The House of Crows (28 page)

‘They may ask for the removal of the lord Coroner,’ Gaunt taunted back. ‘There were complaints, your Grace, at the terrible murders being committed here in the abbey.’

The king’s mood abruptly changed. He made a cutting movement with his hand.

‘Sir John Cranston is the king’s coroner in London,’ he snapped. ‘And if the Commons try to remove him, I’ll break their necks!’ Richard sat forward. ‘Brother Athelstan, Sir John, please stay with us. Uncle, if I am to touch the beggars, then let’s have it done quickly!’

Gaunt snapped his fingers; Athelstan and Cranston stood back. There were more trumpet blasts, and royal heralds began to usher up towards the dais a line of ragged, poor men and women, eager for the king’s touch on their heads. These were even more appreciative of the silver piece, bread and wine distributed by royal servitors from a table behind the dais. Cranston and Athelstan watched the beggars shuffle through. Some had made a pathetic attempt to wash or change, but they all looked unkempt and dirty with straggly, greasy hair and pinched narrow faces. Some of them had open sores on their hands and feet. Many didn’t even wear shoes or sandals. Nevertheless, each came forward and knelt on the cushions before the king’s chair. Athelstan had to admire how the young king hid his personal feelings behind a show of concern. The king would smile at each beggar, lean forward, and sketch a cross on their foreheads. Now and again he would clasp a hand or whisper a few words of encouragement. The beggar, his eyes shining with gratitude, would be led off around the dais for more practical help.

The line seemed endless. Athelstan, watching them intently, regretted that some of the beggars from his own parish were not there. He noticed two men edging their way forward. There was something familiar about them. They seemed more purposeful than those who had gone before. Athelstan watched the shorter one in particular and felt his stomach lurch: the man with his bloodless lips, ever-flickering eyes, broken nose and a scar just under his left eye! Was he not one of those who, according to Joscelyn the taverner, met Pike the ditcher in the Piebald tavern? Athelstan turned to Cranston, but the coroner was now deep in conversation with one of the knights whom he had apparently known in former days. Athelstan tugged at his sleeve but Cranston just shook him off.

‘Sir John, I think . . .’ Athelstan now gripped the coroner’s arm.

‘For the love of God, Brother, what is it?’

Athelstan pointed to the man. ‘Sir John, I do not think he is a beggar.’

Cranston caught the alarm in Athelstan’s voice, as did his companion. However, as both men moved forward, the beggar, instead of kneeling on the cushion, suddenly drew a dagger, lunging in a cutting arc at the king’s face. Richard fell back, but Gaunt was quick to react. Athelstan had never seen a knife drawn so fast. The beggar was bringing his hand back for a second blow when Gaunt sprang forward and, with two hands, drove his own dagger into the beggar’s chest. The would-be assassin staggered back, blood spurting from his mouth and wound, even as squires and knights recovered from the shock of what was happening. The knifeman turned, mouth gaping, falling against his companion, who shook him off and tried to run back into the crowd.

Gaunt again responded rapidly. An archer had run forward, arrow to his bow string: Gaunt grabbed this, brought the bow up, the long, quilled shaft caught between his fingers. The beggar’s companion was running back through the crowd which parted before him. The regent stood as if carved out of stone, the bow held finnly in his hand. There was a twang and the goose-feathered arrow caught the fugitive just beneath the neck, driving hard into his flesh. He staggered: took one, two more steps. He slumped to his knees then fell to one side.

Chaos and consternation broke out. Knights hurried up, forming a shield wall round the young king. Captains and serjeants barked out orders. Those beggars who had not yet reached the royal throne were brutally beaten off. Men-at-arms ran up, pikes lowered, archers took up positions behind them as Gaunt grabbed the young king who sat frozen in fear. The royal party, Cranston and Athelstan included, retreated back into the abbey, the great doors slamming shut behind them.

‘So quickly!’ Athelstan murmured. ‘Sir John, so quickly! One minute all was calm, with the king delivering his touch…’

He’d have gone towards the king, around whom courtiers were thronging, but Cranston pulled him back. ‘Leave it be, Brother,’ he advised. ‘They will allow no one near the king.’

