The House of Crows (7 page)

Sir John smiled and shook his head.

‘Sir Oliver was no different,’ Athelstan continued. He held his own hands up, curling the fingers. ‘Next time you look at your poppets, or the Lady Maude when asleep, notice how they curl their fingers into their hands. The unconscious man is no different. After a short while, even in the river, rigor mortis sets in. The body stiffens, hence the faint dirt on the palms of his hands and beneath the nails from where he fell. What is more,’ Athelstan grasped Sir Oliver’s right hand, ‘notice how the dirt is deeply embedded. Sir Oliver must have fallen and, for a few seconds before he lost consciousness, gripped the mud as he fell, clawing it like an animal.’ Athelstan shook his head. ‘Poor man. May God grant him eternal rest! Now, for Sir Henry.’

Sir John went across to the other side of Swynford’s coffin. Athelstan knelt down and loosened the shift tied under the dead man’s chin. The friar had to pause and close his eyes at the terrible rictus of death on the grey-haired knight’s face. The mouth was still contorted in a grimace, the eyes half open, the head slightly turned so that the coins placed on the eyes had slipped away. It looked as if the corpse was about to waken and utter some terrible snarl of fury at being thrust so swiftly into the darkness. Swynford’s face, too, had been disfigured by the red crosses gouged in his skin. Athelstan tilted the man’s chin back. He studied the angry weal around the throat, digging deep where his Adam’s apple now hung.

Athelstan loosened the shift and pulled it down, but could detect no bruise or contusion; though Sir Henry, like Sir Oliver, bore the weals and scars of a soldier’s life. Then, with Sir John’s help, he turned the corpse over and stared at the bruise on the small of the man’s back.

‘How did that occur?’ he whispered.

‘Kneel down, Brother.’ Sir John smiled at his secretarius. ‘Go on, kneel down, and I’ll show you how he died.’

Athelstan knelt.

‘No, no, on one knee only,’ Sir John declared. ‘That’s how a knight prays: one leg up, one down, ever ready for action.’

Athelstan obeyed. He heard Sir John come up quietly behind him: suddenly his head went back as Sir John’s belt went round his throat, biting into his neck even as he felt Sir John’s knee dig into the small of his back. Athelstan spluttered, his hands flailing out, the belt was whisked away. Sir John pulled him to his feet and spun him round. He saw the alarm in the gentle Dominican’s face.

‘Here, Brother, have a sip from the wineskin!’

This time Athelstan did not refuse: he took a generous mouthful and thrust the wineskin back to Sir John.

‘Well done, Coroner. You were so quick!’

‘The mark of a professional assassin.’ Sir John rewarded himself with two generous swigs. ‘The garrotte is much speedier than many people think. In France I saw young archers, no more than boys, do the same to French pickets when we went out at night. A terrible death, Brother; so quick, even the strongest man finds it hard to grasp his enemy.’

Athelstan nodded. Even though he had panicked, he realised he could not have fought against Sir John, who had kept him thrust away with his knee whilst swiftly choking him with the belt. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and stared down at Swynford’s corpse.

‘That’s how he died. He came in here and knelt. The assassin, pretending to be a priest, came up behind him. Sir John, how long would it take?’

‘Well, Brother, if you started counting to ten, very quickly, Swynford would have been unconscious by the time you’d reached five.’

‘And all the time the murderer was chanting, making a mockery of the
“Dies Irae”.
’ Athelstan stared round the chamber. ‘Sir John, we need to examine the possessions of these dead men.’

Cranston agreed and went out of the gallery. Athelstan heard him at the top of the stairs shouting for Banyard. The friar stood between the two coffins, closed his eyes, and said his own requiem for these souls snatched so abruptly from their bodies.

Cranston came back. ‘Come on, Brother, they are in the next room. The taverner has given me the key.’

Athelstan followed him out into the adjoining chamber which had apparently been Sir Henry Swynford’s. The men’s clothing lay in two heaps on the floor. Athelstan went through these carefully. Bouchon’s was sopping wet, still marked and stained by the river, but he could find nothing amiss; even the knight’s dagger was still in its sheath. Cranston, meanwhile, was sifting amongst the other possessions: going through wooden caskets covered in leather, opening saddlebags, small metal coffers, each bearing the arms of the dead men: Bouchon’s, a black boar rampant against a field of azure; Swynford’s, three black crows against a cloth of gold, quartered with small red crosses. There were coins and purses, knives as well as several small, calfskin-covered books sealed with leather clasps. Athelstan opened these.

