The House of Crows (27 page)

Athelstan heard a sound. He opened his eyes, but it was only Banyard carrying two buckets of earth from the compost heap. He placed these down, smiled at Athelstan, and went into the tavern. Athelstan stood up, moving gently so as not to rouse Sir John. He breathed in the fragrance of the thyme, marjoram and rosemary planted in the herb garden.

‘I’ll go back to St Erconwald’s,’ he muttered, ‘when all this is finished.’

A bee buzzed close to his face. He stepped back, wafting it away. What other mistakes, Athelstan wondered, had the assassin made? To be sure Swynford’s murder was impudent, but those of Harnett and Goldingham? And what had been missing from Harnett’s possessions strewn out on the bed? Athelstan yawned and turned back to the bower: he shook Cranston awake.

‘Rouse yourself, Sir John.’

Cranston opened his eyes, smacking his lips. The coroner stretched. ‘Where to now, my good friar?’

‘The day is warm,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Let’s return to our chambers, Sir John. Tomorrow we have to be up early when the king and the regent go down to Westminster. What o’ clock will the procession start?’

Cranston lumbered to his feet. ‘I don’t know, but I’ll send a messenger to the Savoy to ask.’ And, grumbling about the regent’s impositions, Cranston shuffled back into the tavern, making his way wearily upstairs.

Athelstan followed. He would have liked to have written down the conclusions he and Sir John had reached, but the sun and ale had made him drowsy. He lay down on his cot-bed; when he awoke later darkness was already beginning to fall. He roused Sir John and they spent the rest of the evening waiting in the taproom for Malmesbury, Elontius and Aylebore to return. It was fully dark when the three representatives came in, huddled together, each with their hands on the pommel of their daggers. They greeted Cranston and Athelstan with a cursory nod and sat at their own table. Their morose demeanour and air of despondency only lifted after Banyard had served them the best his kitchens could offer, placing an unstoppered flask of wine on the table before them.

‘It’s the best Gascony can produce,’ the landlord declared. ‘Come, sirs, fill your cups.’

He opened the flask and poured a generous measure into each of the knights’ goblets. Frightened and anxious, all three drank quickly, refilling their cups, putting fire into their bellies and the arrogance back in their mouths. Cranston whispered that he could watch no longer, and stomped off to his room, but Athelstan, pretending to eat slowly, studied them carefully. As the evening drew on, all three knights returned to their pompous selves, braying like donkeys at what had happened during the afternoon and evening sessions of the Commons. Of course, their voices attracted the attention of everyone else in the tavern: lawyers, clerks, officials from the courts or Exchequer. All congregated round the table, listening solemnly as these three representatives proclaimed what was wrong with the kingdom.

‘Woe to the realm when the king is a child,’ Malmesbury intoned. ‘This –’ he tapped the table, burping gently between his words – ‘is the cause of all our ills!’

Athelstan, knowing what he did about these men, felt his stomach turn. He would have left them but, fascinated by their hypocrisy, watched and waited. Only now and again did their fear of the murder of their companions show. A clerk, with a snivelling face and lank greasy hair, asked who the murderer could be. Malmesbury glared at him like a frightened rabbit and dug his face into his cup, whilst Aylebore drew the conversation on to other matters. Every so often one of them would go out to the latrines. Athelstan noticed with some amusement how all three knights had hired burly servitors to guard them. As Aylebore returned, hastily fastening his points, Athelstan was waiting for him, just within the door.

‘You have bought yourself protection, Sir Humphrey?’

The knight lifted his beery, slobbery face. ‘Well, much good you are,’ he sneered. He paused to loosen the belt round his girth. ‘Can’t even have a piss without someone watching your back.’

He would have moved on, but Athelstan blocked his way. The sneer died on Aylebore’s face.

‘If you are so frightened,’ Athelstan whispered, ‘why not go back to Shropshire?’

Sir Humphrey glanced away, his face sodden with drink.

‘Or confess your secret sin,’ Athelstan continued remorselessly.

Aylebore’s head swung round, eyes stony.

‘Confess to the murders of those men,’ Athelstan whispered, his gaze not wavering. ‘Do you remember, Sir Humphrey? The peasant leaders who wanted to better themselves, but whom you and your companions executed, or should I say murdered, in the pursuit of your own selfish interests!’

Aylebore’s face turned ugly, yet Athelstan saw the fear in his eyes.

