The House of Crows (11 page)

‘Don’t speak in riddles, Friar!’

‘Come, Sir John, there is no riddle. You have just taken one swig too many of that wineskin. No, don’t glare at me. You’re father of the poppets, and glaring at me from under those bushy white eyebrows is only pretence. What I am saying,’ Athelstan continued, ‘is that of course those men have got a great deal to hide, but they may have nothing to do with the murders.’

‘So how do we find out?’

Athelstan poked the wineskin beneath Sir John’s cloak. ‘
In vino veritas,
Sir John. In wine there’s truth.’

‘You mean Banyard?’

‘Of course. Show me a landlord who says he doesn’t eavesdrop on his customers’ conversations and I’ll show you a liar.’

They made their way out of the abbey. They had to take a circuitous route through narrow, foulsome alleyways to the Gargoyle, since a burning house had closed off the more direct path.

‘Isn’t it strange?’ Cranston murmured. ‘We have just left the abbey where kings are crowned and parliaments are held, a sacred and venerable place; yet every rogue in the city seems to gather round it.’

Athelstan had to agree. He saw two characters, one with a patch over his eye, both with their hoods pulled up, following a pretty whore who was tripping along past the stalls. Both men were greedily watching the embroidered purse which swung from her gaudy girdle. At the corner of the alleyway three dummerers were holding up placards claiming they were deaf-mutes, had been since birth, and would passers-by please spare them a farthing?

‘Liars!’ Cranston snorted with disbelief.

‘But they are genuine,’ Athelstan exclaimed.

‘Watch this,’ Cranston muttered.

He crossed the street, jumping over the overflowing sewer in the centre, and waited till a small crowd had gathered round, ready to give coins. Cranston drew his dagger, sidled close behind one of the dummerers and, as he passed, nicked the man’s bottom with his dagger point. The fellow dropped his sign and screeched like a bird.

‘Who did that? Who did that?’

The spectators looked on in stupefaction.

‘A miracle,’ Cranston declared, holding up his dagger. ‘The man can speak.’ He advanced threateningly on the other two. ‘And perhaps I can perform the same for you.’

All three men grabbed their small bowls of coins and fled like hares up an alleyway. The word must have spread: as Cranston swept by, different characters, all begging for alms, disappeared into the shadows. Their places were soon taken outside doorways, or in the empty spaces between houses, by a legion of other vagabonds: ballad-mongers, hucksters, relic-sellers, as well as the ubiquitous pardoners eager to sell indulgence and penances to pilgrims flocking to the tomb of Edward the Confessor. At times the alleyways became packed, the noise so intense that Cranston and Athelstan had to struggle to get through.

‘Why is it that religion attracts so many rogues and fools?’ Cranston bawled. ‘Surely the good Lord objects?’

Athelstan felt like reminding him that, during his lifetime, Christ had attracted both saints and sinners. However, the clamour was so loud he decided to leave his advice for another time. At last they turned a corner and found themselves under the tavern sign of the Gargoyle. Athelstan stared up at the devil’s head depicted there. Truly frightful, painted in a greyish-green against a scarlet background. The demon’s straggling hair, horrid eyes and roaring mouth as it attacked a knight in full armour, reminded the friar of his own troubles at St Erconwald’s. They entered the taproom: Banyard was standing up by the wine tuns holding forth to a group of boatmen about the rising price of ale and beer. He broke off and smiled at Athelstan and Cranston.

‘Well, my lord Coroner, what can I do for you? Some refreshment?’

‘Yes,’ Athelstan replied hastily. ‘And if I can hire a writing-tray?’

‘Feed the body first,’ Cranston growled.

‘Some charlet?’ Banyard offered. ‘Pork mixed with egg,’ he explained. ‘And the bread will be fresh.’

Cranston and Athelstan agreed, and the landlord showed them to a table away from the rest. He brought them blackjacks of ale, then sent a boy across with a writing-tray, containing a quill, a small pot of ink, a scrap of parchment and some sealing wax.

‘What’s the matter?’ Cranston asked.

Athelstan seized the quill and began to write quickly, his hand racing across the page. He stopped and recalled those scraps of parchment sent to the dead knights.

‘Well, it wasn’t done here.’

‘What wasn’t?’

‘The parchment and ink are different,’ Athelstan explained. ‘I just wondered if the warnings had been written here.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘If we could only find what those two dead men were supposed to remember. Anyway,’ he dipped the tip of the quill into the inkpot and continued his scribbling. ‘I am writing to Father Prior,’ he explained. ‘I have to tell him about our demon in Southwark.’

