The House of Crows (20 page)

His words created a pool of silence in the taproom.

‘I’m speaking the truth, aren’t I?’ Aylebore declared. ‘The killer . . .’ He jabbed the air with one stubby finger. ‘. . . The killer must have a seal. He must have known when Sir Francis left here; and he must be someone who could walk in and out of the abbey with the utmost impunity.’

‘But what about the axe?’ Malmesbury asked anxiously. ‘The sword which took Harnett’s head off? No representative is allowed to bear arms in the abbey precincts.’ He looked over his shoulder at Coverdale slouched in the windowseat behind him.

‘What are you saying, Sir Edmund?’ Athelstan asked.

‘What happens if the killer was sent into the abbey? Allowed to enter and leave at his own whim?’

‘Be careful what you say,’ Coverdale warned.

Athelstan rose, smiling, to his feet. He put the chalice back on the table. ‘Whatever . . .’ he said mildly. He could sense the atmosphere changing, and did not want to be drawn into a fierce quarrel. ‘Sir John, I think we should examine Sir Francis’s possessions.’ He pointed at the chalice and the leather bag in which it had been delivered. ‘Gentlemen, may I borrow these for a while?’

Malmesbury looked doubtfully back. Goldingham shrugged but Sir Humphrey Aylebore rose to his feet and thrust the chalice and bag into Athelstan’s hands.

‘If it helps, Brother, keep them as long as you want.’ He smiled. ‘Just ensure our Grail doesn’t disappear again.’

Cranston drained his cup and glared down at the knights. ‘Gentlemen, I want your word. Stay together in this tavern. Do not go out at night, either as a group or individually. Tell each other where you are and what you are doing. Agreed?’

Each of the knights gave his word.

Cranston turned to Banyard. ‘And mine host, you have chambers for my secretarius and myself?’

‘You can have Swynford’s or Bouchon’s.’ The landlord got to his feet and called for a potboy. ‘Whilst you are visiting Sir Francis’s chamber, I’ll make sure the sheets are changed and fresh rushes are laid.’

Cranston thanked him. He followed Athelstan up the stairs. On the stairwell they met Christina, her arms full of sheaves of fresh rushes, the ends of which tickled her nose. Athelstan waited until she had finished her fit of sneezing.

‘God bless you, girl!’

‘Thank you, Father.’

‘Sir Francis’s room?’

‘Go up another set of stairs. The door is open.’

Athelstan, followed by the coroner who was huffing and puffing, went up the stairs into Harriett’s chamber. The room was pleasantly furnished with a four-poster bed, two large, metal-bound coffers, one narrow table and some stools. Braziers stood in the corner but these were unlit: the window was open, allowing the warm sunlight to bathe the room in a soft glow.

‘They are still not telling the truth, are they?’ Cranston asked, closing the door behind them.

‘No, Sir John, they are not.’

‘Do you think the murderer’s one of them?’

‘He must be, Sir John. There are more doors, passageways and galleries in this tavern than there are in a rabbit warren. Any one of them could have slipped out, followed Sir Francis into the Pyx chamber, and killed him.’

‘And the weapon?’ Cranston asked.

Athelstan sighed. ‘Yes, yes, that is a mystery. But we must not forget Sir Miles Coverdale or His Grace the Regent’s role in all this.’

‘And the famous chalice?’

‘Ah!’ Athelstan lifted the lid of one of the heavy chests. ‘Sir John, do me a favour please. Go down into the taproom, hire a boy to go to the abbey, and ask Father Benedict if he would be so good as to join us here. No, no, on second thoughts, Sir John, tell the boy we will meet him within the hour in St Faith’s Chapel. I would also like to see the Pyx chamber where the murder was committed. Oh, and Sir John, what time does the Cheapside market close?’

‘Just before sunset. It depends on the weather.’

‘Well, whatever happens, Sir John, we must be back in Cheapside when it does.’

‘Why?’ Cranston asked.

But Athelstan, muttering to himself, was now rifling amongst the contents of the chest. Cranston stuck his tongue out at the friar’s back and, going to the top of the stairs, shouted for Banyard to send a boy up. When the coroner returned, Athelstan had laid the contents of the chest and Harnett’s saddlebags on to the bed and was now sifting amongst these.

‘Nothing remarkable,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘A cup with a swan on it. A collection of legends about King Arthur, clothing, belts and daggers, an inkpot and quills.’ He straightened up, a Book of Hours clasped in his hand.

