The House of Crows (9 page)

‘In which case,’ Athelstan had replied, ‘remember the tenth commandment, Ranulf. Thou shalt not lust after thy neighbour’s goods, nor his cattle, nor, in this instance, his cat.’

Ranulf smiled. He would remember that next time Bardolph asked to borrow Ferrox. His face became grave. He had come back from across the river: he had heard about more cats being stolen from the streets, and how the great Sir John ‘Horse-cruncher’ Cranston was now pursuing the felons responsible.

‘Old Big Arse will catch them,’ Ranulf whispered. ‘But Brother Athelstan should be careful about Bonaventure. Our little friar does love that tom-cat.’

Hadn’t Athelstan once said Bonaventure was the only parishioner the friar was sure of getting into heaven? And then made a joke about his pet being a true ‘Catholic’. Ranulf stared down at Ferrox who was now beginning to show great interest in the squeaking and scrabbling behind the wainscoting.

‘A lot of strange things are happening, Ferrox my son,’ Ranulf whispered. ‘Perline Brasenose, our young soldier, has also disappeared, and a demon has been seen outside St Erconwald’s.’

Ranulf loosened the clasp at the top of his jacket and dabbed the sweat with his fingers. Were the two connected, he wondered? Or even all three mysteries? Perline was a scapegrace, a roaring boy. Had he deserted from the Tower garrison and turned to thieving cats? But where would he sell them? To the tanners for their skins? Or the fleshers for their meat? Ranulf shook his head: that would be dangerous. The traders would buy them only to turn poor Perline over to Cranston just for the reward. Or was Perline pretending to be a demon? He had acted a similar role in the parish play last Lammas Day? Ranulf congratulated himself on his perspicacity and stirred himself. Ferrox and Audax began to squeak, circling their cages, pushing their snouts through the bars. Yes, their time had come!

Ranulf got to his feet. He was about to pick up the cages when he heard the sound on the floor above him. Ranulf remembered the demon and his blood ran cold. He walked quickly into a small chamber on his right and became more aware of how dark and dank it was; the cobwebs in the corner seemed like nets spread to catch him. There was a terrible smell and the old house was creaking and groaning around him. The light was poor, shadows danced, and Ranulf wondered whether he was truly alone.

‘Nonsense!’ he whispered.

He saw a small hole in the far corner; going across he undid the clasp of the cage, grasped Ferrox’s thin, muscular body and, in a blink of an eye, the ferret disappeared down the hole. Ranulf walked back into the passageway and despatched Audax in a similar fashion.

‘Now the dance begins,’ Ranulf muttered, quoting his favourite phrase.

He sat down, undid the small bundle he carried, and ate the bread and cheese his eldest daughter had wrapped for him in a linen cloth. The rat-catcher tried to close his ears to all sounds, except for that of his two ferrets now engaged in a busy, bloody massacre under the floorboards. Time and again Ferrox and Audax reappeared, carrying in their sharp teeth the corpse of some hapless rat. They dropped these at their master’s feet before disappearing again.

Ranulf felt a warm glow of satisfaction and bit deeply into the bread and cheese. But suddenly he heard a different sound. No rat or ferret could make the footfall he heard in the gallery above. Someone was moving there, slithering along the floorboards. Ranulf, a piece of cheese in his hand, rose and walked to the bottom of the stairs. He peered up into the gloom and almost choked on the cheese: on the top of the stairs was the demon of St Erconwald’s! Large, dark and furry, teeth bared, its face so terrifying that Ranulf forgot about his ferrets and fled for his life.

Cranston and Athelstan followed Sir Miles Coverdale through the Jericho Parlour of Westminster Abbey, across Deans Yard and along the south cloister towards the chapter-house. Every so often they passed Cheshire archers resplendent in their green livery and white hart emblem. These were professional soldiers from the garrisons at the Tower or Baynard’s Castle; hair cropped, faces dark and lean. All carried longbows and a quiver of twenty yew arrows, as well as sword and dagger. Men-at-arms wearing the red, blue and gold royal livery also stood on guard at every door and on every corner.

‘Why so many soldiers?’ Cranston asked as they entered the cloisters.

‘His Grace the Regent is determined that the Commons be allowed to sit unmolested,’ Coverdale replied. ‘No one enters the cloisters or chapter-house who is not either a member of Parliament or one of the royal clerks commissioned to assist them in their discussions.’

‘Don’t the Commons ever object?’ Cranston declared. ‘Some might claim the soldiers overawe them.’