‘What are they, Brother?’ Cranston asked.

‘The Legends of Arthur,’
he replied. ‘You know, Sir John, Launcelot of the Lake. Tristram and Isolde.’ He picked up another tome. ‘The same here:
Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. The Search for the Grail.
It’s strange . . .’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, Brother! King Arthur and his Round Table are popular legends. Chaucer and other poets are constantly writing about them. When I was younger, it was quite common for young, fashionable knights to hold Round Tables where they could joust and tourney.’

‘I find it strange that two knights, albeit from the same shire, should enjoy the same stories. And here, look.’ Athelstan sifted amongst the jewellery on the bed. ‘Here are two chains bearing identical insignia.’ He separated the items. ‘Each carries the image of a swan with its wings raised.’

Cranston picked them up. Both medallions were identical, the swans exquisitely carved with ruffled, fluffed wings and arching necks.

‘They are no gee-gaws from some market booth,’ the coroner murmured. ‘These were the special work of a silversmith.’

‘And look,’ Athelstan added, picking up two rings. ‘Each of these, wrought in silver, also bears the image of a swan.’ He put them close together. ‘They are different sizes,’ Athelstan declared. ‘I saw the marks on the fingers of the corpses next door. What I am saying, Sir John, is that both Swynford and Bouchon belonged to some society or company with an interest in the legends of Arthur, and the badge of their company was a silver swan.’

‘Knights of the Swan.’ Cranston sat on the edge of the bed and chewed the corner of his lip. ‘During the wars in France…’ He smiled at Athelstan. ‘Well, you know about those, Brother, you were there. But do you remember the companies? Each, raised by some lord, included knights, men-at-arms, hobelars, archers, all wearing the same livery and sporting the same device: a green dragon or a red lion rampant.’

‘Aye, I remember them.’ Athelstan threw the rings back on the bed. ‘Colourful banners and warlike pennants. In reality just an excuse for a group of men to seize as much plunder as they could lay their hands on.’

Cranston went back to his searches. ‘And, last but not least, Brother,’ he declared, going across to a small table which stood underneath a large black crucifix, ‘I asked Banyard where these were.’

He came back carrying arrowheads, candles and small scraps of parchment. Athelstan examined these, then studied the dirty scraps of parchment with the word, ‘Remember’ scrawled across.

‘Each of the victims had these,’ Cranston explained. ‘But what do they signify?’ He shook his head. ‘And why were those red crosses carved on the dead men’s faces?’

Athelstan went and stood by the open window and stared out, watching Christina: a gaggle of noisy ducks had gathered round her, waddling from the pond which lay near the tavern wall.

‘It signifies, my lord Coroner,’ he said, ‘that no sin, no evil act, ever disappears like a puff of smoke: it always comes back to haunt you.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, monk!’

‘Friar, Sir John!’

‘You talk like a prophet of doom, friar,’ Cranston snapped.

‘Then perhaps I am one. Here we have two knights from the king’s shire of Shrewsbury going about their lawful – or unlawful – business, whichever way you wish to describe it. They come to London to preach and lecture in the Commons. Like any men away from their kith and kin, they want to enjoy themselves in the fleshpots of the city: good food, strong wine, soft women. But then two of them are murdered. The first leaves a banquet in a highly agitated state, his body is later fished from the Thames. When his corpse is laid out and his companion comes in to pray, an assassin, masquerading as a priest, garrottes him whilst chanting certain verses from the Death Mass. Now, I suggest poor Bouchon was agitated because he received those signs: an arrowhead, a candle and a script telling him to “remember”. Swynford received the same.’ Athelstan glanced across at the coroner. ‘You follow my line of thought, Sir John?’

Cranston leaned his bulk against the edge of the table and stared at his secretarius thoughtfully.

‘It means, first, they were probably killed by the same assassin who holds a grudge against both of them,’ Athelstan explained. ‘And, whatever that may be, the arrowhead, the candle and the scraps of parchment are warning signs of their deaths. The red crosses carved on their faces by this assassin, masquerading as a priest, are also part of the grudge.’

Sir John cradled his wineskin like a mother would a baby. ‘It also means, my good friar,’ he declared, ‘that our assassin is a careful plotter. He waited for this opportunity and executed both men with the subtlest form of trickery.’ He paused. ‘But what then, friar?’

