The Anger of God

CHAPTER 7

Cranston and Athelstan walked back to collect their horses from the stable.

‘A cup of claret, Brother?’

‘No, Sir John. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. Tell me, have you remembered why you knew Sturmey’s name?’

Cranston shook his head. ‘But one thing I do know: Brother, Sturmey was killed because he knew something. He could solve the mystery of how the chest was robbed.’ Cranston stared as two lepers, garbed completely in black, crept along the street, fearful of being recognized. ‘Sturmey was lured,’ he continued, ‘down to Billingsgate. But why? What forced a reputable locksmith to become involved in treason and robbery?’

‘There’s only one answer, Sir John. I doubt if he was bribed so the answer must be blackmail. If you search your prodigious memory, I am sure you’ll find something rather unsavoury about Master Sturmey.’

Cranston nodded and they led their horses further up the street, where their attention was drawn to a huge crowd which had assembled around a sinister figure dressed in goatskin. The man had long, grey hair falling down over his shoulders, the lower half of his face was hidden behind a thick, bushy beard; strange mad eyes scanned the crowds, fascinated by this latter-day prophet and the tall, burning cross he was holding. The latter, coated with pitch and tar along the cross beam, burnt fiercely, the flames and black smoke only emphasizing the mad preacher’s warnings.

‘This city has been condemned like Sodom and Gomorrah! Like those of Tyre and Sidon and the fleshpots of the plain to bear the brunt of God’s anger!’ The man flung one sinewy arm towards Cheapside. ‘I bring the burning cross to this city as a warning of the fires yet to come! So repent ye, you rich who loll in silk on golden couches and drink the juices of wine and stuff your mouth with the softest meats!’

Cranston and Athelstan watched the man rant on, even as soldiers wearing both the livery of the city and of John of Gaunt began to make their presence felt, pouring out of alleyways leading down to the Tower. The soldiers forced their way through the throng with the flats of their swords in an attempt to seize the mad prophet. The mob resisted, their mood sullen; fights broke out and, when Athelstan looked again, the preacher and his fiery cross had disappeared.

‘Come on, Sir John, I have a confession to make.’

He led the Coroner further away from the tumult.

‘What is it, Brother?’

‘This leader of the Great Community, Ira Dei. He has sent me a warning.’ Athelstan carefully described his strange visitation earlier in the day as well as the proclamation pinned to his church door.

Cranston, tight-lipped, heard him out, so concerned he even forgot his miraculous wineskin.

‘Why would they approach me?’ Athelstan asked.

Cranston blew out his lips. ‘Fear and flattery, Brother. Fear because he knows you are my clerk and secretarius.’

‘And secondly, Sir John?’

Cranston gave a lop-sided smile. ‘You are rather modest for a priest, Athelstan. Haven’t you realized how in Southwark, amongst the poor and the downtrodden, you are respected, even revered?’

Athelstan blushed and looked away.

‘That’s ridiculous!’ he whispered.

‘Oh no, it isn’t!’ Cranston snapped, moving on. ‘Forget Ira Dei, Brother. When the rebellion comes, it will be priests like yourself, John More and Jack Straw, who will lead the commons.’

‘I’ll hide in my church,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘Speaking of which…’ He stopped outside St Dunstan’s, looping Philomel’s reins through one of the hooks placed on the wall.

‘What’s the matter, Brother?’

‘I want to think, Sir John, and pray. I advise you to do likewise.’

Muttering and cursing, Cranston hobbled his own horse, took a generous swig from the miraculous wineskin and followed Athelstan into the cool, dark porch.

Inside the church was lit by the occasional torch with candles placed around statues of the Virgin, St Joseph and St Dunstan, as well as the sunlight pouring through the stained-glass windows which made the pictures depicted there flare into life in glorious rays of colour. Athelstan stared admiringly up at these.

‘I’d love one of those!’ he whispered. ‘Just one for St Erconwald!’

He looked again and, as he did so, Cranston took one small nip from his wineskin and followed the friar down the nave to sit on a bench before the rood screen. Behind this, in the choir stalls, the master singer and his choir were rehearsing the Mass of St Michael. Athelstan sat on the bench, closed his eyes and listened to the words.

‘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.

‘You asked a question as we left the Guildhall, Sir John. Have you considered the possibility that these deaths may not be the work of the peasant leader Ira Dei but of another court faction trying to bring the Regent into disrepute?’

‘You mean Hussey and the like?’ Cranston shook his head. ‘In answer to that, good friar, all I can reply is: have you considered the possibility that, if Gaunt goes, the young King may fall with him?’

Athelstan sat back, surprised. ‘It’s as close as that, Sir John?’

