The House of Crows

CHAPTER 4

As Athelstan and Cranston left the Gargoyle tavern, Ranulf the rat-catcher made his way to a large, deserted house which stood on the corner of Reeking Alley in Southwark. The rat-catcher closed the door, locking it carefully with the key the merchant had given him. He placed his two cages on the floor and sat down with his back to the door. He mopped his face with a rag tied to the broad leather belt from which hung all the implements of his trade: small cages, chisels, hammers and a large leather bag for the rodents he caught and killed.

‘Ah, that’s better!’ Ranulf murmured. He pulled back the black-tarred hood from his pale pink features. ‘I am happy,’ he declared, his voice echoing eerily through the empty house. Ranulf stared up the long dusty staircase and, half closing his eyes, listened with pleasure to the scrabbling and the squeaking from behind the wainscoting and under the floorboards. Such sounds were always music to Ranulf s ears.

‘Rats!’ The merchant who had recently bought the house had roared, ‘The whole place is infested with them: black, brown and varieties I have never heard or seen before!’ The merchant had poked Ranulf s tarry jacket. ‘Ten pounds sterling! I’ll pay you ten pounds sterling to clear the place of rats. Three now, three when you have done it, and the balance after my steward has inspected your work.’

‘Ten pounds!’ Ranulf chortled.

He opened his eyes. Although a widower, Ranulf had a large brood of children, all of whom dressed and looked like their father, but all with appetites and a penchant for growing which constantly worried him. Nevertheless, the warm weather had been good to Ranulf. Rats were back in London, whilst the disappearance of cats from Cheapside had meant their numbers had multiplied. The rat-catcher had been in great demand, and his mound of silver and gold, so carefully stowed away with a goldsmith just off Lothbury, was growing quite steadily. Out of the corner of his eye, Ranulf saw a small black furry shape race across the floorboards. Ranulf smiled beatifically.

‘Others might curse you,’ he whispered into the darkness, ‘but, every morning in church, Ranulf thanks God for rats.’

He put his finger to his lips. Would there be rats in heaven? And, if there were, would he be allowed to catch them? But how could there be rats in heaven? Brother Athelstan had told him that it was a beautiful place and rats only existed where there was muck and dirt. Ranulf had pondered deeply on this. He had even raised it at the last meeting of the Guild of Rat-catchers when they had met in the Piebald tavern. None of his colleagues could give an answer.

‘You’ll have to ask Brother Athelstan,’ Bardolph, who was skilled in catching bats in church belfries, had declared.

Ranulf pursed his lips and nodded. The guild were to have their special Mass at St Erconwald’s soon: they would ask Brother Athelstan, he always had an answer; though Ranulf sometimes wondered if the little friar was teasing him with his gentle, sardonic replies. Another black shape raced across the floorboards further down the gloomy passageway. Ranulf stared at the two ferrets he had brought: Ferrox, his favourite, and its younger brother, Audax. He picked up Ferrox’s cage and stared at the little beady eyes and quivering snout.

‘Don’t worry,’ he murmured. ‘Hunting will soon begin: as soon as Daddy catches his breath.’

If a ferret could smile, Ranulf was sure Ferrox did. The rat-catcher put the cage down and stared at the dust motes dancing in the sunlight pouring through a small window in the stairwell above him.

‘If I could only buy Bonaventure,’ he murmured.

Ranulf had a vision of the united power of Bonaventure, Ferrox and Audax: an unholy trinity to loose upon the rat population of Southwark. Athelstan had been most unwilling.

‘Bonaventure might kill your ferret,’ the friar had warned.

Ranulf had violently disagreed. ‘No, Brother, they always unite against rats. Rats be their common enemy. Anyway, there’s not a cat alive which could catch old Ferrox.’

‘In which case,’ Athelstan had replied, ‘remember the tenth commandment, Ranulf. Thou shalt not lust after thy neighbour’s goods, nor his cattle, nor, in this instance, his cat.’

Ranulf smiled. He would remember that next time Bardolph asked to borrow Ferrox. His face became grave. He had come back from across the river: he had heard about more cats being stolen from the streets, and how the great Sir John ‘Horse-cruncher’ Cranston was now pursuing the felons responsible.

‘Old Big Arse will catch them,’ Ranulf whispered. ‘But Brother Athelstan should be careful about Bonaventure. Our little friar does love that tom-cat.’

Hadn’t Athelstan once said Bonaventure was the only parishioner the friar was sure of getting into heaven? And then made a joke about his pet being a true ‘Catholic’. Ranulf stared down at Ferrox who was now beginning to show great interest in the squeaking and scrabbling behind the wainscoting.

