The House of Crows

CHAPTER 14

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.

‘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.’

Banyard stared back.

‘You were born in Shropshire. Your father was a hardworking farmer,’ Athelstan continued. ‘He resented the taxes due to the seigneurs, and their demands for forced labour, when he preferred to sell his work to them for wages. He met with others who thought similarly, and they resisted the lords of the soil with their destriers, helmets, tournaments, tourneys, levies, taxes, exactions, bridge-tolls and constant streams of demands.’ Athelstan shrugged. ‘I don’t know exactly what happened, but I think your father just ignored the likes of these three knights here, the so-called fraternity of the Knights of the Swan.’

‘Brother Athelstan,’ Malmesbury spluttered, ‘I object.’

‘Shut up!’ Athelstan snapped. ‘Now these seigneurs, led by Sir Edmund, petitioned the Crown, but to no avail; so they took the law into their own hands.’

‘This is slanderous.’ Aylebore half rose to his feet, his hand falling to his dagger.

Coverdale sprang to his feet; drawing his sword, he held the point only a few inches away from Aylebore’s chest.

‘Sit down!’ Coverdale ordered. ‘And if any of you move again, I’ll strike and claim I was defending Brother Athelstan and the lord Coroner?’

Sir Humphrey slumped back on the bench. Coverdale, smiling from ear to ear, also took his seat, but he kept his sword before him, cradling the pommel in his hand.

‘Continue, Brother Athelstan,’ he said softly, ‘because I think you are going to tell a tale of which I know a little.’ He tapped the point of the sword on the paving-stone. ‘And no one will interrupt you again.’

‘As I said,’ Athelstan declared, ‘Malmesbury, Aylebore, Goldingham, Harnett, Swynford and Bouchon and perhaps others…’ Athelstan stared at the knights. ‘I thought one of you might be innocent!’

Elontius put his face in his hands.

Athelstan sighed. ‘But, no, you’re all guilty.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Ah well, these seigneurs saw themselves as lords of the earth, the descendants of Arthur and his knights. They played at being paladins until they lost their cup whilst, outside their dreams, the world was changing. Men like your father, Master Banyard, caked in soil, were rising above themselves. These lords formed their coven; visored, hooded and cloaked they struck at individual peasant farmers. First they would warn them by sending a candle, an arrowhead and a scrap of parchment with the word “Remember” scrawled on it.’ Athelstan saw the tears prick Banyard’s eyes. Men such as your father must have wondered, “Remember what?”

‘The threats soon became real enough, as individual farms were raided, the men dragged off and hanged, whilst these good knights sat on their horses and chanted the “Dies Irae”, their song of death.’ Athelstan glanced at the three knights. They looked as if they had grown old in such a short space of time, faces crumpled, shoulders bowed. They didn’t look up but just stared at the floor, lost in their own nightmares.

‘Now, in God’s eyes no sin goes unpunished,’ Athelstan continued. ‘These knights were probably successful, warnings were given, warnings received, but men like yourself, Master Banyard, never forget. You had nothing to do with Shropshire, but fled to London where, by hard work, you built up a tavern famous for its food and hospitality.’ Athelstan cocked his head sideways. ‘I wonder,’ he said, ‘did you always plot their deaths? Did you, over the years, nurse a terrible thirst for vengeance? Brood about the arrowhead symbolising violence, the candle for the funeral, and the terrible threat behind the word “Remember”!’

‘They took him out,’ Banyard began to speak. ‘we were eating our supper round the table. My father, my mother and myself. The door was flung open. Armed men, masked and cowled, burst into the room. My father tried to resist but they knocked the knife from his hand. Laughing and jeering, they pulled him out into the darkness and bundled him on to a horse.’ Banyard paused and put his face in his hands. ‘My mother just screamed, like a whipped dog. She went into a corner, crouching there, stuffing the hem of her smock into her mouth.’ Banyard, lost in the past, shook his head. ‘We’d heard about the deaths, the other executions. My father had been sent the candle, the arrowhead and the note, “Remember”, but he scoffed at them and threw them into the fire. Banyard glanced up with such a look of horror on his face that Athelstan felt a spurt of sorrow at how greed and power had destroyed this man’s life.

