The House of Crows Read Free Page A

Athelstan, Lady Maude and the poppets could sit, talk and drink for all eternity.
    ‘I should be home,’ Sir John growled again.
    ‘I beg your pardon, my lord Coroner?’
    Cranston turned and gazed at Osbert, his court clerk, whose brown berry face was wreathed in concern, his dark little eyes screwed up against the morning sunshine.
    ‘Nothing,’ Cranston muttered. ‘I just wish the buggers would hurry up and get here from Newgate.’
    As if in answer, the crowd at the far end of Smithfield gave a great roar and began to part, allowing through the garishly painted death-wagon, driven by the executioner and his assistant all clothed in black from head to toe. The horses they managed had their manes hogged with purple-dyed plumes nodding between their ears. In the cart stood three men, dressed in white shifts, shouting and gesturing at the crowd. On either side walked lines of soldiers from the Tower garrison, halberds over their shoulders. Behind the cart two bagpipers played a raucous tune.
    Why all this mummery? Cranston thought. In his treatise on the governance of the City, he would recommend to the young king that such executions be abolished and confined to the press-yard of Newgate Prison. Cranston stood high in his stirrups: he gazed over the heads of the crowd pushing against the wooden barricades guarded by city bailiffs and beadles.
    ‘The pickpockets and foists will be busy, Osbert,’ he remarked. ‘They love a crowd like this.’ Sir John glared, as if his popping eyes could seek out and threaten any one of the myriad of footpads so busy slitting purses and wallets.
    The execution cart drew closer; finally it entered the bare expanse in front of the scaffold. The three prisoners, their faces dirty and unshaven, were pulled down, their hands tied. The Franciscan, also standing in the cart, eased himself off, still intoning the prayers for the dying, though, from the expression on the faces of the three felons, they couldn’t care a whit.
    ‘Let’s make it quick!’ Cranston snapped, raising his hand.
    The heralds on either side of him lifted their trumpets, but the mouthpieces were full of spittle and they could only squeak.
    ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ Cranston barked as a chorus of laughter greeted their efforts.
    The heralds mumbled an apology, lifted their trumpets again. This time a shrill blast silenced the clamour of the crowd. Cranston nudged his horse forward and stopped in front of the three condemned felons.
    ‘You are to be hanged!’ Sir John declared. He nodded at Osbert to unroll the parchment.
    ‘You, William Laxton,’ the clerk proclaimed in a loud voice, ‘Andrew Judd and William the Skinner have been found guilty by His Grace’s judges of assize of rape, abduction, stealing hawks’ eggs, stealing cattle, poaching deer, letting out a pond, buggery, desertion from the royal levies, coin-clipping, cutting purses, robbery on the king’s highway, filching from the dead, conjuring, sorcery and witchcraft. For these and divers other crimes you have been sentenced to be taken to this lawful place of execution. Do you have anything to say before sentence is passed?’
    ‘Yes. Bugger off!’ one of the condemned shouted.
    Cranston nodded to the executioner but the fellow just stood, eyes glaring through the eyelets of his mask.
    ‘What’s the matter, man?’ Cranston barked.
    ‘They’ve got no goods, no chattels,’ the executioner replied. ‘The law of the city is,’ he continued sonorously, ‘that the goods, chattels and clothes of the condemned felons belong to the hangman – but they’ve got bugger all!’
    ‘I wouldn’t accept that!’ one of the felons shouted. ‘If you’re not being properly paid, let’s all go home!’
    Cranston closed his eyes. Behind him he could hear the murmur of the crowd who had sensed that something was wrong. He looked at the officer of the guard but he just shrugged, hawked and spat.
    Cranston dug into his purse and, ignoring the jeers