Flames of Norwich: A Den Helder / D’Artois Story

By J. Michael Butcher

In the aftermath of Magna Carta, disinherited barons raid the city of Norwich to acquire funds for their failing cause, and they met with little resistance.

In fear of hidden support for the rebellion, the king sends agents to Norwich, and thus, Martin Den Helder and Sir Michel DArtois are drawn into a city underworld of murder, extortion, and crime that have some powerful, if secret, backing.

Like poking a hornets nest, Den Helder and DArtois feel the backlash of their enquiries.

Finally, a vicious murder at the Trinity Fair escalates the atmosphere of tension and resentment between city and church to a full-scale riot, and buildings of the cathedral and city are burned and valuables looted. Violence and murder are unrestrained.

Flames of Norwich is a story of murder and mystery woven around real events, people, and places of the city of Norwich in the thirteenth century.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Aug 10, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524633646

J. Michael Butcher

John Michael Butcher was born in 1954 and has lived in Norwich most of his life. Educated at Thorpe Grammar School, he studied English and history at A level before working for Norfolk County Council’s education department firstly in personnel (later HR) and then the school’s finance. Childhood rheumatoid arthritis disrupted his schooling but allowed him to indulge his love of reading, which was a family trait. There were fortnightly visits to the Lazar House Library, which was and is featured as a leper hospital in Flames of Norwich. Remember, this was before computers, the Internet, X-box, DVDs, or even VHS, and there were only two channels on television. After writing short stories and skits on local life, it was his friend Mark King who inspired him to make the effort to go for a full-length novel. Mark had ambitions to write and asked John to proofread his draft novel. Thus, they met in the Fat Cat and Canary PH every Friday afternoon to review progress. Mark has now published the Daniel Jones series, young adult sci-fi stories Frenzy and Doom, and the third on the way. When rheumatoid arthritis returned and he had to give up work, John had more time to devote to writing, and Flames of Norwich became a time-consuming passion. Inspired by writers such as Ellis Peters (Brother Cadfael), Michael Jecks (Sir Baldwin de Furnshill and Simon Puttock), Peter Tremayne (Sister Fidelma), and the great Bernard Cornwell (Sharpe plus so many others), his interest in history was reignited, and historical fiction became his chosen genre. As with these authors, he considers historical accuracy as essential. He is also a director and chair of Roseville Close RTM Co. Ltd, a company set up to manage the site of the apartments where he lives. He is single but not lonely, with a large circle of friends locally, and he has already embarked on Reliquary of Blood, a sequel to Flames of Norwich.

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© 2016 J. Michael Butcher. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 08/10/2016

ISBN: 978-1-5246-3362-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-3364-6 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Flames Of Norwich

Cast Of Characters

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

History

Geography

Bibliography

About the Author

FLAMES OF NORWICH

‘Flames of Norwich’ is a work of fiction, based around real events in Norwich in the 13th Century.

It is worth noting that the TOMBLAND, now a busy thoroughfare, was never a graveyard as the name may suggest, but is named from the old Saxon word for ‘open land’ and was the site of the Saxon marketplace until the Normans moved it to the current location.

All characters are fictional and any similarity with any person, living or dead is purely coincidental. Apart from Danny the Smith, Carol the Naughty Nun and Clare (not forgetting Bill and Bob), who all asked for a part in this fiction.

With great thanks to Mark King, author of ‘Frenzy’ and ‘Doom’; the Pot still flows freely, Janet, guide at Norwich Cathedral, Amber for her reading, and the staff of the Norfolk Record Office.

With books and internet I have researched as an enthusiastic amateur may, but I’m sure many errors remain and they are all entirely my fault.

JMB

16/4/2016

Coming soon, the JMichaelButcher website with information about the author and a guide for a pleasant walk around historic Norwich. With descriptions and photographs it will take you through the streets and lanes of the City showing you the historic buildings and places, many as featured in ‘Flames of Norwich’ and are still there. Enjoy from the comfort of your living room, or better still get out in the fresh air and see them for real.

