The House of Crows

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?’