The House of Crows smoba-6

by Paul Doherty

  ‘Good, on Monday last-’ Cranston began.

  ‘Tarry a while.’ Harnett pointed at Covérdale. ‘Must he stay?’

  ‘Yes, he must. If he goes,’ Cranston replied, ‘so do I. Sir Miles, do relax. Sit down. This will not take long.’

  Cranston paused to dab his face with the edge of his cloak, glanced across at Athelstan and winked. The friar stepped forward. Pushing his hands up the sleeves of his habit, he walked towards the knights. They watched him curiously.

  ‘My lords,’ Athelstan began, ‘on Monday night Sir Oliver Bouchon left a supper party which you all attended at the Gargoyle tavern. According to witnesses, Bouchon was distressed and subdued. He did not return and his body was later recovered amongst the river reeds near Tothill Fields.’

  ‘So?’ Malmesbury asked. He watched Athelstan like Bonaventure would a mouse.

  ‘Why was Sir Oliver so upset?’

  The knights just stared back.

  ‘Did he tell you where he was going?’

  Again silence.

  ‘Did he tell you about receiving the arrowhead, the candle and the scrap of parchment with the word “Remember” scrawled on it?’

  ‘He told us nothing,’ Malmesbury replied. ‘Isn’t that true, my lords?’ He mimicked Athelstan’s words and grinned at his companions.

  ‘We have talked about this amongst ourselves.’ Elontius scratched his red, bristling beard: close up, he looked not so fierce, and Athelstan caught a softness in the man’s popping eyes.

  ‘Brother, we do not mean to insult you, or Sir John,’ he continued. ‘But we know nothing of Sir Oliver’s death, God rest him. Yes, he was quiet; yes, he left the tavern; and that’s the last any of us ever saw of him.’

  ‘So you know nothing which might explain his death? Why should someone send the arrowhead and other articles to him? And why would anyone want to kill him?’

  This time a chorus of denials greeted his questions. Athelstan looked down at the tiled floor and moved the tip of his sandal across the fleur-de-lys painted there.

  ‘And later that evening, my lords?’ He raised his head. ‘You left for other entertainment?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Goldingham mimicked. ‘We left for, er, other entertainment at Dame Mathilda’s nunnery in Cottemore Lane.’

  Harnett began to snigger. Elontius looked a little embarrassed. Aylebore smirked but Malmesbury kept watching Athelstan intently: as he did so, the friar began to wonder where he had seen Sir Edmund before.

  ‘So you went to a brothel?’ Cranston came over. ‘That’s what Dame Mathilda runs: a molly-house for men away from their wives.’ Cranston now stood over the knights, legs apart, his blue eyes glaring icily at them. He shook his head and wagged a finger at them. ‘This is not a matter for laughter. What happens, my lords, if these deaths are not resolved and I have to come to Shrewsbury to ask these questions before you and your wives?’

  ‘That would be rather difficult,’ Goldingham spluttered. ‘Mine’s dead.’

  ‘Then, sir, she is most fortunate.’

  Goldingham’s hand flew to his dagger.

  ‘Why don’t you draw?’ Cranston taunted. ‘Or, better still, Sir Maurice, smack me in the face with your gloves. I can still mount a charger and tilt a lance. My aim is true and my hand as steady as when I fought for the Black Prince.’

  Malmesbury turned and gripped Goldingham’s shoulder. ‘Sir John, we apologise. And to you too, Brother Athelstan. I will answer for the rest and they can contradict me if they wish. Sir Oliver left the tavern that night and did not return. None of us knew what he was worried about. True, we tried to cheer him up, but he was in a deep melancholy. After supper, our good landlord took us to Dame Mathilda’s house in Cottemore Lane. We all stayed there till the early hours, then came back — ’ he forced a smile — ‘much the worse for drink. Naturally, we were all shocked by Sir Oliver’s death but, there again, London is full of footpads. And,’ his words were veiled in sarcasm, ‘we understand such attacks are common.’

  Athelstan stared along the row of faces. You are lying, he thought. You’ve all sat together and prepared this story: if Sir John and I questioned you individually, you’d just sing the same song.

  ‘The same is true of Swynford’s death.’ Harnett spoke up.

  Athelstan caught the tremor in the man’s voice, the quick flicker in his eyes. He decided to seize an opportunity to ask Sir Francis what business he had along the river.