‘Sir John.’ He pointed to the chalice he had brought from the taproom. ‘Let’s leave this. Ask Banyard to seal the chamber.’ He looked down at the embroidered belts, soft leather boots, hose, jerkins and shirts. ‘There’s something missing here,’ he murmured, ‘but I can’t put my finger on it.’ He scratched his cheek. ‘Ah well.’

Athelstan picked up a coverlet and threw it over the contents of the bed; he was still distracted by what he had failed to see rather than what he had. The friar led a bemused coroner out of the chamber and down the stairs. Banyard, busy in the taproom, told him the knights had gone back to their own chambers.

‘And Sir Miles Coverdale?’

‘Oh, he started shouting at Sir Edmund Malmesbury, saying he didn’t like his insinuations, and stalked off.’

‘Master Banyard,’ Athelstan said, ‘would you lock Sir Francis’s room? Please tell his companions that I have taken a Book of Hours but left the chalice there.’

The landlord agreed and Athelstan joined Cranston outside.

‘Why bother taking his Book of Hours?’ Cranston asked as they hurried up an alleyway towards the brooding mass of Westminster Abbey.

‘Sir John, you have a Book of Hours at home?’ Athelstan paused to open his writing-case and place the book inside.

‘Yes, of course I do.’

‘And you use it to pray?’

‘Of course.’

‘And what else?’

Cranston grinned and patted the friar on the shoulder. ‘In the blank pages at the back and front I make my own notes, private prayers and devotions.’ He gripped Athelstan’s arm. ‘Didn’t you examine Harnett’s before you left?’

‘Very quickly,’ Athelstan replied. ‘I could see nothing. But come, Sir John, we have the Pyx chamber to investigate, as well as ask Father Benedict certain questions.’

Athelstan was relieved they had left in good time, as the soldiers guarding the abbey entrances were quite obdurate.

‘I don’t care if you’re the Archangel Gabriel!’ One of the archers snapped at Cranston, his nut-brown face fiercely determined. ‘No one is allowed to pass here without a seal. You have not got one, so you can’t go in!’

After a great deal of argument, the archer at least agreed to go and find Sir Miles Coverdale: when the captain arrived, he sullenly agreed to let them through, but insisted on escorting them himself through the Jericho parlour, around the cloisters and into the long vestibule leading to the chapter-house.

‘The Commons are not meeting this morning?’ Cranston asked as they hurried along.

‘No, Sir John, that gaggle of geese have to rest their voices: their cackling begins late this afternoon. They are already complaining about Sir Francis Harnett’s death,’ Coverdale added morosely. ‘Sending petitions to the regent for more soldiers and archers to be sent here.’

‘Do you blame yourself?’ Athelstan asked.

Coverdale stopped at the steps leading down to the Pyx chamber. ‘Brother, there are over two hundred representatives meeting in the chapter-house, and about a dozen clerks, not to mention the soldiers and archers on guard. Some of them are strangers to me, being drawn from garrisons as far afield as Dover and Hedingham Castle. If a man carries that seal, acts without suspicion and bears no arms, there is little we can do to stop him from entering here. But come, you want to see the Pyx chamber.’

He grasped a torch from a socket on the wall and led them down the steps. An archer at the bottom unlocked the door, and they entered the shadow-filled, eerie crypt. Coverdale lit more torches and pointed to a dark stain on the paved stone floor.

‘We found the body there, bleeding like a stuck pig.’ He moved his hand. ‘Beside it the arrowhead, candle, and the scrap of parchment.’ Coverdale pointed to one of the iron brackets. ‘The head was tied to that by its hair.’

Athelstan followed Coverdale’s direction. He recalled the care Harnett took with his hair; the memory only deepened his horror at the poor knight’s death.

‘And you found nothing else?’ he asked.

‘Nothing, Father.’

Athelstan walked round. He could not find anything amiss, except the dark bloodstains and a sense of malevolence, as if the assassin was in the shadows laughing at their blundering about. He recalled the exorcist’s words and plucked at Cranston’s sleeve.

‘There may not be a demon in Southwark,’ he whispered. ‘But, before God, Sir John, one has been here!’

Cranston lifted his miraculous wineskin and took a deep draught. He replaced the stopper, stared round and shivered.

‘Come on, Brother!’ he snapped. ‘Let’s get out of here!’

Cranston and Athelstan thanked Coverdale. They climbed the steps, crossed the vestibule, and went up another flight of stairs into St Faith’s Chapel. They sat on a bench against the wall of the narrow chapel. Cranston closed his eyes, half dozing. Athelstan studied a painting: St Faith wearing a crown and holding a grid-iron, the emblem of her martyrdom. Next to her was a small, half-size figure of a praying Benedictine monk: from his lips issued a scroll bearing the words:

‘From the burden of my sin, Sweet Virgin, deliver me. Make my peace with Christ and blot out my iniquities.’

