The Anger of God (5 page)

‘What about Boscombe?’ Gaunt intervened.

‘It may well be he. But have you seen this dagger, My Lord?’ Cranston held it up.

At first Athelstan thought it an ordinary Welsh stabbing dirk with its thin, long, evil blade and small grip and hilt. But beneath the smeared marks of Cranston’s cleaning, he saw something etched on the blade. Athelstan took it from Cranston’s hand and peered down.

‘Ira Dei,’ he murmured, reading aloud the rudely scrawled letters.

Gaunt kicked angrily at the grass and beat his fists against his side. ‘By the Mass.’ He glared at the others. ‘These peasant bastards threaten us here in our own city, in our own palaces!’

‘Ira Dei?’ Hussey the royal tutor shoved his way forward. ‘The Anger of God. My Lord of Gaunt, what does this mean? The King must be informed!’

‘My nephew,’ Gaunt replied testily, ‘will be told in due course.’

Athelstan caught the deep dislike in the Regent’s voice and recalled the whispers about the growing rivalry between the Regent and the royal tutor.

‘Ira Dei,’ Gaunt replied slowly, ‘is a self-styled leader, cloaked in mystery.’

‘Leader of what?’

‘The Great Community!’ Gaunt snarled. ‘The name the peasants give to their secret council of leaders who are plotting treason and rebellion, both in and around London. Sir, you should be better informed!’

‘My Lord,’ Hussey silkily replied, ‘like His Grace the King, I only know what I have been told.’

Gaunt looked away in annoyance. ‘Mountjoy’s dead,’ he whispered. ‘Stabbed by his servant who must be in the pay or service of these rebels. Sir John, Brother Athelstan, do you agree?’

Cranston was peering at the dagger whilst Athelstan was attempting to lay the bulky corpse of the dead Sheriff out along the turf seat. The man’s gown was thickly clotted with blood. Athelstan whispered the requiem and at the same time inspected the wound in the man’s chest, the nick on the fence against which he had been leaning, as well as the blood on the hands of the corpse.

‘My Lords,’ the friar declared, breathing heavily as he crossed the dead Sheriff’s hands over each other, ‘I am sure Sir John will agree with me that Sir Roger was murdered by a thrust from that dagger. It cannot have been thrown, the arbour is virtually sealed, and if the assassin stood at the gate, Sir Gerard, not to mention his dogs, would have seen him.’

‘All three of them could have been asleep,’ Fitzroy boomed stupidly. ‘Sir Gerard liked his wine.’

‘The dogs didn’t,’ Denny smirked.

‘I doubt it,’ Athelstan continued calmly. ‘Such hounds would have protected their master from any approach and Sir Gerard knew, at least for a few seconds, that he was dying. See his hands? They are blood-stained.’

‘My clerk,’ Cranston interrupted grandly, ‘is following my train of thought.’ He winked at Athelstan and walked back to the gate. ‘The dagger was not thrown. The assassin walked through the gate, perhaps with the dagger concealed. After all, it’s long and thin with no real hilt. Sir Gerard is sitting drinking his wine. He looks up and the assassin strikes, driving the dagger deep into the Sheriff’s heart, piercing his body. In his death throes Sir Gerard scrabbles at the dagger, his hands fall away, he dies.’ Cranston beamed round, I think the next step, My Lords, is that my clerk and I should interrogate the prisoner.’

Gaunt agreed, an archer was summoned, and both Cranston and Athelstan went back into the Guildhall and down into the dank, musty-smelling cellars. The passageways were torch-lit; two archers stood on guard outside a cell with a metal grille high in the door. Cranston peered through this. The dungeon was lit by an oil lamp standing on a battered table and the prisoner lay huddled on a small cot bed. The guards opened the door. Cranston and Athelstan slipped through. The man on the bed moaned and sat up.

In the poor light of the oil lamp he looked as wretched and as miserable as any man could be. Small and fat, with eyes hidden in rolls of fat, he was heavy-eyed with weeping and his hair was thick with dungeon-dirt.

Athelstan squatted down beside him and stared into the soft, pampered face of the dead Sheriff’s steward. The fellow crossed his arms and began rocking to and fro.

‘What is it now? What is it now?’ he muttered, the tears rolling down his cheeks. ‘Am I to be tortured? Am I to hang? Sirs, you are not to hurt me.’ He whimpered like a child and Athelstan saw the bruise on the side of his head. He touched the man gently on the hand and glanced back at Sir John. Cranston could tell by the look in Athelstan’s eyes that the friar had already concluded that this squat, little man with his doughy skin and plump hands was no murderer.

‘We are here to help,’ Athelstan whispered. He got up and leaned against the table whilst Cranston stood with his back to the door. ‘Just tell us the truth.’

