The Nightingale Gallery Read Online Free PDF

stop working as a corpse was rolled out from behind the buttress of an old house. Athelstan stopped. He glimpsed straggly, white hair, a face sunken in death, the skeletal fingers of an elderly lady. Cranston looked at him and shrugged.
    ‘She is dead, Brother,’ he said. ‘What can we do?’
    Athelstan sketched a sign of the cross in the air and said a prayer that Christ, wherever he was, would receive the old woman’s soul.
    They went down past the Standard and the Conduit gaol with its open bars where courtesans and bawds caught plying their trade at night, stood for a day whilst being pelted with dirt and cursed by any passing citizen. Cranston asked him a question and Athelstan was about to reply when the stench from the poultry stalls suddenly made him gag: that terrible odour of stale flesh, rotting giblets and dried blood. Athelstan let Cranston chatter on as he held his breath, head down as he passed Scalding Alley where the gutted bodies of game birds were being cleaned and washed in great wooden vats of boiling hot water. At the Rose tavern on a corner of an alleyway they stopped to let a ward constable push by, leading a group of night felons, hands tied behind their backs, halters round their necks. These unfortunates were bound for the Poultry Compter, most of them still drunk, half asleep after their late night revels and roistering. The prisoners slipped and shoved each other. One young man was shouting how the Constables had taken his boots and his feet were already gashed and scarred. Athelstan pitied them.
    ‘The gaol’s so hot,’ the friar murmured, ‘it will either waken or kill them before Evensong.’
    Cranston shrugged and pushed his way through like a great, fat-bellied ship. They walked on past Old Jewry into Mercery where the streets became more thronged. The women there moved gingerly, skirts brushing the mud, their hands on the arms of gallants who walked the streets looking for such custom, in their high hats, taffeta cloaks, coloured hose and dirty-edged lace shirts.
    The paths became softer underfoot as the sewer running down the middle had begun to spill over, choked to the top with the refuse dumped there by householders cleaning the night soil from their chambers. The road narrowed as they passed Soper Lane. The heavy, tiered houses closed in. Dogs barked and frenetically chased the cats hunting amongst the piles of refuse heaped outside each doorway. The crowd now thronged into an array of colour; the blues, golds, yellows and scarlets of the rich contrasting sharply with the brown frocks, russet smocks and black, greasy hats of the farmers who made their way from city market to city market, pulling their small carts behind them. The noise grew to a resounding din. Apprentices were busy yelling and screaming as they searched for custom. The taverns and cook shops were open, the smell of dark ale, fresh bread and spiced food enticing the customers inside. Cranston stopped and Athelstan groaned softly.
    ‘Oh, Sir John,’ he pleaded, ‘surely not refreshments so early in the day? You know what will happen. Once inside, it will take the devil himself to get you out!’
    Athelstan sighed with relief as the coroner shook his head regretfully and they moved on. A party of sheriff’s men appeared, dressed in their bands of office, carrying long white canes which they used to clear a way through the crowds. They circled a man in a black leather jerkin and hose. His hands were bound, the ends of the cord being tied around the wrists of two of his captors. The prisoner’s jerkin was torn aside to reveal a tattered shirt. His unshaven face was a mass of bruises from brow to chin. Someone whispered, ‘Warlock! Wizard!’ An apprentice picked up handfuls of mud and threw them, only to receive whacks across his shoulders from the white canes.
    ‘Make way! Make way!’
    Cranston and Athelstan walked on, past the stocks already full with miscreants: a pedlar; a manservant caught in lechery; a