The House of Crows

My lord of Gaunt, not to mention a number of his knights, will swear solemn oaths that I was with them.’
    ‘At the hour of Vespers?’ Athelstan asked, noticing a shift in Coverdale’s eyes.
    ‘Well, shortly afterwards.’
    Athelstan turned away. ‘Master Banyard, how long will the corpse remain here?’
    ‘Till this afternoon.’
    ‘Was there any sign of robbery?’ Cranston asked, getting to his feet, grunting and groaning.
    ‘None whatsoever,’ Coverdale hastily interrupted.
    Athelstan went and looked down at the corpse and, as he did so, noticed a trickle of blood, slow and sluggish, curl out from beneath the dirty sheet.
    Coverdale saw it too and turned hastily away. ‘The others are waiting,’ he snapped.
    Coverdale was about to walk away, but stopped just beside Athelstan: he pushed his face a few inches away from the friar’s. ‘Make your inquiries, Brother,’ he whispered. ‘I am no assassin.’
    Athelstan was about to reply when there was shouting from the tavern followed by the patter of feet. Christina, her hair all flying, burst into the outhouse: she took one look at the corpse covered in the sheet and stepped back.
    ‘What’s the matter, girl? What’s the matter?’
    Athelstan and the rest followed her out.
    ‘It’s the knights,’ she cried. ‘Someone came to the tavern.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t know who. One of the potboys says he was dressed all in black. He gave him a pouch sealed at the top and a letter for Sir Edmund Malmesbury. The boy took it up to the knights. Sir Edmund opened it, now they are all shouting, “ It’s been found! It’s been found! ”’
    ‘What’s been found?’ Cranston asked, pressing the girl’s arm.
    ‘I don’t know,’ she stammered. ‘But they are all excited, arguing with each other about a cup which was stolen.’
    Cranston strode back towards the tavern. Athelstan remained to ensure the corpse was decently covered. He closed the door and crossed the tavern yard. A cock, glorious in its plumage, crowed its heart out on top of a mound of rich, black earth. ‘You have a fine voice, Brother cock,’ Athelstan murmured, idly wishing he had such a bird and a collection of hens at St Brconwald’s. Then he remembered Bonaventure and Ursula the pig-woman’s evil-looking sow and shook his head. ‘You wouldn’t sing there, Brother cock.’
    He continued across the yard, glimpsing the river glinting in the distance and the long line of grain barges making their way up to Queenshithe or Dowgate. Athelstan put his hand into the pocket of his habit and touched the muzzle he had examined the night before. Amidst all this excitement, he had almost forgotten it; he must tell the worthy coroner to set a trap for that sinister thief of cats. He sighed and went into the tavern.
    Cranston had cleared the taproom. All four knights were now seated round the table, faces flushed. They kept staring at a polished, cedarwood chalice which stood on the table before them. Every so often one of them would lean forward, eyes glittering, and stroke the chalice with the tips of their fingers. Coverdale lounged in a windowseat watching curiously. Cranston was over at the wine butts sampling, as he explained, mine host’s best Gascony. Banyard was all excited: he kept staring at the cup and shaking his head.
    ‘What is it?’ Athelstan asked.
    ‘What is it?’ Sir Humphrey Aylebore rubbed his bald head with his hand and, like a child unable to restrain himself, leaned across and grasped the dark wood chalice. ‘This is the Grail!’ he explained.
    Athelstan went over and took the wooden cup out of his hands. The bowl was shallow, the stem and base felt heavy in his hand. The wood was polished not only because of its texture, but also because of its great age. Athelstan recalled the legends of Arthur and wondered if this cup truly was the Grail; the very chalice Christ had used at the Last Supper to turn the wine into his blood for the world to drink.
    The chalice bore no markings or etchings, and Athelstan hid his suspicions. He was growing increasingly wary of any relics. He had seen enough wood — supposedly belonging to the True Cross — to build a fleet of warships. Indeed, if he collected every scrap of cloth which was supposed to cover the Saviour’s corpse, he was sure the roll would stretch from London to York. He glanced up. Malmesbury’s eyes were glittering. Whatever I think, Athelstan reflected, these men really believe this is the