The House of Crows

CHAPTER 3

The taverner, shaking his head, led them up to the first-floor gallery. He stopped on the stairwell, his dark face framed by the mullioned glass window behind him. Athelstan smelt the fragrant pots of herbs on the small sill and, from the yard below, heard the strident crowing of a cock. For some strange reason Athelstan recalled the words of the Gospel, about Peter’s betrayal of Christ before the cock crowed thrice. He steeled himself: he and Cranston were about to enter a dark, tangled maze of murder and intrigue amongst the wealthy lords of the soil. Swynford’s and Bouchon’s deaths were certainly no accidents, nor were they the victims of unhappy coincidence.

‘Well, what are we waiting for?’ Cranston snapped.

Banyard lifted a finger. ‘Listen, Father.’

Athelstan strained his ears and heard the faint mumbling.

‘It’s Father Gregory,’ the taverner explained. ‘He came this morning to anoint the corpses. After that,’ he continued cheerfully, ‘they’ll be taken down to the local corpse-dresser, an old woman on the far side of the palace. She will remove the bowels and stuff the bodies with spices. I understand Sir Edmund Malmesbury is hiring a small retinue to escort them back to Shrewsbury.’

Cranston made to go on, but Banyard put his arm across next flight of stairs. ‘I think we should wait,’ the taverner declared.

‘And I think we shouldn’t,’ Cranston growled.

Up he went. Athelstan shrugged apologetically and followed. He glanced down the stairs where Christina was staring up at them, her mouth in a round ‘O’.

‘Don’t worry, child,’ Athelstan called back. ‘We’ll all be safe with Sir John.’

They went along the gallery and into a chamber. Even though the windows were open and the shutters thrown back, the air reeked of death and decay. The two corpses lay in their coffins on a specially erected trestle-table at the foot of the four-poster bed. The priest kneeling on a cushion crossed himself and got up hastily. Grey-skinned, grey-haired, with a long, tired face, watery eyes and slobbery mouth, Athelstan took an instant dislike to Father Gregory. He looked a born toper; Athelstan, feeling guilty at his harsh judgement, walked forward, hands extended.

‘Father Gregory, we apologise for interrupting your orisons. I am Brother Athelstan from St Erconwald’s, this is my lord Coroner, Sir John Cranston.’

The priest forced a weak smile and limply shook Athelstan’s hand, then winced at Cranston’s powerful, vice-like grip.

‘God have mercy on them!’ the priest wailed, his hands fluttering down at the corpses. ‘Terrible deaths! Terrible deaths! Here today and gone tomorrow, eh, Brother?’

He swayed slightly on his feet, and Athelstan wondered if he had fortified himself with more than prayer.

‘Why didn’t you come last night?’ Cranston asked, squatting down on the stool and mopping his face with the hem of his cloak.

‘I was away you see. Every. .’ The man was gabbling. ‘Every week I visit my mother for a day. I came back this morning and found Master Banyard’s note. Terrible, terrible.’ He babbled on. ‘To think that a priest could garrotte a man so.’

‘If you wait downstairs,’ Banyard said kindly, ‘Christina will give you some food, Father. My lord Coroner here needs to inspect the corpses.’

The priest threw a fearful look at Sir John, then scuttled from the room.

‘And you can join him,’ Cranston smiled at the taverner. ‘We no longer need you here.’

Banyard pulled a face but walked out, slamming the door behind him. Wheezing and grumbling, Cranston got to his feet and stared down at the corpses.

‘It happens to us all, Brother, but death is a terrible thing.’

Athelstan sketched a blessing in the air and squatted down beside the corpse on the left. A yellowing scrap of parchment at the top of the coffin proclaimed it was Sir Oliver Bouchon: a thin beanpole of a man, his harsh, seamed face made all the more dreadful by the slimy water of the Thames. The skin had turned a bluish-white, the lips were slack. Someone had pressed two coins on the eyes; Athelstan noted also the small red crosses dug into the forehead and each cheek. The corpse had been stripped of its clothes and dressed in a simple shift. Athelstan pushed this back and, swallowing hard, felt the cold, clammy flesh. Bouchon’s cold corpse was covered with scars and welts which Cranston identified as sword and dagger cuts: others were the marks of tight-fitting belts or boots.

