Paul Doherty - The House of Crows

‘You should be more careful, Athelstan,’ she warned. ‘When you go into the marketplace people smile and greet you, and so they should. But when you are gone, the whispering continues, fed and fanned by the peasants who bring their produce in to be sold. There’s been unrest in Essex; at Coggeshall a tax-collector was assaulted, whilst at Colchester they barred the gates against royal messengers. There’s talk of people collecting arms, hiding swords and daggers. Yew trees are being stripped to fashion new bows and arrows. Scythes and bill-hooks have been sharpened, and it’s not for the harvest.’ She leaned across the table and laid one soft hand on Athelstan’s. ‘There’s a storm coming, Father. This city is going to see terrible violence.’

‘And, before you ask, Benedicta.’ Athelstan self-consciously moved his hand; he got to his feet and went to stand before the fire. ‘I will stay where I am, unless Father Prior orders otherwise.’

Benedicta saw the stubborn line to his mouth, and knew any further discussion was closed.

‘And the demon?’ she asked quickly.

‘I am still hunting it.’

‘And Perline?’

Athelstan shook his head.

‘I met Simplicatas in the marketplace,’ Benedicta continued. ‘She still looks worried. I asked her if there was any news but she shook her head and continued shopping.’ Benedicta laughed self-consciously and played with the silver chain round her neck. ‘I would have been here earlier, but I helped to carry her basket.’

Benedicta jumped as the door was flung open and Cranston came crashing in like the north wind. He crowed with delight when he saw Benedicta and, gripping her by the shoulders, bent down and planted a juicy kiss on each cheek.

‘Thank God for pretty women!’ he bellowed, and turned, legs apart, thumbs tucked in his belt. ‘Well, Athelstan, pack your bags. Lock your church, we are off to Westminster!’

Athelstan groaned.

‘The regent’s orders,’ Cranston continued. ‘Last night Sir Francis Harnett, knight, was found in the Pyx chamber. His body lay on the floor. His head was tied by the hair to a torch-holder in the wall.’ He grimaced at Athelstan. ‘Apparently yesterevening our good knight went down there to meet someone. God knows who. The guards let him through. This morning one of the archers saw a door open and went down to investigate. He came rushing out, screaming himself witless.’

‘But why was Harnett so stupid as to go to such a lonely place?’

Cranston shrugged. ‘God knows. Malmesbury had told the knights to stay together. Anyway, that is what we have to search out.’ He patted Athelstan on the shoulder. ‘I am sorry, Brother, both you and I have no choice but to take chambers at the Gargoyle. It’s the regent’s orders.’

Athelstan opened his mouth to protest but Cranston shook his head. ‘There’s no debate, Brother. Everything here will have to wait.’ He grinned over at Benedicta. ‘You’ll have to look after the parish and, if you sit there long enough, looking as pretty as you do, you might even trap this demon.’ He turned back to Athelstan. ‘There’s a further order. On Saturday morning, Gaunt and the young king intend to ride in procession to meet the Commons at Westminster.’ He puffed his chest out. ‘I, as the king’s law officer, will be part of that procession, and of course, dear Athelstan, you will have to go with me.’

Athelstan stared into the fire. He felt like screaming his refusal, yet that would only upset Cranston and achieve nothing.

‘Benedicta, I’ll leave you the keys.’ He got to his feet. ‘Look after Bonaventure. Remember to feed Philomel and ask the priest at St Swithin’s if he would be so kind as to come and say a morning Mass.’

Benedicta said she would. Athelstan went over to the hearth and, grasping a poker, began to sift amongst the cinders. ‘It will go out soon,’ he said absentmindedly.

‘Don’t worry, Brother,’ Benedicta offered, ‘I will make sure that all’s well.’

Athelstan climbed the makeshift ladder into his bedroom. As he filled the saddlebags at the foot of his bed, he wondered, not about Westminster, but Simplicatas. Why should a lonely young woman, supposedly riven with anxiety about her missing husband, buy so much in the marketplace that Benedicta had to help her carry it!

‘There’s little the corpse-dresser can do with that.’ Banyard pointed to the severed torso of Sir Francis Harnett. His remains lay sprawled on a shoddy tarpaulin in an outhouse behind the tavern: the head lolled to one side like a ball, the eyes were half open, and bruises marked the cheek where the head had rolled along the floor of the crypt.

‘For heaven’s sake, show some respect,’ Cranston murmured.

‘I merely describe things as they are, my lord Coroner, not as they should be.’

Athelstan knelt down. He crossed himself, closed his eyes and whispered the requiem: ‘“Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon him. May he rest in peace.”’

‘Amen,’ Cranston intoned.

‘What on earth was he doing in the Pyx chamber?’ Athelstan asked, getting to his feet.

‘God knows,’ Sir Miles Coverdale replied. ‘The Commons sat late yesterday. The abbey then became deserted, though, of course, members stayed around the precincts gossiping and talking.’

‘And your guards were still on duty?’ Cranston asked.

‘Oh yes. Even at night. No one can enter or leave the cloisters without showing the special seal each of the representatives carries.’

‘And who went into the cloisters last night?’ Cranston persisted. ‘Come on, man, you know what we are after.’

Coverdale, his face pale, shook his head. ‘I can’t honestly answer that, Sir John. Representatives are constantly going in and out. As you know, the evening can be cold and many are cowled or hooded. But I can state two things. First, no one entered or left those cloisters, or the area around the chapter-house, without showing the special pass.’

‘And the vestibule?’ Athelstan asked. ‘Are those double doors still guarded?’

‘At night, not as strictly as during the day when the Commons sit, but there are guards in the gallery leading to it.’

‘And did anyone remember Sir Francis going there?’

‘One of my men, vaguely; others followed but it was dark. As I said, members are cowled and hooded, arrogant and peremptory. They show their seal, pull back cloaks to show they carry no swords, and doors are opened.’

‘You were going to tell us two things?’ Cranston asked.

‘Ah well.’ Coverdale waved at Harnett’s decapitated corpse. ‘Sir John, you have seen executions or beheadings after battle. To take a man’s head off, you need either a broadsword or a two-headed axe, yet anyone who enters the abbey precincts must show he carries no such weapon. Only dress-daggers are permitted.’

Athelstan covered the decapitated body with the edges of the dark tarpaulin. ‘Is it possible,’ he asked, ‘that someone could steal into the abbey precincts?’

‘I asked Father Abbot that,’ Coverdale replied. ‘There are no secret passageways or galleries. You must remember, Brother Athelstan, the Pyx chamber lies just before the chapter-house. Harnett, and the person who killed him, had to go — and his assassin return — through at least three lines of my guards.’ He smiled thinly and shrugged. ‘What more can I say? Knights from this shire or that were constantly going in and out. Some visited the shrine of St Faith, others the abbey itself. A few came back to collect possessions. You cannot blame my soldiers,’ he continued defensively. ‘They have their orders. Ask for the seal, ensure the person is carrying no weapons, and let them on their way.’ Coverdale wiped his hand on the back of his mouth. ‘There are so many representatives, and the abbey has a number of entrances.’