Paul Doherty - The House of Crows

Athelstan was relieved they had left in good time, as the soldiers guarding the abbey entrances were quite obdurate.

‘I don’t care if you’re the Archangel Gabriel!’ One of the archers snapped at Cranston, his nut-brown face fiercely determined. ‘No one is allowed to pass here without a seal. You have not got one, so you can’t go in!’

After a great deal of argument, the archer at least agreed to go and find Sir Miles Coverdale: when the captain arrived, he sullenly agreed to let them through, but insisted on escorting them himself through the Jericho parlour, around the cloisters and into the long vestibule leading to the chapter-house.

‘The Commons are not meeting this morning?’ Cranston asked as they hurried along.

‘No, Sir John, that gaggle of geese have to rest their voices: their cackling begins late this afternoon. They are already complaining about Sir Francis Harnett’s death,’ Coverdale added morosely. ‘Sending petitions to the regent for more soldiers and archers to be sent here.’

‘Do you blame yourself?’ Athelstan asked.

Coverdale stopped at the steps leading down to the Pyx chamber. ‘Brother, there are over two hundred representatives meeting in the chapter-house, and about a dozen clerks, not to mention the soldiers and archers on guard. Some of them are strangers to me, being drawn from garrisons as far afield as Dover and Hedingham Castle. If a man carries that seal, acts without suspicion and bears no arms, there is little we can do to stop him from entering here. But come, you want to see the Pyx chamber.’

He grasped a torch from a socket on the wall and led them down the steps. An archer at the bottom unlocked the door, and they entered the shadow-filled, eerie crypt. Coverdale lit more torches and pointed to a dark stain on the paved stone floor.

‘We found the body there, bleeding like a stuck pig.’ He moved his hand. ‘Beside it the arrowhead, candle, and the scrap of parchment.’ Coverdale pointed to one of the iron brackets. ‘The head was tied to that by its hair.’

Athelstan followed Coverdale’s direction. He recalled the care Harnett took with his hair; the memory only deepened his horror at the poor knight’s death.

‘And you found nothing else?’ he asked.

‘Nothing, Father.’

Athelstan walked round. He could not find anything amiss, except the dark bloodstains and a sense of malevolence, as if the assassin was in the shadows laughing at their blundering about. He recalled the exorcist’s words and plucked at Cranston’s sleeve.

‘There may not be a demon in Southwark,’ he whispered. ‘But, before God, Sir John, one has been here!’

Cranston lifted his miraculous wineskin and took a deep draught. He replaced the stopper, stared round and shivered.

‘Come on, Brother!’ he snapped. ‘Let’s get out of here!’

Cranston and Athelstan thanked Coverdale. They climbed the steps, crossed the vestibule, and went up another flight of stairs into St Faith’s Chapel. They sat on a bench against the wall of the narrow chapel. Cranston closed his eyes, half dozing. Athelstan studied a painting: St Faith wearing a crown and holding a grid-iron, the emblem of her martyrdom. Next to her was a small, half-size figure of a praying Benedictine monk: from his lips issued a scroll bearing the words:

‘From the burden of my sin, Sweet Virgin, deliver me. Make my peace with Christ and blot out my iniquities.’

‘We could all say that prayer,’ Athelstan murmured.

‘What’s that?’ Cranston stirred himself, smacking his lips. ‘Beautiful chapel, Athelstan,’ he murmured. ‘Too much stacked here, a little untidy. But what were you saying?’

Athelstan pointed to the figure on the wall and the words, ‘I think that applies to our situation doesn’t it, Sir John?’

‘I’ve done nothing wrong,’ the coroner declared. He looked sheepish. ‘Well, I drink too much.’ He nudged Athelstan. ‘But only occasionally.’

Athelstan said thoughtfully, ‘I wonder how that assassin could enter the abbey cloisters, go down to the Pyx chamber, commit such a terrible act and walk away scot-free. Sir John, it must be a soldier or one of the knights?’

‘But, surely, not a monk?’

Athelstan whirled round. Father Benedict stood in the doorway of the chapel. Athelstan and Cranston rose.

‘Father, I thank you for coming.’

Cranston, embarrassed, tried to hide the wineskin peeping out from beneath his cloak.

‘Sit down! Sit down!’

Cranston and Athelstan obeyed whilst Father Benedict went and pulled across a small box chair which stood in a corner of the chapel. The monk stared over his shoulder at the altar, where a candle burned beneath the pyx which contained the body of Christ.

‘If you question me here, Brother,’ Father Benedict said softly, ‘I have little choice but to tell the truth.’

‘About what?’ Cranston asked curiously.

‘Oh, not about the murders?’ Athelstan intervened. ‘Father Benedict is as innocent as a new-born babe. However, the chalice, the Holy Grail, the cedarwood cup which was sent to the Gargoyle tavern this morning. You sent that, didn’t you, Father?’

The monk slid his hands up the voluminous sleeves of his black gown. He blinked and glanced away, as if fascinated by the tiled floor of the chapel.

‘Your friend Father Antony gave it to you, didn’t he?’ Athelstan persisted.

Father Benedict nodded. ‘Many years ago.’ He began slowly. ‘Father Antony arrived here from Lilleshall. We became firm friends. We had a great deal in common: a love of books and manuscripts, nothing better than the smell of vellum, ink and chalk, burning wax and the study of the antiquities.’ Father Benedict cleared his throat. ‘After he had been here eighteen months, Antony invited me into his cell. He showed me the chalice you saw this morning. He confessed he’d stolen it from the Knights of the Swan. He described their junketings, tourneys and tournaments at Lilleshall, and how the cup might well have been the Grail.’

Father Benedict paused, rocking himself gently in the chair. He smiled. ‘I examined the cup very carefully, I believe it’s four to five hundred years old, probably from the treasure trove of Alfred King of Wessex, rather than from the court of the legendary Arthur.’

‘And Father Antony?’ Athelstan asked.

‘He told me of its history and asked me what I should do. I declared the chalice must be returned to its rightful owners as, in my opinion, he had committed an act of sacrilege as well as theft.’

‘But it wasn’t?’ Athelstan asked.

‘No. Antony asked for absolution and entrusted the chalice to me. He insisted that, whatever the chalice’s real origins were, it was still a sacred vessel and should not be returned to such wicked men. I asked him what he meant by that. Antony just shook his head and muttered that he did not want to add the sin of calumny to his other faults. I taxed him about why he had stolen the chalice in the first place.’ The Benedictine smiled at Athelstan. ‘Oh, don’t worry, I am not breaking the seal of confession: Antony and I used to talk about this a great deal. The only thing he would say, and he kept repeating this time and time again, was that he believed it was blasphemy for the Knights of the Swan to pretend they were paladins of Arthur, to meet on holy ground, never mind possess such a sacred relic.’

‘So he claimed he had not really sinned,’ Athelstan surmised, ‘but had followed his conscience and removed something sacred from the hands of the wicked?’

‘Yes, Athelstan, put most precisely: that’s exactly what he said.’

‘But this wickedness?’ Cranston asked. ‘Father, with all due respect, any wealthy landowner is hardly a St Francis of Assisi. Sir Henry Swynford and his companions are, like myself, men of the world.’