The man looked down, still blubbering, shoulders shaking.

‘Sir Gerard’s dead,’ he moaned. ‘And I am to hang. Sirs, I am innocent – and, oh, the day began so well!’

‘Then start from the beginning,’ Athelstan urged. ‘Boscombe, Sir John Cranston has the ear of the Regent. If you tell the truth and prove your innocence, you could be out of this cell by nightfall.’

The prisoner looked up and Athelstan saw the hope flare in the steward’s dark, tear-filled eyes.

‘The day began so well,’ the fellow repeated, then coughed and his voice became firmer. ‘Sir Gerard was pleased with what was going to happen: how the Regent and he were to seal a bond of friendship between the Guilds. His Grace the King, the Regent and the others arrived mid-morning for the Mass in the Guildhall chapel. Sir Gerard was in attendance. I and the other retainers stood at the back. Mass began: the Guild-masters, the Regent and Sir Gerard shared the kiss of peace; they received the sacrament followed by the blessing of the keys.’

‘What was that?’ Cranston interrupted.

‘As a guarantee of their good intentions,’ Boscombe replied, ‘the leading Guilds deposited an ingot of gold, as did the Regent, in a specially constructed chest reinforced with iron bars and six separate locks. One key is held by the Regent, the other five by the Guild masters.’ Boscombe rubbed the side of his face. ‘After that, we had marchpanes and sweet wines in the porch of the church then the Regent, together with the Mayor, Sheriff and the five Guild master, took secret counsel in the Sheriff’s private chamber.’ Boscombe ran his fingers through his hair, now thick and matted as a wolf-lock. ‘The meeting broke up and my master said he would take his pleasure in his private garden.’

‘Did you go there?’

‘Yes, I took him a stoup of wine. He was sunning himself. He said the morning had gone well and I was not to disturb him again.’ Boscombe started to cry. ‘Masters, I was in my own chamber when I heard the shouting and the soldiers came for me. I was hustled down to the garden and saw poor Sir Gerard there. And now,’ he wailed, ‘I am to hang!’

Athelstan touched him lightly on the shoulder.

‘Be of good comfort, friend. You are no murderer. Sir John here will see that justice is done. One further question. Sir Gerard, your master, did he have any enemies?’

Now Boscombe smiled slightly. ‘Enemies?’ he retorted. I served my master well but to him I was another dog, to be kicked when I did wrong or thrown a bone when I did well. It would be better to wonder, Father, who was
not
Sir Gerard’s enemy for he had no friends. My Lord of Gaunt tolerated him. Sir Christopher Goodman the Mayor could hardly abide being in the same chamber as he, whilst the five Guildmasters . . .’ Boscombe sneered. ‘They are powerful, dangerous men. They could not abide Sir Gerard, not only for his wealth but for gaining high office in the city.’

Athelstan got to his feet. ‘Stand up!’ he ordered.

Boscombe pulled himself to his feet.

‘Are you wearing the same clothes as you were this morning?’

‘Why, yes, of course, though this morning, Brother, they were finery.’ Boscombe tugged at his cream coloured jerkin and tapped the soft, brown, woolen hose, all grimed and stained with dirt.

‘Take a look, Sir John,’ Athelstan offered. ‘Did this fellow plunge a dagger into Sir Gerard’s heart?’

‘Of course,’ Cranston murmured, seizing Boscombe’s wrist and looking carefully at the sleeves. ‘No sign of blood here.’ He clapped the servant so heartily on the shoulder, poor Boscombe nearly collapsed back on the bed again. ‘You are no assassin.’ Cranston suddenly smacked his lips and Athelstan realized how long the Coroner had been without a drink. ‘So come on, lad, let’s go upstairs!’

Cranston hammered on the door. The guard opened it but tried to stop Boscombe leaving.

‘Sod off!’ Cranston roared. ‘How dare you interfere with the King’s Coroner?’

The man hastily stepped back, mumbling apologies as the Coroner, almost dragging poor Boscombe by one hand, led them back up the passageway and into the Guildhall. They found the Regent and the others still in the garden, seated on wooden benches in a small grassy enclave. They were sipping cool white wine as if it was a fair summer’s day and all was well. They totally ignored the household men who had sheeted the Sheriff’s body and were now taking it down to lie amongst the wine casks where it would remain cool and not begin to stink.

Cranston and Athelstan stood aside as the servants hurried by, cursing and muttering at their grisly burden.

Over in the far corner of the garden, the two great wolf hounds lay forlornly on the grass as if they knew their privileged life was gone. Sir John swept before the seated men, a wan-faced Boscombe gripped by one hand. Goodman sprang to his feet while the others watched Sir John with narrowed eyes and disapproving faces.

