The Anger of God (3 page)

Sir John brightened at the cloying, sweet warmth of the taproom. A beadle was sitting in Cranston’s favourite, high-backed chair before the open window which looked out on to a pleasant garden. Sir John coughed and the fellow scuttled away like a frightened rabbit. Sir John sat down, tapping the table and staring appreciatively at the dark polished timbers and white plaster of this most revered of drinking places. He smacked his lips and pushed further open the diamond-shaped, latticed window so he could catch the fragrance of the herb banks. Some people avoided The Holy Lamb, they claimed it was built over an old charnel house and was reputedly haunted by ghosts and sprites but Cranston saw it as a second home, being revered almost as a saint by the landlord’s wife.

Years earlier she had been conned by a trickster who claimed he could draw both wine and sack from the same barrel. She had stupidly agreed to see him try. The man had bored a hole in one side of the barrel and told her to stop it with her finger, whilst he bored another hole from which he said the sack could come. The hapless lady had been left, forced to plug both holes in the barrel, whilst the rogue helped himself to certain monies. She had stood there, terrified, for if she had taken her fingers away, she would have wasted an entire barrel of beer, turned the taproom ankle-deep in ale and proclaimed herself a laughing-stock.

Luckily, Sir John had appeared. He had rapped the rogue across the head, helped plug the barrel and, when the rogue had regained his senses, Cranston had made him stand outside the tavern with his breeches down and a placard round his neck proclaiming him to be a fraudulent trickster.

The same taverner’s wife now came bustling towards him, a large cup of claret in one hand and a bowl of onion soup in the other. Sir John absentmindedly smiled his thanks, sipped the claret and wondered how he could bring another trickster, the murderous Rosamund, to justice. He couldn’t stop thinking of Oliver’s lonely corpse in that desolate chamber, the sniggering wife and her sycophantic ‘kinsman’ below.

Cranston heard voices and raised his head as the relic-seller, whom he had seen in Milk Street, came sliding into the tavern.

‘A rogue steeped in sin,’ he muttered to himself.

The relic-seller was old, walking with a slight limp, but with a shrewd, cold, narrow face, gimlet-eyed, and a mouth as thin and tight as a vice. He was well-dressed in a costly velvet tunic and soft red leather boots, and the purse which swung from the embroidered belt chinked heavily with coins. He grinned and waved across to the Coroner who just glared back and lowered his face over his cup. He really should go home and prepare for the evening but his house was empty as the Lady Maude had taken the two poppets to see her kinspeople in the West Country.

‘Oh, do come, Sir John,’ she had begged. ‘The rest will do you good. And you know brother Ralph will be delighted to see you.’

Cranston had shaken his head mournfully and wrapped his bear-like arms round his petite wife.

‘I cannot come, Lady,’ he declared gruffly. ‘The Council and the Regent are most insistent that I stay in London.’

Lady Maude had pulled free and looked at him archly.

‘Is that the truth, Sir John?’

‘By God’s tooth!’

‘Don’t swear,’ she had insisted. ‘Just tell me.’

Sir John had sworn upon his honour that he spoke the truth, yet it had been tinged by a lie. He couldn’t stand brother Ralph, as unlike his sister as chalk from cheese. To put it bluntly, Ralph was the most boring man Cranston had ever met. His one passion was farming and, as Sir John had wryly remarked to Athelstan: ‘Once you have listened to Ralph’s two-hour lectures on how to grow onions, that’s your lot for eternity!’

Nevertheless, Cranston felt guilty. Ralph was good-hearted and Sir John missed both his wife and the two poppets; large, plump and sturdy-legged, they would stagger up to their father, hand-in-hand, so he could rub their bald little heads. He wondered why Athelstan kept laughing every time he saw them but the friar would always pull his dark face straight, chew his lip, shake his head and declare, ‘Nothing, Sir John, nothing. They are just so like you.’

‘Sir John! Sir John! How are you?’

Cranston started and looked up. Athelstan was standing over him, his olive face sweat-stained, his black and white gown with its black cord round the waist covered in dust.

‘By the devil’s tits!’ Cranston breathed. ‘What are you doing here, monk?’

‘Friar, Sir John.’ Athelstan grinned as he pulled up a stool and sat down. ‘I walked across London Bridge to visit Father Prior at Blackfriars. He’s letting me transcribe certain parts of Roger Bacon’s work on astronomy. I called at your house and the maid said you were absent. Oh, by the way, Leif the beggar is eating your dinner.’

Cranston stared at the friar. You are lying, he thought. I wager you came over here looking for me. I know the Lady Maude left you secret instructions. Nevertheless, he was warmed by Athelstan’s concern.

