The House of Crows (19 page)

‘Yes, Friar, I was at the Savoy Palace with others of the regent’s commanders, preparing for the royal procession to Westminster this Saturday morning. My lord of Gaunt, not to mention a number of his knights, will swear solemn oaths that I was with them.’

‘At the hour of Vespers?’ Athelstan asked, noticing a shift in Coverdale’s eyes.

‘Well, shortly afterwards.’

Athelstan turned away. ‘Master Banyard, how long will the corpse remain here?’

‘Till this afternoon.’

‘Was there any sign of robbery?’ Cranston asked, getting to his feet, grunting and groaning.

‘None whatsoever,’ Coverdale hastily interrupted.

Athelstan went and looked down at the corpse and, as he did so, noticed a trickle of blood, slow and sluggish, curl out from beneath the dirty sheet.

Coverdale saw it too and turned hastily away. ‘The others are waiting,’ he snapped.

Coverdale was about to walk away, but stopped just beside Athelstan: he pushed his face a few inches away from the friar’s. ‘Make your inquiries, Brother,’ he whispered. ‘I am no assassin.’

Athelstan was about to reply when there was shouting from the tavern followed by the patter of feet. Christina, her hair all flying, burst into the outhouse: she took one look at the corpse covered in the sheet and stepped back.

‘What’s the matter, girl? What’s the matter?’

Athelstan and the rest followed her out.

‘It’s the knights,’ she cried. ‘Someone came to the tavern.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t know who. One of the potboys says he was dressed all in black. He gave him a pouch sealed at the top and a letter for Sir Edmund Malmesbury. The boy took it up to the knights. Sir Edmund opened it, now they are all shouting,
“It’s been found! It’s been found!”’

‘What’s been found?’ Cranston asked, pressing the girl’s arm.

‘I don’t know,’ she stammered. ‘But they are all excited, arguing with each other about a cup which was stolen.’

Cranston strode back towards the tavern. Athelstan remained to ensure the corpse was decently covered. He closed the door and crossed the tavern yard. A cock, glorious in its plumage, crowed its heart out on top of a mound of rich, black earth. ‘You have a fine voice, Brother cock,’ Athelstan murmured, idly wishing he had such a bird and a collection of hens at St Erconwald’s. Then he remembered Bonaventure and the pig-woman’s evil-looking sow and shook his head. ‘You wouldn’t sing there, Brother cock.’

He continued across the yard, glimpsing the river glinting in the distance and the long line of grain barges making their way up to Queenshithe or Dowgate. Athelstan put his hand into the pocket of his habit and touched the muzzle he had examined the night before. Amidst all this excitement, he had almost forgotten it; he must tell the worthy coroner to set a trap for that sinister thief of cats. He sighed and went into the tavern.

Cranston had cleared the taproom. All four knights were now seated round the table, faces flushed. They kept staring at a polished, cedarwood chalice which stood on the table before them. Every so often one of them would lean forward, eyes glittering, and stroke the chalice with the tips of their fingers. Coverdale lounged in a windowseat watching curiously. Cranston was over at the wine butts sampling, as he explained, mine host’s best Gascony. Banyard was all excited: he kept staring at the cup and shaking his head.

‘What is it?’ Athelstan asked.

‘What is it?’ Sir Humphrey Aylebore rubbed his bald head with his hand and, like a child unable to restrain himself, leaned across and grasped the dark wood chalice. ‘This is the Grail!’ he explained.

Athelstan went over and took the wooden cup out of his hands. The bowl was shallow, the stem and base felt heavy in his hand. The wood was polished not only because of its texture, but also because of its great age. Athelstan recalled the legends of Arthur and wondered if this cup truly was the Grail; the very chalice Christ had used at the Last Supper to turn the wine into his blood for the world to drink.

The chalice bore no markings or etchings, and Athelstan hid his suspicions. He was growing increasingly wary of any relics. He had seen enough wood – supposedly belonging to the True Cross – to build a fleet of warships. Indeed, if he collected every scrap of cloth which was supposed to cover the Saviour’s corpse, he was sure the roll would stretch from London to York. He glanced up. Malmesbury’s eyes were glittering. Whatever I think, Athelstan reflected, these men really believe this is the Grail.

‘Brother Athelstan, please?’ Malmesbury stretched out his hands pleadingly.

Athelstan handed the cup to him. The knight took it tenderly, as a mother would her child.

‘You say this once belonged to you?’ Cranston asked, coming forward, a brimming wine cup in his hand. He winked at Athelstan and slurped quickly at the wine.

