The House of Crows

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, fdching 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 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, I Coverdale?’
    ‘I don’t want you, Sir John. I have enough problems at Westminster.’ Coverdale pulled back his chainmail coif and I wiped the sweat from his face. I
    Sir John noticed how the man’s moustache and neatly I clipped beard covered a deep, furrowed scar just below his lower lip.
    ‘His Grace the Regent sent me,’ Coverdale continued. ‘He’s I 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