by Paul Doherty
‘I did see him.’ Moleskin looked aggrievedly at his parish priest. ‘I saw him two nights ago. He was standing on the quay-side just near the steps of St Mary Overy. I was bringing one of those knights from the Parliament across.’ Moleskin stopped rowing and rested on his oars. ‘That’s right. Sir Francis Harnett from Stokesay in Shropshire. Funny little man he was.’ Moleskin drew back his oars. ‘All a-quiver, sitting where you were.’
‘And what would a distinguished member of Parliament want with Southwark?’ Cranston sardonically asked.
Moleskin just winked whilst Athelstan glanced away. Aye, he thought, what do the rich ever want with Southwark but the pursuit of some fresh young whore from the many brothels there. He glanced at Moleskin.
‘And Perline?’
‘He was waiting for him on the river steps. Up goes the knight, Perline shakes him by the hand, and into the darkness they go.’ Moleskin pulled a face. ‘That’s all I know.’
Athelstan sighed and squeezed Cranston’s arm. ‘Sir John, this business at Westminster?’
Cranston tapped his nose and nodded towards Moleskin, so Athelstan leaned back in the stern. The wherry, now in mid-river, rounded the bend past Whitefriars and the Temple, crossing over to the northern bank of the Thames. Moleskin, straining at the oars, guided it expertly past the dung boats, a royal man-of-war heading towards Dowgate, fishing craft and the interminable line of grain barges and other boats bringing up produce to the London markets. Even as he rowed the mist was lifting, and Athelstan glimpsed the turrets and spires of Westminster as they caught the morning sun. He closed his eyes and quietly began to recite the ‘Veni Creator Spiritus’, asking for guidance in the problems which faced him in his parish, as well as those awaiting him at Westminster. In their walk down to the quayside, Sir John, apart from shouting good-natured abuse at Athelstan’s parishioners, had told him a little about the regent’s visit: the deaths of Sir Henry Swynford and Sir Oliver Bouchon. Athelstan realised that, once more, they were pursuing a son of Cain. Most of his work with Cranston involved crimes of passion – a knifing in a tavern; a savage quarrel between a man and his wife; the death of some beggar crushed under a cart – but, now and again, something more sinister, evil, swam out of the darkness: cold-blooded murder. Athelstan sensed that at Westminster, what Sir John called the ‘House of Crows’, terrible and bloody murders had been carried out, and that more were yet to come.
Athelstan had reached the line, ‘Life immortal, life divine’, when Cranston dug him in the ribs. Athelstan opened his eyes and realised they had reached King’s Steps. Moleskin was resting on his oars, staring at him curiously.
‘I am sorry,’ the friar muttered, and followed Sir John out of the boat, up the slippery, mildewed steps and along the pathway into one of the courtyards of the palace. All around him rose great, majestic buildings: Westminster Hall where the King’s court sat, St Margaret’s Church and, dominating them all, the Confessor’s Abbey, its huge towers soaring up into the sky. Westminster was always busy. Pedlars, hucksters, journeymen and traders all made a living from those who flocked there: plaintiffs, defendants, lawyers, sheriffs and, more importantly, members of Parliament.
Cranston told the friar to wait by a huge stone cross and went into the abbey through a side door. He was gone some time, so Athelstan sat down on the stone steps leading up to the cross and watched the red-capped judges in their ermine-lined black gowns sweep by: the serjeants-at-law in their white hoods strutting, arm in arm, heads together, discussing the finer points of some statue or legal quibble. Athelstan smiled as a huckster barged between them, shouting at the top of his voice how he had, ‘Oysters! Fresh oysters for sale!’
Two bailiffs came next, a string of prisoners in tow. Athelstan stared compassionately at the captives. All were in tatters, their faces unshaven; their boots and shoes had already been stolen by the gaolers of the Fleet or Newgate Prisons. The bailiffs stopped to refresh themselves at a water tippler’s. Athelstan rose, slipped the boy a coin and, taking his bucket and ladle, went along the line of prisoners offering each a stoup of water. Thankfully, the bailiffs did not protest, and Athelstan had just handed the bucket back, murmuring his thanks, when he glimpsed a face he recognised.
‘Cecily!’ he shouted.
The young blonde-haired girl, dressed in a long yellow taffeta gown, looked round, startled. Athelstan noticed the black kohl around her eyes, and saw how her cheeks and lips were heavily rouged.