‘Aye, some addle-brains might say that, but there are no soldiers in the chapter-house, Sir John, whilst the good knights and burgesses are free to come and go as they wish.’

They entered the eastern cloister where some monks, taking full advantage of the spring sunshine, now sat at their desks, copying or illuminating manuscripts. In the centre garth, soldiers played checkerboard games whilst a few conversed with the monks.

‘The brothers certainly welcome our presence,’ Coverdale declared.

‘It’s the same in any enclosed community,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Always eager for fresh faces, or to indulge in gossip about the great ones of the land.’

They entered the vestibule to the chapter-house. A line of archers stood in front of the closed double doors. Whilst one of them unlocked these, Athelstan stood back and admired the gloriously carved stone triptych above the doorway, showing Christ in Judgement.

‘I thought the session was finished,’ Cranston declared.

‘It is, but the doors are always locked,’ Coverdale replied. ‘The representatives have only to knock and they’ll be allowed in or out. Each of them possesses a special seal or pass.’ He smiled grimly. ‘Our regent is thorough.’

Cranston did not disagree. They entered the outer vestibule and went along a marble corridor lined by Purbeck marble columns. Just before they came to a second set of doors, Athelstan stopped, noticing flights of stairs to his left and, on his right, another staircase going down into the darkness.

‘Where do these lead?’ he asked.

‘The steps going up lead to St Faith’s Chapel,’ Coverdale replied. ‘The others will take you down to the Pyx chamber.’

Athelstan was about to ask about the latter, but Coverdale was already snapping his fingers at the guards to open the next set of doors. These were unlocked and swung back and they entered the chapter-house itself. It was deserted except for one balding, dark-faced, fussy little man who stood at the lectern. He came hurrying towards them, hands flailing the air.

‘You are late! You are late!’ he cried at Coverdale. ‘The honourable representatives from Shropshire could wait no longer. They have gone to one of the cookshops in the abbey yard.’ He drew his head back, reminding Cranston of a noisy, busy sparrow. ‘You can’t keep such men waiting,’ he bleated.

‘Nor can you the king’s coroner,’ Cranston intervened. ‘Who are you, anyway?’

‘Sir Peter de la Mare, Speaker of the Commons. Sir Miles, what is happening?’

Coverdale introduced Cranston and Athelstan, and de la Mare became more obsequious. ‘Well, wait here,’ he rattled on. ‘And I’ll see what I can do, I’ll see what I can do.’ And off he waddled.

Athelstan stared round the chapter-house. ‘God in heaven!’ he exclaimed. ‘Look, Sir John, what a beautiful place!’

The chamber was octagonal in shape and ringed by great windows that increased the impression of light and illuminated the glory of the great arched roof. This was supported by a single squat column, before which stood a huge wooden lectern.

‘Where do the representatives sit?’ Athelstan asked.

Cranston pointed to the three tiers of steps which ran round the room.

‘Over there,’ he replied. ‘The chapter-house can hold hundreds.’

Athelstan nodded even as he gazed at the beautiful tympanum above the doorway depicting Christ in glory. The Saviour was clothed in a beautiful crimson cloak, and round his head glowed a golden nimbus against a bright blue sky. On either side, white robed angels, each with three sets of wings, bowed their heads in adoration. In the windows and along the walls beneath them were more scenes from the Bible: the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse: the Great Beast in conflict with Michael the Archangel, St John being miraculously preserved in a cauldron of boiling oil; whilst other pictures showed the saved simpering in righteousness whilst the damned writhed in screaming torment.

‘All this must have been built by angels,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘Just look, Sir John! I must bring Huddle here. If he could only study scenes like these! The representatives are most fortunate to meet in a place like this.’

‘Little good it does them,’ Coverdale broke in harshly. ‘They squat around the walls, shouting and yelling.’

‘Surely they do more than that?’ Athelstan replied.

‘Well, the Speaker keeps order,’ Coverdale said. ‘He sits in the centre just beneath the window. He directs whom he chooses to speak from the lectern. Whilst over there –’ he pointed to a small table containing scrolls of parchment – ‘sit the clerks and lawyers.’

Athelstan nodded. He walked slowly round, admiring the different scenes painted on the walls, now and again standing back, marvelling at the artist’s skill. He paused at the sound of footsteps in the vestibule; the door was flung open and a group of men swept into the chapter-house.

‘Cranston.’ The leader was a thickset, narrow-faced man, his iron-grey hair shaved high above his ears. He stood, just within the doorway, hands on his hips, legs apart.

‘Over here,’ Cranston cooed back. ‘And who, sir, are you?’