Gaunt was now imposing order, shouting at captains, cursing their lack of vigilance, issuing instructions that the king should be taken immediately to the Tower. Heralds went outside to restore order and ask the crowd to wait. Athelstan heard the trumpet blasts and the shouts of the herald over the noise of the crowd. At last some sort of order was imposed, and Gaunt swept out of the abbey to address the crowd, proclaiming in sharp, quick sentences that, due to God’s good grace, their young king was unscathed and his would-be murderers sent to hell. Even as he spoke, the regent’s exploits in saving his young nephew appeared to be known by all. As Cranston and Athelstan slipped quietly up a transept, they could hear the roars of the crowd and their cheering at the speed and bravery of the regent.

‘You said you recognised the would-be assassin?’ Cranston asked.

‘I have seen him in Southwark,’ Athelstan replied defensively. ‘He had a reputation as a troublemaker.’

Cranston nodded. However, once they were outside the abbey, in a small alleyway leading down to the Gargoyle, he pulled the friar into the shadow of a doorway.

‘He was one of those leaders of the Great Community of the Realm, wasn’t he?’ Cranston asked. ‘One of those idiots with whom Pike the ditcher consorts.’

Athelstan caught Cranston’s hand and squeezed it. ‘Don’t ever repeat what I say, Sir John,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘Pike is a fool, a drunkard, a blabber, but he’s no traitor or murderer. He had no hand in this.’ He drew his breath in sharply. ‘However, our regent did!’

‘In God’s name, Brother!’

Athelstan took a step back and stared down the alleyway.

‘Sir John, think,’ he said softly. ‘How did those assassins get so close? And don’t you think the regent acted quickly?’ Athelstan smiled bleakly. ‘Sir John, mark my words. Within the hour Gaunt will be the hero of London, and who will resist him then?’

At the Gargoyle, Athelstan acted even more strangely. He made his excuses to Cranston and went up to his own chamber. This time Athelstan was determined not to tell his companion the conclusions he had reached. Instead he studied everything he had listed the night before. Certain facts he scored time and again with a quill: the black dirt under Bouchon’s fingernails; the knight’s abrupt departure; Harnett leaving the brothel; his journey down to the river; and, above all, what was missing from Harnett’s room. Athelstan placed his quill down.

‘Was it missing from the other two?’ Athelstan whispered. He looked down at the parchment. ‘Bow bells!’ he murmured, ‘Bow bells! How can I trap the assassin?’

Athelstan went and knelt beside his bed. He prayed for guidance but his soul was distracted, his mind wandering hither and thither. He stared across at the window: the sun was beginning to set. Athelstan knew he would have to act quickly or there would be more murders. He heard sounds, loud voices from downstairs, followed by Cranston’s heavy footfall in the passageway and a pounding on the door. When Athelstan opened it, Sir John, grinning from ear to ear, seized the surprised friar by the shoulder and kissed him on either cheek.

‘Oh, slyest of monks.’

‘Friar, Sir John, I’m a friar!’

Cranston grinned. ‘Well, whatever.’ He nodded towards the stairs. ‘You were correct. Malmesbury has just come back from the chapter-house. The news of Gaunt’s protection of his nephew has swept the city. No less a person than Sir Edmund Malmesbury is loudly praising the regent. He has advised the Commons to grant all of Gaunt’s demands.’ Cranston studied the friar’s anxious face. His smile faded. ‘Brother, what have you found?’

Athelstan waved him into the chamber, closing the door behind him. He pointed to his bed. ‘Sit down, Sir John. Most of the riddle is resolved.’ Athelstan pulled a stool up opposite the coroner. ‘First, we have a regent, John of Gaunt,’ he began, ‘who, for God knows what reason, needs more taxes. He is opposed, savagely disliked by the Commons, so he concentrates on his most vociferous opponents.’

‘The representatives from Shropshire?’ Cranston asked.

‘Precisely. Sir Edmund Malmesbury and his companions, who once belonged to the fraternity of the Knights of the Swan. Gaunt is a ruthless and tenacious man. He discovers their secrets; how, many years ago, they took the law into their own hands and executed peasant leaders who tried to better themselves. Now Gaunt tells Malmesbury and his group just exactly what he knows and what they must do to obtain his forgiveness. The regent then secures their return to Parliament.’ Athelstan pulled a face. ‘That wouldn’t be difficult. The official responsible for the returns is the sheriff, who is always a Crown nominee. Once they arrive in London,’ Athelstan licked his dry lips, ‘Gaunt tells Malmesbury and his group to continue their usual opposition, depicting the regent as an avaricious, arrogant and cunning prince.’

