. Thibault screamed at them to stand aside then, followed by Cranston and Athelstan, entered the dark, foul-smelling room. Grey light poured through the now-open window. Two archers stood, torches held high; their juddering glow only made the sight they were guarding even more hideous. Rosselyn, dressed in his leather jacket and leggings, sat on a high stool with his back against the wall. The hood of his jerkin had been pushed back, his face all twisted, his right eye half open. Blood crusted the mouth and nose. The look frozen on his face by death was one of agony at the long rapier dagger which had been thrust deep into his left eye socket.
‘Lord and all his angels,’ Athelstan breathed, wrinkling his nose at the rank stench. He peered closer: the corpse’s face was stained with filth, the slimy dirt on the dead archer’s clothing glimmering in the torch light.
‘The bucket.’ One of the archers leaned down, picked up the leather pail and handed it to Athelstan. He sniffed at the fetid smell then did the same to the corpse.
‘The bucket was probably left here,’ the archer observed. ‘Used to clean up some mess then never emptied. Well,’ he shrugged, ‘not until now. The assassin must have poured it over Rossleyn — he reeks like a midden heap. Why should someone do that?’
‘Sharp of eye and keen of wit,’ Athelstan congratulated the archer. ‘I wish I could answer your question.’ He took the cresset torch from the man’s hand and paused at the cries and wails coming from outside. Athelstan pointed at the door. ‘Master Thibault, please ensure that no one goes up to Samuel’s chamber. I would be grateful if the door to this room was closed over.’ Thibault, now clearly frightened, fingers to his lips like a fearful child, could only nod in agreement. He went to it, shouted his orders and came back, slamming it behind him.
‘What is this?’ the Master of Secrets whispered. ‘Rosselyn was My Lord of Gaunt’s most trusted henchman, he kept guard here in the Tower. He was a veteran, a seasoned soldier; how could he be killed so easily, like some pig in a sty?’ He crossed over to the corpse: staring into the face as if the dead man could answer. Athelstan carried the torch and crouched, scrutinizing the corpse: the mire from the bucket had mixed with the blood which had spouted from the pierced eye, as well as the nose and mouth, to form a gruesome black mask.
‘He certainly died swiftly,’ Athelstan observed. ‘The dagger is long and sharp; it would shatter the humours of the brain. Rosselyn was sitting down. The attack was so swift, so deadly he’d be shocked, unable to move. Strange.’ He lowered the torch as close as he could, aware of Thibault standing beside him. ‘Oh, yes, very strange,’ he mused.
‘What is?’ Cranston queried.
‘Sir John, Master Thibault, the dagger pierced the eyelid — look a
t the right eye half open. Now that could just be an effect of death, but I suspect that Rosselyn had both eyes closed when he was stabbed. You, sir,’ Athelstan beckoned at a second archer, ‘bring your torch closer.’ The extra light illustrated the full grotesque horror of Rosselyn’s face: the thick veil of dirty blood, the half-open right eye, and the dagger pushed into the left almost to the hilt so deep, so violent that the eye had burst like an overripe plum.
‘Was he asleep?’ Thibault asked. ‘Drugged with some opiate?’
‘I asked myself the same question about Samuel,’ Athelstan declared, drawing away. ‘But there was only one goblet, a small flagon and a food platter. I detected no taint. Is there anything here?’ Athelstan grasped the second torch and, holding both up, walked round that dismal, desolate chamber with its flaking walls and crumbling plaster, a squalid mess underfoot. There was nothing but rubbish, broken pieces of tawdry furniture and a few cracked pots and bowls. ‘This hasn’t been disturbed for months, perhaps years,’ Athelstan commented.
‘The chamber was unused,’ one of the archers agreed. ‘A storeroom for rubbish.’
Athelstan moved to the open window, gratefully breathing in the fresh air. He peered out; night was over but a dense mist had swept in. He examined the shutters, the ruptured clasps and shattered bar.
‘I helped to break in,’ the archer declared. ‘The shutters were firmly clasped.’
‘And?’
‘We climbed in and saw poor Rosselyn. Who could do that? He would not give up his life easily.’
‘What else did you find?’ asked Athelstan, moving back to the corpse. He gently moved the head and felt the grizzled hair at the back. ‘No blow,’ he declared. ‘I do believe Rosselyn was conscious and awake when he was murdered. Well?’ Athelstan turned back to the archer. ‘What else did you find?’
‘The chamber key, close to his boot.’
‘That was probably slid back under the door.’ Athelstan grasped the handle of the rapier dagger, drawing it out, trying to ignore the stomach-churning plopping sound, not to mention the blood and mucus which seeped out. Athelstan felt his robe brush the dead man’s right hand; the fingers were curled but Athelstan glimpsed the scrap of parchment pushed there. He pulled this out, beckoning forward the archer now holding both torches.
‘Give it to me,’ Thibault demanded.
Athelstan ignored him. He unrolled the piece of parchment and loudly recited the doggerel verse scribbled there.
‘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.’
‘The Upright Men!’ Thibault rasped, plucking the parchment from Athelstan’s fingers. ‘But how could they gain entry here? How could they trap and kill a man like Rosselyn? Look around you, Athelstan, there is no disturbance no signs of struggle or any resistance. Rosselyn must have been drunk or drugged.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Then how?’ Thibault demanded. ‘What in God’s name was he doing here in the first place? Did he kill Samuel?’
‘How could he?’ Cranston asked. ‘Samuel’s chamber was locked and barred from the inside.’
‘For the moment,’ Athelstan declared, ‘I cannot answer these questions. Master Thibault, have both corpses taken to the Tower infirmary — they should be stripped ready for shrouding. I must examine each again before they are coffined. God knows if that might reveal anything more of this mystery.’