‘An old soldier,’ Cranston declared. ‘He must have seen service abroad. Hell’s teeth, I need a drink!’

‘In a short while, Sir John, but please help me.’

Cranston obliged and they turned the corpse over. Athelstan stared at the flabby buttocks, muscular thighs and hairy legs: he felt a strange sadness. Here lay a world in itself: what hopes, what joys, what fears, what nightmares permeated this man’s life? Was he loved? Did he have ideals? Would people mourn that he had died? Athelstan ran his fingers through the still wet, thick black hair at the back of the man’s head.

‘Ah!’ he exclaimed.

‘What is it, Brother?’

‘Feel for yourself.’

Cranston’s stubby fingers searched the back of the skull but stopped as he felt a huge, hard welt.

‘Bring me a candle,’ Athelstan said.

Sir John handed him one of those Father Gregory had lit, and Athelstan held this down close to the hair. The hot oil from the tallow candle sizzled and spluttered as it slipped on to the still damp hair, yet it provided enough light for Athelstan to make out the huge, angry contusion.

‘If anyone says,’ Athelstan declared, ‘that Sir Oliver Bouchon slipped and fell into the Thames, then he’s a liar or ignorant. Someone gave this poor man a powerful whack on the back of his head.’

‘Why didn’t anyone else notice it?’

‘Because no one was looking for it, Sir John.’

Athelstan got up and handed the candle back. ‘Sir Oliver here was knocked senseless and then thrown into the Thames. It’s a pity the corpse is undressed; I would have liked to have established that he was knocked unconscious whilst he was walking along the river bank.’

‘What makes you think that?’

Athelstan turned the corpse over and gently grasped each hand, pointing at the dirty fingernails and the muddy marks on the palm of each hand.

‘If he was knocked unconscious elsewhere,’ Athelstan explained, ‘I would expect to see bruises where Sir Oliver’s body was either dragged along the cobbles or thrown into some cart. However, as you can see, apart from the bruise on the back of his head, there are no others. But there are the dirt marks under his nails and on the palms of his hands. Bouchon must have been near the river edge. His assailant knocked him unconscious and Sir Oliver fell face down, probably in some mud. His body was then lifted up and rolled into the river.’

‘But wouldn’t the water wash the stains off his hands and nails?’

Athelstan shook his head. ‘It might from the clothes, even from the face.’ He knelt down and examined Sir Oliver’s stubby features. ‘Though even here, apart from these small red crosses, there’s no mark or contusion, which is strange. Whatever, to answer your question directly, Sir John, the river water would remove any superficial mud stains from the face and clothing. But tell me, my lord Coroner, have you ever seen a corpse, the victim of some brutal assault, where the hands are open and the fingers splayed?’

Sir John smiled and shook his head.

‘Sir Oliver was no different,’ Athelstan continued. He held his own hands up, curling the fingers. ‘Next time you look at your poppets, or the Lady Maude when asleep, notice how they curl their fingers into their hands. The unconscious man is no different. After a short while, even in the river, rigor mortis sets in. The body stiffens, hence the faint dirt on the palms of his hands and beneath the nails from where he fell. What is more,’ Athelstan grasped Sir Oliver’s right hand, ‘notice how the dirt is deeply embedded. Sir Oliver must have fallen and, for a few seconds before he lost consciousness, gripped the mud as he fell, clawing it like an animal.’ Athelstan shook his head. ‘Poor man. May God grant him eternal rest! Now, for Sir Henry.’

Sir John went across to the other side of Swynford’s coffin. Athelstan knelt down and loosened the shift tied under the dead man’s chin. The friar had to pause and close his eyes at the terrible rictus of death on the grey-haired knight’s face. The mouth was still contorted in a grimace, the eyes half open, the head slightly turned so that the coins placed on the eyes had slipped away. It looked as if the corpse was about to waken and utter some terrible snarl of fury at being thrust so swiftly into the darkness. Swynford’s face, too, had been disfigured by the red crosses gouged in his skin. Athelstan tilted the man’s chin back. He studied the angry weal around the throat, digging deep where his Adam’s apple now hung.

Athelstan loosened the shift and pulled it down, but could detect no bruise or contusion; though Sir Henry, like Sir Oliver, bore the weals and scars of a soldier’s life. Then, with Sir John’s help, he turned the corpse over and stared at the bruise on the small of the man’s back.

