Read Online The House of Crows by Paul C. Doherty - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Paul C. Doherty
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Gregory was upstairs, the assassin might have waited or even joined him. Be honest, Brother. As parish priest of St Erconwald’s, if a priest turned up at your church and wanted to pray beside the coffin of one of your hapless parishioners...?’
‘ Concedo ,’ Athelstan quipped back. ‘One, two priests, three or four, it does not really matter. The assassin would have waited for his opportunity or created a new one.’ He tapped the scraps of parchment against his fingers. ‘This is the important question to resolve. What were Sir Henry and Sir Oliver supposed to remember? What was the significance of an arrowhead and a candle? The marks on the face? And why here?’
‘Which means?’ Cranston snapped.
‘Why kill the two knights in London? Why not at Shrewsbury, or journeying to and from Westminster?’
Cranston snorted, his white whiskers bristling. He was about to launch into speech when there was a clatter on the stairs, a knock on the door, and Sir Miles Coverdale, dressed in half-armour, swordbelt on, bustled into the room.
‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan.’ He stopped, sketching a rather mocking bow at the coroner and his companion.
‘What’s the matter, man?’ Cranston shoved the wineskin underneath his cloak and stood up. ‘You come charging in like a war-horse.’
Sir Miles grinned, removed his gauntlets and wiped the sweat from his forehead. ‘Sir John, I am simply carrying out your orders when you came into Westminster.’
‘I know what I asked,’ Cranston barked.
Athelstan smiled at Coverdale’s tolerant, easy-going manner. The captain seemed more amused by Sir John’s peevishness than anything else. The young man stretched out his hand and grasped Athelstan’s. ‘Father, I have heard a lot about you. His Grace the Regent often talks about Sir John and his helpmate.’
‘Secretarius!’Cranston snapped. ‘Athelstan is my secretarius and parish priest at St Erconwald’s. He is a Dominican friar and—’
‘-And a very good preacher,’ Sir Miles finished Sir John’s sentence for him. ‘Or so rumour has it.’ He winked at Athelstan then stared at Sir John. ‘My lord Coroner, the morning session of the Commons has finished early. I asked Sir Oliver and Sir Henry’s companions to stay in the chapter-house. They await you there.’
The captain turned as the door opened behind him and a black cowled monk came silently as a shadow into the room.
‘What the...?’ Cranston exclaimed.
‘Sir John, may I introduce Father Benedict, monk of Westminster, librarian and chaplain to the Commons.’
Cranston shuffled his feet in embarrassment and extended a podgy hand which was clasped by Father Benedict, who now pulled back his hood to reveal a thin, ascetic face, head completely shaven. Deep furrow marks etched either side of his mouth, his eyes were close-set but sharp.
‘Sir John Cranston.’ He glanced at Athelstan, his face transformed by a smile. ‘And you, Brother.’
Athelstan came forward and exchanged the kiss of peace with him. As he did so, Father Benedict squeezed him by the shoulders.
‘Welcome to our community, Brother,’ the Benedictine whispered.
‘ Pax Tecum ,’ Athelstan whispered back.
‘Why are you here, Father?’ Cranston asked.
‘I came to pay my respects to Sir Henry and Sir Oliver,’ the Benedictine replied. ‘I am chaplain to the Commons. Sir Miles told me about their deaths this morning.’
‘Did you know the dead men?’ Athelstan asked.
The monk seemed surprised by his question. He opened his mouth, blinked, and moved his hands sharply.
‘Yes and no,’ he replied. ‘I know of the representatives from! Shropshire. Many, many years ago, a good friend of mines Antony, was a young monk at Lilleshall.’ Father Benedict! smiled wanly. ‘He died last winter.’
‘And?’Cranston asked.
‘Sir Henry, Sir Oliver and the others used to meet in our chapter-house at Lilleshall.’
‘For what purpose?’
‘They were young knights,’ the
‘ Concedo ,’ Athelstan quipped back. ‘One, two priests, three or four, it does not really matter. The assassin would have waited for his opportunity or created a new one.’ He tapped the scraps of parchment against his fingers. ‘This is the important question to resolve. What were Sir Henry and Sir Oliver supposed to remember? What was the significance of an arrowhead and a candle? The marks on the face? And why here?’
‘Which means?’ Cranston snapped.
‘Why kill the two knights in London? Why not at Shrewsbury, or journeying to and from Westminster?’
Cranston snorted, his white whiskers bristling. He was about to launch into speech when there was a clatter on the stairs, a knock on the door, and Sir Miles Coverdale, dressed in half-armour, swordbelt on, bustled into the room.
‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan.’ He stopped, sketching a rather mocking bow at the coroner and his companion.
‘What’s the matter, man?’ Cranston shoved the wineskin underneath his cloak and stood up. ‘You come charging in like a war-horse.’
Sir Miles grinned, removed his gauntlets and wiped the sweat from his forehead. ‘Sir John, I am simply carrying out your orders when you came into Westminster.’
‘I know what I asked,’ Cranston barked.
Athelstan smiled at Coverdale’s tolerant, easy-going manner. The captain seemed more amused by Sir John’s peevishness than anything else. The young man stretched out his hand and grasped Athelstan’s. ‘Father, I have heard a lot about you. His Grace the Regent often talks about Sir John and his helpmate.’
‘Secretarius!’Cranston snapped. ‘Athelstan is my secretarius and parish priest at St Erconwald’s. He is a Dominican friar and—’
‘-And a very good preacher,’ Sir Miles finished Sir John’s sentence for him. ‘Or so rumour has it.’ He winked at Athelstan then stared at Sir John. ‘My lord Coroner, the morning session of the Commons has finished early. I asked Sir Oliver and Sir Henry’s companions to stay in the chapter-house. They await you there.’
The captain turned as the door opened behind him and a black cowled monk came silently as a shadow into the room.
‘What the...?’ Cranston exclaimed.
‘Sir John, may I introduce Father Benedict, monk of Westminster, librarian and chaplain to the Commons.’
Cranston shuffled his feet in embarrassment and extended a podgy hand which was clasped by Father Benedict, who now pulled back his hood to reveal a thin, ascetic face, head completely shaven. Deep furrow marks etched either side of his mouth, his eyes were close-set but sharp.
‘Sir John Cranston.’ He glanced at Athelstan, his face transformed by a smile. ‘And you, Brother.’
Athelstan came forward and exchanged the kiss of peace with him. As he did so, Father Benedict squeezed him by the shoulders.
‘Welcome to our community, Brother,’ the Benedictine whispered.
‘ Pax Tecum ,’ Athelstan whispered back.
‘Why are you here, Father?’ Cranston asked.
‘I came to pay my respects to Sir Henry and Sir Oliver,’ the Benedictine replied. ‘I am chaplain to the Commons. Sir Miles told me about their deaths this morning.’
‘Did you know the dead men?’ Athelstan asked.
The monk seemed surprised by his question. He opened his mouth, blinked, and moved his hands sharply.
‘Yes and no,’ he replied. ‘I know of the representatives from! Shropshire. Many, many years ago, a good friend of mines Antony, was a young monk at Lilleshall.’ Father Benedict! smiled wanly. ‘He died last winter.’
‘And?’Cranston asked.
‘Sir Henry, Sir Oliver and the others used to meet in our chapter-house at Lilleshall.’
‘For what purpose?’
‘They were young knights,’ the
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