“The ale tastes funny,” Hook said.

“That’s because it’s Friday,” the priest said, “and you should abstain from ale on Wednesdays and Fridays. Your name-saint, the blessed Nicholas, rejected his mother’s teats on Wednesdays and Fridays, and there’s a lesson in that! There can be no pleasures for you, Hook, on Wednesdays and Fridays. No ale, no joy, and no tits, that is your fate forever. And why, Hook, why?” Sir Martin paused and his long face twisted in a malevolent grin. “Because you have supped on the sagging tits of evil! I will not have mercy on her children, the scriptures say, because their mother hath played the harlot!”

Tom Perrill sniggered. “What are we doing, father?” Will Snoball asked tiredly.

“God’s work, Master Snoball, God’s holy work. Go to it.”

A ladder was found as Sir Edward Derwent crossed the market square with four ropes looped about his broad shoulders. Sir Edward was a man-at-arms and wore the same livery as the archers, though his jupon was cleaner and its colors were brighter. He was a squat, thick-chested man with a face disfigured at the battle of Shrewsbury where a poleax had ripped open his helmet, crushed a cheekbone and sliced off an ear. “Bell ropes,” he explained, tossing the heavy coils onto the ground. “Need them tied to the beam, and I’m not climbing any ladder.” Sir Edward commanded Lord Slayton’s men-at-arms and he was as respected as he was feared. “Hook, you do it,” Sir Edward ordered.

Hook climbed the ladder and tied the bell ropes to the beam. He used the knot with which he would have looped a hempen cord about a bowstave’s nock, though the ropes, being thicker, were much harder to manipulate. When he was done he shinned down the last rope to show that it was tied securely.

“Let’s get this done and over,” Sir Edward said sourly, “and then maybe we can leave this goddamned place. Whose ale is this?”

“Mine, Sir Edward,” Robert Perrill said.