The House of Crows (3 page)

‘No, I’m the Archangel Gabriel!’ Sir John replied.

The young man’s face broke into a smile. He crinkled his eyes, giving his hard-set face a boyish look.

‘I’m sorry,’ Cranston growled, clasping the man’s outstretched hand. ‘I just hate Execution Days.’

‘No man likes dying, Sir John.’

‘And your name?’

‘Sir Miles Coverdale. Captain of the guard of John of Gaunt, His Grace the Regent.’

‘Lord John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, Knight of the Garter, the king’s beloved uncle.’ Cranston grinned as he recited the long list of titles. ‘And what do you want with me, Coverdale?’

‘I don’t want you, Sir John. I have enough problems at Westminster.’ Coverdale pulled back his chainmail coif and wiped the sweat from his face.

Sir John noticed how the man’s moustache and neatly clipped beard covered a deep, furrowed scar just below his lower lip.

‘His Grace the Regent sent me,’ Coverdale continued. ‘He’s at your house in Cheapside.’

Cranston closed his eyes and groaned. ‘There was no need to send you,’ he muttered. ‘I’m going there direct.’

‘Your Lady Maude thought different,’ Coverdale replied, keeping his face straight. ‘She mentioned a possible assignation in the Holy Lamb of God.’

Cranston turned his horse’s head and, tugging at its reins, continued his journey, secretly marvelling at Lady Maude’s God-given ability to read his mind.

They went down St Martin’s Lane, through the muck and offal of the Shambles, and left into Cheapside: the market was doing a roaring trade, yet the area outside Sir John’s house was strangely deserted. His front door was ringed by burly Serjeants wearing the royal tabard, and archers dressed in the livery of Sir John of Gaunt. As the crowd swirled by these, Cranston caught their dark looks and muttered curses.

‘The regent.’ He leaned over. ‘Your master is not popular.’

‘No man who governs is, Sir John.’

Cranston pulled a face and dismounted, his eyes surveying the crowd. ‘Leif!’ he roared. ‘Leif, you idle bugger, where are you?’

Some of the bystanders looked round in surprise but then quickly made way for the skinny, red-haired, one-legged beggar who came hopping through with the agility of a spring frog.

‘Sir John, God bless you, is it time for dinner?’

The beggar leaned on his crutch and, gaping round Sir John, stared at Sir Miles. ‘You have company, Sir John?’

‘Look after the horses,’ Cranston snapped. ‘And, when my guests leave, take mine across to the Holy Lamb of God.’

Leif hopped in excitement: if Sir John had company, that not only meant gossip which Leif could dine out on, but also, perhaps, one of Lady Maude’s tasty pies and a cup of the coroner’s best claret. Sir John, a deep sense of foreboding furrowing his brow, led Sir Miles through the cordon of soldiers into the house. The maids huddled in the kitchen, terrified of the men in half-armour who thronged the hallways and passageways. Sir John brushed by these, marched up the stairs, along the gallery, and threw back the door to his solar with a resounding crash. Lady Maude sat at the far end of the canopied fireplace. On either side of her, Cranston’s twin sons, bald, blue-eyed, two perfect peas out of the same pod, clung to her green sarcanet dress, their eyes fixed on the gorgeously dressed stranger who now dared to slouch in their beloved father’s chair. The stranger rose as Cranston came in, straightening the murrey-coloured houppelonde or tunic which fell down to long, leather, Spanish riding boots. Around his neck was an ornate, heavily jewelled collar clasped by a golden brooch carved with the double ‘S’ of the House of Lancaster.

Cranston drew himself together and bowed. ‘My Lord, you are most welcome to our house.’

His guest’s sunburnt face broke into a smile: he languidly stretched out his jewelled fingers for the coroner to clasp.

‘Cranston, it’s good to see you.’

Sir John stared into the light-green eyes of John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, quietly marvelling at Edward Ill’s most handsome son. He reminded Cranston of a silver cat with his light blond hair, neatly cut moustache and those eyes – never still – betraying the man’s vaulting pride.

Gaunt let go of his hand. ‘Whenever I see you, Sir John, I always remember my dearest brother, the Black Prince,’ Gaunt smiled. ‘He spoke so highly of you.’

‘Your brother, God rest him, was a powerful prince, a noble warrior,’ Cranston replied. ‘Every day, your Grace, I remember him in my prayers. I deeply regret that he did not see his own son crowned king.’

‘My dear nephew also sends his regards,’ Gaunt replied sardonically. ‘He talks of you, Sir John. You and that secretarius of yours, Brother Athelstan.’