Athelstan settled himself comfortably in the chair in Thibault’s council chamber in the royal lodgings. Cranston sat to his right, while the rest were grouped around the table. The Straw Men, Samson, Rachael, Judith and Gideon were distraught at the death of Master Samuel, their tear-streaked faces ashen, strips of black mourning cloth tied to their clothes. Thibault, sitting at the far end, appeared distracted. Lascelles, standing behind him, constantly fingered the pommel of his sword. Cornelius threaded Ave beads as if lost in his own devotions. Athelstan sensed some of this must be pretence, people wearing masks to confront others wearing masks. He was utterly convinced that Rosselyn’s killer was here in this chamber and, despite appearances, even Master Samuel’s. Athelstan was convinced that there was something very wrong with that apparent suicide, though what he couldn’t say. He drummed his fingers gently on the leather master book of plays taken from Samuel’s chamber. Thibault had allowed that as he had permitted Athelstan to search Rosselyn’s narrow chamber. He and Cranston had discovered nothing though that came as no surprise; he suspected that as soon as Rosselyn’s corpse had been discovered, Thibault’s henchmen would have scrutinized the dead archer’s belongings. Knowing what he did of Thibault, Athelstan accepted that the Master of Secret’s minions, be it Rosselyn or Samuel, would be under strict instruction to keep as little as possible in writing. After all, what was said in secret could never be traced. The friar had also examined Rosselyn’s naked corpse in the Tower infirmary, but apart from that hideous wound to the left eye he could discover nothing to explain the archer’s mysterious death. Samuel’s naked corpse had also failed to produce any fresh evidence.
‘Brother Athelstan,’ Thibault called out, ‘we are waiting.’
‘So is God,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘for the killer I hunt.’ The friar gathered himself, steeling his mind, will and soul to concentrate on the task in hand.
‘Master Samuel’s chamber,’ he began, ‘was locked and secured from within. No secret entrances or passageways exist. After apparently securing the door to his chamber and drinking a little wine and eating some food, Samuel took that rope and ended his life. Why?’ He turned to the Straw Men, who could only gaze tearfully back.
‘Did you meet Master Samuel last night?’
‘No.’ Rachael shook her head. ‘He retired very early. He left Gideon, Samson, Judith and myself playing chequers in the refectory with some of the guards. Eventually, when we retired,’ she turned to her companions, ‘the chapel bell was tolling the end of the day.’
‘And did Samuel betray any dark mood?’ Cranston asked.
‘No,’ Samson replied, lower lip jutting out, ‘he was quiet and withdrawn, but then again, so are we.’ He waved a hand. ‘This business. .’ His voice trailed away.
‘Brother Athelstan,’ Gideon said forcefully, ‘we know nothing.’
‘Master Thibault, do you?’
Gaunt’s Master of Secrets still seemed profoundly shocked by Rosselyn’s brutal murder.
‘I hardly spoke to Samuel,’ Thibault murmured. ‘There was no need. How was all this done?’
‘According to the evidence Samuel committed suicide.’ Athelstan took a pair of Ave beads from his wallet, fingering the cross. ‘Rosselyn, on the other hand, was lured into that chamber by someone close enough, swift enough to drive that rapier blade deep into his left eye. Now,’ Athelstan stared round, ‘what was Rosselyn doing there?’ Nobody replied. ‘Why did he have his eyes shut?’ Athelstan let the silence hang for a while. ‘Was he drunk or drugged with some opiate?’ Athelstan cleared his throat. ‘How could a veteran warrior be killed so expertly with no sign of any struggle? And why did the assassin abuse Rosselyn’s corpse by throwing that bucket of filthy water over him? The murderer came and left like a thief in the night, locking the door behind him, pushing the key under the door. He did the same to the outside entrance.’
‘Surely,’ Rachael spoke up, ‘it’s a strange coincidence that both men died in the same tower? Samuel committing suicide in the chamber above, Rosselyn murdered in the room below.’
‘Were there guards, sentries?’ Cranston asked.
‘Sir John,’ Thibault beat his fingers against the table, ‘the weather is freezing cold, the nights are as dark as pitch. .’
‘And the supervision of the evening watch?’ Lascelles spoke up abruptly.
‘Was Rosselyn’s charge, yes. .?’
‘Yes, Brother.’
‘Master Cornelius,’ Athelstan asked,
‘you will see to the burial of both corpses?’
The chaplain murmured he would. Athelstan picked up the book of plays. ‘I think I am finished here for the while.’ He made to rise but Thibault gestured at him to sit.
‘Brother Athelstan, Sir John, I need to speak to you alone.’
‘Wait.’ Athelstan held up a hand as the rest rose. ‘Tell me now: is there anything anyone knows that will cast even a glow of taper light on these mysteries?’ Athelstan stared down at the floor. ‘Silence again,’ he murmured, lifting his head. ‘Ah, well, Master Thibault, you want words with us.’
The Master of Secrets just nodded. He had a hushed conversation with Cornelius about both victims having a requiem Mass in the Tower chapel followed by swift burial in the adjoining God’s Acre. Once the luxurious chamber was emptied, Thibault leaned his elbows on the table.
‘My Lord of Gaunt will not be pleased.’
‘And neither are you,’ Athelstan retorted brusquely. ‘Your spies among the Upright Men, the painter Huddle and the Wardes lie dead and buried but the traitor close to you remains hidden. That is your concern, is it not?’ Thibault raised a hand in agreement.
‘I never dreamed,’ he breathed, ‘to nurture a viper.’
Athelstan felt tempted to reply that those who play above viper holes should not object if they get bitten, but discretion was the better path.
