The Assassin's Riddle Read Online Free PDF Page B

man’s war belt.
    ‘Ah yes.’ Havant took it out. ‘Sir John.’ He undid the piece of parchment. ‘His Grace the Regent is also concerned about one of his clerks, Edwin Chapler of the Chancery of the Green Wax. His corpse was fished from the Thames last night. It now lies in the hands of the Fisher of Men. Chapler’s been missing for about two days. His Grace wants you to claim the corpse, pay the fine and investigate the cause of death.’
    ‘I am too busy for drunken clerks!’ Cranston snapped.
    ‘He wasn’t drunk, Sir John,’ Havant retorted. ‘Chapler was murdered.’
    A few minutes later Cranston, with Athelstan trotting beside him, strode across Cheapside and down Bread Street. The coroner wanted to visit the ‘Barque of St Peter’, the rather eccentric name the Fisher of Men gave to his ‘chapel’ or death house. Cranston pushed himself through the crowds, making his way along the thronged streets. Above and around them the two- or three-storey houses, pinched and narrow, blocked out the sunlight and forced people to knock and push each other in the busy lanes below. The stalls and shops were open. The air dinned with the cries of apprentices, particularly the clothiers, their huge barrows or tables covered with a rich variety of materials: brightly embroidered with brilliantly coloured Brussels linen; English broadcloths; textiles from Louvain and Arras. Further down, along the streets of Trinity, the stalls were stacked high with merchandise from Lebanon to Venice: chests of cinnamon, bags of saffron and gingers; casks full of figs; bitter oranges and exotically scented candied lemon peel. There were crates full of locust pots, almonds and mace; sacks of sugar and pepper; casks of wine; writing tablets and boxes of chalk; leather goods in every shade of brown. Herrings were displayed in open crates beside stacked mounds of fruits and vegetables.
    Athelstan would have loved to question Sir John but the noise was absolutely deafening. The coroner was busy shaking his fists at the cheeky apprentices who tried to jump up to catch his arm. Cranston would roar and shake himself as a bear would rage at baiting dogs. Athelstan trailed desolately behind, trying not to pay any attention to the shouts, the haggling and bartering. He was bumped and knocked by peasants, craftsmen and townsfolk. Now and again he would stumble and have to profusely apologise to some lady trying to walk arm in arm with her gentleman. As they went down La Réole, towards Vintry and the less salubrious parts of the city, Athelstan kept his hand on his purse. Here the quacks and fortunetellers had set up their temporary booths and attracted the pickpockets and cutpurses. These always gathered in such places, as quickly as bees round honey or, as Sir John would more caustically put it, ‘flies round a turd’.
    At last Athelstan glimpsed the rigging of ships and, on the morning breeze, smelt the fresh, tangy air of the river. Cranston, now in a black mood and taking copious swigs from his miraculous wineskin, turned down an alleyway leading to the Barque of St Peter. A relic-seller came whining up, carrying in his hands a box allegedly contain-ing the toenails of the Pharaoh who had persecuted Moses. Cranston pulled back his cowl.
    ‘Oh, Lord save us!’ the man yelled and fled like a whippet back into the shadows.
    The Fisher of Men was sitting on a bench outside his chapel. He was surrounded by his strange coven, beggars and lepers, their faces and hands covered with sore open wounds. Some were so disfigured they wore masks. Beside the Fisher of Men stood Icthus. The boy had no eyebrows or eyelids; he looked like a fish and could swim like one. Sir John stopped and bowed: he had great respect for the Fisher of Men.
    ‘Good morning, Sir John.’
    ‘And you, my lovelies.’ Cranston smiled whilst Athelstan sketched a blessing in their direction.
    The Fisher of Men rose, hands by his side, and bowed from the waist. ‘Welcome to our