‘I ran after them.’ Banyard declared. ‘Fast as an arrow but it was too late. They took my father down to an oak tree at the bottom of a meadow just near a stream. I could see his body twirling and the bastards chanting. I hid there until I saw their faces, then I went back to our farm. Within a year Mother was dead. By then I had a list of my father’s killers.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘I sold our land and came to London.’ Banyard stared down at his hands. ‘I worked night and day. Brother Athelstan, I have good cause to hate these men, but did I kill them?’ His tone became more confident, a sly, secretive look on his face.

Athelstan realised how the pain and desire for revenge had, over the years, unhinged the taverner’s mind.

‘You killed them,’ Athelstan remarked softly.

‘But, Brother,’ Coverdale interrupted, ‘is it not the most remarkable of coincidences that these knights came to a tavern owned by the son of a man they had killed?’

‘Oh, I think Banyard knew that these knights would come to London, Athelstan replied. Sooner or later every great lord must come to Westminster but, of course, Banyard helped matters along. Sir Edmund, you’ve stayed at the Gargoyle before?’

The knight seemed not to hear.

‘Sir Edmund,’ Cranston went over and shook Malmesbury’ s shoulder. ‘Brother Athelstan asked you a question.’

‘Yes.’ Malmesbury raised his haggard face. ‘Both I and my companions had stayed at the Gargoyle before. The hospitality, the food…’

‘And the lowest rates?’ Athelstan added. He glanced at the taverner. ‘Only God knows,’ he continued, ‘what Master Banyard plotted. Did he hope to make enough money to go back to Shropshire and wreak his revenge on his father’s assassins? However, as the Parliaments were called and Malmesbury and his companions began to attend, his murderous idea certainly took root. Over the years, Banyard would encourage, solicit their custom.’

‘Why didn’t he strike then?’ Cranston asked.

‘Oh, I am sure he was tempted to but, as I understand, not all the same knights attend every Parliament. What Banyard did was ensure that they always came to his tavern by charging them rates much lower than any other hostelry. Isn’t that right, Sir Edmund?’

The knight just nodded.

‘Of course,’ Coverdale intervened, ‘Malmesbury and his companions always congratulated themselves on the tavern of their choice, on not being charged the exorbitant prices other representatives were.’

‘That was the lure,’ Athelstan remarked. ‘Then someone else became involved in the game, no less a person than His Grace the Regent.’ Athelstan held a hand up to still Coverdale’s protests. ‘No, don’t object, Sir Miles. The regent knows I am telling the truth, as do these men here. Gaunt arranged for all the Knights of the Swan, all those involved in those dreadful murders at Shropshire, to be returned as representatives to the Commons. Of course, as usual, they sent a steward to London to look for lodgings, and mine host Banyard was ready and waiting.’ He shook his head. ‘It was no coincidence, Sir Miles, that all those knights found lodgings in the Gargoyle. I made inquiries amongst other representatives. I went into Westminster Yard yesterday. Oh yes, many of them had asked for lodgings at the Gargoyle, only to find the place was full. Mine host had arranged that. He was waiting for Malmesbury and the rest.’

‘So, he turned others away?’ Malmesbury asked. ‘In order that we took lodgings with him?’

‘Sir Edmund, whom did you send to London?’

‘My steward, Eudo Faversham.’

‘And he would tell Banyard who was journeying up to Westminster?’

‘Of course!’

‘And he found no difficulty in hiring rooms here?’

‘No, no, as I have said, we have stayed here before. My steward came back saying we had fair lodgings at reasonable prices.’

Banyard, who had been listening coolly to all this, uncrossed his arms. ‘And, when they arrived, Friar,’ he taunted, ‘how did I kill them?’

‘Oh, that you’d planned well,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Bouchon was easy. Remember the night he left the supper party at your tavern? He didn’t say he was going anywhere. He simply went out. Now, if he was going to meet someone threatening, Bouchon would have taken a sword, but when his body was fished from the Thames, he wasn’t even carrying his knife. No, what I suspect happened is that you, Master Banyard, lured Bouchon out into the tavern yard on some pretext. Perhaps he was wondering who had delivered the arrowhead and candle at the tavern. Anyway, you meet him near the compost heap, that mound of rich black soil. You felled him with a blow to the head. He falls on to the mound, which explains why we found the black soil under his fingernails.’ Athelstan paused. ‘You then slid back into the tavern, going about your duties. At the appropriate time you leave. You put Bouchon’s body in a wheelbarrow, covered by a sheet of canvas, and trundle it down to the Thames, only a few yards away. The river was running at full tide; Bouchon’s body, however, kept near the bank until it was caught amongst the reeds near Tothill Fields.’

