The House of Crows

purses, knives as well as several small, calfskin-covered books sealed with leather claspi Athelstan opened these.
    ‘What are they, Brother?’ Cranston asked.
    ‘ The Legends of Arthur ,’ he replied. ‘You know, Sir John Launcelot of the Lake. Tristram and Isolde.’ He picked up another tome. ‘The same here: Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. The Search for the Grail. It’s strange...’
    ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Brother! King Arthur and his Round Table are popular legends. Chaucer and other poets an constantly writing about them. When I was younger, it was quite common for young, fashionable knights to hold Round Tables where they could joust and tourney.’
    ‘I find it strange that two knights, albeit from the same shire, should enjoy the same stories. And here, look.’ Athelstan sifted amongst the jewellery on the bed. ‘Here are two chains bearing identical insignia.’ He separated the items. ‘Each carries the image of a swan with its wings raised.’
    Cranston picked them up. Both medallions were identical, the swans exquisitely carved with ruffled, fluffed wings and arching necks.
    ‘They are no gee-gaws from some market booth,’ the coroner murmured. ‘These were the special work of a silversmith.’
    ‘And look,’ Athelstan added, picking up two rings. ‘Each of these, wrought in silver, also bears the image of a swan.’ He put them close together. ‘They are different sizes,’ Athelstan declared. ‘I saw the marks on the fingers of the corpses next door. What I am saying, Sir John, is that both Swynford and Bouchon belonged to some society or company with an interest in the legends of Arthur, and the badge of their company was a silver swan.’
    ‘Knights of the Swan.’ Cranston sat on the edge of the bed and chewed the corner of his lip. ‘During the wars in France He smiled at Athelstan. ‘Well, you know about those, Brother, you were there. But do you remember the companies? Each, raised by some lord, included knights, men-at-arms, hobelars, archers, all wearing the same livery and sporting the same device: a green dragon or a red lion rampant.’
    ‘Aye, I remember them.’ Athelstan threw the rings back on the bed. ‘Colourful banners and warlike pennants. In reality just an excuse for a group of men to seize as much plunder as they could lay their hands on.’
    Cranston went back to his searches. ‘And, last but not least, Brother,’ he declared, going across to a small table which stood underneath a large black crucifix, ‘I asked Banyard where these Were.’
    We came back carrying arrowheads, candles and small scraps of Parchment. Athelstan examined these, then studied the dirty scraps of parchment with the word, ‘Remember’ scrawled across.
    ‘Each of the victims had these,’ Cranston explained. ‘But what do they signify?’ He shook his head. ‘And why were those red crosses carved on the dead men’s faces?’
    Athelstan went and stood by the open window and stare out, watching Christina: a gaggle of noisy ducks had gathered round her, waddling from the pond which lay near the tavern wall.
    ‘It signifies, my lord Coroner,’ he said, ‘that no sin, no evil act, ever disappears like a puff of smoke: it always comes bad to haunt you.’
    ‘Oh, for God’s sake, monk!’
    ‘Friar, Sir John!’
    ‘You talk like a prophet of doom, friar,’ Cranston snapped.
    ‘Then perhaps I am one. Here we have two knights from the king’s shire of Shrewsbury going about their lawful — or unlawful — business, whichever way you wish to describe it. They come to London to preach and lecture in the Commons. Like any men away from their kith and kin, they want to enjoy themselves in the fleshpots of the city: good food, strong wine, soft women. But then two of them are murdered. The first’ leaves a banquet in a highly agitated state, his body is later fished from the Thames. When his corpse is laid out and his companion comes in to pray, an assassin, masquerading as a priest, garrottes him whilst chanting certain verses from the Death Mass. Now, I suggest poor Bouchon was agitated because he received those signs: an arrowhead, a candle and a script, telling him to “remember”. Swynford received the same.’ Athelstan glanced across at the coroner. ‘You follow my line of thought, Sir John?’
    Cranston leaned his bulk against the edge of the table and stared at his secretarius thoughtfully.
    ‘It means, first, they were probably killed by the same assassin who