The House of Crows smoba-6

by Paul Doherty

  ‘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.

  The coroner slyly tapped his fleshy nose. ‘A veritable ferret, our friar.’ He beamed around. ‘He knows the truth.’ He shook his head. ‘And the truth is never what you expect it to be.’

  ‘This is preposterous!’ Aylebore snarled, half rising to his feet from where he sat next to Elontius.

  His sentiments were echoed by Malmesbury, whose face had gone deathly pale.

  ‘Preposterous it may be,’ the coroner replied, ‘but my secretarius will only move in his own good time. Till then, you must wait.’

  Cranston walked out into the darkness. He hid in a corner and watched the alleyway leading up to the abbey. He must have stood there for some time: he was about to wonder whether Athelstan was correct when a fleeting shadow caught his eye and a cloaked figure sped like the angel of death out of the tavern and up the alleyway.

  The assassin, not realising he had been seen, sped on, determined to reach that inquisitive little friar and silence him once and for all. He recalled Cranston’s statement in the taproom, and wondered if the coroner really knew the truth. Whatever, the assassin reasoned, he had to act; he had very little to lose and a great deal to gain.

  He crossed the great deserted square before the abbey, and slowed down as he saw the line of archers around the entrance to the Jericho Parlour. Quickly wiping the sweat from his face, the assassin brought out the seal from his wallet; the guards, busily sharing a wineskin of wine, let him through without demur. At the entrance to the cloisters, the same thing happened. The assassin entered the vestibule leading to the chapter-house and breathed more easily. He went down, then paused: the door to the chapel was open and a faint glow of light peeped through. The assassin smiled. He went back to a long line of bushes which grew in a tangle of undergrowth just outside the east cloister. The assassin walked carefully. He stopped on the fourth paving stone and, crouching down, scrabbled about in the bushes till he caught the leather sack and drew it out. He undid the cord, grasped the small crossbow, and pushed two bolts into his wallet. He carefully hid the bag, slipped along the vestibule and up the steps to St Faith’s. He pushed the door open. Only one candle was lit on the altar. He glimpsed the cowled figure kneeling at the prie-dieu. The assassin slipped through the door, inserted the crossbow bolt, and pulled back the winch. The chapel was deathly quiet. The assassin raised the crossbow, even as he began to chant those dreadful words, ‘Dies irae, dies ilia. .’

  He released the catch; even as he did so, he sensed something was wrong. The figure hadn’t even flinched at his words. The assassin moved into the church; as he did so, the door behind him slammed shut. He whirled round. Athelstan was staring at him and, beside the friar, stood a young archer, an arrow notched to his bow.

  ‘Good evening, Master Banyard. It is mine host from the Gargoyle?’

  Banyard’s hand fell to the second bolt in his pouch.

  ‘Walk back!’ Athelstan ordered. ‘Simon here is an excellent archer. When I came through the cloisters, I asked him to accompany me. If you try to flee or draw the knife beneath your cloak, he will loose an arrow straight int
o your arm or your leg. You’ll still have to listen, but in terrible agony.’

  Banyard drew back the cowl of his cloak. His dark, thickset features betrayed no fear. His eyes flickered backwards and forwards, first to Athelstan then to the archer. He looked over his shoulder at the prie-dieu.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about that,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Just a few sacks of grain; one of Simon’s companions brought them in here for me. I put them on the prie-dieu and covered them with my cloak. In the poor light I thought it was rather lifelike — and so did you.’

  Banyard took a step forward. The archer immediately loosed the arrow which sped a few inches past his face, making him swerve. By the time Banyard had steadied himself, a second arrow had been notched.

  ‘I shall shoot again,’ the bowman declared softly. ‘This is God’s house and Brother Athelstan is here on the orders of the regent.’

  ‘Do what Simon says,’ Athelstan said. ‘It is useless to resist. Outside there are more archers. I have asked them to stop anyone who tries to leave.’ Athelstan pointed to a bench next to the wall. ‘Now, sit down there. Simon will look after you.’

  Banyard obeyed. Athelstan went to the altar. He took the candle burning there and began to light more of the candles as well as two sconce torches. He then pulled across the sanctuary chair and sat opposite Banyard. The landlord just lounged back against the wall, staring at Athelstan from under heavy-lidded eyes.

