grilled meats. Thankfully the hard ice under foot had frozen the ordure and waste and provided some grip. Nevertheless, Athelstan remained wary of the sheets of puddle ice, not to mention the legion of Trojans, as Athelstan called the petty cheats and cozeners who scurried fast as ferrets from the mouths of alleyways and lanes. The apprentice boys were also busy, darting like sparrows from beneath their master’s stalls to offer, ‘cloth of Liege, tin pots from Cornwall, pepper mixers and boxes of cloves’. Prisoners manacled together, shuffled like one monstrous being; recently released from the debtors’ house at the Marshalsea, they begged for alms while moaning at the freezing cold which had turned their bare feet purple. A group of whores caught soliciting on the steps of All Hallows were being marched up to the stocks. They were forced to hold their skirts over their heads, revealing dirty-grey flabby buttocks, so they could be thrashed with white split canes by the escorting beadles. Every so often these officials made their prisoners stop at a horse trough to receive a drenching from buckets of icy water. Athelstan closed his eyes at the sheer misery. Head down, cowl pulled close, the friar wondered at the evil which throbbed inside every soul and expressed itself in such cruelty. He felt Cranston clutch his arm. They had stopped outside St Mary-Le-Bow. A dispute had broken out over a corpse sprawled out on a coffin-stretcher, its left eye still open. Passers-by had glimpsed this and were demanding that such a sign of ill-luck be covered, the eye pressed down with a coin. A fresh disturbance distracted the mob as a group of flagellants, naked except for loin cloths and hoods daubed with a huge red cross, pushed their way through, flailing their backs with three-thonged whips, each of the knots pierced with a sharp needle. The whips went backwards and forwards, splashing blood and staining the padded paltocks, close-buttoned hoods and long-toed Cracow shoes of a group of fops. These loudly objected but the flagellants ignored them, whipping themselves even more fiercely as they chanted a hymn and followed their cross-bearing leader. They moved in a shower of blood which splattered and streaked everyone. The court fops became belligerent; daggers and swords were loosened. Cranston pushed Athelstan aside when abruptly a horn sounded: a powerful wailing blast and horsemen burst out of nearby Weasel Lane. Cloaked and hooded, faces blackened, the horsemen cantered down, scattering the crowd to rein in at the bottom of the steps of St Mary-Le-Bow. Hooves clattering, the horses snorted and reared in a creak of harness and steel. The intruders carried small hand arbalests, already primed. The horsemen moved backwards and forwards. Three naked corpses, skin all blotched, throats gaping in a dark, bloody slit, eyes staring, were slung across the saddle horn of some of the horses. These were tipped down to sprawl at the foot of the church steps. Cranston made to go forward. Athelstan grabbed him by the arm and pulled him back.
‘Peace, Sir John,’ he whispered. ‘Think of the Lady Maude, the two poppets; this is not your fight. Not yet, anyway.’
‘Hear ye!’
One of the riders surged forward on his grey-black warhorse; the destrier, head shaking, snorting furiously, clattered iron-shod hooves against the cobbles. The rider, like Satan’s own henchman, tall and black in the saddle, cloak billowing out like the wings of some fearsome bird, raised a leather gauntleted hand.
‘So die all traitors to the Great Cause,’ he shouted, pointing at the corpses. ‘Death to all who offend the Upright Men!’ Then the horsemen were gone, clattering back into the darkness of the alleyway as the crowd surged forwards to view the corpses. Cranston bellowed at them to stand aside. Athelstan knelt at the bottom step and, opening his chancery bag, swiftly administered the rites of the dead, closing his mind to everything except the ritual, the anointing and the blessing. As he did so, Cranston turned the corpses over. All three were fairly elderly men with sagging bellies, fat thighs and vein-streaked legs, their faces unshaven, hair unkempt. Athelstan flinched. One of the dead men’s faces was hideous, not just due to the cruel wound inflicted deep into his left side where the dagger had pierced his heart, but his features were distorted by an older, earlier wound across his mouth so his lips seemed to stretch the entire length of that narrow face.
‘Laughing Jack, Thibault’s man.’ Cranston tapped the corpse. ‘Executioner in Billingsgate, from the bridge to the Tower. These are his two assistants, Sinister and Dexter, literally his left and right hand. I wager they were responsible for severing the heads of those slaughtered at the Roundhoop and their poling on London Bridge.’ Cranston sighed, got to his feet and shouted at a group of gathering bailiffs to take care of the corpses.
‘Come, Brother,’ he urged. ‘Our noble Prince, against whom all this is directed, awaits us…’
The Upright Men’s assassin, the basilisk, had been very busy. The meeting at the Babylon had ended amicably and the basilisk had prepared. The traitor in Gaunt’s circle had revealed himself, a startling surprise swiftly swept aside by the need for preparations following a heated discussion in the dark recesses of the Chapel of St Peter ad Vincula. The basilisk had been insistent. Assassination would take place. Weapons had been demanded and prepared, including that leather sack with its grisly contents. They had clasped hands in what both knew to be a deadly contract. They would stand or fall by each other. Now, gowned and hooded, carrying a special pass impressed with the Regent’s purple wax seal, the basilisk had already surveyed the sprawling fortress of the Tower from the Lion Gate through past St Thomas’ Tower, along Red Gulley and under the dark shadow of Bell Tower, with its massive wooden casing on top housing the great bell which marked the passing hours and sounded the tocsin. The assassin noted that and passed
