The Anger of God (13 page)

‘I saw a great dragon appear in the heavens, ten heads and on each a coronet, and its great tail swept a third of the stars from the sky. Then I saw Michael do battle with the dragon.’

The powerful, three-voiced choir triumphantly sang in Latin the description of Archangel Michael’s great triumph over Satan.

Athelstan closed his eyes and prayed for God’s help against the evil he now faced: Mountjoy, blood-stained in that beautiful garden; Fitzroy, choking his life out above the gold and silver platters of John of Gaunt; Sturmey, dragged out of the river like a piece of rubbish by the Fisher of Men, his corpse displayed like that of a dead cod or salmon.

Athelstan remembered the warning delivered to him earlier that day and felt his own temper fray. The man who called himself Ira Dei was a blasphemer! How could God or his just anger be associated with sudden murder and evil assassination? All those souls sent into the great darkness unprepared and unshriven. And the other wickednesses of the city? This possessed girl at the Hobdens. The malefactor who stole the severed limbs of traitors. And old Jack Cranston’s friend, subtly murdered and left to be gnawed by rats. What had these things to do with God’s creation? With the stars spinning in the skies? The green, lush meadow grass? The basic honesty and goodness of many of his parishioners? Athelstan half-murmured the words of his mentor, Father Paul: ‘God is never far away. He can only act through us. Man’s free will is God’s door to humanity.’ So what about these murders? He tried to direct his thoughts and search for a common thread. The singing stopped and he opened his eyes as Cranston, emitting a loud snore, crashed back against the bench.

‘Sir John, come!’

Cranston opened his eyes and smacked his lips.

‘Mine’s a deep bowl of claret!’ he bellowed.

‘Sir John, we are in church.’ Cranston rubbed his eyes and lumbered to his feet.

‘I find it difficult to pray, Brother. So let me show you what I do.’

Like a great bear he lumbered across into the side chapel and stood before the wooden carved statue of the Virgin, her arms wrapped round the shoulders of the boy Jesus. Cranston dropped two coins into an iron-bound chest and fished out ten candles, arranging them like a row of soldiers on the great iron candelabra before the statue.

‘Ten prayers,’ he muttered. ‘One for myself, one for the Lady Maude, one for each of the two poppets, one for Gog and Magog, one for you, one for Boscombe and Leif, one for Benedicta and one for old Oliver.’

‘That’s nine, Sir John.’

‘Oh, yes.’ Cranston lit the last one with a taper. ‘And one for any other poor bugger I should have prayed for!’ He blew the taper out with a gust of wine-drenched breath and charged back down the church. ‘That’s it, Brother. Now it’s The Holy Lamb of God for me!’

They unhitched their horses and walked into a busy thronged Cheapside. Sir John expected his usual rapturous welcome at his favourite tavern but was disappointed. The landlord’s wife was waiting in quivering anticipation.

‘Sir John, a message from the Guildhall! A servitor has been here at least twice. You are to go there immediately!’ Her voice dropped to a reverential hush. ‘The Lord Regent himself demands your presence!’

Cursing and muttering, Cranston forced his way back across Cheapside with an even more subdued Athelstan trailing behind. At the Guildhall a chamberlain took them to the small privy council chamber which overlooked the gardens where Mountjoy had been killed. He tapped on the door and ushered them in. Cranston swaggered through and glared at the Regent who sat directly opposite, Goodman and the Guildmasters flanking him on either side. Athelstan looked up at the silver and gold stars painted on the blue ceiling then around at the wooden panels. A soft, luxurious room, he thought, where the great ones of the city plotted and drew up their subtle plans. Gaunt beckoned them forward to two quilted, high-backed chairs.

‘Sir John, sit. We have been waiting.’

‘Your Grace,’ Cranston snapped, lowering his great weight into the seat. ‘I have been busy! The locksmith Sturmey has been . . .’

‘I know, I know,’ Gaunt interrupted. ‘Murdered! By person or persons unknown. His body lies in a shed in Billingsgate. And you, Brother?’ The hard, shrewd eyes stared at Athelstan. ‘The traitor Ira Dei has made his presence known to you.’ Gaunt smiled at the friar’s surprise. ‘We have the means, Brother, of discovering what is happening in our city. As for Sturmey, Sir John, I understand you sealed his workshop?’

Cranston nodded.

‘My men broke the seals,’ Gaunt retorted. ‘We have searched his house but can find no trace or mention of Sturmey making a second set of keys.’

‘But he did make them,’ Cranston replied.

‘How do you know that?’ Goodman spitefully snapped.

‘Why else would he be killed?’

Goodman pulled a face.

