held back the crowds, even as a herald in a royal tabard proclaimed how Robert atte Thurlstain, known as the ‘Fox’ and self-proclaimed leader of the so-called ‘Great Community of the Realm’ had been found guilty of the horrible crimes of conspiracy, treason, etc. On a platform next to the scaffold a red-garbed executioner was already sharpening his fleshing knives, laying them out on the great table. The hapless felon would be thrown there after he had been half hung: his body would be cut open, disembowelled, quartered, salted, and then placed in barrels of pickle before being displayed over the principal gateways of London and other cities.
Athelstan watched as the priest at the foot of the ladder quickly gabbled the prayers for the dying, whilst the executioner’s assistant, who bestraddled the jutting arc of the gibbet, placed the noose over the prisoner. The executioner bawled at the priest to hurry up; the crowd didn’t like this and grew restless. Bits of refuse and rotten fruit were thrown at the hangman even as the herald stopped his declamation and a drumbeat began to roll. Athelstan went cold as he recalled the warnings given by Joscelyn, the one-armed taverner of the Piebald. Hadn’t he said that a man calling himself the ‘Fox’ had been one of those Pike had secretly met? He tugged at the coroner’s sleeve.
‘Come on, Sir John,’ he whispered. ‘Let’s be away.’
Cranston agreed, though he paused to grasp the hand of a foist who was busy threading his way through the streets. The coroner seized the man’s wrist, drew out the very thin dagger the felon had concealed up his sleeve, and sent it spinning into a pile of refuse. Sir John tapped the man on the head with his knuckles.
‘Now be a good boy and trot off!’ the coroner growled, and shoved the pickpocket after his knife into the pile of refuse.
‘Did you know anything about that execution?’ Athelstan asked as they hastened down the Shambles into Cheapside.
‘Not a whit,’ Cranston replied. ‘The poor bastard was probably tried before King’s Bench: the regent always demands immediate execution.’
They turned a corner into the broad thoroughfare, which was now emptying as traders dismounted stalls and weary-eyed apprentices stowed away their masters’ belongings into baskets and hampers. Even the stocks had been emptied, and the city bellman strode up and down ringing his bell and proclaiming:
‘All you loyal subjects of the king. Your business is done. Thank the Lord for a good day’s trade and hasten to your homes!’
Rakers were busy cleaning up the refuse and rubbish. Cranston stopped and, shading his eyes against the sunlight, looked down Cheapside.
‘Aren’t you going home?’ Athelstan asked hopefully.
‘I’d discover nothing about Perline Brasenose there.’ Cranston smiled. ‘But it would be good to kiss the poppets.’
They walked towards Cranston’s house.
‘I want Leif the beggar, the idle bugger,’ Cranston growled. ‘I want him to deliver a message.’
The words were hardly out of his mouth when the tall, emaciated, red-haired beggar hopped like a frog out of an alleyway.
‘Sir John, Sir John, God bless you! Brother Athelstan, may you send all demons back to hell!’
‘So, you have heard?’
‘Aye I have,’ Leif replied, resting on his crutch, head cocked to one side. ‘They say a butcher in Southwark caught the demon in a cellar. It was in the shape of a goat: the butcher cut his throat, sliced the goat into collops and invited everyone-’
‘That’s enough,’ Cranston interrupted. ‘How is the Lady Maude?’
Leif smiled slyly. ‘In a fair rage, Sir John. The two dogs have eaten your pie: left out on the table, it was, cooling for supper, broad and golden with a tasty crust. She thinks the poppets took it down and gave it to the dogs. The Lady Maude is also complaining about the stench from the ditch. She says if they fire the refuse tonight, it will be impossible to dry sheets in the morning.’
‘Yes, yes, quite,’ Cranston growled, and glanced hurriedly down the street to the Holy Lamb of God inn. He cleared his throat. ‘Perhaps, Brother, it’s best if we let the Lady Maude’s anger cool for a while.’
