grey hair and beard. He was dressed in a cote-hardie of tawny damask, Lincoln-green leggings and stout Castilian boots. Hubert the Monk, balding head and shaven face all gleaming with nard, looked diminutive beside him. Hubert was dressed in a long white robe, which gave him his name, his plump feet, warmed by woollen stockings, encased in stout, thick-soled shoes. The news that these two reprobates, like Pilate and Herod, had agreed to a lasting peace had been common talk around the prison. Both gang-leaders took a generous swig from a proffered wineskin, exchanged the kiss of peace and, hands raised in greeting, moved across into the sweet, tangy darkness of the Angel’s Salutation. No one really took any notice. The good citizens and honest traders gave the rifflers short shrift, whilst their followers, greeted with shouts and curses, began to drift away.
The Teller of Tales watched and smiled deep in his cowl. He adjusted his mask, got down from the plinth and, with a sack firmly gripped beneath his cloak, strolled leisurely across into the tavern. He glanced at the casks at the far end of the taproom, which were covered by gleaming planks so as to serve as a counter. Above this, onions, cheese and bacon hung in nets from the gilded beams’ exuding a spicy, mouthwatering smell. It was a spacious chamber, its narrow horn-filled windows, candles and oil-wick pots providing some light, though shadows still thronged deep enough to hide in.
The Teller of Tales sat at an overturned barrel that served as a table. Sheltered by the darkness, he ordered a blackjack of ale and watched the staircase in the far corner. Waldene and Hubert had secured a chamber off the stairwell on the first gallery. Ale and food had been carried up to this precious pair, who’d been joined by two whores, local girls so a servant declared, Mistress Robinbreast and her companion Madame Catchseed. The Teller of Tales watched as the servants in their heavy shoes of undressed leather clattered up and down. Cries of wassail echoed loudly, and the guard on the stairwell sang a drunken song. Still the Teller waited. A blind jongleur, tapping the rush-covered floor with his cane, came in and sat down, nursing his pet ferret and loudly reciting a poem about how the devil was a sibulator, a hisser, and how whistling, together with holy water sprinkled with a sprig of St John’s wort, would frighten him off. The Teller of Tales ignored the newcomer. He rose to his feet, took a flask from his sack and moved to the staircase. The servitors were now back in the kitchens and sculleries, all busy for when the Angelus bell rang and local traders flocked in to break their fast. The Teller of Tales, his heart full of malice, softly climbed the stairs. The guard staggered to his feet. The Teller put down the sack and, one hand on the dagger beneath his cloak, wafted the unstoppered flask beneath the drunkard’s nose.
‘The best of Bordeaux,’ he murmured, ‘a gift from Minehost.’
‘I don’t think so,’ the guard slurred.
‘Very well.’ The Teller of Tales drew closer and shoved the dagger deep, a swift killing thrust up into the heart. The guard was so drunk he could only choke and gargle as he swayed backwards and forwards. The Teller of Tales pushed him back into the shadows, watching the soul light die in those startled red-rimmed eyes. He held the dagger fast until the final blood-spluttered sigh, then withdrew it, catching the corpse, lowering it to the floor and pushing it deeper into the dark-filled recess. Then he picked up the wine flask, rapped on the door and went in.
The chamber was large. Tapers lay strewn on the polished wooden floor, coloured cloths hung pinned to the whitewashed walls. The big window wasn’t shuttered; the thick piece of oil-strengthened linen across the opening had also been removed. Waldene and Hubert, deep in their cups, lounged at a table just near the window. The large four-poster bed that dominated the room had
The Teller of Tales watched and smiled deep in his cowl. He adjusted his mask, got down from the plinth and, with a sack firmly gripped beneath his cloak, strolled leisurely across into the tavern. He glanced at the casks at the far end of the taproom, which were covered by gleaming planks so as to serve as a counter. Above this, onions, cheese and bacon hung in nets from the gilded beams’ exuding a spicy, mouthwatering smell. It was a spacious chamber, its narrow horn-filled windows, candles and oil-wick pots providing some light, though shadows still thronged deep enough to hide in.
The Teller of Tales sat at an overturned barrel that served as a table. Sheltered by the darkness, he ordered a blackjack of ale and watched the staircase in the far corner. Waldene and Hubert had secured a chamber off the stairwell on the first gallery. Ale and food had been carried up to this precious pair, who’d been joined by two whores, local girls so a servant declared, Mistress Robinbreast and her companion Madame Catchseed. The Teller of Tales watched as the servants in their heavy shoes of undressed leather clattered up and down. Cries of wassail echoed loudly, and the guard on the stairwell sang a drunken song. Still the Teller waited. A blind jongleur, tapping the rush-covered floor with his cane, came in and sat down, nursing his pet ferret and loudly reciting a poem about how the devil was a sibulator, a hisser, and how whistling, together with holy water sprinkled with a sprig of St John’s wort, would frighten him off. The Teller of Tales ignored the newcomer. He rose to his feet, took a flask from his sack and moved to the staircase. The servitors were now back in the kitchens and sculleries, all busy for when the Angelus bell rang and local traders flocked in to break their fast. The Teller of Tales, his heart full of malice, softly climbed the stairs. The guard staggered to his feet. The Teller put down the sack and, one hand on the dagger beneath his cloak, wafted the unstoppered flask beneath the drunkard’s nose.
‘The best of Bordeaux,’ he murmured, ‘a gift from Minehost.’
‘I don’t think so,’ the guard slurred.
‘Very well.’ The Teller of Tales drew closer and shoved the dagger deep, a swift killing thrust up into the heart. The guard was so drunk he could only choke and gargle as he swayed backwards and forwards. The Teller of Tales pushed him back into the shadows, watching the soul light die in those startled red-rimmed eyes. He held the dagger fast until the final blood-spluttered sigh, then withdrew it, catching the corpse, lowering it to the floor and pushing it deeper into the dark-filled recess. Then he picked up the wine flask, rapped on the door and went in.
The chamber was large. Tapers lay strewn on the polished wooden floor, coloured cloths hung pinned to the whitewashed walls. The big window wasn’t shuttered; the thick piece of oil-strengthened linen across the opening had also been removed. Waldene and Hubert, deep in their cups, lounged at a table just near the window. The large four-poster bed that dominated the room had
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