  ‘You are probably thinking about how you can explain the attack, aren’t you?’ Athelstan began. ‘I wondered if you’d come. It’s the only real mistake you’ve made, isn’t it?’

  Banyard just smirked.

  ‘That’s why I told Christina and the potboy before I left that I was going to St Faith’s Chapel. When my lord Coroner made his announcement in the taproom you panicked, made inquiries, and followed me here.’

  Again Banyard just stared at him. Athelstan suddenly realised that the landlord probably didn’t even suspect Athelstan knew about the terrible murders committed by Malmesbury and the rest so many years ago at Shropshire. Banyard was still confident: without any real evidence, he could worm his way out of this trap and scoff at any allegations laid against himself. Athelstan sat back, gazing at a point in the wall above the taverner’s head.

  ‘What are you waiting for, priest?’ Banyard leaned forward, hands on his knees. ‘So I came into St Faith’s Chapel and shot an arrow into someone I thought was lurking here.’ He pointed to the sacks still heaped on the prie-dieu. ‘The church courts might fine me, but what else have I done?’

  ‘You are a killer, Banyard,’ Athelstan replied slowly. ‘You murdered Bouchon, Swynford, Harnett and Goldingham!’

  ‘And why should I do that?’

  Athelstan heard footsteps outside. ‘I shall tell you in a while, Master Banyard, but for the moment I think we have visitors.’

  The door of the chapel swung open. Cranston came blustering in. He stared at the bowman, Athelstan, Banyard and then at the prie-dieu.

  ‘Satan’s tits!’ he breathed.

  Then he crossed himself: his surprise was echoed by Coverdale and the three knights who came in behind him. Athelstan sat further back in the sanctuary chair. He felt like a judge giving sentence. Cranston, Coverdale and the rest hurried to find seats. Banyard still remained calm, his eyes never leaving the friar.

  ‘Bow bells,’ Athelstan began, ‘When I first met you, Banyard, you said you were born within the sound of Bow bells, a Londoner.’ Athelstan leaned forward. ‘In which Parish? Which street? Which ward? Tell me, and Sir John Cranston will check the records.’

  Banyard stared back.

  ‘You were born in Shropshire. Your father was a hardworking farmer,’ Athelstan continued. ‘He resented the taxes due to the seigneurs, and their demands for forced labour, when he preferred to sell his work to them for wages. He met with others who thought similarly, and they resisted the lords of the soil with their destriers, helmets, tournaments, tourneys, levies, taxes, exactions, bridge-tolls and constant streams of demands.’ Athelstan shrugged. ‘I don’t know exactly what happened, but I think your father just ignored the likes of these three knights here, the so-called fraternity of the Knights of the Swan.’

  ‘Brother Athelstan,’ Malmesbury spluttered, ‘I object.’

  ‘Shut up!’ Athelstan snapped. ‘Now these seigneurs, led by Sir Edmund, petitioned the Crown, but to no avail; so they took the law into their own hands.’

  ‘This is slanderous.’ Aylebore half rose to his feet, his hand falling to his dagger.

  Coverdale sprang to his feet; drawing his sword, he held the point only a few inches away from Aylebore’s chest.

  ‘Sit down!’ Coverdale ordered. ‘And if any of you move again, I’ll strike and claim I was defending Brother Athelstan and the lord Coroner?’

  Sir Humphrey slumped back on the bench. Coverdale, smiling from ear to ear, also took his seat, but he kept his sword before him, cradling the pommel in his hand.

  ‘Continue, Brother Athelstan,’ he said softly, ‘because I think you are going to tell a tale of which I know a little.’ He tapped the point of the sword on the paving-stone. ‘And no one will interrupt you again.’

  ‘As I said,’ Athelstan declared, ‘Malmesbury, Aylebore, Goldingham, Harnett, Swynford and Bouchon and perhaps others…’ Athelstan stared at the knights. ‘I thought one of you might be innocent!’

  Elontius put his face in his hands.

