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Chief Justice rose as a sign that the meeting was over.
    ‘Of course, all expenses are to be handed over to the clerk of the Exchequer.’ He rubbed his hands together dryly. ‘Though the Barons will question any overindulgence in food or drink.’
    Cranston rose.
    ‘My bills will be fair, as they always are, and I will be taking constant refreshment. After all, My Lord, when you listen to some men, their lies stick in your throat and give you a terrible thirst.’
    He picked up his cloak; Athelstan, clutching his leather bag of writing materials, followed Cranston’s lumbering gait towards the door. The friar did not dare look up and fought to keep his face straight.
    ‘Sir John!’
    The coroner stopped.
    ‘The Sons of Dives?’ Fortescue asked. ‘Do you know of them?’
    Cranston shook his head. ‘No, why should I?’
    ‘They are a secret group,’ Fortescue testily replied. ‘Their nature and purpose a mystery. But Sir Thomas’s name, so my spies relate, was linked to them. Dives means nothing to you?’
    ‘He was a judge in the gospels, was he not? Rich and corrupt who let the poor starve outside his gates.’
    Fortescue smiled and looked at Brother Athelstan.
    ‘Is it true, Friar,’ he said abruptly, ‘that you atone for your brother’s death? Is that why your Order has put you in St Erconwald’s church and made you clerk to Sir John Cranston here?’ The Chief Justice’s grin widened. ‘You should sit at his feet, Brother. Sir John will instruct you in the law. He will tell you all he knows. I am sure it will not take long!’
    Cranston turned. His steel grey mop of hair seemed to bristle with anger, and his dark eyes held the ghost of malicious mockery as he stroked his beard and moustache.
    ‘I will do that, My Lord,’ he said slowly. ‘I will instruct Brother Athelstan in what I know about the law and I am sure it will not take long. Then, of course, I will instruct him in what you and I both know, and I am sure it will not take any longer!’
    Cranston spun on his heel and, with Athelstan scurrying behind him, choking on his laughter, swept out of Alphen House into Castle Yard and back to Holborn.
    ‘Bastard! Varlet! Lecher! Arse pimple!’ Cranston indulged in a succinct summary of what he thought of the Chief Justice. Athelstan just shook his head, caught between admiration of Cranston’s honesty and a desire to burst into laughter at the way he’d dealt with the Chief Justice. They paused on the corner of Holborn thoroughfare to let an execution cart rattle by, its iron wheels crashing on the cobbles. Inside a black-masked hangman and a parson, his sallow face covered in sweat, were standing over a pirate caught, so the notice pinned to the cart said, two days ago off the mouth of the Thames. Despite the placard around his neck, the fellow was laughing and joking with the small crowd which followed on either side, chanting a song popular on execution days: ‘Put on your smocks on Monday.’ The condemned man did not seem to give a fig for his impending death. He was more determined to cut up his scarlet cloak and taffeta jerkin and distribute the pieces amongst the spectators. Every so often he would look up and grin at the executioner.
    ‘You will take no share of my clothes!’ he bawled. ‘I came naked into the world and I will go out naked. And all the more merrily for knowing you got nothing from me!’
    The crowd roared with laughter at this sally and, as the cart trundled up to the great three-branched scaffold at the Elms, broke into fresh chants and songs.
    ‘More like a wedding than an execution!’ Cranston muttered. ‘The hangman will slip the knot. This fellow will dance for a long time before he dies.’
    They crossed the rutted track leading to the shady side of the street for the sun now shone much stronger, beating fiercely down on them. Cranston mopped his sweating face and pushed Athelstan into the welcoming shadows of the Bishop’s Pig tavern. The tap room inside