The House of Crows smoba-6

by Paul Doherty

  ‘No.’ Athelstan smiled bleakly. ‘I became a priest because God wanted that. As, now, He wants the truth!’

  ‘This morning,’ Malmesbury replied, raising his voice and deliberately changing the subject, ‘is important. We have finished the ordinary business and we’ll have the final speeches about the taxes the Crown wishes to levy.’

  ‘You mean the regent?’

  ‘Yes, I mean the regent,’ Malmesbury declared just as loudly.

  Athelstan stared over his shoulder. Goldingham stood in the doorway, staring at them. Athelstan experienced the same depression and sense of hopelessness that he had the previous evening: these knights would tell him nothing.

  ‘I must be going, Sir Edmund.’

  Athelstan drained his tankard and left the tavern: he crossed the yard and went down a narrow alleyway to the riverside. He stood there for over an hour, watching the flow of the Thames, trying to calm his own mind and soul, as well as to observe the statutory fast before he began Mass. He walked slowly on to the abbey, its gardens and yards still silent. He entered the main door into the nave and went up the north aisle, where he found Father Benedict finishing Mass in a chantry chapel.

  ‘Of course, Brother,’ he replied when Athelstan made his request, ‘by all means say Mass.’

  He provided the Dominican with chasuble, alb and amice, and arranged for the bread and wine to be brought down to the small altar he had used. For a while Athelstan knelt, preparing himself, and then he celebrated the Mass of the day. He did his best to concentrate on the mysteries, forgetting the corruption; the lies, deceit and murder which confronted him.

  Afterwards he disrobed and walked slowly back to the Gargoyle. As he made his way through the crowds now pouring up to and around Westminster Hall, Athelstan glimpsed Malmesbury and his party going towards the chapter-house for the first morning session of the Commons. When he reached the tavern, Sir John was already ensconced in the taproom, enjoying a breakfast of meat pie, a dish of vegetables and a pot of strong ale.

  ‘You are in better fettle now, Friar.’ He waved Athelstan to a stool. ‘Rest your weary torso.’ He beamed across the table. ‘Slept like a little pig, I did: although the Lady Maude isn’t here, this is the most comfortable of resting places.’ He nodded towards the door. ‘Our noble knights have gone to their important business, clucking like a collection of fowls. They’re already thinking of home, mind you,’ he added. ‘Wondering how to explain to the good citizens of Shrewsbury why three of their number have not returned alive.’ He was about to continue when he abruptly stopped eating.

  ‘Sir John, what’s the matter?’

  Cranston took another bite out of the pie.

  ‘What a vision of loveliness!’ he exclaimed. ‘Or, at least, one of them is.’

  Athelstan whirled round on his stool as Benedicta, accompanied by a grinning Watkin, came into the tavern. Athelstan rose quickly; he called for more stools and asked Banyard to bring whatever his guests wanted.

  ‘Good news?’ he asked hopefully.

  Benedicta, her face bright with excitement, nodded then blushed as Sir John leaned across the table and hugged her, planting a juicy kiss on her cheek. The coroner grinned at Watkin. ‘I can’t do the same for you, sir!’

  Watkin grimaced gratefully.

  ‘But, there again, you can be my guest.’

  ‘What’s the news?’ Athelstan asked hastily.

  ‘We have captured the ape,’ Watkin declared proudly. The dung-collector shook his head. ‘It came back just before dawn. Perline. .’ He sniffed. ‘That rascal, well, he put fruit down. The ape was almost grateful to be back in its cage. Poor creature, he didn’t look so fearsome.’

  ‘And it’s gone back?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Watkin said before he could stop himself. ‘We lowered Cranston on to a boat and Moleskin and Perline took him back to the Tower.’

  As Benedicta and Watkin described their achievements to Athelstan, the Commons assembled in the chapter-house, eagerly discussing once again the regent’s demands for money. Father Benedict had begun the session by standing at the lectern and intoning the ‘Veni Creator Spiritus’. The Speaker had then gone through the day’s business: he declared that they would meet for an hour and adjourn so that the representatives could break their fast either in the cloisters, where the good brothers would serve ale and bread, or in the cookshops and taverns around the abbey.

  Sir Maurice Goldingham was very relieved when that hour finished: his stomach had been clenched in fear. Whilst speaker after speaker had gone to the lectern, Sir Maurice had been more concerned that he would not disgrace himself. At last the chapter-house bell had begun to ring and the Speaker had declared the session adjourned.