‘I suppose you want me to buy a drink?’

The taverner’s wife came bustling up.

‘I have already bought them,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Claret for My Lord Coroner and a blackjack of the coolest ale for me.’ Athelstan sipped at the froth and smiled. ‘You are right, Sir John. There’ll have to be taverns in heaven.’

‘How are those rogues in your parish?’ Cranston asked.

‘Sinners like all of us, Sir John,’ he replied. ‘Bonaventure’s catching rats by the dozen. Benedicta is organizing a harvest festival. I offered to bake some bread before I remembered what a hopeless cook I am. Watkin the dung-collector is still at odds with Pike the ditcher.’ Athelstan grinned. ‘Watkin’s wife shoved Pike over in the porch. She claims he was drunk and tripped. What they don’t know is that one of Watkin’s daughters wants to marry Pike’s eldest son.’

‘Do their families know?’

‘Not yet. But when they do you will be able to hear the screams in Cheapside. Cecily the courtesan has a new beau and consequently a new dress every day. Huddle is now painting the new sanctuary.’ Athelstan put down his tankard, his face becoming serious. ‘There are two other matters,’ he added softly, but then fell infuriatingly silent.

Oh, no, Cranston thought, you’re not leaving that rat hole of a parish you love so much? You haven’t been relieved of your duties as my clerk?

Cranston stared at the dreamy-eyed friar. Athelstan had been appointed parish priest of St Erconwald’s in Southwark and Cranston’s secretarius because of past follies. As a novice Athelstan had left Blackfriars and run off with his hero-worshipping brother to the wars in France. The boy had been killed and Athelstan had returned home to witness the grief of his parents and bear the furious reprimands of his monastic superiors.

‘Well, what is it?’ Cranston asked testily.

‘Do you believe in Satan, Sir John?’

‘Yes, I do, and the bugger’s sitting over there.’ Cranston nodded across at the relic-seller deep in conversation with another rogue in a corner of the tavern. Athelstan smiled and shook his head.

‘No, Sir John, I mean the real Satan.’ His words came in a rush. ‘Do you believe he can possess someone?’

Sir John sat up straight. ‘Yes, Father, I do. I believe there’s a spirit world where beings rage against Christ and his saints. However, I also believe the average demon sits upon his rock in Hell and weeps at the wickedness he sees man get up to. Why do you ask?’

Athelstan toyed with his tankard. ‘Satan may have come to Southwark. A woman approached me after Mass this morning and claimed her step-daughter is possessed. Every night she raises the devil to accuse her father of murdering his first wife, her mother.’ Athelstan blinked and looked at his tankard. ‘The woman has asked me to perform an exorcism.’

Sir John looked at him strangely. ‘But, Athelstan, you deal with such matters every day.’

‘Oh, I know,’ the friar replied, and grinned. ‘Pernell the Fleming says there are demons no bigger than her thumb who lurk in the shadowy corners of her house to giggle and talk about her. Two years ago, Watkin the dung-collector and his wife suddenly thought the world was coming to an end: they sat on the roof of their house, the whole family with them, each holding a cross against the demon. The only thing to occur was that the roof fell in. Watkin hurt his ankle and injured his pride.’ Athelstan wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘No Sir John, this is different. Just looking at this woman, I sensed something evil is happening in that family.’

‘And will you do the exorcism?’

‘Canon law says that every diocese has an officially appointed exorcist but he can only act on behalf of the bishop and deals with very serious and public matters. It can take months to secure his services.’ Athelstan sipped from his tankard. ‘I did ask Father Prior’s advice: he reminded me it was my duty to offer what comfort I can.’ The friar pulled a face. ‘Sir John, I suppose I’m frightened. As that woman talked, I had a bone-chilling feeling of evil.’

Cranston patted him with a bear-like paw. ‘I’m sure all will be well,’ he muttered. ‘And don’t forget, Brother, there’s very little that will frighten old Jack Cranston. Bollocks!’ he suddenly roared and, grasping Athelstan’s half-filled tankard, slung it across the room at the large-tailed, heavy-bellied rat which had slipped out from beneath a cask. The tankard missed and the rat scurried away.

‘Sir John, I was enjoying that.’

Cranston mumbled an apology and shouted for another tankard.

‘I am sorry, Brother, but the city’s infested with bloody vermin. I’d like to have words with one of your parishioners.’

‘Ranulf the rat-catcher?’

Athelstan smiled and turned to thank the taverner’s wife as she brought another tankard; Sir John mumbled his apologies to her.

