The House of Crows

came hurrying towards them, hands flailing the air.
    ‘You are late! You are late!’ he cried at Coverdale. ‘The honourable representatives from Shropshire could wait no longer. They have gone to one of the cookshops in the abbey yard.’ He drew his head back, reminding Cranston of a noisy, busY sparrow. ‘You can’t keep such men waiting,’ he bleated.
    ‘Nor can you the king’s coroner,’ Cranston intervened. Who are you, anyway?’
    Sir Peter de la Mare, Speaker of the Commons. Sir Miles, what is happening?’
    Coverdale introduced Cranston and Athelstan, and de la Mare became more obsequious. ‘Well, wait here,’ he rattled on. ‘And I’ll see what I can do, I’ll see what I can do.’ And off he waddled.
    Athelstan stared round the chapter-house. ‘God in heaven!' he exclaimed. ‘Look, Sir John, what a beautiful place!’
    The chamber was octagonal in shape and ringed by great windows that increased the impression of light and illuminated the glory of the great arched roof. This was supported by a single squat column, before which stood a huge wooden lectern.
    ‘Where do the representatives sit?’ Athelstan asked.
    Cranston pointed to the three tiers of steps which ran round the room. "
    ‘Over there,’ he replied. ‘The chapter-house can hold hundreds.’
    Athelstan nodded even as he gazed at the beautiful tympanum above the doorway depicting Christ in glory. The Saviour was clothed in a beautiful crimson cloak, and round his head glowed a golden nimbus against a bright blue sky. On either side, white robed angels, each with three sets of wings, bowed their heads in adoration. In the windows and along the walls beneath them were more scenes from the Bible: the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse: the Great Beast in conflict with Michael the Archangel, St John being miraculously preserved in a cauldron of boiling oil; whilst other pictures showed the saved simpering in righteousness whilst the damned writhed in screaming torment.
    ‘All this must have been built by angels,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘Just look, Sir John! I must bring Huddle here. If he could only study scenes like these! The representatives are most fortunate to meet in a place like this.’
    ‘Little good it does them,’ Coverdale broke in harshly' ‘They squat around the walls, shouting and yelling.’
    ‘Surely they do more than that?’ Athelstan replied.
    ‘Well, the Speaker keeps order,’ Coverdale said. ‘He sits in the centre just beneath the window. He directs whom he chooses to speak from the lectern. Whilst over there —’ he pointed to a small table containing scrolls of parchment—‘sit the clerks and lawyers.’
    Athelstan nodded. He walked slowly round, admiring the different scenes painted on the walls, now and again standing back, marvelling at the artist’s skill. He paused at the sound of footsteps in the vestibule; the door was flung open and a group of men swept into the chapter-house.
    ‘Cranston.’ The leader was a thickset, narrow-faced man, his iron-grey hair shaved high above his ears. He stood, just within the doorway, hands on his hips, legs apart.
    ‘Over here,’ Cranston cooed back. ‘And who, sir, are you?’
    ‘Sir Edmund Malmesbury, representative of the Commons from Shropshire. We waited for you.’ Malmesbury glanced disdainfully at Coverdale. ‘But we are busy men. We need to eat and drink.’
    ‘Aye, so you do,’ Cranston wheezed as he got to his feet. And, thumbs stuck in his belt, he waddled over. He stopped only a few inches from Malmesbury.
    ‘We were late, Sir Edmund.’ He smiled. ‘But let me introduce myself: Sir John Cranston, King’s Officer and Coroner of the city of London; Brother Athelstan, my clerk; Coverdale you know.’ Cranston peered round Malmesbury. ‘And these are your companions?’
    The rest of the group came forward: red-haired, bristling-bearded Sir Thomas Elontius, with his fierce popping eyes; Sir Humphrey Aylebore, his head bald as an egg, fat and podgy, his shaven face weak and rather slobbery; Sir Maurice Goldingham, small and neat in appearance, his oily black hair coiffed like that of a page’s; and finally, Sir Francis Harnett, small and blond-haired with close-set eyes. Sir Francis’s brown, cleanshaven face reminded Athelstan of a kestrel and, remembering Moleskin’s story about Perline Brasenose meeting the knight on the river steps at Southwark, the friar wondered what such a man would want with the likes of his headstrong