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.