confrontation between the lords and the seething masses they ruled. The seed had been sown for generations, now harvest time was due. The wine press of God’s anger was about to be turned. No one would be safe. Lascelles could swagger about in his black leather garb, silver spurs clinking on his riding boots, cloak swirling back to reveal his heavy leather war belt, but what real protection could they offer against the silent knife thrust or the swift sling shot? Athelstan left Lascelles to his thoughts as Cranston led across the saddled horses. Athelstan made sure he had all his possessions and was about to swing himself up when he heard a piping voice.
‘Master Lascelles, Master Lascelles?’ A ragged boy, face all dirty, his tunic no more than a discarded flour sack with holes cut for head and arms and tied around the waist with a dirty rope, caught Athelstan’s attention. He came running into the yard yelling Lascelles’ name, which he stumbled over as he held up the scrap of parchment in his grubby hand. Athelstan felt a cold, prickling premonition. The stableyard was busy. Local traders, tinkers and craftsmen were drifting in to break their fast. Slatterns and scullions hurried across. Doors slammed. Windows were unshuttered. Slops were being emptied, horses led in and out. The smith had begun his clanging. Thorne stood in the doorway shouting orders at a washer woman. Athelstan, however, watched that beggar boy. Lascelles was approaching him. The urchin handed over the scrap of parchment and fled like the wind through the main gate. Lascelles uncurled the parchment; he glanced up as Athelstan hurried towards him.
‘Brother, what is this?’ Athelstan lunged forward, knocking Lascelles away from his horse, which reared, hooves flailing as a crossbow bolt whipped the air between it and its rider. Athelstan crouched even as Lascelles tried to calm his horse, turning it to use a shield. Cries of ‘Harrow!’ were raised. The stableyard erupted in uproar as another bolt whistled through the air, smacking into the wall of an outhouse. Women screamed and grabbed their frightened children. Dogs snarled, racing about, agitating the horses further. Lascelles’ escort hurriedly grabbed kite-shaped shields from their saddle horns to form a protective ring around their master and Athelstan. For a while both men just sheltered. Athelstan closed his eyes and murmured the Jesus prayer whilst Lascelles cursed a litany of filth. Athelstan thanked God he could not understand it. At last, order was imposed. Cranston shouted how the mysterious bowman must have disappeared. The shield wall broke up. Lascelles grasped Athelstan’s hand, squeezing it, thanking him with his eyes before screaming a spate of abuse at his escort.
‘He’s gone!’ Cranston declared.
‘Where, Sir John, where was he?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Brother, God only knows! A window or somewhere here in the tavern yard, or did Beowulf – and I think it was our mutual friend – simply slip in from the street? The tavern is thronged with every rogue under the sun, the usual beauties, the school of Tyburn scholars and Newgate nuns.’ Athelstan walked over and picked up the deadly message. This time the parchment was faded and grease-marked, the scrawling hand uncouth, but the message was the same in all its stark menace.
‘Our assassin changes his hand,’ Athelstan remarked. ‘Sir John, we should be gone.’ People were now emerging from the tavern, all busy and inquisitive. Cranston had a word with Lascelles and the order was given to mount. They were joined by a smiling Father Roger, who asked if he could join their comitatus. Lascelles shrugged and the friar pushed his sorry-looking mount alongside Athelstan. They left the tavern yard and made their way towards the battlemented gatehouse and walls of London Bridge. Athelstan immediately experienced the inner panic that washed over him whenever he entered the turbulent, frenetic streets of Southwark. He
‘Master Lascelles, Master Lascelles?’ A ragged boy, face all dirty, his tunic no more than a discarded flour sack with holes cut for head and arms and tied around the waist with a dirty rope, caught Athelstan’s attention. He came running into the yard yelling Lascelles’ name, which he stumbled over as he held up the scrap of parchment in his grubby hand. Athelstan felt a cold, prickling premonition. The stableyard was busy. Local traders, tinkers and craftsmen were drifting in to break their fast. Slatterns and scullions hurried across. Doors slammed. Windows were unshuttered. Slops were being emptied, horses led in and out. The smith had begun his clanging. Thorne stood in the doorway shouting orders at a washer woman. Athelstan, however, watched that beggar boy. Lascelles was approaching him. The urchin handed over the scrap of parchment and fled like the wind through the main gate. Lascelles uncurled the parchment; he glanced up as Athelstan hurried towards him.
‘Brother, what is this?’ Athelstan lunged forward, knocking Lascelles away from his horse, which reared, hooves flailing as a crossbow bolt whipped the air between it and its rider. Athelstan crouched even as Lascelles tried to calm his horse, turning it to use a shield. Cries of ‘Harrow!’ were raised. The stableyard erupted in uproar as another bolt whistled through the air, smacking into the wall of an outhouse. Women screamed and grabbed their frightened children. Dogs snarled, racing about, agitating the horses further. Lascelles’ escort hurriedly grabbed kite-shaped shields from their saddle horns to form a protective ring around their master and Athelstan. For a while both men just sheltered. Athelstan closed his eyes and murmured the Jesus prayer whilst Lascelles cursed a litany of filth. Athelstan thanked God he could not understand it. At last, order was imposed. Cranston shouted how the mysterious bowman must have disappeared. The shield wall broke up. Lascelles grasped Athelstan’s hand, squeezing it, thanking him with his eyes before screaming a spate of abuse at his escort.
‘He’s gone!’ Cranston declared.
‘Where, Sir John, where was he?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Brother, God only knows! A window or somewhere here in the tavern yard, or did Beowulf – and I think it was our mutual friend – simply slip in from the street? The tavern is thronged with every rogue under the sun, the usual beauties, the school of Tyburn scholars and Newgate nuns.’ Athelstan walked over and picked up the deadly message. This time the parchment was faded and grease-marked, the scrawling hand uncouth, but the message was the same in all its stark menace.
‘Our assassin changes his hand,’ Athelstan remarked. ‘Sir John, we should be gone.’ People were now emerging from the tavern, all busy and inquisitive. Cranston had a word with Lascelles and the order was given to mount. They were joined by a smiling Father Roger, who asked if he could join their comitatus. Lascelles shrugged and the friar pushed his sorry-looking mount alongside Athelstan. They left the tavern yard and made their way towards the battlemented gatehouse and walls of London Bridge. Athelstan immediately experienced the inner panic that washed over him whenever he entered the turbulent, frenetic streets of Southwark. He
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