considered, Lascelles was Thibault’s dagger man and enjoyed the most unsavoury reputation. The Flemings were only known to Athelstan by common rumour. The red-faced Oudernardes, father and son, were Gaunt’s agents in Ghent — powerful merchants, they looked the part with their heavy-jowled features, luxuriant beards and moustaches. Both were dressed soberly although costly in beaver hats, ermine-lined mantles and cloaks of the purest wool. Lettenhove, their man at arms, was a hardbitten veteran, his narrow face and close-cropped head marked with old wounds and cuts. Cornelius, their secretary, was small and round as a dumpling with narrow, blackcurrant eyes which almost disappeared into the folds of his pasty white face. Cornelius’ hand shake was soft and limp, his voice lisping like a girl’s, yet Athelstan caught his shifty, haughty look; how Cornelius’ lips pursed in a smirk as he surveyed Athelstan from head to toe. He then turned away, nodding to himself as if he’d weighed the Dominican in the balance and found him wanting. Athelstan bit back his temper. Cranston coughed and clapped his hands.
‘No movement?’ the coroner barked louder than he intended. ‘Rosselyn, what is happening here?’ The captain of archers on the other side of the entrance edged forward; he stooped and raced across the entrance to the tavern yard. He’d hardly reached the other side when an arrow whipped through the air to clatter further down the lane.
‘In God’s name!’ Athelstan exclaimed.
‘Peer round the gate, Brother,’ Cranston urged, ‘but stoop, be quick!’
Athelstan did so. The cobbled stable yard glistened with bloody, melted slush. The outhouses on either side, the storerooms, smithy and stables looked deserted, though Athelstan heard the whinnying of horses in their stalls. He edged further and gasped. Two corpses hung by their necks from the bars of an upper window, its shutters flung back. The men just dangled there, hands tied behind their backs, booted feet swaying, necks twisted, heads slightly back, faces frozen in a horrid death. Closer to the main tavern door two huge mastiffs were sprawled in a pool of freezing blood; arrow shafts pierced their throats and flanks. One of the shutters in the grey-rounded wall moved. Athelstan drew back as another shaft sped through the air.
‘Sir John, Master Thibault,’ Athelstan demanded, ‘what is going on? Why have I been brought here?’
‘They have asked for you.’ Cranston took a swig from his wine skin.
‘Who have? Sir John, please, what is happening?’ Though remembering Ranulf’s interruption of Mass, Athelstan began to suspect the worst. Cranston leaned against the wall, the others grouped around him. Athelstan sensed there was something very wrong. The coroner would not look him in the eye. He was about to speak when a shout echoed from the Roundhoop.
‘We have glimpsed a black and white robe. Is Athelstan the Dominican here?’
‘Yes!’ Athelstan shouted back before anyone could stop him. ‘Yes, I am. What do you want with me?’
‘To talk.’
Athelstan turned to Cranston. ‘Why,’ he demanded fiercely, ‘am I here?’
‘Four days ago,’ Thibault answered, ‘we were attacked on our way to the Tower.’
‘Yes, I’d heard about that — the entire city did.’
‘Our assailants were despatched by the Upright Men, leaders of the so-called “Great Community of the Realm”.’
‘And?’
‘We heard,’ Cranston replied, gesturing at Thibault, ‘how some of the Upright Men were meeting at the Roundhoop. Minehost here, Simon Goodmayes, is known to be sympathetic to their cause.’
‘In other words,’ Athelstan replied abruptly, ‘Master Simon does not want his tavern burnt to the ground when the Day of Judgement arrives; that is what they call it, yes?’
‘True.’ Cranston smiled at the little friar so uncharacteristically angry. ‘Master Thibault has spies among the Upright Men; they alerted us to this meeting.’
‘We surrounded the Roundhoop,’ Thibault declared. ‘The tavern stands behind a square stone wall with a garden at the back. We now have it sealed. Believe me, Brother, escape is impossible.’
‘The Upright Men realized they’d been betrayed,’ Cranston declared. ‘They hanged two of the tavern servants and slaughtered Master Simon’s mastiffs. Everyone else has fled, faster than rabbits under the hawk. The Upright Men now have Master Simon and a few customers held to ransom.’
‘How many Upright Men are there?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Perhaps ten in all,’ Thibault replied. ‘We arrived and they acted swiftly. Doors were barred; two of the servants apparently tried to escape and were summarily hanged. The mastiffs turned nasty; they realized their master was in danger, so they were killed.’
‘And why are you here, sirs?’ Athelstan turned to the two Flemings.
‘Because, Brother,’ Pieter Oudernarde lowered the muffler from around his mouth, ‘we believe these same outlaws organized the attack on us four days ago. We are certain our possessions were stolen.’ The Fleming caught Thibault’s eye; he coughed and pulled a face. ‘We would also like to see justice done.’
‘And your property returned?’
‘Yes, Brother,’ Cornelius piped up, his reedy voice uncomfortable on the ear. ‘To see our property — certain items — returned.’
‘And yet I ask again,’ Athelstan insisted, ‘why am I here? What do you want me to do?’
‘The Upright Men want to negotiate,’ Cranston murmured, holding the friar’s gaze, warning him with his eyes that all was not what it appeared to be.
‘To negotiate? Why me?’
‘You are well known, Brother,’ Cranston again replied, gesturing at the others to remain silent.
‘Will he talk?’ a voice bellowed from the tavern.
‘What do they want?’
‘Safe passage, probably by river.’
‘And if not?’
‘They will kill the hostages and fight to the death!’ Cranston declared brusquely. ‘Look at the Roundhoop, Brother — built of stone like a castle tower. We cannot burn them out.’
Athelstan ignored the deep unease tugging at his soul. Cranston could say more but this was neither the time nor the place.
‘I will go in,’ Athelstan said wearily. ‘Let us hear what they have to say.’ A bunch of evergreen was brought from a nearby garden lashed to a pole. Athelstan threw this into the gateway.
‘
‘
‘Enter!’ a voice called. Athelstan paused.
‘Enter!’
‘Cut down the hanged men,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘Cut them down now. Let me pray over them. God knows their souls may not have left their bodies. Judgement could still await.’
‘Enter!’ the voice screamed. Athelstan took a deep breath. He knelt down on the cobbles, head bowed, ignoring the repeated shouts to enter. Silence fell. A window opened and the two dangling corpses were cut from their ropes to tumble on to the ground. Ignoring the faces frozen in hideous death, Athelstan administered the last rites to both victims. He blessed their corpses, rose to his feet and walked up the steps into the circular tap room, a murky place of shifting shadows. All the windows were shuttered, the only light thrown by squat tallow candles and narrow lantern horns. A figure loomed out of the gloom, head covered by a pointed hood, a red mask hiding his face, his heavy, draping cloak hung loose to reveal a war belt with sword and dagger sheaths. Other shapes stepped into the pools of light, dressed all the same, sinister phantasms of the night, armed and menacing. Athelstan stared round. Minehost Simon lay badly wounded, along with two servants. A Friar of the Sack and a fat, painted whore, a bushy orange wig almost hiding her face, sat like terrified children on a bench against the wall. They gazed owl-eyed at Athelstan, except for the whore, who put her face in her hands and began to sob.
‘Well,’ the friar asked, ‘what now?’
‘We trust you, Athelstan. The earthworms say you are not one of us yet you are sympathetic.’ The voice of
