The House of Crows Read Free Page B

of the felons, tossed a coin at the executioner who deftly caught it in his black-gloved hand.
    ‘And there’s my assistant.’
    Another coin left Cranston’s purse.
    ‘And there’s the bagpipers.’
    Cranston threw one more coin.
    ‘And what about the horse’s bedding and straw?’
    Cranston’s hand fell to the hilt of his sword.
    ‘Now, don’t get angry!’ the executioner called out.
    Sir John leaned down from his horse. ‘Satan’s tits, man! Either you hang these men now or I’ll do it for you. Then I’ll hang you, your assistant, and there’ll still be room left for the bloody bagpipers!’
    The executioner took one look at Sir John’s red face and bristling white moustache and beard. ‘Lord save us!’ he mumbled. ‘You can’t blame a man for trying. I have a wife and children to support. Oh, well, come on, lads!’
    The executioner and his assistants, aided by the soldiers, put the nooses round the felons’ necks and pushed them up the ladder. Sir John raised his hand. Behind him, four boys started beating a tattoo on the tambours.
    ‘God have mercy on you!’ Cranston called out.
    He closed his eyes, his hand dropped, the ladders turned, leaving the three felons kicking and twirling in the air. The crowd fell silent even as Cranston, his eyes still closed, turned his horse’s head, muttering at Osbert to find his own way home.
    Sir John was through the throng, almost into Aldersgate, when he heard his name being called. He stopped, pulling at the reins of his horse. ‘What do you want?’ he asked.
    A young knight, dressed in chainmail, his coif pulled over his head, his body covered by the red, blue and gold royal tabard, pushed his horse closer and took off his gauntlet.
    ‘Cranston, the coroner?’
    ‘No, I’m the Archangel Gabriel!’ Sir John replied.
    The young man’s face broke into a smile. He crinkled his eyes, giving his hard-set face a boyish look.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ Cranston growled, clasping the man’s outstretched hand. ‘I just hate Execution Days.’
    ‘No man likes dying, Sir John.’
    ‘And your name?’
    ‘Sir Miles Coverdale. Captain of the guard of John of Gaunt, His Grace the Regent.’
    ‘Lord John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, Knight of the Garter, the king’s beloved uncle.’ Cranston grinned as he recited the long list of titles. ‘And what do you want with me, Coverdale?’
    ‘I don’t want you, Sir John. I have enough problems at Westminster.’ Coverdale pulled back his chainmail coif and wiped the sweat from his face.
    Sir John noticed how the man’s moustache and neatly clipped beard covered a deep, furrowed scar just below his lower lip.
    ‘His Grace the Regent sent me,’ Coverdale continued. ‘He’s at your house in Cheapside.’
    Cranston closed his eyes and groaned. ‘There was no need to send you,’ he muttered. ‘I’m going there direct.’
    ‘Your Lady Maude thought different,’ Coverdale replied, keeping his face straight. ‘She mentioned a possible assignation in the Holy Lamb of God.’
    Cranston turned his horse’s head and, tugging at its reins, continued his journey, secretly marvelling at Lady Maude’s God-given ability to read his mind.
    They went down St Martin’s Lane, through the muck and offal of the Shambles, and left into Cheapside: the market was doing a roaring trade, yet the area outside Sir John’s house was strangely deserted. His front door was ringed by burly Serjeants wearing the royal tabard, and archers dressed in the livery of Sir John of Gaunt. As the crowd swirled by these, Cranston caught their dark looks and muttered curses.
    ‘The regent.’ He leaned over. ‘Your master is not popular.’
    ‘No man who governs is, Sir John.’
    Cranston pulled a face and dismounted, his eyes surveying the crowd. ‘Leif!’ he roared. ‘Leif, you idle bugger, where are you?’
    Some of the bystanders looked round in surprise but then quickly made way for the skinny, red-haired, one-legged beggar who came