The House of Crows

glimpsed lying there. Athelstan went and pressed these into Malmesbury’s hand.
    ‘“Remember” what, Sir Edmund?’ he whispered hoarsely. Then, raising his voice, ‘What are you all frightened of? What terrible crime haunts you from the past?’ He stared round but the knights gazed blankly back. ‘Let’s leave, Sir John,’ Athelstan said coldly. ‘We’ll find no truth here!’
    They walked back through the cloisters and out in front of the abbey church. Sir John pointed to a bench beneath the tree where they had sat the previous day. Once they were settled, Athelstan glanced at the strangely silent, rather subdued coroner. ‘What’s the matter, Sir John?’
    ‘I wish I hadn’t lost my temper,’ the coroner replied. ‘I shouldn’t have drawn my sword and challenged those men. They will not let such an insult pass.’ He played with the ring on his finger. ‘We have to trap this murderer, Athelstan,’ he added. ‘If we don’t, I am sure that, before the Commons disperse, its Speaker will petition the king for my removal.’
    ‘Nonsense!’ Athelstan replied. ‘How could we have prevented Goldingham’s murder? He went to the latrines and the assassin struck. Oh, Malmesbury may splutter and protest, but his companions refuse to tell the truth. Come on, Sir John.’ Athelstan patted the coroner’s fat thigh. ‘What you need is one of Master Banyard’s pies and a blackjack of ale.’
    Cranston rose mournfully to his feet and they made their way back to the Gargoyle. Athelstan took Sir John out to the small garden, but even the smell of a succulent beef pie and a frothing tankard of ale could not lighten the coroner’s mood. He sat picking at his food, looking utterly woebegone.
    They were almost finished when the potboy announced there was someone to see them. Athelstan followed him back into the tavern. He hoped it would be Sir Edmund or one of his companions, and was rather surprised to see the black cowled figure standing just within the doorway. A vein-streaked hand came out and pulled back the hood. Aelfric the archivist gazed shamefacedly at him.
    ‘Brother, I am sorry about yesterday. As the psalmist says; “I am a worm and no man”. The regent has already taken the evidence you seek,’ he whispered hoarsely. Aelfric withdrew a roll of parchment tied with a scarlet ribbon from the voluminous sleeve of his gown and handed it to Athelstan. ‘He forgot to take this,’ Aelfric continued. ‘I heard about the murder this morning. Ask Sir John to forgive his old master.’
    And he left, like a shadow, through the doorway. Athelstan walked back into the garden, undoing the scroll even as he shouted at Banyard to fill their tankards.
    ‘What was it?’ Cranston asked nervously.
    ‘Your old teacher,’ Athelstan replied, unrolling the vellum. ‘And he brought us something to study.’
    Athelstan stared at the cramped writing, running his eye quickly down the roll which was made up of sheets of vellum stitched together. He put it down as Banyard brought the stoups of ale. Athelstan ignored the landlord’s look of curiosity.
    ‘What is it?’ Cranston asked impatiently.
    Athelstan just shook his head as he began to translate the Norman French and dog Latin of some obscure clerk.
    ‘Oh, Athelstan, for the love of God!’
    Cranston went to snatch the parchment, but the friar moved away.
    ‘A door is beginning to open,’ Athelstan declared. He tapped the parchment and stared across the garden.
    ‘Well?’ Cranston asked.
    ‘These are petitions,’ Athelstan replied slowly. ‘They are divided into two, but all of them are about twenty years old. They come from the county of Shropshire. The first is a collection of petitions bearing the seals of men like Sir Edmund Malmesbury, Sir Francis Harnett and Sir Maurice Goldingham, vehemently protesting at the secret covens being organised in the shire by certain peasant leaders. Now, Sir John, you must remember that in 1359 and 1360, Edward III levied taxes to raise a great army to take to France.’
    ‘Yes, that’s true.’ Cranston narrowed his eyes. ‘There was a great deal of unrest, not only along the Welsh march but in Kent, Essex and elsewhere. Everyone complained, as they always do about taxes.’
    ‘Ah!’ Athelstan pointed to the parchment. ‘Apparently the peasants in Shropshire did something about it. They actually organised themselves and resisted the tax-collectors. More importantly, they opposed the demands of their