The House of Crows (8 page)

‘And?’ Cranston asked.

‘Sir Henry, Sir Oliver and the others used to meet in our chapter-house at Lilleshall.’

‘For what purpose?’

‘They were young knights,’ the monk replied. ‘According to Antony, their brains were stuffed with dreams of King Arthur and his knights of the Round Table. Both Sir Henry and Sir Oliver and the others used to ape such stories. Every month they would meet, with the permission of the abbot, in our house at Lilleshall, where they would feast, recite the legends of Arthur, and hold a tournament in the great meadow outside. The meetings became famous.’ Father Benedict coughed and glanced away.

‘And they took as their title the “Knights of the Swan”?’ Athelstan said.

‘Oh yes!’ Father Benedict leaned down and rubbed his knee. ‘Sir John, Athelstan, I beg of you, I must sit down. I have rheumatism; the abbey is not the warmest place in winter.’

Cranston pulled up a chair and the old monk sank gratefully into it.

‘Do you wish something to drink?’ Cranston asked hopefully.

‘We were talking about the Knights of the Swan?’ Athelstan interrupted, throwing Cranston a warning glance.

‘Oh, if Father Antony were to be believed, they were a glorious band,’ the Benedictine monk replied. ‘Some of them are dead now, God rest them! But there must have been twenty or twenty-four in their company. I once visited Antony at Lilleshall when the Knights of the Swan held one of their great Round Tables. They came riding up to the abbey, preceded by a squire carrying a broad scarlet banner with a beautiful white swan embroidered on it. They’d set up their pavilions in the meadow and the crowds flocked from Shrewsbury even as far as Oswestry on the Welsh border. They all came to see the colours, the gaily caparisoned destriers, the tourney. God forgive me,’ he whispered, ‘even I, a monk, a man of peace, loved the sight. Stirring times! The great Edward was organising his armies to fight in France and, when the news of the great victory at Crécy swept the country, the Knights of the Swan became local heroes.’ He glanced at Sir John. ‘Surely, my lord Coroner, there were such days in London?’

‘Aye, there were.’ Cranston sat on the edge of the bed, a dreamy look in his eyes. ‘I was just like that,’ he murmured. Then he caught Coverdale’s grin. ‘Don’t judge a book by its cover, young man.’ He tapped his broad girth. ‘Once I was as sleek and trim as a greyhound, as sharp and swift as a swooping hawk.’

Athelstan put his hands up his sleeves and looked down to hide his smile.

‘There used to be great tournaments on London Bridge and at Smithfield,’ Cranston continued. He wagged a finger at Coverdale. ‘Not like the young popinjays today, traipsing around London in their fancy hose and ridiculous shoes. The only thing they hold out in front of them are their codpieces, and those are usually stuffed with straw.’

‘But Sir Miles,’ Father Athelstan prompted him, ‘you remember Lilleshall surely?’

The captain’s head came up sharply. ‘I was only a child,’ he stuttered.

‘But your father held land in Shropshire, outside Market Drayton, between there and Woodcote Hall.’

Sir Miles blushed slightly, his hand falling away from his sword. Athelstan couldn’t decide whether he was just embarrassed or had something to hide.

‘Was your father a Knight of the Swan?’ Cranston asked.

‘No, he wasn’t.’ Coverdale’s face became hard-set, no longer youthful; his grim, pinched mouth gave him the look of a sour old man.

‘I meant to give no slight,’ Cranston continued softly.

‘And none taken, Sir John. My father’s manor was little more than a bam: he died when I was young. My mother was sickly. We had no time for junketing and tourneys. I left Shropshire as a squire. I served in Lord Montague’s retinue at sea against the Spanish.’ Coverdale moved his swordbelt and sat down on a stool. ‘The Knights of the Swan mean nothing to me.’

‘Did you know Sir Oliver or Sir Henry?’ Athelstan asked.

‘By name only. But, there again, I know the same could be true of knights from Norfolk or Suffolk.’ He held his gaze. ‘I am John of Gaunt’s man in peace and war. I wear his livery, I feed in his household.’

‘You had no liking for these knights?’ Cranston insisted.

‘I hear them like a gaggle of geese cackling in the chapter-house.’ Coverdale snapped. ‘They criticise the regent for the war against France and yet will not vote a penny to help him. They talk of bad harvests, poor crops and falling profits, but they keep their tenants tied to the land by force and the use of the courts. No, I do not like them, Sir John.’

‘And if you were the regent?’

