The House of Crows (12 page)

‘Beloved Nephew,’ he purred, ‘it was good of you to join me in prayer.’

‘Dearest Uncle,’ Richard replied just as sweetly, ‘you need all the assistance God can send you.’

Gaunt’s smile remained fixed. ‘In three days’ time, Sire, you are to go down to Westminster. You must walk amongst your Commons, tell them how much you love them. How you need their help.’

‘And will you come, dearest Uncle?’

‘As always, beloved Nephew, I will be at your right hand.’

‘“And, if thine right hand be a cause for scandal,’ Richard quoted from the Gospels, ‘“cut it off.”’

‘Dearest Nephew, whatever do you mean?’ Gaunt eased himself up from the prie-dieu but Richard remained kneeling.

‘In three years’ time, dearest Uncle, I come into my own: King in my own right.’ Richard’s voice hardened. ‘I would like a kingdom to govern, not a realm rent by division and war.’

‘The peasants will, in time, get what they want.’

Gaunt sat down on the altar steps, facing his nephew. ‘I am not liked, Sire, but no man who exercises power is. The French and Spanish fleets ravage our southern coastline. The lords of the soil keep their boot on the peasants’ neck. They, in turn, plot treason and revolt.’

Richard studied his uncle’s leonine, arrogant face. He noticed the lines round the eyes and the furrows running into the silver beard. Am I wrong? the young king wondered. Was Gaunt plotting to seize the crown for himself, as his tutor Simon Burley constantly warned him? Or was he just trying to steer the realm into calmer waters? Gaunt leaned forward and grasped his nephew’s hand.

‘Beloved Nephew, this kingdom is yours but, unless we raise these taxes, we will have neither the ships nor the troops to defend ourselves. Once I have this, I can settle the lords and provide relief for the peasants. When you go to the Parliament, do as I say. Speak kindly to the knights and burgesses. Tell them that my demands are yours.’ Gaunt’s face broke into a lopsided smile. ‘After all, you are the son of the famous Black Prince, grandson of the great Edward III, conqueror of France.’

Richard removed his hand. ‘I am also King of England in my own right.’

Gaunt was about to reply when there was a knock on the door. Sir Miles Coverdale came in and bowed. ‘Your Graces, Sir Simon Burley is here. He insists the young king must return to his lessons.’

Gaunt rose to his feet and helped his nephew to his. ‘Ah yes, your lessons.’ Gaunt smiled. ‘Give Sir Simon my regards, your Grace, but remind him of the famous saying: “It is easier to preach than to act”.’

Richard shifted the gold cord round his slim waist, smoothing down the creases in his blue and gold silk gown. He bowed. ‘Dearest Uncle.’ He smiled back. ‘You should have been a preacher.’

Coverdale stepped aside and Richard of England swept out of the oratory. Gaunt stood and listened to his footfalls fade into the distance.

‘You have come from Westminster, Coverdale? I understand there have been more murders?’

‘Yes, your Grace, but Sir John and Brother Athelstan have matters in hand.’ Coverdale smirked. ‘The coroner has stirred up the knights: they are buzzing like bees.’

Gaunt knelt down on his prie-dieu. ‘But they have made no progress in unmasking the assassin?’ he asked.

‘None, your Grace.’

Gaunt stared at the angel painted in the window high above the altar. ‘I will stay here for a while,’ he murmured. ‘There will be two visitors. Keep them separate. Neither must know about the other’s presence.’

Coverdale nodded and left. Gaunt returned to his meditations, calculating how the taxes, raised in the present Parliament, could be spent. He heard a tap on the door and glanced sideways as his hooded, masked visitor stepped into the oratory. By the sour smell, the mud on the hem of the man’s ragged cloak, and his scuffed boots, Gaunt knew who it was.

‘Every good dog finds its home,’ he murmured.

‘Your Grace,’ Dogman declared, falling to his knees, ‘am I not your most obedient servant?’

Gaunt’s hand slipped to the dagger pushed into his belt, though he had no real fear. Dogman was a pathetic little traitor, terrified of being hanged. In any case, in the choir-loft behind him, two master bowmen stood hidden in the shadows, arrows notched to their bows.

‘Stay where you are, knave,’ Gaunt whispered, ‘and do not move.’

Dogman folded his arms and knelt, trying to control the trembling which ran through his body. If the Great Community of the Realm knew he was here they would flay him alive as a warning to other traitors. Yet the Dogman was truly terrified of Gaunt: some time ago the Dogman had realised that, for all their secret names, hidden covens and close conspiracies, John of Gaunt knew exactly what the Great Community of the Realm was plotting. Dogman wondered how many others of the rebel leaders were in the regent’s pay, yet he had no choice. He had been caught and given a choice: either be a Judas or be hanged, drawn and disembowelled at Tyburn as a traitor. Dogman had made his choice very quickly. He had agreed to what the regent’s agents had offered. He now had no choice but to dance to their tune.