‘How did that occur?’ he whispered.

‘Kneel down, Brother.’ Sir John smiled at his secretarius. ‘Go on, kneel down, and I’ll show you how he died.’

Athelstan knelt.

‘No, no, on one knee only,’ Sir John declared. ‘That’s how a knight prays: one leg up, one down, ever ready for action.’

Athelstan obeyed. He heard Sir John come up quietly behind him: suddenly his head went back as Sir John’s belt went round his throat, biting into his neck even as he felt Sir John’s knee dig into the small of his back. Athelstan spluttered, his hands flailing out, the belt was whisked away. Sir John pulled him to his feet and spun him round. He saw the alarm in the gentle Dominican’s face.

‘Here, Brother, have a sip from the wineskin!’

This time Athelstan did not refuse: he took a generous mouthful and thrust the wineskin back to Sir John.

‘Well done, Coroner. You were so quick!’

‘The mark of a professional assassin.’ Sir John rewarded himself with two generous swigs. ‘The garrotte is much speedier than many people think. In France I saw young archers, no more than boys, do the same to French pickets when we went out at night. A terrible death, Brother; so quick, even the strongest man finds it hard to grasp his enemy.’

Athelstan nodded. Even though he had panicked, he realised he could not have fought against Sir John, who had kept him thrust away with his knee whilst swiftly choking him with the belt. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and stared down at Swynford’s corpse.

‘That’s how he died. He came in here and knelt. The assassin, pretending to be a priest, came up behind him. Sir John, how long would it take?’

‘Well, Brother, if you started counting to ten, very quickly, Swynford would have been unconscious by the time you’d reached five.’

‘And all the time the murderer was chanting, making a mockery of the “Dies Irae”.’ Athelstan stared round the chamber. ‘Sir John, we need to examine the possessions of these dead men.’

Cranston agreed and went out of the gallery. Athelstan heard him at the top of the stairs shouting for Banyard. The friar stood between the two coffins, closed his eyes, and said his own requiem for these souls snatched so abruptly from their bodies.

Cranston came back. ‘Come on, Brother, they are in the next room. The taverner has given me the key.’

Athelstan followed him out into the adjoining chamber which had apparently been Sir Henry Swynford’s. The men’s clothing lay in two heaps on the floor. Athelstan went through these carefully. Bouchon’s was sopping wet, still marked and stained by the river, but he could find nothing amiss; even the knight’s dagger was still in its sheath. Cranston, meanwhile, was sifting amongst the other possessions: going through wooden caskets covered in leather, opening saddlebags, small metal coffers, each bearing the arms of the dead men: Bouchon’s, a black boar rampant against a field of azure; Swynford’s, three black crows against a cloth of gold, quartered with small red crosses. There were coins and purses, knives as well as several small, calfskin-covered books sealed with leather clasps. Athelstan opened these.

‘What are they, Brother?’ Cranston asked.

‘The Legends of Arthur,’ he replied. ‘You know, Sir John, Launcelot of the Lake. Tristram and Isolde.’ He picked up another tome. ‘The same here: Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. The Search for the Grail. It’s strange. .’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, Brother! King Arthur and his Round Table are popular legends. Chaucer and other poets are constantly writing about them. When I was younger, it was quite common for young, fashionable knights to hold Round Tables where they could joust and tourney.’

‘I find it strange that two knights, albeit from the same shire, should enjoy the same stories. And here, look.’ Athelstan sifted amongst the jewellery on the bed. ‘Here are two chains bearing identical insignia.’ He separated the items. ‘Each carries the image of a swan with its wings raised.’

Cranston picked them up. Both medallions were identical, the swans exquisitely carved with ruffled, fluffed wings and arching necks.

‘They are no gee-gaws from some market booth,’ the coroner murmured. ‘These were the special work of a silversmith.’

‘And look,’ Athelstan added, picking up two rings. ‘Each of these, wrought in silver, also bears the image of a swan.’ He put them close together. ‘They are different sizes,’ Athelstan declared. ‘I saw the marks on the fingers of the corpses next door. What I am saying, Sir John, is that both Swynford and Bouchon belonged to some society or company with an interest in the legends of Arthur, and the badge of their company was a silver swan.’