‘Cecily!’ he shouted. ‘Come here!’
The young girl tripped across, face as innocent as an angel’s.
‘Father, what a surprise. What are you doing here?’
Athelstan fought to keep his face severe. ‘More importantly, Cecily, what are you doing here?’
The young girl opened her pert little mouth.
‘And don’t lie,’ Athelstan warned. ‘I missed you at Mass this morning and we had an important parish council.’ He grasped her hand and thrust one of his precious pennies between her fingers. ‘Now go back,’ he ordered. ‘Go to King’s Steps. You’ll find Moleskin there. I need you, Cecily.’ He leaned closer. ‘There’s been a demon seen near St Erconwald’s.’ He gripped her warm hand and tried not to flinch at the cheap perfume the girl had covered herself in. ‘Now go back there and help Benedicta! Stay away from here!’
Cecily, biting her lips, nodded. Athelstan pushed her gently away. ‘Go straight home!’ he ordered. ‘I’ll ask Benedicta when you arrived.’
Cecily was already running, and Athelstan gave small thanks that Cecily’s curiosity about a demon would, perhaps, outweigh any reason for her to stay here. He sat back on the steps and glared around, noticing how the young women flocked here, as noisy as starlings.
‘This is God’s house,’ he muttered. He glanced at a pair of girls flirting with an overdressed lawyer. ‘Sir John’s right! It is a “House of Crows”.’
Athelstan recognised the attractions of such a place for people like Cecily. Men from all over England came here: free of their wives and families, they would take full advantage of their short-lived freedom to indulge their every whim. Athelstan glanced towards the abbey. Perhaps the Parliament would change things for the better. Even his parishioners had talked about it.
Pike the ditcher, however, had been as cynical as ever. ‘Only the lawyers get to Parliament,’ he had declared, ‘and we know what liars they are!’ Pike had lowered his voice. ‘But when it comes, when the great Change comes, we’ll hang all the lawyers!’
‘Dreaming, Brother?’
Athelstan looked up sharply. Cranston was just popping the cork-stopper back into his miraculous wineskin.
‘Most of the abbey is sealed off,’ the coroner explained. ‘The Commons are now sitting in the chapter-house and will be until well in the afternoon. So,’ he helped his companion to his feet, ‘let’s look at the corpses. They both lie coffined in the Gargoyle tavern.’
He led Athelstan out of the abbey precincts, along quiet side streets and through the deep arched gateway into a large courtyard which fronted the Gargoyle. It was a long, spacious tavern, three storeys high, its frontage smartly painted, the plaster gleaming white between black polished beams. The roof was tiled and the elegantly boxed windows were full of leaden glass. The courtyard was a hive of activity: ostlers and grooms took horses in and out, a farrier covered in sweat hammered at an anvil. Geese and chickens thronged about the stable doors, scrabbling for bits of grain. Dogs yapped and huge, fat-bellied pigs, ears flapping, snouted at the base of a large, black-soiled midden-heap.
They entered the tavern hallway. The paving stones were scrubbed, the walls lime-washed, the air fragrant with the smell of sweet herbs and savoury cooking. The taproom was large and airy: there were vents in the ceiling between the blackened beams, and large, open windows at the far end looked out over a garden and one of the largest stewponds Athelstan had ever seen. A few customers sat about, mainly boatmen from the river though, even here, the lawyers thronged, sitting in small alcoves, manuscri
pts on the tables before them as they whispered pretentiously to each other.
‘You wouldn’t think the corpses of two murdered men lay here, would you?’ Athelstan whispered at Cranston, who was smacking his lips and looking around. ‘No drinking,’ Athelstan warned. ‘We have business with the “House of Crows”, remember?’
‘And what’s your custom, sirs?’ a tall, thickset man asked.
‘None at the moment,’ Cranston replied, ‘except a word with the landlord.’
The man spread his hands. ‘You are talking to him,’ he replied. ‘I am the tavern-master, Cuthbert Banyard, born and bred within the sound of Bow Bells.’
Athelstan stared at the fellow. He had a strong, arrogant face, burnt brown by the sun, with a thick bush of black hair. The eyes were deep-set, the nose curved slightly; his chin, close-shaven face and thin lips gave him a stubborn look. A man with a sharp eye to profit, Athelstan thought.
The taverner gestured at his stained cote-de-hardie which fell down to just below the knee. ‘It’s a fleshing day,’ he explained. ‘Meat has to be cut and blood spurts.’