‘What help can he give?’ Cranston asked.

‘He has the cunning of a serpent and the innocence of a dove.’

‘You mean just like yourself?’

‘Sir John, you flatter . . . But, seriously, in a recent letter from our superior, all Dominican priests were warned to study demonic possession more accurately, and have such phenomena investigated.’ Athelstan finished writing, put his pen down and asked the potboy for a candle to melt the wax.

‘You see, Sir John,’ he continued when he’d done this, ‘Pike the ditcher can see all sorts of demons when he’s drunk, but Benedicta is level-headed. You may scoff, but something foul lurked in our death-house that night. I have to be sure. Why, Sir John,’ he blew the candle out, ‘don’t you believe in Satan and all his powers?’

‘Yes, I bloody well do.’ Cranston sipped from his tankard. ‘And a lot of his friends live in Cheapside. However, you surely don’t believe that demons come up from hell to cavort along Southwark’s alleyways? I can think of more suitable, plumper prey across the river.’

‘Whatever it is,’ Athelstan picked up the letter as Banyard approached with their meal, ‘I must report to Father Anselm and seek his advice.’

Once the landlord had placed the steaming platters of food before them, Athelstan handed him the letter.

‘Would you ensure this is taken to Blackfriars?’ he asked. He took a penny out of his purse. ‘I’ll pay for the boy.’

‘Nonsense!’ Banyard replied. ‘There’s no need to pay, Father.’

‘In which case,’ Cranston put his horn spoon down, smacking his lips, ‘one good turn deserves another. Send the lad running, Master Banyard, and come back here. Be our guest.’

Banyard accepted. He returned from the kitchen and sat down, a tankard of frothy ale in his huge fist. Cranston took a silver coin out of his purse and slid this towards him.

‘We would like your advice, Master Banyard.’

The landlord sipped from his ale, but his eyes never left the silver coin.

‘About what?’ he asked, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

‘Don’t let’s be children.’ Cranston lowered his voice and pushed the silver coin towards Banyard. ‘Upstairs, sir, you have two corpses, both former customers: that cannot be good for trade.’

‘Death is a sudden visitor, Sir John. The Gargoyle has housed many a corpse.’ The taverner stared up at the smoke-blackened roof beams. ‘It has stood here for many a year. Customers die in their sleep or in a fight. We have also taken in many a corpse fished from the river.’

‘But this is different,’ Athelstan persisted.

Banyard put his tankard down; he stretched out his hand and the silver coin disappeared.

‘I have told you what I know and what I have seen,’ he whispered. ‘However, our noble representatives are not the band of brothers they appear to be. On the night Bouchon was killed, there was considerable discord over a number of matters.’ He pulled a face. ‘Local matters: the buying up of grain as well as the fixing of prices on the Shrewsbury markets.’

‘And?’ Cranston asked.

‘The discussion grew heated,’ Banyard continued. ‘They argued about a ship they’d hired to import grain from Hainault. Apparently this was done on Malmesbury’s advice, but the ship hadn’t fared well and was seized by French pirates in the Narrow Seas. Goldingham, the small dark one who walks like a woman and has a tongue like a viper, declared Malmesbury should reimburse them. Sir Edmund, red in the face, said he would not.’

‘And?’

‘Well, this led to other matters. They talked of a goblet which had disappeared. I heard the name “Arthur” mentioned.’ Banyard sipped from his tankard. ‘I was going in and out of the room, but when I returned the conversation had changed. Sir Henry Swynford was saying how they should not oppose the regent so vehemently. He talked of unrest in the shires and the growing attacks upon isolated farmhouses and manors, be it in Kent or along the Welsh march.’ Banyard stopped speaking, cradling his tankard. ‘Then Sir Francis Harnett said something very strange.’ Banyard closed his eyes. ‘Yes, that’s right: he said the old ways were the best ways. Malmesbury leaned across the table and grasped his wrist. “Don’t be stupid!” he hissed. “Stick to your beasteries!”’

‘What do you think he meant by that?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Oh, Sir Francis Harnett is apparently interested in all forms of exotic beasts. When he returned from the Tower, he babbled like a child about the elephants, apes, and even a white bear kept in the royal menagerie.’

‘No,’ Athelstan smiled. ‘I meant about the old ways being the best ways.’

Banyard raised his eyebrows. ‘Father, I am a taverner, not some magician at a fair.’

‘And Sir Oliver Bouchon? He was quiet?’