  Athelstan sighed. ‘But, no, you’re all guilty.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Ah well, these seigneurs saw themselves as lords of the earth, the descendants of Arthur and his knights. They played at being paladins until they lost their cup whilst, outside their dreams, the world was changing. Men like your father, Master Banyard, caked in soil, were rising above themselves. These lords formed their coven; visored, hooded and cloaked they struck at individual peasant farmers. First they would warn them by sending a candle, an arrowhead and a scrap of parchment with the word “Remember” scrawled on it.’ Athelstan saw the tears prick Banyard’s eyes. Men such as your father must have wondered, “Remember what?”

  ‘The threats soon became real enough, as individual farms were raided, the men dragged off and hanged, whilst these good knights sat on their horses and chanted the “Dies Irae”, their song of death.’ Athelstan glanced at the three knights. They looked as if they had grown old in such a short space of time, faces crumpled, shoulders bowed. They didn’t look up but just stared at the floor, lost in their own nightmares.

  ‘Now, in God’s eyes no sin goes unpunished,’ Athelstan continued. ‘These knights were probably successful, warnings were given, warnings received, but men like yourself, Master Banyard, never forget. You had nothing to do with Shropshire, but fled to London where, by hard work, you built up a tavern famous for its food and hospitality.’ Athelstan cocked his head sideways. ‘I wonder,’ he said, ‘did you always plot their deaths? Did you, over the years, nurse a terrible thirst for vengeance? Brood about the arrowhead symbolising violence, the candle for the funeral, and the terrible threat behind the word “Remember”!’

  ‘They took him out,’ Banyard began to speak. ‘we were eating our supper round the table. My father, my mother and myself. The door was flung open. Armed men, masked and cowled, burst into the room. My father tried to resist but they knocked the knife from his hand. Laughing and jeering, they pulled him out into the darkness and bundled him on to a horse.’ Banyard paused and put his face in his hands. ‘My mother just screamed, like a whipped dog. She went into a corner, crouching there, stuffing the hem of her smock into her mouth.’ Banyard, lost in the past, shook his head. ‘We’d heard about the deaths, the other executions. My father had been sent the candle, the arrowhead and the note, “Remember”, but he scoffed at them and threw them into the fire. Banyard glanced up with such a look of horror on his face that Athelstan felt a spurt of sorrow at how greed and power had destroyed this man’s life.

  ‘I ran after them.’ Banyard d
eclared. ‘Fast as an arrow but it was too late. They took my father down to an oak tree at the bottom of a meadow just near a stream. I could see his body twirling and the bastards chanting. I hid there until I saw their faces, then I went back to our farm. Within a year Mother was dead. By then I had a list of my father’s killers.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘I sold our land and came to London.’ Banyard stared down at his hands. ‘I worked night and day. Brother Athelstan, I have good cause to hate these men, but did I kill them?’ His tone became more confident, a sly, secretive look on his face.

  Athelstan realised how the pain and desire for revenge had, over the years, unhinged the taverner’s mind.

  ‘You killed them,’ Athelstan remarked softly.

  ‘But, Brother,’ Coverdale interrupted, ‘is it not the most remarkable of coincidences that these knights came to a tavern owned by the son of a man they had killed?’

  ‘Oh, I think Banyard knew that these knights would come to London, Athelstan replied. Sooner or later every great lord must come to Westminster but, of course, Banyard helped matters along. Sir Edmund, you’ve stayed at the Gargoyle before?’

  The knight seemed not to hear.

  ‘Sir Edmund,’ Cranston went over and shook Malmesbury’ s shoulder. ‘Brother Athelstan asked you a question.’

  ‘Yes.’ Malmesbury raised his haggard face. ‘Both I and my companions had stayed at the Gargoyle before. The hospitality, the food…’

  ‘And the lowest rates?’ Athelstan added. He glanced at the taverner. ‘Only God knows,’ he continued, ‘what Master Banyard plotted. Did he hope to make enough money to go back to Shropshire and wreak his revenge on his father’s assassins? However, as the Parliaments were called and Malmesbury and his companions began to attend, his murderous idea certainly took root. Over the years, Banyard would encourage, solicit their custom.’

  ‘Why didn’t he strike then?’ Cranston asked.