The House of Crows

exclaimed. ‘O day of wrath, O day of mourning!’ He stared at Cranston’s bewildered face. ‘“O day of wrath, O day of mourning, See fulfilled the prophet’s warning,’” Athelstan chanted. “‘Heaven and earth in ashes burning.” It’s from the Mass for the dead; the priest always chants it before he recites the Gospel.’ Athelstan grasped Christina’s hand. ‘And you are sure it wasn’t Sir Henry Swynford’s voice?’
    ‘Oh no, this was different, deep, muffled.’
    ‘What does it mean, Brother?’ Cranston asked.
    Athelstan rubbed his face with his hands. Despite the warmth and cheer of the taproom, he felt cold and frightened. Most assassins killed quickly and quietly.
    He replied slowly. ‘What it means, my lord Coroner, is that the chantry priest, and I do not think he was the one hired by out good host, was the assassin. As Sir Henry knelt before his companion’s coffin, this assassin quickly garrotted him but, as he killed him, the assassin chanted those words, not in prayer but as a terrible cry of vengeance.’

CHAPTER 3

    The taverner, shaking his head, led them up to the first-floor gallery. He stopped on the stairwell, his dark face framed by the mullioned glass window behind him. Athelstan smelt the fragrant pots of herbs on the small sill and, from the yard below, heard the strident crowing of a cock. For some strange reason Athelstan recalled the words of the Gospel, about Peter’s betrayal of Christ before the cock crowed thrice. He steeled himself: he and Cranston were about to enter a dark, tangled maze of murder and intrigue amongst the wealthy lords of the soil. Swynford’s and Bouchon’s deaths were certainly no accidents, nor were they the victims of unhappy coincidence.
    ‘Well, what are we waiting for?’ Cranston snapped. Banyard lifted a finger. ‘Listen, Father.’
    Athelstan strained his ears and heard the faint mumbling. ‘It’s Father Gregory,’ the taverner explained. ‘He came this morning to anoint the corpses. After that,’ he continued cheerfully, ‘they’ll be taken down to the local corpse-dresser, an old woman on the far side of the palace. She will remove the bowels and stuff the bodies with spices. I understand Sir Edmund Malmesbury is hiring a small retinue to escort them back to Shrewsbury.’
    Cranston made to go on, but Banyard put his arm across the next flight of stairs. ‘I think we should wait,’ the taverner declared.
    ‘And I think we shouldn’t, ‘Cranston growled.
    Up he went. Athelstan shrugged apologetically and followed. He glanced down the stairs where Christina was staring up j them, her mouth in a round ‘O’.
    ‘Don’t worry, child,’ Athelstan called back. ‘We’ll all be safe with Sir John.’
    They went along the gallery and into a chamber. Even though the windows were open and the shutters thrown back, the air reeked of death and decay. The two corpses lay in the coffins on a specially erected trestle-table at the foot of the four-poster bed. The priest kneeling on a cushion crossed himself and got up hastily. Grey-skinned, grey-haired, with a long, tired face, watery eyes and slobbery mouth, Athelstan took an instant dislike to Father Gregory. He looked a born toper; Athelstan, feeling guilty at his harsh judgement, walked forward, hands extended.
    ‘Father Gregory, we apologise for interrupting your orisons. I am Brother Athelstan from St Erconwald’s, this is my lord Coroner, Sir John Cranston.’
    The priest forced a weak smile and limply shook Athelstan’s hand, then winced at Cranston’s powerful, vice-like grip.
    ‘God have mercy on them!’ the priest wailed, his hands fluttering down at the corpses. ‘Terrible deaths! Terrible deaths! Here today and gone tomorrow, eh, Brother?’
    He swayed slightly on his feet, and Athelstan wondered if he had fortified himself with more than prayer.
    ‘Why didn’t you come last night?’ Cranston asked, squatting down on the stool and mopping his face with the hem of his cloak.
    ‘I was away you see. Every...’ The man was gabbling. Every week I visit my mother for a day. I came back this morning and found Master Banyard’s note. Terrible, terrible.’
    ‘If you wait downstairs,’ Banyard said kindly, ‘Christina will give you some food, Father. My lord Coroner here needs to inspect the corpses.’
    The priest threw a fearful look at Sir John, then scuttled from the room.
    ‘And you can join him,’ Cranston smiled at the taverner. ‘We no longer