The House of Crows

assignation in the Holy Lamb of God.’
    Cranston turned his horse’s head and, tugging at its reins, continued his journey, secretly marvelling at Lady Maude’s God-given ability to read his mind.
    They went down St Martin’s Lane, through the muck and offal of the Shambles, and left into Cheapside: the market was doing a roaring trade, yet the area outside Sir John’s house was strangely deserted. His front door was ringed by burly serjeants wearing the royal tabard, and archers dressed in the livery of Sir John of Gaunt. As the crowd swirled by these, Cranston caught their dark looks and muttered curses.
    ‘The regent.’ He leaned over. ‘Your master is not popular.’
    ‘No man who governs is, Sir John.’
    Cranston pulled a face and dismounted, his eyes surveying the crowd. ‘Leif!’ he roared. ‘Leif, you idle bugger, where are you?’
    Some of the bystanders looked round in surprise but then quickly made way for the skinny, red-haired, one-legged beggar who came hopping through with the agility of a spring frog. ‘Sir John, God bless you, is it time for dinner?’
    The beggar leaned on his crutch and, gaping round Sir John, stared at Sir Miles. ‘You have company, Sir John?’
    ‘Look after the horses,’ Cranston snapped. ‘And, when my guests leave, take mine across to the Holy Lamb of God.’
    Leif hopped in excitement: if Sir John had company, that not only meant gossip which Leif could dine out on, but also, perhaps, one of Lady Maude’s tasty pies and a cup of the coroner’s best claret. Sir John, a deep sense of foreboding furrowing his brow, led Sir Miles through the cordon of soldiers into the house. The maids huddled in the kitchen, terrified of the men in half-armour who thronged the hallways and passageways. Sir John brushed by these, marched up the stairs, along the gallery, and threw back the door to his solar with a resounding crash. Lady Maude sat at the far end of the canopied fireplace. On either side of her, Cranston’s twin sons, bald, blue-eyed, two perfect peas out of the same pod, clung to her green sarcanet dress, their eyes fixed on the gorgeously dressed stranger who now dared to slouch in their beloved father’s chair. The stranger rose as Cranston came in, straightening the murrey-coloured houppelonde or tunic which fell down to long, leather, Spanish riding boots. Around his neck was an ornate, heavily jewelled collar clasped by a golden brooch carved with the double ‘S’ of the House of Lancaster.
    Cranston drew himself together and bowed. ‘My Lord, you are most welcome to our house.’
    His guest’s sunburnt face broke into a smile: he languidly stretched out his jewelled fingers for the coroner to clasp. ‘Cranston, it’s good to see you.’
    Sir John stared into the light-green eyes of John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, quietly marvelling at Edward Ill’s most handsome son. He reminded Cranston of a silver cat with his light blond hair, neatly cut moustache and those eyes — never still — betraying the man’s vaulting pride.
    Gaunt let go of his hand. ‘Whenever I see you, Sir John, I I always remember my dearest brother, the Black Prince,’ Gaunt smiled. ‘He spoke so highly of you.’
    ‘Your brother, God rest him, was a powerful prince, a noble warrior,’ Cranston replied. ‘Every day, your Grace, I remember him in my prayers. I deeply regret that he did not see his own son crowned king.’
    ‘My dear nephew also sends his regards,’ Gaunt replied sardonically. ‘He talks of you, Sir John. You and that secretarius of yours, Brother Athelstan.’
    Behind him Lady Maude had risen, her small, pretty face creased in concern: she warned Sir John with her eyes and a slight shake of her head not to bait this most powerful of men.
    ‘You wish wine, Sir John?’ she called out.
    ‘Aye, a glass of Rhenish, chilled,’ Cranston replied, winking at her quickly. He knelt, stretching out his arms. ‘And some marzipan for my boys.’
    The two poppets staggered from their mother’s skirts and ran across, bumping into each other, almost knocking the regent aside as they threw themselves at their father’s embrace. Cranston kissed them quickly on their hot, sticky faces.
    ‘Fine sons,’ Gaunt smiled down at him.
    ‘Go and play,’ Cranston whispered.
    ‘Dog not play,’ Stephen stuttered. He pointed to the far end of the solar where Cranston’s two wolfhounds, Gog and Magog, lurked beneath the table. Cranston grinned. The dogs were frightened