Текст книги "The Anger of God"

Автор книги: Paul Doherty

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 14 страниц)

CHAPTER 5

Once out in Cheapside Cranston stopped and stared up at the moon. ‘The devil’s piss on them!’ he cursed. ‘Cock’s blood! What a stinking pot of turds! What a mess! The whoreson, beetle-headed, fat-bellied, treacherous bastards!’

Athelstan smiled. ‘You are, My Lord Coroner, referring to our brothers in Christ, the Guildmasters?’

‘Yes, monk, I am.’ Cranston plucked his miraculous wineskin from beneath his cloak and gulped heartily. ‘Lord,’ he breathed, ‘what a mess! How was Fitzroy killed, Brother? He didn’t take the poison before the meal, his food and all the cutlery bore no sign of any potion.’

Athelstan shook his head. ‘You are ahead of me, Sir John. I am still wondering about Mountjoy’s death.’ The friar stared across the darkened Cheapside, his gaze attracted by the lantern horns fixed outside the great merchants’ houses. He recalled the words of his old lecturer, Father Paul: ‘The root of all sin,’ the old friar had boomed, ‘is pride. And the opposite of love is not hatred or indifference but power. Power corrupts; the pursuit of it is the road to Hell.’

We are on that road now, Athelstan thought, thronged by powerful men with a raging thirst for the best things in life. We are all killers, he concluded, and despite the warm evening air, shivered. He felt like a masked swordsman being thrust into a pitch-black tourney thronged by killers, I want to go home,’ he whispered before he could stop himself.

Cranston looked at him curiously. ‘This is your home, Brother.’

Athelstan smiled and shook himself free from his reverie. ‘Aye, Sir John, but we have a locksmith to question. Tell me, why are. you puzzled by Sturmey’s name?’

Cranston blessed himself, took three more swigs from the wineskin, popped back the stopper and, linking his arm through Athelstan’s, guided him up the Poultry.

‘I don’t know,’ he muttered. ‘But the name rings a bell. It will take time, Brother.’

Athelstan pinched his nostrils for this part of Cheapside still stank of dead birds. He tried not to look at the rats racing between the cesspits in the centre of the street to forage amongst the juicy morsels of giblets and decapitated heads of chickens, partridge, quail and plover. Two white feathers floated by and Athelstan thought of angels.

‘No angels here,’ he muttered.

‘You’re dead bloody right!’ Cranston retorted.

They jumped and stepped aside as two old ladies suddenly turned the corner, pushing a hand cart, the corpse of another old harridan sprawled over it. Athelstan sketched a blessing in the air. One of the old crones looked over her shoulder and cackled.

‘Gone she has,’ she screeched. ‘Died of the flux and it’s the lime pits for her.’

‘I wish I could stop that,’ Cranston observed. ‘They will dump the body on some church steps.’

The cart trailed away into the darkness and they continued into the Mercery. Two whores stood on the corner of an alleyway, their saffron dresses and red wigs shining like beacons in the gloom.

‘Hello, ladies!’ Cranston shouted. ‘You know the law?’

‘What law?’ the taller of the two replied. ‘We are a prayer group.’

‘It’s Cranston!’ the shorter one hissed, and the two ladies of the night fled like fire-flies up the darkened alley.

Athelstan and Cranston turned into Lawrence Lane, a dark tunnel because the houses on either side leaned over so close, a person in the highest story could actually tap on a window opposite.

‘Mind your step!’ Cranston warned.

Athelstan looked down and realized the sewer in the centre of the street had overflowed, drenching the cobbles with all kinds of putrid filth. The street reeked of sulphur which some good citizen must have poured in to kill the stench. Dark forms edged out of alleyways. Cranston tugged his cloak over his shoulders and pulled out his long Welsh stabbing dagger.

‘Good evening, my buckos! I’m Jack Cranston, Coroner.’

The sinister shadows disappeared.