‘Sir Edmund Malmesbury, representative of the Commons from Shropshire. We waited for you.’ Malmesbury glanced disdainfully at Coverdale. ‘But we are busy men. We need to eat and drink.’

‘Aye, so you do,’ Cranston wheezed as he got to his feet. And, thumbs stuck in his belt, he waddled over. He stopped only a few inches from Malmesbury.

‘We were late, Sir Edmund.’ He smiled. ‘But let me introduce myself: Sir John Cranston, King’s Officer and Coroner of the city of London; Brother Athelstan, my clerk; Coverdale you know.’ Cranston peered round Malmesbury. ‘And these are your companions?’

The rest of the group came forward: red-haired, bristling-bearded Sir Thomas Elontius, with his fierce popping eyes; Sir Humphrey Aylebore, his head bald as an egg, fat and podgy, his shaven face weak and rather slobbery; Sir Maurice Goldingham, small and neat in appearance, his oily black hair coiffed like that of a page’s; and finally, Sir Francis Harnett, small and blond-haired with close-set eyes. Sir Francis’s brown, clean-shaven face reminded Athelstan of a kestrel and, remembering Moleskin’s story about Perline Brasenose meeting the knight on the river steps at Southwark, the friar wondered what such a man would want with the likes of his headstrong young parishioner.

Cranston stood back, bowed, and gestured at the steps. ‘My noble sirs, take your ease, we have only a few questions.’

The five knights of the shire swaggered across and sat on the ledges. They did so slowly, arrogantly, chattering and whispering amongst themselves.

Peacocks! Athelstan thought, with all the arrogance of Lucifer. The knights looked what they were: successful, hardened warriors; merchants, men of great importance in their own shire as well as here in London. They were all dressed in expensive houppelondes or gowns, red and gold, scarlet or green, all edged and trimmed with ermine along the fringes of hem and cuff. Costly belts clasped their bulging waists above multi-coloured hose and ornamented shoes. Men of middle age but with all the fripperies of court gallants. Silver bells were stitched on their sleeves. The shirts underneath their gowns were of costly cambric; jewelled clasps and silver rings decorated fleshy fingers and wrists. None of them were armed, except for dress-daggers pushed into embroidered scabbards.

Malmesbury was their leader, bellicose and aggressive. For a while he whispered quietly to Sir Humphrey Aylebore, whose fat face broke into a malicious smile as he quickly glared at Sir Miles Coverdale. Athelstan sensed there was no love lost between these powerful men and Sir John of Gaunt’s officer. Elontius began to whistle under his breath. Goldingham, who must have drunk deeply, leaned back, eyes half closed, whilst Harnett appeared more interested in the paintings on the walls.

Athelstan stood by the lectern and wondered how Sir John would deal with these men, so different from the footpads, felons and foists of London’s Cheapside. The friar quietly prayed that the coroner would keep his temper, and hoped that he had not drunk too much from the miraculous wineskin. Above them, the abbey bells began to toll; calling the monks to Divine Office, their chimes rang through the hollow cloisters. Cranston cocked his head to one side, as if more interested in their sound than the malice of Malmesbury and his companions. The bells stopped clanging, the knights still kept whispering amongst themselves, whilst Cranston began to admire the ring of office on his finger. At last the whispering stopped, but still Cranston did not lift his head. Athelstan gripped the edge of the lectern as the silence grew more oppressive.

‘Very good, my lord Coroner.’ Malmesbury sprang to his feet. ‘You have summoned us here.’ He slapped a pair of leather gloves against his thigh. ‘If you have no questions, we’ll go. Let me remind you, Coroner, we are not under your jurisdiction: members of the Commons cannot be arrested because of stupid civic regulations.’ He glanced down at his companions who murmured approval.

‘A very pretty speech.’ Cranston got to his feet and came over to stand beside Athelstan. He pointed to the door. ‘All of you may go, if you wish. Sir Edmund is perfectly correct. I have no jurisdiction here. However, let me remind you of a few legal niceties. First, two of your companions, members of the Commons, have been foully murdered. This is an attack upon the authority of the Crown. I talk not about the regent but of Richard, King of England, whose officer I am. The lawyers of the Chancery may also argue that an attack upon my authority is an attack upon the Crown. However,’ Cranston smiled, ‘that would be decided by the king’s justices: it could take a long time and require your return from Shropshire to London. Secondly, you are protected as long as the Commons sit. Once this Parliament is dismissed, and it will be dismissed whatever happens, I shall swear out warrants for your arrest on suspicion of murder.’