The House of Crows

wished he hadn’t spoken as Athelstan seized his mouth between his fingers and squeezed it tightly.
    ‘Haven’t you read the scriptures?’ Athelstan retorted. ‘Not a sparrow falls from heaven that the Father doesn’t know about.’ He stepped back, wiping his hands, and stared at Horsa’s leather apron. ‘Do you know how we found out?’ Athelstan taunted. ‘Your own greed trapped you. You couldn’t even be bothered to buy the leather to make the muzzles for the poor animals.’ He poked Horsa’s chest. ‘You used the leather from your own apron to fashion those; the outside was black, but when I examined it more carefully, the inside matched the leather you wore.’
    ‘Wilful destruction of city property will be added to the list of offences,’ Cranston boomed.
    ‘What will happen to us?’ Horsa wailed.
    Cranston scratched his head and smiled bleakly at them. ‘Well, the silver you’ve collected will be seized. A fine will be levied. However, if you give us the names of the barge-masters to whom you sold the cats, mercy might be shown, perhaps a period digging the city ditch to reflect on your crimes? And who knows? Unless we get all the cats back, a nice long sojourn in the stocks with a placard advertising your crimes.’ Cranston snapped his fingers at the bailiffs. ‘Put both of them in the cart. Take them to Newgate. Let them kick their heels there whilst I consider their punishment.’
    Hengist fell to his knees. ‘Sir John, we’ll tell you everything.’
    ‘Good.’ Cranston patted the man heartily on the top of his balding head. ‘That’s my boys. I want to know where the silver is and I want to know the names of the barge-masters or else...’
    And, leaving the dung-collectors to the mercy of the bailiffs, a more satisfied and harmonious Sir John, followed by Athelstan, made his way back towards the riverside.
    ‘A good day’s work!’Cranston growled as they climbed into the skiff to take them downriver to Westminster. He shaded his eyes against the glare of the setting sun. ‘But not good enough, Brother.’ He yawned. ‘I feel sleepy, yet we have to examine those archives.’ He turned suddenly as Athelstan’s head came down on his shoulder; the friar, lulled by the rocking of the boat, was already fast asleep.
    They disembarked at King’s Steps, Westminster. The sun now hung like a blood-red ball in the west, turning the brickwork of the abbey to a soft, golden yellow. The day’s business was drawing to a close; the king’s justices, lawyers, serjeants, Plaintiffs and defendants were streaming along the narrow alleyways, either up towards Fleet Street, or down to their waiting barges on the river. Convicted felons, all chained together, were carted off by drunken bailiffs towards the Fleet or Newgate Prisons. Tipstaffs and chamberlains, clerks and scribes now thronged into the taverns and drinking-houses. Quite a few stopped to chat with the young whores gathered round the gates and porticoes. For a while Cranston and Athelstan sat on a bench under the spreading branches of a great oak tree, intent on enjoying the coolness and beauty of the evening.
    As Athelstan stared round, however, he felt a deep sense of despondency, of sin, of staring into the heart of human darkness. All these men in their silks, satins and samite robes, their fur-lined hats, leather, bejewelled gauntlets, gaudy baldrics, purses and dagger sheaths, their coiffed hair and the swagger in their walk. Athelstan experienced the wealth, power and the all-pervasive corruption of such men, who gathered to dispense justice but practised so little morality themselves. Cranston was dozing now, so the friar kept his thoughts to himself. Yet, not for the first time, Athelstan felt a deep empathy for men like Pike the ditcher. Perhaps the Lord, he thought, should come back to his temple and cleanse it of these money-changers, land-grabbing landlords, arrogant clerks, justices and lawyers puffed up like peacocks.
    Suddenly the crowd streaming across the abbey grounds grew bigger as representatives of the Commons, their day’s work done, returned to their taverns and hostelries. Although they must have talked all day, this had only whetted their appetite to hear further the sound of their own voices. Athelstan closed his eyes and half listened to the different accents; men from Yorkshire, Somerset, Norfolk, the Scottish and Welsh march. He heard their comments about the regent, and grumbled complaints about his