The Nightingale Gallery

under beaver hats, their fat wives clothed in gaudy gowns, beggars, quacks, story-tellers, hordes of apprentices, a man from the guilds. Athelstan groaned and hid his face as a crowd of parishioners led by Black Clem, Ranulf the rat-catcher and Pike the ditcher, passed the tavern door, roaring a filthy song at the top of their voices. At last Cranston finished his further refreshment and, with Benedicta so close beside him his heart kept skipping for joy, Athelstan led them out into the great cleared area of Smithfield. Three blackened crow-pecked corpses still hung from a gibbet but the crowd ignored them. The food-sellers were doing a roaring trade in spiced sausages and, beside them, water-sellers with great buckets slung round their necks sold cooling drinks to soothe the mouths of those who chewed the hot, spicy meat. Athelstan looked away, his gorge rising, after seeing Ranulf the rat-catcher sidle up beside one of these water-sellers and quietly piss into one of the buckets.
    Smithfield had been specially cleared for the joust. Even the customary dung heaps and piles of ordure had been taken away. A vast open space had been cordoned off for the day. At one side was the royal enclosure with row after row of wooden seats, all covered in purple or gold cloth. In the centre a huge canopy shielded the place where the king and his leading nobility would sit. The banners of John of Gaunt, resplendent with the gaudy device of the House of Lancaster, waved lazily in the breeze. Marshalls of the royal household in their colourful tabards, white wands of office held high, directed Cranston and his party to their reserved seats.
    All around them benches were quickly filling with ladies in silk gowns, giggling and chattering, who clutched velvet cushions to their bosoms as they simpered past the young men eyeing them. These gallants, with hair long and curled, and jerkins dripping pearls, proved to be raucous and strident. Cranston was merry, but some of these young men were already far gone in their cups. Athelstan ignored the lustful glances directed at Benedicta, trying to curb the sparks of jealously which flared in his heart.
    Once they were seated, he looked round, studying the tournament area. The field, a great grassy plain, was divided down the centre by a huge tilt barrier covered in a black and white canvas. At the end of this barrier were the pavilions, gold, red, blue and scarlet, one for each of the jousters. Already the contestants were arriving and around each pavilion scuttled pages and squires. Armour glinted and dazzled in the sun; banners bearing the gules and lozenges, lions, wyverns and dragons of the noble houses, fluttered in the faint summer breeze. A bray of trumpets stilled the clamour, their shrill so angry the birds in the trees around Smithfield rose in noisy protesting flocks. The royal party had arrived.
    Cranston pointed out John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, his face cruel under blond hair, skin burnt dark from his campaigns in Castille. On either side of him stood his brothers and a collection of young lords. In the centre of the group, with one of John of Gaunt's hands on his shoulder, stood a young boy, his face white as snow under a mop of golden hair, a silver chaplet on his head. Cranston nudged and pointed again: beside the royal party Athelstan glimpsed Chief Justice Fortescue in scarlet, lined with pure white lamb's wool, Sir Richard, Lady Isabella, the priest Crispin, Master Buckingham, Dame Ermengilde, and others of their household. Athelstan was sure that they all looked his way but again came the shrill bray of the trumpets. Gaunt raised his hand as if welcoming the plaudits of the crowd. There was clapping from the claque of young courtiers around him but the London mob was silent and Athelstan remembered Cranston's mutterings about how the expensive tastes of the court, coupled with the military defeats against the French, had brought Gaunt and his party into disrepute.
    'Our quarry's in sight!' Cranston whispered to the friar, though his voice carried for yards around them. Athelstan looked sideways at Benedicta and his heart lurched. She had turned slightly, staring coolly back at a young, dark-faced gallant, resplendent in red and white silks, who lounged in his seat with eyes for no one but Athelstan's fair companion. Cranston, sharp enough under his bluff, drunken exterior, caught the friar's pained glance. He leaned over and tapped Athelstan on the arm.
    'The tournament