‘A lot of strange things are happening, Ferrox my son,’ Ranulf whispered. ‘Perline Brasenose, our young soldier, has also disappeared, and a demon has been seen outside St Erconwald’s.’

Ranulf loosened the clasp at the top of his jacket and dabbed the sweat with his fingers. Were the two connected, he wondered? Or even all three mysteries? Perline was a scapegrace, a roaring boy. Had he deserted from the Tower garrison and turned to thieving cats? But where would he sell them? To the tanners for their skins? Or the fleshers for their meat? Ranulf shook his head: that would be dangerous. The traders would buy them only to turn poor Perline over to Cranston just for the reward. Or was Perline pretending to be a demon? He had acted a similar role in the parish play last Lammas Day? Ranulf congratulated himself on his perspicacity and stirred himself. Ferrox and Audax began to squeak, circling their cages, pushing their snouts through the bars. Yes, their time had come!

Ranulf got to his feet. He was about to pick up the cages when he heard the sound on the floor above him. Ranulf remembered the demon and his blood ran cold. He walked quickly into a small chamber on his right and became more aware of how dark and dank it was; the cobwebs in the corner seemed like nets spread to catch him. There was a terrible smell and the old house was creaking and groaning around him. The light was poor, shadows danced, and Ranulf wondered whether he was truly alone.

‘Nonsense!’ he whispered.

He saw a small hole in the far corner; going across he undid the clasp of the cage, grasped Ferrox’s thin, muscular body and, in a blink of an eye, the ferret disappeared down the hole. Ranulf walked back into the passageway and despatched Audax in a similar fashion.

‘Now the dance begins,’ Ranulf muttered, quoting his favourite phrase.

He sat down, undid the small bundle he carried, and ate the bread and cheese his eldest daughter had wrapped for him in a linen cloth. The rat-catcher tried to close his ears to all sounds, except for that of his two ferrets now engaged in a busy, bloody massacre under the floorboards. Time and again Ferrox and Audax reappeared, carrying in their sharp teeth the corpse of some hapless rat. They dropped these at their master’s feet before disappearing again.

Ranulf felt a warm glow of satisfaction and bit deeply into the bread and cheese. But suddenly he heard a different sound. No rat or ferret could make the footfall he heard in the gallery above. Someone was moving there, slithering along the floorboards. Ranulf, a piece of cheese in his hand, rose and walked to the bottom of the stairs. He peered up into the gloom and almost choked on the cheese: on the top of the stairs was the demon of St Erconwald’s! Large, dark and furry, teeth bared, its face so terrifying that Ranulf forgot about his ferrets and fled for his life.

Cranston and Athelstan followed Sir Miles Coverdale through the Jericho Parlour of Westminster Abbey, across Deans Yard and along the south cloister towards the chapter-house. Every so often they passed Cheshire archers resplendent in their green livery and white hart emblem. These were professional soldiers from the garrisons at the Tower or Baynard’s Castle; hair cropped, faces dark and lean. All carried longbows and a quiver of twenty yew arrows, as well as sword and dagger. Men-at-arms wearing the red, blue and gold royal livery also stood on guard at every door and on every corner.

‘Why so many soldiers?’ Cranston asked as they entered the cloisters.

‘His Grace the Regent is determined that the Commons be allowed to sit unmolested,’ Coverdale replied. ‘No one enters the cloisters or chapter-house who is not either a member of Parliament or one of the royal clerks commissioned to assist them in their discussions.’

‘Don’t the Commons ever object?’ Cranston declared. ‘Some might claim the soldiers overawe them.’

‘Aye, some addle-brains might say that, but there are no soldiers in the chapter-house, Sir John, whilst the good knights and burgesses are free to come and go as they wish.’

They entered the eastern cloister where some monks, taking full advantage of the spring sunshine, now sat at their desks, copying or illuminating manuscripts. In the centre garth, soldiers played checkerboard games whilst a few conversed with the monks.

‘The brothers certainly welcome our presence,’ Coverdale declared.

‘It’s the same in any enclosed community,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Always eager for fresh faces, or to indulge in gossip about the great ones of the land.’

They entered the vestibule to the chapter-house. A line of archers stood in front of the closed double doors. Whilst one of them unlocked these, Athelstan stood back and admired the gloriously carved stone triptych above the doorway, showing Christ in Judgement.

‘I thought the session was finished,’ Cranston declared.

‘It is, but the doors are always locked,’ Coverdale replied. ‘The representatives have only to knock and they’ll be allowed in or out. Each of them possesses a special seal or pass.’ He smiled grimly. ‘Our regent is thorough.’

