The House of Crows

CHAPTER 8

As Athelstan built up the fire in the heart of his small priest’s house, Sir Francis Harnett was hurrying along the deserted vestibule leading to the chapter-house of Westminster Abbey. The knight was vexed at being stopped so many times by the guards and archers. However, once through, and into the abbey precincts, this irritation gave way to a small glow of pleasure at the prospect of meeting the elusive Perline Brasenose. Harnett stopped just before the steps leading into the chapter-house and, turning right, went down the long flight of stairs into the Pyx chamber. At the bottom he cautiously pushed open the metal-studded door. The chamber inside was bare stone and vaulted, really nothing more than a huge cellar, dry and clean with two sconce torches glowing from their brackets on the wall.

‘Perline?’ Harnett whispered. The knight’s brow knit together in displeasure. ‘Where in God’s name are you?’ he hissed, but his words echoed emptily around the chamber.

Harnett sighed in exasperation and, mopping his face with the hem of his cloak, went and sat on a stone plinth at the far end of the chamber. Perhaps the soldier had gone elsewhere? When he returned, Harnett intended to give Brasenose the rough edge of his tongue. Above him the abbey bells began to toll for Vespers. Despite the thickness of the walls, Harnett heard the patter of feet as the monks moved down. There was silence and then, faintly, the sound of the choir beginning its chant:

‘Exsurge Domine, exsurge, et vindica causam meam.’

‘Arise, O Lord, arise and judge my cause.’

Harnett heard the words and smiled weakly. Had God risen to judge him and the others? Suddenly he felt weary and, leaning back against the wall, stared into the darkness. So many things had gone wrong. Twenty, thirty years ago, he and the others had been young paladins, the spiritual successors of Arthur and his knights. They had even paid a monastic chronicler to prove that Arthur had built his palace in Shropshire. And wasn’t Guinevere reputed to be buried at the nunnery at White Ladies, amongst the oaks around Boscobel? The Knights of the Swan had held their Round Table at Lilleshall Abbey. They had their tourneys and tournaments in a blaze of colour and the shrill blast of silver trumpets. Then they had found the cup. At first Sir Edmund Malmesbury had been mistrustful. He had scoffed at the relic-seller who had brought the cup for sale. Sir Henry Swynford, however, had taken it to a learned monk, who had pronounced that the cedar chalice was indeed of great age and may well have been the Grail for which Arthur and his knights had searched. Oh, how they had been pleased!

Harnett stretched out his legs, easing the cramp in his muscles. They had met in the great refectory of Lilleshall, seated around the table with the chalice on a plinth, covered by a purple, damask cloth. Each knight, in turn, had been given the privilege of owning the chalice for a month, but then it had gone. One night, as they rested at the abbey, Malmesbury had burst in where they were supping and feasting, screaming:

‘The chalice has gone! The chalice has gone!’

They had searched high and low but never found it, and the seeds of discord had been sown. Nobody levelled open accusation, but the Knights of the Swan had begun to whisper amongst themselves. The finger of accusation had been pointed to this person and then another: the rottenness had spread, like a canker in a flower, seeping through their lives, creating further discord.

One thing had led to another. The war in France turned sour and, with news of defeats, came the effects of the ravages of the great pestilence: a shortage of labour and demands by the peasants for higher wages and better privileges. Harnett and the rest had let their souls slip into darkness. .

Harnett sighed and leaned forward: that, surely, had all been forgotten? He had cultivated his fields, bought books, and developed an interest in strange and exotic animals. He had not wanted to come to this Parliament. Indeed, quietly, he had striven not to be elected, but the sheriff had been Gaunt’s man. When the returns had been counted in the guildhall at Shrewsbury, Harnett had been as surprised at the result as the rest. Oh, Malmesbury had told them to put a brave face on it, trumpeting about what they would do once they arrived at Westminster, yet something was wrong.

Harnett and Aylebore had quietly protested: the sheriff had just smiled from behind his great table on the guildhall dais and spread his hands. ‘You are elected,’ he had declared. ‘Are you saying that I am corrupt?’