P.S. there are plenty of inns and taverns along the way to refresh yourself.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

(Fictional portrayals of real people in italics)

PROLOGUE

24th August 1265

Evesham

Edward Plantagenet, Prince of England, son of King Henry III of England, Grandson of John, late King of England, sat his horse and viewed a body amongst many strewn on the ground. Blood seeped through and stained the rich clothing of a man of substance and power. The body had been hacked and dismembered making it barely recognisable, but the emblem of a lion rampant on a shield of red blazoned on his surcoat confirmed that this was Simon de Monteforte, 6th Earl of Leicester. The man who had roused the disaffected barons of Runnymede to oppose the oppressive rule of King Henry.

His death now secured the position of Henry as absolute ruler of England. And in the fullness of time, it would secure The Prince in that same position.

CHAPTER 1

May 1266

City of Norwich

‘GOD’S BLOOD! MAY HE DAMN YOU AND SEND YOU TO HELL, the screech echoed along the row of run down cottages. Beshit yourself you whoreson! You thieving bastards!"

Rosie ap Powell watched cautiously from the door of his two room house on the waterfront. A troop of six rough looking men at arms were gathered around a woman, her beauty faded by age as her clothes were faded with wear. She was the wife of Tom Cobbler the bootmaker. His boots were not the best, and he made only a modest living, but in this poor area he was considered wealthy.

And his wife liked to flaunt it. He had scrimped and saved to buy her a ruby (one small one) and gold (well a gold / copper mix) broach to commemorate twenty five years of marriage and she displayed it boldly to fasten her cloak, taking any opportunity to show it off.

To her downfall. These men were collecting for a cause and had collected it. With force. Powerless to defend herself she called on the power of God to punish her persecutors. Ineffectually.

The men walked on in the direction of Rosie ap Powell, arguing amongst themselves. A small man, belligerent and loud proclaimed ‘Sod this, let’s find the nearest tavern, a barrel of their best ale and a tasty young serving wench for the taking. I’ll even let you go first. There’s nothing here for us, just churls and villeins in this ramshackle part of town. It’s a slum. We’ll tell him Sorry M’Lord, just the poor living there, no pickings at all’ He simpered in mock subservience.

‘Yes, of course Roly’ a tall man with the chevrons of authority on his sleeve responded. ‘And when you return empty handed and pissed as a Bishop, M’Lord Deyville will certainly understand, why he’ll even let you sleep it off in his tent I shouldn’t wonder.

‘You know his instructions as well as the rest of us’ he continued, ‘find him some ‘pickings’ and then we get leave to enjoy ourselves. We don’t, and we feel two dozen of the lash. Now keep checking these houses, there must be something worth liberating for Deyville and his beloved cause of Monteforte.’

Rosie’s mind worked feverishly. Self-interest was a long established practice with him. Firstly he had to get them away from his own house, but then, was there an opportunity to get his own sticky fingers in the pie? Ideas clicked into place and he turned back into the room. ‘Catherine’ he called to his wife.

‘What you want?’ she replied tersely.

‘Get yourself out back and behind the peat pile. Not the privy, that’s too obvious. Don’t argue, these men are after some fun, and you’re just the kind of fun they’re after’.

Slim and trim, in her thirties but looking twenties, she had dark eyes and long brown hair and as a result she was used to fending off ‘fun’ lovers. Reluctant to be ordered about, Catherine realised there was more to this than she saw and hastily left through the back door and went out into the yard.

Scanning the room Rosie hastily threw a few items of cheap jewellery and couple of coins behind a pile of turves in the corner and then opened the door.

‘If you want money for de Monteforte I can show you where to find it’ he called.

‘And what’s it to you?’ one of the men enquired.

‘Look, I’m an honest worker, but the taxes the bloody King keeps taking! Just to fight the bastard Welsh. Who wants that cold and godforsaken country anyway? Full of savages that can’t even rule themselves! Leave them alone and they’ll leave us alone; be too busy fighting each other!’

‘What about it Corp?’ the man called Roly interjected. ‘We get the goods quickly and then we can get on with our own, er, entertainment’.

The tall man, obviously the Corporal and squad leader stared at Rosie. ‘Well, perhaps you have something of your own to hide?’ he speculated. ‘Let’s have a little look’, and with this he pushed past into Rosie’s house.

