Paul Doherty - The House of Crows

‘Oh, don’t kneel, Sir John!’ he exclaimed. ‘You may stand — and you, Brother Athelstan.’ He leaned forward and whispered, ‘If I had my way you would sit beside me: one on my right and one on my left. Wouldn’t that be appropriate, dearest Uncle?’

‘Beloved Nephew,’ Gaunt smiled back, ‘Sir John and Brother Athelstan are two of your most loyal subjects.’ He waved elegantly towards the crowd. ‘But there are hundreds more waiting to greet you.’

The king refused to shift his gaze. ‘They can wait. They can wait!’ Richard snapped furiously.

For a few seconds the smile faded. Athelstan stared into those blue eyes and knew that the young king would use this meeting to taunt and bait his uncle.

‘My lord Regent, you told us to be here.’ Cranston, eager not to be drawn into this deadly rivalry, declared.

‘More deaths, Sir John,’ Gaunt answered brusquely. ‘More deaths amongst the Commons, which does not make our task easier.’

‘What deaths are these?’ the king interrupted.

‘Beloved Nephew, I have told you already. Certain knights of the shire have been barbarously murdered. So far,’ Gaunt murmured, glaring at Cranston, ‘little has been done either to stop them or to unmask the assassin.’

The king, bored and resentful at being excluded from this conversation, sat back in his chair, apparently more interested in the tassels on the sleeves of his gown.

‘Well?’ Gaunt asked.

‘My lord Regent,’ Athelstan spoke up quickly, ‘you said so far? But our business here is not finished yet.’

‘Then, when it is, please tell me,’ Gaunt snapped back.

The king suddenly leaned forward and grasped Athelstan’s sleeve. ‘I did very well in the chapter-house. I asked for the support and loyalty of my Commons.’

‘We heard the cheers, your Grace,’ Athelstan replied.

The king pulled him closer. ‘It’s Uncle they don’t like,’ he whispered loudly. ‘I think if I had asked for the moon they would have given me it.’

‘They may ask for the removal of the lord Coroner,’ Gaunt taunted back. ‘There were complaints, your Grace, at the terrible murders being committed here in the abbey.’

The king’s mood abruptly changed. He made a cutting movement with his hand.

‘Sir John Cranston is the king’s coroner in London,’ he snapped. ‘And if the Commons try to remove him, I’ll break their necks!’ Richard sat forward. ‘Brother Athelstan, Sir John, please stay with us. Uncle, if I am to touch the beggars, then let’s have it done quickly!’

Gaunt snapped his fingers; Athelstan and Cranston stood back. There were more trumpet blasts, and royal heralds began to usher up towards the dais a line of ragged, poor men and women, eager for the king’s touch on their heads. These were even more appreciative of the silver piece, bread and wine distributed by royal servitors from a table behind the dais. Cranston and Athelstan watched the beggars shuffle through. Some had made a pathetic attempt to wash or change, but they all looked unkempt and dirty with straggly, greasy hair and pinched narrow faces. Some of them had open sores on their hands and feet. Many didn’t even wear shoes or sandals. Nevertheless, each came forward and knelt on the cushions before the king’s chair. Athelstan had to admire how the young king hid his personal feelings behind a show of concern. The king would smile at each beggar, lean forward, and sketch a cross on their foreheads. Now and again he would clasp a hand or whisper a few words of encouragement. The beggar, his eyes shining with gratitude, would be led off around the dais for more practical help.

The line seemed endless. Athelstan, watching them intently, regretted that some of the beggars from his own parish were not there. He noticed two men edging their way forward. There was something familiar about them. They seemed more purposeful than those who had gone before. Athelstan watched the shorter one in particular and felt his stomach lurch: the man with his bloodless lips, ever-flickering eyes, broken nose and a scar just under his left eye! Was he not one of those who, according to Joscelyn the taverner, met Pike the ditcher in the Piebald tavern? Athelstan turned to Cranston, but the coroner was now deep in conversation with one of the knights whom he had apparently known in former days. Athelstan tugged at his sleeve but Cranston just shook him off.

‘Sir John, I think. .’ Athelstan now gripped the coroner’s arm.

‘For the love of God, Brother, what is it?’

Athelstan pointed to the man. ‘Sir John, I do not think he is a beggar.’

Cranston caught the alarm in Athelstan’s voice, as did his companion. However, as both men moved forward, the beggar, instead of kneeling on the cushion, suddenly drew a dagger, lunging in a cutting arc at the king’s face. Richard fell back, but Gaunt was quick to react. Athelstan had never seen a knife drawn so fast. The beggar was bringing his hand back for a second blow when Gaunt sprang forward and, with two hands, drove his own dagger into the beggar’s chest. The would-be assassin staggered back, blood spurting from his mouth and wound, even as squires and knights recovered from the shock of what was happening. The knifeman turned, mouth gaping, falling against his companion, who shook him off and tried to run back into the crowd.

Gaunt again responded rapidly. An archer had run forward, arrow to his bow string: Gaunt grabbed this, brought the bow up, the long, quilled shaft caught between his fingers. The beggar’s companion was running back through the crowd which parted before him. The regent stood as if carved out of stone, the bow held finnly in his hand. There was a twang and the goose-feathered arrow caught the fugitive just beneath the neck, driving hard into his flesh. He staggered: took one, two more steps. He slumped to his knees then fell to one side.

Chaos and consternation broke out. Knights hurried up, forming a shield wall round the young king. Captains and serjeants barked out orders. Those beggars who had not yet reached the royal throne were brutally beaten off. Men-at-arms ran up, pikes lowered, archers took up positions behind them as Gaunt grabbed the young king who sat frozen in fear. The royal party, Cranston and Athelstan included, retreated back into the abbey, the great doors slamming shut behind them.

‘So quickly!’ Athelstan murmured. ‘Sir John, so quickly! One minute all was calm, with the king delivering his touch…’

He’d have gone towards the king, around whom courtiers were thronging, but Cranston pulled him back. ‘Leave it be, Brother,’ he advised. ‘They will allow no one near the king.’

Gaunt was now imposing order, shouting at captains, cursing their lack of vigilance, issuing instructions that the king should be taken immediately to the Tower. Heralds went outside to restore order and ask the crowd to wait. Athelstan heard the trumpet blasts and the shouts of the herald over the noise of the crowd. At last some sort of order was imposed, and Gaunt swept out of the abbey to address the crowd, proclaiming in sharp, quick sentences that, due to God’s good grace, their young king was unscathed and his would-be murderers sent to hell. Even as he spoke, the regent’s exploits in saving his young nephew appeared to be known by all. As Cranston and Athelstan slipped quietly up a transept, they could hear the roars of the crowd and their cheering at the speed and bravery of the regent.

‘You said you recognised the would-be assassin?’ Cranston asked.

‘I have seen him in Southwark,’ Athelstan replied defensively. ‘He had a reputation as a troublemaker.’

Cranston nodded. However, once they were outside the abbey, in a small alleyway leading down to the Gargoyle, he pulled the friar into the shadow of a doorway.