‘As it does in murder,’ Cranston retorted.
Banyard drew his head back.
‘I am Sir John Cranston, Coroner of the city. This is Brother Athelstan, my secretanus, parish priest of St Erconwald’s in Southwark.’
Banyard smiled deferentially. ‘My lord Coroner, how can I help?’
‘First,’ Cranston replied, ignoring Athelstan’s groan, ‘a blackjack of ale. Your best, mind you, not the scrapings of some open cask. And whatever smells so fragrant in your kitchen?’
‘Capon cooked in mushrooms and onions.’
‘One dish.’ Cranston looked at Athelstan. ‘No, two dishes of that, and a drink, Brother?’
‘Some ale,’ Athelstan replied resignedly.
Cranston swept by the landlord to a table under the window: ignoring Athelstan’s warning glances, he began to point out the different herbs growing in the garden.
‘Now that’s motherwort,’ Cranston explained. ‘You can tell by its hard, brownish stalk: it makes mothers joyful and settles the womb, provokes urine, cleanses the chest of phlegm and kills worms in the belly.’
Cranston turned, rubbing his hands, as the tapster laid down two pewter dishes with delicate strips of capon covered in rich sauce followed by two pots of ale. Cranston and Athelstan took out their horn spoons. Athelstan nibbled, for he had little appetite. Sir John finished his, then attacked his companion’s with equal relish. Once he had finished, Cranston beckoned over Banyard, who had been standing in an alcove watching them closely.
‘Sit down, man. Where are the corpses?’
‘Upstairs, each in their chamber,’ the landlord replied, wiping his hands carefully on a napkin. ‘It’s good that you ate, my lord Coroner, before you viewed them.’
Cranston turned on his stool and leaned against the wall.’ ‘Corpses don’t upset my humours, man. Human wickedness does. Sir Henry was killed when?’
‘Late last night. He went into Sir Oliver’s chamber.’ He pointed to a slattern, a jolly, bouncing girl with long blonde hair. She was at the far side of the tavern, busily serving a number of boatmen and laughing at their banter. ‘Christina saw the door open and went in. You could have heard, the screams at Whitefriars. I ran upstairs. Sir Oliver was in his coffin, Sir Henry dead as a doornail upon the floor.’
‘And where were his companions, the other knights?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Most of them were in their chambers,’ Banyard replied.
‘Most of them?’ Athelstan queried.
Banyard smiled deprecatingly. ‘Brother, I have my hands full managing a tavern. I cannot tell you where each of my guests goes in the evening.’ Banyard grinned. ‘Though it would be interesting to speculate.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ Cranston demanded.
‘My lord Coroner, it’s best if you ask them.’
‘And so all the knights and representatives from Shrewsbury stay here?’ Athelstan asked. ‘Is that customary?’
‘Yes, it is,’ Cranston intervened. ‘Members of Parliament tend to sit according to their counties or lordships. The chancellor issues a writ, convoking a Parliament, to every sheriff in the kingdom. He then organises a meeting of the freeholders of the shire who elect their representatives.’ Cranston grasped his chin. ‘There have been Parliaments at Westminster for the last hundred years, and the Commons are becoming more organised.’
‘You know a lot, my lord Coroner.’ Banyard’s admiration was obvious.
‘Ahem, yes.’ Cranston cleared his throat. ‘I am writing a treatise.’
Athelstan closed his eyes and just hoped Cranston wouldn’t wander off on some interminable lecture. The coroner must have caught his look because he grinned.
‘Suffice to say I’ve studied the whole question of Parliaments. However, as I have said, they are becoming more organised. They have a speaker, they meet in their own chamber, and they have learnt not to grant taxes until certain demands are met.’ He blew his cheeks out. ‘Accordingly, many members know a Parliament is to be summoned months in advance.’
‘And that is what happened here,’ Banyard added. ‘Weeks ago the knights sent a courier asking me to set chambers aside. We have all the representatives from Shrewsbury here.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Cranston snapped, ‘but when did they arrive?’
‘Oh, nine days ago,’ Banyard replied. ‘Five days before the opening of Parliament.’
‘And before these deaths, nothing amiss happened?’
‘Nothing.’ The landlord shook his head. ‘Very little, my lord Coroner, except talking. They’re all very good at talking. They’d break their fast talking and return from Westminster to sit in the taproom here and gossip until even the dogs droop with exhaustion.’
