The House of Shadows Read Online Free PDF

round and red as a ripe apple; the rest all looked like brothers, dressed as they were in their black and white cloaks with the golden falcon emblem embroidered on the shoulder. He reckoned most of them must have seen their fiftieth summer. They walked and looked like the warriors they were – men who had fought in Outremer, strong, muscular soldiers, bodies hardened, faces darkened by years of military service under the blazing sun of the Middle Sea.
    Athelstan knew little about their background: knights from Kent, landowners who, some twenty years ago, had gathered in Southwark to join the great expedition of Peter of Cyprus against the Turks in North Africa. They had served under the Golden Falcon standard and every year gathered at the tavern, the Night in Jerusalem, to celebrate their achievements and talk of old times. Brother Malachi was their chaplain: the Benedictine had served with the crusading army, even had his fingers shorn in the fighting, and returned to England settling in a small monastery outside Aylesford. Each year was the same: they’d gather for Mass at St Erconwald’s, then return to their tavern to continue their celebrations. Athelstan hardly gave them a second thought, yet wasn’t there some mystery attached to it all? Hadn’t Sir John Cranston told him about a great robbery, some scandal, before the crusading fleet left the Thames? Athelstan felt immediately apprehensive. Whenever he thought of Sir John Cranston, the larger-than-life coroner always appeared. Athelstan quietly prayed that Sir John, Coroner of the City of London, would not need his services, that he would not arrive to drag him from his parish to investigate some gruesome murder. Yet hadn’t God-Bless mentioned a man being killed last night during the Great Ratting?
    ‘Brother Athelstan.’ Sir Maurice led the knights back from the painting. ‘Once again you have kindly allowed us to use your church for Mass and our devotions.’
    He turned to the Benedictine.
    ‘Well,’ he barked, ‘give it to him!’
    Malachi drew his hands from the voluminous sleeves of his habit and handed over a small velvet-covered box. Athelstan undid the silver clasp, pushed back the lid and carefully picked up the gold ring, very similar to what a man would use in swearing his troth. He could tell, by the thinness of the gold, that the ring was ancient.
    ‘Do you like it?’ Sir Stephen asked, his fat face laced with sweat.
    ‘Of course.’ Athelstan put the ring back.
    ‘It belonged to St Erconwald,’ Malachi explained. ‘It was his episcopal ring. I bought it from a merchant in Canterbury. I have had it tested, it is genuine. There are marks on the inside.’
    Athelstan lifted the ring up against the light, studying it intently, and saw the small Celtic crosses etched on the inside of it. He put the ring back, closed the box and slipped it into the wallet which hung from his cord. He was only halfway through his speech of thanks when the door crashed open. For a moment Athelstan thought it was Cranston, but it was Benedicta the widow woman who slipped into the church, apologising profusely for giving the door such a vigorous push.
    ‘I am sorry, Brother.’
    Athelstan smiled at her; even the knights forgot what he was saying as they stared at this beautiful woman, her pale face framed by hair black as midnight.
    ‘I am sorry, Brother,’ she repeated, ‘but I thought I would be late for the meeting.’
    Athelstan squeezed her hand, and thanked the knights for their gift, saying that he and his parish council would have to reflect carefully about where it should be kept. He didn’t dare mention that most of his parishioners, given half a chance, be it holy relic or not, would steal the ring and sell it in the markets across the river.
    Once Brother Malachi and the knights had left, Benedicta began to explain why she was late, only to be interrupted by Watkin the dung collector, leader of the council, who came striding down the church.