Gaunt turned. ‘Well, well, Dogman, in three days’ time, on Saturday morning, between the hours of eleven and twelve, my nephew and I will ride down to Westminster with a cavalcade of knights, squires and pages. The king will distribute alms and confer the King’s Touch on the sick and infirm. You will be there . . .’ Gaunt smirked. ‘The Hare is as scabby and scrofulous as ever?’

Dogman nodded eagerly.

‘And still hates those who ride on palfreys and clothed in silk?’

Again the fevered nodding.

‘Make sure he’s armed.’

Gaunt heard Dogman gasp, so he rose and walked over to him. ‘What are you frightened of, Dogman?’

‘The Hare will attack,’ Judas whispered. ‘Strike at the Lord’s anointed.’

‘Well, isn’t that what you plotted in your covens and secret meetings in Southwark and elsewhere?’ Gaunt dug a fingernail into the man’s dirty cheek and laughed. ‘Mad as a March hare. Just ensure he is there.’ Gaunt patted the man’s greasy hair. ‘Oh, your comrade the Fox has been caught.’ He spun a coin on to the floor. ‘Your information was correct.’

‘What will happen to him, my Lord?’

‘I told my judges to give him a fair trial then hang him.’ Gaunt turned back. ‘I must pray for his soul.’

Dogman grabbed the coin and scuttled out. Gaunt moved over and picking up a jug of water, held his fingers over a bowl, and let the rose-scented water pour over them. He wiped his hands on a napkin and returned to his prie-dieu. He turned abruptly, glared up into the shadowy choir-loft and, narrowing his eyes, caught a glint of mail and knew the archers still waited there.

Gaunt returned to his meditations. Cupping his chin in his hand, he thought about the murders at the Gargoyle tavern. Would Cranston, he wondered, be able to unearth the mystery? Gaunt stared at a fly walking along the crisp white altar cloth. Some men dismissed the coroner as a fat, drunken buffoon, but Cranston’s looks belied his wit. And that friar, Athelstan, with his smooth, olive face and wary dark eyes! Gaunt closed his eyes and smiled. In any other circumstances he would place a wager that they would succeed, but whom could he tell?

There was another knock on the door. ‘Come in! Come in!’

This time the visitor was cloaked and cowled, but the cloth was pure wool and the boots peeping out beneath were costly Burgundian leather.

‘You may be a knight of the shire . . .’ Gaunt murmured. He pointed to the pyx; the gold, jewel-encrusted casket which hung from a silver chain just above the altar. ‘. . . but, in the presence of Christ our King, not to mention his lawful representative on earth, you should kneel.’

The knight obeyed. Gaunt did not bother to turn.

‘You speak loudly in the chapter-house,’ he whispered.

‘Your Grace, that is what you wanted.’

Gaunt pulled a face. ‘Not too hotly,’ he advised. ‘Otherwise, when you change tack, some might whisper.’

‘And when do I do that, your Grace?’

‘Oh, you’ll know the time,’ Gaunt replied. ‘A sign will be given to you.’

‘Your Grace.’ The knight shuffled his feet as if he wanted to draw closer, but Gaunt stretched out his hands and snapped his fingers.

‘No further,’ he warned.

‘Your Grace, the murders?’

‘Ah yes, those two honourable Knights of the Swan, Sir Oliver Bouchon and Sir Henry Swynford. I have been kneeling here, praying for the repose of their souls.’

‘Your Grace, there’s an assassin on the loose. He intends to kill us all.’

‘Not all of you,’ Gaunt purred. ‘Not all of you are guilty men.’

‘We believed we were doing right.’

‘What you believed and what the law decrees are two different things.’

‘Your Grace,’ the knight retorted hoarsely, ‘we must leave London!’

‘Leave?’ Gaunt turned, one eyebrow raised. ‘You and your companions, sir, are elected representatives.’ He turned back. ‘If you leave, I’ll have the king’s justices in Eyre dispatched to Shrewsbury. They will investigate, listen to the whispers, and dig down into all the dirt and refuse of your past. And what will the people say, eh, Sir Edmund Malmesbury? What will the people say? How you swept grandly up to London but fled because two of your companions had been murdered? And why had they been murdered? And who was responsible? They will whisper and gossip outside the church gate.’