  The representatives streamed out along the vestibule, past St Faith’s Chapel and into the cloisters leading to the yards and gardens. Sir Maurice hurriedly made his excuses and went out through the east cloisters to where the latrines were. These were usually for the monks but, during their meeting of Parliament, they had been set aside for use by the Commons. A row of cubicles, each with its own door, built along an outside wall in one of the small gardens; these latrines were much admired, being washed clean by water taken through elm-wood pipes from the abbey kitchens. Sir Maurice smiled to himself as he lowered his breeches and eased his bowels. He sat there, eyes closed in relief. How luxurious these latrines were! The good lay brothers tended them every day; on the small stone plinth beside him was a clean supply of fine linen cloths. Sir Maurice rubbed his stomach.

  ‘I’ll be glad when it’s all over,’ he muttered to himself.

  He doubted if these gripes were due to anything he had eaten either at the Gargoyle or the cookshops round the abbey. He was just feeling the strain of being forced to stay in Westminster, even though a killer was silently stalking himself and others. Sir Maurice closed his eyes. He recalled Shrewsbury, its guildhall, the marketplace; his own manor, fresh streams and fields and his mistress: a young, obliging widow who had become his heart’s delight.

  Sir Maurice tasted the dryness in his mouth. In Shrewsbury he would be able to order his own wines and foods and take his pleasure in a more leisurely way. He opened his eyes. Sir Edmund Malmesbury had warned them to stay close but, there again, he was not a child. He could hardly ask others to come whilst he squatted upon the latrine as if he was some little boy or frightened maid. Moreover, he could hear the doors further down opening and shutting; others were here. He’d perhaps take a little sugared mead to tighten his bowels and rejoin the rest.

  Sir Maurice picked up a linen cloth. As he did so, he became aware of the growing silence outside. A spasm of fear jarred his stomach. Sir Maurice grimaced and decided to stay on the latrine. He heard a soft footfall outside and relaxed. Others were still around, the doors opened and shut. Sir Maurice straightened up. What was happening? Was someone checking to ensure each of the cubicles was empty?

  Sir Maurice leaned forward and pushed on the door, suddenly deciding that flight was preferable to being attacked. He pushed the door but it wouldn’t open. Sir Maurice sprang to his feet, pushing at the door with all his might, but someone outside had either jammed a log against it or were pressing their weight against it.

  Goldingham hammered on the door. ‘What’s the matter?’ he demanded. ‘Is this a joke?’

  He heard a sound and his stomach curdled so much he sat back on the latrine just as the candle, arrowhead and a scrap of parchment was pushed under the door.

  ‘Oh day of wrath! Oh day of mourning!’ the voice outside hissed. ‘See fulfilled the prophet’s warning! Heaven and earth in ashes burning!’

  Sir Maurice opened his mouth to scream but his throat was dry. He stared at the door, recalling the corpses of Bouchon, Swynford, Harnett and, above all those other dreadful cadavers hanging by their necks.

  ‘Oh, help me!’ Sir Maurice whispered. ‘Oh, Lord God, help me!’ He wetted his lips and opened his mouth to scream. The door of the latrine was abruptly flung open. Go
ldingham saw the shadowy figure standing there, glimpsed the arbalest and, even as he rose, the crossbow bolt took him straight beneath the heart.

  Athelstan and Cranston were just about to return to their chambers after their guests had left, when the door to the tavern was flung open and Banyard rushed in.

  ‘Sir John! Sir John!’ he cried, wiping the sweat from his face. ‘There’s been another murder at the chapter-house.’ The landlord sat on a stool. ‘A messenger has just come, a boy!’ he gasped. ‘I sent him back and told him that you would be there in a while.’

  ‘Who’s been murdered?’ Athelstan asked.

  The landlord shook his head. ‘I don’t know. God have mercy on him, but I don’t know.’

  Athelstan and Cranston hurried out of the tavern and up into the grounds of the abbey. The news of the murder had already made itself felt. Men stood in groups gossiping. A royal messenger was running down towards the quayside, undoubtedly taking the news downriver to Gaunt’s palace at the Savoy. Athelstan and Cranston hurried through the abbey. A captain of archers stopped them at the entrance to the cloisters, but Cranston barked at him furiously, threatening to report him directly to the regent. The man’s face paled. He scratched his head and, muttering apologies, agreed to escort Sir John and Athelstan through the cloisters and into the yard where the latrines stood. Members of the Commons milled about there as Sir Miles Coverdale, helmet off, a drawn sword in his hand, tried to impose order. Athelstan glimpsed the door of a latrine flung open. Malmesbury, Aylebore and Elontius stood round a prostrate figure, faces fearful, as they whispered to Sir Peter de la Mare, Speaker of the Commons. Athelstan followed Cranston as the coroner shouldered his way through. He ignored the knights and immediately crouched by the fallen man.