He looked around, taking in the poor quality table, single bench, a pair of stools and in the corner a flimsy storage box covered with a cheap linen cloth. A peat fire crackled quietly on the far side of the room, a pot simmering over it. The contents did not smell particularly appetising, especially as they anticipated helping themselves to the best the local taverns could provide. Stepping into the room he pulled the cloth from the storage box and with a kick of a sturdy boot broke the feeble lock and opened it. A winter cloak, a couple of pewter cups and a blanket. In the back room he inspected a sparse chamber, one bed with a rumpled blanket; a row of hooks on the wall with spare clothes hanging. Not much else.

Through the bedroom out in the back yard he saw the privy, leaning precariously over the river, the door hanging open. A large pile of dried peat was stacked beside it.

The Corporal nodded at the pile, ‘Got enough to see you through the winter?’ he asked sarcastically.

‘It’s what I do’ Rosie replied trying to hide the anxiety in his voice. For the stack was carefully built to leave a hiding place, in which he had concealed a few items he wouldn’t like the city bailiffs to see. And in this case, Catherine also.

He continued quickly, trying to distract the man from looking too closely, ‘I cut peat up river at Caistor, leave it to dry, and then bring the turves back here by boat. Sell them at the market’.

Corp turned disinterestedly and sauntered back to his men in the street.

‘Nothing worth having here’ he told them.

‘Now my rebel friend,’ he said turning to Rosie, ‘so where can we find these riches that will placate our Lord and Master and let us get on with a little pleasure of our own?’

‘You know who has all the money? The Jews’.

‘Maybe they do, but we don’t get the Jewish quarter. M’Lords favorite’s got that, ransacked it already. We just get this stinking cess pit’.

‘Well over there, out on Southgate, past the old Saxon church is the home of a very rich Jew. Jeremiah Jurnet, fourth generation in Norwich. Does a lot of importing and exporting so he has his house down by the river.’

‘Perhaps worth a look’ Corp agreed, ‘but if you waste our time we’ll come back here, and I think a fire in that pile of turves will warm your cottage very nicely’ he threatened.

Some way down the Southgate, on the western bank of the river, past St. Julian’s church, Corp and his men stood gazing at the building pointed out to them by Rosie. The ground floor was of sturdy stone construction with only small slit windows to give light. Like most such homes this in fact was an undercroft, partially below ground level, used for storage, or business. This one looked secure. The living quarters were on the upper floors.

‘I’ve been watching for some time’ Rosie explained, hiding his reluctance. This was a prize he had been saving for himself. The biggest of his dubious career. ‘He’s a dealer, import and export. Hides, pottery, fleeces, silverware, all of the best quality. Six barges have left his quay in the last two weeks. And then only yesterday a rich looking Flemish merchant called with a big old strong-box. The box did not leave with him. So it’s still here, likely in his business room up through the solar. I’ve heard he has a private ‘storage’ room upstairs.

‘So we just walk into this fortress and take it?’ Corp stated sceptically.

‘There is a door to the ground floor store aback by the river’ Rosie said. ‘It needs maintenance; the frame is rotten from age and the constant damp of the river’.

‘And you know this how?’

‘Oh, I just keep my eyes open’ he replied evasively.

To give up such intelligence was painful to Rosie, but at least this kept his own home safe.

‘You must be quick, the Sheriff has men make the rounds at dusk and the Jews are under the protection of the King’ he warned, ‘they’re his own to bleed dry.’

‘Don’t worry about that mate. The Sheriff’s men are staying safe behind the stone walls of their Castle tonight. M’Lord Deyville told us they will not interfere with us. Sheriff Bigot is something sympathetic to the cause, and probably gets a substantial umm, what ya call it, compensation?

‘So, are there any guards?’ Corp returned to their immediate purpose

‘No, a young lad for the heavy work, a daughter, a serving girl and an elderly cellarer. His other workers don’t live in.’

‘Then let us find this door’.

With an axe brought for the purpose of pillage the men were quickly through the half rotted back door and into the storage room.