‘Well, at least he was telling the truth,’ Cranston interrupted. Athelstan smiled. ‘The greatest lies, Sir John, always have a certain element of truth. At the same time –’ Athelstan looked towards the door to make sure it was closed – ‘Gaunt is busy with his spies amongst the Great Community of the Realm. I suspect some or many of its leaders are in his pay. Gaunt arranged that mummery this afternoon. The young king was never in any real danger; that would have been a perilous path to tread; Gaunt would always be blamed if anything happened to the young king. Instead, Gaunt acts the role of the saviour, the loving uncle, the powerful lord defending the golden child. For a while the Londoners, until they regain their wits, will hail him as a saint. Sir Edmund Malmesbury has also been given a sign; full of praise for the regent, he not only withdraws his opposition in the Commons, but actually insists that Gaunt’s demands be approved.’

‘But couldn’t it have been done some other way?’ Cranston asked, scratching his head.

‘Oh, certainly. Gaunt could have demanded that Malmesbury and his group support him from the beginning, but that would have provoked suspicions. Indeed, the regent could have interfered with the election of all the representatives, but that would be a hollow victory; agreeing to the payment of taxes is one thing, collecting them is another.’ Athelstan shook his head. ‘Oh, it’s true, Sir John, what the good Lord said: “The children of light.” Just look at what Gaunt has achieved.’ Athelstan ticked the points off on his fingers. ‘Saviour of the King; the grant of taxes; and, because these representatives will go back to their counties and towns, the regent’s great deeds will be proclaimed throughout the kingdom.’

‘And these murders?’ Cranston asked. ‘Surely Gaunt didn’t plan them?’

‘No, I don’t think he did, but he’s wily enough to make use of them. True, there was a danger that the murders of the knights could be laid at his door, but he deftly avoided that problem by appointing a coroner, who dislikes him intensely, to investigate. Now, Sir John, if you succeed, Gaunt will again get the credit: a just prince who even pursues the assassins of his opponents.’

‘And if I fail?’

Athelstan spread his hands. ‘Gaunt won’t care. All he’ll see is that justice has been done in a strange form of way. Four of his opponents are dead, and Sir John Cranston gets the blame.’

‘And will I succeed?’ Cranston asked. He grasped Athelstan’s arm. ‘You know the murderer, don’t you, Friar? Why don’t you tell me?’

Athelstan leaned over and gently touched the coroner on his face. ‘Because, Sir John, for all your buffoonery, drinking, swearing and belching, you are as honest as the day is long. You wouldn’t be able to hide it and I wouldn’t trap the assassin.’

Cranston blushed and shuffled his great boots. He glanced away, touched by the friar’s compliments.

Athelstan continued. ‘What I want you to do, Sir John, is be with me when I catch him.’ He got to his feet. ‘After I have left, go down to the taproom and make it known that I have trapped the murderer.’

‘Where are you going?;’ Cranston asked.

‘To St Faith’s Chapel,’ Athelstan replied. ‘But don’t tell anyone that, promise?’

The coroner held a podgy hand up, then he took his knife from his sheath. ‘Take that, Brother.’ He thrust the long Welsh dagger at the friar.

Athelstan balanced it in his hands and handed it back.

‘“Put not your trust in chariots”,’ he replied, quoting the psalms, ‘Or the strength of the bow; the Lord Himself will rescue you from the devil who prowls to your right and to your left!’

‘Well, He’d bloody better!’ Cranston muttered, resheathing the dagger. ‘And, when you have gone, what shall I do?’

‘Go outside, Sir John, wait and see who leaves the tavern. Stay awhile, then bring whoever remains with you.’ Athelstan picked up his cloak and, going back, squeezed Sir John’s hand. ‘I’ll be safe.’ He smiled at the coroner.

‘Is this really necessary?’ Cranston insisted. ‘Do you want to trap this assassin so much?’

‘I don’t want to trap him at all,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘God does!’

He left his chamber and went down the stairs. Cranston followed. He watched as the friar stopped to chat to the flaxen-haired Christina, and then to a potboy near the door. Once he was gone, drawing curious glances from those seated in the taproom, Cranston followed him down. Instead of going to a table, he deliberately marched into the centre of the room and beamed around.

‘Why so pleased?’ Sir Miles called from where he sat in a corner.

‘Why, sir,’ Cranston retorted, ‘The king has been saved, the regent has his taxes, whilst Brother Athelstan, God knows where he has gone, believes he has unmasked an assassin!’ Cranston was pleased at the surprise in the captain’s face.

‘Who is it?’ the man spluttered harshly, shattering the silence throughout the taproom.