What could Harnett do? To protest would have been strange. So, instead, he and the rest had accepted the result and journeyed up to Westminster, staying as usual at the Gargoyle tavern.

Harnett stirred as he heard a sound from the vestibule outside, a faint footstep. He got to his feet but all he could hear was the faint chanting from the choir-stalls. He heard another sound and walked slowly to the door. Surprisingly, the sconce torch fixed in the wall above the steps had gone out.

‘Is there anybody there?’ he called. A shiver of fear ran down his spine. Harnett, grasping the hilt of his dagger, walked slowly up the steps. ‘Perline?’ he whispered.

At the top he looked round. Nothing but shadows dancing in the torchlight, turning the gargoyle faces at the top of the pillars even more grotesque: demons laughed down at him; satyrs bared their teeth. Harnett tried to control his breathing. Should he wait or go? He went back down the steps, vowing that if Perline did not arrive soon, he would leave to plot his revenge. Harnett clenched his hands in anger: he had given Perline a special letter allowing him entrance to the chapter-house. Why hadn’t the soldier used that and just come, instead of sending Harnett a message saying they should meet here? Harnett went back and sat on the stone plinth. He no longer wondered about the secret agreement he had made with the young soldier from the Tower, his mind kept going back to Sir Henry Swynford, his face a mask of horror, the garrotte string tight round his neck. Or Bouchon’s corpse, covered in river slime, his face a liverish-green. Those horrid red crosses carved on their skin! Those terrible mementoes from the past.

He and the rest had protested to Malmesbury, whispering that they should flee. Malmesbury, just as frightened, had shaken his head. ‘You know what will happen,’ he warned. ‘We have no choice.’

‘But the arrowhead, the candle?’ Aylebore had retorted. ‘Who could know about that?’

‘The regent does,’ Malmesbury replied.

‘Has he brought us here to kill us?’ Goldingham had asked. ‘Why don’t we change, Sir Edmund? Perhaps the regent is punishing us for our opposition?’

Malmesbury had shook his head and put his face in his hands. ‘There’s nothing he can do,’ he’d murmured. ‘The regent has promised a sign.’

‘This is preposterous,’ Goldingham had stuttered. ‘We wait here like lambs waiting for our throats to be cut!’

Harnett stared down at his fingers. The regent had told Malmesbury to put his confidence in Cranston. The knights had agreed not to separate; except — Harnett beat his fist against his leg — he had to see Brasenose. He had paid good silver and he wanted a return! Harnett heard a sound in the doorway. He lifted his head, his heart skipped a beat and his blood ran cold. A cowled figure stood there.

‘Brasenose?’ Harnett’s voice was a whisper.

‘Oh day of wrath!’ the figure intoned as it walked slowly forwards. ‘Oh day of mourning! See fulfilled the prophet’s warning! Heaven and earth in ashes burning! See what fear man’s bosom rendeth, when from heaven the Judge descendeth, on whose sentence all dependeth!’

Harnett backed into the corner, his hand flailing out. The figure tossed something at him: the arrowhead fell at Harnett’s feet, followed by the candle and scrap of parchment.

Harnett went down on his knees, hands clenched. ‘Please!’ he begged.

The figure swept closer. Harnett couldn’t make out his features: the light was poor, the door to the chamber closed whilst the torchlight flickered behind this awesome, horrid shape. A phantasm which stirred hidden terrors in Harnett’s soul and brought back images from his past. Mounted horsemen, mailed and coiffed, torches in their hands, gathered beneath the outstretched branches of a great oak tree from which figures dangled and danced.

‘It’s so long!’ Harnett moaned.

‘Nothing remains in the past, Sir Francis,’ the figure replied.

Harnett’s head came up. He recognised that voice!

‘Oh no, not you, for pity’s sake!’

‘Make your peace with God.’

