mangy alley cat padded like any soft-footed assassin across the creaking floorboards. A man hooded and masked stood by a doorway. He bowed to the Upright Men, opened the door and ushered them into what once was the tavern’s principal bedroom, now just a square dirty chamber, empty except for one long table with benches down one side and a stool on the other.
The Upright Men sat on the benches, pulled back their hoods and donned their masks before re-covering their heads.
‘The basilisk,’ Grindcobbe ordered.
The guard left and a short while later pushed the basilisk, also cloaked and hooded, into the chamber, where he had to assist as the basilisk’s eyes were blindfolded. Once his guest, as Grindcobbe described their visitor, was seated on the stool, the guard withdrew.
‘Announce yourself to my comrades. What is your name?’ Grindcobbe demanded.
‘Basilisk!’ came the whispered reply.
‘Why?’
‘Because the basilisk is a creature which lies in ambush before it strikes.’
‘You have taken the oath to live and die with us; you have helped us before, but now you are sworn.’
‘I am.’
‘You accept us as your liege lords?’
‘I do.’
‘You will wage war and kill on our behalf?’
‘I will.’
‘Treachery will be punished.’
‘I know.’
‘By the ban?’
‘I know.’
‘Which means what?’
‘The total annihilation of me and mine.’
‘And if you are captured and unmasked, Basilisk, clever and subtle though you may be, we can do little to assist you against Gaunt and his minions.’ Grindcobbe paused at a strident screech from the alleyway below as some night predator caught its prey. Grindcobbe’s tone lightened. ‘A warning indeed! Gaunt and his henchmen, Thibault in particular, will be ruthless, you understand that?’
‘Yes.’
‘And your task,’ Grindcobbe leaned across the table, ‘is to wage war by fire and sword against our enemies, to fight the good fight, to kill, to terrify. Do you understand?’
‘I do.’
‘Not only among Gaunt and his coven but the Straw Men.’
‘I understand.’
‘Once you enter the Tower, everything will be provided. You will not be alone — we have one friend there. He will reveal himself to you — do not be surprised. We have made it very clear that he is to do exactly what you say; otherwise he, too, will be marked down.’ Grindcobbe raised a hand. ‘He will, in particular, help you with a certain sack which the guard outside will give to you before you leave the Babylon. Do not be shocked at its contents, gruesome though they are. I believe you may suspect their origin.’
‘How will I recognize this so-called friend?’ The basilisk’s voice betrayed contempt.
Grindcobbe dug into his purse and took out a scrap of parchment. ‘He will give you this.’ Grindcobbe pulled the candle closer so he could read the script:
‘When Adam delved and Eve span,
Who was then the gentleman?
Now the world is ours and ours alone,
To cut the lords to heart and bone.’
Grindcobbe smiled behind his mask. ‘A doggerel verse but, as you know, many of those we lead do not read or write. They certainly understand what this means.’ He pushed the scrap across the table, grasping Basilisk’s outstretched hand. ‘Don’t fail us,’ he warned. Grindcobbe rose. ‘Your escort will see you safely back. As I said, we will supply whatever you need for your first act of terror. Farewell. We may not meet again but go, rejoicing that you do with the full blessing and support of the Upright Men.’
Athelstan sat on the stool close to the inglenook of Cranston’s favourite tavern, The Holy Lamb of God which fronted Cheapside. He pulled off his mittens and unbuttoned his cloak, smiling at Mistress Rohesia, its jolly-faced owner who came bustling across.
‘I will wait for Sir John,’ he assured her. ‘He will not be long.’
Mistress Rohesia, snow-white, apron all fresh, soft napkins over her arm, returned to the kitchens even as she loudly chanted what was on offer. ‘Chicken with cherries, pike in doucettes, beef rissoles, roast coney, and a selection of the sweetest, hottest and softest pies.’ Athelstan half heard her out. He had broken his fast immediately after his dawn Mass attended by a very few. He’d then changed, left the keys with Benedicta and hurried across the frozen bridge to meet Sir John here before the Nones bell rang.
Cranston had sent Flaxwith late the previous evening, about an hour after Watkin and Pike had left. Flaxwith offered his master’s apologies over what had happened at the Roundhoop and asked Athelstan to meet the coroner here in his favourite tavern, which stood directly opposite the Guildhall. Athelstan wondered about his own agitation over what he had learnt the previous evening. Danger certainly pressed on every side. He stared around. The tap room, so clean and welcoming with its host of delicious smells, was fairly empty. A harpist sat in the far corner reciting a poem about ‘the Lord of the Ravens’. Two chapmen sifted through their trays in preparation for another day’s bustling trade along Cheapside. A slaughterer from St Nicholas’ shambles bit greedily into an eel pie, his hands and arms stained to the elbow in dried blood. A herald enjoyed a pot of ale while three raggedy scholars from St Paul’s loudly conjugated ‘Mensa’ and ‘Cursus’ before they met their Latin master. They rose, still chanting, to pick food from the horse-saddle table, a few boards placed across trestles and covered with linen cloths on which Minehostess had laid tranchers and pewter dishes piled high with blood-red sausages, cutlets of pork and sliced white bread. For a few coins every morning, customers could fill a platter with these meats, sops of bread and collect a blackjack of ale from the young tapster.
‘Good morrow, Friar.’ Silent as a ghost, despite his breadth and size, Cranston slid on to the stool opposite Athelstan.
‘Once again, my friend.’ Cranston pulled down the muffler and doffed his beaver hat. ‘I had no knowledge about what Thibault intended at the Roundhoop.’
‘I know.’ Athelstan leaned across the table and grabbed Cranston’s gauntleted hand.
‘I heard what you said about the scorpion.’ Cranston chuckled, tossing his cloak and hat on to the empty stool beside him. ‘Brother, I owe you an explanation.’ Cranston paused to order a capon pastry, a pot of vegetables and a goblet of Bordeaux’s best. He waited until Mistress Rohesia served this, whiling the time away by carefully scrutinizing the rest of the customers. ‘You can never be too careful, especially in this vale of tears.’ He sniffed. ‘Life is becoming dangerous, Brother. The Lady Maude, the two poppets, my wolf hounds, not to mention steward Blaskett are all, thank God, in the best of health and safe. Lord knows, I’ve lit enough tapers before the Virgin at Saint Mary-le-Bow in thanks for this. However, once the weather breaks and spring begins to green everything, I’ll send them off to our small manor at Overton.’
‘Matters are so bad?’
‘No, but they will be.’ Cranston thanked Mistress Rohesia for the food and wine, blew her a kiss and lifted the goblet in toast to Athelstan, who declined yet again Mistress Rohesia’s litany of mouth-watering delicacies.
‘You should eat, Brother.’
‘Brother has eaten and drunk enough for the day.’
‘True, and you will feast tonight.’
‘What!’
‘Not for the moment.’ Cranston took a generous bite. Athelstan glanced away; he was fasting and the smell of hot, juicy chicken in a spice sauce might prove to be a temptation too much.
‘Now,’ Cranston dabbed his mouth with his napkin, ‘let me be brief for the hour will soon be upon us. First, you and I know this city bubbles like a bucket of oil over a fire. Secondly, the day will come when the oil and fire