‘He was silent throughout, never touched his food.’ Banyard got to his feet. ‘That’s all I know; now my customers wait.’

‘You could have told us this before.’

‘Sir John, I sell wine, good food and gossip. All three demand payment.’

‘And will you take us down to Dame Mathilda’s in Cottemore Lane?’ Cranston demanded.

Banyard smirked. ‘You need solace, Sir John?’

‘No, no!’ Cranston replied hastily. ‘The Lady Maude, God forfend her, would be horrified to know that I had visited such a place. I simply need to discover whether all our good knights spent Monday evening there.’

Banyard made a face, playing with the empty tankard in his hands. ‘Sir John, they all came back here after midnight, much the worse for wear.’ He shrugged. ‘When you are ready, I’ll take you.’ He got up and walked back into the buttery.

‘Well.’ Cranston pushed the plate away. ‘All we’ve established is what we know already. The good knights are liars. There is rivalry amongst them.’ He licked his lips. ‘I wonder what this cup of Arthur means, or Harnett’s claim that the old ways were the best ways?’

‘Those knights,’ Athelstan replied, ‘know the significance of the arrowhead, the candle and the word “REMEMBER”. They were killed because of some secret sin committed many years ago. But that begs another question.’

Athelstan cleaned his horn spoon and put it back in his wallet. ‘If these knights are being pursued by the furies from their past, why don’t they panic? Why don’t they flee back to Shropshire?’ He glanced at Cranston and leaned across the table. ‘I mean, Sir John, if you, I and others travelled to Shrewsbury, and let us say we’d committed some secret sin, and suddenly members of our party began to be murdered. What would you do?’

Cranston lowered his tankard. ‘Though I hate to admit it, I’d leave Shrewsbury as quickly as an arrow from a bow.’

‘So, why don’t these knights?’ Athelstan asked. ‘Two of their companions are dead, yet . . .’

Cranston stared across the tavern. ‘Oh, well put, little friar.’ He murmured. ‘To flee London, put as much distance between themselves and Westminster would be the natural thing to do.’ He blew his cheeks out and ran his fingers along the bristling moustaches. ‘Of course, there’s still time for them to do that, yet the men we met in the chapter-house seemed quite determined to stay.’ He leaned over and nipped Athelstan’s wrist. ‘You pose questions, Friar. Do you have any answers?’

‘Well, first,’ Athelstan replied slowly, ‘they can’t flee immediately. It would look as if they were guilty and wished to hide something. Secondly, they are representatives of the shire. They are duty-bound to stay in Westminster until this Parliament is finished. But,’ Athelstan paused, ‘they could always claim sickness or some urgent business at home.’ Athelstan continued slowly. ‘It’s possible there might be two other explanations. First, not all the knights we met this morning might have some secret sin to hide. Secondly, perhaps there’s a greater fear which compels them to stay.’ He pushed away the plate and writing-tray. ‘But come, Sir John, the day is drawing on.’ He smiled. ‘And we still have to visit Dame Mathilda and her ladies of the night.’

In his small, beautifully decorated oratory at the Savoy Palace, John of Gaunt knelt, head bowed in prayer, at his prie-dieu. Beside him, on a red and gold embroidered cushion, knelt his ‘beloved nephew’, Richard of England. Now and again the young king, his face like that of an angel, ivory-pale framed by gold hair, would blink his light-blue eyes and glance quickly at his uncle. He’d confided so often to his tutor, Sir Simon Burley, how much he hated ‘dear Uncle’ with a passion beyond all understanding. Did Gaunt really pray? the young king wondered. Or was the oratory a place of silence and seclusion, where he could plot? Richard lifted his eyes to the silver crucifix.

‘Dear God,’ he prayed silently. ‘I am thirteen years of age. Three more years, only three, and I will be king in my own right!’

Richard smiled. And what would happen then to ‘dear Uncle’? Yet three years was a long time: anything could happen! Richard, through his tutor, knew all about the peasants seething with discontent at being tied to the soil, at not being allowed to sell their labour in the markets, or bargain for what they were paid. Now a Parliament had convened at Westminster: the lords temporal and spiritual met by themselves; the Commons, assembled in the chapter-house, resolutely argued against levying taxes so ‘beloved Uncle’ could build more ships or raise more troops. Yet, what would happen if a storm broke which swept away not only Uncle but himself? Would the peasant rebels really lift their hands against the son of the Black Prince, their own anointed king? Beside him Gaunt sighed, lifted his head and blessed himself with a flourish. He turned to Richard.