‘Knights of the Swan.’ Cranston sat on the edge of the bed and chewed the corner of his lip. ‘During the wars in France…’ He smiled at Athelstan. ‘Well, you know about those, Brother, you were there. But do you remember the companies? Each, raised by some lord, included knights, men-at-arms, hobelars, archers, all wearing the same livery and sporting the same device: a green dragon or a red lion rampant.’

‘Aye, I remember them.’ Athelstan threw the rings back on the bed. ‘Colourful banners and warlike pennants. In reality just an excuse for a group of men to seize as much plunder as they could lay their hands on.’

Cranston went back to his searches. ‘And, last but not least, Brother,’ he declared, going across to a small table which stood underneath a large black crucifix, ‘I asked Banyard where these were.’

He came back carrying arrowheads, candles and small scraps of parchment. Athelstan examined these, then studied the dirty scraps of parchment with the word, ‘Remember’ scrawled across.

‘Each of the victims had these,’ Cranston explained. ‘But what do they signify?’ He shook his head. ‘And why were those red crosses carved on the dead men’s faces?’

Athelstan went and stood by the open window and stared out, watching Christina: a gaggle of noisy ducks had gathered round her, waddling from the pond which lay near the tavern wall.

‘It signifies, my lord Coroner,’ he said, ‘that no sin, no evil act, ever disappears like a puff of smoke: it always comes back to haunt you.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, monk!’

‘Friar, Sir John!’

‘You talk like a prophet of doom, friar,’ Cranston snapped.

‘Then perhaps I am one. Here we have two knights from the king’s shire of Shrewsbury going about their lawful — or unlawful — business, whichever way you wish to describe it. They come to London to preach and lecture in the Commons. Like any men away from their kith and kin, they want to enjoy themselves in the fleshpots of the city: good food, strong wine, soft women. But then two of them are murdered. The first leaves a banquet in a highly agitated state, his body is later fished from the Thames. When his corpse is laid out and his companion comes in to pray, an assassin, masquerading as a priest, garrottes him whilst chanting certain verses from the Death Mass. Now, I suggest poor Bouchon was agitated because he received those signs: an arrowhead, a candle and a script telling him to “remember”. Swynford received the same.’ Athelstan glanced across at the coroner. ‘You follow my line of thought, Sir John?’

Cranston leaned his bulk against the edge of the table and stared at his secretarius thoughtfully.

‘It means, first, they were probably killed by the same assassin who holds a grudge against both of them,’ Athelstan explained. ‘And, whatever that may be, the arrowhead, the candle and the scraps of parchment are warning signs of their deaths. The red crosses carved on their faces by this assassin, masquerading as a priest, are also part of the grudge.’

Sir John cradled his wineskin like a mother would a baby. ‘It also means, my good friar,’ he declared, ‘that our assassin is a careful plotter. He waited for this opportunity and executed both men with the subtlest form of trickery.’ He paused. ‘But what then, friar?’

‘Well, our noble regent is frightened that he will take the blame; though he must take a quiet satisfaction in the fact that two of his critics have been permanently silenced. Secondly, when Sir Oliver left the tavern, none of his companions followed him though, there again. .’ Athelstan turned away from the window and leaned against the wall. ‘. . Sir Oliver may have been lured by anyone to some secret assignation where he was killed. Sir Henry’s death is more mysterious. His companions were in the tavern, yet this assassin turns up, disguised as a priest, and that begs two questions. Who knew a priest had been sent for? What would have happened if the false priest had turned up at the same time as Father Gregory?’

‘That’s no great mystery,’ Cranston replied. ‘Remember what Christina said: the tavern was very busy. The arrival of a priest would cause no consternation. If Father Gregory was upstairs, the assassin might have waited or even joined him. Be honest, Brother. As parish priest of St Erconwald’s, if a priest turned up at your church and wanted to pray beside the coffin of one of your hapless parishioners. .?’

‘Concedo,’ Athelstan quipped back. ‘One, two priests, three or four, it does not really matter. The assassin would have waited for his opportunity or created a new one.’ He tapped the scraps of parchment against his fingers. ‘This is the important question to resolve. What were Sir Henry and Sir Oliver supposed to remember? What was the significance of an arrowhead and a candle? The marks on the face? And why here?’

