The band turned and made for the monks. Building materials blocked their way. They clambered over them and started to circle the platform. Richard opened his bible and set up a chant. It was about the army of the Israelites and how they marched round the walls of Jericho blowing trumpets.

William had heard it before. It was one of the few bible stories he liked. It was about warriors; not about wimps who fed the poor and did stupid things like that. He looked down at the baldhead below. The man had stopped munching and had the rope in his hands.

Six times the band circled the platform. The crowd counted and the monks looked apprehensive. William wasn't surprised. The fat sods knew what the number seven would bring.

When it came, it was almost an anticlimax. Richard Vowell blew a long fart on his trumpet and the baldheaded man yanked on his rope. The peasants cheered. The platform tilted and the monks collapsed onto their big bums. William couldn't stop laughing.

'That'll teach 'em.'

He gave Geoffrey a jab in the ribs and stepped back. A moment later, he was falling into space. Hurdles broke around him and he landed on a pile of canvas. Blood poured from his head and his arm lay twisted below his body.




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