‘And Swynford?’ Aylebore asked.

Athelstan noticed bow all three knights now seemed frightened of Banyard. They hardly looked at him, as if he was the veritable incarnation of their terrible deeds and the vengeance they had provoked.

‘Oh, that was not as difficult as it appeared,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Banyard himself sent for the chantry priest. He knew Father Gregory would be away. Indeed, such a toper posed no real threat to his plan.’

‘All that was seen of this strange priest was a cowled figure walking across the taproom and upstairs,’ Cranston interrupted. ‘However, nobody could remember seeing the priest leave.’ Cranston beamed round, proud of his own conjectures.

‘I was running a risk, wasn’t I?’ Banyard taunted. ‘If anyone had stopped me. .’

‘Oh, you chose your time well,’ Athelstan said. ‘The tavern was very busy, more concerned with the living than the dead. Let us say someone had stopped or recognised you, then it would just be mine host returning to his chamber to doff his cloak and return to his duties. You were very clever. You can go missing from the tavern whenever you wish. No one asks questions. No one will object and, if inquiries are made — well, the Gargoyle is a spacious place. There are stores to be checked, cellars to be inspected, a whole range of outhouses where you could claim you had been busy. Oh, no, you were safe right up to the very moment you put that garrotte string round Sir Henry Swynford’s throat. A powerful man like you, death would have occurred in seconds. Only once did you come near to being detected, when Christina heard that dreadful chant. After the deed was done — ’ Athelstan pulled a face — ‘you slipped out of the chamber. You returned to your own room, the cloak was hidden and, once again, you became mine genial host.’

Banyard leaned forward, as if this was some game. ‘And how do you explain, Brother, how I could go through so many guards, enter the Pyx chamber, and slay Sir Francis Harnett?’

‘Harnett’s death intrigued me,’ Athelstan replied. ‘A fussy little man, totally absorbed with buying that ape stolen from the Tower.’

‘What was that?’ Aylebore interrupted.

‘It doesn’t matter now,’ Cranston replied. ‘But your companion had bribed a guard at the Tower to steal an ape.’

Malmesbury sneered and shook his head. ‘The man was always a fool,’ he whispered. ‘At his manor house in Stokesay, he was for ever trying to collect strange birds and animals.’

‘Now Harnett went to the brothel with you,’ Athelstan explained. ‘But as Mistress Mathilda told us, no swords are allowed. You went unarmed?’

‘Yes, that’s true,’ Malmesbury replied.

‘However, later that evening, Harnett was seen along the riverside. He was carrying his sword.’

‘So he must have gone back to the tavern to collect it?’ Malmesbury asked.

‘Precisely, Sir Edmund. Yet Master Banyard here never told us that. Now, when I was searching amongst Harnett’s possessions, I noticed there were certain items missing. I couldn’t decide what and then I suddenly realised: he had pen and ink but no parchment, no vellum; not a scrap to write upon.’

‘What’s the significance of that?’ Coverdale asked.

‘Well, first, I am sure all of Harnett’s companions had similar writing implements: they would bring a roll of parchment for their own purposes, whether it be for private use or use in the Commons.’

‘Yes, that’s true,’ Aylebore cried. ‘Sir Francis was for ever scribbling.’

‘But what’s the significance?’ Coverdale repeated.

‘Sir Miles,’ Athelstan asked, ‘if you wished to steal an animal such as an ape from the Tower, what would you need? Remember, you have to keep it in London and then transport it, somehow, back to Shrewsbury?’

The captain grinned and scratched his cheek.

‘Well, the animal would have to eat. There’d have to be a cage.’ His hands flew to his lips. ‘And, of course, a place to hide it.’ He pointed at Banyard. ‘Sir Francis must have told you about his plot.’

‘Of course he did,’ Athelstan said. ‘I suspect Sir Francis was very close to mine host. He not only went back to the Gargoyle to collect his sword. He must also have entered into negotiations with him about supplies, carts, a cage and, above all, a place around that spacious tavern to hide the animal he hoped to buy. Now, Sir Francis, as one of his companions has just described, was a constant scribbler. He must have listed all his requirements, yet I found not a scrap of parchment amongst his possessions. Of course, these would have been removed by Master Banyard after he had taken Sir Francis’s head.’