‘Which means?’ Cranston snapped.

‘Why kill the two knights in London? Why not at Shrewsbury, or journeying to and from Westminster?’

Cranston snorted, his white whiskers bristling. He was about to launch into speech when there was a clatter on the stairs, a knock on the door, and Sir Miles Coverdale, dressed in half-armour, swordbelt on, bustled into the room.

‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan.’ He stopped, sketching a rather mocking bow at the coroner and his companion.

‘What’s the matter, man?’ Cranston shoved the wineskin underneath his cloak and stood up. ‘You come charging in like a war-horse.’

Sir Miles grinned, removed his gauntlets and wiped the sweat from his forehead. ‘Sir John, I am simply carrying out your orders when you came into Westminster.’

‘I know what I asked,’ Cranston barked.

Athelstan smiled at Coverdale’s tolerant, easygoing manner. The captain seemed more amused by Sir John’s peevishness than anything else. The young man stretched out his hand and grasped Athelstan’s. ‘Father, I have heard a lot about you. His Grace the Regent often talks about Sir John and his helpmate.’

‘Secretarius!’ Cranston snapped. ‘Athelstan is my secretaries and parish priest at St Erconwald’s. He is a Dominican friar and — ’

‘-And a very good preacher,’ Sir Miles finished Sir John’s sentence for him. ‘Or so rumour has it.’ He winked at Athelstan then stared at Sir John. ‘My lord Coroner, the morning session of the Commons has finished early. I asked Sir Oliver and Sir Henry’s companions to stay in the chapter-house. They await you there.’

The captain turned as the door opened behind him and a black cowled monk came silently as a shadow into the room.

‘What the. .?’ Cranston exclaimed.

‘Sir John, may I introduce Father Benedict, monk of Westminster, librarian and chaplain to the Commons.’

Cranston shuffled his feet in embarrassment and extended a podgy hand which was clasped by Father Benedict, who now pulled back his hood to reveal a thin, ascetic face, head completely shaven. Deep furrow marks etched either side of his mouth, his eyes were close-set but sharp.

‘Sir John Cranston.’ He glanced at Athelstan, his face transformed by a smile. ‘And you, Brother.’

Athelstan came forward and exchanged the kiss of peace with him. As he did so, Father Benedict squeezed him by the shoulders.

‘Welcome to our community, Brother,’ the Benedictine whispered.

‘Pax Tecum,’ Athelstan whispered back.

‘Why are you here, Father?’ Cranston asked.

‘I came to pay my respects to Sir Henry and Sir Oliver,’ the Benedictine replied. ‘I am chaplain to the Commons. Sir Miles told me about their deaths this morning.’

‘Did you know the dead men?’ Athelstan asked.

The monk seemed surprised by his question. He opened his mouth, blinked, and moved his hands sharply.

‘Yes and no,’ he replied. ‘I know of the representatives from Shropshire. Many, many years ago, a good friend of mine, Antony, was a young monk at Lilleshall.’ Father Benedict smiled wanly. ‘He died last winter.’

‘And?’ Cranston asked.

‘Sir Henry, Sir Oliver and the others used to meet in our chapter-house at Lilleshall.’

‘For what purpose?’

‘They were young knights,’ the monk replied. ‘According to Antony, their brains were stuffed with dreams of King Arthur and his knights of the Round Table. Both Sir Henry and Sir Oliver and the others used to ape such stories. Every month they would meet, with the permission of the abbot, in our house at Lilleshall, where they would feast, recite the legends of Arthur, and hold a tournament in the great meadow outside. The meetings became famous.’ Father Benedict coughed and glanced away.

‘And they took as their title the “Knights of the Swan”?’ Athelstan said.

‘Oh yes!’ Father Benedict leaned down and rubbed his knee. ‘Sir John, Athelstan, I beg of you, I must sit down. I have rheumatism; the abbey is not the warmest place in winter.’

Cranston pulled up a chair and the old monk sank gratefully into it.

‘Do you wish something to drink?’ Cranston asked hopefully.

‘We were talking about the Knights of the Swan?’ Athelstan interrupted, throwing Cranston a warning glance.

