The Anger of God

by Paul Doherty

  ‘Bloody rats!’ he repeated. ‘The city’s infested with them. The heat’s brought them out.’

  He stared at the lonely, sheeted corpse of his friend. He had arrived to find Sir Oliver Ingham not only dead for hours, but with two rats gnawing at his hand. Cranston had roared abuse at Ingham’s pretty young wife but she had smiled slyly and said she had done her best to protect her husband’s body since it had been found by a servant earlier in the day.

  ‘He had a weak heart, Sir John,’ she lisped, one soft, white hand on the arm of her ‘good kinsman’ Albric Totnes.

  ‘Some kinsman!’ Cranston muttered to himself. ‘I bet the two were dancing between the sheets even as Oliver died. Bloody murderers!’

  He dug into his wallet and fished out a short letter Oliver Ingham had sent him only the previous day. Cranston sat down and read it again as his large, protuberant eyes filled with tears.

  I am dying, old friend. I committed the worst folly of an old man: I married someone two score years younger than me. A veritable May and December marriage, but I thought she would love me. I found she did not. Yet her smile and touch were enough. Now I find she has betrayed me and could possibly plot my death. If I die suddenly, old friend, if I die alone, then it will be murder. My soul will cry to God for vengeance and to you for justice. Do not forget me.

  Oliver

  Cranston neatly folded the piece of parchment and put it away. He had shown it to no one yet he believed his friend was right. Something in Cranston’s blood whispered ‘Murder’, but how could he prove it? Sir Oliver had been found dead in his bed at mid-morning by a servant and Cranston, as both his friend and Coroner, had been sent for. He had arrived to find Ingham’s young wife, Rosamund, supping with her ‘kinsman’ in the solar below, whilst the family physician, a balding, ferret-faced man in smelly robes, had simply declared that Sir Oliver’s weak heart had given out and his soul was gone to God.

  Cranston got up and walked to the side of the bed where the jug, knocked from its table by Oliver in his final apoplexy, still lay. At his insistence the doctor had sniffed the jug and then the cup, Oliver’s favourite, and solemnly pronounced:

  ‘No, Sir John, nothing in it except claret and perhaps a little of the foxglove I prescribed to keep Sir Oliver’s heart strong.’

  ‘Could more have been put in?’ Cranston asked.

  ‘Of course not!’ the physician snapped. ‘What are you implying, Sir John? A strong infusion of foxglove would leave the cup and jug reeking.’

  Sir John had demurred and sent for Theobald de Troyes, his own physician, a man skilled in his art and patronized by many of the court. Theobald had given corpse, cup and jug a most thorough scrutiny.

  ‘The physician was correct,’ he announced. ‘You see, Sir John, if Sir Oliver was given too much foxglove, his corpse would bear some trace. I can find nothing except the effects of a sudden seizure, whilst the cup only carries traces of claret and a little foxglove, but no more than a good doctor would prescribe. The jug smells only of foxglove.’

  ‘Any mark of violence?’ Cranston asked.

  ‘None whatsoever, Sir John.’ Theobald lowered his eyes. ‘Except the rat bites on the fingers of the right hand. Sir John,’ the physician had pleaded, ‘Sir Oliver retired to bed last night, feeling ill. His servants heard him declare he felt weak and dizzy with pains in his chest. He locked his chamber door and left the key in the lock. The windows were similarly padlocked. No one could enter to do him mischief.’

  Sir John had grunted, bade him farewell and sat in this chamber for the last two hours, wondering how murder could have been committed.

  ‘I wish Athelstan was here,’ he moaned to himself. ‘Perhaps he would see something wrong. Bloody monk! And I wish he would bring that sodding cat with him!’

  Cranston thought of Athelstan’s fierce-looking torn cat, Bonaventure, whom his secretary and friend proclaimed was the best rat-catcher in Southwark. Cranston sighed, crossed himself, lowered his eyes and said the prayer for the dead.

  ‘Grant eternal rest to Oliver, my friend,’ he muttered as his mind drifted back down the passage of the years: Oliver, tall and strong, standing at his shoulder as the French knights broke through the English ranks at Poitiers. The roar of battle, the neighing of war steeds, the clash of swords, the silent purr of the arrow, the stabbing and hacking as they and a few others bore the brunt of the last desperate French attack. The ground underfoot had become slippery with blood. Cranston had stood, legs apart, whirling his sword like a great scythe against the French knights as they closed in for the kill.

  A monstrous giant had rushed against him, his helmet in the shape of a devil’s head with wide, sweeping horns, its yellow plume tossing in the evening breeze. Cranston, glimpsing steel-encased arms swinging back a huge battle axe, had moved to one side, slipped and gone down in the mud. He had expected to receive his death blow but Oliver had stepped over him, taken the brunt of the blow with his own shield and, closing with the enemy, shoved his small misericorde dagger between cuirass and helm.

  ‘I owe you my life,’ Cranston confessed afterwards.

  ‘One day you can repay the debt!’ Oliver laughed as they both sat on the battle field toasting each other in cup after cup of the claret they’d filched from the French camp. ‘One day you will repay the debt.’

