The House of Crows

became firm friends. We had a great deal in common: a love of books and manuscripts, nothing better than the smell of vellum, ink and chalk, burning wax and the study of the antiquities.’ Father Benedict cleared his throat. ‘After he had been here eighteen months, Antony invited me into his cell. He showed me the chalice you saw this morning. He confessed he’d stolen it from the Knights of the Swan. He described their junketings, tourneys and tournaments at Lilleshall, and how the cup might well have been the Grail.’
    Father Benedict paused, rocking himself gently in the chair. He smiled. ‘I examined the cup very carefully, I believe it’s four to five hundred years old, probably from the treasure trove of Alfred King of Wessex, rather than from the court of the legendary Arthur.’
    ‘And Father Antony?’ Athelstan asked.
    ‘He told me of its history and asked me what I should do. I declared the chalice must be returned to its rightful owners as, in my opinion, he had committed an act of sacrilege as well as theft.’
    ‘But it wasn’t?’ Athelstan asked.
    ‘No. Antony asked for absolution and entrusted the chalice to me. He insisted that, whatever the chalice’s real origins were, it was still a sacred vessel and should not be returned to such wicked men. I asked him what he meant by that. Antony just shook his head and muttered that he did not want to add the sin of calumny to his other faults. I taxed him about why he had stolen the chalice in the first place.’ The Benedictine smiled at Athelstan. ‘Oh, don’t worry, I am not breaking the seal of confession: Antony and I used to talk about this a great deal. The only thing he would say, and he kept repeating this time and time again, was that he believed it was blasphemy for the Knights of the Swan to pretend they were paladins of Arthur, to meet on holy ground, never mind possess such a sacred relic.’
    ‘So he claimed he had not really sinned,’ Athelstan surmised, ‘but had followed his conscience and removed something sacred from the hands of the wicked?’
    ‘Yes, Athelstan, put most precisely: that’s exactly what he said.’
    ‘But this wickedness?’Cranston asked. ‘Father, with all due respect, any wealthy landowner is hardly a St Francis of Assisi. Sir Henry Swynford and his companions are, like myself, men of the world.’
    The monk’s face broke into a genuine smile. ‘I don’t think so, Sir John. Antony mentioned murder, not just once, but on a number of occasions. And, before you ask, that’s all he would say.’ The monk looked towards the chapel door to ensure it was closed. ‘Now, as you know, over the recent few years there have been a number of Parliaments at Westminster, and Sir Edmund Malmesbury, together with most of his companions, were always returned. Whenever they came, Antony declared himself ill and spent the entire time in the infirmary.’ The Benedictine shrugged. ‘Not that it mattered. The knights always stay at the Gargoyle or some other tavern and rarely frequent the abbey itself.’
    ‘So, these knights have often been returned as members of the Commons?’ Athelstan asked.
    ‘Oh, of course, Brother. They swagger about as arrogantly as peacocks. They love London and its fleshpots. Moreover, Master Banyard is the most generous of hosts.’
    ‘And nothing like this has ever occurred before?’ Cranston asked.
    ‘No, it hasn’t. My friend Antony always stayed in the infirmary. Never once did these knights refer to him. I wager if they had met, they would not have recognised him. Now, a year ago,’ the Benedictine continued, ‘Antony died of the falling sickness. I heard his last confession and gave him Extreme Unction. He begged God for pardon and his dying wish was that, if I thought it right, the chalice should be given back to the Knights of the Swan.’
    ‘And so you did?’
    ‘No.’ The Benedictine shook his head. ‘Not immediately. I used the chalice at my own Masses because, the more I studied Sir Edmund Malmesbury and his coven, their love of harlotry and other fleshpots, the more I began to wonder. And then,’ Father Benedict snapped his fingers, ‘time passed; and I began to have scruples about keeping the chalice. So when Father Abbot asked one of us to volunteer as Chaplain to the Commons, I put my name forward.’ He paused and drew his breath in sharply. ‘But this time it all changed: Sir Henry Swynford sought me out, just after Sir Oliver Bouchon’s corpse had