The House of Crows

young parishioner.
    Cranston stood back, bowed, and gestured at the steps. ‘My noble sirs, take your ease, we have only a few questions.’
    The five knights of the shire swaggered across and sat on the ledges. They did so slowly, arrogantly, chattering and whispering amongst themselves.
    Peacocks! Athelstan thought, with all the arrogance of Lucifer. The knights looked what they were: successful, hardened warriors; merchants, men of great importance in their own shire as well as here in London. They were all dressed in expensive houppelondes or gowns, red and gold, scarlet or green, all edged and trimmed with ermine along the fringes of hem and cuff. Costly belts clasped their bulging waists above multicoloured hose and ornamented shoes. Men of middle age but with all the fripperies of court gallants. Silver bells were stitched on their sleeves. The shirts underneath their gowns were of costly cambric; jewelled clasps and silver rings decorated fleshy fingers and wrists. None of them were armed, except for dress-daggers pushed into embroidered scabbards.
    Malmesbury was their leader, bellicose and aggressive. For a while he whispered quietly to Sir Humphrey Aylebore, whose fat face broke into a malicious smile as he quickly glared at Sir Miles Coverdale. Athelstan sensed there was no love lost between these powerful men and Sir John of Gaunt’s officer. Elontius began to whistle under his breath. Goldingham, who must have drunk deeply, leaned back, eyes half closed, whilst Harnett appeared more interested in the paintings on the walls.
    Athelstan stood by the lectern and wondered how Sir John would deal with these men, so different from the footpads, felons and foists of London’s Cheapside. The friar quietly prayed that the coroner would keep his temper, and hoped that he had not drunk too much from the miraculous wineskin. Above them, the abbey bells began to toll; calling the monks to Divine Office, their chimes rang through the hollow cloisters. Cranston cocked his head to one side, as if more interested in their sound than the malice of Malmesbury and his companions. The bells stopped clanging, the knights still kept whispering amongst themselves, whilst Cranston began to admire the ring of office on his finger. At last the whispering stopped, but still Cranston did not lift his head. Athelstan gripped the edge of the lectern as the silence grew more oppressive.
    ‘Very good, my lord Coroner.’ Malmesbury sprang to his feet. ‘You have summoned us here.’ He slapped a pair of leather gloves against his thigh. ‘If you have no questions, we’ll go. Let me remind you, Coroner, we are not under your jurisdiction: members of the Commons cannot be arrested because of stupid civic regulations.’ He glanced down at his companions who murmured approval.
    ‘A very pretty speech.’Cranston got to his feet and came over to stand beside Athelstan. He pointed to the door. ‘All of you may go, if you wish. Sir Edmund is perfectly correct. I have no jurisdiction here. However, let me remind you of a few legal niceties. First, two of your companions, members of the Commons, have been foully murdered. This is an attack upon the authority of the Crown. I talk not about the regent but of Richard, King of England, whose officer I am. The lawyers of Chancery may also argue that an attack upon my authority is an attack upon the Crown. However,’ Cranston smiled, ‘that would be decided by the king’s justices: it could take a long time and require your return from Shropshire to London. Secondly, you are protected as long as the Commons sit. Once this Parliament is dismissed, and it will be dismissed whatever happens, I shall swear out warrants for your arrest on suspicion of murder.’
    ‘This is preposterous!’ Goldingham spluttered, half rising to his feet. ‘You accuse us of the murder of two of our companions?’
    ‘I said suspicion, based on the very sound legal point that you refused to answer the questions of the king’s officer.’
    ‘But we had nothing to do with their deaths,’ Thomas Elontius shouted, his face puce-coloured, his eyes popping so much that Athelstan thought they would fall out of his head.
    Cranston smiled. ‘Very good,’ he purred. ‘In which case you will not object to answering a few simple questions.’
    Goldingham slouched back on the steps. ‘Get on with it,’ he muttered.
    ‘Good, on Monday last—’ Cranston began.
    ‘Tarry a while.’ Harnett pointed at Coverdale.