Rosie had been pushed to the front to be first to meet any trouble, the men still held a certain mistrust of him, and so he was the first to confront Joshua, a fat but well-muscled youth employed for the heavy work. Simple minded he happily set about routine tasks for his master whom he adored and now he stood and stared, befuddled, watching the men who had just forced the door.

He was even more confused when a tall bearded man stepped forward arms outstretched in greeting. ‘Joshua my boy, so sorry about the door but it is rotten, you really should replace it. Why your Master would be very pleased if you do it now!’

Joshua relaxed slightly as he recognised the friendly and familiar man who had bought him a mug of ale in the tavern on occasion. Not many people talked to him and he was flattered by the attention. Rosie raised a hand to greet him and Joshua completely missed the other that plunged a long dagger up under his ribs and into his heart. The dead weight of the body fell to the floor and Rosie simply stepped over it and said ‘this way.’

‘Ruthless bastard’ the man called Roly muttered, partly in fear partly in admiration.

The living accommodation was on the floor above, protected by another, this time sturdy door, but six burly men with an axe did not take long to overcome it.

Rosie sighed and regarded the men at the door. There went his plans for a stealthy approach, but then brute force could work just as well. Then again since Joshua was down here already, the door probably wasn’t locked anyway.

At the top of the staircase they spilled out into the main hall, a well-furnished room with tapestries and hangings on the walls.

It took moments for them to establish it was unoccupied and that the stairs to the solar above were at the other side. Swords and daggers drawn they advanced up the steps.

‘Stand, you shall go no further!’ A man of at least sixty years, dressed in a worn but clean servant’s uniform stood foursquare at the head of the stairs shakily pointing an old and battered sword at them. Corp advanced a couple of steps and looked at the old man

‘The elderly cellarer I presume’ he said over his shoulder to Rosie who was holding back out of sight of the servant.

To the cellarer he said ‘put it down old man, you’ll be meeting your maker soon enough, don’t make me make it sooner.’

But the old man was determined, foolish but determined. He waved the ancient sword at the big mercenary in front of him.

With a swift motion Corp stepped forward, flicked the tip of his own sword and the old man’s weapon flew across the room.

‘Where is your Master?’ Corp enquired of the old servant, his own weapon held threateningly.

‘Please,’ the old man responded despondently, ‘He and his daughter went to Lincoln on business but yesterday. The boy went out, there is just me and the girl.’

From behind the bed a drab young girl peeped over fearfully and whimpered.

‘The business room?’ Corp demanded.

The old cellarer reluctantly pointed to a door at the end of the solar and Corp grinned deviously.

Waving to two of his men he ordered ‘Tie them up’ and Rosie added from the back ‘and blindfold them.’ He would still have to walk the streets of this city after the others had gone.

In moments the expensive linen sheets were cut into strips and the servants bound and dumped on the bed.

Turning to the door of the business room it was again, a flimsy barrier to six men with an axe and as it crashed to the floor they pushed and jostled through in anticipation of worthwhile loot. Documents, minor items of silver and jewellery were spread across a large table, but the men’s eyes immediately locked onto a strong wooden box in the corner, while Rosie discreetly slipped a well filled purse from a side bench into his shirt. He had hoped for the main prize for himself, but would now have to supplement with anything he could get away with. A valuable looking gold broach quietly followed the purse.

‘Give me the axe’ the impulsive Roland demanded, his eyes fixed on the box.

‘No’ the Corporal’s voice of authority denied him. ‘If it’s not full to the brim M’Lord Deyville will assume we’ve filched a share. No, help yourself to these trinkets’ he said waving generally at the items on the table, ‘but this goes to the His Lordship intact.’

‘An army or a band of brigands?’ thought the newly consecrated Bishop Norvic, Roger de Skerning, as he stood on the bell tower by the wall in front of Norwich Cathedral and Priory. From this vantage point he could see smoke and flames rising from burning buildings, hear the screams and shouts of fighting, or was it just of sheer terror?

The gates of the Cathedral Close had been closed, the servants recalled and the spiritual community sat in isolation from the violence and destruction being inflicted on the city.

