Paul Doherty - The House of Crows

‘And they must have one of these seals?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Yes,’ Coverdale replied, ‘or a special pass signed by one of the members. However, my men have strict orders to stop such a person and send for me.’ He shrugged. ‘But, since the beginning of this Parliament, no such letter has been offered, certainly not last night.’

‘What happens if the killer was a monk?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Impossible,’ Coverdale scoffed. ‘The brothers are allowed to use the cloisters, but the vestibule and the chapter-house itself are strictly out of bounds. Moreover, my soldiers would remember a monk trying to enter and leave.’

‘Which leaves us with one possibility.’ Athelstan, rubbing the edge of his nose, took a step nearer to the captain of the guard. ‘I don’t want to give offence, sir, but what if Sir Francis Harnett’s killer was a soldier?’

Coverdale’s face reddened.

‘I say this,’ Athelstan continued remorselessly, ‘merely because a soldier is armed with sword and axe. He would also have every right to enter the vestibule leading to the chapter-house.’

‘You mean someone like myself?’

‘I did not say that, Sir Miles. I was only making an observation.’

Cranston, sitting on an overturned bucket, caught the drift of Athelstan’s meaning, as did Banyard. The landlord stepped back, as if he wished to put himself beyond reach of Coverdale’s anger. Sir Miles, however, despite the red blotches high in his cheeks, remained calm.

‘You should continue your questions, Friar,’ he snapped. ‘Sir Francis Harnett’s companions wait for us in the tavern. They will tell you that Sir Francis left them against my orders — and their advice — shortly before Vespers.’

‘And, of course, you are going to tell us where you were?’

‘Yes, Friar, I was at the Savoy Palace with others of the regent’s commanders, preparing for the royal procession to Westminster this Saturday morning. My lord of Gaunt, not to mention a number of his knights, will swear solemn oaths that I was with them.’

‘At the hour of Vespers?’ Athelstan asked, noticing a shift in Coverdale’s eyes.

‘Well, shortly afterwards.’

Athelstan turned away. ‘Master Banyard, how long will the corpse remain here?’

‘Till this afternoon.’

‘Was there any sign of robbery?’ Cranston asked, getting to his feet, grunting and groaning.

‘None whatsoever,’ Coverdale hastily interrupted.

Athelstan went and looked down at the corpse and, as he did so, noticed a trickle of blood, slow and sluggish, curl out from beneath the dirty sheet.

Coverdale saw it too and turned hastily away. ‘The others are waiting,’ he snapped.

Coverdale was about to walk away, but stopped just beside Athelstan: he pushed his face a few inches away from the friar’s. ‘Make your inquiries, Brother,’ he whispered. ‘I am no assassin.’

Athelstan was about to reply when there was shouting from the tavern followed by the patter of feet. Christina, her hair all flying, burst into the outhouse: she took one look at the corpse covered in the sheet and stepped back.

‘What’s the matter, girl? What’s the matter?’

Athelstan and the rest followed her out.

‘It’s the knights,’ she cried. ‘Someone came to the tavern.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t know who. One of the potboys says he was dressed all in black. He gave him a pouch sealed at the top and a letter for Sir Edmund Malmesbury. The boy took it up to the knights. Sir Edmund opened it, now they are all shouting, “It’s been found! It’s been found!”’

‘What’s been found?’ Cranston asked, pressing the girl’s arm.

‘I don’t know,’ she stammered. ‘But they are all excited, arguing with each other about a cup which was stolen.’

Cranston strode back towards the tavern. Athelstan remained to ensure the corpse was decently covered. He closed the door and crossed the tavern yard. A cock, glorious in its plumage, crowed its heart out on top of a mound of rich, black earth. ‘You have a fine voice, Brother cock,’ Athelstan murmured, idly wishing he had such a bird and a collection of hens at St Erconwald’s. Then he remembered Bonaventure and the pig-woman’s evil-looking sow and shook his head. ‘You wouldn’t sing there, Brother cock.’

He continued across the yard, glimpsing the river glinting in the distance and the long line of grain barges making their way up to Queenshithe or Dowgate. Athelstan put his hand into the pocket of his habit and touched the muzzle he had examined the night before. Amidst all this excitement, he had almost forgotten it; he must tell the worthy coroner to set a trap for that sinister thief of cats. He sighed and went into the tavern.

Cranston had cleared the taproom. All four knights were now seated round the table, faces flushed. They kept staring at a polished, cedarwood chalice which stood on the table before them. Every so often one of them would lean forward, eyes glittering, and stroke the chalice with the tips of their fingers. Coverdale lounged in a windowseat watching curiously. Cranston was over at the wine butts sampling, as he explained, mine host’s best Gascony. Banyard was all excited: he kept staring at the cup and shaking his head.

‘What is it?’ Athelstan asked.

‘What is it?’ Sir Humphrey Aylebore rubbed his bald head with his hand and, like a child unable to restrain himself, leaned across and grasped the dark wood chalice. ‘This is the Grail!’ he explained.

Athelstan went over and took the wooden cup out of his hands. The bowl was shallow, the stem and base felt heavy in his hand. The wood was polished not only because of its texture, but also because of its great age. Athelstan recalled the legends of Arthur and wondered if this cup truly was the Grail; the very chalice Christ had used at the Last Supper to turn the wine into his blood for the world to drink.

The chalice bore no markings or etchings, and Athelstan hid his suspicions. He was growing increasingly wary of any relics. He had seen enough wood — supposedly belonging to the True Cross — to build a fleet of warships. Indeed, if he collected every scrap of cloth which was supposed to cover the Saviour’s corpse, he was sure the roll would stretch from London to York. He glanced up. Malmesbury’s eyes were glittering. Whatever I think, Athelstan reflected, these men really believe this is the Grail.

‘Brother Athelstan, please?’ Malmesbury stretched out his hands pleadingly.

Athelstan handed the cup to him. The knight took it tenderly, as a mother would her child.

‘You say this once belonged to you?’ Cranston asked, coming forward, a brimming wine cup in his hand. He winked at Athelstan and slurped quickly at the wine.

‘It is ours,’ Goldingham snapped. He plucked the chalice from Malmesbury’s grasp, turned it over and pointed at the faint outline of a swan carved on the base. ‘It disappeared,’ he continued, ‘one night, years ago, when we were at Lilleshall Abbey.’ His eyes brimmed with tears, and his voice became choked. ‘Since then, nothing has gone right for us.’

‘What do you mean?’ Athelstan asked.

Goldingham shook his head and, holding the chalice between his hands, rocked backwards and forwards, as if this relic would preserve him from all evil.

‘And it was brought back now?’ Cranston asked.

‘Yes,’ Malmesbury replied. ‘A stranger brought it to the tavern door.’ He picked up a leather bag which had been sealed at the neck. ‘It was in this, with a scrap of parchment bearing my name.’

Athelstan took the bag and the parchment and examined them carefully.

‘How?’ Coverdale called out. ‘How could anyone in London know that a cup stolen from a Shropshire abbey years ago belonged to you?’