‘It is ours,’ Goldingham snapped. He plucked the chalice from Malmesbury’s grasp, turned it over and pointed at the faint outline of a swan carved on the base. ‘It disappeared,’ he continued, ‘one night, years ago, when we were at Lilleshall Abbey.’ His eyes brimmed with tears, and his voice became choked. ‘Since then, nothing has gone right for us.’

‘What do you mean?’ Athelstan asked.

Goldingham shook his head and, holding the chalice between his hands, rocked backwards and forwards, as if this relic would preserve him from all evil.

‘And it was brought back now?’ Cranston asked.

‘Yes,’ Malmesbury replied. ‘A stranger brought it to the tavern door.’ He picked up a leather bag which had been sealed at the neck. ‘It was in this, with a scrap of parchment bearing my name.’

Athelstan took the bag and the parchment and examined them carefully.

‘How?’ Coverdale called out. ‘How could anyone in London know that a cup stolen from a Shropshire abbey years ago belonged to you?’

‘We don’t know,’ Sir Humphrey snarled over his shoulder. ‘All we know is that the cup was stolen, and now it’s back with its rightful owners.’

‘Do you think it’s connected with Sir Francis Harnett’s death?’ Athelstan asked.

Some of the excitement drained from the knights’ faces.

‘I mean,’ Athelstan continued, ‘is it possible that Sir Francis had the chalice all the time? And now he has been killed, the cup’s been returned.’

‘Explain yourself, Friar!’ Goldingham interrupted.

Athelstan smiled and sat down on the stool opposite him. ‘I can’t. It just seems a coincidence that one of your companions died last night, and this morning a long-lost cup is returned.’ Athelstan had his own suspicions, but he kept them hidden. ‘Sir Francis is dead.’ He emphasised his words. ‘Do any of you know why he went to the Pyx chamber last night? Whom was he meeting? There’s nothing down there,’ he continued, ‘so Sir Francis could only have gone there intending to meet someone. That person killed him.’

‘We don’t know,’ Sir Thomas Elontius replied, running his hand through his bristling red hair. His popping eyes had a frightened, hunted look. ‘We all stayed here at the Gargoyle.’

‘None of you left?’ Cranston asked, coming up beside Athelstan.

‘Ask mine host,’ Elontius replied.

‘It’s true,’ Banyard declared, walking over to join them. ‘All five of the knights were here. I served them the speciality of the house: young goose, fresh and tender and served with a spicy sauce. My guests ate and drank their fill and went to their chambers. I did not even know Sir Francis had left.’

‘And you all stayed here?’ Cranston repeated.

‘Yes,’ the knights chorused.

‘But it stands to reason,’ Athelstan intervened, ‘if Sir Francis Harnett left and no one saw him going, then any or all of you could have left unnoticed.’

Banyard looked surprised by Athelstan’s remark: he sighed and scratched his cheek. ‘The tavern has got at least three or four entrances,’ he declared. ‘And at night we become busy. Brother Athelstan, this is a tavern famous for its food, fine ales and strong wine. We have people coming and going. The Gargoyle is a hostelry, not a castle prison.’

‘And on your oath,’ Athelstan turned back to the knights, ‘did any of you leave?’ He stared at each of them in turn, but they all shook their heads.

‘We were tired,’ Sir Humphrey Aylebore declared. ‘Yes, Brother, tried and frightened. We ate and drank our fill.’ He forced a smile. ‘I suppose my companions did what I did: I locked the doors and windows of my chamber and hid beneath the sheets. We have vowed not to go anywhere at Westminster without at least one other accompanying us.’

‘Do you know why Sir Francis Harnett left?’ Cranston slurped from the wine cup and smacked his lips noisily.

‘No,’ Malmesbury retorted, staring disdainfully at the coroner.

‘Oh come, Sir Edmund.’ Cranston beamed back at him. ‘Sir Francis is now well known to us as a man constantly going in and out of the city, travelling hither and thither on secret errands.’

‘Sir Francis was a fussy little man. God rest him,’ Goldingham replied. ‘Once we were a band of brothers, Sir John.’ He pointed to the cup. ‘But, when that was stolen . . .’ He shrugged. ‘Each of us went his own way, Sir Francis in particular. Oh, he whispered to himself and scurried about, but none of us knows why he left Dame Mathilda’s, or why he should be so foolish as to go alone to the Pyx chamber.’

‘Did he ever mention a young soldier called Perline Brasenose?’

‘Not to my knowledge,’ Sir Edmund replied. ‘But Goldingham is correct: Harnett was his own man, with the carp ponds, books on beasteries and exotic animals. He never told us where he went or why. If he had, he’d be alive this morning.’