‘I would levy the taxes not on the peasants but on the prosperous knights and fat merchants: those who refused to pay, I’d call traitors.’

Athelstan looked at Father Benedict but the monk sat like a statue, though his eyes looked troubled, frightened by Sir Miles’s threats.

‘Are you there to guard the Commons?’ Cranston asked, now enjoying himself. ‘Or are you the regent’s spy?’

Coverdale’s hand fell to the pommel of his sword. Cranston, despite his girth, suddenly lurched forward with a speed which belied his bulk.

‘Don’t be stupid,’ he murmured, standing over the young knight. ‘I didn’t mean to give offence but wanted merely to describe things as they are.’

‘And I have answered you truthfully, Sir John,’ Coverdale replied. ‘I am there with men-at-arms and archers to ensure the Commons can sit in peace and security. I do not have to like what I hear but I have no personal grudge against them.’

‘And you have been with the Commons from the start?’ Athelstan intervened quickly.

‘Yes. The chapter-house and its approaches have been sealed off. I and my men guard them. Before the session began I was also responsible for hiring barges to take the representatives upriver to see the king’s menageries in the Tower.’ Coverdale now relaxed. ‘They were like children,’ he added. ‘Many of them had never seen a lion or a panther or the great brown bear which the regent has brought there.’ He glanced at Cranston. ‘And, yes, Sir John, I guard their soft flesh and listen to their chatter. Some of them should be more careful with their mouths: what they say I report back to the regent. Just as you will, after this business is all finished.’

‘Did you have any conversation with Sir Oliver Bouchon or Sir Henry Swynford? Or any of their party?’ Athelstan asked.

‘None,’ Coverdale replied.

‘And is this the first time you have ever been to the Gargoyle tavern?’

‘Of course. My task is to keep the cloisters secure whilst the Commons are in session. I have as little to do with Sir Oliver and his ilk as possible.’

‘And you, Father Benedict?’ Cranston asked.

The monk pulled a wry expression. ‘I offer Mass in the abbey at the beginning of each day. I am also available for those who wish to be shriven.’ He smiled sourly. ‘And, before you ask, Sir John, that is not taxing work. Many of the Commons have drunk deeply the night before, not to mention their other pleasures.’

‘I find it strange,’ Athelstan commented, ‘that whilst the Commons meeting is in full session in the chapter-house at Westminster, two knights from Shropshire are brutally murdered.’

‘What’s so strange?’ Coverdale interrupted harshly.

‘That the captain of the guard comes from Shropshire, whilst the chaplain had a close friend who also served in Lilleshall Abbey, not far from Shrewsbury and in the same county.’

‘There’s nothing strange in that,’ the Benedictine answered quickly. ‘When you go to the chapter-house, Brother, you’ll find it guarded by a company of Cheshire archers. Sir Miles was born in Shropshire, but so were many in my Lord of Gaunt’s retinue. As you know, the regent holds lands there and highly favours men from those parts. As for myself, if you ask Father Abbot, he will tell you that I am not the only monk who has connections with our community at Lilleshall. I am a trained librarian and archivist; I have similar ties with our houses in Norfolk, Yorkshire and Somerset. More importantly, when Father Abbot asked for a volunteer to serve as chaplain to the Commons, I was the only one: I offered my services because the chapter-house is near the library and under my jurisdiction.’

Athelstan stared at him coolly. ‘Did you speak to either of the dead men?’

‘No.’ The monk’s eyes shifted too quickly. He licked his lips and swallowed hard.

You are lying, Athelstan thought: you have got something to hide. Why should an old monk, ill with rheumatism and arthritis, come to a tavern to say prayers over corpses of two men he hardly knew? Such prayers would be equally effective in some oratory or chantry chapel in the abbey.

Father Benedict glanced at Sir Miles. ‘Time is passing,’ he murmured. ‘I still have my duties here.’

Cranston got to his feet and slurped noisily from his wineskin then beamed around. ‘Ah, that’s better. Father Benedict, it was a pleasure meeting you, though I regret the circumstances.’ The coroner would’ve liked to add that never had he heard of two murder victims receiving the attention of so many priests but, like Athelstan, he realised lies had been told. There would be other opportunities to probe further.

Sir Miles also rose, swinging his great military cloak round his shoulders.

‘We’d best hurry,’ Cranston muttered. ‘Come, Brother.’

And, making their farewells, they and the captain left the monk and went downstairs to the taproom.

‘Give our thanks to Master Banyard,’ Athelstan whispered to Christina as Cranston and Coverdale swept out of the door before him.

