The Anger of God (23 page)

The friar extinguished the candle and trudged upstairs, lay down on the cot bed and stared up at the ceiling. On such a beautiful autumn evening, particularly a Sunday, he would usually be at the top of the church tower, scanning the stars and talking to Bonaventure about the theories of Roger Bacon. He had to confess, however, that a study of the human heart was more fascinating as he began to build a logical explanation which might flush out the murderer into God’s own light. His mind sifted the possibilities till his eyes grew heavy. He drifted into a troubled sleep and a recurring nightmare of standing under the moonlight in the Guildhall garden.

He was sitting where Mountjoy had been and could see the assassin moving behind the fence paling. He tried to get up but realized he was fastened and unable to move. He knew the assassin was going to strike. Then Athelstan would turn, conscious of someone beside him, and see the greyish faces and red-rimmed eyes of a line of corpses: Mountjoy, Fitzroy, Sarah Hobden, whilst on a spike in the centre of the garden was the decapitated head of Jacques Larue, the French pirate. The corpses pressed against him, mouths gaping. Athelstan wanted to shove them away but was terrified of taking his eyes off the assassin lurking behind the fence.

At last he awoke, sweating and moaning. He swung his legs off the bed, breathing deeply to control his thudding heart. He looked through the window. The sky was already shot with red so he washed, changed and went down to the kitchen for something to eat. Eventually the terrors of the night faded as he sat before the rekindled fire, gently rocking in the chair with Bonaventure curled in his lap. Then he went back to his writing. At first slowly, then with greater vigour and speed as he drew up what he termed his bill of indictment against the assassin.

Outside the birds stirred, swooping and singing; the sun rose higher and stronger. Athelstan put down his pen and went across to the church to celebrate Mass. No one came. Crim, heavy-eyed, burst through the door just as he finished, shouting his apologies. The lad explained how both his family and that of Pike the ditcher had spent the previous evening celebrating the forthcoming betrothal. Athelstan reassured him all was well, took a penny from his pouch and led Crim out on to the porch of the church.

‘You know the Lord Coroner, Crim?’

‘You mean old Horse Crusher?’

‘No, Crim!’

‘Yes, Father, I know the Lord Coroner and where he lives.’

‘Well, go across and see him. Deliver this message. He is to meet me at The Holy Lamb of God.’ Athelstan paused. ‘Yes, just as the market opens. Also tell him to ask my Lord of Gaunt and the other nobles to meet us at the Guildhall at noon.’ He slipped the penny into the boy’s grimy hand and made him repeat his message three times. Crim faithfully did so, eyes closed in concentration, and then was off, running like a hare down the alleyway.

Athelstan went back into the church and crouched at the foot of one of the pillars. He’d be glad to have this business finished. He only hoped he was right. He had some proof but not enough: that would come when they were all assembled in the Guildhall though he would have to confess that the identity of Ira Dei was a mystery that had eluded him.

Athelstan stared round the church. He really would have to catch up on parish business. Huddle had not finished his painting above the baptismal font, whilst Cecily had not cleaned the church for days. Athelstan closed his eyes. If only he could persuade someone to buy stained glass for one of the windows. Some brilliant picture like those he had seen in the well-patronized London churches. A story from the life of Christ or even that of St Erconwald, portrayed in great detail so he could refer to it when he gave his sermons.

His mind wandered. He hoped Elizabeth Hobden would be safe with the Minoresses, and had Cranston issued the warrants for the arrest of her father and stepmother? Athelstan sighed and got to his feet. Returning to the priest’s house he cleared the table, packed the leather bag with his writing implements and went out to saddle a rather surly Philomel.

He rode down to London Bridge, past the one-storied tenements of many of his parishioners. He resisted the temptation to ride directly at Ursula’s great sow which was lumbering up the street, its ears flapping, probably heading direct for Athelstan’s garden patch. The friar stopped beside a small ale-house where Cecily sat, legs pertly crossed, deep in conversation with Pike the ditcher. Athelstan handed him the keys to the church.

‘Cecily,’ he pleaded, ‘the church needs a good clean and I have paid you to do it.’

The girl’s child-like blue eyes filled with tears.

‘Oh, Father, I am sorry but . . .’

‘Cecily has been busy,’ Pike interrupted. ‘With Alberto.’

‘Who?’

‘A sailor from a Geneose cog berthed at Dowgate.’ Pike’s grin widened. ‘Now he has gone, Cecily is back with us and the church will be clean.’