The axe came from beneath the man’s cloak. Sir Francis crouched. The axe fell and, with one clean swipe, Harnett’s head bounced on to the chamber floor.

Athelstan sat at his table in the priest’s house and stared into the fire.

‘I should be in bed,’ he whispered to Bonaventura.

The great tom-cat, quite fatigued after a night’s hunting, lay stretched in front of the hearth, purring at the warmth. Athelstan stared down at the piece of parchment before him. He had tried to make sense of the day’s happenings. So much had occurred! Images and pictures still remained. Those two dreadful corpses lying in their coffins; once powerful men now so pathetic in death. Banyard, taking them down to Dame Mathilda’s: that young whore, her beautiful breasts exposed.

Athelstan smiled. ‘She was very beautiful, Bonaventura,’ he murmured. ‘Hair black as night and a body which would tempt a saint.’

The cat lifted its head as if to acknowledge him, then flopped back. Athelstan stared into the flames. If only Bonaventura could speak and tell him what he saw in the dark alleyways and runnels of Southwark! That would solve the mystery of the demon. Athelstan pressed his lips together. Well, the demon would have to wait until he received advice from Father Anselm. He wondered if Sir John was asleep, and recalled their meeting with the Harrower of the Dead. Thank God the fellow had not discovered Perline’s corpse! Cranston was probably correct: Perline had not deserted the Tower garrison, but paid the constable to look the other way whilst he absconded to do something else. But what? And why should Perline be meeting a knight of the shire on a dark, lonely quayside? Athelstan scratched his chin: apparently Harnett had gone to Southwark to meet Perline and they had both crossed the river to the steel yard, but why? Could Perline be involved in the macabre deaths of these knights?

Bonaventure stirred and stretched, Athelstan recalled Cranston’s worries about the disappearing cats in Cheapside. He leaned down and stroked Bonaventure.

‘A sea of troubles, Bonaventura! A sea of troubles!’

And, going back to the table, he sat down, picked up his quill, closing his eyes to concentrate. I have finished my Office, he thought; Philomel is snoring fit to burst. I can’t do anything about our demon until Prior Anselm answers. Sir John and his cats? Well, they will just have to wait. So what about the murders at Westminster?

Athelstan sighed, opened his eyes and wrote down his thoughts.

Item: Bouchon and Swynford belonged to a powerful group of men who formed a company called the Knights of the Swan.

Item: What happened to this company?

Item: Does the arrowhead, the candle and that scrap of parchment have anything to do with these knights’ chivalric pursuits?

Item: Are the deaths of Bouchon and Swynford connected to the break-up of the company of the Knights of the Swan?

Item: What other antagonisms exist between the knights, besides the failure of a business venture at sea?

Item: What were the knights trying to hide from their past? What terrible secrets did they share?

Item: Was it just coincidence that Father Benedict, Chaplain to the Commons, knew, through his dead colleague Father Antony, these powerful men from Shropshire?

Item: What was Harnett doing visiting Perline Brasenose? Why didn’t he just tell Cranston the truth?

Item: Whom had Bouchon met last Monday night? Where did that black dirt under his fingernails come from?

Athelstan threw down the pen and stretched. Bouchon’s body, he thought, had been found down near Tothill Fields: that meant he must have been killed and thrown into the Thames when the river tide was running full towards the sea. Otherwise the body would have been swept back, up towards the city. Athelstan rubbed his lips. But did that say anything about where he had been killed? The corpse had been found trapped amongst reeds. Athelstan shook his head. He would remember that.

Athelstan picked up his quill and continued writing.

Item: That mysterious priest who appeared entering and leaving the Gargoyle tavern without anyone really noticing? Why was he so confident he would escape undetected? Unless, of course, it was one of the knights themselves?

Athelstan threw his pen down in exasperation.

‘Oh, Bonaventure,’ he spoke as the cat leapt up from the table and nuzzled his hand. ‘That’s the real mystery, most cunning of cats. Why don’t these knights leave Westminster and return to Shrewsbury? After all, they are avowed opponents of the regent. Unless, of course…’ Athelstan stroked Bonaventure and stared down at what he had written. ‘Unless, most faithful of cats, the regent himself knows their terrible secrets and is forcing them to stay at Westminster.’

