The House of Crows

the darkness. ‘But why does Gaunt want these knights, his avowed enemies, present at Westminster?’
    Athelstan knelt back on his heels. Should he and Cranston demand an audience with the regent? Insist that John of Gaunt tell them everything he knew about these men? Or would Gaunt simply raise his delicate eyebrows, shrug and claim complete ignorance?
    Athelstan returned to his writing. He paused, listening to the wind outside moaning through the trees in the cemetery. He remembered Watkin’s little army: Simplicatas hadn’t been there, yet she was for ever hanging round the church, asking Athelstan for news. The friar tucked his chin in his hands.
    ‘Time,’ he murmured. ‘All these mysteries depend on time.’
    They were like designs on a piece of tapestry which was being slowly unrolled. So far he couldn’t even see a glimmer which might lead him through this maze of mysteries. He glanced at the hour-candle. If he stayed working any longer, he would only become more agitated. He went to the hearth and put up the crude wire mesh so no flames or cinders would escape. He patted Bonaventure on the head, picked up his writing-bag and went towards the stairs. He sighed and returned to the table. Once he had left the inkstand out and Bonaventure had knocked it flying. Athelstan placed the cap on it, opened his writing-bag and, in the light of the fire, glimpsed the two muzzles the Harrower of the Dead had left on the table in the Holy Lamb of God. Athelstan took these out and examined them carefully. The leather was black and scuffed.
    ‘How could anyone inflict such cruelty on God’s poor creatures?’ he asked Bonaventure.
    Athelstan tore one of the muzzles apart and studied the red leather inside. The friar grinned. He knelt down to stroke Bonaventure’s head. ‘There must be an angel who guards cats,’ he said.
    And, putting the tom muzzle back in the bag, the friar went up the stairs singing under his breath. Tomorrow he might resolve at least one of the mysteries confronting himself and Cranston.

    ‘ Ite Missa est, Our Mass is finished.’
    Athelstan stared down at his parishioners who, surprisingly enough, had all turned up for the dawn Mass, eager and expectant to know what their parish priest had decided to do about their demon. Athelstan finished the benediction. He was about to go down the altar steps, genuflect to the host, when he caught the look of desperation in Watkin’s eyes. Athelstan sighed, came down and sat on the altar steps, Crim the altarboy on his right, Bonaventure on his left. The cat sat erect, staring disapprovingly with his one good eye at these people who were delaying the arrival of his early morning dish of milk.
    ‘Brother and Sisters,’ Athelstan began, ‘I really don’t know what to say. I have sent for help from Prior Anselm.’
    ‘And that help has arrived, Father!’
    Athelstan’s head snapped up. He peered round the rood-screen at the burly, thickset friar who came ambling up the nave. He pulled back his cowl and Athelstan recognised the pleasant, smiling face of one of his Dominican brothers, John Armitage. Athelstan got to his feet as Armitage swept under the rood-screen, the parishioners moving swiftly to one side. Armitage grasped Athelstan’s hand.
    ‘I have been here for some time, Brother, in the shadows at the back. Who’s your artist?’
    Athelstan pointed to a nervous-looking Huddle.
    ‘You’ve got a good eye, man.’ Armitage scratched his shaven cheek. ‘Have you ever thought of becoming a Dominican? We need good artists.’
    Huddle, rather frightened by this bustling friar who stared at him so intently, shook his head.
    ‘We need good artists,’ Armitage repeated. ‘If all our churches looked like this, perhaps we could get more people attending Mass.’ He eased the cord round his considerable bulk, though, for a heavy, thickset man, Athelstan knew Armitage could move very quickly. ‘Father Prior sent me,’ Armitage murmured. ‘But I don’t feel like having a discussion in the presence of all.’
    ‘What concerns Father Athelstan,’ Watkin trumpeted, having overheard this conversation, ‘concerns us all, especially if it’s about our demon!’
    ‘He’s a leader of the parish council,’ Athelstan whispered quickly, catching the warning look in Armitage’s eyes.
    Father John walked across and looked down at Watkin, who glared defiantly back. The friar leaned down and whispered in the dung-collector’s ear. Watkin’s face