“At last,” Tom Perrill said instead, and Hook saw a small crowd emerging from a church at the far side of the marketplace. The crowd was composed of ordinary-looking folk, but it was surrounded by soldiers, monks, and priests, and one of those priests now headed toward the tavern called the Bull.

“Here’s Sir Martin,” Snoball said, as if his companions would not recognize the priest who, as he drew nearer, grinned. Hook felt a tremor of hatred as he saw the eel-thin Sir Martin with his loping stride, lopsided face, and his strange, intense eyes that some thought looked beyond this world to the next, though opinion varied whether Sir Martin gazed at hell or heaven. Hook’s grandmother had no doubts. “He was bitten by the devil’s dog,” she liked to say, “and if he hadn’t been born gentry he’d have been hanged by now.”

The archers stood with grudging respect as the priest drew near. “God’s work waits on you, boys,” Sir Martin greeted them. His dark hair was gray at the sides and thin on top. He had not shaved for some days and his long chin was covered in white stubble that reminded Hook of frost. “We need a ladder,” Sir Martin said, “and Sir Edward’s bringing the ropes. Nice to see the gentry working, isn’t it? We need a long ladder. There has to be one somewhere.”

“A ladder,” Will Snoball said, as if he had never heard of such a thing.

“A long one,” Sir Martin said, “long enough to reach that beam.” He jerked his head at the sign of the bull over their heads. “Long, long.” He said the last words distractedly, as if he were already forgetting what business he was about.

“Look for a ladder,” Will Snoball told two of the archers, “a long one.”

“No short ladders for God’s work,” Sir Martin said, snapping his attention back to the archers. He rubbed his thin hands together and grimaced at Hook. “You look ill, Hook,” he added happily, as if hoping Nick Hook were dying.