Athelstan placed the cat gently back on the floor. He went to the buttery, poured some milk into a metal dish and placed this before the hearth. Bonaventure leapt down from the table and crouched, sipping the milk with his little pink tongue.

Athelstan knelt beside it, listening to the cat’s purrs of pleasure. He spoke into the darkness. ‘But why does Gaunt want these knights, his avowed enemies, present at Westminster?’

Athelstan knelt back on his heels. Should he and Cranston demand an audience with the regent? Insist that John of Gaunt tell them everything he knew about these men? Or would Gaunt simply raise his delicate eyebrows, shrug and claim complete ignorance?

Athelstan returned to his writing. He paused, listening to the wind outside moaning through the trees in the cemetery. He remembered Watkin’s little army: Simplicatas hadn’t been there, yet she was for ever hanging round the church, asking Athelstan for news. The friar tucked his chin in his hands.

‘Time,’ he murmured. ‘All these mysteries depend on time.’

They were like designs on a piece of tapestry which was being slowly unrolled. So far he couldn’t even see a glimmer which might lead him through this maze of mysteries. He glanced at the hour-candle. If he stayed working any longer, he would only become more agitated. He went to the hearth and put up the crude wire mesh so no flames or cinders would escape. He patted Bonaventure on the head, picked up his writing-bag and went towards the stairs. He sighed and returned to the table. Once he had left the inkstand out and Bonaventure had knocked it flying. Athelstan placed the cap on it, opened his writing-bag and, in the light of the fire, glimpsed the two muzzles the Harrower of the Dead had left on the table in the Holy Lamb of God. Athelstan took these out and examined them carefully. The leather was black and scuffed.

‘How could anyone inflict such cruelty on God’s poor creatures?’ he asked Bonaventure.

Athelstan tore one of the muzzles apart and studied the red leather inside. The friar grinned. He knelt down to stroke Bonaventure’s head. ‘There must be an angel who guards cats,’ he said.

And, putting the torn muzzle back in the bag, the friar went up the stairs singing under his breath. Tomorrow he might resolve at least one of the mysteries confronting himself and Cranston.

‘Ite Missa est, Our Mass is finished.’

Athelstan stared down at his parishioners who, surprisingly enough, had all turned up for the dawn Mass, eager and expectant to know what their parish priest had decided to do about their demon. Athelstan finished the benediction. He was about to go down the altar steps, genuflect to the host, when he caught the look of desperation in Watkin’s eyes. Athelstan sighed, came down and sat on the altar steps, Crim the altar-boy on his right, Bonaventure on his left. The cat sat erect, staring disapprovingly with his one good eye at these people who were delaying the arrival of his early morning dish of milk.

‘Brother and Sisters,’ Athelstan began, ‘I really don’t know what to say. I have sent for help from Prior Anselm.’

‘And that help has arrived, Father!’

Athelstan’s head snapped up. He peered round the rood-screen at the burly, thickset friar who came ambling up the nave. He pulled back his cowl and Athelstan recognised the pleasant, smiling face of one of his Dominican brothers, John Armitage. Athelstan got to his feet as Armitage swept under the rood-screen, the parishioners moving swiftly to one side. Armitage grasped Athelstan’s hand.

‘I have been here for some time, Brother, in the shadows at the back. Who’s your artist?’

Athelstan pointed to a nervous-looking Huddle.

‘You’ve got a good eye, man.’ Armitage scratched his shaven cheek. ‘Have you ever thought of becoming a Dominican? We need good artists.’

Huddle, rather frightened by this bustling friar who stared at him so intently, shook his head.

