Free Candle Flame by Paul Doherty

examined the inscription around the bowl, ‘I am called a laver because I serve with love.’ In his other hand, the lad offered a shining bronze aquamanile from Lubeck carved in the shape of a naked man riding a roaring lion. Athelstan smilingly refused, though he quietly promised to remember both items as possible purchases by the parish council. He just wished they could just cross London Bridge, but they had to pause for a while as one of the lay stalls, heaped to fullness with smoking-hot filth, had collapsed to the merriment of some and the disgust of many, for the reeking stench crawled like a poisonous snake along the bridge.
    Eventually they passed through the towered structures on the bridge’s northern side and made their way up into the city. The reaction to Gaunt’s party became more hostile. Oaths and curses followed them and, at one point, the escort had to draw swords against the flurry of flung filth. They passed under the shadow of high-towered St Paul’s, which, despite its spire being crammed with relics, had been recently struck by lightning. At last they reached the broad trading thoroughfare of Cheape. On either side elaborately hung stalls, shops and booths offered fabrics, precious metals, foodstuffs, footwear and weaponry of every kind. Here the court fops, resplendent in their elaborate headgear, brocaded short jackets, tight leggings, protuberant codpieces and fantastical long-toed shoes, brushed shoulders with the poor from the midden-heap manors and the dank, dark cellars of Whitefriars. The air was rich with a mixture of cooking smells from bakeries and pastry shops. Here also gathered Cranston’s ‘beloved parishioners’, the underworld of London: the Pages of the Pit, the Brotherhood of the Knife, the Squires of the Sewer, the nips and the foists, the glimmerers and the gold-droppers as well as whores both male and female. These surged about like dirt through water, all intent on seeking their prey: a heavy-bellied merchant’s pouch, a drunk’s half-open wallet, a young lady with an untied satchel or some distracted stall-owner. Cranston recognized them all, shouting out their names so everyone else would be wary: Spindleshank the foist, Short-pot the pickpocket, Shoulder-sham the counterfeit, Poison-pate the snatcher and Needle-point the sharper. Most of these disappeared like snow under the sun. Nevertheless, as they passed the great water conduit, the prison cage on its top crammed with more of Cranston’s ‘parishioners’, Athelstan sensed true danger. Mischief was being plotted. The crowd around was growing openly hostile.
    A cart abruptly appeared and it stopped just near The Holy Lamb of God tavern. On it stood a puppet booth, narrow and curtained with a small stage on which gloved puppets shouted shrilly. One glance at these told everything. The central puppet had golden hair and a crown, the second was a plump cleric and the third, a mitred bishop, a clear allusion to Gaunt, Master Thibault and the hated Archbishop of Canterbury, Simon Sudbury. A fourth suddenly appeared, dressed in the mud-coloured garb of a peasant, who promptly began to beat the other three figures with a club, much to the merriment of the fast-gathering crowd. Lascelles’ party was noticed and the mob around them hemmed tighter. A hunting horn brayed and the puppetry immediately ceased. Cranston, swearing loudly, drew his sword. Out of the side streets debouched clusters of horsemen. Faces blackened, they all carried red cowhide shields, spears and clubs. Their hair was heavily greased and rolled up to resemble the horns of a goat.
    ‘Earthworms!’ Cranston shouted. ‘The Upright Men!’ The horsemen forced their way into the throng whilst the few footmen who followed opened the necks of the bulging grain sacks they carried to release an entire warren of rabbits loose in the crowd. Chaos and confusion immediately descended. Dogs snarled and broke free to pursue the rabbits, as did the horde of