‘You have your choice of ratters,’ Athelstan continued. ‘Ranulf is forming a Guild of Rat-Catchers. They have asked for St Erconwald’s to be their Guild church. In a few days’ time they will all meet there for Mass and fraternal celebrations. You are right,’ he added. ‘The hot weather has brought your furry friends out in a teeming, voracious horde.’ He drank and lowered his tankard. ‘But why the temper, Sir John? It’s rare to see you throw good drink away on a rat.’

Cranston drained his wine cup, roared for another, leaned forward and began to tell Athelstan about the mysterious death of his comrade, Oliver Ingham. Athelstan studied the Coroner closely. He could see the usually genial man was deeply hurt and aggrieved by his comrade’s death. At first Sir John spoke haltingly but grew furiously eloquent as he described what he had witnessed at Ingham’s house. Finishing, he breathed noisily through his nose, drumming his stubby fingers on his broad girth.

‘You are sure it’s murder, Sir John?’

‘As sure as I have an arse!’

Athelstan chewed his lip and stared round the now crowded tavern. ‘If I can help?’ he offered.

‘Just think,’ Sir John said. ‘I know you, Athelstan. You’ll wander off, sit and look at the bloody stars, and some idea will occur to you. When it does, come back and tell me.’ Cranston slurped noisily from his goblet and smacked his lips. ‘You said there was a second matter, Brother?’

Athelstan pulled his stool closer. ‘Sir John, you must have heard the news about the growing unrest in the countryside around London? How the peasant leaders are forming themselves into a Great Community and swear to march on London. They say they will burn the city to the ground, kill all bishops and lords, and put Gaunt’s head on a pole.’

Cranston leaned closer for what they were talking about was treason.

‘I know, Brother,’ he muttered. ‘Taxes are heavy, the harvest not yet in, the gaols are full and the gallows laden. Every week news pours into the city of unrest in the villages, and attacks on royal officials increase. One tax collector in Hertford was beaten to death and hung on a gallows alongside a dead cat dressed like a bishop with its head shorn.’ He sniffed. ‘But why should this concern you, Brother?’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, Sir John! Walk the streets of Southwark and you’ll see an army waiting for a sign: the oppressed, the villains, the cutthroats and thieves. The slightest provocation and they’ll come pouring across London Bridge and the city will burn for weeks.’ Athelstan lowered his voice even further as he played with a splinter of wood on the table. ‘Some of my parishioners are involved. Pike the ditcher, Tab the tinker. . . . they spend most of their time creeping like stoats out into the countryside for this meeting or that.’

‘If they are caught,’ Cranston muttered, ‘they will hang.’

‘I know, I know, and that’s what worries me. There will be a revolt, there’ll be death, murder and cruel repression.’ Athelstan paused. ‘Sir John, have you heard of a man who calls himself Ira Dei, the Anger of God?’

Cranston nodded. ‘Everyone has,’ he whispered. ‘John of Gaunt has sworn a terrible oath that he’ll see the man hung, drawn and quartered. You see, Athelstan, the peasants are justified in their grievances and, God knows, some relief must be sought for them. Their leaders are wild men – Jack Straw, the priest John Ball – but behind them all lurks the leader of the secret council of the Great Community, this shadowy figure who calls himself Ira Dei. His arm is long and very strong. Have you heard what happened in Aldersgate?’

Athelstan shook his head.

‘In a shabby house there a sepulchral voice was heard issuing from the walls. A mob of hundreds of citizens crowded to hear what they thought was the voice of an angel. When they shouted, “God save our Regent, Duke John,” there was no answer from the entombed supernatural being. When another shouted, “God save our young King Richard!”, the voice answered, “So be it.” When asked: “What is Duke John’s future?” the voice mockingly replied “Death and destruction”. The Serjeants were sent to investigate and found a young woman within the walls pretending to be the angel. She had to sit in the pillory for days with her head shaved. But,’ Cranston tapped his finger on the table, ‘Gaunt believes Ira Dei was behind it. It shows his power and influence, my good friar.’

‘And what will my Lord of Gaunt do?’

Cranston cocked his head as the bells of nearby St Mary Le Bow began to toll for evening prayer. ‘Oh, Gaunt is worried. He cannot call a parliament for the Commons are hostile. But tonight he holds a great banquet at the Guildhall and I am to be there.’ Cranston took a deep breath. ‘Gaunt hopes to bring peace to the warring factions amongst the Guilds. He has become the friend of the merchant princes of London and their leaders; Thomas Fitzroy, Philip Sudbury, Alexander Bremmer, Hugo Marshall, Christopher Goodman and James Denny. They will celebrate their newfound amity in an orgy of food, wine and false goodwill.’