Behind him Lady Maude had risen, her small, pretty face creased in concern: she warned Sir John with her eyes and a slight shake of her head not to bait this most powerful of men.

‘You wish wine, Sir John?’ she called out.

‘Aye, a glass of Rhenish, chilled,’ Cranston replied, winking at her quickly. He knelt, stretching out his arms. ‘And some marzipan for my boys.’

The two poppets staggered from their mother’s skirts and ran across, bumping into each other, almost knocking the regent aside as they threw themselves at their father’s embrace. Cranston kissed them quickly on their hot, sticky faces.

‘Fine sons,’ Gaunt smiled down at him.

‘Go and play,’ Cranston whispered.

‘Dog not play,’ Stephen stuttered. He pointed to the far end of the solar where Cranston’s two wolfhounds, Gog and Magog, lurked beneath the table. Cranston grinned. The dogs were frightened of no one except Lady Maude. He could tell by their woebegone expressions that they had both received the sharp edge of her tongue, warning them to behave whilst guests were in the house. The boys left, following their mother outside whilst Cranston took his own chair, waving at Gaunt to take Lady Maude’s. Blaskett, Sir John’s steward, served them wine on a tray, his large, sad eyes watching his master intently. From the passageway outside, one of the poppets began to wail. Blaskett raised his eyes heavenwards, put the wine cups on a small table between Cranston and Gaunt, and silently withdrew. Cranston picked up his cup, toasted the regent and slurped noisily.

‘I am a busy man, Cranston.’

‘Then, my Lord, we have something in common.’

‘And what great crimes confront you now?’ Gaunt taunted back.

Cranston could have given him a list a mile long. The foist he was pursuing, the counterfeiters, the pimps and apple squires, the defrocked priests dabbling in sorcery . . . Still, as the poor Cranston concluded, the rogues were always with him.

‘Cats,’ he announced bluntly: he enjoyed seeing Gaunt almost choke on his drink.

‘My lord Coroner, you jest?’

‘My lord Regent, I do not. Someone is stealing cats from Cheapside.’

‘And should that be the concern of the city’s coroner?’

‘My lord, have you ever met Fleabane?’ Cranston replied.

‘He’s a trickster, a cunning man. If it moves, Fleabane will steal it. If he can’t move it, Fleabane will try to sell it. Now and again I catch him. He’s punished, but he always returns to his old way of life, regarding my hand on his collar as a part of life’s rich tapestry. In other words, my lord Regent, the criminals of London will remain as long as the city does. However, there are other crimes where the innocent are truly hurt, and the theft of these cats is one of them. An old lady in Lawrence Lane has lost six, her only companions. A merchant in Wood Street, two. Now the old lady in Lawrence Lane has lost her family, the merchant in Wood Street possibly his livelihood. You see, he buys in fruit and cereals from outlying farms and stores them in his warehouses. If there is no cat, the mice and rats thrive, bringing infection and spoiling what is good.’

Gaunt put the goblet down on the table, fascinated. ‘And you don’t know who is stealing them?’

‘No, I don’t know how they are taken, by whom or where they go. But the Fisher of Men has dragged at least four or five dead cats out of the river—’ Cranston slurped at his wine goblet – ‘which is some consolation. At first I suspected they were being killed for their fur, or that some flesher in the Shambles had run short of meat.’ He saw the regent’s face go pale. ‘Aye, my lord, it’s not unknown for cooks, be they working in a royal palace or a Cheapside tavern, to serve up cat pie, the meat well stewed and garnished with herbs.’

‘Yes, yes, quite.’ The regent lifted his cup but then thought differently. ‘Sir John,’ he declared, ‘you will have to leave all that. You have heard of the Parliament my nephew the king has summoned at Westminster?’

‘Yes, you need more taxes, whilst the Commons want reforms.’

‘My lord Coroner, I am pleased by your bluntness but, yes, yes that’s true. Now the Commons do not like me. They draw unfair comparisons between myself and my brother, God rest him. The war in France is not going well. Our coastal towns are attacked by French pirates. The harvest was poor and the price of bread is three times what it was this time last year. Now, I am doing what I can. Grain barges are constantly coming up the Thames, and the mayor and aldermen of the city have issued strict regulations fixing the price of bread.’

Cranston’s eyes slid away. He knew about such regulations, more honoured in the breach than the observance, but he decided to keep his mouth shut.

The regent leaned forward. ‘Now all was going well,’ he continued. ‘The Commons assembled in the chapter-house of Westminster Abbey. The speaker, Sir Peter de la Mare, is a good man.’ Gaunt paused.

