The House of Crows by Paul Doherty Page B

Athelstan.
    ‘Did I do right?’ Cranston breathed in noisily.
    He took out his wineskin, toasted the statue of the Virgin standing on a plinth next to the abbey door, and took generous swigs.
    ‘They threatened you, Sir John, and there was no need for that. However, Goldingham might be correct. We have no proof that Bouchon’s and Swynford’s killer is one of those knights.’
    ‘Bollocks!’ Cranston cursed. ‘They were telling a pack of lies. They sat there like choirboys or mummers in a play reciting lines.’
    ‘But that does not mean they are trying to hide anything about the murders,’ Athelstan insisted. He linked his arm through Sir John’s and guided him away. ‘You have met such men before, Sir John. You know their ways,’ he added flatteringly. ‘They grew up together, served as pages and squires in the same households. They are linked by blood and marriage. They go to war, share the spoils and, in peace time, stand shoulder to shoulder.’
    ‘Don’t speak in riddles, Friar!’
    ‘Come, Sir John, there is no riddle. You have just taken one swig too many of that wineskin. No, don’t glare at me. You’re father of the poppets, and glaring at me from under those bushy white eyebrows is only pretence. What I am saying,’ Athelstan continued, ‘is that of course those men have got a great deal to hide, but they may have nothing to do with the murders.’
    ‘So how do we find out?’
    Athelstan poked the wineskin beneath Sir John’s cloak. ‘
In vino veritas,
Sir John. In wine there’s truth.’
    ‘You mean Banyard?’
    ‘Of course. Show me a landlord who says he doesn’t eavesdrop on his customers’ conversations and I’ll show you a liar.’
    They made their way out of the abbey. They had to take a circuitous route through narrow, foulsome alleyways to the Gargoyle, since a burning house had closed off the more direct path.
    ‘Isn’t it strange?’ Cranston murmured. ‘We have just left the abbey where kings are crowned and parliaments are held, a sacred and venerable place; yet every rogue in the city seems to gather round it.’
    Athelstan had to agree. He saw two characters, one with a patch over his eye, both with their hoods pulled up, following a pretty whore who was tripping along past the stalls. Both men were greedily watching the embroidered purse which swung from her gaudy girdle. At the corner of the alleyway three dummerers were holding up placards claiming they were deaf-mutes, had been since birth, and would passers-by please spare them a farthing?
    ‘Liars!’ Cranston snorted with disbelief.
    ‘But they are genuine,’ Athelstan exclaimed.
    ‘Watch this,’ Cranston muttered.
    He crossed the street, jumping over the overflowing sewer in the centre, and waited till a small crowd had gathered round, ready to give coins. Cranston drew his dagger, sidled close behind one of the dummerers and, as he passed, nicked the man’s bottom with his dagger point. The fellow dropped his sign and screeched like a bird.
    ‘Who did that? Who did that?’
    The spectators looked on in stupefaction.
    ‘A miracle,’ Cranston declared, holding up his dagger. ‘The man can speak.’ He advanced threateningly on the other two. ‘And perhaps I can perform the same for you.’
    All three men grabbed their small bowls of coins and fled like hares up an alleyway. The word must have spread: as Cranston swept by, different characters, all begging for alms, disappeared into the shadows. Their places were soon taken outside doorways, or in the empty spaces between houses, by a legion of other vagabonds: ballad-mongers, hucksters, relic-sellers, as well as the ubiquitous pardoners eager to sell indulgence and penances to pilgrims flocking to the tomb of Edward the Confessor. At times the alleyways became packed, the noise so intense that Cranston and Athelstan had to struggle to get through.
    ‘Why is it that religion attracts so many rogues and fools?’ Cranston bawled. ‘Surely the good Lord