Paul Doherty - The House of Crows

‘Death is a sudden visitor, Sir John. The Gargoyle has housed many a corpse.’ The taverner stared up at the smoke-blackened roof beams. ‘It has stood here for many a year. Customers die in their sleep or in a fight. We have also taken in many a corpse fished from the river.’

‘But this is different,’ Athelstan persisted.

Banyard put his tankard down; he stretched out his hand and the silver coin disappeared.

‘I have told you what I know and what I have seen,’ he whispered. ‘However, our noble representatives are not the band of brothers they appear to be. On the night Bouchon was killed, there was considerable discord over a number of matters.’ He pulled a face. ‘Local matters: the buying up of grain as well as the fixing of prices on the Shrewsbury markets.’

‘And?’ Cranston asked.

‘The discussion grew heated,’ Banyard continued. ‘They argued about a ship they’d hired to import grain from Hainault. Apparently this was done on Malmesbury’s advice, but the ship hadn’t fared well and was seized by French pirates in the Narrow Seas. Goldingham, the small dark one who walks like a woman and has a tongue like a viper, declared Malmesbury should reimburse them. Sir Edmund, red in the face, said he would not.’

‘And?’

‘Well, this led to other matters. They talked of a goblet which had disappeared. I heard the name “Arthur” mentioned.’ Banyard sipped from his tankard. ‘I was going in and out of the room, but when I returned the conversation had changed. Sir Henry Swynford was saying how they should not oppose the regent so vehemently. He talked of unrest in the shires and the growing attacks upon isolated farmhouses and manors, be it in Kent or along the Welsh march.’ Banyard stopped speaking, cradling his tankard. ‘Then Sir Francis Harnett said something very strange.’ Banyard closed his eyes. ‘Yes, that’s right: he said the old ways were the best ways. Malmesbury leaned across the table and grasped his wrist. “Don’t be stupid!” he hissed. “Stick to your beasteries!”’

‘What do you think he meant by that?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Oh, Sir Francis Harnett is apparently interested in all forms of exotic beasts. When he returned from the Tower, he babbled like a child about the elephants, apes, and even a white bear kept in the royal menagerie.’

‘No,’ Athelstan smiled. ‘I meant about the old ways being the best ways.’

Banyard raised his eyebrows. ‘Father, I am a taverner, not some magician at a fair.’

‘And Sir Oliver Bouchon? He was quiet?’

‘He was silent throughout, never touched his food.’ Banyard got to his feet. ‘That’s all I know; now my customers wait.’

‘You could have told us this before.’

‘Sir John, I sell wine, good food and gossip. All three demand payment.’

‘And will you take us down to Dame Mathilda’s in Cottemore Lane?’ Cranston demanded.

Banyard smirked. ‘You need solace, Sir John?’

‘No, no!’ Cranston replied hastily. ‘The Lady Maude, God forfend her, would be horrified to know that I had visited such a place. I simply need to discover whether all our good knights spent Monday evening there.’

Banyard made a face, playing with the empty tankard in his hands. ‘Sir John, they all came back here after midnight, much the worse for wear.’ He shrugged. ‘When you are ready, I’ll take you.’ He got up and walked back into the buttery.

‘Well.’ Cranston pushed the plate away. ‘All we’ve established is what we know already. The good knights are liars. There is rivalry amongst them.’ He licked his lips. ‘I wonder what this cup of Arthur means, or Harnett’s claim that the old ways were the best ways?’

‘Those knights,’ Athelstan replied, ‘know the significance of the arrowhead, the candle and the word “REMEMBER”. They were killed because of some secret sin committed many years ago. But that begs another question.’

Athelstan cleaned his horn spoon and put it back in his wallet. ‘If these knights are being pursued by the furies from their past, why don’t they panic? Why don’t they flee back to Shropshire?’ He glanced at Cranston and leaned across the table. ‘I mean, Sir John, if you, I and others travelled to Shrewsbury, and let us say we’d committed some secret sin, and suddenly members of our party began to be murdered. What would you do?’

Cranston lowered his tankard. ‘Though I hate to admit it, I’d leave Shrewsbury as quickly as an arrow from a bow.’

‘So, why don’t these knights?’ Athelstan asked. ‘Two of their companions are dead, yet. .’

Cranston stared across the tavern. ‘Oh, well put, little friar.’ He murmured. ‘To flee London, put as much distance between themselves and Westminster would be the natural thing to do.’ He blew his cheeks out and ran his fingers along the bristling moustaches. ‘Of course, there’s still time for them to do that, yet the men we met in the chapter-house seemed quite determined to stay.’ He leaned over and nipped Athelstan’s wrist. ‘You pose questions, Friar. Do you have any answers?’

‘Well, first,’ Athelstan replied slowly, ‘they can’t flee immediately. It would look as if they were guilty and wished to hide something. Secondly, they are representatives of the shire. They are duty-bound to stay in Westminster until this Parliament is finished. But,’ Athelstan paused, ‘they could always claim sickness or some urgent business at home.’ Athelstan continued slowly. ‘It’s possible there might be two other explanations. First, not all the knights we met this morning might have some secret sin to hide. Secondly, perhaps there’s a greater fear which compels them to stay.’ He pushed away the plate and writing-tray. ‘But come, Sir John, the day is drawing on.’ He smiled. ‘And we still have to visit Dame Mathilda and her ladies of the night.’

In his small, beautifully decorated oratory at the Savoy Palace, John of Gaunt knelt, head bowed in prayer, at his prie-dieu. Beside him, on a red and gold embroidered cushion, knelt his ‘beloved nephew’, Richard of England. Now and again the young king, his face like that of an angel, ivory-pale framed by gold hair, would blink his light-blue eyes and glance quickly at his uncle. He’d confided so often to his tutor, Sir Simon Burley, how much he hated ‘dear Uncle’ with a passion beyond all understanding. Did Gaunt really pray? the young king wondered. Or was the oratory a place of silence and seclusion, where he could plot? Richard lifted his eyes to the silver crucifix.

‘Dear God,’ he prayed silently. ‘I am thirteen years of age. Three more years, only three, and I will be king in my own right!’

Richard smiled. And what would happen then to ‘dear Uncle’? Yet three years was a long time: anything could happen! Richard, through his tutor, knew all about the peasants seething with discontent at being tied to the soil, at not being allowed to sell their labour in the markets, or bargain for what they were paid. Now a Parliament had convened at Westminster: the lords temporal and spiritual met by themselves; the Commons, assembled in the chapter-house, resolutely argued against levying taxes so ‘beloved Uncle’ could build more ships or raise more troops. Yet, what would happen if a storm broke which swept away not only Uncle but himself? Would the peasant rebels really lift their hands against the son of the Black Prince, their own anointed king? Beside him Gaunt sighed, lifted his head and blessed himself with a flourish. He turned to Richard.

‘Beloved Nephew,’ he purred, ‘it was good of you to join me in prayer.’

‘Dearest Uncle,’ Richard replied just as sweetly, ‘you need all the assistance God can send you.’

Gaunt’s smile remained fixed. ‘In three days’ time, Sire, you are to go down to Westminster. You must walk amongst your Commons, tell them how much you love them. How you need their help.’