They’d be safe here, probably. The monster whose legend haunted the fens had taken a mortal wound on this ground, and that couldn’t be forgotten. He’d taken a mortal wound, and been carried back to Temple Church and hung off a tree like a side of beef. Randolph would put money he’d been trapped that way, the Master of London’s foul soul eternally enslaved to the city’s good. He didn’t approve of that sort of thing as a general rule, but de Mandeville had clearly had it coming.
