Both hounds broke off their unexpected feast and leapt up to lick his face and nibble at his ears until Cranston roared, ‘Enough is enough!’ and pushed them down.
He looked across at Boscombe who stood, tears trailing down his cheeks. Cranston went over and patted him on the shoulder, almost knocking him to the floor.
‘Come on, man!’ he growled. ‘At least they fed well.’
The pie had now disappeared. The two dogs, licking their lips, gazed admiringly at the new master who was so liberal with his food. They sat like carved figures as Cranston shook a warning finger at them.
‘Don’t ever,’ he admonished them, ‘try that with the Lady Maude!’
The two dogs seemed to sense the significance of the word ‘Maude’ and Gog even looked fearfully at the door, but it was only Leif stealing into the house, attracted by the rich savoury smells.
‘Time for supper, Sir John?’
Cranston grinned. ‘You’ll be lucky.’
Leif looked nervously at the dogs. ‘But, Sir John, I have scarcely eaten all day.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Cranston went back to the hallway, picked up his cloak and, with the threatening face of Rosamund Ingham still in mind, wrapped his sword belt around him. ‘Come on, Boscombe. And you, Leif, you lazy bugger! We’re off to ‘The Lamb of God!’
The two dogs made to follow.
‘No, no, lovely lads! Stay!’
Both animals crouched down as Cranston pushed a protesting Boscombe and more eager Leif towards the door.
‘Shouldn’t we lock it?’ Boscombe asked, once they entered Cheapside.
‘Listen, man,’ Cranston replied. ‘What do you think the lovely lads would do if some night hawk made the mistake of walking in there?’
Boscombe smiled.
‘Come on,’ Cranston urged. ‘That pie smelt delicious. Let me give you your just reward.’
Two hours later, full of claret and mine host’s onion pie, Cranston, with one arm round Boscombe and the other hugging Leif, walked out of The Lamb of God and gazed expansively across Cheapside
‘So you were at Poitiers?’ Boscombe asked.
‘Oh, yes,’ Cranston replied. ‘Slimmer and more handsome then-’
He was about to continue when he heard a faint cry for help from a nearby alleyway. Ignoring Boscombe’s warning, and despite the cups of claret he had drunk, Cranston sped like an arrow into the darkness. He glimpsed two figures in black holding a torch above another sprawled on the ground. Cranston caught the glint of steel and heard another piteous moan. He wrapped his cloak round his left arm and carried on like a charging bull.
‘Aidez! Aidez!’ Cranston shouted, the usual hue-and-cry call for help.
The two figures looked up and he knew something was wrong. They didn’t retreat, they had masks on their faces, whilst their ‘victim’ suddenly sprang to his feet. Cranston stopped, breathing heavily, and wiped the sweat from his forehead.
‘You are never too old to learn,’ he muttered. The Coroner cursed himself for falling into a well-known trap, hastening to a supposed victim’s help only to blunder into an ambush. He gazed quickly over his shoulder, back up the alleyway where Boscombe and Leif were beginning to make their way down.
‘Go back!’ he roared.
He drew his own sword and gingerly began to retreat. He dared not turn and run. He might slip or a thrown dagger might wound him and bring him down. Anyway he was old and fat whilst these three assailants crept like macabre dancers towards him. Cranston kept moving backwards then suddenly sideways to protect his back against a narrow, jutting buttress of the alley wall.
The three black-garbed assassins crept closer. Each carried sword and dirk. They separated as they advanced. Cranston recognized them as professional killers, much more dangerous than the street rats who would run a mile at the sight of naked steel. He tried to control his breathing. Who had sent them? he wondered. The Ira Dei? Cranston blinked. No, no, that was too obvious. Then he remembered Rosamund Ingham’s hate-filled face, her unspoken threats, and rage replaced any fear.
The three slithered forward, arms out, legs spread, the elaborate street dance of professional fighters. Cranston watched the middle figure, catching a glimpse of an eye, then shifted his gaze to the two companions as if he was more concerned about them.
‘Come on, my buckos!’ he taunted. ‘So you have brought old Jack on to the floor. Come on, let’s tread a measure together!’
The two killers on the outside crept forward. Cranston kept shifting his gaze but knew this sort. They were only feinting. He looked to his right then quickly back as the middle killer closed in, sword low, dagger high. Cranston suddenly shifted his long sword back, then forward in a blinding arc of steel. The assassin died before he even knew it as the pointed, sharp edge of Cranston’s sword severed his exposed windpipe.
Cranston, now smiling, parried forward, first to the right, then the left. He sensed one of the attackers was inexperienced, moving further back than he should. Cranston turned and charged at the other, knocking the wind out of him. Then, standing back, the Coroner shoved his sword with all his strength straight into the man’s stomach. He looked round but the third attacker was now running like the wind back into the darkness. Cranston stood back, resting on his sword as he sucked in the night air and looked at the two dead assailants.
‘Killing blows,’ he muttered to himself.
One man was lying face down on the cobbles, the other sprawled against the wall like a broken doll. Boscombe and Leif came hobbling up and stared in horror at the two corpses as well as a different John Cranston. His face looked as hard as iron by the spluttering light of the torch which still lay on the cobbles where one of his assailants had dropped it.
‘Sir John.’ Boscombe touched his new master. ‘Sir John, I am sorry we could not help.’
Cranston shook his head. ‘You were wise,’ he whispered. ‘But, Master Boscombe, I thank you for your concern. Nothing old Jack couldn’t deal with.’
‘Why?’ Leif spluttered.
Cranston gazed down the alleyway, a bitter smile on his lips. ‘Oh, I know why,’ he brooded. ‘And now it’s old Jack’s turn to play!’
CHAPTER 9
Athelstan, too, brooded as he knelt on the altar steps the next morning after Mass. There had been only three in the congregation, not counting Bonaventure: Pernell the Fleming, Cecily the courtesan in her bright taffeta dress, and Benedicta who had just left. The widow had assured Athelstan she would take Elizabeth Hobden and her nurse Anna to the Friar Minoresses later in the morning.
Athelstan chewed on his knuckles and watched the half-open door of the church. He felt angry and hurt, and hoped he could control himself during the coming meeting.
He blessed himself and rose at the sound of footsteps, walking down the nave to meet Pike the ditcher, who stood uneasily by the baptismal font.
‘Father, you sent for me?’
‘Yes, Pike, I did. Please close the door.’
Pike went back, closed it, then turned in astonishment to see his gentle parish priest bearing down upon him like a charging knight. Athelstan seized Pike by his grimy jerkin and pushed him up against the door. The man didn’t resist, terrified of the rage blazing in Athelstan’s eyes.
‘Father, what is it?’ he stammered.
‘You bloody Judas!’ Athelstan shook him. ‘Pike, I am your priest and you betrayed me!’
‘What do you mean?’
But Athelstan glimpsed the truth in the ditcher’s nervous eyes. He let go, pushed him away and walked back up the nave.
‘Don’t lie, Pike!’ he shouted, his words ringing through the church. ‘You know damned well what I am talking
