Paul Doherty - The House of Crows

The monk’s face broke into a genuine smile. ‘I don’t think so, Sir John. Antony mentioned murder, not just once, but on a number of occasions. And, before you ask, that’s all he would say.’ The monk looked towards the chapel door to ensure it was closed. ‘Now, as you know, over the recent few years there have been a number of Parliaments at Westminster, and Sir Edmund Malmesbury, together with most of his companions, were always returned. Whenever they came, Antony declared himself ill and spent the entire time in the infirmary.’ The Benedictine shrugged. ‘Not that it mattered. The knights always stay at the Gargoyle or some other tavern and rarely frequent the abbey itself.’

‘So, these knights have often been returned as members of the Commons?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Oh, of course, Brother. They swagger about as arrogantly as peacocks. They love London and its fleshpots. Moreover, Master Banyard is the most generous of hosts.’

‘And nothing like this has ever occurred before?’ Cranston asked.

‘No, it hasn’t. My friend Antony always stayed in the infirmary. Never once did these knights refer to him. I wager if they had met, they would not have recognised him. Now, a year ago,’ the Benedictine continued, ‘Antony died of the falling sickness. I heard his last confession and gave him Extreme Unction. He begged God for pardon and his dying wish was that, if I thought it right, the chalice should be given back to the Knights of the Swan.’

‘And so you did?’

‘No.’ The Benedictine shook his head. ‘Not immediately. I used the chalice at my own Masses because, the more I studied Sir Edmund Malmesbury and his coven, their love of harlotry and other fleshpots, the more I began to wonder. And then,’ Father Benedict snapped his fingers, ‘time passed; and I began to have scruples about keeping the chalice. So when Father Abbot asked one of us to volunteer as Chaplain to the Commons, I put my name forward.’ He paused and drew his breath in sharply. ‘But this time it all changed: Sir Henry Swynford sought me out, just after Sir Oliver Bouchon’s corpse had been dragged from the Thames.

‘Swynford was nervous and very agitated. He believed he was going to die. He asked if unforgiven sins pursue your soul? Or was it more the anger of God? I asked him what unforgiven sins? Swynford shook his head and said that if he returned to Shrewsbury, he intended to be shriven, confess all, and go on pilgrimage to Compostella.’ The Benedictine drew his hands out from the sleeves of his gown. ‘Well, he was killed, and then last night so was Sir Francis Harriett. The brothers are shocked, and Father Abbot is saying that the chapter-house and the vestibule will have to be reconsecrated because of blood being spilt on sacred ground.’ Father Benedict sighed. ‘I wondered if the knights were killing each other over the chalice.’

‘So you sent it back?’

‘Yes, I decided to wait no longer. This morning, after the dawn Mass, I cleaned the chalice and, choosing my moment carefully, brought it back to the Gargoyle.’ He blinked. ‘I heard you were there.’ He looked full at Athelstan. ‘You have keen eyes and a sharp mind, Brother. How did you know it was me?’

Athelstan pulled a face. ‘When I first met you, Father, you were uneasy. Something in your demeanour: you were not comfortable being Chaplain to the Commons, yet you had volunteered for it. I wondered why. Moreover, your friendship with Antony and his connection with Shrewsbury were no mere coincidences.’ Athelstan grinned self-consciously. ‘To be truthful, Father, I don’t want to appear cleverer than I really am. I examined the chalice carefully: it had been beautifully kept. When I held it in my hand this morning, I caught the faint fragrance of polish and wine. Finally, it was sent back in a leather pouch, specially made for sacred vessels. It had to be you.’

‘Do you think I did right?’ Father Benedict asked.

‘I think so, Father.’ Athelstan leaned over and clasped the monk’s hand. ‘You did right, but I tell you the truth: I do not think these terrible murders are connected with that chalice.’ He stared across at Cranston. ‘But some ancient sin. Time and again we come across this.’ He released Father Benedict’s hand. ‘I believe Sir Edmund and his companions, either all or some of them, have committed horrible, dreadful murders, and now their guilt has caught up with them. Father, I ask you, on your immortal soul, do you know anything which might assist us?’

The Benedictine shook his head and got to his feet. ‘On my soul, I do not.’ He walked to the chapel door, opened it, but then turned. ‘Oh, Athelstan!’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘This demon in Southwark?’

Athelstan pulled a face. ‘That’s as elusive as the truth behind this horrid business.’

‘Then I shall pray for you.’ The Benedictine left, quietly closing the door behind him.

‘What do you think, Sir John?’

Cranston was now leaning forward, elbows on his knees.

‘Sir John?’

‘I can’t understand, Brother, why these knights don’t flee London. So, what I want you to do is stay here. Behind the abbey are the muniment rooms containing all the records of the itinerant justices, letters from sheriffs and royal bailiffs. I am going to go down there: onerous though it may be, I intend to obtain permission to go through every letter, memorandum, court case and petition from the king’s county of Shropshire.’ He clapped Athelstan on the shoulder. ‘And you, Brother, are going to help me.’

And, before Athelstan could object, Cranston had risen, genuflected to the altar, and almost charged out of the chapel, slamming the door behind him. Athelstan sighed and leaned back against the wall. For a while he just closed his eyes and chanted psalms from the office of the day. He even tried to pray to St Faith, but stopped when he realised that his idea of the saint was very similar to that he had of Benedicta. He got up and walked towards the small altar and stood admiring the gold, jewel-encrusted pyx hanging on a silver chain.

‘You should pray better, Athelstan,’ he murmured to himself.

His hand brushed the small Book of Hours he had pushed into the pocket of his gown. He took this out, sat on a bench, and went through the blank pages at the front and back of the prayer book, but there was nothing there. He turned to the beginning and read the first twelve verses of St John’s Gospel but, even then, he was distracted, for the book was brilliantly illuminated. Harnett must have commissioned it specially for himself; the scribe had written the text in beautiful, broad black sweeps of the quill, and decorated the margins with miniature paintings of a variety of animals. A red-coated, black-eyed dragon thrust out its green flickering tongue; a wyvern of reddish-gold extended its great scaly wings; a silver greyhound pursued a hare, its coat a rich, deep brown.

‘Harnett did love animals!’ Athelstan exclaimed.

He particularly admired the phoenix at the top of a page. A mystical bird which consumed itself, and so was often used to represent Christ. Curious, Athelstan leafed over the pages. There were elephants, panthers, foxes, wolves of every hue, apes and peacocks. Then, at the beginning of the Office of Night, one picture caught Athelstan’s attention. He sat, fascinated, before going across to sit under one of the windows so as to study the painting more carefully.

‘It can’t be!’ he exclaimed. ‘It can’t be!’

Athelstan didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Suddenly the door swung open and Cranston swept in.

‘Athelstan, we have got permission, we might as well start now.’ He looked at the friar curiously. ‘Brother, are you well?’

Athelstan recalled Benedicta’s description of Simplicatas busy in the marketplace.