‘Oh, if Father Antony were to be believed, they were a glorious band,’ the Benedictine monk replied. ‘Some of them are dead now, God rest them! But there must have been twenty or twenty-four in their company. I once visited Antony at Lilleshall when the Knights of the Swan held one of their great Round Tables. They came riding up to the abbey, preceded by a squire carrying a broad scarlet banner with a beautiful white swan embroidered on it. They’d set up their pavilions in the meadow and the crowds flocked from Shrewsbury even as far as Oswestry on the Welsh border. They all came to see the colours, the gaily caparisoned destriers, the tourney. God forgive me,’ he whispered, ‘even I, a monk, a man of peace, loved the sight. Stirring times! The great Edward was organising his armies to fight in France and, when the news of the great victory at Crécy swept the country, the Knights of the Swan became local heroes.’ He glanced at Sir John. ‘Surely, my lord Coroner, there were such days in London?’

‘Aye, there were.’ Cranston sat on the edge of the bed, a dreamy look in his eyes. ‘I was just like that,’ he murmured. Then he caught Coverdale’s grin. ‘Don’t judge a book by its cover, young man.’ He tapped his broad girth. ‘Once I was as sleek and trim as a greyhound, as sharp and swift as a swooping hawk.’

Athelstan put his hands up his sleeves and looked down to hide his smile.

‘There used to be great tournaments on London Bridge and at Smithfield,’ Cranston continued. He wagged a finger at Coverdale. ‘Not like the young popinjays today, traipsing around London in their fancy hose and ridiculous shoes. The only thing they hold out in front of them are their codpieces, and those are usually stuffed with straw.’

‘But Sir Miles,’ Father Athelstan prompted him, ‘you remember Lilleshall surely?’

The captain’s head came up sharply. ‘I was only a child,’ he stuttered.

‘But your father held land in Shropshire, outside Market Drayton, between there and Woodcote Hall.’

Sir Miles blushed slightly, his hand falling away from his sword. Athelstan couldn’t decide whether he was just embarrassed or had something to hide.

‘Was your father a Knight of the Swan?’ Cranston asked.

‘No, he wasn’t.’ Coverdale’s face became hard-set, no longer youthful; his grim, pinched mouth gave him the look of a sour old man.

‘I meant to give no slight,’ Cranston continued softly.

‘And none taken, Sir John. My father’s manor was little more than a bam: he died when I was young. My mother was sickly. We had no time for junketing and tourneys. I left Shropshire as a squire. I served in Lord Montague’s retinue at sea against the Spanish.’ Coverdale moved his swordbelt and sat down on a stool. ‘The Knights of the Swan mean nothing to me.’

‘Did you know Sir Oliver or Sir Henry?’ Athelstan asked.

‘By name only. But, there again, I know the same could be true of knights from Norfolk or Suffolk.’ He held his gaze. ‘I am John of Gaunt’s man in peace and war. I wear his livery, I feed in his household.’

‘You had no liking for these knights?’ Cranston insisted.

‘I hear them like a gaggle of geese cackling in the chapter-house.’ Coverdale snapped. ‘They criticise the regent for the war against France and yet will not vote a penny to help him. They talk of bad harvests, poor crops and falling profits, but they keep their tenants tied to the land by force and the use of the courts. No, I do not like them, Sir John.’

‘And if you were the regent?’

‘I would levy the taxes not on the peasants but on the prosperous knights and fat merchants: those who refused to pay, I’d call traitors.’

Athelstan looked at Father Benedict but the monk sat like a statue, though his eyes looked troubled, frightened by Sir Miles’s threats.

‘Are you there to guard the Commons?’ Cranston asked, now enjoying himself. ‘Or are you the regent’s spy?’

Coverdale’s hand fell to the pommel of his sword. Cranston, despite his girth, suddenly lurched forward with a speed which belied his bulk.

‘Don’t be stupid,’ he murmured, standing over the young knight. ‘I didn’t mean to give offence but wanted merely to describe things as they are.’

‘And I have answered you truthfully, Sir John,’ Coverdale replied. ‘I am there with men-at-arms and archers to ensure the Commons can sit in peace and security. I do not have to like what I hear but I have no personal grudge against them.’

‘And you have been with the Commons from the start?’ Athelstan intervened quickly.