‘More importantly,’ Cranston added, ‘Sir Francis was lured to his death by Banyard who knew about his secret negotiations with the soldier from the Tower. In his haste and excitement, Sir Francis forgot about the killer stalking him: his mind was stuffed full of dreams about obtaining an exotic animal.’

‘And how did I get into the Pyx chamber at Westminster Abbey?’ Banyard taunted. ‘How could I go through cordons of soldiers and archers? Whistling a tune, an axe over my shoulder?’

‘Oh, no, there was something else missing from Harnett’s possessions.’ Athelstan retorted. ‘His seal. And I wondered where the seals of the other two dead knights were as well.’ Athelstan glanced at Coverdale. ‘Did you ever find those?’

The knight shook his head. ‘No, I. .’ His voice faltered. ‘I never even thought about them.’

‘Banyard did,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘He took the seals of the first three men he killed and used them to get into the abbey. After all, the soldiers on duty there can’t be expected to recognise each of the two hundred different representatives who have come to this Parliament. People going to and fro. Typical soldiers, they had their orders: anyone carrying one of those seals bearing the chancellor’s imprint were to be allowed through. Now, when Harnett was killed it was dusk. Members of the Commons were hurrying hither and thither. Banyard, probably wearing the cloak and hood he is now, slips in.’

‘But the axe?’ Aylebore asked.

Athelstan gestured round the church. ‘Take a good look round here, Sir Humphrey. Look at the stacked stools and benches, the shadowy recesses, the small alcoves, the gap behind the altar.’

‘You mean the axe is hidden here?’

‘Probably,’ Athelstan replied, ‘or somewhere close to the Pyx chamber. I told the servants at the Gargoyle before I left that I was going to St Faith’s Chapel to look for an axe. Banyard pursued me here, not only because I knew his true identity, but because I was searching for evidence. I am sure that, when we find the weapon, someone will recognise it as an axe used at the Gargoyle tavern.’

‘But when did he put it here?’ Coverdale asked.

‘Long before the Commons ever assembled,’ Athelstan replied. ‘And the same goes for the crossbow he used to kill Goldingham. Remember that tangle of gorse bushes near the latrines off the east cloister?’

‘Of course,’ Coverdale replied. ‘Before the Commons met here, Banyard could come and go as he pleased.’

Athelstan continued. ‘Now, on the night he killed Sir Francis, Banyard came into the vestibule, up into St Faith’s Chapel, collected the axe, went down to the Pyx chamber and murdered Sir Francis Harnett.’ He glanced at Banyard and saw the fear in the man’s eyes. ‘Poor old Harnett,’ Athelstan declared. ‘But he did not die in vain. Only when I reflected on what was missing from his possessions did the tangle begin to unravel: the lack of parchment, his personal seal, his desire to buy an ape stolen from the Tower. All this, together with the fact that he returned to collect his sword the night he left for Southwark, made me begin to suspect Master Banyard. I took what I’d learnt and applied it to the deaths of the other knights: Bouchon not wearing his sword; the dirt under his fingernails. The evidence still pointed to Banyard. The same is true of Swynford being garrotted in his chamber at the tavern.’

‘And Goldingham?’ Malmesbury asked.

‘Well, once I knew how Banyard had passed through the guards, that was easy. Goldingham had a weak stomach. He was always talking about it. .?’

Malmesbury nodded.

‘And no doubt he approached mine host to ask for this or that special delicacy?’

‘Yes, yes, he did,’ Malmesbury replied. ‘Sops soaked in milk. Goldingham always fussed about what he ate and drank.’

‘And the morning he died?’ Athelstan asked

‘He ate what we did. Porridge made of oatmeal, some bread.’

‘Aye,’ Athelstan nodded. ‘He also ate something which was not in yours; a slight purgative, courtesy of mine host, to loosen the bowels and send him hurrying to the jakes. Banyard knew all about the Commons and its sessions, either by making inquiries or listening to your conversations. All he had to do was enter the cloisters and stand by those latrines, probably hiding in a cubicle holding the crossbow and bolt which he had taken from its hiding place. After that it was easy. He knew Goldingham would come, either during the session or after. It was just a matter of waiting. Once the latrines were empty he struck: a crossbow bolt into Goldingham’s heart. The arbalest was hidden again and, in the confusion before anyone knew what had happened, Banyard was out of Westminster, hastening back towards his tavern.’

