The House of Crows

holds a grudge against both of them,’ Athelstan explained. ‘And, whatever that may be, the arrowhead, the candle and the scraps of parchment are warning signs of their deaths. The red crosses carved on their faces by this assassin, masquerading as a priest, are also part of the grudge.’
    Sir John cradled his wineskin like a mother would a baby. ‘It also means, my good friar,’ he declared, ‘that our assassin is a careful plotter. He waited for this opportunity and executed both men with the subtlest form of trickery.’ He paused. ‘But what then, friar?’
    ‘Well, our noble regent is frightened that he will take the blame; though he must take a quiet satisfaction in the fact that two of his critics have been permanently silenced. Secondly, when Sir Oliver left the tavern, none of his companions followed him though, there again...’ Athelstan turned away from the window and leaned against the wall. ‘... Sir Oliver may have been lured by anyone to some secret assignation where he was killed. Sir Henry’s death is more mysterious. His companions were in the tavern, yet this assassin turns up, disguised as a priest, and that begs two questions. Who knew a priest had been sent for? What would have happened if the false priest had turned up at the same time as Father Gregory?’
    ‘That’s no great mystery,’ Cranston replied. ‘Remember what Christina said: the tavern was very busy. The arrival of a Priest would cause no consternation. If Father Gregory was upstairs, the assassin might have waited or even joined him. Be honest, Brother. As parish priest of St Erconwald’s, if a priest turned up at your church and wanted to pray beside the coffin of one of your hapless parishioners...?’
    ‘ Concedo ,’ Athelstan quipped back. ‘One, two priests, three or four, it does not really matter. The assassin would have waited for his opportunity or created a new one.’ He tapped the scraps of parchment against his fingers. ‘This is the important question to resolve. What were Sir Henry and Sir Oliver supposed to remember? What was the significance of an arrowhead and a candle? The marks on the face? And why here?’
    ‘Which means?’ Cranston snapped.
    ‘Why kill the two knights in London? Why not at Shrewsbury, or journeying to and from Westminster?’
    Cranston snorted, his white whiskers bristling. He was about to launch into speech when there was a clatter on the stairs, a knock on the door, and Sir Miles Coverdale, dressed in half-armour, swordbelt on, bustled into the room.
    ‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan.’ He stopped, sketching a rather mocking bow at the coroner and his companion.
    ‘What’s the matter, man?’ Cranston shoved the wineskin underneath his cloak and stood up. ‘You come charging in like a war-horse.’
    Sir Miles grinned, removed his gauntlets and wiped the sweat from his forehead. ‘Sir John, I am simply carrying out your orders when you came into Westminster.’
    ‘I know what I asked,’ Cranston barked.
    Athelstan smiled at Coverdale’s tolerant, easy-going manner. The captain seemed more amused by Sir John’s peevishness than anything else. The young man stretched out his hand and grasped Athelstan’s. ‘Father, I have heard a lot about you. His Grace the Regent often talks about Sir John and his helpmate.’
    ‘Secretarius!’Cranston snapped. ‘Athelstan is my secretarius and parish priest at St Erconwald’s. He is a Dominican friar and—’
    ‘-And a very good preacher,’ Sir Miles finished Sir John’s sentence for him. ‘Or so rumour has it.’ He winked at Athelstan then stared at Sir John. ‘My lord Coroner, the morning session of the Commons has finished early. I asked Sir Oliver and Sir Henry’s companions to stay in the chapter-house. They await you there.’
    The captain turned as the door opened behind him and a black cowled monk came silently as a shadow into the room.
    ‘What the...?’ Cranston exclaimed.
    ‘Sir John, may I introduce Father Benedict, monk of Westminster, librarian and chaplain to the Commons.’
    Cranston shuffled his feet in embarrassment and extended a podgy hand which was clasped by Father Benedict, who now pulled back his hood to reveal a thin, ascetic face, head completely shaven. Deep furrow marks etched either side of his mouth, his eyes were close-set but sharp.
    ‘Sir John Cranston.’ He glanced at Athelstan, his face transformed by a smile. ‘And you, Brother.’
    Athelstan came forward and exchanged the