‘We need good artists,’ Armitage repeated. ‘If all our churches looked like this, perhaps we could get more people attending Mass.’ He eased the cord round his considerable bulk, though, for a heavy, thickset man, Athelstan knew Armitage could move very quickly. ‘Father Prior sent me,’ Armitage murmured. ‘But I don’t feel like having a discussion in the presence of all.’

‘What concerns Father Athelstan,’ Watkin trumpeted, having overheard this conversation, ‘concerns us all, especially if it’s about our demon!’

‘He’s a leader of the parish council,’ Athelstan whispered quickly, catching the warning look in Armitage’s eyes.

Father John walked across and looked down at Watkin, who glared defiantly back. The friar leaned down and whispered in the dung-collector’s ear. Watkin’s face changed: he beamed from ear to ear and nodded solemnly. Armitage then genuflected before the pyx and Athelstan, Crim and Bonaventura followed him into the sacristy. Athelstan quickly divested and took his visitor across to the priest’s house.

‘I have some oatmeal,’ he offered.

Armitage licked his lips. ‘Any milk and honey?’ he asked.

‘In abundance,’ Athelstan smiled back.

‘Then truly my cup is pressed down and overflowing,’ Armitage replied.

‘What did you say to Watkin?’ Athelstan asked as he served his visitor.

Armitage’s eyes twinkled. ‘I told him to guard the sanctuary: if the demon attacked, he would strike at the high altar. Only a man such as Watkin would be strong enough to resist it.’

Athelstan grinned and, for a while, they sat and broke their fast. It wasn’t much, but Armitage declared it was a thousand times better than what Blackfriars refectory served. Once he’d finished, he leaned his elbows on the table and stared across at Athelstan. His dark eyes were not so merry now.

‘Prior Anselm told me about your problem.’

Athelstan nodded warily. ‘I thought you were lecturing in the halls of Oxford?’ he asked evasively.

‘The food was terrible so I asked to be transferred back,’ Armitage joked. He patted his stomach. ‘Now I am at Blackfriars, ostensibly as librarian and archivist. I am also exorcist for the eastern part of London. Well, most of it, except for those parishes north of St Mary of Bethlehem.’

Athelstan stared disbelievingly back. He remembered Armitage from his novitiate days as a merry, practical priest, not the sort to be involved with demons, incantations and exorcism.

‘I know what you are thinking, Athelstan.’ Armitage picked a crumb up from his platter and popped it into his mouth. ‘But my task is not as frightening as it appears.’ He smiled thinly. ‘You can’t imagine how many people, with two quarts of ale down them, manage to see demons and sprites in every corner.’

‘This is different,’ Athelstan replied.

‘I know, I know, Father Prior told me. One of your parishioners was actually attacked and others have seen a dark, hideous shape; you yourself detected a terrible stench in the death-house. Before I went into your church I visited it, but I could neither smell nor see anything untoward.’

‘That’s because it has been scrubbed and cleaned,’ Athelstan replied sharply.

Armitage grasped his hand. ‘Brother, I am not mocking you. I have been an exorcist now for eighteen months. There have been over fifty incidents I have attended. All of them could be explained by natural phenomena. But,’ he added slowly, ‘there are others.’ He supped at his jug of ale. ‘Ten days ago I went to a house near St Giles Cripplegate. The mother had talked of strange sounds and cries in the night. A sense of evil, of deep foreboding. Athelstan, I experienced the same. I searched that house. I blessed it. I exorcised it but I could discover nothing wrong. The woman was a widow; gentle, prayerful, rather anxious, but basically a good woman.

‘I was about to leave when her twenty-year-old son came in. He was dressed in the latest fashion, his hair crimped and curled. He was ever so polite.’ Armitage blinked and Athelstan saw the fear in his eyes. ‘This young man,’ the exorcist continued, ‘grasped my hand and asked how I was? Wouldn’t I stay for another stoup of ale? Take some silver for the poor?’ Armitage closed his eyes as he chewed the corner of his lip. ‘That young man,’ he continued hoarsely, ‘really frightened me. His eyes were dead, Brother. You had the impression that his entire face was a mask and something else lay behind it: a presence, dark and sinister, sneering at both me and his mother.’

