Read Online The House of Crows by Paul Doherty - Free Book Online

professional assassin.’ Sir John rewarded himself with two generous swigs. ‘The garrotte is much speedier than many people think. In France I saw young archers, no more than boys, do the same to French pickets when we went out at night. A terrible death, Brother; so quick, even the strongest man finds it hard to grasp his enemy.’
    Athelstan nodded. Even though he had panicked, he realised he could not have fought against Sir John, who had kept him thrust away with his knee whilst swiftly choking him with the belt. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and stared down at Swynford’s corpse.
    ‘That’s how he died. He came in here and knelt. The assassin, pretending to be a priest, came up behind him. Sir John, how long would it take?’
    ‘Well, Brother, if you started counting to ten, very quickly, Swynford would have been unconscious by the time you’d reached five.’
    ‘And all the time the murderer was chanting, making a mockery of the
“Dies Irae”.
’ Athelstan stared round the chamber. ‘Sir John, we need to examine the possessions of these dead men.’
    Cranston agreed and went out of the gallery. Athelstan heard him at the top of the stairs shouting for Banyard. The friar stood between the two coffins, closed his eyes, and said his own requiem for these souls snatched so abruptly from their bodies.
    Cranston came back. ‘Come on, Brother, they are in the next room. The taverner has given me the key.’
    Athelstan followed him out into the adjoining chamber which had apparently been Sir Henry Swynford’s. The men’s clothing lay in two heaps on the floor. Athelstan went through these carefully. Bouchon’s was sopping wet, still marked and stained by the river, but he could find nothing amiss; even the knight’s dagger was still in its sheath. Cranston, meanwhile, was sifting amongst the other possessions: going through wooden caskets covered in leather, opening saddlebags, small metal coffers, each bearing the arms of the dead men: Bouchon’s, a black boar rampant against a field of azure; Swynford’s, three black crows against a cloth of gold, quartered with small red crosses. There were coins and purses, knives as well as several small, calfskin-covered books sealed with leather clasps. Athelstan opened these.
    ‘What are they, Brother?’ Cranston asked.
    ‘The Legends of Arthur,’
he replied. ‘You know, Sir John, Launcelot of the Lake. Tristram and Isolde.’ He picked up another tome. ‘The same here:
Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. The Search for the Grail.
It’s strange . . .’
    ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Brother! King Arthur and his Round Table are popular legends. Chaucer and other poets are constantly writing about them. When I was younger, it was quite common for young, fashionable knights to hold Round Tables where they could joust and tourney.’
    ‘I find it strange that two knights, albeit from the same shire, should enjoy the same stories. And here, look.’ Athelstan sifted amongst the jewellery on the bed. ‘Here are two chains bearing identical insignia.’ He separated the items. ‘Each carries the image of a swan with its wings raised.’
    Cranston picked them up. Both medallions were identical, the swans exquisitely carved with ruffled, fluffed wings and arching necks.
    ‘They are no gee-gaws from some market booth,’ the coroner murmured. ‘These were the special work of a silversmith.’
    ‘And look,’ Athelstan added, picking up two rings. ‘Each of these, wrought in silver, also bears the image of a swan.’ He put them close together. ‘They are different sizes,’ Athelstan declared. ‘I saw the marks on the fingers of the corpses next door. What I am saying, Sir John, is that both Swynford and Bouchon belonged to some society or company with an interest in the legends of Arthur, and the badge of their company was a silver swan.’
    ‘Knights of the Swan.’ Cranston sat on the edge of the bed and chewed the corner of his lip. ‘During the