  ‘God have mercy!’ he breathed, staring at Goldingham’s terror-stricken face, eyes staring sightlessly up; the trickle of blood seeping out of one corner of his mouth and the cruel crossbow bolt embedded deeply in the man’s chest. Athelstan caught the foul smell from the privy and slammed the door shut. He, too, knelt down beside the cadaver.

  ‘It happened so quickly,’ Malmesbury explained. He pointed to Goldingham’s hose, pulled only half-way up his thighs. ‘We tried to make him decent but. .’

  ‘Coverdale!’ Cranston roared.

  Gaunt’s captain came hurrying up. Athelstan studied his face closely. The soldier was pale, eyes frantic, but was he so upset, Athelstan wondered, by yet another killing?

  ‘Sir John?’

  ‘I want this yard cleared!’ Cranston snapped, getting to his feet. ‘Do you understand me?’ He shouted. ‘Apart from Sir Maurice’s companions and Sir Miles Coverdale, I want everyone back in the cloisters.’ Cranston held up his right hand with the huge signet ring bearing the arms of the city. He glared round at these arrogant men, so reluctant to move.

  ‘I am Sir John Cranston, Coroner!’ he bellowed. ‘You must, and you will, move now!’

  ‘If you are the coroner,’ a voice shouted back, ‘why don’t you apprehend the person responsible?’

  Cranston walked into the crowd, shoulders back, and bellowed; ‘If the man who made that remark has the courage to step forward, then perhaps I can explain a few truths about the situation. If he doesn’t, then I call him a caitiff, a coward and a knave!’

  Cranston suddenly drew his sword with a speed which surprised even Athelstan. The coroner held it up, gripping the huge pommel, the long steel blade winking in the sunlight: a knight’s gesture when challenging an opponent to combat. The anonymous detractor, however, and the other representatives, had the sense to keep silent. Cranston, legs apart, white hair bristling, eyes furious, was a fearsome figure, and even more so with that huge broadsword flashing in the sun. The crowd began to stream back towards the cloisters. Coverdale ordered the captain of archers to seal off all approaches, whilst Malmesbury and his companions stood in a little huddle by themselves.

  Athelstan pulled up the dead man’s hose. He grasped the cross which hung round his own neck and whispered the prayer for the dead. Once he had finished, he leaned down even closer: he recited an act of contrition on the dead man’s behalf, and whispered the words of absolution into his ear. Cranston, his sword now sheathed, watched and waited until Athelstan made the final benediction.

  ‘It’s the least I could do,’ Athelstan explained, getting to his feet. ‘Sir Miles,’ he called, ‘where was the corpse found?’

  Coverdale pointed to a latrine. Athelstan walked in, pinching his nose against the stench.

  ‘He was found thrown against the wall,’ Coverdale shouted. ‘The crossbow bolt must have been fired at close range. He looked ridiculous,’ the captain added, walking closer. ‘Half sprawled on the latrine seat, his hose down about his ankles.’

  ‘Who found him?’ Cranston asked.

  ‘I did.’ Sir Humphrey Aylebore came forward, trying to hide his fear beneath a show of defiance. ‘When we were in the chapter-house, I saw Sir Maurice gripping his stomach,’ he explained. ‘When the session ended, he hurried off.’

  ‘So, you knew he had gone to the latrines?’ Athelstan asked.

  Aylebore’s lip curled. ‘Don’t insinuate, Father.’

  ‘I am not!’ Athelstan snapped back. ‘I am merely trying to establish the truth. Sir Maurice apparently came here, as did others. They all left, and when the latrines were empty, the assassin struck.’

  ‘And it was empty when I came here,’ Aylebore answered. ‘The first session lasts only an hour. Most men’s bowels aren’t as loose as Sir Maurice’s.’

  ‘Did he complain of any ailment before?’ Cranston asked.

  ‘Well,’ Malmesbury came forward, ‘Goldingham had a weak stomach. He contracted dysentery in France, as he constantly reminded us whenever he could.’

