They've killed him. As daylight reached his bed in the York Tavern, Gilbert Ridley cursed and turned over. His head hammered. If he lived through the morning he would find his friend and treat him to a grand meal. Ridley turned over and held his breath as the hammers sent sparks shooting across his vision.
Carts rattled by, bells rang.
Blast the city. Blast Tom Merchet's excellent ale. A smell turned Ridley's attention to the center of the room. Something lay there, right there in the middle of the room, ready to trip him. He could not remember what he had dropped there.