  Cranston opened tear-filled eyes. He raised his right hand and stared at the corpse. ‘By the sod, I will!’ he muttered. He looked once more at the pathetic corpse under its winding sheet.

  ‘In our golden days,’ he whispered, ‘we were greyhounds racing for the hunt! Young hawks swooping for the kill! Ah, the days!’

  Cranston tapped his broad girth, pulled the bed curtains close and stamped out of the chamber, pausing only to glance once more at the damaged lock.

  He tramped like a Colossus down the stairs and marched into the solar where Lady Rosamund and ‘kinsman’ Albric were playing cat’s-cradle in the window seat. Rosamund looked all the more beautiful in a gown of black damask and carefully arranged veil of the same colour, her narrow face twisted into an approximation of grief. Cranston just glared at her, and even more contemptuously at her smooth-faced, sack-lipped, weak-eyed young lover.

  ‘You are finished, Sir John?’ Rosamund rose as the balding, red-faced giant marched towards her. She at least expected him to kiss her hand but Cranston seized her and Albric by the wrist and pulled both to their feet, squeezing hard as he pulled them close.

  ‘You, madam, are a murdering bitch! No, don’t widen your eyes and scream for help! And you, sir –’ Albric’s eyes fell away. ‘Look at me, man!’ Cranston squeezed harder. ‘Look at me, you whoreson bastard!’

  Albric’s eyes came up.

  ‘You are party to this. If you had the courage I would challenge you to a duel and take the head from your shoulders. Don’t forget, the offer’s always there!’

  ‘Sir John, this is . . .’

  ‘Shut up!’ Cranston growled. ‘Upstairs lies the truest comrade a man could ask for. A good soldier, a shrewd merchant and the best of friends. Oliver’s heart may have become weak but he had the courage of a lion and the generosity of a saint. He adored you, you whey-faced mare, and you broke his heart! You betrayed him. I know you killed him. God knows how but I will discover it!’ Cranston shoved them both back into the window seat. ‘Believe me, I’ll see you both dance at Smithfield on the end of a rope!’

  He spun on his heel and walked to the door.

  ‘Cranston!’ Rosamund yelled.

  ‘Yes, bitch!’ he replied over his shoulder.

  ‘I am innocent of my husband’s death.’

  The Coroner made a rude sound with his lips.

  ‘In ten days’ time my husband’s will shall be read out. All his property and his wealth will be mine. I shall use that wealth to prosecute you in the courts for slander and contumacious speech.’

  ‘In ten days’ time,’ he retorted, ‘I’ll see you in Newgate! You may remove the corpse but nothing e
lse. I have an inventory of what’s there!’

  Cranston walked into the passageway, trying to curb his anger at the derisive laughter behind him. Ingham’s old retainer Robert stood near the front door, white-faced.

  ‘Sir John,’ he whispered. ‘How can you prove what you say?’

  Cranston stopped, one hand on the latch, and stared at the servant’s lined, tired face.

  I can and I will,’ he growled. ‘But tell me once more what happened yesterday.’

  ‘My master had been ill for days: fatigued, complaining of a lightness in his head and pains in his chest. He left supper last night with his wine cup. I saw him go to the buttery and fill the jug with a small infusion of foxglove to mix later with his wine as the physician had prescribed. Then he went to bed. He locked his chamber door and, because I was concerned, I stood guard.’ The man’s voice quavered, I thought I would let him rest but when the bells of St Mary Magdalen began to chime for mid-morning prayer, I tried to rouse him. I summoned the servants, we forced the door. The rest you know.’

  ‘Couldn’t someone have saved him from the rats?’ Cranston retorted.

  ‘Sir John, the house is infested with them. The Lady Rosamund hates cats or any animals.’

  Sir John patted him on the shoulder. ‘Your master will have justice, I will see to that. Now, pray for his soul and take care of his corpse. One of my bailiffs is coming to seal the room.’

  Sir John walked out into Milk Street. He entered the church of St Mary Magdalen and lit five candles before the smiling figure of the Virgin and Child.

  ‘One for Maude, two for the poppets,’ he whispered, thinking of his fine, sturdy sons, now six months old. ‘One for Athelstan,’ he murmured, ‘and one for Sir Oliver, God rest him.’

  Sir John knelt, closed his eyes, and recited three Aves before realizing how thirsty he was.

  He lumbered out of the church, down Milk Street and into a deserted Cheapside. The stall-owners had now packed up for the day, removing their possessions back to the front rooms of their shops, taking down their booths and leaving the broad thoroughfare to the bone and rag collectors, a lazy-eyed whore looking for custom, snapping mongrels and sleek, fat alley cats who couldn’t believe their luck at the myriad of rats which now plundered the mounds of rubbish and human refuse. A few tinkers and pedlars still touted for business; these shouted friendly abuse at Sir John, who gave as good as he got as he passed, swift as an arrow, into his favourite tavern, The Holy Lamb of God.

  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 remembe
red 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.’