Cranston did not disagree. They entered the outer vestibule and went along a marble corridor lined by Purbeck marble columns. Just before they came to a second set of doors, Athelstan stopped, noticing flights of stairs to his left and, on his right, another staircase going down into the darkness.

‘Where do these lead?’ he asked.

‘The steps going up lead to St Faith’s Chapel,’ Coverdale replied. ‘The others will take you down to the Pyx chamber.’

Athelstan was about to ask about the latter, but Coverdale was already snapping his fingers at the guards to open the next set of doors. These were unlocked and swung back and they entered the chapter-house itself. It was deserted except for one balding, dark-faced, fussy little man who stood at the lectern. He came hurrying towards them, hands flailing the air.

‘You are late! You are late!’ he cried at Coverdale. ‘The honourable representatives from Shropshire could wait no longer. They have gone to one of the cookshops in the abbey yard.’ He drew his head back, reminding Cranston of a noisy, busy sparrow. ‘You can’t keep such men waiting,’ he bleated.

‘Nor can you the king’s coroner,’ Cranston intervened. ‘Who are you, anyway?’

‘Sir Peter de la Mare, Speaker of the Commons. Sir Miles, what is happening?’

Coverdale introduced Cranston and Athelstan, and de la Mare became more obsequious. ‘Well, wait here,’ he rattled on. ‘And I’ll see what I can do, I’ll see what I can do.’ And off he waddled.

Athelstan stared round the chapter-house. ‘God in heaven!’ he exclaimed. ‘Look, Sir John, what a beautiful place!’

The chamber was octagonal in shape and ringed by great windows that increased the impression of light and illuminated the glory of the great arched roof. This was supported by a single squat column, before which stood a huge wooden lectern.

‘Where do the representatives sit?’ Athelstan asked.

Cranston pointed to the three tiers of steps which ran round the room.

‘Over there,’ he replied. ‘The chapter-house can hold hundreds.’

Athelstan nodded even as he gazed at the beautiful tympanum above the doorway depicting Christ in glory. The Saviour was clothed in a beautiful crimson cloak, and round his head glowed a golden nimbus against a bright blue sky. On either side, white robed angels, each with three sets of wings, bowed their heads in adoration. In the windows and along the walls beneath them were more scenes from the Bible: the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse: the Great Beast in conflict with Michael the Archangel, St John being miraculously preserved in a cauldron of boiling oil; whilst other pictures showed the saved simpering in righteousness whilst the damned writhed in screaming torment.

‘All this must have been built by angels,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘Just look, Sir John! I must bring Huddle here. If he could only study scenes like these! The representatives are most fortunate to meet in a place like this.’

‘Little good it does them,’ Coverdale broke in harshly. ‘They squat around the walls, shouting and yelling.’

‘Surely they do more than that?’ Athelstan replied.

‘Well, the Speaker keeps order,’ Coverdale said. ‘He sits in the centre just beneath the window. He directs whom he chooses to speak from the lectern. Whilst over there — ’ he pointed to a small table containing scrolls of parchment — ‘sit the clerks and lawyers.’

Athelstan nodded. He walked slowly round, admiring the different scenes painted on the walls, now and again standing back, marvelling at the artist’s skill. He paused at the sound of footsteps in the vestibule; the door was flung open and a group of men swept into the chapter-house.

‘Cranston.’ The leader was a thickset, narrow-faced man, his iron-grey hair shaved high above his ears. He stood, just within the doorway, hands on his hips, legs apart.

‘Over here,’ Cranston cooed back. ‘And who, sir, are you?’

‘Sir Edmund Malmesbury, representative of the Commons from Shropshire. We waited for you.’ Malmesbury glanced disdainfully at Coverdale. ‘But we are busy men. We need to eat and drink.’

‘Aye, so you do,’ Cranston wheezed as he got to his feet. And, thumbs stuck in his belt, he waddled over. He stopped only a few inches from Malmesbury.

‘We were late, Sir Edmund.’ He smiled. ‘But let me introduce myself: Sir John Cranston, King’s Officer and Coroner of the city of London; Brother Athelstan, my clerk; Coverdale you know.’ Cranston peered round Malmesbury. ‘And these are your companions?’

The rest of the group came forward: red-haired, bristling-bearded Sir Thomas Elontius, with his fierce popping eyes; Sir Humphrey Aylebore, his head bald as an egg, fat and podgy, his shaven face weak and rather slobbery; Sir Maurice Goldingham, small and neat in appearance, his oily black hair coiffed like that of a page’s; and finally, Sir Francis Harnett, small and blond-haired with close-set eyes. Sir Francis’s brown, clean-shaven face reminded Athelstan of a kestrel and, remembering Moleskin’s story about Perline Brasenose meeting the knight on the river steps at Southwark, the friar wondered what such a man would want with the likes of his headstrong young parishioner.

