Paul Doherty - The House of Crows

‘Is this really necessary?’ Cranston insisted. ‘Do you want to trap this assassin so much?’

‘I don’t want to trap him at all,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘God does!’

He left his chamber and went down the stairs. Cranston followed. He watched as the friar stopped to chat to the flaxen-haired Christina, and then to a potboy near the door. Once he was gone, drawing curious glances from those seated in the taproom, Cranston followed him down. Instead of going to a table, he deliberately marched into the centre of the room and beamed around.

‘Why so pleased?’ Sir Miles called from where he sat in a corner.

‘Why, sir,’ Cranston retorted, ‘The king has been saved, the regent has his taxes, whilst Brother Athelstan, God knows where he has gone, believes he has unmasked an assassin!’ Cranston was pleased at the surprise in the captain’s face.

‘Who is it?’ the man spluttered harshly, shattering the silence throughout the taproom.

The coroner slyly tapped his fleshy nose. ‘A veritable ferret, our friar.’ He beamed around. ‘He knows the truth.’ He shook his head. ‘And the truth is never what you expect it to be.’

‘This is preposterous!’ Aylebore snarled, half rising to his feet from where he sat next to Elontius.

His sentiments were echoed by Malmesbury, whose face had gone deathly pale.

‘Preposterous it may be,’ the coroner replied, ‘but my secretarius will only move in his own good time. Till then, you must wait.’

Cranston walked out into the darkness. He hid in a corner and watched the alleyway leading up to the abbey. He must have stood there for some time: he was about to wonder whether Athelstan was correct when a fleeting shadow caught his eye and a cloaked figure sped like the angel of death out of the tavern and up the alleyway.

The assassin, not realising he had been seen, sped on, determined to reach that inquisitive little friar and silence him once and for all. He recalled Cranston’s statement in the taproom, and wondered if the coroner really knew the truth. Whatever, the assassin reasoned, he had to act; he had very little to lose and a great deal to gain.

He crossed the great deserted square before the abbey, and slowed down as he saw the line of archers around the entrance to the Jericho Parlour. Quickly wiping the sweat from his face, the assassin brought out the seal from his wallet; the guards, busily sharing a wineskin of wine, let him through without demur. At the entrance to the cloisters, the same thing happened. The assassin entered the vestibule leading to the chapter-house and breathed more easily. He went down, then paused: the door to the chapel was open and a faint glow of light peeped through. The assassin smiled. He went back to a long line of bushes which grew in a tangle of undergrowth just outside the east cloister. The assassin walked carefully. He stopped on the fourth paving stone and, crouching down, scrabbled about in the bushes till he caught the leather sack and drew it out. He undid the cord, grasped the small crossbow, and pushed two bolts into his wallet. He carefully hid the bag, slipped along the vestibule and up the steps to St Faith’s. He pushed the door open. Only one candle was lit on the altar. He glimpsed the cowled figure kneeling at the prie-dieu. The assassin slipped through the door, inserted the crossbow bolt, and pulled back the winch. The chapel was deathly quiet. The assassin raised the crossbow, even as he began to chant those dreadful words, ‘Dies irae, dies ilia. .’

He released the catch; even as he did so, he sensed something was wrong. The figure hadn’t even flinched at his words. The assassin moved into the church; as he did so, the door behind him slammed shut. He whirled round. Athelstan was staring at him and, beside the friar, stood a young archer, an arrow notched to his bow.

‘Good evening, Master Banyard. It is mine host from the Gargoyle?’

Banyard’s hand fell to the second bolt in his pouch.

‘Walk back!’ Athelstan ordered. ‘Simon here is an excellent archer. When I came through the cloisters, I asked him to accompany me. If you try to flee or draw the knife beneath your cloak, he will loose an arrow straight into your arm or your leg. You’ll still have to listen, but in terrible agony.’

Banyard drew back the cowl of his cloak. His dark, thickset features betrayed no fear. His eyes flickered backwards and forwards, first to Athelstan then to the archer. He looked over his shoulder at the prie-dieu.

‘Oh, don’t worry about that,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Just a few sacks of grain; one of Simon’s companions brought them in here for me. I put them on the prie-dieu and covered them with my cloak. In the poor light I thought it was rather lifelike — and so did you.’

Banyard took a step forward. The archer immediately loosed the arrow which sped a few inches past his face, making him swerve. By the time Banyard had steadied himself, a second arrow had been notched.

‘I shall shoot again,’ the bowman declared softly. ‘This is God’s house and Brother Athelstan is here on the orders of the regent.’

‘Do what Simon says,’ Athelstan said. ‘It is useless to resist. Outside there are more archers. I have asked them to stop anyone who tries to leave.’ Athelstan pointed to a bench next to the wall. ‘Now, sit down there. Simon will look after you.’

Banyard obeyed. Athelstan went to the altar. He took the candle burning there and began to light more of the candles as well as two sconce torches. He then pulled across the sanctuary chair and sat opposite Banyard. The landlord just lounged back against the wall, staring at Athelstan from under heavy-lidded eyes.

‘You are probably thinking about how you can explain the attack, aren’t you?’ Athelstan began. ‘I wondered if you’d come. It’s the only real mistake you’ve made, isn’t it?’

Banyard just smirked.

‘That’s why I told Christina and the potboy before I left that I was going to St Faith’s Chapel. When my lord Coroner made his announcement in the taproom you panicked, made inquiries, and followed me here.’

Again Banyard just stared at him. Athelstan suddenly realised that the landlord probably didn’t even suspect Athelstan knew about the terrible murders committed by Malmesbury and the rest so many years ago at Shropshire. Banyard was still confident: without any real evidence, he could worm his way out of this trap and scoff at any allegations laid against himself. Athelstan sat back, gazing at a point in the wall above the taverner’s head.

‘What are you waiting for, priest?’ Banyard leaned forward, hands on his knees. ‘So I came into St Faith’s Chapel and shot an arrow into someone I thought was lurking here.’ He pointed to the sacks still heaped on the prie-dieu. ‘The church courts might fine me, but what else have I done?’

‘You are a killer, Banyard,’ Athelstan replied slowly. ‘You murdered Bouchon, Swynford, Harnett and Goldingham!’

‘And why should I do that?’

Athelstan heard footsteps outside. ‘I shall tell you in a while, Master Banyard, but for the moment I think we have visitors.’

The door of the chapel swung open. Cranston came blustering in. He stared at the bowman, Athelstan, Banyard and then at the prie-dieu.

‘Satan’s tits!’ he breathed.

Then he crossed himself: his surprise was echoed by Coverdale and the three knights who came in behind him. Athelstan sat further back in the sanctuary chair. He felt like a judge giving sentence. Cranston, Coverdale and the rest hurried to find seats. Banyard still remained calm, his eyes never leaving the friar.

‘Bow bells,’ Athelstan began, ‘When I first met you, Banyard, you said you were born within the sound of Bow bells, a Londoner.’ Athelstan leaned forward. ‘In which Parish? Which street? Which ward? Tell me, and Sir John Cranston will check the records.’