The House of Crows

must, and you will, move now!’
    ‘If you are the coroner,’ a voice shouted back, ‘why don’t you apprehend the person responsible?’
    Cranston walked into the crowd, shoulders back, and bellowed; ‘If the man who made that remark has the courage to step forward, then perhaps I can explain a few truths about the situation. If he doesn’t, then I call him a caitiff, a coward and a knave!’
    Cranston suddenly drew his sword with a speed which surprised even Athelstan. The coroner held it up, gripping the huge pommel, the long steel blade winking in the sunlight: a knight’s gesture when challenging an opponent to combat. The anonymous detractor, however, and the other representatives, had the sense to keep silent. Cranston, legs apart, white hair bristling, eyes furious, was a fearsome figure, and even more so with that huge broadsword flashing in the sun. The crowd began to stream back towards the cloisters. Coverdale ordered the captain of archers to seal off all approaches, whilst Malmesbury and his companions stood in a little huddle by themselves.
    Athelstan pulled up the dead man’s hose. He grasped the cross which hung round his own neck and whispered the prayer for the dead. Once he had finished, he leaned down even closer: he recited an act of contrition on the dead man’s behalf, and whispered the words of absolution into his ear. Cranston, his sword now sheathed, watched and waited until Athelstan made the final benediction.
    ‘It’s the least I could do,’ Athelstan explained, getting to his feet. ‘Sir Miles,’ he called, ‘where was the corpse found?’
    Coverdale pointed to a latrine. Athelstan walked in, pinching his nose against the stench.
    ‘He was found thrown against the wall,’ Coverdale shouted. ‘The crossbow bolt must have been fired at close range. He looked ridiculous,’ the captain added, walking closer. ‘Half sprawled on the latrine seat, his hose down about his ankles.’
    ‘Who found him?’ Cranston asked.
    ‘I did.’ Sir Humphrey Aylebore came forward, trying to hide his fear beneath a show of defiance. ‘When we were in the chapter-house, I saw Sir Maurice gripping his stomach,’ he explained. ‘When the session ended, he hurried off.’
    ‘So, you knew he had gone to the latrines?’ Athelstan asked.
    Aylebore’s lip curled. ‘Don’t insinuate, Father.’
    ‘I am not!’ Athelstan snapped back. ‘I am merely trying to establish the truth. Sir Maurice apparently came here, as did others. They all left, and when the latrines were empty, the assassin struck.’
    ‘And it was empty when I came here,’ Aylebore answered. ‘The first session lasts only an hour. Most men’s bowels aren’t as loose as Sir Maurice’s.’
    ‘Did he complain of any ailment before?’ Cranston asked. ‘Well,’ Malmesbury came forward, ‘Goldingham had a weak stomach. He contracted dysentery in France, as he constantly reminded us whenever he could.’
    ‘Stomach, bowels!’ Aylebore snarled, slamming shut the latrine door. ‘What does it matter?’ He glared at Coverdale. ‘Who let the assassin through? How could a crossbow be brought to the cloisters?’
    ‘Who said my soldiers let anyone through?’ Coverdale retorted heatedly. ‘The only people we let through were the representatives, the clerks: anyone who carried the lawful seal. I have already made inquiries amongst my men. Nothing untoward was noticed this morning. No arms were carried.’ He advanced threateningly on Sir Humphrey, jabbing the air with a finger. ‘Which means, sir, that the killer was already here. One of these good, gentle knights!’
    ‘Peace, peace!’ Athelstan came between Aylebore and Coverdale. ‘Sir Maurice Goldingham is dead,’ he continued quietly. ‘Shouting abuse at each other will not bring him back, or trap his killer.’
    ‘And when is he going to be trapped?’ Malmesbury sneered. ‘When we are all dead, bundled up in our winding sheets, thrown on a cart to be taken back to Shrewsbury?’
    ‘If you had told the truth,’ Athelstan replied. ‘If Sir Edmund, you, or your companions had been honest with Sir John and myself, some of these deaths might not have happened. You could still prevent any more!’
    ‘Oh, singing the same old song!’ Aylebore sneered.
    ‘Yes, I am singing the same old song!’ Athelstan retorted. He went back to the latrine, pulled open the door and, bending down, picked up the small candle, arrowhead and scrap of parchment which he’d