‘You said Perline Brasenose,’ Sir Thomas Elontius leaned forward. He turned and whispered in Sir Humphrey Aylebore’s ear. The knight nodded. ‘Perline’s a soldier in the Tower garrison?’ Elontius asked.

‘Yes,’ Athelstan replied.

‘I remember him.’ Elontius’s fingers flew to his lips. ‘Last Sunday we went to the Tower. As we left, I saw Sir Francis speaking to a young soldier just near the gatehouse.’

‘What about?’ Athelstan asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Elontius replied. ‘But Harnett came back here, rather excited.’

Cranston dug into his wallet and drew out the small wax candle, arrowhead and scrap of parchment.

‘These were found beside Harnett’s body, as they were with Swynford’s and Bouchon’s. Are you still going to maintain –’ he looked at the knights in turn – ‘that they mean nothing to you?’

‘I can’t be everywhere!’ Cranston snapped back.

‘It’s a nightmare,’ Elontius bellowed, snapping his fingers at Banyard. ‘Serve us some drinks, man.’ He smiled at the landlord. ‘The only good thing about being in London is this tavern: the prices are reasonable, the food is delicious and the chambers are clean. Even Harnett, the miserly bastard, remarked on that.’

Athelstan waited until the landlord brought back a tray of cups and set them out before the knights. He leaned across with the jug.

‘Do you want some, Brother?’ Banyard asked.

Athelstan shook his head. For some strange reason his stomach felt a little queasy, and he still found it difficult to remove the image of that gruesome severed corpse from his mind. He remembered Banyard’s description of the night Bouchon had died, and was tempted to ask what Sir Francis Harnett had meant by saying that ‘the old ways were the best ways’. However, this would betray Banyard’s eavesdropping, and in any case, these knights would just lie.

‘Landlord!’ Cranston called over his shoulder. ‘Did Harnett send any messages into London, written or verbal?’

The landlord came back, scratching his head, a look of puzzlement on his swarthy face. ‘No, he didn’t.’

‘I have been through his belongings,’ Malmesbury intervened. ‘Sir John, there’s nothing there. A Book of Hours, an inkpot, cups, clothing, but nothing remarkable.’

‘Do you know why Harnett wanted to meet a soldier from the Tower garrison?’ Athelstan asked.

‘If I did, I would tell Sir John,’ Malmesbury replied quickly.

Athelstan leaned across and picked up the chalice again. ‘And you have no knowledge of where this came from or who returned it?’

‘Now, that is a mystery,’ Goldingham intervened, his cup half-way to his lips. ‘The last time I saw that, Brother, was many years ago; now it reappears as if out of nowhere.’

‘And you are not curious?’ Cranston asked.

‘Quite honestly, Sir John,’ Aylebore retorted, ‘I couldn’t give a shit! All I wish is that we could put it in a box and go straight back to Shrewsbury with the corpses of our murdered comrades.’

‘Why don’t you?’ Athelstan turned to Malmesbury. ‘Surely the regent will excuse you?’

‘That’s impossible,’ the knight growled. ‘We represent the county and towns of Shropshire. What explanation can we give, Brother, for our sudden flight? And how do we know the assassin would not pursue us?’ He ran his fingers round the brim of the wine goblet. ‘Moreover, as Sir John Cranston said, in many people’s eyes, flight might appear to be guilt.’ He sipped at his wine. ‘Finally, we have a task to do: the regent’s demands for taxes have to be resisted.’

‘And are you doing that?’ Cranston asked.

‘Aye,’ Malmesbury replied.

‘But if the young king comes down to the Commons and asks for your support?’ Cranston continued.

Malmesbury shrugged. ‘You know the old saying, Sir John: we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it!’

‘I’ll go even further.’ Sir Humphrey Aylebore pointed at the chalice Athelstan still held. ‘Speaking for myself, Brother, I’d give that to you if you could unmask the assassin amongst us.’

‘Amongst you?’ Athelstan cocked his head to one side. ‘Sir Humphrey, why do you think the killer is one of your company?’

‘It stands to reason, doesn’t it?’ the knight blustered. ‘Last night Sir Francis may have met this Perline, or maybe the fellow didn’t turn up, but the assassin did.’

‘And?’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, Brother, don’t play games! The abbey is well guarded. Two or three lines of soldiers and archers. No one would be allowed into the vestibule leading to the Pyx chamber unless he carried a special seal . . . And don’t say the seal can be forged. Green wax, not to mention the imprint of the Great Seal of the kingdom, are very difficult to obtain and impossible to forge!’