The House of Crows

interspersed with raised banks of fragrant-smelling herbs.
    ‘And this is a brothel!’ Athelstan exclaimed.
    Banyard, grinning from ear to ear, pointed at the doorhandle of yellow brass carved in the shape of a young, sensuous girl holding a pitcher of water. Athelstan gazed speechlessly at this, then at the end of the bell rope where the weights were carved in the shape of a man’s penis. Cranston, huffing and puffing, not knowing whether to be embarrassed or laugh, pulled at the rope then moved his hand quickly away.
    Thank God the Lady Maude can’t see me here, he thought. Oh Lord and all his saints forfend she ever does!
    The sweet sound of the bell inside the house was answered by a patter of footsteps and the door swung open. In any other circumstances Athelstan would have thought the young girl was a novice: a white, gold-edged veil covered her lustrous hair, and she was dressed in a high-necked grey gown, but this was flounced at the hem and her nails were painted a deep red. What Athelstan had first thought was a white cloth over her bosom, was instead a rather thin gauze veil over ripe, luscious breasts.
    ‘Good morrow, sirs.’ The girl smiled at them. She clutched at her gown and raised this slightly, showing the thick white petticoats beneath. She gestured airily to Athelstan. ‘Come in, Father. You will not be the first friar we have had here.’ She fought back the laughter in her voice. ‘And you will certainly not be the last. Any friend of Master Banyard’s is a friend of ours.’
    ‘Master Banyard is leaving,’ Cranston growled, regaining his wits and pushing by Athelstan. ‘And you, my little hussy, should know that I am Sir John Cranston, Coroner of the city.’
    ‘Coroners are also welcome,’ the girl answered pertly. ‘Though the lady of the house —’ she pouted at Cranston’s warbelt — ‘does not permit swords.’
    Banyard sniggered, but when Sir John whirled round, pulled his face straight. ‘Sir John, I have to go back.’
    ‘Dame Mathilda Kirtles,’ Cranston pushed his face towards the young woman. ‘I want to see her now or it will be the bailiffs. And don’t tell me they’d be most welcome as well!’ The young girl, covering her mouth with her hand, stepped back and led them along an airy passageway and into a sweetsmelling parlour. She told them to wait, closed the door behind her. Athelstan sat in a cushioned windowseat, mouth half open as he stared around.
    ‘Oh, come, come, Brother,’ Cranston called out. ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t been in a molly-house before!’
    Athelstan quietly raised his hands. ‘Sir John, I swear, I have never seen a place like this.’
    The friar stared down at the floor where the boards were so highly polished that they caught the sunlight. Here and there lay thick woollen rugs. The walls were half covered with wooden panelling, above this the plaster had been painted a rich cream shade. Tapestries, full of colour, hung there. Athelstan, craning his neck, studied one. At first he thought it was a young maiden listening to the song of a troubadour, but he blushed as he realised the troubadour was naked, whilst the young lady had her dress split down the middle.
    ‘Yes, yes, quite,’ he murmured.
    ‘Have you ever been with a maid?’ Cranston asked.
    ‘Sir John, that’s for me to think about and you to wonder...’ Athelstan shook his head. ‘At first glance, this could have been an abbess’s parlour.’
    ‘Knowing some of the abbesses I do,’ Cranston growled, ‘you’re probably right!’
    ‘Doesn’t the city try to close them down?’ As he spoke Athelstan heard a sound from the wall just next to the canopied hearth. He glanced quickly over; he was sure he glimpsed a wooden shutter being drawn closed.
    ‘Who would shut a place like this down?’ Cranston answered. ‘Dame Mathilda and her “ Jolies filles” could sing a song which would embarrass many an alderman.’
    ‘Aye, and a few others!’
    Cranston whirled round. A tall, severe lady, dressed in a white veil and grey dress, stood just within the doorway. Her hair was grey, her face thin and haughty, her eyes sharp and Watchful. She walked across, fingering the golden girdle tied round her waist. Athelstan felt like pinching himself: she walked and talked like some venerable mother superior.
    ‘I am Dame Mathilda Kirtles.’ She stared down at Athelstan. ‘You are the Dominican from St Erconwald’s, aren’t you? One of your parishioners, Cecily,