‘I am all a-hungered, Sir John,’ Leif wailed. He peered at Athelstan. ‘And so are you, aren’t you, Father?’
Athelstan nodded. He felt hungry, his legs were aching, and he couldn’t refuse Sir John’s generous offer to help.
‘Perhaps ale and something to eat at the Holy Lamb, Sir John?’
‘Shouldn’t you go home?’ Leif asked innocently.
‘Affairs of state. Affairs of state,’ Cranston breathed.
‘I am hungry as well, Sir John,’ Leif slyly added. ‘The Lady Maude is waiting for me.’
‘Well, you can join us,’ Cranston replied. ‘But first go round the streets. Seek out the Harrower of the Dead. Tell him Sir John requires his presence at the Holy Lamb of God! Yes, yes.’ He thrust a penny into Leifs outstretched hand. ‘I understand, you’ll need some sustenance on the way.’
The beggar was about to scamper off, but Cranston seized his arm. ‘And what news in Cheapside, Leif?’
The beggar scratched his nose. ‘More cats have gone, Sir John.’ Leif pointed down to a great, high-sided dung cart.
‘People have lost confidence, Sir John. They are even paying Hengist and Horsa to look for their cats.’
‘Are they now?’ Cranston murmured. ‘Well, you trot off, Leif, and deliver my message.’
The beggar left as fast as a whippet, eager to be back at the Holy Lamb for the supper Sir John had promised. Cranston marched down towards the two dung-collectors. They were cleaning the sewer in the centre of Cheapside, digging out the mess and slops, cheerily throwing the muck into their huge, stinking cart.
‘God bless you, sirs,’ Cranston greeted them.
Both men paused, pushing back their hoods.
‘Lovely lads!’ Cranston breathed. ‘Brother Athelstan, this is Hengist and Horsa. Dung-collectors of Cheapside.’
Both men grinned in embarrassment. Twin brothers, their dirty, wart-covered faces were identical, except that Hengist had one tooth whilst Horsa had none.
‘Good morrow, Sir John,’ they chorused.
‘So, you are searching for the stolen cats?’ Cranston asked.
‘Aye, Sir John, and a great pity it is how the poor animals are disappearing.’
Hengist leaned his shovel against the cart and wiped his fingers on his red leather apron. Athelstan noticed that Horsa’s leather apron was cut much shorter. The fellow noticed Athelstan’s gaze.
‘It’s cut like that, Father, so people can tell us one from the other.’
‘Have you found the cats?’ Cranston growled.
‘No, Sir John.’ Hengist clasped his hands together as if in prayer. ‘The poor creatures seem to have disappeared into thin air.’
‘And you have found no signs to indicate who has taken them?’
‘None whatsoever, Sir John.’ The fellow’s eyes grew large. ‘But we have all heard about the demon in Southwark.’
‘You’re taking payment for your searches?’ Cranston insisted.
‘Oh yes, Sir John, but not hide nor hair can be seen.’
Cranston took a step closer and stared into the dung-collector’s watery eyes.
‘Now, my bucko,’ he said quietly, ‘if you can discover neither hide or hair, why are you taking pennies from petty traders and poor old ladies?’
‘Sir John, we haven’t taken much. People have only asked for our help.’
‘Aye, in which case,’ Cranston grated, ‘they must be truly desperate.’ And, shouldering past the man, he made his way further down Cheapside.
‘Sir John, you were unduly harsh,’ Athelstan declared, hurrying up beside him.
Cranston just shook his head and lengthened his stride, heading like an arrow for the Holy Lamb of God. Once inside, he took off his cloak and tossed the empty wineskin at the landlord’s wife; she came bustling out from the kitchen to greet Sir John as if he was a long-lost brother.
‘Some ale!’ Cranston tweaked her plump cheek. And one of your pies — freshly baked, mind you, not yesterday’s.’