‘Look’ said Nicholas de Brampton, Prior of the monastic community attached to the Cathedral, and he pointed to a troop of armed horsemen slowly walking through the Tombland in front of the Cathedral precinct.

At the head of the troop a man in travel stained finery looked up at them, held his gaze for a moment, and then returned it to the front, discounting the men on the tower as no threat.

‘Halt’ he called ‘We’ll rest and review here’. The open ground of Tombland, formerly the market place, provided space for him to call together his troop leaders and confer. Under the observing eyes of Bishop and Prior, John Deyville, resolute leader of some of the last of the free barons organised his men into a makeshift camp and called his lieutenants to him.

‘Well Tomas, what do your boys have for us?’ he questioned his senior troop leader.

‘A Goldsmith, John’ the man called Tomas replied ‘and a prosperous one at that, with a shop full of sale goods and a strongbox of coin.

‘And Edmund’s troop has a likely one, rich looking merchant up from London. Says he has no more than the money he has with him but I’ll wager his family will find plenty to trade for his release’.

‘All to the good, we need as much as we can get for the cause. What else?’

‘A couple more likely ransoms. A selection from the churches and the better off homes, jewels, candlesticks and so on, but the smaller stuff is going into scrips and purses. The men want their share, and their fun. Already started, some of them’.

‘Very well, let them have their fun. Turn a blind eye to a few pennies here and there but flog anyone keeping serious amounts. In fact find someone to flog anyway, just to let them know we mean it. Bring the ransom prisoners to me. We need it all for the cause of cousin de Monteforte’.

‘Cousin’ Simon de Monteforte had been the leader of the disinherited barons and their heirs, fighting against the overbearing rule of King Henry and killed at the battle of Evesham the previous year. Many who had escaped were under siege at Kenilworth Castle in Warwickshire but a smaller contingent had rallied at the Isle of Ely. A fanatical supporter of the de Monteforte cause, John Deyville appointed himself Colonel and leader of the Ely troops and avowed to continue the fight against oppression. The oppression at least, of the rich and high-born Lords who had been deprived of their lands and income by the King.

But for the fight he needed money. So he just went and took it where he could find it.

Setting up his own quarters in a tavern by the corner of Tombland Alley, left empty by a frightened owner, he had the best of the food and wine brought to him as he received reports from his senior troop leaders.

And as he ate an army of thugs and bullies spread out and plundered the City of Norwich.

CHAPTER 2

December 1271

Norwich, Great Newgate.

A tall man of late middle age, well dressed and with an air of authority walked cautiously along the path that led between the Great Newgate, pasture land belonging to the priory, and the Little Newgate belonging to Carrow Abbey. Here, just inside the ditch and bank that protected the south of the city, it was dark and desolate in the winter months. He kept his hand near his sword.

‘Sir Knight’ a loud whisper called to him and he looked for the source of the call, appearing relaxed and casual but discreetly prepared. A short man, scruffily dressed with dark unkempt hair emerged from the shadow of a large green holly bush grown wild.

‘Come’ he demanded.

‘Where is he?’ Sir Robert Carlisle enquired.

‘I’m giving the orders’ the man smirked, ‘this way’ and he turned and strode further along the pathway.

With a sigh the tall man followed, hoping the risk was worth the information he expected to obtain. Masked by the holly bush was a small postern gate leading through the bank and ditch defence, wide enough, just, for two men. Originally built for access to the old Swinemarket it had largely fallen into disuse. As they emerged outside the city the short man set out along a narrow sheep path that ran along, just above the ditch.

The Knight followed but when he passed a stunted bush a strong, heavily muscled arm reached out from the shadows behind and grasped him firmly around the neck. A sharp blade tickled his side beneath his ribs.

‘What’s this? Who are you?’ he demanded.

‘Questions! More questions.’ A voice whispered in his ear. ‘You whoreson, you’re turning over too many stones. So no more questions!’

‘Beware you brigand, I am on a commission for the King Himself, harm me and …’

They never heard what would happen should he be harmed as the sharp dagger was pushed through the fine velvet coat and into his kidneys.

