Paul Doherty - The House of Crows

‘I have some oatmeal,’ he offered.

Armitage licked his lips. ‘Any milk and honey?’ he asked.

‘In abundance,’ Athelstan smiled back.

‘Then truly my cup is pressed down and overflowing,’ Armitage replied.

‘What did you say to Watkin?’ Athelstan asked as he served his visitor.

Armitage’s eyes twinkled. ‘I told him to guard the sanctuary: if the demon attacked, he would strike at the high altar. Only a man such as Watkin would be strong enough to resist it.’

Athelstan grinned and, for a while, they sat and broke their fast. It wasn’t much, but Armitage declared it was a thousand times better than what Blackfriars refectory served. Once he’d finished, he leaned his elbows on the table and stared across at Athelstan. His dark eyes were not so merry now.

‘Prior Anselm told me about your problem.’

Athelstan nodded warily. ‘I thought you were lecturing in the halls of Oxford?’ he asked evasively.

‘The food was terrible so I asked to be transferred back,’ Armitage joked. He patted his stomach. ‘Now I am at Blackfriars, ostensibly as librarian and archivist. I am also exorcist for the eastern part of London. Well, most of it, except for those parishes north of St Mary of Bethlehem.’

Athelstan stared disbelievingly back. He remembered Armitage from his novitiate days as a merry, practical priest, not the sort to be involved with demons, incantations and exorcism.

‘I know what you are thinking, Athelstan.’ Armitage picked a crumb up from his platter and popped it into his mouth. ‘But my task is not as frightening as it appears.’ He smiled thinly. ‘You can’t imagine how many people, with two quarts of ale down them, manage to see demons and sprites in every corner.’

‘This is different,’ Athelstan replied.

‘I know, I know, Father Prior told me. One of your parishioners was actually attacked and others have seen a dark, hideous shape; you yourself detected a terrible stench in the death-house. Before I went into your church I visited it, but I could neither smell nor see anything untoward.’

‘That’s because it has been scrubbed and cleaned,’ Athelstan replied sharply.

Armitage grasped his hand. ‘Brother, I am not mocking you. I have been an exorcist now for eighteen months. There have been over fifty incidents I have attended. All of them could be explained by natural phenomena. But,’ he added slowly, ‘there are others.’ He supped at his jug of ale. ‘Ten days ago I went to a house near St Giles Cripplegate. The mother had talked of strange sounds and cries in the night. A sense of evil, of deep foreboding. Athelstan, I experienced the same. I searched that house. I blessed it. I exorcised it but I could discover nothing wrong. The woman was a widow; gentle, prayerful, rather anxious, but basically a good woman.

‘I was about to leave when her twenty-year-old son came in. He was dressed in the latest fashion, his hair crimped and curled. He was ever so polite.’ Armitage blinked and Athelstan saw the fear in his eyes. ‘This young man,’ the exorcist continued, ‘grasped my hand and asked how I was? Wouldn’t I stay for another stoup of ale? Take some silver for the poor?’ Armitage closed his eyes as he chewed the corner of his lip. ‘That young man,’ he continued hoarsely, ‘really frightened me. His eyes were dead, Brother. You had the impression that his entire face was a mask and something else lay behind it: a presence, dark and sinister, sneering at both me and his mother.’

The exorcist put his ale down. ‘I have yet to pluck up courage to go back and tell that woman how, in my opinion as an exorcist, her son’s soul is shrouded in darkness. He has been dabbling in some vice which has opened the door to let other powers in.’ He pushed his tankard away. ‘Now, I tell you this, Athelstan, because that’s my view of a demon, of possession. Someone cool, logical, rational, even pleasant in appearance and attitude.’

Athelstan was now stroking Bonaventura who had leapt into his lap. ‘And so you are saying we have no demon in Southwark?’

Armitage smiled. ‘Do you really believe that, Brother?’

Athelstan shook his head.

‘Then follow your heart, Athelstan. When you meet a devil, it won’t be some dark shape leaping amongst the graves. Surely you know what I mean?’

Athelstan recalled those powerful knights at Westminster; their easy smirks, their lying ways, the duplicity of their lives. ‘I understand.’

Armitage sighed. ‘I thought you would. You are the lord coroner’s clerk, aren’t you? Your reputation goes before you, Brother Athelstan. Think of the murderers you have hunted: those men and women who can wipe out another life without a flicker of an eyelid, then wipe their lips and proudly proclaim their innocence to the world. There are your demons. However,’ he pulled up his cowl, ‘at the same time your parishioners could be correct: there may be a presence loose in Southwark, though I really doubt it.’

‘Then what shall I do?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Apply that logic for which you are famous.’ Armitage got to his feet. ‘Keep your parishioners calm. Study all the evidence given to you. Look for the weakness and, when you find it, the mystery will unravel.’ Armitage picked up his cloak. ‘I am sorry I have been of little comfort, Brother. Father Prior was sending me to Eltham, he asked me to stop off here and see you.’ Armitage grinned. ‘Accept my wager, Brother; if you haven’t found your demon in a week, I’ll come back and stay until you do.’

‘And if I do find it. .?’

Armitage extended his hand. ‘Send your painter to Blackfriars: there’s a stretch of bare wall just near the vestry, and every time I pass it, I imagine this beautiful picture of Christ talking to the Samaritan woman. Don’t worry, he’ll be well paid!’

Athelstan clasped his outstretched hand. ‘Wager accepted!’

Armitage thanked Athelstan and Bonaventura for their company, gave them his blessing and left the priest’s house.

For a while Athelstan sat and reflected on what the exorcist had said.

‘Brother John spoke the truth,’ he declared finally. ‘But where’s the weakness in all of this?’

He cradled the cat and stared at the stark crucifix above the hearth. Watkin and the rest had first seen the demon on Monday evening. Later that same night Sir Oliver Bouchon had been killed; Perline Brasenose, who’d not been home since Saturday, apparently met Sir Francis Harnett on the quayside across the river. Since Monday evening, the demon had been seen near Benedicta’s house — another lonely, deserted place; in the empty house by Ranulf the rat-catcher, and again, yesterday evening, in the parish cemetery. So where was the weakness in all this? He heard a knock on the door.

‘Come in,’ Athelstan shouted.

He half expected Cranston, but Benedicta slipped in, a shopping basket over her arm. For a while all was confusion as Bonaventura hastily leapt into this, looking for something to eat.

‘I have brought food,’ Benedicta smiled, putting the basket on the table. She took out small, linen-covered bundles and laid them out: bread, cheese, a small jar of home-made jam, a piece of cured ham, slices of salted bacon, onions and a small bag of oatmeal. Athelstan couldn’t refuse. Indeed, as Cranston constantly teased him, he was only too pleased to see Benedicta’s lovely face. She took the food into the buttery and helped Athelstan clear the table. He brought fresh jugs of ale, then sat and told her about what was happening at Westminster. Benedicta heard him out: her smooth, olive face lost some of its laughter lines as Athelstan described the deaths of the two knights and the possible sinister intrigues of the regent, John of Gaunt.