In other words, you’ve bribed him, Cranston thought, but still kept his mouth shut. The regent ran his tongue round his lips.

‘Some of the members are amicable; others, particularly those from Shrewsbury and Stafford, are proving intractable. They are a close-set group comprising, Sir Henry Swynford, Sir Oliver Bouchon, Sir Edmund Malmesbury, Sir Thomas Elontius, Sir Humphrey Aylebore, Sir Maurice Goldingham and Sir Francis Harnett—’

‘And?’ Cranston intervened.

‘These knights are lodged at a hostelry, the Gargoyle tavern. On Monday evening Sir Oliver left his companions abruptly: next morning his body was found floating face-down near Tothill Fields, no mark on the corpse. We do not know whether he was pushed or suffered an accident. Anyway, the corpse was pulled out and taken back to the Gargoyle, where his fellow knights planned to hire a cart to carry it back to Shrewsbury. Now, to recite prayers during the death-watch, a chantry priest was hired. He entered the tavern late last night and apparently took up his post in the dead man’s chamber. Later on, a servant wench passed the chamber: she saw the door ajar and went in. There was no sign of the priest. Sir Oliver still lay sheeted in his coffin, but beside him on the floor was Sir Henry Swynford, a garrotte string round his throat.’

Gaunt paused. Stretching out his hand, he played with the silver filigreed ring on one of his fingers. ‘Both deaths might be murders.’ He glanced up. ‘Both men received a warning before they died: a candle, an arrowhead and a scrap of parchment bearing the word “Remember”.’ Gaunt cleared his throat. ‘Each of the corpses had also been slightly mutilated, small red crosses being carved on either cheek as well as on the forehead.’

‘And no one knows what all this means?’ Cranston asked.

‘No. Oh, there are the usual stories: both knights were loved and admired. Men of stature in their community.’ Gaunt smirked. ‘The truth is both men were bastards born and bred. They served in the wars in France, where they amassed booty and plunder to come back and build their manor houses and decorate the parish church. Apparently they had no enemies at all which,’ he added bitterly, ‘is the biggest lie of all, if anyone ever bothered to talk to their tenants.’

Gaunt put his goblet down and rose to his feet. ‘Now, I don’t care, Cranston, whether they are dead or alive, in heaven or in hell. But I do care about the whispers and the pointed fingers which claim that both men were murdered because they opposed the regent, as a punishment for them and a warning to the rest.’ He leaned over Sir John, gripping the arms of the other man’s chair, his face only a few inches from Cranston’s. ‘Now, my lord Coroner, get yourself down to Westminster. Take your secretarius, Brother Athelstan, with you. Discover the assassin, stop these murders and, when you are finished, you can come back to Cheapside and find out who is stealing its cats.’

‘Is there anything else, my lord?’ Cranston held the regent’s gaze and nonchalantly sipped from his goblet.

‘Yes.’ Gaunt straightened up, pushing his thumbs into his swordbelt. ‘Sir Miles Coverdale, captain of my guard, is responsible for the king’s peace in the palace of Westminster. He will assist you.’ Gaunt stepped back and sketched a mocking bow. ‘My thanks to your good lady.’ He walked to the door.

‘My lord Regent.’ Cranston didn’t even bother to turn in the chair.

‘Yes, my lord Coroner.’

‘I was thinking of cats, my lord. Do you have any?’

Gaunt shrugged. ‘What does it matter?’

‘Nothing much.’ Cranston replied over his shoulder. ‘Our king is young, his father’s dead. I was thinking of the proverb, “When the cat’s away, the mice will play”.’ Sir John sipped from his cup and smiled as he heard the door slam behind him.

In the parish church of St Erconwald’s of Southwark, Brother Athelstan, much against his will, was holding a full parish council near the baptismal font just inside the main door. He sat, as usual, in the high-backed sanctuary chair brought down especially for the occasion: across from him were the members of his parish council who sat on stools in a semi-circle waiting for his judgement. On the wooden lid of the baptismal font sprawled the huge, tattered tom-cat, Bonaventure, which Athelstan secretly considered his only true parishioner. Now and again Bonaventure’s one good amber eye flickered open, and the cat would stare at Ranulf the rat-catcher as if he knew Ranulfs secret desire to buy him. After all, Bonaventure’s prowess as a mouser and a ratter was known throughout the parish. Today, however, when Athelstan should be doing the parish accounts and letting Bonaventure hunt, he had to hold this special meeting: Watkin, Pike and the bailiff Bladdersniff had all taken the sacrament at Mass this morning then solemnly sworn how they had seen a demon crouching in the death-house.