The House of Crows

made him drowsy. He lay down on his cot-bed; when he awoke later darkness was already beginning to fall. He roused Sir John and they spent the rest of the evening waiting in the taproom for Malmesbury, Elontius and Aylebore to return. It was fully dark when the three representatives came in, huddled together, each with their hands on the pommel of their daggers. They greeted Cranston and Athelstan with a cursory nod and sat at their own table. Their morose demeanour and air of despondency only lifted after Banyard had served them the best his kitchens could offer, placing an unstoppered flask of wine on the table before them.
    ‘It’s the best Gascony can produce,’ the landlord declared. ‘Come, sirs, fill your cups.’
    He opened the flask and poured a generous measure into each of the knights’ goblets. Frightened and anxious, all three drank quickly, refilling their cups, putting fire into their bellies and the arrogance back in their mouths. Cranston whispered that he could watch no longer, and stomped off to his room, but Athelstan, pretending to eat slowly, studied them carefully. As the evening drew on, all three knights returned to their pompous selves, braying like donkeys at what had happened during the afternoon and evening sessions of the Commons. Of course, their voices attracted the attention of everyone else in the tavern: lawyers, clerks, officials from the courts or Exchequer. All congregated round the table, listening solemnly as these three representatives proclaimed what was wrong with the kingdom.
    ‘Woe to the realm when the king is a child,’ Malmesbury intoned. ‘This —’ he tapped the table, burping gently between his words — ‘is the cause of all our ills!’
    Athelstan, knowing what he did about these men, felt his stomach turn. He would have left them but, fascinated by their hypocrisy, watched and waited. Only now and again did their fear of the murder of their companions show. A clerk, with a snivelling face and lank greasy hair, asked who the murderer could be. Malmesbury glared at him like a frightened rabbit and dug his face into his cup, whilst Aylebore drew the conversation on to other matters. Every so often one of them would go out to the latrines. Athelstan noticed with some amusement how all three knights had hired burly servitors to guard them. As Aylebore returned, hastily fastening his points, Athelstan was waiting for him, just within the door.
    ‘You have bought yourself protection, Sir Humphrey?’
    The knight lifted his beery, slobbery face. ‘Well, much good you are,’ he sneered. He paused to loosen the belt round his girth. ‘Can’t even have a piss without someone watching your back.’
    He would have moved on, but Athelstan blocked his way. The sneer died on Aylebore’s face.
    ‘If you are so frightened,’ Athelstan whispered, ‘why not go back to Shropshire?’
    Sir Humphrey glanced away, his face sodden with drink. ‘Or confess your secret sin,’ Athelstan continued remorselessly.
    Aylebore’s head swung round, eyes stony.
    ‘Confess to the murders of those men,’ Athelstan whispered, his gaze not wavering. ‘Do you remember, Sir Humphrey? The peasant leaders who wanted to better themselves, but whom you and your companions executed, or should I say murdered, in the pursuit of your own selfish interests!’
    Aylebore’s face turned ugly, yet Athelstan saw the fear in his eyes.
    ‘Confess,’ Athelstan repeated.
    Aylebore pushed his face close to Athelstan, who did not flinch at the burst of fetid breath from the man’s mouth.
    ‘If I had to confess anything, Father,’ Aylebore hissed, ‘then it wouldn’t be to you. And if I killed, then I did so in the name of a cause you wouldn’t understand.’
    Athelstan stepped back. ‘Oh, I understand you completely, Sir Humphrey. It’s a devil I meet every day. It goes under different names: jealousy, envy, anger, the lust for power.’ Aylebore was about to reply, but Malmesbury called him over. The knights shouldered roughly by, and Athelstan drew his breath in.
    ‘I tried, Lord,’ he whispered. ‘There’s little more I can do!’ He went across the taproom and up the stairs to his own chamber. Only then did he realise how frightening his confrontation with Aylebore had been. He found it difficult to pray, still repelled by the evil ugliness in the knight’s face. Athelstan lay down on the bed and tried to control his breathing, diverting his mind by imagining he was in St