  ‘Yes, yes.’ Cranston walked back to the lectern. He peered over his shoulder at Coverdale. The young captain lounged on the steps, such hatred in his eyes that Cranston wondered whether he had acted wisely in asking Gaunt’s henchman to remain.

  ‘I suppose,’ Athelstan declared wearily, ‘that Swynford’s death also came as a surprise and distressing shock to you all; that you know nothing about why an arrowhead, a candle and a scrap of parchment were sent to him; and that last night, when he was murdered, you were all busy in your own affairs?’

  ‘Yes, that’s true,’ Malmesbury replied. ‘We were tired after the night before, distressed about Sir Oliver’s death, so we stayed at the Gargoyle.’

  ‘And you have witnesses to that?’

  ‘I was with Sir Edmund,’ Elontius replied. ‘In his chamber, rolling dice and talking about events.’

  ‘And you, Sir Humphrey?’

  Aylebore pulled a face. ‘I retired early. I paid my respects to Sir Oliver’s corpse. For a while I sat talking to the landlord and Goldingham here. I left the taproom and went to my own chamber. The first I knew anything was wrong was when the landlord raised the alarm. Isn’t that correct, Goldingham?’

  Sir Maurice ran a hand through his neatly coiffed hair.

  ‘It’s true and the landlord will stand guarantor for me. For a while I talked to him about the wine trade and the attacks by French pirates on our cogs from Bordeaux. He left and I flirted with the lovely Christina.’

  ‘And one of you saw the priest arrive?’

  ‘I did.’ Goldingham spoke up. ‘The tavern was rather busy, the taproom filled. I was trying to seize Christina’s hand when the door opened. I saw a figure in a cloak and cowl.’ Goldingham shrugged. ‘He swept into the room, Christina said something to him and he went up the stairs. After that,’ he yawned, ‘I really can’t remember. I went up to prepare for bed until I heard the landlord shouting.’

  ‘Did anyone see the priest leave?’ Athelstan asked.

  ‘How could we?’ Malmesbury retorted. ‘I was with Sir Thomas. Aylebore was in bed, Goldingham in his chamber. The first we knew of Swynford’s death was the landlord screaming like a maid.’

  ‘Which leaves you, Sir Francis.’ Athelstan smiled at Harnett. ‘Where were you last night?’

  ‘I was. .’ The close-set eyes blinked. ‘I was in my chamber all the time.’

  ‘And on the previous evening?’ Athelstan asked.

  Harnett opened his mouth to lie, but the silence of his companions betrayed him.

  ‘I left Dame Mathilda’s early,’ he confessed. ‘I went down to King’s steps and hired a barge.’

  ‘For where? Sir Francis, please tell me the truth.’

  ‘I went to the stews in Southwark, to the bath-house there.’

  He gazed round, flushed, as his companions hid their sniggers behind their hands.

  ‘So, you were not tired from the evening’s exertions?’ Athelstan remarked drily. ‘Sir Francis, I am parish priest of St Erconwald’s: the bath-houses on the riverside are notorious brothels.’

  ‘So?’ Harnett’s face came up, his lips pursed. ‘I went there for refreshments, Brother, as probably do a great many of your parishioners.’

  ‘And then you came back,’ Athelstan continued, ignoring the insult.

  ‘Yes, I came back.’ Harnett shrugged. ‘What more can I say?’

  What more indeed, Athelstan thought? He smiled to hide his despair: these men were lying, even laughing at him. Yet there was little he or Sir John could do to bring them to boo
k. He glanced over his shoulder. Cranston had now moved to sit beside Coverdale. Athelstan coughed noisily because the coroner was now leaning slightly forward, eyes drooping. Oh, don’t fall asleep, Athelstan prayed. Please, Sir John! He felt they were treading a narrow, dangerous path; the slightest slip and these powerful knights would break into mocking laughter. They would declare they had nothing more to say and sweep out to continue their pleasures and other pastimes.

  ‘And Sir Henry Swynford,’ Athelstan almost shouted as he turned and walked back towards the knights. He hoped Sir John would stir himself. ‘And Sir Henry,’ he repeated just as loudly, ‘gave no indication that he had received the same artefacts as Sir Oliver Bouchon?’

  ‘No, he didn’t,’ Aylebore grumbled, ‘and I’m getting tired of this, Brother.’

  ‘And so none of you knows of any reason why he should have been murdered?’

  ‘If there was, we’d tell you,’ Malmesbury retorted.

