The House of Crows

growing silence outside. A spasm of fear jarred his stomach. Sir Maurice grimaced and decided to stay on the latrine. He heard a soft footfall outside and relaxed. Others were still around, the doors opened and shut. Sir Maurice straightened up. What was happening? Was someone checking to ensure each of the cubicles was empty?
    Sir Maurice leaned forward and pushed on the door, suddenly deciding that flight was preferable to being attacked. He pushed the door but it wouldn’t open. Sir Maurice sprang to his feet, pushing at the door with all his might, but someone outside had either jammed a log against it or were pressing their weight against it.
    Goldingham hammered on the door. ‘What’s the matter?’ he demanded. ‘Is this a joke?’
    He heard a sound and his stomach curdled so much he sat back on the latrine just as the candle, arrowhead and a scrap of parchment was pushed under the door.
    ‘Oh day of wrath! Oh day of mourning!’ the voice outside hissed. ‘See fulfilled the prophet’s warning! Heaven and earth in ashes burning!’
    Sir Maurice opened his mouth to scream but his throat was dry. He stared at the door, recalling the corpses of Bouchon, Swynford, Harnett and, above all, those other dreadful cadavers hanging by their necks.
    ‘Oh, help me!’ Sir Maurice whispered. ‘Oh, Lord God, help me!’ He wetted his lips and opened his mouth to scream. The door of the latrine was abruptly flung open. Goldingham saw the shadowy figure standing there, glimpsed the arbalest and, even as he rose, the crossbow bolt took him straight beneath the heart.

    Athelstan and Cranston were just about to return to their chambers after their guests had left, when the door to the tavern was flung open and Banyard rushed in.
    ‘Sir John! Sir John!’ he cried, wiping the sweat from his face. ‘There’s been another murder at the chapter-house.’ The landlord sat on a stool. ‘A messenger has just come, a boy!’ he gasped. ‘I sent him back and told him that you would be there in a while.’
    ‘Who’s been murdered?’ Athelstan asked.
    The landlord shook his head. ‘I don’t know. God have mercy on him, but I don’t know.’
    Athelstan and Cranston hurried out of the tavern and up into the grounds of the abbey. The news of the murder had already made itself felt. Men stood in groups gossiping. A royal messenger was running down towards the quayside, undoubtedly taking the news downriver to Gaunt’s palace at the Savoy. Athelstan and Cranston hurried through the abbey. A captain of archers stopped them at the entrance to the cloisters, but Cranston barked at him furiously, threatening to report him directly to the regent. The man’s face paled. He scratched his head and, muttering apologies, agreed to escort Sir John and Athelstan through the cloisters and into the yard where the latrines stood. Members of the Commons milled about there as Sir Miles Coverdale, helmet off, a drawn sword in his hand, tried to impose order. Athelstan glimpsed the door of a latrine flung open. Malmesbury, Aylebore and Elontius stood round a prostrate figure, faces fearful, as they whispered to Sir Peter de la Mare, Speaker of the Commons Athelstan followed Cranston as the coroner shouldered his way through. He ignored the knights and immediately crouched by the fallen man.
    ‘God have mercy!’ he breathed, staring at Goldingham’s terror-stricken face, eyes staring sightlessly up; the trickle of blood seeping out of one corner of his mouth and the cruel crossbow bolt embedded deeply in the man’s chest. Athelstan caught the foul smell from the privy and slammed the door shut. He, too, knelt down beside the cadaver.
    ‘It happened so quickly,’ Malmesbury explained. He pointed to Goldingham’s hose, pulled only half-way up his thighs. ‘We tried to make him decent but...’
    ‘Coverdale!’ Cranston roared.
    Gaunt’s captain came hurrying up. Athelstan studied his face closely. The soldier was pale, eyes frantic, but was he so upset, Athelstan wondered, by yet another killing?
    ‘Sir John?’
    ‘I want this yard cleared!’ Cranston snapped, getting to his feet. ‘Do you understand me?’ He shouted. ‘Apart from Sir Maurice’s companions and Sir Miles Coverdale, I want everyone back in the cloisters.’ Cranston held up his right hand with the huge signet ring bearing the arms of the city. He glared round a' these arrogant men, so reluctant to move.
    ‘I am Sir John Cranston, Coroner!’ he bellowed. ‘You