They continued on, Cranston stopping to look at the shop signs which hung on poles just above their heads. At last, just before Lawrence Lane ran into Catte Street, he stopped and pointed to a sign creaking on rusting chains. It bore the legend ‘Peter Sturmey, Locksmith’. Cranston stepped back and looked up. He could see candlelight glowing in one of the upper stories so began to hammer on the door.

‘Piss off!’ someone shouted from across the street.

Athelstan and Cranston moved quickly as the foul contents of a night pot were hurled down.

‘Sod off!’ Cranston yelled back. ‘I am an officer of the law!’

‘I couldn’t care if you were the King himself!’ the voice shouted back, but they heard the casement window snap shut and Cranston went back to his hammering.

At last his perseverance was rewarded. They heard footsteps, the door was pulled back on its chains and the pallid face of a maid, ghostly in the candlelight, peered out at them.

‘Who is it?’ she murmured. ‘What is the matter? Do you have news of my master?’

‘Open the door!’ Cranston murmured. ‘That’s a good lass. I am the city Coroner and this is Brother Athelstan. We must have words with your master.’

The chains were loosened and the maid, swathed in a cloak, stepped back to allow them in. In the candlelight the passageway came alive with dancing, flickering shapes.

‘I want your master,’ Cranston repeated gently.

‘Sir, he is not here. He left this afternoon and has not returned.’

Athelstan closed his eyes. ‘Oh, God!’ he breathed.

‘What is it?’

A tousle-haired boy, heavy-eyed with sleep but with the face of an angel, suddenly darted from a room off the passageway, a lantern almost as big as his head held high in one hand.

‘And who are you, sir?’ Cranston asked.

‘Perrot,’ he replied. ‘Master Sturmey’s apprentice.’

The boy came closer. Athelstan judged him to be about thirteen or fourteen summers old and, once again, was reminded of an angel Huddle had painted on the walls of St Erconwald’s.

‘The master’s gone,’ the boy said flatly. ‘He went out just after noon and he hasn’t come back.’

‘And the lady of the house?’

‘She’s gone too and won’t be back.’

‘Why not?’

‘She died five years ago.’

Athelstan grinned and plucked a penny from his purse. He spun it and the boy nimbly caught it.

‘And Sturmey’s son?’

‘He’s gone too,’ the maid and apprentice chorused.

‘He’s in York. Some important business of the King.’

Cranston nodded as he looked at the two solemn faces.

‘Look,’ he said reassuringly, ‘we can’t discuss things here. You, boy, you sleep in the shop?’

‘Aye, I do.’

‘Then let’s go there.’

The boy blinked and looked at the maid, who nodded.

‘Come on then,’ Perrot instructed. ‘But you mustn’t touch anything, otherwise the master will beat me.’

He led them into a room off the passageway, lit candles and pulled out two stools for his unexpected visitors. Athelstan sat down and stared around. He’d never seen so many keys. They hung in bunches on the wall or lay on benches around the whitewashed room, together with pieces of metal, casting irons, pincers. He glimpsed the small forge on the outside wall. The place smelt of burnt wood and charcoal and everything was covered in a fine grey dust. He looked under one table and saw the apprentice’s bed: a straw mattress, a bolster, a woollen blanket and a rather battered wooden horseman. Perhaps the boy’s favourite toy.

‘Would you like some wine?’ the maid invited, trying to act older than she was.

‘No, no.’ Atheistan smiled. ‘Sir John never touches wine, do you. My Lord Coroner?’

No, no,’ Cranston gruffly replied, narrowing his eyes at Atheistan. He drew himself up. ‘It sets a fine example.’

The boy peered at the large Coroner under lowered eye-lashes, as if only half-convinced.

‘Where did your master go?’ Cranston asked.

‘I don’t know, he just left the shop.’

‘And how was he?’

‘Very excited,’ the apprentice replied.

‘About what?’

‘Oh, making the chest for the great lords, and the keys.’