Athelstan spread his hands. ‘We must also remember that, if anything went wrong, Banyard could easily explain his presence and wait for another opportunity either here or in Shrewsbury. Westminster, however, was an ideal place.’

‘No one would miss him,’ Cranston intervened. ‘After all, mine host here owns the tavern. Where he goes and what he does is his own business. The Gargoyle is simply a walk away and, because he lives near the abbey buildings, no one would ever remark on his presence.’ Cranston rose and stood over the taverner. ‘Master Banyard.’

The taverner lifted his face, pallid and sweat-covered.

‘Master Banyard, do you have anything to say?’ Cranston asked. ‘In answer to these accusations?’

Banyard half smiled, as if savouring a joke.

‘The axe is behind the altar, Brother,’ he declared, ignoring Cranston. ‘You’ll find it there.’ He blinked and wetted his lips. ‘I’d like a pot of ale,’ he said quietly. ‘The best my tavern can provide.’ He laughed. ‘But that’s all over now, isn’t it?’ He sat up, breathing deeply. ‘I was born Walter Polam in the parish of St Dunstan’s, Oswestry, Shropshire. When I was fifteen these men killed my father, as they had murdered others. I left Shropshire and invested all I had in a tavern near Cripplegate. I thought I would forget the past.’

He stared up at the ceiling. ‘I changed my name. I married, but Edith died of the sweating sickness, so I sold the house and bought the Gargoyle tavern. Have you ever looked at the sign, Brother? It depicts a knight with a twisted, leering face.’ He nodded, rocking himself backwards and forwards. ‘Oh, of course, I dreamed of vengeance. After Edith’s death these dreams began to plague me. I took a vow that I would return to Shropshire and seek vengeance on my father’s assassins!’ Banyard smirked at Malmesbury. ‘And then you arrived at the Gargoyle, a knight of the shire, a representative of the Commons. Others came with you.

‘I began to plan your deaths. I prayed that one day I would have all of you under my roof — and so it happened. That pompous steward of yours, Faversham, comes bustling along and, of course, I had rooms for you.’ He glanced at Athelstan. ‘Not all of them came, you know. There are at least another two in Shrewsbury with whom I have unfinished business. But,’ he shrugged, ‘what happened is as you described it. Bouchon, Swynford.’ Banyard jabbed his finger towards Malmesbury. ‘You I was leaving till last! I wanted to wait until you returned to Shropshire, so I could hang you from the same tree as you did my father-’

‘Banyard,’ Sir John broke in, ‘I arrest you for the horrible crime of murder.’

‘And what about these?’ the taverner sneered back. ‘Aren’t they assassins as well?’ He smiled. ‘I’d like to hang from the same gibbet as they do.’

‘You cannot touch us!’ Malmesbury shouted back. ‘The regent has offered us pardons for all crimes committed.’

He looked more fearful as Coverdale rose and unrolled a piece of parchment from his wallet. The captain of guards tapped each of the three knights on their shoulders.

‘Sir Edmund Malmesbury, Sir Humphrey Aylebore, Sir Thomas Elontius, I arrest you for murder.’

‘This is hypocrisy!’ Aylebore shouted, springing to his feet. ‘The regent promised pardons. By what authority do you do this?’

Sir Miles lifted up the piece of parchment with Gaunt’s seal affixed to it.

‘All your names are written here, sir. The regent gave it to me this morning. I was not to execute it until after the king had visited his Commons.’

‘But the regent offered us a pardon,’ Malmesbury insisted, tears in his eyes.

Sir Miles smiled. ‘Only His Grace the King can do that, sir.’

He deftly plucked the daggers from each of the three men’s belts and, going to the door, shouted for the guards. For a while the chapel was plunged into chaos. Malmesbury and his companions shrieking their innocence, cursing the regent’s treachery. Banyard laughed hysterically, shouting abuse, almost dancing with joy at what had happened. Eventually the chapel was cleared, the prisoners being led off, escorted by archers. Coverdale bowed mockingly at Cranston and Athelstan, then left them alone in the silent chapel.

