‘I remember Turbot,’ Cranston broke in. ‘He claimed to be a warlock. He boasted how he’d climbed to the top of Saint Paul’s steeple, even though it is crammed with holy relics. Turbot said he held a burning glass – this caught the power of the sun and cast its light with such force on a monk walking below that it struck him dead, a bolt more violent than lightening.’
‘Yes, that’s the same Turbot.’ Rosselyn was enjoying himself. ‘Anyway, they thrust his corpse into the city ditch. During the night, however, a company of wolves came, tore him out of his grave and ate him up.’
‘And?’
‘His was the only corpse they devoured to fill their bellies.’
‘Well, no wolves prowl here.’ Cranston made to grasp his wine skin when hunting horns brayed loudly to his left and right. The coroner gazed in surprise as the snowy wasteland all around them seemed to erupt into life. Figures garbed in white rose out of the earth. The first ranks, armed with arbalests and war bows, loosed a volley of hissing shafts while others, armed with pikes, swords and daggers, streamed into the horsemen, deepening and widening the confusion as archers struck by shafts slumped in their saddles or horses, similarly hurt, plunged and reared, striking out with flailing hooves. Cranston drew his own sword, the freezing cold now forgotten as a figure, masked and garbed in white, came at him with a pike. Cranston urged Bayonne forward; his enemy faltered, lowering the pike, and the war horse crashed into him. Cranston turned swiftly, striking with his sword, cleaving his opponent’s head with such force the blood shot up in a fountain. Cranston stared around. The entire cavalcade was now under attack – white-clothed assailants swarmed everywhere. Cranston recognized the tactics. More pikemen were massing to hem the horsemen in while others turned and twisted, striking at leg and fetlock to maim and cripple. The archers’ bows were useless here – they didn’t have the time or space to notch and loose. The main brunt of the attack was against the Flemings in the centre, as if the enemy wished to seize the mysterious prisoner and her pack pony. Cranston urged his horse alongside that of Rosselyn; the captain was busy hacking furiously at an attacker already soaked in blood.
‘For God’s sake,’ Cranston shouted, ‘break off! We are mounted. We cannot be trapped here!’
Rosselyn drew a mailed foot from his stirrup and kicked his assailant away while pulling down his muffler, his face now flecked with bloody frost and sweat.
‘Sweet tits,’ he agreed, staring breathlessly over his shoulder. ‘Sir John, you are right, they will hem us in.’ The fighting was now furious around the centre, a swirling mass of men lunging, stabbing and cutting, churning the ground into a bloody, slushy mess. Rosselyn grabbed his hunting horn and blew three piercing blasts. At first the signal had no effect. Rosselyn repeated it and the cavalcade slowly began to push its way forward out of the throng away from the flailing sword, the jabbing pike and thrusting dagger. City men-at-arms and royal archers massed closer together, using both horse and weapon to break free of their oppressors. Bodies still tumbled out of saddles yet Cranston, who had been virtually ignored as the attack seethed around the centre, breathed a sigh of relief. The cavalcade broke through, horsemen spurred their mounts into a gallop across the frozen waste, arrows and bolts whipped the air, but at last they were completely free. The horde of horsemen thundered forward past the church of All Hallows in the London Wall, on to the main thoroughfare, glistening with ice, which stretched past Aldgate and down to the Tower.
Athelstan, parish priest of St Erconwald’s in Southwark, stared despairingly at his congregation gathered before the rood screen in the sanctuary of their parish church. They were all grouped together, cloistered like angry sparrows, he thought, on this the feast of St Hilary, the thirteenth of January in the year of our Lord 1381. The parish church was freezing cold despite Athelstan’s best efforts. He had brought in braziers crammed with charcoal fiery as the embers of Hell, or so Moleskin the boatman had described them. Nevertheless, the early morning mist had seeped like some wraith under the door, through any gaps in the horn-filled windows and across the ancient paving stones to freeze them all. Athelstan had decided to wait. He would not continue the Mass. He had recited the consecration, offered the Kiss of Peace then the trouble had surfaced – one incident among many. The source of conflict lay with a separate group to Athelstan’s right, close to the sacristy door: Humphrey Warde, his wife Katherine, their big, strapping son Laurence, Margaret, their daughter and little Odo, a mere babe swaddled in thick cloths now held so protectively by his mother. The Wardes were spicers who had moved into a shop in Rickett Lane, a short walk from the parish church. They had, according to Humphrey, withdrawn from the fierce competition in Cheapside to do more prosperous trade in Southwark, raise sufficient revenue then return to Cheapside, or even move out to a city such as Lincoln or Norwich. A simple humdrum tale, until Watkin the dung collector, Pike the ditcher and Ranulf the rat catcher, together with other luminaries of his parish council, had intervened. They only had to level one accusation against the Wardes – traitors! Athelstan took a deep breath; perhaps that issue would have to wait, along with the other business which had surfaced during the Mass. Despite his involvement in the ritual, Athelstan had seen the narrow-faced rat catcher, as slippery as one of the ferrets he