The young girl smiled but Athelstan glimpsed the fear in her eyes. He grasped her hand. ‘What’s the matter, child?’

‘Nothing, Father. It’s just that terrible voice. Will he come back?’

Athelstan shook his head. ‘I doubt it. But, if you remember anything else, send a message to Sir John at the Guildhall.’

The girl promised she would, and Athelstan hurried off after his companions. They walked down the narrow alleyways and into the grounds of Westminster Abbey. As they did so, the man waiting just inside the gate, under the shadow of a great oak tree, watched them go: the friar, the soldier and the ponderously girthed coroner.

‘O Day of Wrath, O Day of Mourning,’ the watcher whispered. ‘See Fulfilled the Prophet’s Warning!’

As Athelstan and Cranston left the Gargoyle tavern, Ranulf the rat-catcher made his way to a large, deserted house which stood on the corner of Reeking Alley in Southwark. The rat-catcher closed the door, locking it carefully with the key the merchant had given him. He placed his two cages on the floor and sat down with his back to the door. He mopped his face with a rag tied to the broad leather belt from which hung all the implements of his trade: small cages, chisels, hammers and a large leather bag for the rodents he caught and killed.

‘Ah, that’s better!’ Ranulf murmured. He pulled back the black-tarred hood from his pale pink features. ‘I am happy,’ he declared, his voice echoing eerily through the empty house. Ranulf stared up the long dusty staircase and, half closing his eyes, listened with pleasure to the scrabbling and the squeaking from behind the wainscoting and under the floorboards. Such sounds were always music to Ranulf s ears.

‘Rats!’ The merchant who had recently bought the house had roared, ‘The whole place is infested with them: black, brown and varieties I have never heard or seen before!’ The merchant had poked Ranulf s tarry jacket. ‘Ten pounds sterling! I’ll pay you ten pounds sterling to clear the place of rats. Three now, three when you have done it, and the balance after my steward has inspected your work.’

‘Ten pounds!’ Ranulf chortled.

He opened his eyes. Although a widower, Ranulf had a large brood of children, all of whom dressed and looked like their father, but all with appetites and a penchant for growing which constantly worried him. Nevertheless, the warm weather had been good to Ranulf. Rats were back in London, whilst the disappearance of cats from Cheapside had meant their numbers had multiplied. The rat-catcher had been in great demand, and his mound of silver and gold, so carefully stowed away with a goldsmith just off Lothbury, was growing quite steadily. Out of the corner of his eye, Ranulf saw a small black furry shape race across the floorboards. Ranulf smiled beatifically.

‘Others might curse you,’ he whispered into the darkness, ‘but, every morning in church, Ranulf thanks God for rats.’

He put his finger to his lips. Would there be rats in heaven? And, if there were, would he be allowed to catch them? But how could there be rats in heaven? Brother Athelstan had told him that it was a beautiful place and rats only existed where there was muck and dirt. Ranulf had pondered deeply on this. He had even raised it at the last meeting of the Guild of Rat-catchers when they had met in the Piebald tavern. None of his colleagues could give an answer.

‘You’ll have to ask Brother Athelstan,’ Bardolph, who was skilled in catching bats in church belfries, had declared.

Ranulf pursed his lips and nodded. The guild were to have their special Mass at St Erconwald’s soon: they would ask Brother Athelstan, he always had an answer; though Ranulf sometimes wondered if the little friar was teasing him with his gentle, sardonic replies. Another black shape raced across the floorboards further down the gloomy passageway. Ranulf stared at the two ferrets he had brought: Ferrox, his favourite, and its younger brother, Audax. He picked up Ferrox’s cage and stared at the little beady eyes and quivering snout.

‘Don’t worry,’ he murmured. ‘Hunting will soon begin: as soon as Daddy catches his breath.’

If a ferret could smile, Ranulf was sure Ferrox did. The rat-catcher put the cage down and stared at the dust motes dancing in the sunlight pouring through a small window in the stairwell above him.

‘If I could only buy Bonaventure,’ he murmured.

Ranulf had a vision of the united power of Bonaventure, Ferrox and Audax: an unholy trinity to loose upon the rat population of Southwark. Athelstan had been most unwilling.

‘Bonaventure might kill your ferret,’ the friar had warned.

Ranulf had violently disagreed. ‘No, Brother, they always unite against rats. Rats be their common enemy. Anyway, there’s not a cat alive which could catch old Ferrox.’