‘Confess,’ Athelstan repeated.

Aylebore pushed his face close to Athelstan, who did not flinch at the burst of fetid breath from the man’s mouth.

‘If I had to confess anything, Father,’ Aylebore hissed, ‘then it wouldn’t be to you. And if I killed, then I did so in the name of a cause you wouldn’t understand.’

Athelstan stepped back. ‘Oh, I understand you completely, Sir Humphrey. It’s a devil I meet every day. It goes under different names: jealousy, envy, anger, the lust for power.’

Aylebore was about to reply, but Malmesbury called him over. The knights shouldered roughly by, and Athelstan drew his breath in.

‘I tried, Lord,’ he whispered. ‘There’s little more I can do!’

He went across the taproom and up the stairs to his own chamber. Only then did he realise how frightening his confrontation with Aylebore had been. He found it difficult to pray, still repelled by the evil ugliness in the knight’s face. Athelstan lay down on the bed and tried to control his breathing, diverting his mind by imagining he was in St Erconwald’s, praying before the altar. At last he grew calm, his eyes heavy with sleep. As he began to doze, images floated through his mind, and Athelstan was almost off to sleep when he realised what was missing from Harnett’s room. The friar sat up on the bed.

‘It can’t be! Surely?’ He spoke into the darkness. ‘Those two items were missing!’

He got to his feet, went across to the table and, lighting a candle, picked up his quill from the writing-tray. Athelstan worked till the early hours, listing everything that had happened since they had arrived at the Gargoyle and, on another sheet of vellum, the names of everyone he had met. Only as he lay down to snatch a little sleep did vague suspicions become much clearer.

The next morning Athelstan felt sluggish and heavy-eyed. He celebrated his daily Mass in one of the side chapels of the abbey, politely answering Father Benedict’s inquiries. Afterwards, he hastened back to the Gargoyle, broke his fast, and went out to stand by the river where Cranston later found him.

‘We have to go soon, Brother.’ He clasped the friar’s shoulder and turned him round. ‘What is it, Athelstan? You look as if you have hardly slept.’ He grasped the friar’s hand and squeezed it. ‘I know you,’ Cranston continued excitedly, his face beaming with pleasure. ‘You have begun to unravel this mystery, haven’t you?’

‘I am not sure, Sir John.’ Athelstan looked towards the rising sun. ‘But shouldn’t we be away to join the regent’s procession?’

‘Pshaw!’ Cranston made a movement with his hand. ‘The good news, Brother, is that the regent does not expect us to be part of it. We are to await him in the cloisters after the king has addressed the Commons.’

They returned to the tavern, where Athelstan mysteriously wandered off, telling Sir John not to worry, that he wouldn’t go far. Cranston knew enough about his secretarius not to question him further. Athelstan would worry at something, closing his mind to everything, including Sir John’s insistent questions.

An hour later Athelstan, washed, shaved and dressed in his best gown, knocked on Cranston’s door. The coroner, who had been waiting impatiently, did not bother to ask any questions, but immediately hurried him down and out into the abbey grounds. Athelstan had never seen so many soldiers congregating in one place, not only guards and archers, but men-at-arms and knight bannerets from the royal household filled the cloisters and the gardens. Cranston had to exert all his authority, calling on Coverdale to help. At last they managed to fight their way through to the vestibule, which was thronged with courtiers, chamberlains, pages and squires, resplendent in Gaunt’s livery, the blue, red and gold of the royal household. Coverdale who had led them there, pointed to the closed doors of the chapter-house.

‘The regent is within,’ he murmured, ‘and has already spoken to the members. Now the young king has begun.’ He paused as a great roar of approval, followed by cheering and clapping, came from the chapter-house.

‘The young king has been well received,’ Coverdale declared.

Athelstan recalled Richard’s ivory face framed by that beautiful blond hair, those brilliant blue eyes, his ever-ready smile and innate tact and courtesy, Athelstan knew such acclaim would not be difficult for the young king.

‘Just like his father, the Black Prince,’ Cranston growled. ‘Every man loved him, no man ever spoke ill about him.’

