Paul Doherty - The House of Crows

Hengist fell to his knees. ‘Sir John, we’ll tell you everything.’

‘Good.’ Cranston patted the man heartily on the top of his balding head. ‘That’s my boys. I want to know where the silver is and I want to know the names of the barge-masters or else. .’

And, leaving the dung-collectors to the mercy of the bailiffs, a more satisfied and harmonious Sir John, followed by Athelstan, made his way back towards the riverside.

‘A good day’s work!’ Cranston growled as they climbed into the skiff to take them downriver to Westminster. He shaded his eyes against the glare of the setting sun. ‘But not good enough, Brother.’ He yawned. ‘I feel sleepy, yet we have to examine those archives.’ He turned suddenly as Athelstan’s head came down on his shoulder; the friar, lulled by the rocking of the boat, was already fast asleep.

They disembarked at King’s Steps, Westminster. The sun now hung like a blood-red ball in the west, turning the brickwork of the abbey to a soft, golden yellow. The day’s business was drawing to a close; the king’s justices, lawyers, serjeants, plaintiffs and defendants were streaming along the narrow alleyways, either up towards Fleet Street, or down to their waiting barges on the river. Convicted felons, all chained together, were carted off by drunken bailiffs towards the Fleet or Newgate Prisons. Tipstaffs and chamberlains, clerks and scribes now thronged into the taverns and drinking-houses. Quite a few stopped to chat with the young whores gathered round the gates and porticoes. For a while Cranston and Athelstan sat on a bench under the spreading branches of a great oak tree, intent on enjoying the coolness and beauty of the evening.

As Athelstan stared round, however, he felt a deep sense of despondency, of sin, of staring into the heart of human darkness. All these men in their silks, satins and samite robes, their furlined hats, leather, bejewelled gauntlets, gaudy baldrics, purses and dagger sheaths, their coiffed hair and the swagger in their walk. Athelstan experienced the wealth, power and the all pervasive corruption of such men, who gathered to dispense justice but practised so little morality themselves. Cranston was dozing now, so the friar kept his thoughts to himself. Yet, not for the first time, Athelstan felt a deep empathy for men like Pike the ditcher. Perhaps the Lord, he thought, should come back to his temple and cleanse it of these money-changers, land-grabbing landlords, arrogant clerks, justices and lawyers puffed up like peacocks.

Suddenly the crowd streaming across the abbey grounds grew bigger as representatives of the Commons, their day’s work done, returned to their taverns and hostelries. Although they must have talked all day, this had only whetted their appetite to hear further the sound of their own voices. Athelstan closed his eyes and half listened to the different accents; men from Yorkshire, Somerset, Norfolk, the Scottish and Welsh march. He heard their comments about the regent, and grumbled complaints about his wealth and ostentation.

‘‘‘He that is without sin among you,’’’ Athelstan murmured, quoting from the Gospels, ‘‘‘let him first cast a stone.”’

He wiped the sweat from his brow and half smiled at the success of the day. But these murders at Westminster? He glanced quickly at Cranston, but the coroner had his head back and was snoring lightly. Now and again he’d smack his lips and mutter, ‘Refreshments!’ Athelstan recalled the corpses of Bouchon, Swynford and Harnett. What had he and Cranston learnt? He quietly ticked the points off in his mind.

Primo : Bouchon had left the tavern abruptly on Monday evening, therefore he was going to meet someone. The knight had already received the arrowhead and the other premonitions of his death. Where was he going? Whom was he meeting? Why hadn’t he gone back to his chamber to collect his sword? Athelstan opened his eyes.

‘We should check the river once more,’ he murmured. ‘Perhaps one of the boatmen can remember.’ He closed his eyes.

Secundo: Bouchon had few marks on his corpse except that terrible bruise on the back of his head, the black marks under his fingernails and the crosses etched on his dead face.

Tertio: He had been found bobbing amongst the reeds near Tothill Fields, so he must have been killed in the early hours, just as the tide changed and the Thames ran swollen to the sea.

Well done, Friar, he thought. Was Bouchon’s corpse ever meant to be discovered? If those reeds hadn’t caught it, it might well have been taken down to the estuary and out into the sea.

Quarto : Swynford. He had gone to pray over Bouchon’s corpse: the priest who had arrived and left so mysteriously had garrotted him. Swynford, too, had received warning of his death. And why was it so important that the words of the Dies Irae be chanted by the killer? And why was that false priest so confident that Father Gregory would not arrive? And why, again, had those crosses been etched on Swynford’s dead face?

Quinto : Who knew about Harnett’s secret negotiations with Perline Brasenose? How had Sir Francis been lured to the Pyx chamber of Westminster Abbey? Surely the only person who could slip so easily out of the abbey was a soldier or another member of the Commons? Athelstan recalled Harnett’s severed head; his features had not been disfigured. Why? Had the assassin been in a hurry?

Sexto : What was missing amongst Harnett’s possessions? And, now he reflected on it, from the belongings of the other knights?

Septimo : Who had followed Bouchon and then Harnett? Pursuing them so easily, trapping and killing them?

Octavo : What had these knights done which was so terrible?

And why didn’t they just flee Westminster and go back to Shropshire?

Nono : What role did the regent play in all these deaths?

How could he have influence over knights who, in the Commons, so bitterly opposed his demands?

‘Wake up, monk!’

Athelstan opened his eyes. Cranston was grinning at him. Athelstan blinked.

‘Sir John, I was not sleeping, just thinking.’

‘As I was!’ the coroner answered portentously. He stared across at the thinning crowds. ‘Anything in particular, my learned friar?’

Athelstan heard the faint cries of a boatman shouting for custom.

‘Well, Sir John, we know Sir Francis went to Southwark, but did any boatman take Sir Oliver Bouchon?’

Cranston took a swig from his miraculous wineskin and shook his head.

‘My bailiffs have already made such inquiries,’ he declared.

‘So far as they can discover, no boatman took any member of the Commons either up- or downriver that evening.’

Athelstan rose to his feet and stretched. ‘Is it possible, Sir John, that Bouchon didn’t leave Westminster? That he was knocked unconscious here and thrown into the Thames?’

Sir John pulled a face. ‘I hadn’t thought of that, Friar.’ He stared across the abbey gardens, narrowing his eyes against the dying sun. ‘If this corpse had been thrown in, let’s say near Dowgate, not far from London Bridge, from what I know of the Thames the body would have been taken out into mid-stream.’ Cranston stretched his legs. ‘However, at Westminster the tide loses some of its force: Bouchon’s corpse would be taken rather sluggishly, which is why it was trapped in the reeds at Tothill. Where does that leave us?’ He shrugged and sighed. ‘Today is Thursday, let’s be honest, Friar, we have made little progress this week.’ He dabbed the sweat around the collar of his shirt. ‘On Saturday the young king comes down to talk to his Commons; a few days later parliament is dissolved and Sir Edmund and his party will probably ride post-haste back to Shrewsbury.’ Cranston stared up at the gables and gargoyles along the abbey walls. ‘I wish I was home,’ he murmured. ‘A man should spend his nights sleeping with his wife. Ah well, Athelstan, one final call.’