The coroner sat down, mopping his brow. Athelstan went up behind the altar and, moving some benches, found a sharp-edged axe lying against the wall. He brought it back and sat where Banyard had, placing the axe gently on the floor beside him.

‘At least he cleaned it,’ he murmured. He glanced up as Cranston took a generous swig from the ever-present wineskin. ‘We’ll have to tell Father Abbot so this chapel can be blessed and reconsecrated.’

Cranston put the stopper back in the wineskin and gazed sadly at Athelstan.

‘I can read your mind, Sir John,’ Athelstan declared softly. ‘Why didn’t I tell you, eh?’

‘You did it all yourself,’ Cranston answered.

‘No, I didn’t, Sir John. You are as clear as the purest water on a summer’s day. If I had told you it was Banyard, you would have betrayed it all with a look or a sign.’ Athelstan jabbed a finger at the chapel floor. ‘I needed to trap Banyard here. Now it’s all finished.’ Athelstan smiled bleakly. ‘The regent is a cunning fox.’ Athelstan stared up at the crucifix. For a few seconds he desperately wondered if the death of Christ, the love of God, or the service of religion had anything to do with a world where the likes of John of Gaunt ruled supreme.

‘Gaunt was very clever,’ Cranston declared. ‘He forced those knights to come here. He blackmailed them, then turned his opponents into his most ardent supporters, only to close the trap and have them arrested for the secret crimes he had been threatening them with.’ Cranston sighed noisily. ‘How on earth will it end?’

‘Oh, Gaunt will be merciful,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘Malmesbury and the likes will have to make a very full confession, pay a very heavy fine, and take a vow to go on pilgrimage. Oh yes, Gaunt will end up the richer. He’ll hang them by the purse and have the likes of Malmesbury at his beck and call.’

‘And Banyard?’ Cranston asked.

‘What do you think, Sir John?’

The coroner rubbed his chin. ‘We can’t hang one without the other,’ he replied slowly, ‘so I don’t think Banyard will hang at Tyburn or Smithfield. Gaunt will seize his chattels and goods and become the proud owner of a very prosperous tavern. Banyard will be forced to abjure the realm and wander Europe, a penniless beggar.’ Cranston smiled grimly. ‘Do you know, Brother, I glimpsed so much hate in that man. If I were Sir Edmund Malmesbury, I would not sleep easily in my bed.’

Cranston lumbered to his feet. ‘Nothing really ends, does it, Brother? We are just like dung-collectors. We clean the refuse and take it away from the eyes and noses of those who live around us.’ The coroner groaned loudly then nudged his companion. ‘One thing you didn’t explain. Why weren’t the red crosses etched on Harnett’s and Goldingham’s faces?’

Athelstan shrugged. ‘Banyard had made his mark in both senses of the word. He probably didn’t have time.’

‘Such dreadful acts,’ Cranston declared mournfully.

Athelstan got to his feet. ‘Sir John, you are becoming melancholic. Let us celebrate in the Holy Lamb of God. We have done what we can: that’s all the Lord asks, and that’s all the good Lord wants!’ He thrust the axe he’d found into Cranston’s hand. ‘Now, come, let’s be Jolly Jack again and, if you are,’ Athelstan stepped back and held his hand up, ‘I swear I’ll never again mention a Barbary ape!’

John of Gaunt sat in his private chamber, high in the Savoy Palace. He stared out through the open window at the evening star, and secretly smiled at the success of his own subtlety. He played absentmindedly with the amethyst ring on his finger.

‘Only one snag,’ the regent murmured to himself. He glanced to where his cowled scrivener sat by a small writing desk. Gaunt had listened very carefully to Coverdale, secretly marvelling at Athelstan’s sharp perception of the tangled web Gaunt had woven. The regent straightened in his chair. Cranston he could take care of, the coroner was a royal officer. But Athelstan? Gaunt glanced at his scrivener.

‘Draft a letter,’ he murmured, ‘to Prior Anselm at Blackfriars. Tell him I am grateful for the good services of Brother Athelstan, yet now I do fear for him in the sea of troubles which now confronts us. Tell him. .’ Gaunt lifted up a finger. ‘Tell him I would like to see Athelstan removed: his talents can be better used in the halls of Oxford.’ Gaunt sat back in his chair and, closing his eyes, dreamed his dark dreams of power.