Athelstan nodded tactfully and stared up at the face of a gargoyle. He didn’t wish to contradict Cranston, who had been the most fervent supporter of the young king’s father. Nevertheless, Athelstan had heard the stories about the Black Prince’s cruelties in France, particularly at Limoges, where he had allowed women and children to starve in a freezing city ditch. Indeed, Athelstan had the same reservations about the young king. Too beautiful, he thought, too sweet to be wholesome. Athelstan had not been beguiled by those beautiful eyes and gracious smiles. Never before in one so young had Athelstan glimpsed such a darkness, which sprang from Richard’s deep and lasting hatred for his uncle the regent.

Athelstan glanced back at the chapter-house as he heard the Commons give another roar of approval, followed by the stamping of feet and the clapping of hands. This went on for some time. A brief silence was broken by the shrill blast of trumpets. The doors to the chapter-house swung open. Two heralds in cloth of gold walked out, each carried a silver trumpet; after every few steps they stopped and blew a fanfare. Behind them came a knight banneret in shining Milanese armour. He carried his drawn sword up before his face, as a priest would a crucifix. Chamberlains began to clear the vestibule as the king, dressed in a brilliant silver gown decorated with golden fleur-de-Iys, left the chapter-house, his hand clasping that of his uncle. Both princes were smiling at each other and at the crowd which thronged there. If he hadn’t known better, Athelstan would have thought Gaunt and Richard were the mutually doting father and son. Behind the king came more knights and officials, then the mass of the Commons, some of them still shouting, ‘
Vivat! Vivat Rex
!’

‘We’d best leave,’ Cranston urged. ‘Gaunt told us to meet him outside the doors of the abbey where the king has agreed to touch some poor men ill with the scofula.’

Athelstan followed him out of the cloisters and round to a specially prepared area before the abbey’s great doors. Here, workmen from the royal household had set up a dais covered in purple woollen rugs. In the centre were two chairs of state. On each corner of the dais stood a knight of the royal household holding banners depicting the royal arms, as well as the insignia of John of Gaunt. Archers wearing the livery of the white hart had now cordoned this place off. The crowds milled there, pressed against this wall of steel, eager to catch a glimpse of their king. Cranston had a word with the royal serjeant who led them into the royal enclosure. They had to wait a further half an hour before the king, still grasping his uncle’s hand, finished his procession round the abbey and came out through the main doors to be greeted by a rapturous roar from the crowd. Once they were seated, flanked and surrounded by officials and knights of the royal household, Gaunt smiled and beckoned Cranston forward. Both Sir John and Athelstan knelt on cushions before the chairs of state, each kissing the ring of the king and the regent in turn. Richard, despite the majesty and solemnity of the occasion, did not stand on idle ceremony but clapped his hands boyishly.

‘Oh, don’t kneel, Sir John!’ he exclaimed. ‘You may stand -and you, Brother Athelstan.’ He leaned forward and whispered, ‘If I had my way you would sit beside me: one on my right and one on my left. Wouldn’t that be appropriate, dearest Uncle?’

‘Beloved Nephew,’ Gaunt smiled back, ‘Sir John and Brother Athelstan are two of your most loyal subjects.’ He waved elegantly towards the crowd. ‘But there are hundreds more waiting to greet you.’

The king refused to shift his gaze. ‘They can wait. They can wait!’ Richard snapped furiously.

For a few seconds the smile faded. Athelstan stared into those blue eyes and knew that the young king would use this meeting to taunt and bait his uncle.

‘My lord Regent, you told us to be here.’ Cranston, eager not to be drawn into this deadly rivalry, declared.

‘More deaths, Sir John,’ Gaunt answered brusquely. ‘More deaths amongst the Commons, which does not make our task easier.’

‘What deaths are these?’ the king interrupted.

‘Beloved Nephew, I have told you already. Certain knights of the shire have been barbarously murdered. So far,’ Gaunt murmured, glaring at Cranston, ‘little has been done either to stop them or to unmask the assassin.’

The king, bored and resentful at being excluded from this conversation, sat back in his chair, apparently more interested in the tassels on the sleeves of his gown.

‘Well?’ Gaunt asked.

‘My lord Regent,’ Athelstan spoke up quickly, ‘you said so far? But our business here is not finished yet.’

‘Then, when it is, please tell me,’ Gaunt snapped back.

The king suddenly leaned forward and grasped Athelstan’s sleeve. ‘I did very well in the chapter-house. I asked for the support and loyalty of my Commons.’

‘We heard the cheers, your Grace,’ Athelstan replied.

The king pulled him closer. ‘It’s Uncle they don’t like,’ he whispered loudly. ‘I think if I had asked for the moon they would have given me it.’