The exorcist put his ale down. ‘I have yet to pluck up courage to go back and tell that woman how, in my opinion as an exorcist, her son’s soul is shrouded in darkness. He has been dabbling in some vice which has opened the door to let other powers in.’ He pushed his tankard away. ‘Now, I tell you this, Athelstan, because that’s my view of a demon, of possession. Someone cool, logical, rational, even pleasant in appearance and attitude.’

Athelstan was now stroking Bonaventura who had leapt into his lap. ‘And so you are saying we have no demon in Southwark?’

Armitage smiled. ‘Do you really believe that, Brother?’

Athelstan shook his head.

‘Then follow your heart, Athelstan. When you meet a devil, it won’t be some dark shape leaping amongst the graves. Surely you know what I mean?’

Athelstan recalled those powerful knights at Westminster; their easy smirks, their lying ways, the duplicity of their lives. ‘I understand.’

Armitage sighed. ‘I thought you would. You are the lord coroner’s clerk, aren’t you? Your reputation goes before you, Brother Athelstan. Think of the murderers you have hunted: those men and women who can wipe out another life without a flicker of an eyelid, then wipe their lips and proudly proclaim their innocence to the world. There are your demons. However,’ he pulled up his cowl, ‘at the same time your parishioners could be correct: there may be a presence loose in Southwark, though I really doubt it.’

‘Then what shall I do?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Apply that logic for which you are famous.’ Armitage got to his feet. ‘Keep your parishioners calm. Study all the evidence given to you. Look for the weakness and, when you find it, the mystery will unravel.’ Armitage picked up his cloak. ‘I am sorry I have been of little comfort, Brother. Father Prior was sending me to Eltham, he asked me to stop off here and see you.’ Armitage grinned. ‘Accept my wager, Brother; if you haven’t found your demon in a week, I’ll come back and stay until you do.’

‘And if I do find it. .?’

Armitage extended his hand. ‘Send your painter to Blackfriars: there’s a stretch of bare wall just near the vestry, and every time I pass it, I imagine this beautiful picture of Christ talking to the Samaritan woman. Don’t worry, he’ll be well paid!’

Athelstan clasped his outstretched hand. ‘Wager accepted!’

Armitage thanked Athelstan and Bonaventura for their company, gave them his blessing and left the priest’s house.

For a while Athelstan sat and reflected on what the exorcist had said.

‘Brother John spoke the truth,’ he declared finally. ‘But where’s the weakness in all of this?’

He cradled the cat and stared at the stark crucifix above the hearth. Watkin and the rest had first seen the demon on Monday evening. Later that same night Sir Oliver Bouchon had been killed; Perline Brasenose, who’d not been home since Saturday, apparently met Sir Francis Harnett on the quayside across the river. Since Monday evening, the demon had been seen near Benedicta’s house — another lonely, deserted place; in the empty house by Ranulf the rat-catcher, and again, yesterday evening, in the parish cemetery. So where was the weakness in all this? He heard a knock on the door.

‘Come in,’ Athelstan shouted.

He half expected Cranston, but Benedicta slipped in, a shopping basket over her arm. For a while all was confusion as Bonaventura hastily leapt into this, looking for something to eat.

‘I have brought food,’ Benedicta smiled, putting the basket on the table. She took out small, linen-covered bundles and laid them out: bread, cheese, a small jar of home-made jam, a piece of cured ham, slices of salted bacon, onions and a small bag of oatmeal. Athelstan couldn’t refuse. Indeed, as Cranston constantly teased him, he was only too pleased to see Benedicta’s lovely face. She took the food into the buttery and helped Athelstan clear the table. He brought fresh jugs of ale, then sat and told her about what was happening at Westminster. Benedicta heard him out: her smooth, olive face lost some of its laughter lines as Athelstan described the deaths of the two knights and the possible sinister intrigues of the regent, John of Gaunt.