Athelstan smiled. ‘Did you like him, Cecily?’

‘Oh, yes, Father. He promised he’d be back within two months.’

Athelstan nodded and urged Philomel forward. Aye, he thought, poor Cecily. Cranston would say: ‘Alberto would be back when Ursula’s sow takes flight.’ He patted Philomel’s neck.

‘We are the poor, Philomel,’ he whispered, ‘remember that. And if wishes were horses, beggars would ride.’

‘Are you talking to yourself, Father?’

Athelstan looked up. He’d passed the priory of St Mary Overy and was on the broad street leading down to the bridge. People were shoving and pushing around him and he couldn’t see the person who had spoken.

‘Father, it’s me.’

Athelstan stared down to where Burdon, the keeper of the gatehouse, stood almost hidden beneath Philomel’s muzzle.

‘No, Master Burdon, just praying,’ he lied.

The manikin slipped towards him. ‘Where’s Sir John? Oh, don’t tell me, deep in his cups in some city tavern. What about my heads?’

‘What about them?’ Athelstan asked. ‘Have more gone?’

‘No.’ The little man squared his shoulders. ‘But them that’s gone should come back.’

‘Well, I’ll see Sir John about that.’

‘Good! And tell him to stop by soon. My wife is expecting another child.’

Athelstan waved and urged Philomel on. He didn’t want Burdon to see the surprised grin on his face for surely it was one of God’s great mysteries how such a little man could be the proud father of enough children to fill a choir stall?

London Bridge was packed with carts and dray horses and Athelstan had to wait patiently, remembering not to look between the gaps at the seething river below. At last he was across, riding up Bridge Street, Lombard Street and then into bustling Cheapsidc.

Sir John, full of the joys of spring, had received Crim’s message and was seated in The Holy Lamb of God busily munching on a dish of eels and newly baked bread. He looked fresh and rested, and almost crushed Athelstan in his embrace.

‘I have said it once,’ the Coroner boomed, ‘and I’ll say it again! For a monk, you are not too bad!’ He held Athelstan at arm’s length. ‘Have some claret.’

‘No, Sir John.’

‘You’ve discovered the murderer?’ Cranston whispered.

‘You have sent the message to the Guildhall?’

Cranston nodded.

‘Then, Sir John, sit down and I’ll tell you what I think.’

Cranston sipped his drink whilst Athelstan developed his explanation. The Coroner asked a few questions then sat cradling his tankard, staring out into Cheapside.

‘Are you sure, Brother?’

‘Not fully, but it’s the only logical conclusion.’

‘How do we know the person you name might not be Ira Dei?’

‘I doubt that, Sir John, but it’s possible.’

‘But could someone use a dagger like that? No, no.’ Cranston waved a hand. ‘On second thoughts, it could be done. Let me take you to Simon the armourer. Our comrades of the Guildhall are not to meet us until noon, yes?’

Athelstan nodded. Cranston heaved his great bulk up and swaggered out into Cheapside and up Friday Street. The houses crowded together here; shop signs jutting out on poles swung dangerously above people’s heads. Cranston stopped under a gaudily painted picture of a steel basinet and a pair of gauntlets.

‘Let’s have a word with old Simon.’

Despite its narrow frontage, inside the shop was large and cavernous. In the back yard beyond was a small smithy, where sweating apprentices brought pieces of metal from the roaring fires and placed them on anvils to hammer with all their might. A small rubicund man appeared as if from nowhere. He reminded Athelstan of a goblin with his bright, darting eyes, thin hair and long, pointed ears.

‘Sir John!’ The little man’s eyes gleamed at the prospect of profit as he surveyed the portly bulk of the Coroner. ‘You have come to buy armour?’

The little man wetted his lips as he calculated the fee for protecting such a wide girth in chain mail and plate armour. For a while Cranston teased him but then clapped the little fellow on the shoulder, almost driving him into the ground.

‘Nonsense, Simon, and you know it. My fighting days are over. This is Athelstan, my clerk.’ He waved one podgy hand airily. ‘And he has a theory. Explain!’

Athelstan did so. Simon heard him out, pulled a face and shrugged.

‘Of course.’