‘I believe,’ Cranston continued slowly, ‘Sturmey was blackmailed. Like many such men, he led a secret life.’

Athelstan glimpsed a glimmer of fear in Goodman’s eyes but the Mayor lowered his head as Cranston passed on to other matters.

‘Your Grace, I could question everyone here, with your authority of course, about their whereabouts yesterday afternoon when the Lord Sheriff and Master Sturmey were killed. However, I suspect that would be fruitless.’

‘Yes, it would be,’ Denny drawled. ‘We were all busy, My Lord Coroner. Even if Sir Gerard Mountjoy could sit sipping wine and talking to his dogs.’

Beneath the table Athelstan suddenly gripped Cranston’s wrist and the Coroner quickly bit back the question he was about to ask.

‘Then, Your Grace,’ he said instead, ‘why am I summoned here? Do you have news?’

‘Yes, of two things,’ Gaunt replied. ‘First, a proclamation has been pinned on the Guildhall door. A simple message from Ira Dei. It reads: “Death follows death”. What do you make of that, Sir John? Or should I ask Brother Athelstan who is so strangely silent?’

The friar gently tapped the top of the table. ‘A warning, Your Grace, that someone else in this room might be murdered.’ Athelstan glanced at the Guildmasters but they seemed unperturbed by his reply.

‘Has another murder occurred?’ Cranston asked. ‘Where is my Lord Clifford?’

‘A third was planned,’ Gaunt replied. ‘Lord Adam was attacked this morning by a group of malefactors near Bread Street but, thank God, managed to escape. He is now resting at his town house. I suggest you visit him there.’

‘Is that all?’

‘Oh, no.’ Gaunt rose quickly to his feet but his eyes never left those of Athelstan. ‘You are, Brother, a loyal servant of the Crown?’

‘Under God, yes.’ He tried to control his panic: he was the real reason this group of powerful men wanted to see Cranston and he half-suspected what lay behind their smug, complacent looks. Gaunt stood, smoothing his moustache between finger and thumb.

‘Brother, you have been approached by Ira Dei. You are a priest working amongst the poor of Southwark. You are, strangely enough, much loved and respected. If we asked, indeed if the King ordered, would you reply to Ira Dei, join the Great Community of the Realm and . . .?’

‘Betray them?’ Athelstan snapped.

‘Your Grace!’ Cranston shouted, pushing back his chair. ‘The notion is both foolish and rash. Brother Athelstan is my secretarius. I am an officer of the Crown. He would always be held suspect.’

Gaunt shook his head. ‘Sir John, you contradict yourself,’ he replied, choosing his words carefully.

‘Yesterday, both you and Brother Athelstan claimed that Ira Dei, or one of his henchmen, was present at my banquet. If this so-called Great Community of the Realm can turn even the most powerful into a traitor, why not a Dominican who works amongst the poor?’

‘Yes, why not?’ Goodman spoke up, and Cranston softly groaned at the way both he and Athelstan had slipped into this neatly laid trap.

‘After all, Sir John, what are your thoughts on this matter?’ Goodman continued. ‘Are you not for the poor? Have you not advocated reform in the city and the shires? To ease the burden of the petty traders and peasants?’

‘You cannot force me,’ Athelstan interrupted quietly. ‘My obedience is to my Father Superior and to God!’

‘And your allegiance to the Crown?’ Gaunt shouted back. ‘As for your Father Superior, I have already obtained his permission.’

‘Your Grace, you cannot force me to act against my conscience!’

Gaunt sat down and smilingly extended his beringed hands. ‘Now, now, Brother, what are we asking for? We do not wish you to be a traitor, to the Crown or to this so-called Great Community or to yourself.’

‘What is it you want?’ Cranston quietly asked.

‘Nothing much,’ Gaunt murmured. ‘Ira Dei has communicated with Brother Athelstan. Let our faithful loyal friar write back. Who knows? This mysterious traitor may reveal his hand.’ Gaunt smiled. He sat down and spread his hands. ‘I am sure this traitor is no fool and Brother Athelstan would never be trusted. But, as the old proverb puts it, Sir John: “If you shake the apple tree, it’s wonderful what might fall out”.’

Athelstan remained tight-lipped, refusing to commit himself further, and only gave vent to his anger once they had left the council chamber and were returning downstairs to the ground floor of the Guildhall. Cranston was more sanguine, aided by another swig from his wineskin.

‘Take heart, Brother.’ He patted Athelstan on the shoulder. ‘Remember, my Lord Regent must be desperate.’

Athelstan stopped at the foot of the stairs. ‘The meeting was quite fruitful, Sir John, yes?’

