Paul Doherty - The House of Crows

‘And will you come, dearest Uncle?’

‘As always, beloved Nephew, I will be at your right hand.’

‘“And, if thine right hand be a cause for scandal,’ Richard quoted from the Gospels, ‘“cut it off.”’

‘Dearest Nephew, whatever do you mean?’ Gaunt eased himself up from the prie-dieu but Richard remained kneeling.

‘In three years’ time, dearest Uncle, I come into my own: King in my own right.’ Richard’s voice hardened. ‘I would like a kingdom to govern, not a realm rent by division and war.’

‘The peasants will, in time, get what they want.’

Gaunt sat down on the altar steps, facing his nephew. ‘I am not liked, Sire, but no man who exercises power is. The French and Spanish fleets ravage our southern coastline. The lords of the soil keep their boot on the peasants’ neck. They, in turn, plot treason and revolt.’

Richard studied his uncle’s leonine, arrogant face. He noticed the lines round the eyes and the furrows running into the silver beard. Am I wrong? the young king wondered. Was Gaunt plotting to seize the crown for himself, as his tutor Simon Burley constantly warned him? Or was he just trying to steer the realm into calmer waters? Gaunt leaned forward and grasped his nephew’s hand.

‘Beloved Nephew, this kingdom is yours but, unless we raise these taxes, we will have neither the ships nor the troops to defend ourselves. Once I have this, I can settle the lords and provide relief for the peasants. When you go to the Parliament, do as I say. Speak kindly to the knights and burgesses. Tell them that my demands are yours.’ Gaunt’s face broke into a lopsided smile. ‘After all, you are the son of the famous Black Prince, grandson of the great Edward III, conqueror of France.’

Richard removed his hand. ‘I am also King of England in my own right.’

Gaunt was about to reply when there was a knock on the door. Sir Miles Coverdale came in and bowed. ‘Your Graces, Sir Simon Burley is here. He insists the young king must return to his lessons.’

Gaunt rose to his feet and helped his nephew to his. ‘Ah yes, your lessons.’ Gaunt smiled. ‘Give Sir Simon my regards, your Grace, but remind him of the famous saying: “It is easier to preach than to act”.’

Richard shifted the gold cord round his slim waist, smoothing down the creases in his blue and gold silk gown. He bowed. ‘Dearest Uncle.’ He smiled back. ‘You should have been a preacher.’

Coverdale stepped aside and Richard of England swept out of the oratory. Gaunt stood and listened to his footfalls fade into the distance.

‘You have come from Westminster, Coverdale? I understand there have been more murders?’

‘Yes, your Grace, but Sir John and Brother Athelstan have matters in hand.’ Coverdale smirked. ‘The coroner has stirred up the knights: they are buzzing like bees.’

Gaunt knelt down on his prie-dieu. ‘But they have made no progress in unmasking the assassin?’ he asked.

‘None, your Grace.’

Gaunt stared at the angel painted in the window high above the altar. ‘I will stay here for a while,’ he murmured. ‘There will be two visitors. Keep them separate. Neither must know about the other’s presence.’

Coverdale nodded and left. Gaunt returned to his meditations, calculating how the taxes, raised in the present Parliament, could be spent. He heard a tap on the door and glanced sideways as his hooded, masked visitor stepped into the oratory. By the sour smell, the mud on the hem of the man’s ragged cloak, and his scuffed boots, Gaunt knew who it was.

‘Every good dog finds its home,’ he murmured.

‘Your Grace,’ Dogman declared, falling to his knees, ‘am I not your most obedient servant?’

Gaunt’s hand slipped to the dagger pushed into his belt, though he had no real fear. Dogman was a pathetic little traitor, terrified of being hanged. In any case, in the choir-loft behind him, two master bowmen stood hidden in the shadows, arrows notched to their bows.

‘Stay where you are, knave,’ Gaunt whispered, ‘and do not move.’

Dogman folded his arms and knelt, trying to control the trembling which ran through his body. If the Great Community of the Realm knew he was here they would flay him alive as a warning to other traitors. Yet the Dogman was truly terrified of Gaunt: some time ago the Dogman had realised that, for all their secret names, hidden covens and close conspiracies, John of Gaunt knew exactly what the Great Community of the Realm was plotting. Dogman wondered how many others of the rebel leaders were in the regent’s pay, yet he had no choice. He had been caught and given a choice: either be a Judas or be hanged, drawn and disembowelled at Tyburn as a traitor. Dogman had made his choice very quickly. He had agreed to what the regent’s agents had offered. He now had no choice but to dance to their tune.

Gaunt turned. ‘Well, well, Dogman, in three days’ time, on Saturday morning, between the hours of eleven and twelve, my nephew and I will ride down to Westminster with a cavalcade of knights, squires and pages. The king will distribute alms and confer the King’s Touch on the sick and infirm. You will be there. .’ Gaunt smirked. ‘The Hare is as scabby and scrofulous as ever?’

Dogman nodded eagerly.

‘And still hates those who ride on palfreys and clothed in silk?’

Again the fevered nodding.

‘Make sure he’s armed.’

Gaunt heard Dogman gasp, so he rose and walked over to him. ‘What are you frightened of, Dogman?’

‘The Hare will attack,’ Judas whispered. ‘Strike at the Lord’s anointed.’

‘Well, isn’t that what you plotted in your covens and secret meetings in Southwark and elsewhere?’ Gaunt dug a fingernail into the man’s dirty cheek and laughed. ‘Mad as a March hare. Just ensure he is there.’ Gaunt patted the man’s greasy hair. ‘Oh, your comrade the Fox has been caught.’ He spun a coin on to the floor. ‘Your information was correct.’

‘What will happen to him, my Lord?’

‘I told my judges to give him a fair trial then hang him.’ Gaunt turned back. ‘I must pray for his soul.’

Dogman grabbed the coin and scuttled out. Gaunt moved over and picking up a jug of water, held his fingers over a bowl, and let the rose-scented water pour over them. He wiped his hands on a napkin and returned to his prie-dieu. He turned abruptly, glared up into the shadowy choir-loft and, narrowing his eyes, caught a glint of mail and knew the archers still waited there.

Gaunt returned to his meditations. Cupping his chin in his hand, he thought about the murders at the Gargoyle tavern. Would Cranston, he wondered, be able to unearth the mystery? Gaunt stared at a fly walking along the crisp white altar cloth. Some men dismissed the coroner as a fat, drunken buffoon, but Cranston’s looks belied his wit. And that friar, Athelstan, with his smooth, olive face and wary dark eyes! Gaunt closed his eyes and smiled. In any other circumstances he would place a wager that they would succeed, but whom could he tell?

There was another knock on the door. ‘Come in! Come in!’

This time the visitor was cloaked and cowled, but the cloth was pure wool and the boots peeping out beneath were costly Burgundian leather.

‘You may be a knight of the shire. .’ Gaunt murmured. He pointed to the pyx; the gold, jewel-encrusted casket which hung from a silver chain just above the altar. ‘. . but, in the presence of Christ our King, not to mention his lawful representative on earth, you should kneel.’

The knight obeyed. Gaunt did not bother to turn.

‘You speak loudly in the chapter-house,’ he whispered.

‘Your Grace, that is what you wanted.’

Gaunt pulled a face. ‘Not too hotly,’ he advised. ‘Otherwise, when you change tack, some might whisper.’