Free The Straw Men by Paul Doherty Page A

cold and dark. The basilisk peered through the murk at the chink of light from the far window; the crypt was empty except for benches and tables, as well as battered chests and aumbries to store clothing. The basilisk nodded – all was well here, and returned to the narrow spiral staircase. The ingenuity of its builder was fascinating. The staircase constantly twisted so the defenders could use their right arm while attackers would be forced to wield swords with their left. The basilisk promised to remember this in case flight became the only path to take.
    Breathing heavily, the assassin emerged through a narrow doorway and into the full glare of the Chapel of St John the Evangelist, pausing just within the entrance. The basilisk stood, studying the ancient Norman chapel intently – not for the first time, but this was different. The real drama to be staged here would be subtle murder; the chance to strike Gaunt at the heart of his power, to wreak vengeance on those who had brought about the hideous slaughter at the Roundhoop. The basilisk drew a deep breath: that would never be forgotten! This place would be where the dish of vengeance was served. Built so its apse projected out of the south-east corner of the White Tower, the chapel was oval shaped with a recess just close to the door. Here the King could sit enthroned directly opposite the elaborately decorated rood screen depicting the crucified Christ. Above its doorway stood life-sized figures of the Virgin and St John painted in brilliant colours of gold, red, blue and silver. The actual entrance to the rood screen was now filled by a grotesque Hell’s mouth carved in the likeness of the gaping jaws of a fearsome dragon’s head. The face was blood red, its eyes large black pools, the irises a sickly yellow, the parted heavy lips smeared purple, a leather tongue jutting out between sharp white teeth. The basilisk thought this piece of scenery very fitting; a nightmare picture which would dominate the drama played out in front of it. The aisles either side of this rood screen had been curtained off with heavy, silver-powdered damask cloths. The nave of the chapel had been set out with elegant leather-backed chairs; those in the front for Gaunt and his special guests had quilted arm rests. Along either side of the chapel ranged six pillars to represent the twelve apostles with narrow galleries or transepts between these and the outside walls. The gaps between each pillar were now tastefully screened by tapestries of eye-catching colours celebrating the legends of St John and the devotion of the royal family to Christ’s beloved disciple. The figures on the tapestry were all clothed in priestly vestments: rose-coloured chasubles, brilliant blue dalmatics and mauvy-pink amices. The basilisk had seen all this before yet the arrogance of the Plantagenet royal family remained truly breathtaking. The figures were all blond-haired and blue-eyed. St John had been painted likewise as if Gaunt was claiming that the great evangelist was a member of the Plantagenet family. These gorgeous tapestries hung half down; just beneath them stood supper tables, covered in shimmering white damask and groaning under pure gold and silver platters heaped high with deliciously savoury collations for the Regent’s guests. The air, already sweetened with the fragrance from a myriad of beeswax candles and smoking herb pots, was made even richer by the mouth-watering odours of gelatine pie, coras sauce, swan-neck pudding, minced chicken and loach fried in roses and almonds. The basilisk surveyed the scene for the last time watching the servants in their blue, scarlet and gold livery, the knight bannerets, the men-at-arms, the archers, all busy. None of them gave the basilisk a second glance, totally unaware of how this splendid chamber would soon become a place of slaughter. A royal chapel where the power of the Crown would be truly shaken.
    Athelstan closed his eyes in sheer