Cranston grinned. ‘Yes. Two juicy morsels. First, how did Denny know that My Lord Sheriff was sipping wine and talking to his dogs? Quite a detailed observation from someone who supposedly never went near the Lord Sheriff when he was sunning himself in his private garden.’

‘And Goodman’s embarrassment?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Yes, yes. I think our dead master locksmith had some dark secret which My Lord Mayor shares.’

Cranston looked sharply at Athelstan. ‘There’s something else, isn’t there, Brother?’

The friar looked away but Cranston glimpsed the turmoil behind his troubled eyes. Athelstan murmured something.

‘What’s that, Brother?’

‘Tell me, Sir John, my Lord Regent has a legion of spies?’

‘Legion is the correct word, Brother. More like a swarm of ants across the city. No one can be trusted, and that even includes people like Leif the beggar. Such people are not evil, it’s only that being so poor they can be quickly bought.’ Cranston stepped closer and Athelstan tried not to flinch at the gust of wine fumes.

‘Of course,’ the Coroner whispered, ‘you are wondering how Gaunt knew about Ira Dei?’

Athelstan was about to reply when they both heard a sound and turned to find Sir Nicholas Hussey, the King’s tutor, standing behind them.

‘My Lord Coroner, Brother Athelstan.’ The suave, silver-haired courtier bowed slightly. ‘We heard you were in the Guildhall. His Grace the King requests a moment of your time.’

Athelstan looked curiously at this dark-skinned scholar, a lawyer by profession. Hussey’s quiet control of the King, his subtle manipulation of the young boy, was now making itself felt. He noticed the bright blue of the man’s eyes, clear as a summer day. He also saw the cunning in his face and quickly concluded Hussey might be even more dangerous than the Regent they had just left. Cranston, too, stayed silent, quietly wondering how much Hussey had heard. Then the Coroner smiled.

‘It would be an honour,’ he murmured.

Hussey led them down a corridor and, surprisingly enough, into the Guildhall’s private garden where Mountjoy had been killed. The young King, dressed in a simple Lincoln green tunic, his blond hair tousled, sat on a turf seat, a leather baldrick and a pair of spurred hunting boots alongside him. A toy crossbow lay propped at his feet and, by the mud-marks on his face and hands, Cranston realized the young man had been hunting, probably in the woods and meadows north of Clerkenwell. Both he and Athelstan bowed but Richard dismissed the pleasantries and waved to the seat beside him, pushing the baldrick and boots unceremoniously aside.

‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan.’ Bright-eyed, the King gestured them to sit. ‘Uncle’s not here so I can do what I want. Sir Nicholas, you will stay?’

The tutor bowed. Athelstan was quick enough to catch the glance exchanged between the young King and his mentor. Richard seized Cranston’s huge hand and leaned forward so that Athelstan could hear his conspiratorial whisper.

‘Have you found the murderer yet?’

‘No, Your Grace.’

‘Or who this Ira Dei is?’

Again Cranston shook his head. Richard smiled.

‘But my uncle’s upset. I have heard him shouting,’ he continued. ‘He blames everyone. Goodman, My Lord Mayor, and even his creature Lord Clifford have not escaped censure. Do you think Uncle will be murdered?’

Cranston gazed severely at the boy. ‘Your Grace, how can you say such a thing?’

‘Oh, quite easily, for Uncle would like to be King.’

‘Your Grace, whoever tells you that is a traitor and a knave. One day
you
will be King. A great prince like your father.’

Richard’s eyes clouded at Cranston’s mention of Gaunt’s brother, the famed Black Prince.

‘Did you know Father well, Sir John?’

Cranston’s gaze softened. ‘Yes, I did, Sire. I stood beside him at Poitiers when the French tried to break through.’

And, urged on by Richard’s pleading, the Coroner gave a blow-by-blow account of the last stages of the Black Prince’s famous victory. Richard sat listening, round-eyed, until Hussey intervened, pointing out the Lord Coroner was a busy man and had other matters to attend to. Richard gave them leave to go, thanking both Athelstan and Cranston warmly. They were just about to leave when Richard, tip-toeing over the grass, ran up and caught them both excitedly by the sleeve.

‘If you find Ira Dei,’ he whispered excitedly, ‘bring him to me, Sir John!’

Cranston smiled and bowed. He and Athelstan walked back through the Guildhall and out into the heat of Cheapside.

‘Now what was all that about?’ Cranston muttered to himself.

Athelstan shook his head. Only when they were safely ensconced in a window seat of The Lamb of God, each with a tankard of cool ale in their hands, did the friar comment.