Paul Doherty - The House of Crows

‘And when do I do that, your Grace?’

‘Oh, you’ll know the time,’ Gaunt replied. ‘A sign will be given to you.’

‘Your Grace.’ The knight shuffled his feet as if he wanted to draw closer, but Gaunt stretched out his hands and snapped his fingers.

‘No further,’ he warned.

‘Your Grace, the murders?’

‘Ah yes, those two honourable Knights of the Swan, Sir Oliver Bouchon and Sir Henry Swynford. I have been kneeling here, praying for the repose of their souls.’

‘Your Grace, there’s an assassin on the loose. He intends to kill us all.’

‘Not all of you,’ Gaunt purred. ‘Not all of you are guilty men.’

‘We believed we were doing right.’

‘What you believed and what the law decrees are two different things.’

‘Your Grace,’ the knight retorted hoarsely, ‘we must leave London!’

‘Leave?’ Gaunt turned, one eyebrow raised. ‘You and your companions, sir, are elected representatives.’ He turned back. ‘If you leave, I’ll have the king’s justices in Eyre dispatched to Shrewsbury. They will investigate, listen to the whispers, and dig down into all the dirt and refuse of your past. And what will the people say, eh, Sir Edmund Malmesbury? What will the people say? How you swept grandly up to London but fled because two of your companions had been murdered? And why had they been murdered? And who was responsible? They will whisper and gossip outside the church gate.’

Malmesbury pushed back his hood and stretched out his hands. ‘Your Grace, we were young. We made a terrible mistake. We have vowed to go on pilgrimage, pay compensation. .’

‘Pilgrimage?’ Gaunt snarled, half turning his head. ‘Pilgrimage? This is your pilgrimage, Sir Edmund. This is your penance. You will stay. Cranston and Athelstan will unmask the murderer.’

‘Cranston is a drunken buffoon.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Gaunt replied softly. ‘What you and the rest must do, Sir Edmund — ’ Gaunt lifted his hands together as if in prayer — ‘is you must pray. You must really pray that Cranston and Athelstan unmask this assassin amongst you before he strikes again.’ Gaunt snapped his fingers. ‘A sign will be given to you on Saturday morning. On Monday you will know what is to be done. Make sure you do it!’ Gaunt sighed. ‘Of course, that is, if you are still alive. Yet, there again, if you are not, someone else will do it instead. Now go!’

Gaunt heard the man scuffle away, the oratory door closing behind him. The regent looked up at the crucifix and idly wondered who was responsible for the deaths of those two knights.

Dame Mathilda Kirtles’ house in Cottemore Lane was both stately and smart. Built on a foundation of brick, the broad beams which stretched up to the red-tiled roof were painted a glossy black, whilst the plaster in between was a dainty pink. Windows on all three floors were of the lattice type, filled with mullioned or leaded glass. The garden on either side of the pebble path had been tastefully laid out, with small rose-bushes interspersed with raised banks of fragrant-smelling herbs.

‘And this is a brothel!’ Athelstan exclaimed.

Banyard, grinning from ear to ear, pointed at the door-handle of yellow brass carved in the shape of a young, sensuous girl holding a pitcher of water. Athelstan gazed speechlessly at this, then at the end of the bell rope where the weights were carved in the shape of a man’s penis. Cranston, huffing and puffing, not knowing whether to be embarrassed or laugh, pulled at the rope then moved his hand quickly away.

Thank God the Lady Maude can’t see me here, he thought. Oh Lord and all his saints forfend she ever does!

The sweet sound of the bell inside the house was answered by a patter of footsteps and the door swung open. In any other circumstances Athelstan would have thought the young girl was a novice: a white, gold-edged veil covered her lustrous hair, and she was dressed in a high-necked grey gown, but this was flounced at the hem and her nails were painted a deep red. What Athelstan had first thought was a white cloth over her bosom, was instead a rather thin gauze veil over ripe, luscious breasts.

‘Good morrow, sirs.’ The girl smiled at them. She clutched at her gown and raised this slightly, showing the thick white petticoats beneath. She gestured airily to Athelstan. ‘Come in, Father. You will not be the first friar we have had here.’ She fought back the laughter in her voice. ‘And you will certainly not be the last. Any friend of Master Banyard’s is a friend of ours.’

‘Master Banyard is leaving,’ Cranston growled, regaining his wits and pushing by Athelstan. ‘And you, my little hussy, should know that I am Sir John Cranston, Coroner of the city.’

‘Coroners are also welcome,’ the girl answered pertly. ‘Though the lady of the house — ’ she pouted at Cranston’s warbelt — ‘does not permit swords.’

Banyard sniggered, but when Sir John whirled round, pulled his face straight. ‘Sir John, I have to go back.’

‘Dame Mathilda Kirtles,’ Cranston pushed his face towards the young woman. ‘I want to see her now or it will be the bailiffs. And don’t tell me they’d be most welcome as well!’

The young girl, covering her mouth with her hand, stepped back and led them along an airy passageway and into a sweet-smelling parlour. She told them to wait, closed the door behind her. Athelstan sat in a cushioned windowseat, mouth half open as he stared around.

‘Oh, come, come, Brother,’ Cranston called out. ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t been in a molly-house before!’

Athelstan quietly raised his hands. ‘Sir John, I swear, I have never seen a place like this.’

The friar stared down at the floor where the boards were so highly polished that they caught the sunlight. Here and there lay thick woollen rugs. The walls were half covered with wooden panelling, above this the plaster had been painted a rich cream shade. Tapestries, full of colour, hung there. Athelstan, craning his neck, studied one. At first he thought it was a young maiden listening to the song of a troubadour, but he blushed as he realised the troubadour was naked, whilst the young lady had her dress split down the middle.

‘Yes, yes, quite,’ he murmured.

‘Have you ever been with a maid?’ Cranston asked.

‘Sir John, that’s for me to think about and you to wonder. .’ Athelstan shook his head. ‘At first glance, this could have been an abbess’s parlour.’

‘Knowing some of the abbesses I do,’ Cranston growled, ‘you’re probably right!’

‘Doesn’t the city try to close them down?’ As he spoke Athelstan heard a sound from the wall just next to the canopied hearth. He glanced quickly over; he was sure he glimpsed a wooden shutter being drawn closed.

‘Who would shut a place like this down?’ Cranston answered. ‘Dame Mathilda and her “Jolies filles” could sing a song which would embarrass many an alderman.’

‘Aye, and a few others!’

Cranston whirled round. A tall, severe lady, dressed in a white veil and grey dress, stood just within the doorway. Her hair was grey, her face thin and haughty, her eyes sharp and watchful. She walked across, fingering the golden girdle tied round her waist. Athelstan felt like pinching himself: she walked and talked like some venerable mother superior.

‘I am Dame Mathilda Kirtles.’ She stared down at Athelstan. ‘You are the Dominican from St Erconwald’s, aren’t you? One of your parishioners, Cecily, often talks about you.’

Athelstan was too tongue-tied to reply.

‘And you, of course, must be Sir John Cranston: the fattest, loudest and most bibulous of coroners!’ She held a hand out. Cranston grasped and kissed it.