The House of Crows

important business, clucking like a collection of fowls. They’re already thinking of home, mind you,’ he added. ‘Wondering how to explain to the good citizens of Shrewsbury why three of their number have not returned alive.’ He was about to continue when he abruptly stopped eating.
    ‘Sir John, what’s the matter?’
    Cranston took another bite out of the pie.
    ‘What a vision of loveliness!’ he exclaimed. ‘Or, at least, one of them is.’
    Athelstan whirled round on his stool as Benedicta, accompanied by a grinning Watkin, came into the tavern. Athelstan rose quickly; he called for more stools and asked Banyard to bring whatever his guests wanted.
    ‘Good news?’ he asked hopefully.
    Benedicta, her face bright with excitement, nodded then blushed as Sir John leaned across the table and hugged her, planting a juicy kiss on her cheek. The coroner grinned at Watkin. ‘I can’t do the same for you, sir!’
    Watkin grimaced gratefully.
    ‘But, there again, you can be my guest.’
    ‘What’s the news?’ Athelstan asked hastily.
    ‘We have captured the ape,’ Watkin declared proudly. The dung-collector shook his head. ‘It came back just before dawn. Perline...’ He sniffed. ‘That rascal, well, he put fruit down. The ape was almost grateful to be back in its cage. Poor creature, he didn’t look so fearsome.’
    ‘And it’s gone back?’
    ‘Oh, yes,’ Watkin said before he could stop himself. ‘We lowered Cranston on to a boat and Moleskin and Perline took him back to the Tower.’

    As Benedicta and Watkin described their achievements to Athelstan, the Commons assembled in the chapter-house, eagerly discussing once again the regent’s demands for money. Father Benedict had begun the session by standing at the lectern and intoning the ‘ Veni Creator Spiritu ’ . The Speaker had then gone through the day’s business: he declared that they would meet for an hour and adjourn so that the representatives could break their fast either in the cloisters, where the good brothers would serve ale and bread, or in the cookshops and taverns around the abbey.
    Sir Maurice Goldingham was very relieved when that hour finished: his stomach had been clenched in fear. Whilst speaker after speaker had gone to the lectern, Sir Maurice had been more concerned that he would not disgrace himself. At last the chapter-house bell had begun to ring and the Speaker had declared the session adjourned.
    The representatives streamed out along the vestibule, past St Faith’s Chapel and into the cloisters leading to the yards and gardens. Sir Maurice hurriedly made his excuses and went out through the east cloisters to where the latrines were. These were usually for the monks but, during their meeting of Parliament, they had been set aside for use by the Commons. A row of cubicles, each with its own door, built along an outside wall in one of the small gardens; these latrines were much admired, being washed clean by water taken through elm-wood pipes from the abbey kitchens. Sir Maurice smiled to himself as he lowered his breeches and eased his bowels. He sat there, eyes closed in relief. How luxurious these latrines were! The good lay brothers tended them every day; on the small stone plinth beside him was a clean supply of fine linen cloths. Sir Maurice rubbed his stomach.
    ‘I’ll be glad when it’s all over,’ he muttered to himself.
    He doubted if these gripes were due to anything he had eaten either at the Gargoyle or the cookshops round the abbey. He was just feeling the strain of being forced to stay in Westminster, even though a killer was silently stalking himself and others. Sir Maurice closed his eyes. He recalled Shrewsbury, its guildhall, the marketplace; his own manor, fresh streams and fields and his mistress: a young, obliging widow who had become his heart’s delight.
    Sir Maurice tasted the dryness in his mouth. In Shrewsbury he would be able to order his own wines and foods and take his pleasure in a more leisurely way. He opened his eyes. Sir Edmund Malmesbury had warned them to stay close but, there again, he was not a child. He could hardly ask others to come whilst he squatted upon the latrine as if he was some little boy or frightened maid. Moreover, he could hear the doors further down opening and shutting; others were here. He’d perhaps take a little sugared mead to tighten his bowels and rejoin the rest.
    Sir Maurice picked up a linen cloth. As he did so, he became aware of the