The two men pushed the body into the ditch and it was six days before the body was found in this deserted section of the city boundary.

The ears had been cut off.

CHAPTER 3

April 1272

River Wensum, nr. Norwich

A leisurely spring breeze pushed the cargo ship up the River Wensum at a gentle pace. The sun, high in the sky, left shortened shadows and the reeds at the banks swayed in the light wind. In the bow a ruddy faced man with short sandy hair watched the bank drift by, anticipating, not without a little anxiety, his destination and the tasks ahead of him. Tasks with danger. And tasks with reward. He hoped.

As they entered the city domain they passed a ditch and bank defence to the left, leading away to the West. To the East and North of the city the river itself formed a capable defence barrier. Ahead, the square, stone castle sat squat on its mound, and on the starboard bow the cathedral spire pointed to the pale blue sky.

The Sheriff in the Castle, the Bishop in the Cathedral, and the Burgess council of the City represented the three authorities that ruled Norwich: the King, the Church and the Citizens.

The ship nudged the wharf and in a flurry of activity the crew quickly had it securely tied up and a gangplank bridging the gap over the water. With a casual wave over his shoulder, largely ignored by Captain and crew, Martin Den Helder settled his pack on his shoulder and stepped ashore.

The exit from the docks was a short road at the end of which Martin could see a busy thoroughfare and he strode purposefully along it until, half way along, a plaintive voice suddenly called ‘Hey Mister! Help me!’

Martin instinctively turned to a narrow alley and just had time to see a short dark haired man when a vicious push in his back propelled him towards the man calling to him. As he staggered a fist plunged into his stomach and then a cudgel swung at the side of the head from behind. He saw flashing lights, followed by darkness and he was vaguely aware his legs were collapsing.

When he came round he found he was lying face down in the filth of the alley.

His pack had been dragged from his shoulder and the thieves were rummaging through it. ‘Fool,’ he thought to himself, ‘been warned about that trick before. But not dead yet.’ With one eye he cautiously watched the short man and his accomplice, a tall man, late twenties, with tattoos on his arms. They both knelt over his pack and the tall one cut the ties and pulled out the contents. From the centre, where the shape was disguised by a blanket he pulled a short but well-kept sword.

‘That’ll be worth a bit. In good nick too’ the small man gloated. ‘Oh and … ‘he held up a gold lady’s wedding ring, a small silver cross, and a purse that looked and felt that it was generously filled with coin.

Meanwhile the taller man, pushing aside a bundle of spare clothing picked out a small packet of documents.

‘Think these are worth anything Davy?’

Davy eyed the papers with suspicion but as neither of the thieves could read they had little comprehension of the value of these documents.

‘Nah! Papers not worth squit,’ he responded, ‘but we’ll get something for this other stuff. The coin he don’t need to know about but he’ll like the ring and cross, he’ll give us something for them. Not to mention the sword.’

‘Yeah, well I want the money this time’ the tattooed man moaned ‘I’ll not be fobbed off with his second rate girls. I only ever get the ugly ones. How come you get Luscious Lucy all the time? I paid for her once, little minx, she just can’t keep still, and so inventive!’

‘Stop thinking of your tarse and get this stuff together.’

While the two thieves were distracted Martin had come round and gathered his wits. Amateurs he thought: they should have taken the pack to a safer place to explore its contents. Very slowly he reached to his belt and grasped the dagger there. Bringing his foot up to give leverage against the wall he launched himself in a roll along the ground, pulling the dagger and slicing it across the back of the ankle of the bigger man in an attempt to cut the great tendon there and disable him.

Using the momentum of the roll he was up on his knees and quickly to his feet before Davy could move. A quick kick to the head sent the kneeling thief sprawling senselessly and he turned to face his other opponent. But this was no hero and he was already backing away as Martin stood to face him, dagger in hand. The thief turned and limped surprisingly quickly out of the alley.

Martin took a moment to catch his breath, and then gathered his belongings, keeping an eye on the prone body as he did so. With a parting kick to the ribs of his would be assailant he walked out of the alley and resumed his progress to the city centre.

‘First, get your bearings’ he thought to himself, putting the attempted