The House of Crows

demands and the Commons’ response.’ He paused and looked over Athelstan’s shoulder, his brown, sardonic face creased into a grin. ‘And, speaking of the devil, it’s best if I go about my business.’ Banyard scraped the stool back and returned to the kitchen as Sir Edmund Malmesbury swept into the taproom. He stopped opposite Athelstan.
    ‘May I join you, Father?’
    ‘Sir Edmund, be my guest.’
    The knight sat down; Sir Edmund had apparently taken great care with his toilette, but Athelstan noticed his face was pallid, his eyes red-rimmed with dark circles beneath.
    ‘You did not sleep well, did you, Sir Edmund?’ Athelstan pushed his platter away.
    The knight crossed himself and picked up a small loaf from the plate.
    ‘These are worrying times, Father. The harvest has failed, the French attacks—’
    Athelstan leaned across the table. ‘Sir Edmund,’ he interrupted, ‘I do not insult you. Perhaps you can return the compliment. Your lack of sleep is not due to any French attack or the failure of any harvest. Three of your companions are murdered,’ he continued, ‘and yet you stay here, risking yourself and others?’
    Malmesbury glanced nervously round. ‘If I could tell you, Father, I would.’
    ‘Then why not?’
    Malmesbury stared at the piece of bread in his hand. ‘It’s too late,’ he whispered. ‘We are too far gone.’
    ‘In what, Sir Edmund?For God’s sweet sake!’
    Sir Edmund lifted his head; a bitter, twisted smile on his
    face.
    ‘I know you, Athelstan,’ he murmured. ‘You and your brother were archers, squires in Lord Fitzalan’s retinue in Prance. At the village of Crotoy. Remember!’
    Athelstan’s heart skipped a beat. He glanced away. He recalled Lord Fitzalan’s tent; he and Stephen were on guard inside when Fitzalan entertained certain knights. Yes, Malmesbury had been there.
    ‘All things change!’ Malmesbury muttered. ‘Your brother?’
    ‘Killed!’ Athelstan replied, lifting his head. ‘He was killed in an ambush.’
    ‘So you became a friar: an act of reparation, so I’m told.’
    ‘No.’ Athelstan smiled bleakly. ‘I became a priest because God wanted that. As, now, He wants the truth!’
    ‘This morning,’ Malmesbury replied, raising his voice and deliberately changing the subject, ‘is important. We have finished the ordinary business and we’ll have the final speeches about the taxes the Crown wishes to levy.’
    ‘You mean the regent?’
    ‘Yes, I mean the regent,’ Malmesbury declared just as loudly.
    Athelstan stared over his shoulder. Goldingham stood in the doorway, staring at them. Athelstan experienced the same depression and sense of hopelessness that he had the previous evening: these knights would tell him nothing.
    ‘I must be going, Sir Edmund.’
    Athelstan drained his tankard and left the tavern: he crossed the yard and went down a narrow alleyway to the riverside. He stood there for over an hour, watching the flow of the Thames, trying to calm his own mind and soul, as well as to observe the statutory fast before he began Mass. He walked slowly on to the abbey, its gardens and yards still silent. He entered the main door into the nave and went up the north aisle, where he found Father Benedict finishing Mass in a chantry chapel.
    ‘Of course, Brother,’ he replied when Athelstan made his request, ‘by all means say Mass.’
    He provided the Dominican with chasuble, alb and amice, and arranged for the bread and wine to be brought down to the small altar he had used. For a while Athelstan knelt, preparing himself, and then he celebrated the Mass of the day. He did his best to concentrate on the mysteries, forgetting the corruption; the lies, deceit and murder which confronted him.
    Afterwards he disrobed and walked slowly back to the Gargoyle. As he made his way through the crowds now pouring up to and around Westminster Hall, Athelstan glimpsed Malmesbury and his party going towards the chapter-house for the first morning session of the Commons. When he reached the tavern, Sir John was already ensconced in the taproom, enjoying a breakfast of meat pie, a dish of vegetables and a pot of strong ale.
    ‘You are in better fettle now, Friar.’ He waved Athelstan to a stool. ‘Rest your weary torso.’ He beamed across the table. ‘Slept like a little pig, I did: although the Lady Maude isn’t here, this is the most comfortable of resting places.’ He nodded towards the door. ‘Our noble knights have gone to their