‘You should be more careful, Athelstan,’ she warned. ‘When you go into the marketplace people smile and greet you, and so they should. But when you are gone, the whispering continues, fed and fanned by the peasants who bring their produce in to be sold. There’s been unrest in Essex; at Coggeshall a tax-collector was assaulted, whilst at Colchester they barred the gates against royal messengers. There’s talk of people collecting arms, hiding swords and daggers. Yew trees are being stripped to fashion new bows and arrows. Scythes and bill-hooks have been sharpened, and it’s not for the harvest.’ She leaned across the table and laid one soft hand on Athelstan’s. ‘There’s a storm coming, Father. This city is going to see terrible violence.’

‘And, before you ask, Benedicta.’ Athelstan self-consciously moved his hand; he got to his feet and went to stand before the fire. ‘I will stay where I am, unless Father Prior orders otherwise.’

Benedicta saw the stubborn line to his mouth, and knew any further discussion was closed.

‘And the demon?’ she asked quickly.

‘I am still hunting it.’

‘And Perline?’

Athelstan shook his head.

‘I met Simplicatas in the marketplace,’ Benedicta continued. ‘She still looks worried. I asked her if there was any news but she shook her head and continued shopping.’ Benedicta laughed self-consciously and played with the silver chain round her neck. ‘I would have been here earlier, but I helped to carry her basket.’

Benedicta jumped as the door was flung open and Cranston came crashing in like the north wind. He crowed with delight when he saw Benedicta and, gripping her by the shoulders, bent down and planted a juicy kiss on each cheek.

‘Thank God for pretty women!’ he bellowed, and turned, legs apart, thumbs tucked in his belt. ‘Well, Athelstan, pack your bags. Lock your church, we are off to Westminster!’

Athelstan groaned.

‘The regent’s orders,’ Cranston continued. ‘Last night Sir Francis Harnett, knight, was found in the Pyx chamber. His body lay on the floor. His head was tied by the hair to a torch-holder in the wall.’ He grimaced at Athelstan. ‘Apparently yesterevening our good knight went down there to meet someone. God knows who. The guards let him through. This morning one of the archers saw a door open and went down to investigate. He came rushing out, screaming himself witless.’

‘But why was Harnett so stupid as to go to such a lonely place?’

Cranston shrugged. ‘God knows. Malmesbury had told the knights to stay together. Anyway, that is what we have to search out.’ He patted Athelstan on the shoulder. ‘I am sorry, Brother, both you and I have no choice but to take chambers at the Gargoyle. It’s the regent’s orders.’

Athelstan opened his mouth to protest but Cranston shook his head. ‘There’s no debate, Brother. Everything here will have to wait.’ He grinned over at Benedicta. ‘You’ll have to look after the parish and, if you sit there long enough, looking as pretty as you do, you might even trap this demon.’ He turned back to Athelstan. ‘There’s a further order. On Saturday morning, Gaunt and the young king intend to ride in procession to meet the Commons at Westminster.’ He puffed his chest out. ‘I, as the king’s law officer, will be part of that procession, and of course, dear Athelstan, you will have to go with me.’

Athelstan stared into the fire. He felt like screaming his refusal, yet that would only upset Cranston and achieve nothing.

‘Benedicta, I’ll leave you the keys.’ He got to his feet. ‘Look after Bonaventure. Remember to feed Philomel and ask the priest at St Swithin’s if he would be so kind as to come and say a morning Mass.’

Benedicta said she would. Athelstan went over to the hearth and, grasping a poker, began to sift amongst the cinders. ‘It will go out soon,’ he said absentmindedly.

‘Don’t worry, Brother,’ Benedicta offered, ‘I will make sure that all’s well.’

Athelstan climbed the makeshift ladder into his bedroom. As he filled the saddlebags at the foot of his bed, he wondered, not about Westminster, but Simplicatas. Why should a lonely young woman, supposedly riven with anxiety about her missing husband, buy so much in the marketplace that Benedicta had to help her carry it!