Cranston stood back, bowed, and gestured at the steps. ‘My noble sirs, take your ease, we have only a few questions.’

The five knights of the shire swaggered across and sat on the ledges. They did so slowly, arrogantly, chattering and whispering amongst themselves.

Peacocks! Athelstan thought, with all the arrogance of Lucifer. The knights looked what they were: successful, hardened warriors; merchants, men of great importance in their own shire as well as here in London. They were all dressed in expensive houppelondes or gowns, red and gold, scarlet or green, all edged and trimmed with ermine along the fringes of hem and cuff. Costly belts clasped their bulging waists above multi-coloured hose and ornamented shoes. Men of middle age but with all the fripperies of court gallants. Silver bells were stitched on their sleeves. The shirts underneath their gowns were of costly cambric; jewelled clasps and silver rings decorated fleshy fingers and wrists. None of them were armed, except for dress-daggers pushed into embroidered scabbards.

Malmesbury was their leader, bellicose and aggressive. For a while he whispered quietly to Sir Humphrey Aylebore, whose fat face broke into a malicious smile as he quickly glared at Sir Miles Coverdale. Athelstan sensed there was no love lost between these powerful men and Sir John of Gaunt’s officer. Elontius began to whistle under his breath. Goldingham, who must have drunk deeply, leaned back, eyes half closed, whilst Harnett appeared more interested in the paintings on the walls.

Athelstan stood by the lectern and wondered how Sir John would deal with these men, so different from the footpads, felons and foists of London’s Cheapside. The friar quietly prayed that the coroner would keep his temper, and hoped that he had not drunk too much from the miraculous wineskin. Above them, the abbey bells began to toll; calling the monks to Divine Office, their chimes rang through the hollow cloisters. Cranston cocked his head to one side, as if more interested in their sound than the malice of Malmesbury and his companions. The bells stopped clanging, the knights still kept whispering amongst themselves, whilst Cranston began to admire the ring of office on his finger. At last the whispering stopped, but still Cranston did not lift his head. Athelstan gripped the edge of the lectern as the silence grew more oppressive.

‘Very good, my lord Coroner.’ Malmesbury sprang to his feet. ‘You have summoned us here.’ He slapped a pair of leather gloves against his thigh. ‘If you have no questions, we’ll go. Let me remind you, Coroner, we are not under your jurisdiction: members of the Commons cannot be arrested because of stupid civic regulations.’ He glanced down at his companions who murmured approval.

‘A very pretty speech.’ Cranston got to his feet and came over to stand beside Athelstan. He pointed to the door. ‘All of you may go, if you wish. Sir Edmund is perfectly correct. I have no jurisdiction here. However, let me remind you of a few legal niceties. First, two of your companions, members of the Commons, have been foully murdered. This is an attack upon the authority of the Crown. I talk not about the regent but of Richard, King of England, whose officer I am. The lawyers of the Chancery may also argue that an attack upon my authority is an attack upon the Crown. However,’ Cranston smiled, ‘that would be decided by the king’s justices: it could take a long time and require your return from Shropshire to London. Secondly, you are protected as long as the Commons sit. Once this Parliament is dismissed, and it will be dismissed whatever happens, I shall swear out warrants for your arrest on suspicion of murder.’

‘This is preposterous!’ Goldingham spluttered, half rising to his feet. ‘You accuse us of the murder of two of our companions?’

‘I said suspicion, based on the very sound legal point that you refused to answer the questions of the king’s officer.’

‘But we had nothing to do with their deaths,’ Thomas Elontius shouted, his face puce-coloured, his eyes popping so much that Athelstan thought they would fall out of his head.

Cranston smiled. ‘Very good,’ he purred. ‘In which case you will not object to answering a few simple questions.’

Goldingham slouched back on the steps. ‘Get on with it,’ he muttered.

‘Good, on Monday last-’ Cranston began.

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

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

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

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

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

‘Why was Sir Oliver so upset?’

The knights just stared back.

‘Did he tell you where he was going?’

Again silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Then, sir, she is most fortunate.’

Goldingham’s hand flew to his dagger.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘And you have witnesses to that?’

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

‘And you, Sir Humphrey?’

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

Sir Maurice ran a hand through his neatly coiffed hair.

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

‘And one of you saw the priest arrive?’

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

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

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

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

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

‘And on the previous evening?’ Athelstan asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘You were all friends?’

‘More companions and neighbours,’ Aylebore replied.

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

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

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

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

‘It just died.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Nothing,’ Malmesbury rasped.

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

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

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

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

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

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