The House of Crows

Coverdale came in and bowed. ‘Your Graces, Sir Simon Burley is here. He insists the young king must return to his lessons.’
    Gaunt rose to his feet and helped his nephew to his. ‘Ah yes, your lessons.’ Gaunt smiled. ‘Give Sir Simon my regards, your Grace, but remind him of the famous saying: “It is easier to preach than to act”.’
    Richard shifted the gold cord round his slim waist, smoothing down the creases in his blue and gold silk gown. He bowed. ‘Dearest Uncle.’ He smiled back. ‘You should have been a preacher.’
    Coverdale stepped aside and Richard of England swept out of the oratory. Gaunt stood and listened to his footfalls fade into the distance.
    ‘You have come from Westminster, Coverdale? I understand there have been more murders?’
    ‘Yes, your Grace, but Sir John and Brother Athelstan have matters in hand.’ Coverdale smirked. ‘The coroner has stirred up the knights: they are buzzing like bees.’
    Gaunt knelt down on his prie-dieu. ‘But they have made no progress in unmasking the assassin?’ he asked.
    ‘None, your Grace.’
    Gaunt stared at the angel painted in the window high above the altar. ‘I will stay here for a while,’ he murmured. ‘There will be two visitors. Keep them separate. Neither must know about the other’s presence.’
    Coverdale nodded and left. Gaunt returned to his meditations, calculating how the taxes, raised in the present Parliament, could be spent. He heard a tap on the door and glanced sideways as his hooded, masked visitor stepped into the oratory. By the sour smell, the mud on the hem of the man’s ragged cloak, and his scuffed boots, Gaunt knew who it was.
    ‘Every good dog finds its home,’ he murmured.
    ‘Your Grace,’ Dogman declared, falling to his knees, ‘am I not your most obedient servant?’
    Gaunt’s hand slipped to the dagger pushed into his belt, though he had no real fear. Dogman was a pathetic little traitor, terrified of being hanged. In any case, in the choir-loft behind him, two master bowmen stood hidden in the shadows, arrows notched to their bows.
    ‘Stay where you are, knave,’ Gaunt whispered, ‘and do not move.’
    Dogman folded his arms and knelt, trying to control the trembling which ran through his body. If the Great Community of the Realm knew he was here they would flay him alive as a warning to other traitors. Yet the Dogman was truly terrified of Gaunt: some time ago the Dogman had realised that, for all their secret names, hidden covens and close conspiracies, John of Gaunt knew exactly what the Great Community of the Realm was plotting. Dogman wondered how many others of the rebel leaders were in the regent’s pay, yet he had no choice. He had been caught and given a choice: either be a Judas or be hanged, drawn and disembowelled at Tyburn as a traitor. Dogman had made his choice very quickly. He had agreed to what the regent’s agents had offered. He now had no choice but to dance to their tune.
    Gaunt turned. ‘Well, well, Dogman, in three days’ time, on Saturday morning, between the hours of eleven and twelve, my nephew and I will ride down to Westminster with a cavalcade of knights, squires and pages. The king will distribute alms and confer the King’s Touch on the sick and infirm. You will be there...’ Gaunt smirked. ‘The Hare is as scabby and scrofulous as ever?’
    Dogman nodded eagerly.
    ‘And still hates those who ride on palfreys and clothed in silk?’
    Again the fevered nodding.
    ‘Make sure he’s armed.’
    Gaunt heard Dogman gasp, so he rose and walked over to him. ‘What are you frightened of, Dogman?’
    ‘The Hare will attack,’ Judas whispered. ‘Strike at the Lord’s anointed.’
    ‘Well, isn’t that what you plotted in your covens and secret meetings in Southwark and elsewhere?’ Gaunt dug a fingernail into the man’s dirty cheek and laughed. ‘Mad as a March hare. Just ensure he is there.’ Gaunt patted the man’s greasy hair. ‘Oh, your comrade the Fox has been caught.’ He spun a coin on to the floor. ‘Your information was correct.’
    ‘What will happen to him, my Lord?’
    ‘I told my judges to give him a fair trial then hang him.’ Gaunt turned back. ‘I must pray for his soul.’
    Dogman grabbed the coin and scuttled out. Gaunt moved over and picking up a jug of water, held his fingers over a bowl, and let the rose-scented water pour over them. He wiped his hands on a napkin and returned to his prie-dieu. He turned abruptly, glared up