The House of Crows (17 page)

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.

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.