  ‘What were Sir Oliver and Sir Henry supposed to remember?’ Athelstan asked.

  ‘If we knew,’ Sir Edmund sarcastically replied, ‘you’d know.’

  ‘You were all friends?’

  ‘More companions and neighbours,’ Aylebore replied.

  ‘But you were all Knights of the Swan?’ Athelstan asked.

  For the first time he saw the mask slip: Malmesbury flinched whilst his companions stirred restlessly.

  ‘That was many years ago,’ Malmesbury muttered. ‘The foolishness of youth, Brother Athelstan. Times goes on. People change and so do we.’

  ‘So the noble Fraternity of the Knights of the Swan no longer exists?’ Athelstan asked.

  ‘It just died.’

  ‘When the friendship between you did?’ Athelstan asked.

  ‘Friar,’ Sir Humphrey Aylebore warned, ‘you are becoming impertinent.’

  ‘Brother Athelstan,’ Sir Thomas Elontius intervened kindly, ‘we all live in the same shire. We fought in the same battles. We marry into each others’ families. We meet for the tournament or the hunt. We laugh at weddings and mourn at funerals. We have our disagreements, but nothing to provoke murder between us.’

  You are like Sir John, Athelstan thought, glancing at Elontius; despite your red hair and bristling beard, you are a kind man.

  Sir Thomas held his gaze. ‘We know nothing, Brother,’ he whispered hoarsely, ‘of why these two good knights should be so foully slain.’

  ‘And the red crosses etched on the faces of the two corpses?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Malmesbury rasped.

  ‘In which case,’ Cranston declared, wheezing as he got up from the steps and ambling across the chapter-house floor, ‘my secretarius will write down what you have told us. You are innocents in this matter. You know nothing that could assist us. You are willing to swear as much on oath?’

  ‘Show us a book of the Gospels,’ Goldingham taunted, ‘and I’ll take my oath.’

  ‘In which case. .’ Cranston looked over his shoulder at Coverdale.

  ‘Festina lente,’ Sir Maurice Goldingham spoke up. ‘Hasten slowly, my lord Coroner.’ He spread his podgy hands. ‘We have sat here and answered your questions, but the fact remains that two of our companions lie foully slain. You and your friar have come here and, by your questions, insinuated that their assassin could be one or all of us. Yet,’ Goldingham got to his feet shrugging off Malmesbury’s warning hand, ‘these men were killed in London, in your jurisdiction, my lord Coroner. Both men, like us, spoke out strongly against the regent and his demands for fresh taxes.’ Goldingham pressed a podgy finger into Cranston’s chest. ‘Now people are beginning to whisper that they might have been killed by those who do not like such outspokenness.’ He pressed his finger even harder but Cranston did not flinch.

  ‘These men were our friends,’ Goldingham continued hoarsely. ‘Their blood cries to heaven for vengeance. You have been sent by the regent so I tell you this: if these deaths are not resolved and the assassin caught, I personally will stand at that lectern and tell the Commons that their murderers walk free because certain officers of the king are too incompetent to catch them, and that those same officers should be replaced.’

  Cranston grasped the knight’s podgy finger and squeezed it until Goldingham winced. ‘I have heard you, Sir Maurice,’ he whispered, ‘and I call you a fool. I swear two things myself. First, I shall trap this murderer and watch him hang, his body cut down, quartered and disembowelled.’ The coroner raised his voice. ‘Secondly, the deaths of these men are shrouded in mystery, but you are all fools if you believe that they will be the last to die.’

  CHAPTER 5

  ‘Thank God we are out of there!’

  Cranston and Athelstan stood in the forecourt before the great doorway of the abbey. They had left the knights in the chapter-house, Cranston not waiting for any reaction to his warning. He had just spun on his heel and strode out, with Athelstan and Coverdale following behind. The captain of Gaunt’s guard had been grinning from ear to ear at the way Cranston had dealt with those powerful men. After they had passed through the cordon of soldiers, he was impatient to enjoy the representatives’ discomfort, and could hardly wait to whisper his goodbyes to Athelstan.

  ‘Did I do right?’ Cranston breathed in noisily.

  He took out his wineskin, toasted the statue of the Virgin standing on a plinth next to the abbey door, and took generous swigs.

  ‘They threatened you, Sir John, and there was no need for that. However, Goldingham might be correct. We have no proof that Bouchon’s and Swynford’s killer is one of those knights.’