Malmesbury pushed back his hood and stretched out his hands. ‘Your Grace, we were young. We made a terrible mistake. We have vowed to go on pilgrimage, pay compensation . . .’

‘Pilgrimage?’ Gaunt snarled, half turning his head. ‘Pilgrimage? This is your pilgrimage, Sir Edmund. This is your penance. You will stay. Cranston and Athelstan will unmask the murderer.’

‘Cranston is a drunken buffoon.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Gaunt replied softly. ‘What you and the rest must do, Sir Edmund –’ Gaunt lifted his hands together as if in prayer – ‘is you must pray. You must really pray that Cranston and Athelstan unmask this assassin amongst you before he strikes again.’ Gaunt snapped his fingers. ‘A sign will be given to you on Saturday morning. On Monday you will know what is to be done. Make sure you do it!’ Gaunt sighed. ‘Of course, that is, if you are still alive. Yet, there again, if you are not, someone else will do it instead. Now go!’

Gaunt heard the man scuffle away, the oratory door closing behind him. The regent looked up at the crucifix and idly wondered who was responsible for the deaths of those two knights.

Dame Mathilda Kirtles’ house in Cottemore Lane was both stately and smart. Built on a foundation of brick, the broad beams which stretched up to the red-tiled roof were painted a glossy black, whilst the plaster in between was a dainty pink. Windows on all three floors were of the lattice type, filled with mullioned or leaded glass. The garden on either side of the pebble path had been tastefully laid out, with small rose-bushes interspersed with raised banks of fragrant-smelling herbs.

‘And this is a brothel!’ Athelstan exclaimed.

Banyard, grinning from ear to ear, pointed at the door-handle of yellow brass carved in the shape of a young, sensuous girl holding a pitcher of water. Athelstan gazed speechlessly at this, then at the end of the bell rope where the weights were carved in the shape of a man’s penis. Cranston, huffing and puffing, not knowing whether to be embarrassed or laugh, pulled at the rope then moved his hand quickly away.

Thank God the Lady Maude can’t see me here, he thought. Oh Lord and all his saints forfend she ever does!

The sweet sound of the bell inside the house was answered by a patter of footsteps and the door swung open. In any other circumstances Athelstan would have thought the young girl was a novice: a white, gold-edged veil covered her lustrous hair, and she was dressed in a high-necked grey gown, but this was flounced at the hem and her nails were painted a deep red. What Athelstan had first thought was a white cloth over her bosom, was instead a rather thin gauze veil over ripe, luscious breasts.

‘Good morrow, sirs.’ The girl smiled at them. She clutched at her gown and raised this slightly, showing the thick white petticoats beneath. She gestured airily to Athelstan. ‘Come in, Father. You will not be the first friar we have had here.’ She fought back the laughter in her voice. ‘And you will certainly not be the last. Any friend of Master Banyard’s is a friend of ours.’

‘Master Banyard is leaving,’ Cranston growled, regaining his wits and pushing by Athelstan. ‘And you, my little hussy, should know that I am Sir John Cranston, Coroner of the city.’

‘Coroners are also welcome,’ the girl answered pertly. ‘Though the lady of the house –’ she pouted at Cranston’s warbelt – ‘does not permit swords.’

Banyard sniggered, but when Sir John whirled round, pulled his face straight. ‘Sir John, I have to go back.’

‘Dame Mathilda Kirtles,’ Cranston pushed his face towards the young woman. ‘I want to see her now or it will be the bailiffs. And don’t tell me they’d be most welcome as well!’

The young girl, covering her mouth with her hand, stepped back and led them along an airy passageway and into a sweet-smelling parlour. She told them to wait, closed the door behind her. Athelstan sat in a cushioned windowseat, mouth half open as he stared around.

‘Oh, come, come, Brother,’ Cranston called out. ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t been in a molly-house before!’

Athelstan quietly raised his hands. ‘Sir John, I swear, I have never seen a place like this.’

The friar stared down at the floor where the boards were so highly polished that they caught the sunlight. Here and there lay thick woollen rugs. The walls were half covered with wooden panelling, above this the plaster had been painted a rich cream shade. Tapestries, full of colour, hung there. Athelstan, craning his neck, studied one. At first he thought it was a young maiden listening to the song of a troubadour, but he blushed as he realised the troubadour was naked, whilst the young lady had her dress split down the middle.

‘Yes, yes, quite,’ he murmured.

‘Have you ever been with a maid?’ Cranston asked.

‘Sir John, that’s for me to think about and you to wonder . . .’ Athelstan shook his head. ‘At first glance, this could have been an abbess’s parlour.’