The House of Crows

shouted, ‘I will celebrate Mass and ask for God’s help in this matter.’
    A groan of disapproval greeted his words.
    ‘However, to make sure we all sleep peacefully in our beds, I will inspect the cemetery.’
    Athelstan meant to go by himself, but Watkin’s control over the crowd was too strong. Huddle went first, rather nervously, holding the cross, followed by Tab the tinker carrying the statue of St Erconwald. He was flanked on one side by Crim the altar-boy carrying a flaring torch and Amisias the fuller carrying another. Athelstan closed his eyes and sighed as Watkin took up position beside him, marching like an earl ready to do battle. Ursula’s sow suddenly lurched forward, brushed past Tab and headed straight for Athelstan’s garden, pursued by Ursula screeching at the top of her voice.
    At last they entered the cemetery. Watkin’s courage seemed to fail, he hung back, indicating that Pike should take his position. Huddle and Tab drew to one side and Athelstan walked along the beaten trackway which snaked amongst the graves.
    Crim the altar-boy came pattering after him, holding a torch. ‘There’s nothing here, Father,’ he whispered. ‘Any demon with half a brain would have fled ages ago.’
    Athelstan smiled and stared into the darkness. ‘Is there anyone there?’ he called.
    But only the evening wind rustled the branches of the yew trees and bent the long grass between the headstones. An owl hooted. Athelstan was glad he didn’t jump or start, though, behind him, his parishioners hastily stepped back.
    ‘Is there anyone there?’ Athelstan repeated. ‘In the name of God, show yourself!’
    He felt slightly ridiculous shouting into the darkness. He silently thanked God that none of his brothers from Blackfriars or, even worse, Sir John Cranston were present.
    ‘The lord Coroner would love this,’ a voice whispered. Athelstan turned and stared down at Benedicta’s smiling face.
    ‘He’d draw his sword,’ the widow woman continued. ‘And charge like a paladin round the graveyard.’
    ‘Aye,’ Athelstan replied. ‘And then we’d never get them to bed.’ He frowned at her. ‘Benedicta, couldn’t you have stopped them?’
    ‘Father, you know what they are like. Once Watkin gets an idea into his head.’ She grinned. ‘You were gone so long, they really did think the demon had taken you.’
    ‘He had,’ Athelstan replied. ‘He’s big, fat, drinks, and calls himself John Cranston.’ He touched Benedicta’s face with the tip of his finger. ‘I’ll tell you tomorrow what happened.’
    ‘Give one of your blessings!’ Watkin shouted. ‘You know, Father, three crosses in the air!’
    ‘Aye,’ Pike shouted, unwilling to let Watkin have the last say. ‘And a big bucket of holy water, Father!’
    ‘I shall give my most solemn blessing,’ Athelstan shouted back. ‘God forgive my lie,’ he whispered, winking at Benedicta. ‘It’s the most solemn blessing a Dominican can give,’ he shouted. ‘He is only allowed to give it five times throughout his priestly life, and this is my first!’
    His words were greeted by a murmur of approval from his parishioners, sheltering by the side of the church. Athelstan turned and stared into the darkness. To impress his parishioners, he chanted the first five verses of Psalm Fifty-one and then, raising his hand, delivered four blessings: one to the north, another to the south, then to the east and west. Watkin was satisfied. The parishioners drifted away. Benedicta would have stayed to question him, but Athelstan shook his head.
    ‘I have talked and walked enough,’ he apologised. ‘Oh, where’s Bonaventure?’
    ‘He’s got more sense,’ Benedicta smiled. ‘As soon as Watkin appeared, he went hunting.’
    ‘Sensible cat,’ Athelstan growled, imitating Cranston.
    He and Benedicta walked over to the stable to check on Philomel, his old war-horse. Behind them, in the graveyard, the ‘demon’ of St Erconwald’s lurked beneath the trees and glared through the darkness at them.

CHAPTER 8

    As Athelstan built up the fire in the heart of his small priest’s house, Sir Francis Harnett was hurrying along the deserted vestibule leading to the chapter-house of Westminster Abbey. The knight was vexed at being stopped so many times by the guards and archers. However, once through, and into the abbey precincts, this irritation gave way to a small glow of pleasure at the prospect of meeting the elusive Perline Brasenose. Harnett