An unwholesome bunch, Athelstan thought, men dedicated to power and the amassing of wealth; dark souls with sinister minds and powerful ambitions. They reminded the friar of hawks in a castle courtyard, straining at their jesses, ready to leave their perch to swoop and kill. Goodman advanced dramatically on Sir John.

‘This man is a city prisoner.’

‘And I am the city Coroner,’ Cranston replied. He had never liked Mountjoy but Goodman he detested as a man who would betray his own mother so long as the price was right.

‘You had no authority to free him!’ Goodman spluttered.

‘What is it, Sir John?’ Lord Adam Clifford, seated beside the Regent, languidly asked. The young man looked up, shielding his eyes against the late-afternoon sun. ‘Good Lord, man, you are not going to hang him now, are you? I haven’t eaten and this garden has seen enough violence for one day.’

Cranston bowed his head to the Regent. ‘My Lord, a little mummer’s play. Would you be so good?’

Without waiting for an answer, Cranston spun on his heel and, winking at Athelstan, hustled poor Boscombe into Mountjoy’s private arbour. The Regent shrugged, placed his wine cup on the floor and followed Cranston. Lord Adam smiled at Athelstan.

‘Some play,’ he murmured. ‘Gentlemen, I think we should follow His Grace.’

In the arbour Boscombe’s nervousness returned; he shook like a jelly as Cranston led him across to the blood-stained turf seat.

‘Right!’ Cranston beamed at Gaunt and the others standing at the gate. ‘Now, Master Boscombe,’ he drew his own long stabbing dirk, ‘I want you to murder me.’ Cranston slumped down on the turf seat, impervious to the blood congealing there, and smiled across at the Mayor. ‘Sir Christopher, of your mercy, a cup of that wine you are drinking?’

The Coroner mopped his brow with his hand and wetted his lips. Goodman was about to protest but Gaunt snapped his fingers. The Mayor hurried away and returned with a cup slopping at the brim which he thrust into the Coroner’s fat paw. Cranston silently toasted the Regent and then gazed at the pathetic Boscombe who stood, gingerly holding the dagger, as if terrified of cutting himself, never mind Sir John.

‘Right!’ Cranston barked, sipping from the cup. ‘Kill me, Boscombe!’

Athelstan stepped forward. ‘Go on, man,’ he murmured. ‘Do it now!’

Boscombe, holding the dagger out, lumbered towards Sir John. Athelstan wasn’t sure what happened next. Cranston continued to sip from the wine goblet, Boscombe struck – but the next minute the Coroner had knocked the dagger from his hand and sent the servant sprawling on to the grass. Cranston drained the cup and got to his feet.

‘My Lord Coroner has made his point,’ Athelstan tactfully intervened. ‘Boscombe doesn’t even know how to hold a dagger. Like Sir John, Sir Gerard was a fiery man. He, not to mention his dogs, would have put up some resistance. More importantly, My Lord,’ Athelstan addressed Gaunt, ‘if Boscombe had struck a dagger so deep, he’d bear blood-stains on his hands and sleeves. But,’ he added, helping Boscombe to his feet, ‘there are no such stains.

Gaunt stared heavy-lidded at Athelstan, then at Boscombe. He sighed and blew out his cheeks, dug into his purse and flicked a coin at Boscombe who, despite his nervousness, deftly caught it.

‘Master Boscombe, a grave injustice has been done. Wait over there!’

He scuttled away as fast as a rabbit to sit with the two great wolfhounds. Gaunt walked towards Cranston and Athelstan, rubbing his finger round the rim of his cup.

‘If Boscombe didn’t do it,’ he whispered, ‘then who did?’

Athelstan and Cranston stared back.

‘More importantly,’ Gaunt continued, ‘how was it done? The garden is enclosed. Mountjoy was a soldier, guarded by dogs. We have examined his wine cup. He was not drugged, so how did someone get so close to kill such a man?’ Gaunt wagged a finger at Sir John. ‘You, My Lord Coroner, and your clerk will be my guests at tonight’s banquet. You are under orders to resolve this matter, and do so quickly.’ He looked over at his companions. ‘Sirs, we must leave this matter in the capable hands of My Lord Coroner.’

‘Have you resolved the other business?’ Goodman spitefully called.

Cranston blushed with anger at the laughter this provoked. Sir Nicholas Hussey, whom Cranston secretly respected, looked embarrassed.

‘What business is this?’ Gaunt asked.

‘Oh,’ Goodman brayed, walking forward, ‘the heads and bloody parts of traitors filched from London Bridge and other places. Sir John has been trying to catch the thief for weeks.’