‘Oh, yes. When and if the revolt comes, do you think the peasant leaders will distinguish between one prince and another? Haven’t you heard their song, Brother? “When Adam delved and Eve span, Who was then the Gentleman?”.’ Cranston gulped from his blackjack of ale. ‘What worries me more, Brother, are the likes of Goodman, Denny and Sudbury, who would like to see London without a King, ruled by merchant princes like the cities they trade with: Florence, Pisa and Genoa. So many players,’ he murmured. ‘God knows, Brother, it’s hard to distinguish between the good and the bad.’ He roared for another tankard. ‘But you were saying, before Hussey arrived, you think Gaunt has a spy in your parish?’

Athelstan’s face became closed and tight-lipped and Cranston glimpsed the gentle friar’s rare anger.

‘You have your suspicions?’

‘For the moment, Sir John, by your leave, I’ll keep close counsel and a still mouth. But, yes, I do.’

They sat for another hour, Cranston deciding to eat at the tavern rather than return to his empty house. The shadows began to lengthen. Outside the market closed and the stalls were taken down. As the tavern began to fill with sweat-soaked apprentices and hoarse-voiced tinkers, desperate to quench their thirst, Cranston and Athelstan collected their horses and returned through the emptying streets towards London Bridge.

The crowds had now gone home so they found their passage easy and Athelstan began to prepare himself for his visit to the Hobdens and the exorcism of the young girl, Elizabeth.

‘Have you ever done this before?’ Cranston asked curiously, half an eye on a well-known pickpocket who was trailing a tired-looking tinker.

‘Done what, Sir John?’

‘An exorcism, a real one?’

Suddenly Cranston turned away and shouted across Bridge Street: ‘Foulpie!’

The pickpocket spun round, a startled look on his face.

‘Foulpie, me boy!’ Cranston roared. ‘I’ve got my eye on you, you bloody little thief! Now be a good lad and piss off!’

The one-eyed tinker stopped and turned, startled.

‘What’s the matter?’ he shouted.

Cranston grinned and pointed to Foulpie, haring back towards East Cheap as fast as any whippet.

‘A rapscallion interested in your takings.’

The tinker smiled his thanks and the Coroner turned back to his subdued companion.

‘Well, Brother?’ he asked between swigs from the miraculous wineskin. ‘Have you ever exorcized the Lord Satan or one of his minions?’

Athelstan half-grinned and shook his head.

‘I’ve seen an exorcism,’ Cranston continued. ‘A real one. Fifteen years ago at St Benet Sherehog. You know the church?’

Athelstan nodded.

‘A young boy was taken there from the hospital of St Anthony of Vienne. Well,’ Cranston helped himself once more to the wineskin, ‘Brother, I still have nightmares about it! You see, the exorcist was one of those rare men, a really holy friar.’ Cranston sniffed at his own joke. ‘And I was one of the official witnesses appointed by the Bishop of London. They brought this lad, no more than fourteen summers, and chained him in the sanctuary chair next to the rood screen.’ The Coroner stopped to clear his throat, now Athelstan was listening eagerly. ‘This boy,’ he continued, ‘could speak in strange tongues, raise himself from the ground and, worse, tell people their secrets.’

‘What happened?’ Athelstan asked curiously.

‘Well, the exorcist began the ceremony and the boy suddenly changed. He became violent and abusive, cursing the exorcist with every foul word he knew. Now there’s a part of the ceremony, you know, when the exorcist…’

‘Solemnly invokes?’ Athelstan asked.

‘That’s it, solemnly invokes the devil and asks him by what name he is called. The boy’s voice, usually thin and reedy, became deep and rich, “I AM THE SWINE LORD,” he replied.’ Cranston shook his head. ‘That sanctuary became dark and there was the most offensive stink of putrefaction. Then the exorcist reached the end of the ritual where he was supposed to tell the demon who possessed the boy to leave, and the demon answered: “WHERE SHALL I GO? WHERE SHALL I GO?”’ Cranston stopped and reined in his horse.

‘Go on, Sir John, please.’

‘Well, there was another witness there. A young lawyer from the Inns of Court in Chancery Lane. He had watched the proceedings in a half-mocking fashion and, when the demon cried, “WHERE SHALL I GO? WHERE SHALL I GO?” this young bright spark suddenly whispered, “Well, he can come to me.”’

Sir John turned in the saddle. ‘Brother, I do not lie. The possessed boy threw himself back in a dead faint. I heard a rushing sound as if a huge bird was swooping for the kill and this young lawyer was suddenly lifted off his feet and thrown bodily against a pillar. He was unconscious for days.’ Cranston urged his horse on.

‘Why do you tell me this, Sir John? Are you trying to frighten me?’

‘No.’ Cranston’s face remained serious. ‘That’s the only occasion I have ever witnessed such a scene and it taught me a lesson. I can distinguish, Brother, between the real forces of darkness and the countless tricks of charlatans. Believe me, I have seen them all. Voices in the night, footsteps on dusty stairs, clanking in the cellars.’ He grinned. ‘So, put your trust in old Jack Cranston, Brother. Bring your oils and holy water, by all means, but leave old Jack to his own devices.’