Paul Doherty - The House of Crows

‘He was one of those leaders of the Great Community of the Realm, wasn’t he?’ Cranston asked. ‘One of those idiots with whom Pike the ditcher consorts.’

Athelstan caught Cranston’s hand and squeezed it. ‘Don’t ever repeat what I say, Sir John,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘Pike is a fool, a drunkard, a blabber, but he’s no traitor or murderer. He had no hand in this.’ He drew his breath in sharply. ‘However, our regent did!’

‘In God’s name, Brother!’

Athelstan took a step back and stared down the alleyway.

‘Sir John, think,’ he said softly. ‘How did those assassins get so close? And don’t you think the regent acted quickly?’ Athelstan smiled bleakly. ‘Sir John, mark my words. Within the hour Gaunt will be the hero of London, and who will resist him then?’

At the Gargoyle, Athelstan acted even more strangely. He made his excuses to Cranston and went up to his own chamber. This time Athelstan was determined not to tell his companion the conclusions he had reached. Instead he studied everything he had listed the night before. Certain facts he scored time and again with a quill: the black dirt under Bouchon’s fingernails; the knight’s abrupt departure; Harnett leaving the brothel; his journey down to the river; and, above all, what was missing from Harnett’s room. Athelstan placed his quill down.

‘Was it missing from the other two?’ Athelstan whispered. He looked down at the parchment. ‘Bow bells!’ he murmured, ‘Bow bells! How can I trap the assassin?’

Athelstan went and knelt beside his bed. He prayed for guidance but his soul was distracted, his mind wandering hither and thither. He stared across at the window: the sun was beginning to set. Athelstan knew he would have to act quickly or there would be more murders. He heard sounds, loud voices from downstairs, followed by Cranston’s heavy footfall in the passageway and a pounding on the door. When Athelstan opened it, Sir John, grinning from ear to ear, seized the surprised friar by the shoulder and kissed him on either cheek.

‘Oh, slyest of monks.’

‘Friar, Sir John, I’m a friar!’

Cranston grinned. ‘Well, whatever.’ He nodded towards the stairs. ‘You were correct. Malmesbury has just come back from the chapter-house. The news of Gaunt’s protection of his nephew has swept the city. No less a person than Sir Edmund Malmesbury is loudly praising the regent. He has advised the Commons to grant all of Gaunt’s demands.’ Cranston studied the friar’s anxious face. His smile faded. ‘Brother, what have you found?’

Athelstan waved him into the chamber, closing the door behind him. He pointed to his bed. ‘Sit down, Sir John. Most of the riddle is resolved.’ Athelstan pulled a stool up opposite the coroner. ‘First, we have a regent, John of Gaunt,’ he began, ‘who, for God knows what reason, needs more taxes. He is opposed, savagely disliked by the Commons, so he concentrates on his most vociferous opponents.’

‘The representatives from Shropshire?’ Cranston asked.

‘Precisely. Sir Edmund Malmesbury and his companions, who once belonged to the fraternity of the Knights of the Swan. Gaunt is a ruthless and tenacious man. He discovers their secrets; how, many years ago, they took the law into their own hands and executed peasant leaders who tried to better themselves. Now Gaunt tells Malmesbury and his group just exactly what he knows and what they must do to obtain his forgiveness. The regent then secures their return to Parliament.’ Athelstan pulled a face. ‘That wouldn’t be difficult. The official responsible for the returns is the sheriff, who is always a Crown nominee. Once they arrive in London,’ Athelstan licked his dry lips, ‘Gaunt tells Malmesbury and his group to continue their usual opposition, depicting the regent as an avaricious, arrogant and cunning prince.’

‘Well, at least he was telling the truth,’ Cranston interrupted. Athelstan smiled. ‘The greatest lies, Sir John, always have a certain element of truth. At the same time — ’ Athelstan looked towards the door to make sure it was closed — ‘Gaunt is busy with his spies amongst the Great Community of the Realm. I suspect some or many of its leaders are in his pay. Gaunt arranged that mummery this afternoon. The young king was never in any real danger; that would have been a perilous path to tread; Gaunt would always be blamed if anything happened to the young king. Instead, Gaunt acts the role of the saviour, the loving uncle, the powerful lord defending the golden child. For a while the Londoners, until they regain their wits, will hail him as a saint. Sir Edmund Malmesbury has also been given a sign; full of praise for the regent, he not only withdraws his opposition in the Commons, but actually insists that Gaunt’s demands be approved.’

‘But couldn’t it have been done some other way?’ Cranston asked, scratching his head.

‘Oh, certainly. Gaunt could have demanded that Malmesbury and his group support him from the beginning, but that would have provoked suspicions. Indeed, the regent could have interfered with the election of all the representatives, but that would be a hollow victory; agreeing to the payment of taxes is one thing, collecting them is another.’ Athelstan shook his head. ‘Oh, it’s true, Sir John, what the good Lord said: “The children of light.” Just look at what Gaunt has achieved.’ Athelstan ticked the points off on his fingers. ‘Saviour of the King; the grant of taxes; and, because these representatives will go back to their counties and towns, the regent’s great deeds will be proclaimed throughout the kingdom.’

‘And these murders?’ Cranston asked. ‘Surely Gaunt didn’t plan them?’

‘No, I don’t think he did, but he’s wily enough to make use of them. True, there was a danger that the murders of the knights could be laid at his door, but he deftly avoided that problem by appointing a coroner, who dislikes him intensely, to investigate. Now, Sir John, if you succeed, Gaunt will again get the credit: a just prince who even pursues the assassins of his opponents.’

‘And if I fail?’

Athelstan spread his hands. ‘Gaunt won’t care. All he’ll see is that justice has been done in a strange form of way. Four of his opponents are dead, and Sir John Cranston gets the blame.’

‘And will I succeed?’ Cranston asked. He grasped Athelstan’s arm. ‘You know the murderer, don’t you, Friar? Why don’t you tell me?’

Athelstan leaned over and gently touched the coroner on his face. ‘Because, Sir John, for all your buffoonery, drinking, swearing and belching, you are as honest as the day is long. You wouldn’t be able to hide it and I wouldn’t trap the assassin.’

Cranston blushed and shuffled his great boots. He glanced away, touched by the friar’s compliments.

Athelstan continued. ‘What I want you to do, Sir John, is be with me when I catch him.’ He got to his feet. ‘After I have left, go down to the taproom and make it known that I have trapped the murderer.’

‘Where are you going?;’ Cranston asked.

‘To St Faith’s Chapel,’ Athelstan replied. ‘But don’t tell anyone that, promise?’

The coroner held a podgy hand up, then he took his knife from his sheath. ‘Take that, Brother.’ He thrust the long Welsh dagger at the friar.

Athelstan balanced it in his hands and handed it back.

‘“Put not your trust in chariots”,’ he replied, quoting the psalms, ‘Or the strength of the bow; the Lord Himself will rescue you from the devil who prowls to your right and to your left!’

‘Well, He’d bloody better!’ Cranston muttered, resheathing the dagger. ‘And, when you have gone, what shall I do?’

‘Go outside, Sir John, wait and see who leaves the tavern. Stay awhile, then bring whoever remains with you.’ Athelstan picked up his cloak and, going back, squeezed Sir John’s hand. ‘I’ll be safe.’ He smiled at the coroner.