The House of Crows (31 page)

‘All your names are written here, sir. The regent gave it to me this morning. I was not to execute it until after the king had visited his Commons.’

‘But the regent offered us a pardon,’ Malmesbury insisted, tears in his eyes.

Sir Miles smiled. ‘Only His Grace the King can do that, sir.’

He deftly plucked the daggers from each of the three men’s belts and, going to the door, shouted for the guards. For a while the chapel was plunged into chaos. Malmesbury and his companions shrieking their innocence, cursing the regent’s treachery. Banyard laughed hysterically, shouting abuse, almost dancing with joy at what had happened. Eventually the chapel was cleared, the prisoners being led off, escorted by archers. Coverdale bowed mockingly at Cranston and Athelstan, then left them alone in the silent chapel.

The coroner sat down, mopping his brow. Athelstan went up behind the altar and, moving some benches, found a sharp-edged axe lying against the wall. He brought it back and sat where Banyard had, placing the axe gently on the floor beside him.

‘At least he cleaned it,’ he murmured. He glanced up as Cranston took a generous swig from the ever-present wineskin. ‘We’ll have to tell Father Abbot so this chapel can be blessed and reconsecrated.’

Cranston put the stopper back in the wineskin and gazed sadly at Athelstan.

‘I can read your mind, Sir John,’ Athelstan declared softly. ‘Why didn’t I tell you, eh?’

‘You did it all yourself,’ Cranston answered.

‘No, I didn’t, Sir John. You are as clear as the purest water on a summer’s day. If I had told you it was Banyard, you would have betrayed it all with a look or a sign.’ Athelstan jabbed a finger at the chapel floor. ‘I needed to trap Banyard here. Now it’s all finished.’ Athelstan smiled bleakly. ‘The regent is a cunning fox.’ Athelstan stared up at the crucifix. For a few seconds he desperately wondered if the death of Christ, the love of God, or the service of religion had anything to do with a world where the likes of John of Gaunt ruled supreme.

‘Gaunt was very clever,’ Cranston declared. ‘He forced those knights to come here. He blackmailed them, then turned his opponents into his most ardent supporters, only to close the trap and have them arrested for the secret crimes he had been threatening them with.’ Cranston sighed noisily. ‘How on earth will it end?’

‘Oh, Gaunt will be merciful,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘Malmesbury and the likes will have to make a very full confession, pay a very heavy fine, and take a vow to go on pilgrimage. Oh yes, Gaunt will end up the richer. He’ll hang them by the purse and have the likes of Malmesbury at his beck and call.’

‘And Banyard?’ Cranston asked.

‘What do you think, Sir John?’

The coroner rubbed his chin. ‘We can’t hang one without the other,’ he replied slowly, ‘so I don’t think Banyard will hang at Tyburn or Smithfield. Gaunt will seize his chattels and goods and become the proud owner of a very prosperous tavern. Banyard will be forced to abjure the realm and wander Europe, a penniless beggar.’ Cranston smiled grimly. ‘Do you know, Brother, I glimpsed so much hate in that man. If I were Sir Edmund Malmesbury, I would not sleep easily in my bed.’

Cranston lumbered to his feet. ‘Nothing really ends, does it, Brother? We are just like dung-collectors. We clean the refuse and take it away from the eyes and noses of those who live around us.’ The coroner groaned loudly then nudged his companion. ‘One thing you didn’t explain. Why weren’t the red crosses etched on Harnett’s and Goldingham’s faces?’

Athelstan shrugged. ‘Banyard had made his mark in both senses of the word. He probably didn’t have time.’

‘Such dreadful acts,’ Cranston declared mournfully.

Athelstan got to his feet. ‘Sir John, you are becoming melancholic. Let us celebrate in the Holy Lamb of God. We have done what we can: that’s all the Lord asks, and that’s all the good Lord wants!’ He thrust the axe he’d found into Cranston’s hand. ‘Now, come, let’s be Jolly Jack again and, if you are,’ Athelstan stepped back and held his hand up, ‘I swear I’ll never again mention a Barbary ape!’

John of Gaunt sat in his private chamber, high in the Savoy Palace. He stared out through the open window at the evening star, and secretly smiled at the success of his own subtlety. He played absentmindedly with the amethyst ring on his finger.

‘Only one snag,’ the regent murmured to himself. He glanced to where his cowled scrivener sat by a small writing desk. Gaunt had listened very carefully to Coverdale, secretly marvelling at Athelstan’s sharp perception of the tangled web Gaunt had woven. The regent straightened in his chair. Cranston he could take care of, the coroner was a royal officer. But Athelstan? Gaunt glanced at his scrivener.

‘Draft a letter,’ he murmured, ‘to Prior Anselm at Blackfriars. Tell him I am grateful for the good services of Brother Athelstan, yet now I do fear for him in the sea of troubles which now confronts us. Tell him . . .’ Gaunt lifted up a finger. ‘Tell him I would like to see Athelstan removed: his talents can be better used in the halls of Oxford.’ Gaunt sat back in his chair and, closing his eyes, dreamed his dark dreams of power.

The Sorrowful Mysteries of Brother Athelstan

1. THE NIGHTINGALE GALLERY

2. THE HOUSE OF THE RED SLAYER

3. MURDER MOST HOLY

4. THE ANGER OF GOD

5. BY MURDER'S BRIGHT LIGHT

6. THE HOUSE OF CROWS

7. THE ASSASSIN'S RIDDLE

8. THE DEVIL'S DOMAIN

9. THE FIELD OF BLOOD

10. THE HOUSE OF SHADOWS

11. BLOODSTONE