The Assassin's Riddle Read Online Free PDF

landlord. One of the beggars pulled a flute from his doublet and began to play. Another took a lute from a bag and struck a few chords; the rest began to sing, beating time on the heavy wooden tables, rattling the jars and wooden plates. Peslep, leaning back, watched them through heavy-lidded eyes. He was pleased with the way life was going: the threatening clouds had receded; all would be well. Peslep intended to buy a new house, perhaps north of Clerkenwell. He opened his eyes as a young man entered the tavern, cowl pulled over his head, the spurs on his boots jingling; a war belt, carrying a sword and dagger, was slung over his shoulder. He snapped his fingers and whispered at Meg who hurried off to bring him a blackjack of ale.
    The young man sat down. Peslep sniffed contemptuously and glanced away. A court popinjay! One of those foppish young men whom Peslep and his companions openly envied, yet secretly admired, with their wealth and lazy good manners. Alcest even aped them. One day Peslep would be like that. His stomach began to churn. He drained his tankard.
    ‘Master taverner!’ He rose, snapping his fingers.
    The fellow came hurrying out of the buttery with fresh rags which he placed in Peslep’s hand. The routine was always the same. Peslep came to break his fast, he would then go out into the privies and return for one final pottle of ale before going on to work. Peslep walked out into the yard, pinching his nose as he passed the midden. The privies at the far end, behind the scrawny hedgerow, were a series of cubicles set over a ditch. Peslep went inside, pulled down his hose and made himself comfortable.
    Clutching the rags, he closed his eyes and sat thinking about the money he had salted away. Suddenly the door opened; Peslep, startled, tried to rise. He glimpsed the young man he had seen in the tavern and the sword aiming straight for his stomach. Peslep could do nothing; the sword was thrust in, turned, out again. Peslep writhed at the sheet of pain even as the swordsman struck once more, driving his pointed weapon deep into Peslep’s neck.
    Sir John Cranston and Athelstan had returned to study Master Drayton’s counting house when there was a furious knocking on the front door. They both went up the stairs. Athelstan glimpsed a tall, elegant figure framed against the sunlight. The fellow came forward, jewelled bonnet in his hand; spurs on the heels of his boots jingled musically on the floorboards. He had no sword but one hand rested on the jewelled dagger pressed into his leather sword belt; his cloak of dark saffron was tossed elegantly over one shoulder. Cranston studied the handsome, swarthy face and mocking green eyes; he noticed how the young man’s moustache and beard were clipped in the neat French fashion. A memory stirred.
    ‘Do I know you, sir?’
    ‘You are Sir John Cranston, coroner of the city?’
    ‘I sincerely hope so. I asked you a question, sir.’
    ‘I am Sir Lionel Havant, a member of His Grace the Duke of Lancaster’s household.’
    ‘Ah, one of John of Gaunt’s boys, aren’t you? One of the Regent’s henchmen?’ Cranston stood, feet apart, studying the man from head to toe. Then he walked forward, hand extended. ‘Oh, don’t take offence, man. I knew your father, Sir Reginald Havant of Crosby in Northampton.’
    The young man smiled, then straightened up as if remembering his task. ‘Sir John, it’s good to see you but I come direct from the Regent. He would like his five thousand pounds in silver.’
    ‘He’ll have to wait!’ Cranston snarled. ‘I am a coroner, not a damn miracle-worker!’
    Havant looked at Brother Athelstan who raised his eyes heavenwards.
    ‘Sir Lionel,’ Athelstan intervened, before Cranston got into full stride, ‘we’ve scarce been here long; progress will be made.’
    The young knight nodded.
    ‘And you have a message for us?’ Athelstan asked.
    ‘Yes, how did you . . .?’
    Athelstan pointed to the small scroll tucked into the