creaked in the light breeze which had sprung up. Above them, windows of the lean-to houses had been thrown open. People talked and shouted to each other. Now and again, if the street scavengers weren’t looking, they tossed out refuse on to the growing piles.
At Paternoster Row they had to stop. Sir John even paused in his advice to Sir Maurice as a strange procession of men and women, dressed in bright yellow, made their way up Newgate. These wore their hair long and untended and walked in unison; every so often a bell would ring. They would stop, clap their hands and leap into the air shouting ’Hosanna!’
’The Joyeurs.’ Sir John spoke over his shoulder at Athelstan. ’Just look at the silly buggers!’
The Dominican did, fascinated. He had heard of these men and women who believed that the Second Coming was near and patrolled the city in feverish expectation. According to them, Jesus would appear at Blackheath and found the new Jerusalem.
’There must be sixty of them!’ Sir John muttered.
The Joyeurs heightened Athelstan’s sense of unreality with their strange uniform walk, abrupt stops, the clapping of hands and raucous shouts.
Once they had passed, the three continued. They entered the Shambles, the beaten paving-stones awash with blood and gore from the butchers’ stalls and slaughterhouses. Outside Newgate, the stocks had been set up and the beadles were inviting citizens to throw rotten vegetables at the unfortunates fastened there, hands and heads clasped tightly between the wooden slats. Further up another crowd was waiting to visit relatives in the city prison. Turnkeys in their shabby leather aprons were moving among them taking bribes, choosing who should go in first.
At last they were free of the press, making their way up through the city gates and across Smithfield . Athelstan sighed with relief. The stench and the heat were not so intense and the great open expanse was deserted, although stall-holders were getting ready for the great horse fair the following day. They crossed some waste ground. Sir John paused to take a few gulps from his wineskin. Sir Maurice refused but Athelstan was only too grateful to wash the dust from his throat. They continued along dusty trackways which wound between the hedgerows, the noise and bustle of the city giving way to the chirping of birds and the hum of crickets. At last they reached Hawkmere Manor. The grey, forbidding curtain wall was dominated by a high timbered gatehouse. Archers stood there, men-at-arms along the ramparts. Athelstan pulled at the great bell.
’Piss off!’ one of the archers shouted down.
’I’m Sir John Cranston!’ the coroner bellowed. ’And, if you don’t open this bloody gate, I’ll hang you from the gatehouse!’
There were muttered curses followed by the sound of footsteps. A small postern door in the great iron-studded gate swung open and a shame-faced archer ushered them in. Sir John poked him in the chest.
’Don’t ever tell me to piss off, lad!’ He pulled back the archer’s hood, revealing a mangled left ear. ’Who did that?’
The narrow-faced archer forced a grin, revealing his black and bleeding gums.
’The French caught me outside Calais .’
’You are a bloody liar! The French would have taken two of your fingers off, not your ear!’
The archer looked crestfallen. ’I stole a goose outside Calais ,’ he muttered.
’That’s better.’ The coroner glanced across the cobbled yard which stretched up to the main door of the manor. ’Now, lad, run ahead and tell Sir Walter Limbright that Sir Jack Cranston is here.’
Athelstan opened his pouch and gave the archer the commission they had collected from one of John of Gaunt’s clerks. The archer hurried off. Athelstan looked up at the manor.
’A gloomy place to live in,’ he commented. ’And a gloomy place to die!’
Hawkmere was built out of grey ragstone, four stories high. Chimneys had been added on at each end of the sloping,
At Paternoster Row they had to stop. Sir John even paused in his advice to Sir Maurice as a strange procession of men and women, dressed in bright yellow, made their way up Newgate. These wore their hair long and untended and walked in unison; every so often a bell would ring. They would stop, clap their hands and leap into the air shouting ’Hosanna!’
’The Joyeurs.’ Sir John spoke over his shoulder at Athelstan. ’Just look at the silly buggers!’
The Dominican did, fascinated. He had heard of these men and women who believed that the Second Coming was near and patrolled the city in feverish expectation. According to them, Jesus would appear at Blackheath and found the new Jerusalem.
’There must be sixty of them!’ Sir John muttered.
The Joyeurs heightened Athelstan’s sense of unreality with their strange uniform walk, abrupt stops, the clapping of hands and raucous shouts.
Once they had passed, the three continued. They entered the Shambles, the beaten paving-stones awash with blood and gore from the butchers’ stalls and slaughterhouses. Outside Newgate, the stocks had been set up and the beadles were inviting citizens to throw rotten vegetables at the unfortunates fastened there, hands and heads clasped tightly between the wooden slats. Further up another crowd was waiting to visit relatives in the city prison. Turnkeys in their shabby leather aprons were moving among them taking bribes, choosing who should go in first.
At last they were free of the press, making their way up through the city gates and across Smithfield . Athelstan sighed with relief. The stench and the heat were not so intense and the great open expanse was deserted, although stall-holders were getting ready for the great horse fair the following day. They crossed some waste ground. Sir John paused to take a few gulps from his wineskin. Sir Maurice refused but Athelstan was only too grateful to wash the dust from his throat. They continued along dusty trackways which wound between the hedgerows, the noise and bustle of the city giving way to the chirping of birds and the hum of crickets. At last they reached Hawkmere Manor. The grey, forbidding curtain wall was dominated by a high timbered gatehouse. Archers stood there, men-at-arms along the ramparts. Athelstan pulled at the great bell.
’Piss off!’ one of the archers shouted down.
’I’m Sir John Cranston!’ the coroner bellowed. ’And, if you don’t open this bloody gate, I’ll hang you from the gatehouse!’
There were muttered curses followed by the sound of footsteps. A small postern door in the great iron-studded gate swung open and a shame-faced archer ushered them in. Sir John poked him in the chest.
’Don’t ever tell me to piss off, lad!’ He pulled back the archer’s hood, revealing a mangled left ear. ’Who did that?’
The narrow-faced archer forced a grin, revealing his black and bleeding gums.
’The French caught me outside Calais .’
’You are a bloody liar! The French would have taken two of your fingers off, not your ear!’
The archer looked crestfallen. ’I stole a goose outside Calais ,’ he muttered.
’That’s better.’ The coroner glanced across the cobbled yard which stretched up to the main door of the manor. ’Now, lad, run ahead and tell Sir Walter Limbright that Sir Jack Cranston is here.’
Athelstan opened his pouch and gave the archer the commission they had collected from one of John of Gaunt’s clerks. The archer hurried off. Athelstan looked up at the manor.
’A gloomy place to live in,’ he commented. ’And a gloomy place to die!’
Hawkmere was built out of grey ragstone, four stories high. Chimneys had been added on at each end of the sloping,
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