‘And Bouchon’s death?’
Banyard pointed across the room. ‘He and his companions were over there feasting and drinking. Oh, they were all full of themselves, though I noticed Bouchon looked quiet and withdrawn. They drank deep.’ Banyard pulled a face. ‘But why should I object? Well, on that particular evening, the gentlemen were discussing business of a different sort, the pleasures of the flesh.’
‘You mean a bawdy house?’
‘Yes.’ Banyard looked uncomfortable. ‘Now, there’s nothing of that sort here, sirs. I keep a respectable house, though I confess I turn a blind eye to whomever they bring back.’
‘This bawdy house?’ Cranston demanded.
‘Dame Mathilda Kirtles conducts a discreet establishment,’ Banyard replied. ‘In Cottemore Lane, a little further down the riverside.’
‘And did Sir Oliver leave with them?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Oh no. Towards the end of the meal, Sir Oliver rose, put his cloak on, pulled his hood up and left the tavern. The others called after him but the man was lost in his own thoughts. He was gone in the twinkling of an eye.’
‘And you don’t know where?’
‘My lord Coroner, I was busy that night. Ask any of the servants here. I never left the tavern. We closed well after curfew. We have a licence to do so,’ he added hastily.
Athelstan sipped from his blackjack and stared round the tavern. It was, he thought, a veritable palace amongst hostelries: the plaster walls were freshly painted, the rushes underfoot were green and crisp and, when he pressed his sandal down, he could smell the rosemary sprinkled there. The tables were of oak and finely made. There were stools, proper benches, and even a few high-backed chairs. Glass and pewter plates stood on shelves. Above them on the mantelpiece was a colourful depiction of a gargoyle fighting a knight which curled and writhed around its opponent’s sword. The food was well-cooked and, from Cranston’s murmurs of pleasure, the ale was undoubtedly London’s finest.
‘You do a fine trade here, Master Banyard,’ Athelstan commented.
‘Oh, most comfortable, Brother. Most comfortable indeed.’
‘Do you know most of the people who come here?’
Banyard’s eyes moved quickly. ‘Yes I do, Brother. And, if they are strangers, they always come back. I can tell from the cut of a man’s cloth what he is: a boatman, a serjeant-at-law, a courier, a bailiff, or one of the royal officials from the Exchequer or Chancery. But, before you ask, I saw no strangers, nothing out of the ordinary.’
‘And Sir Oliver’s body?’ Cranston asked.
‘It was found downriver,’ Banyard replied. ‘Some fishermen found it amongst the weeds near Horseferry.’
‘Oh, of course.’ Cranston leaned back. ‘I remember playing there as a boy.’ He declared. ‘The weeds grow long, lovely and thick.’ He smiled over at Athelstan. ‘Just near Tothill Fields.’
‘How did they know it was Sir Oliver?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Oh, he had some documents in his wallet, water-stained but still legible, so the fishermen called a clerk. He could tell from the cut of the corpse’s clothes that he was a man of importance: the body was brought back into Westminster Yard, where Sir Miles Coverdale, who is responsible for guarding the precincts of the palace, recognised the corpse and sent it back here.’
‘And was a physician called?’ Cranston asked.
‘The man was dead and smelt of fish, Sir John. But no,’ Banyard added hurriedly, seeing the coroner frown. ‘He was taken upstairs. In the afternoon his companions came from the chapter-house. I hired an old woman from Chancery Lane. She stripped the body and laid it out in a shift.’ Banyard glanced at the timbered ceiling. ‘But I’ll be glad when they move it and the other to the death-house at St Dunstan’s in the West.’
‘Quite so,’ the coroner nodded. He waved his empty tankard in front of Banyard’s nose, hoping the taverner would refill it, but Banyard, used to such tricks, refused even to notice it.
‘There was no mark on the corpse?’ Athelstan asked.
‘So the old woman said.’
‘And Sir Henry?’
‘Well, he seemed the most upset of Bouchon’s companions. I offered to send for a chantry priest to come and conduct the death-watch. He agreed. Now Father Benedict, he’s a Benedictine monk,’ Banyard explained, ‘and chaplain to the Commons. But he’s so busy that I sent for a chantry priest from St Bride’s in Fleet Street. You can go there and ask. But as for last night – well, you’d best ask the wench. Christina!’