‘Well, our noble regent is frightened that he will take the blame; though he must take a quiet satisfaction in the fact that two of his critics have been permanently silenced. Secondly, when Sir Oliver left the tavern, none of his companions followed him though, there again . . .’ Athelstan turned away from the window and leaned against the wall. ‘. . . Sir Oliver may have been lured by anyone to some secret assignation where he was killed. Sir Henry’s death is more mysterious. His companions were in the tavern, yet this assassin turns up, disguised as a priest, and that begs two questions. Who knew a priest had been sent for? What would have happened if the false priest had turned up at the same time as Father Gregory?’

‘That’s no great mystery,’ Cranston replied. ‘Remember what Christina said: the tavern was very busy. The arrival of a priest would cause no consternation. If Father Gregory was upstairs, the assassin might have waited or even joined him. Be honest, Brother. As parish priest of St Erconwald’s, if a priest turned up at your church and wanted to pray beside the coffin of one of your hapless parishioners . . .?’

‘Concedo,’
Athelstan quipped back. ‘One, two priests, three or four, it does not really matter. The assassin would have waited for his opportunity or created a new one.’ He tapped the scraps of parchment against his fingers. ‘This is the important question to resolve. What were Sir Henry and Sir Oliver supposed to remember? What was the significance of an arrowhead and a candle? The marks on the face? And why here?’

‘Which means?’ Cranston snapped.

‘Why kill the two knights in London? Why not at Shrewsbury, or journeying to and from Westminster?’

Cranston snorted, his white whiskers bristling. He was about to launch into speech when there was a clatter on the stairs, a knock on the door, and Sir Miles Coverdale, dressed in half-armour, swordbelt on, bustled into the room.

‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan.’ He stopped, sketching a rather mocking bow at the coroner and his companion.

‘What’s the matter, man?’ Cranston shoved the wineskin underneath his cloak and stood up. ‘You come charging in like a war-horse.’

Sir Miles grinned, removed his gauntlets and wiped the sweat from his forehead. ‘Sir John, I am simply carrying out your orders when you came into Westminster.’

‘I know what I asked,’ Cranston barked.

Athelstan smiled at Coverdale’s tolerant, easygoing manner. The captain seemed more amused by Sir John’s peevishness than anything else. The young man stretched out his hand and grasped Athelstan’s. ‘Father, I have heard a lot about you. His Grace the Regent often talks about Sir John and his helpmate.’

‘Secretarius!’ Cranston snapped. ‘Athelstan is my secretaries and parish priest at St Erconwald’s. He is a Dominican friar and —’

‘—And a very good preacher,’ Sir Miles finished Sir John’s sentence for him. ‘Or so rumour has it.’ He winked at Athelstan then stared at Sir John. ‘My lord Coroner, the morning session of the Commons has finished early. I asked Sir Oliver and Sir Henry’s companions to stay in the chapter-house. They await you there.’

The captain turned as the door opened behind him and a black cowled monk came silently as a shadow into the room.

‘What the . . .?’ Cranston exclaimed.

‘Sir John, may I introduce Father Benedict, monk of Westminster, librarian and chaplain to the Commons.’

Cranston shuffled his feet in embarrassment and extended a podgy hand which was clasped by Father Benedict, who now pulled back his hood to reveal a thin, ascetic face, head completely shaven. Deep furrow marks etched either side of his mouth, his eyes were close-set but sharp.

‘Sir John Cranston.’ He glanced at Athelstan, his face transformed by a smile. ‘And you, Brother.’

Athelstan came forward and exchanged the kiss of peace with him. As he did so, Father Benedict squeezed him by the shoulders.

‘Welcome to our community, Brother,’ the Benedictine whispered.

‘Pax Tecum,’
Athelstan whispered back.

‘Why are you here, Father?’ Cranston asked.

‘I came to pay my respects to Sir Henry and Sir Oliver,’ the Benedictine replied. ‘I am chaplain to the Commons. Sir Miles told me about their deaths this morning.’

‘Did you know the dead men?’ Athelstan asked.

The monk seemed surprised by his question. He opened his mouth, blinked, and moved his hands sharply.

‘Yes and no,’ he replied. ‘I know of the representatives from Shropshire. Many, many years ago, a good friend of mine, Antony, was a young monk at Lilleshall.’ Father Benedict smiled wanly. ‘He died last winter.’