‘We could all say that prayer,’ Athelstan murmured.

‘What’s that?’ Cranston stirred himself, smacking his lips. ‘Beautiful chapel, Athelstan,’ he murmured. ‘Too much stacked here, a little untidy. But what were you saying?’

Athelstan pointed to the figure on the wall and the words, ‘I think that applies to our situation doesn’t it, Sir John?’

‘I’ve done nothing wrong,’ the coroner declared. He looked sheepish. ‘Well, I drink too much.’ He nudged Athelstan. ‘But only occasionally.’

‘But, surely, not a monk?’

Athelstan whirled round. Father Benedict stood in the doorway of the chapel. Athelstan and Cranston rose.

‘Father, I thank you for coming.’

Cranston, embarrassed, tried to hide the wineskin peeping out from beneath his cloak.

‘Sit down! Sit down!’

Cranston and Athelstan obeyed whilst Father Benedict went and pulled across a small box chair which stood in a corner of the chapel. The monk stared over his shoulder at the altar, where a candle burned beneath the pyx which contained the body of Christ.

‘If you question me here, Brother,’ Father Benedict said softly, ‘I have little choice but to tell the truth.’

‘About what?’ Cranston asked curiously.

‘Oh, not about the murders?’ Athelstan intervened. ‘Father Benedict is as innocent as a new-born babe. However, the chalice, the Holy Grail, the cedarwood cup which was sent to the Gargoyle tavern this morning. You sent that, didn’t you, Father?’

The monk slid his hands up the voluminous sleeves of his black gown. He blinked and glanced away, as if fascinated by the tiled floor of the chapel.

‘Your friend Father Antony gave it to you, didn’t he?’ Athelstan persisted.

Father Benedict nodded. ‘Many years ago.’ He began slowly. ‘Father Antony arrived here from Lilleshall. We became firm friends. We had a great deal in common: a love of books and manuscripts, nothing better than the smell of vellum, ink and chalk, burning wax and the study of the antiquities.’ Father Benedict cleared his throat. ‘After he had been here eighteen months, Antony invited me into his cell. He showed me the chalice you saw this morning. He confessed he’d stolen it from the Knights of the Swan. He described their junketings, tourneys and tournaments at Lilleshall, and how the cup might well have been the Grail.’

Father Benedict paused, rocking himself gently in the chair. He smiled. ‘I examined the cup very carefully, I believe it’s four to five hundred years old, probably from the treasure trove of Alfred King of Wessex, rather than from the court of the legendary Arthur.’

‘And Father Antony?’ Athelstan asked.

‘He told me of its history and asked me what I should do. I declared the chalice must be returned to its rightful owners as, in my opinion, he had committed an act of sacrilege as well as theft.’

‘But it wasn’t?’ Athelstan asked.

‘No. Antony asked for absolution and entrusted the chalice to me. He insisted that, whatever the chalice’s real origins were, it was still a sacred vessel and should not be returned to such wicked men. I asked him what he meant by that. Antony just shook his head and muttered that he did not want to add the sin of calumny to his other faults. I taxed him about why he had stolen the chalice in the first place.’ The Benedictine smiled at Athelstan. ‘Oh, don’t worry, I am not breaking the seal of confession: Antony and I used to talk about this a great deal. The only thing he would say, and he kept repeating this time and time again, was that he believed it was blasphemy for the Knights of the Swan to pretend they were paladins of Arthur, to meet on holy ground, never mind possess such a sacred relic.’

‘So he claimed he had not really sinned,’ Athelstan surmised, ‘but had followed his conscience and removed something sacred from the hands of the wicked?’

‘Yes, Athelstan, put most precisely: that’s exactly what he said.’

‘But this wickedness?’ Cranston asked. ‘Father, with all due respect, any wealthy landowner is hardly a St Francis of Assisi. Sir Henry Swynford and his companions are, like myself, men of the world.’

The monk’s face broke into a genuine smile. ‘I don’t think so, Sir John. Antony mentioned murder, not just once, but on a number of occasions. And, before you ask, that’s all he would say.’ The monk looked towards the chapel door to ensure it was closed. ‘Now, as you know, over the recent few years there have been a number of Parliaments at Westminster, and Sir Edmund Malmesbury, together with most of his companions, were always returned. Whenever they came, Antony declared himself ill and spent the entire time in the infirmary.’ The Benedictine shrugged. ‘Not that it mattered. The knights always stay at the Gargoyle or some other tavern and rarely frequent the abbey itself.’