The House of Crows (16 page)

Athelstan, his heart heavy, turned a corner. He could see the flicker of torchlight and hear the shouts and his anxiety grew. Something was wrong. He hurried on, trying hard to control the beating in his heart, but the scene in front of St Erconwald’s stopped him full in his tracks. The church doors were closed, but a large crowd of his parishioners was assembled on the steps, torches in hand, listening to a speech from Watkin the dung-collector.

‘Oh, no!’ Athelstan groaned. ‘He’s gone and armed himself!’ Watkin was striding backwards and forwards, a small metal cooking-pot on his head, a battered leather sallet round his shoulders, a rusty sword poked into the belt which held in his bulging belly. On either side stood his two lieutenants: Pike the ditcher holding a spear. He also had a cooking-pot on his head whilst, on the other side, Ranulf the rat-catcher had armed himself with a longbow and a quiver full of arrows.

‘We must arm ourselves,’ Watkin repeated, jabbing the air with his stubby fingers and beaming at the chorus of approval. ‘If Father Athelstan does not come back.’ His voice dropped. ‘And who knows if he will, eh? For all we know the demon could have taken him.’

A roar of disapproval greeted his words.

‘We must hunt for the demon.’

Again there was a roar of agreement. Athelstan noticed with a sinking heart how Tab the tinker had taken the statue of St Erconwald from its plinth inside the church, whilst Huddle the painter grasped the processional cross as if it was a spear.

‘Benedicta! Benedicta!’ Athelstan groaned. ‘Where are you?’

He searched the crowd and glimpsed the widow at the far back. She seemed to sense his presence, turned and looked straight at him. Athelstan moved out of the shadows. ‘Watkin!’ he shouted.

The dung-collector jumped in surprise. ‘It’s Father!’ he yelled. ‘The demon has released him!’

Athelstan strode across, shouldering his way through the crowd, ignoring the pats and cries of good wishes. He stared up into the dung-collector’s fat, bulbous face.

‘Watkin, Watkin,’ he whispered. ‘In God’s name what are you doing?’

‘We have seen the demon,’ Pike came forward. ‘Just before dusk, Father, a black shape in the cemetery.’

‘Have you been drinking?’ Athelstan accused.

Pike looked stricken. ‘Father, I swear, by the cross!’

‘Don’t blaspheme,’ Athelstan whispered hoarsely. ‘I have come from Newgate where they have just hanged your friend the Fox.’

Pike’s jaw sank.

‘It’s really my fault, Father.’ Ranulf edged nervously forward. ‘Early in the day I was in that house in Stinking Alley. You know, the one the merchant wants to buy. I saw the demon there, it was at the top of the stairs.’

‘And did you go back and search?’

‘Oh yes, Father, we did: it was gone but the stench was terrible.’

‘And who saw it tonight?’

‘I did.’ Cecily the courtesan came up to the steps, hips swaying, her face as innocent as an angel’s. ‘Father, you told me to come back and help, so I did.’

‘And what were you doing in the cemetery?’ Athelstan asked, glancing quickly at Pike the ditcher.

‘Now, Father, don’t be like that. I was all by myself: there was some mouldering fruit left upon a grave so I collected that. It was very quiet.’ She babbled on. ‘Then I heard a sound. Cross my heart, Father.’ She blessed herself. ‘I saw the shape, down near the wall, prowling amongst the trees.’

‘And what do you all intend to do now?’

Watkin pointed to the statue of St Erconwald and the cross that Huddle still grasped. ‘We are going into the cemetery, Father, to hunt the demon!’

Athelstan turned and stretched his hands out above his parishioners. ‘Brothers, sisters,’ he called. ‘What stupidity is this?’

‘We want to hunt the demon!’ Hig the pigman shouted. ‘It’s only a matter of time, Father, before he attacks someone else. Who knows, this time he might take them off to hell?’ Hig lowered his voice and stared around. ‘Perhaps he’s hunting Pike?’

‘Don’t you say anything about my husband!’ the ditcher’s wife shouted back. ‘You can talk, Hig! I saw you this morning outside the Piebald!’

