Paul Doherty - The House of Crows

‘Last night,’ he asked abruptly, ‘when Sir Henry was killed. .?’

‘Choked he was,’ the girl replied swiftly, taking the ale from the tapster and supping at it greedily. She licked the froth from her upper lip. ‘Just like a chicken. The string was tied round his neck as tightly as a cord round a purse.’

‘Tell Sir John about the priest,’ Banyard insisted.

‘We were busy last night,’ Christina replied. ‘Master Banyard here was in the cellar.’ She turned and smiled beatifically at the taverner. ‘A priest came in.’ The girl cradled the tankard then raised it to press against her flushed cheek. ‘He was cloaked and cowled, the hood pulled well across his face. I was very busy. I saw the rosary beads in his hands. I asked him if he was the chantry priest. He nodded.’ She shrugged. ‘I told him where the chamber was but he was already going upstairs. The tap-room was thronged,’ she continued. ‘I never gave him a second thought. Later on, I took a tankard up to Sir Henry Swynford. He was just sitting in his room, staring into the darkness. Only one candle was lit on his table. I asked him if he was well and he muttered some reply.’ Christina sipped from the tankard.

‘Tell Sir John what happened next.’

‘Well-’

‘Excuse me,’ Athelstan intervened. He’d studied the lass carefully and quietly wondered if she was a little simple: she chattered like a child without any reflection or fear.

‘Did you see the priest’s face?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Pull up your cowl, Father,’ Christina replied.

Athelstan shrugged and pulled his hood up to conceal his face.

‘Oh no, Father,’ Christina said. ‘It was like this: put your face down.’

Athelstan obeyed and Christina pulled the hood closer across his head, then lifted the front part of the mantle to cover his mouth.

‘You see, Father, he looked like that.’

Athelstan pulled back the hood, and a little embarrassed, tugged the black mantle down, away from his mouth and chin. In the dark even he, dressed like that, would not be recognised by many of his parishioners. Indeed, only recently the master-general of his Order had issued an instruction to all Dominicans to be careful about their use of the hood and cowl lest people mistake them for an outlaw or footpad. ‘Continue,’ he told her.

‘Well, a little later,’ Christina chattered, ‘I went up the stairs. I heard a sound from Sir Oliver’s room, chanting, a prayer.’ She closed her eyes. ‘Something about, something. .’ Her voice faltered. ‘Yes, that’s it.’ She opened her eyes. ‘About a day of wrath.’

‘A day of wrath?’ Cranston asked.

‘You recognised the voice?’ Athelstan interrupted.

‘No, it was deep, muffled, as if the speaker had something across his mouth. But, there again,’ Christina’s eyes moved quickly, and Athelstan wondered whether she was sharper than he judged, ‘I thought the priest, perhaps with his head bowed, was praying.’ The girl shivered. ‘It was eerie. The passageway was lit by one torch and the shadows were dancing. I was frightened: I knew about the corpse and wondered about ghosts and that voice talking about wrath, God’s anger and the earth burning.’

‘The “Dies Irae” !’ Athelstan exclaimed. ‘O day of wrath, O day of mourning!’ He stared at Cranston’s bewildered face. ‘“O day of wrath, O day of mourning, See fulfilled the prophet’s warning,”’ Athelstan chanted. ‘“Heaven and earth in ashes burning.” It’s from the Mass for the dead; the priest always chants it before he recites the Gospel.’ Athelstan grasped Christina’s hand. ‘And you are sure it wasn’t Sir Henry Swynford’s voice?’

‘Oh no, this was different, deep, muffled.’

‘What does it mean, Brother?’ Cranston asked.

Athelstan rubbed his face with his hands. Despite the warmth and cheer of the taproom, he felt cold and frightened. Most assassins killed quickly and quietly.

He replied slowly. ‘What it means, my lord Coroner, is that the chantry priest, and I do not think he was the one hired by our good host, was the assassin. As Sir Henry knelt before his companion’s coffin, this assassin quickly garrotted him but, as he killed him, the assassin chanted those words, not in prayer but as a terrible cry of vengeance.’

The taverner, shaking his head, led them up to the first-floor gallery. He stopped on the stairwell, his dark face framed by the mullioned glass window behind him. Athelstan smelt the fragrant pots of herbs on the small sill and, from the yard below, heard the strident crowing of a cock. For some strange reason Athelstan recalled the words of the Gospel, about Peter’s betrayal of Christ before the cock crowed thrice. He steeled himself: he and Cranston were about to enter a dark, tangled maze of murder and intrigue amongst the wealthy lords of the soil. Swynford’s and Bouchon’s deaths were certainly no accidents, nor were they the victims of unhappy coincidence.

‘Well, what are we waiting for?’ Cranston snapped.

Banyard lifted a finger. ‘Listen, Father.’

Athelstan strained his ears and heard the faint mumbling.

‘It’s Father Gregory,’ the taverner explained. ‘He came this morning to anoint the corpses. After that,’ he continued cheerfully, ‘they’ll be taken down to the local corpse-dresser, an old woman on the far side of the palace. She will remove the bowels and stuff the bodies with spices. I understand Sir Edmund Malmesbury is hiring a small retinue to escort them back to Shrewsbury.’

Cranston made to go on, but Banyard put his arm across next flight of stairs. ‘I think we should wait,’ the taverner declared.

‘And I think we shouldn’t,’ Cranston growled.

Up he went. Athelstan shrugged apologetically and followed. He glanced down the stairs where Christina was staring up at them, her mouth in a round ‘O’.

‘Don’t worry, child,’ Athelstan called back. ‘We’ll all be safe with Sir John.’

They went along the gallery and into a chamber. Even though the windows were open and the shutters thrown back, the air reeked of death and decay. The two corpses lay in their coffins on a specially erected trestle-table at the foot of the four-poster bed. The priest kneeling on a cushion crossed himself and got up hastily. Grey-skinned, grey-haired, with a long, tired face, watery eyes and slobbery mouth, Athelstan took an instant dislike to Father Gregory. He looked a born toper; Athelstan, feeling guilty at his harsh judgement, walked forward, hands extended.

‘Father Gregory, we apologise for interrupting your orisons. I am Brother Athelstan from St Erconwald’s, this is my lord Coroner, Sir John Cranston.’

The priest forced a weak smile and limply shook Athelstan’s hand, then winced at Cranston’s powerful, vice-like grip.

‘God have mercy on them!’ the priest wailed, his hands fluttering down at the corpses. ‘Terrible deaths! Terrible deaths! Here today and gone tomorrow, eh, Brother?’

He swayed slightly on his feet, and Athelstan wondered if he had fortified himself with more than prayer.

‘Why didn’t you come last night?’ Cranston asked, squatting down on the stool and mopping his face with the hem of his cloak.

‘I was away you see. Every. .’ The man was gabbling. ‘Every week I visit my mother for a day. I came back this morning and found Master Banyard’s note. Terrible, terrible.’ He babbled on. ‘To think that a priest could garrotte a man so.’

‘If you wait downstairs,’ Banyard said kindly, ‘Christina will give you some food, Father. My lord Coroner here needs to inspect the corpses.’

The priest threw a fearful look at Sir John, then scuttled from the room.