Paul Doherty - The House of Crows

Aylebore’s face turned ugly, yet Athelstan saw the fear in his eyes.

‘Confess,’ Athelstan repeated.

Aylebore pushed his face close to Athelstan, who did not flinch at the burst of fetid breath from the man’s mouth.

‘If I had to confess anything, Father,’ Aylebore hissed, ‘then it wouldn’t be to you. And if I killed, then I did so in the name of a cause you wouldn’t understand.’

Athelstan stepped back. ‘Oh, I understand you completely, Sir Humphrey. It’s a devil I meet every day. It goes under different names: jealousy, envy, anger, the lust for power.’

Aylebore was about to reply, but Malmesbury called him over. The knights shouldered roughly by, and Athelstan drew his breath in.

‘I tried, Lord,’ he whispered. ‘There’s little more I can do!’

He went across the taproom and up the stairs to his own chamber. Only then did he realise how frightening his confrontation with Aylebore had been. He found it difficult to pray, still repelled by the evil ugliness in the knight’s face. Athelstan lay down on the bed and tried to control his breathing, diverting his mind by imagining he was in St Erconwald’s, praying before the altar. At last he grew calm, his eyes heavy with sleep. As he began to doze, images floated through his mind, and Athelstan was almost off to sleep when he realised what was missing from Harnett’s room. The friar sat up on the bed.

‘It can’t be! Surely?’ He spoke into the darkness. ‘Those two items were missing!’

He got to his feet, went across to the table and, lighting a candle, picked up his quill from the writing-tray. Athelstan worked till the early hours, listing everything that had happened since they had arrived at the Gargoyle and, on another sheet of vellum, the names of everyone he had met. Only as he lay down to snatch a little sleep did vague suspicions become much clearer.

The next morning Athelstan felt sluggish and heavy-eyed. He celebrated his daily Mass in one of the side chapels of the abbey, politely answering Father Benedict’s inquiries. Afterwards, he hastened back to the Gargoyle, broke his fast, and went out to stand by the river where Cranston later found him.

‘We have to go soon, Brother.’ He clasped the friar’s shoulder and turned him round. ‘What is it, Athelstan? You look as if you have hardly slept.’ He grasped the friar’s hand and squeezed it. ‘I know you,’ Cranston continued excitedly, his face beaming with pleasure. ‘You have begun to unravel this mystery, haven’t you?’

‘I am not sure, Sir John.’ Athelstan looked towards the rising sun. ‘But shouldn’t we be away to join the regent’s procession?’

‘Pshaw!’ Cranston made a movement with his hand. ‘The good news, Brother, is that the regent does not expect us to be part of it. We are to await him in the cloisters after the king has addressed the Commons.’

They returned to the tavern, where Athelstan mysteriously wandered off, telling Sir John not to worry, that he wouldn’t go far. Cranston knew enough about his secretarius not to question him further. Athelstan would worry at something, closing his mind to everything, including Sir John’s insistent questions.

An hour later Athelstan, washed, shaved and dressed in his best gown, knocked on Cranston’s door. The coroner, who had been waiting impatiently, did not bother to ask any questions, but immediately hurried him down and out into the abbey grounds. Athelstan had never seen so many soldiers congregating in one place, not only guards and archers, but men-at-arms and knight bannerets from the royal household filled the cloisters and the gardens. Cranston had to exert all his authority, calling on Coverdale to help. At last they managed to fight their way through to the vestibule, which was thronged with courtiers, chamberlains, pages and squires, resplendent in Gaunt’s livery, the blue, red and gold of the royal household. Coverdale who had led them there, pointed to the closed doors of the chapter-house.

‘The regent is within,’ he murmured, ‘and has already spoken to the members. Now the young king has begun.’ He paused as a great roar of approval, followed by cheering and clapping, came from the chapter-house.

‘The young king has been well received,’ Coverdale declared.

Athelstan recalled Richard’s ivory face framed by that beautiful blond hair, those brilliant blue eyes, his ever-ready smile and innate tact and courtesy, Athelstan knew such acclaim would not be difficult for the young king.

‘Just like his father, the Black Prince,’ Cranston growled. ‘Every man loved him, no man ever spoke ill about him.’

Athelstan nodded tactfully and stared up at the face of a gargoyle. He didn’t wish to contradict Cranston, who had been the most fervent supporter of the young king’s father. Nevertheless, Athelstan had heard the stories about the Black Prince’s cruelties in France, particularly at Limoges, where he had allowed women and children to starve in a freezing city ditch. Indeed, Athelstan had the same reservations about the young king. Too beautiful, he thought, too sweet to be wholesome. Athelstan had not been beguiled by those beautiful eyes and gracious smiles. Never before in one so young had Athelstan glimpsed such a darkness, which sprang from Richard’s deep and lasting hatred for his uncle the regent.

Athelstan glanced back at the chapter-house as he heard the Commons give another roar of approval, followed by the stamping of feet and the clapping of hands. This went on for some time. A brief silence was broken by the shrill blast of trumpets. The doors to the chapter-house swung open. Two heralds in cloth of gold walked out, each carried a silver trumpet; after every few steps they stopped and blew a fanfare. Behind them came a knight banneret in shining Milanese armour. He carried his drawn sword up before his face, as a priest would a crucifix. Chamberlains began to clear the vestibule as the king, dressed in a brilliant silver gown decorated with golden fleur-de-Iys, left the chapter-house, his hand clasping that of his uncle. Both princes were smiling at each other and at the crowd which thronged there. If he hadn’t known better, Athelstan would have thought Gaunt and Richard were the mutually doting father and son. Behind the king came more knights and officials, then the mass of the Commons, some of them still shouting, ‘ Vivat! Vivat Rex !’

‘We’d best leave,’ Cranston urged. ‘Gaunt told us to meet him outside the doors of the abbey where the king has agreed to touch some poor men ill with the scofula.’

Athelstan followed him out of the cloisters and round to a specially prepared area before the abbey’s great doors. Here, workmen from the royal household had set up a dais covered in purple woollen rugs. In the centre were two chairs of state. On each corner of the dais stood a knight of the royal household holding banners depicting the royal arms, as well as the insignia of John of Gaunt. Archers wearing the livery of the white hart had now cordoned this place off. The crowds milled there, pressed against this wall of steel, eager to catch a glimpse of their king. Cranston had a word with the royal serjeant who led them into the royal enclosure. They had to wait a further half an hour before the king, still grasping his uncle’s hand, finished his procession round the abbey and came out through the main doors to be greeted by a rapturous roar from the crowd. Once they were seated, flanked and surrounded by officials and knights of the royal household, Gaunt smiled and beckoned Cranston forward. Both Sir John and Athelstan knelt on cushions before the chairs of state, each kissing the ring of the king and the regent in turn. Richard, despite the majesty and solemnity of the occasion, did not stand on idle ceremony but clapped his hands boyishly.