He went into the back of the shop, opened a huge chest and became involved in a heated discussion with Cranston over daggers, dirks, Italian stilettos, long bows, crossbows and arbalests. An apprentice was called in to demonstrate the proof of Simon’s argument. An hour later Cranston, Athelstan and the little armourer, a leather sack over his shoulder, walked back into Cheapside, heading directly for the Guildhall. Athelstan stopped at a baker’s to buy some marzipan and doucettes wrapped in a linen bag. They had also to pause as beadles led a line of malefactors and felons from the Newgate and Fleet prisons to be punished.

There was the usual despondent procession of footpads, felons, night-walkers, but then came a cart preceded by two musicians playing bagpipes – a jaunty skittish tune. Then a horse and cart, the latter filled with all forms of grisly objects which made the air stink like a sewer and provoked cries of outrage and clamour from the crowd. At the tail of the cart were the two relic-sellers Cranston had arrested the previous day. The men’s faces were bloody, their tousled hair covered in all sorts of filth as the crowd pelted them with offal and refuse.

Cranston grinned. Athelstan felt a twinge of compassion, for both men had their hose pulled around their ankles whilst their bare buttocks were sore and bleeding as two beadles lashed them with thick leather belts. Behind the malefactors another official walked with a gaudily painted proclamation describing ‘The horrible crimes of these two counterfeit men’.

‘What will happen to them?’ Athelstan Asked.

‘Not what they deserve,’ Cranston growled ‘The carts full of their so-called relics will be taken down to London Bridge to be burnt by the public hangman. After that our two beauties will be whipped to Aldgate, cut loose and banned from the city, under pain of forfeiture of a limb for the first offence, their lives for the second.’ Cranston gazed over the crowd, now yelling abuse as the carts disappeared up the Mercery. ‘It’s a lesson for the others which by tomorrow they will undoubtedly have forgotten.’

They continued across Cheapside, the little armourer drawing Cranston back into an acrimonious debate over the superiority of certain weapons At the Guildhall they had to cool their heels for a while before a tipstaff took them up to the council chamber where Gaunt, flanked by Clifford and Hussey, sat with the Guildmasters. The Regent dispensed with ceremony. Not even inviting them to sit, whilst he looked disdainfully at the little armourer. Simon was so overcome in the presence of such august personages he couldn’t stop bobbing and bowing, until Cranston hissed at him to stay still and stand by the door.

‘You have something to report, My Lord Coroner?’

‘Yes, Your Grace.’

Gaunt played with the leather tassels on his expensively quilted jacket. Athelstan could see that the Regent had been looking forward to a morning’s hunting in the fields and marshes north of Clerkenwell, Hussey was his usual diplomatic self, pleasant-faced but quiet. Clifford rubbed his wounded shoulder thoughtfully, whilst the Guildmasters were like a pack of hunting dogs: Goodman the Mayor tapping his fingers loudly on the table. Sudbury and the rest were arrogant and resentful at being summoned from a morning’s trade.

‘Well?’ Goodman snapped. ‘We are busy men, Sir John!’

‘As am I, My Lord Mayor.’

‘You have come earlier than we thought,’ Sudbury snarled. ‘Do you have our gold?’

Cranston shook his head.

‘Have you arrested Ira Dei?’

‘No.’

Gaunt leaned forward and smiled falsely.

‘So why in God’s name are we here, Sir John?’

‘Perhaps to arrest a murderer, Your Grace. All entrances to the Guildhall must be secured.’

Gaunt stared back, a spark of interest in his eyes as he realized this was to be no ordinary meeting.

‘You have discovered something, haven’t you?’ he said softly. ‘You and your little friar.’

The atmosphere in the chamber changed dramatically. They’d dismissed us as failures, Athelstan thought to himself. These arrogant hawks thought a fat Coroner and his dusty friar too dim-witted to search out the truth. He breathed deeply to control his anger. Gaunt sat back and spread his hands.

‘Sir John, in this matter we are your prisoners.’ He glared over his shoulders and bellowed at a captain of the guard standing against the wall behind him: ‘Have the Guildhall secured! No one is to leave or enter until I say.’ He looked at Cranston, ‘What else do you need, My Lord Coroner?’

Athelstan spoke instead. ‘I want the banqueting table laid out, as it was the night Fitzroy died.’

Gaunt nodded. ‘And what else?’

‘I want cushions and bolsters where Sir Gerard Mountjoy the Sheriff was sitting. The garden must be cleared.’

Gaunt smiled. ‘And finally?’

‘Until I and Sir John have finished, Your Grace, I would be grateful if you would all stay here.’

A hubbub of protest broke out but Gaunt slammed the table top for silence, his face flushed.