‘Yes. The chapter-house and its approaches have been sealed off. I and my men guard them. Before the session began I was also responsible for hiring barges to take the representatives upriver to see the king’s menageries in the Tower.’ Coverdale now relaxed. ‘They were like children,’ he added. ‘Many of them had never seen a lion or a panther or the great brown bear which the regent has brought there.’ He glanced at Cranston. ‘And, yes, Sir John, I guard their soft flesh and listen to their chatter. Some of them should be more careful with their mouths: what they say I report back to the regent. Just as you will, after this business is all finished.’

‘Did you have any conversation with Sir Oliver Bouchon or Sir Henry Swynford? Or any of their party?’ Athelstan asked.

‘None,’ Coverdale replied.

‘And is this the first time you have ever been to the Gargoyle tavern?’

‘Of course. My task is to keep the cloisters secure whilst the Commons are in session. I have as little to do with Sir Oliver and his ilk as possible.’

‘And you, Father Benedict?’ Cranston asked.

The monk pulled a wry expression. ‘I offer Mass in the abbey at the beginning of each day. I am also available for those who wish to be shriven.’ He smiled sourly. ‘And, before you ask, Sir John, that is not taxing work. Many of the Commons have drunk deeply the night before, not to mention their other pleasures.’

‘I find it strange,’ Athelstan commented, ‘that whilst the Commons meeting is in full session in the chapter-house at Westminster, two knights from Shropshire are brutally murdered.’

‘What’s so strange?’ Coverdale interrupted harshly.

‘That the captain of the guard comes from Shropshire, whilst the chaplain had a close friend who also served in Lilleshall Abbey, not far from Shrewsbury and in the same county.’

‘There’s nothing strange in that,’ the Benedictine answered quickly. ‘When you go to the chapter-house, Brother, you’ll find it guarded by a company of Cheshire archers. Sir Miles was born in Shropshire, but so were many in my Lord of Gaunt’s retinue. As you know, the regent holds lands there and highly favours men from those parts. As for myself, if you ask Father Abbot, he will tell you that I am not the only monk who has connections with our community at Lilleshall. I am a trained librarian and archivist; I have similar ties with our houses in Norfolk, Yorkshire and Somerset. More importantly, when Father Abbot asked for a volunteer to serve as chaplain to the Commons, I was the only one: I offered my services because the chapter-house is near the library and under my jurisdiction.’

Athelstan stared at him coolly. ‘Did you speak to either of the dead men?’

‘No.’ The monk’s eyes shifted too quickly. He licked his lips and swallowed hard.

You are lying, Athelstan thought: you have got something to hide. Why should an old monk, ill with rheumatism and arthritis, come to a tavern to say prayers over corpses of two men he hardly knew? Such prayers would be equally effective in some oratory or chantry chapel in the abbey.

Father Benedict glanced at Sir Miles. ‘Time is passing,’ he murmured. ‘I still have my duties here.’

Cranston got to his feet and slurped noisily from his wineskin then beamed around. ‘Ah, that’s better. Father Benedict, it was a pleasure meeting you, though I regret the circumstances.’ The coroner would’ve liked to add that never had he heard of two murder victims receiving the attention of so many priests but, like Athelstan, he realised lies had been told. There would be other opportunities to probe further.

Sir Miles also rose, swinging his great military cloak round his shoulders.

‘We’d best hurry,’ Cranston muttered. ‘Come, Brother.’

And, making their farewells, they and the captain left the monk and went downstairs to the taproom.

‘Give our thanks to Master Banyard,’ Athelstan whispered to Christina as Cranston and Coverdale swept out of the door before him.

The young girl smiled but Athelstan glimpsed the fear in her eyes. He grasped her hand. ‘What’s the matter, child?’

‘Nothing, Father. It’s just that terrible voice. Will he come back?’

Athelstan shook his head. ‘I doubt it. But, if you remember anything else, send a message to Sir John at the Guildhall.’

The girl promised she would, and Athelstan hurried off after his companions. They walked down the narrow alleyways and into the grounds of Westminster Abbey. As they did so, the man waiting just inside the gate, under the shadow of a great oak tree, watched them go: the friar, the soldier and the ponderously girthed coroner.

‘O Day of Wrath, O Day of Mourning,’ the watcher whispered. ‘See Fulfilled the Prophet’s Warning!’