made it very clear that he is to do exactly what you say; otherwise he, too, will be marked down.â Grindcobbe raised a hand. âHe will, in particular, help you with a certain sack which the guard outside will give to you before you leave the Babylon. Do not be shocked at its contents, gruesome though they are. I believe you may suspect their origin.â
âHow will I recognize this so-called friend?â The basiliskâs voice betrayed contempt.
Grindcobbe dug into his purse and took out a scrap of parchment. âHe will give you this.â Grindcobbe pulled the candle closer so he could read the script:
âWhen Adam delved and Eve span,
Who was then the gentleman?
Now the world is ours and ours alone,
To cut the lords to heart and bone.â
Grindcobbe smiled behind his mask. âA doggerel verse but, as you know, many of those we lead do not read or write. They certainly understand what this means.â He pushed the scrap across the table, grasping Basiliskâs outstretched hand. âDonât fail us,â he warned. Grindcobbe rose. âYour escort will see you safely back. As I said, we will supply whatever you need for your first act of terror. Farewell. We may not meet again but go, rejoicing that you do with the full blessing and support of the Upright Men.â
Athelstan sat on the stool close to the inglenook of Cranstonâs favourite tavern, The Holy Lamb of God which fronted Cheapside. He pulled off his mittens and unbuttoned his cloak, smiling at Mistress Rohesia, its jolly-faced owner who came bustling across.
âI will wait for Sir John,â he assured her. âHe will not be long.â
Mistress Rohesia, snow-white, apron all fresh, soft napkins over her arm, returned to the kitchens even as she loudly chanted what was on offer. âChicken with cherries, pike in doucettes, beef rissoles, roast coney, and a selection of the sweetest, hottest and softest pies.â Athelstan half heard her out. He had broken his fast immediately after his dawn Mass attended by a very few. Heâd then changed, left the keys with Benedicta and hurried across the frozen bridge to meet Sir John here before the Nones bell rang.
Cranston had sent Flaxwith late the previous evening, about an hour after Watkin and Pike had left. Flaxwith offered his masterâs apologies over what had happened at the Roundhoop and asked Athelstan to meet the coroner here in his favourite tavern, which stood directly opposite the Guildhall. Athelstan wondered about his own agitation over what he had learnt the previous evening. Danger certainly pressed on every side. He stared around. The tap room, so clean and welcoming with its host of delicious smells, was fairly empty. A harpist sat in the far corner reciting a poem about âthe Lord of the Ravensâ. Two chapmen sifted through their trays in preparation for another dayâs bustling trade along Cheapside. A slaughterer from St Nicholasâ shambles bit greedily into an eel pie, his hands and arms stained to the elbow in dried blood. A herald enjoyed a pot of ale while three raggedy scholars from St Paulâs loudly conjugated âMensaâ and âCursusâ before they met their Latin master. They rose, still chanting, to pick food from the horse-saddle table, a few boards placed across trestles and covered with linen cloths on which Minehostess had laid tranchers and pewter dishes piled high with blood-red sausages, cutlets of pork and sliced white bread. For a few coins every morning, customers could fill a platter with these meats, sops of bread and collect a blackjack of ale from the young tapster.
âGood morrow, Friar.â Silent as a ghost, despite his breadth and size, Cranston slid on to the stool opposite Athelstan.
âOnce again, my friend.â Cranston pulled down the muffler and doffed his beaver hat. âI had no knowledge about what Thibault intended at the Roundhoop.â
âI
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