  ‘Stomach, bowels!’ Aylebore snarled, slamming shut the latrine door. ‘What does it matter?’ He glared at Coverdale. ‘Who let the assassin through? How could a crossbow be brought to the cloisters?’

  ‘Who said my soldiers let anyone through?’ Coverdale retorted heatedly. ‘The only people we let through were the representatives, the clerks: anyone who carried the lawful seal. I have already made inquiries amongst my men. Nothing untoward was noticed this morning. No arms were carried.’ He advanced threateningly on Sir Humphrey, jabbing the air with a finger. ‘Which means, sir, that the killer was already here. One of these good, gentle knights!’

  ‘Peace, peace!’ Athelstan came between Aylebore and Coverdale. ‘Sir Maurice Goldingham is dead,’ he continued quietly. ‘Shouting abuse at each other will not bring him back, or trap his killer.’

  ‘And when is he going to be trapped?’ Malmesbury sneered. ‘When we are all dead, bundled up in our winding sheets, thrown on a cart to be taken back to Shrewsbury?’

  ‘If you had told the truth,’ Athelstan replied. ‘If Sir Edmund, you, or your companions had been honest with Sir John and myself, some of these deaths might not have happened. You could still prevent any more!’

  ‘Oh, singing the same old song!’ Aylebore sneered.

  ‘Yes, I am singing the same old song!’ Athelstan retorted. He went back to the latrine, pulled open the door and, bending down, picked up the small candle, arrowhead and scrap of parchment which he’d glimpsed lying there. Athelstan went and pressed these into Malmesbury’s hand.

  ‘“Remember” what, Sir Edmund?’ he whispered hoarsely. Then, raising his voice, ‘What are you all frightened of? What terrible crime haunts you from the past?’ He stared round but the knights gazed blankly back. ‘Let’s leave, Sir John,’ Athelstan said coldly. ‘We’ll find no truth here!’

  They walked back through the cloisters and out in front of the abbey church. Sir John pointed to a bench beneath the tree where they had sat the previous day. Once they were settled, Athelstan glanced at the strangely silent, rather subdued coroner.

  ‘What’s the matter, Sir John?’

  ‘I wish I hadn’t lost my temper,’ the coroner replied. ‘I shouldn’t h
ave drawn my sword and challenged those men. They will not let such an insult pass.’ He played with the ring on his finger. ‘We have to trap this murderer, Athelstan,’ he added. ‘If we don’t, I am sure that, before the Commons disperse, its Speaker will petition the king for my removal.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ Athelstan replied. ‘How could we have prevented Goldingham’s murder? He went to the latrines and the assassin struck. Oh, Malmesbury may splutter and protest, but his companions refuse to tell the truth. Come on, Sir John.’ Athelstan patted the coroner’s fat thigh. ‘What you need is one of Master Banyard’s pies and a blackjack of ale.’

  Cranston rose mournfully to his feet and they made their way back to the Gargoyle. Athelstan took Sir John out to the small garden, but even the smell of a succulent beef pie and a frothing tankard of ale could not lighten the coroner’s mood. He sat picking at his food, looking utterly woebegone.

  They were almost finished when the potboy announced there was someone to see them. Athelstan followed him back into the tavern. He hoped it would be Sir Edmund or one of his companions, and was rather surprised to see the black cowled figure standing just within the doorway. A vein-streaked hand came out and pulled back the hood. Aelfric the archivist gazed shamefacedly at him.

  ‘Brother, I am sorry about yesterday. As the psalmist says; “I am a worm and no man”. The regent has already taken the evidence you seek,’ he whispered hoarsely. Aelfric withdrew a roll of parchment tied with a scarlet ribbon from the voluminous sleeve of his gown and handed it to Athelstan. ‘He forgot to take this,’ Aelfric continued. ‘I heard about the murder this morning. Ask Sir John to forgive his old master.’

  And he left, like a shadow, through the doorway. Athelstan walked back into the garden, undoing the scroll even as he shouted at Banyard to fill their tankards.

  ‘What was it?’ Cranston asked nervously.

  ‘Your old teacher,’ Athelstan replied, unrolling the vellum. ‘And he brought us something to study.’

  Athelstan stared at the cramped writing, running his eye quickly down the roll which was made up of sheets of vellum stitched together. He put it down as Banyard brought the stoups of ale. Athelstan ignored the landlord’s look of curiosity.