The House of Crows by Paul Doherty Read Free Book Online Page B

whom Athelstan had noticed earlier came across, her milk-white face slightly coloured from the heat of the kitchen, her rich blonde hair now firmly tied back by a ribbon. A pretty, lively lass with merry blue eyes and lips which Athelstan quietly thought, God must have made for kissing. She wore a thin stained smock pulled tightly over an ample bosom, girdled at her slim waist by a red woollen cord. She grinned at Sir John and blinked nervously at Athelstan, but the friar could tell by the way she answered Banyard’s call how the landlord must be the love of her life.
    ‘Sit down, girl.’ Cranston pointed to a stool at the next table. ‘It’s good to rest from your labours. Perhaps, Master Banyard, some ale for all of us, eh?’
    Banyard just sat on his stool, staring at him; eventually Cranston sighed and dipped into his purse. ‘And don’t worry about the cost,’ he snapped.
    Banyard called to one of the potboys, then turned to Christina. ‘Don’t be nervous, lass. This is the famous Sir Jack Cranston.’ He glanced slyly at the coroner. ‘And Brother Athelstan, his secretarius.’
    Christina blinked prettily. ‘I have heard of you, sir.’
    Cranston preened like a peacock whilst Athelstan quietly prayed that the girl would keep the flattery to a minimum.
    ‘Last night,’ he asked abruptly, ‘when Sir Henry was killed . . .?’
    ‘Choked he was,’ the girl replied swiftly, taking the ale from the tapster and supping at it greedily. She licked the froth from her upper lip. ‘Just like a chicken. The string was tied round his neck as tightly as a cord round a purse.’
    ‘Tell Sir John about the priest,’ Banyard insisted.
    ‘We were busy last night,’ Christina replied. ‘Master Banyard here was in the cellar.’ She turned and smiled beatifically at the taverner. ‘A priest came in.’ The girl cradled the tankard then raised it to press against her flushed cheek. ‘He was cloaked and cowled, the hood pulled well across his face. I was very busy. I saw the rosary beads in his hands. I asked him if he was the chantry priest. He nodded.’ She shrugged. ‘I told him where the chamber was but he was already going upstairs. The tap-room was thronged,’ she continued. ‘I never gave him a second thought. Later on, I took a tankard up to Sir Henry Swynford. He was just sitting in his room, staring into the darkness. Only one candle was lit on his table. I asked him if he was well and he muttered some reply.’ Christina sipped from the tankard.
    ‘Tell Sir John what happened next.’
    ‘Well—’
    ‘Excuse me,’ Athelstan intervened. He’d studied the lass carefully and quietly wondered if she was a little simple: she chattered like a child without any reflection or fear.
    ‘Did you see the priest’s face?’ Athelstan asked.
    ‘Pull up your cowl, Father,’ Christina replied.
    Athelstan shrugged and pulled his hood up to conceal his face.
    ‘Oh no, Father,’ Christina said. ‘It was like this: put your face down.’
    Athelstan obeyed and Christina pulled the hood closer across his head, then lifted the front part of the mantle to cover his mouth.
    ‘You see, Father, he looked like that.’
    Athelstan pulled back the hood, and a little embarrassed, tugged the black mantle down, away from his mouth and chin. In the dark even he, dressed like that, would not be recognised by many of his parishioners. Indeed, only recently the master-general of his Order had issued an instruction to all Dominicans to be careful about their use of the hood and cowl lest people mistake them for an outlaw or footpad. ‘Continue,’ he told her.
    ‘Well, a little later,’ Christina chattered, ‘I went up the stairs. I heard a sound from Sir Oliver’s room, chanting, a prayer.’ She closed her eyes. ‘Something about, something . . .’ Her voice faltered. ‘Yes, that’s it.’ She opened her eyes. ‘About a day of wrath.’
    ‘A day of wrath?’ Cranston asked.
    ‘You recognised the voice?’