  ‘Bollocks!’ Cranston cursed. ‘They were telling a pack of lies. They sat there like choirboys or mummers in a play reciting lines.’

  ‘But that does not mean they are trying to hide anything about the murders,’ Athelstan insisted. He linked his arm through Sir John’s and guided him away. ‘You have met such men before, Sir John. You know their ways,’ he added flatteringly. ‘They grew up together, served as pages and squires in the same households. They are linked by blood and marriage. They go to war, share the spoils and, in peace time, stand shoulder to shoulder.’

  ‘Don’t speak in riddles, Friar!’

  ‘Come, Sir John, there is no riddle. You have just taken one swig too many of that wineskin. No, don’t glare at me. You’re father of the poppets, and glaring at me from under those bushy white eyebrows is only pretence. What I am saying,’ Athelstan continued, ‘is that of course those men have got a great deal to hide, but they may have nothing to do with the murders.’

  ‘So how do we find out?’

  Athelstan poked the wineskin beneath Sir John’s cloak. ‘In vino veritas, Sir John. In wine there’s truth.’

  ‘You mean Banyard?’

  ‘Of course. Show me a landlord who says he doesn’t eavesdrop on his customers’ conversations and I’ll show you a liar.’

  They made their way out of the abbey. They had to take a circuitous route through narrow, foulsome alleyways to the Gargoyle, since a burning house had closed off the more direct path.

  ‘Isn’t it strange?’ Cranston murmured. ‘We have just left the abbey where kings are crowned and parliaments are held, a sacred and venerable place; yet every rogue in the city seems to gather round it.’

  Athelstan had to agree. He saw two characters, one with a patch over his eye, both with their hoods pulled up, following a pretty whore who was tripping along past the stalls. Both men were greedily watching the embroidered purse which swung from her gaudy girdle. At the corner of the alleyway three dummerers were holding up placards claiming they were deaf-mutes, had been since birth, and would passers-by please spare them a farthing?

  ‘Liars!’ Cranston snorted with disbelief.

  ‘But they are genuine,’ Athelstan exclaimed.

  ‘Watch this,’ Cranston muttered.

  He crossed the street, jumping over the overflowing sewer in the centre, and waited till a small crowd had gathered round, ready to give coins. Cranston drew hi
s dagger, sidled close behind one of the dummerers and, as he passed, nicked the man’s bottom with his dagger point. The fellow dropped his sign and screeched like a bird.

  ‘Who did that? Who did that?’

  The spectators looked on in stupefaction.

  ‘A miracle,’ Cranston declared, holding up his dagger. ‘The man can speak.’ He advanced threateningly on the other two. ‘And perhaps I can perform the same for you.’

  All three men grabbed their small bowls of coins and fled like hares up an alleyway. The word must have spread: as Cranston swept by, different characters, all begging for alms, disappeared into the shadows. Their places were soon taken outside doorways, or in the empty spaces between houses, by a legion of other vagabonds: ballad-mongers, hucksters, relic-sellers, as well as the ubiquitous pardoners eager to sell indulgence and penances to pilgrims flocking to the tomb of Edward the Confessor. At times the alleyways became packed, the noise so intense that Cranston and Athelstan had to struggle to get through.

  ‘Why is it that religion attracts so many rogues and fools?’ Cranston bawled. ‘Surely the good Lord objects?’

  Athelstan felt like reminding him that, during his lifetime, Christ had attracted both saints and sinners. However, the clamour was so loud he decided to leave his advice for another time. At last they turned a corner and found themselves under the tavern sign of the Gargoyle. Athelstan stared up at the devil’s head depicted there. Truly frightful, painted in a greyish-green against a scarlet background. The demon’s straggling hair, horrid eyes and roaring mouth as it attacked a knight in full armour, reminded the friar of his own troubles at St Erconwald’s. They entered the taproom: Banyard was standing up by the wine tuns holding forth to a group of boatmen about the rising price of ale and beer. He broke off and smiled at Athelstan and Cranston.

  ‘Well, my lord Coroner, what can I do for you? Some refreshment?’

  ‘Yes,’ Athelstan replied hastily. ‘And if I can hire a writing-tray?’

  ‘Feed the body first,’ Cranston growled.

  ‘Some charlet?’ Banyard offered. ‘Pork mixed with egg,’ he explained. ‘And the bread will be fresh.’