Cranston and Athelstan, with a woebegone Sir Maurice in tow, left the Savoy Palace. They took a barge further along the Thames to Fish Wharf and threaded their way along the narrow runnels which wound through houses and shops towards St Paul’s. At first they had been too nonplussed to speak. They were accustomed to accepting the Regent’s commissions to investigate this or that, but the prospect of becoming heralds for this knight of the doleful countenance sitting opposite them in the barge truly confounded them. Athelstan’s mind teemed. How could he do anything? His knowledge of women, and he smiled to himself, well, the least said the better! Sir John broke the silence and leaned over and grasped the young man’s knee.

‘I know what it’s like, lad,’ he growled. ‘Years ago, when I pursued the Lady Maude, I wasn’t like this; sleek as a greyhound I was, fast as a swooping hawk, my heart and soul on fire. It was just poor old Jack Cranston then but courage and tenacity will achieve the desires of your heart.’

Sir Maurice thanked him. Athelstan could see the mirth in the young man’s eyes at the picture of a sleek and swooping Sir John.

‘Ah yes, those were the days,’ Sir John repeated as they made their way through the alleyways. ‘What a siege of love, and I tried every stratagem.’

Athelstan had to hang behind them because he’d begun to laugh so much his shoulders were shaking. He couldn’t really think of Lady Maude as a castle while the prospect of Sir John deeply in love was a thing of wonder.

Sir John, one hand on Sir Maurice’s shoulder, steered him through the crowds. Athelstan, trailing behind, realised that he had been sheltering in St Erconwald’s so long the crowds, the smell, the press made him feel uneasy. The sun was strong and the heat made his rough serge gown cling to his sweat-soaked skin. Sir John loved the city but Athelstan always found it strange, filled with images, pictures, which reminded him of scenes on a painted wall.

Two men on a corner of Old Bowyers Row were teaching their pet weasels how to kill a rat. Further along two beadles were making a whore fumigate herself by standing over a dish of burning coals, her dirty skirts pulled up under her breasts. Apprentices came out from behind stalls to catch Sir John’s arm. He shook them off as he did the greasy fingers of the owners of the cookshops who always regarded Sir John as a generous patron. The dung carts had not yet reached this part of the city and the lanes and alleyways were still full of rubbish from the previous day. The sewers down the streets brimmed with dirt. Cats, dogs, pigs and even a few chickens scrambled among the muck looking for tidbits. Street signs creaked in the light breeze which had sprung up. Above them, windows of the lean-to houses had been thrown open. People talked and shouted to each other. Now and again, if the street scavengers weren’t looking, they tossed out refuse on to the growing piles.

At Paternoster Row they had to stop. Sir John even paused in his advice to Sir Maurice as a strange procession of men and women, dressed in bright yellow, made their way up Newgate. These wore their hair long and untended and walked in unison; every so often a bell would ring. They would stop, clap their hands and leap into the air shouting ‘Hosanna!’

‘The Joyeurs.’ Sir John spoke over his shoulder at Athelstan. ‘Just look at the silly buggers!’

The Dominican did, fascinated. He had heard of these men and women who believed that the Second Coming was near and patrolled the city in feverish expectation. According to them, Jesus would appear at Blackheath and found the new Jerusalem.

‘There must be sixty of them!’ Sir John muttered.

The Joyeurs heightened Athelstan’s sense of unreality with their strange uniform walk, abrupt stops, the clapping of hands and raucous shouts.

Once they had passed, the three continued. They entered the Shambles, the beaten paving-stones awash with blood and gore from the butchers’ stalls and slaughterhouses. Outside Newgate, the stocks had been set up and the beadles were inviting citizens to throw rotten vegetables at the unfortunates fastened there, hands and heads clasped tightly between the wooden slats. Further up another crowd was waiting to visit relatives in the city prison. Turnkeys in their shabby leather aprons were moving among them taking bribes, choosing who should go in first.

At last they were free of the press, making their way up through the city gates and across Smithfield. Athelstan sighed with relief. The stench and the heat were not so intense and the great open expanse was deserted, although stall-holders were getting ready for the great horse fair the following day. They crossed some waste ground. Sir John paused to take a few gulps from his wineskin. Sir Maurice refused but Athelstan was only too grateful to wash the dust from his throat. They continued along dusty trackways which wound between the hedgerows, the noise and bustle of the city giving way to the chirping of birds and the hum of crickets. At last they reached Hawkmere Manor. The grey, forbidding curtain wall was dominated by a high timbered gate-house. Archers stood there, men-at-arms along the ramparts. Athelstan pulled at the great bell.

‘Piss off!’ one of the archers shouted down.

‘I’m Sir John Cranston!’ the coroner bellowed. ‘And, if you don’t open this bloody gate, I’ll hang you from the gatehouse!’

There were muttered curses followed by the sound of footsteps. A small postern door in the great iron-studded gate swung open and a shamefaced archer ushered them in. Sir John poked him in the chest.

‘Don’t ever tell me to piss off, lad!’ He pulled back the archer’s hood, revealing a mangled left ear. ‘Who did that?’

The narrow-faced archer forced a grin, revealing his black and bleeding gums.

‘The French caught me outside Calais.’

‘You are a bloody liar! The French would have taken two of your fingers off, not your ear!’

The archer looked crestfallen. ‘I stole a goose outside Calais,’ he muttered.

‘That’s better.’ The coroner glanced across the cobbled yard which stretched up to the main door of the manor. ‘Now, lad, run ahead and tell Sir Walter Limbright that Sir Jack Cranston is here.’

Athelstan opened his pouch and gave the archer the commission they had collected from one of John of Gaunt’s clerks. The archer hurried off. Athelstan looked up at the manor.

‘A gloomy place to live in,’ he commented. ‘And a gloomy place to die!’

Hawkmere was built out of grey ragstone, four stories high. Chimneys had been added on at each end of the sloping, red-slated roof. The front door was black and forbidding. The steps leading to it were choked with weeds and crumbling. The windows were either arrow slits or small squares of wood, not filled with glass but protected by shutters from within and iron bars on the outside. It reminded Athelstan of the great block houses in France, built by the English to control crossroads, bridges and fords over rivers.

The archer had disappeared round the back. Athelstan could see now why Hawkmere had been chosen as a prison. On the other three sides of the house ran a great curtain wall which probably defended the outhouses and buildings behind it. He glanced at his companions; Sir John was standing, legs apart, eyes half-closed. Sir Maurice looked as if he were a thousand miles away and, once again, Athelstan wondered how they could possibly help this young man’s futile pursuit of his beloved. Sir John knew Sir Thomas and so did Athelstan. Sir Thomas had a reputation for being hard-fisted and stony-hearted. A man who lent monies to everyone and always demanded a good profit in return.

‘Come on, Athelstan,’ Sir John growled. ‘I’m not standing here baking in the sun.’

He marched across and up the steps, the other two close behind, and hammered on the great oaken door. It swung open and a servant ushered them in.