‘What do you mean?’ the pigman called back.

‘Well, that wasn’t your daughter!’

A vicious row would have ensued, but Athelstan clapped his hands for silence. ‘Tomorrow morning,’ he shouted, ‘I will celebrate Mass and ask for God’s help in this matter.’

A groan of disapproval greeted his words.

‘However, to make sure we all sleep peacefully in our beds, I will inspect the cemetery.’

Athelstan meant to go by himself, but Watkin’s control over the crowd was too strong. Huddle went first, rather nervously, holding the cross, followed by Tab the tinker carrying the statue of St Erconwald. He was flanked on one side by Crim the altar-boy carrying a flaring torch and Amisias the fuller carrying another. Athelstan closed his eyes and sighed as Watkin took up position beside him, marching like an earl ready to do battle. Ursula’s sow suddenly lurched forward, brushed past Tab and headed straight for Athelstan’s garden, pursued by Ursula screeching at the top of her voice.

At last they entered the cemetery. Watkin’s courage seemed to fail, he hung back, indicating that Pike should take his position. Huddle and Tab drew to one side and Athelstan walked along the beaten trackway which snaked amongst the graves.

Crim the altar-boy came pattering after him, holding a torch. ‘There’s nothing here, Father,’ he whispered. ‘Any demon with half a brain would have fled ages ago.’

Athelstan smiled and stared into the darkness. ‘Is there anyone there?’ he called.

But only the evening wind rustled the branches of the yew trees and bent the long grass between the headstones. An owl hooted. Athelstan was glad he didn’t jump or start, though, behind him, his parishioners hastily stepped back.

‘Is there anyone there?’ Athelstan repeated. ‘In the name of God, show yourself.’

He felt slightly ridiculous shouting into the darkness. He silently thanked God that none of his brothers from Blackfriars or, even worse, Sir John Cranston were present.

‘The lord Coroner would love this,’ a voice whispered.

Athelstan turned and stared down at Benedicta’s smiling face.

‘He’d draw his sword,’ the widow woman continued. ‘And charge like a paladin round the graveyard.’

‘Aye,’ Athelstan replied. ‘And then we’d never get them to bed.’ He frowned at her. ‘Benedicta, couldn’t you have stopped them?’

‘Father, you know what they are like. Once Watkin gets an idea into his head.’ She grinned. ‘You were gone so long, they really did think the demon had taken you.’

‘He had,’ Athelstan replied. ‘He’s big, fat, drinks, and calls himself John Cranston.’ He touched Benedicta’s face with the tip of his finger. ‘I’ll tell you tomorrow what happened.’

‘Give one of your blessings!’ Watkin shouted. ‘You know, Father, three crosses in the air!’

‘Aye,’ Pike shouted, unwilling to let Watkin have the last say. ‘And a big bucket of holy water, Father!’

‘I shall give my most solemn blessing,’ Athelstan shouted back. ‘God forgive my lie,’ he whispered, winking at Benedicta. ‘It’s the most solemn blessing a Dominican can give,’ he shouted. ‘He is only allowed to give it five times throughout his priestly life, and this is my first!’

His words were greeted by a murmur of approval from his parishioners, sheltering by the side of the church. Athelstan turned and stared into the darkness. To impress his parishioners, he chanted the first five verses of Psalm Fifty-one and then, raising his hand, delivered four blessings: one to the north, another to the south, then to the east and west. Watkin was satisfied. The parishioners drifted away. Benedicta would have stayed to question him, but Athelstan shook his head.

‘I have talked and walked enough,’ he apologised. ‘Oh, where’s Bonaventure?’

‘He’s got more sense,’ Benedicta smiled. ‘As soon as Watkin appeared, he went hunting.’

‘Sensible cat,’ Athelstan growled, imitating Cranston.

He and Benedicta walked over to the stable to check on Philomel, his old war-horse. Behind them, in the graveyard, the ‘demon’ of St Erconwald’s lurked beneath the trees and glared through the darkness at them.

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.