‘Tell me.’ Cranston leaned forward, trying to keep the wineskin concealed under his cloak. ‘Did you help your master make the chest, its locks and keys?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘And how many keys did he make?’

‘Six.’

‘Didn’t he make any more just in case one was lost?’

‘Oh, no, my master said that was forbidden.’

‘And,’ Atheistan intervened, ‘did he have any visitors to the shop? Someone mysterious, cloaked and hooded?’

‘No.’ The boy laughed. ‘Why should he?’

His eyes flickered and he looked away. You are hiding something, Athelstan thought, but nothing to do with this.

‘And which of the great ones came here?’

‘Well, they all came here yesterday,’ Perrot replied.

‘In their cloaks, boots and beaver hats, they nigh filled the house. They had to take the chest and keys to the Guildhall. There were soldiers outside with a cart.’

‘Yes,’ Athelstan continued. ‘But before your master finished the keys and the locks, did any of the great ones come to see him privately?’

‘I don’t think so,’ the boy replied. ‘I live here, and sleep here. Master always brings his visitors here except when he is working in his garden. He likes to go there by himself. Says he likes the change.’

‘But the visitors?’ Athelstan persisted.

‘Two large fat ones,’ the boy replied, ‘the Lord Mayor and the Sheriff. They always came together over the last two weeks to make sure my master was doing his work.’

‘And no one else?’

‘No, Father.’

Athelstan’s eyes turned to the young maid standing next to the boy. ‘And you saw nothing mysterious or untoward?’

They both shook their heads.

‘What happened to the moulds?’ Cranston moved his feet. ‘The ones in which the keys were cast?’

‘They were destroyed,’ the boy replied proudly. ‘When the great ones came for the chest and keys, they stood around and watched me smash them with a hammer.’

Cranston gazed at Athelstan who shook his head.

The Coroner lumbered to his feet, stretched and yawned; fishing in his pocket, he took out two pennies which he handed to the boy and girl.

‘Very good!’ he murmured. ‘But when your master returns, tell him to find Sir John Cranston’s house in Cheapside. I have to speak to him.’

The maid and apprentice nodded. Cranston and Athelstan walked back into Lawrence Lane and down to the corner of the Mercery.

‘You know he’ll never come back, Sir John?’

Cranston blew out his cheeks. ‘Aye, tomorrow I’ll issue an instruction to the officials to search amongst the corpses found throughout the city.’ He stifled a yawn. ‘Brother, you are welcome to share my house tonight.’

Athelstan looked up at the starlit sky. ‘Thank you, Sir John, but I must return.’

He stood and watched as Cranston, shouting farewells, shuffled like some great bear up Cheapside. Suddenly he turned.

‘Brother, I’ll walk you to the bridge!’

‘No, no, I insist, Sir John. I’ll be safe. Who’d attack a poor friar?’

Cranston watched the priest cross the Mercery and go down Budge Row.

‘Aye!’ he whispered to himself. ‘Who’d attack a poor friar? This city is full of bastards who would!’

Cranston waited until Athelstan had disappeared out of sight then followed him along Budge Row, down the Walbrook into the Ropery and along Bridge Street. At the far end in a pool of light, their torches fixed on poles, guards stood at the entrance to the bridge. Cranston heard their indistinct voices as they questioned the friar. One of them laughed and Athelstan was allowed through. The Coroner sighed with relief but strained his ears once more as he heard the slither of footsteps behind him.

‘Listen, you nightbirds,’ he growled over his shoulder, ‘this is old Jack, city Coroner. If you don’t piss off I’ll have your balls round your necks!’ When he turned, the street was empty.

Cranston went to relieve himself above a sewer, finished what he termed his ‘devoir’, fastened the points of his hose and smacked his lips. He made the sign of the cross and took a generous swig from the miraculous wineskin. Then he remembered the two dogs, Gog and Magog, and wondered what Lady Maude would think of them. Cranston groaned and decided another generous swig would not go amiss.

Athelstan sat at his table in the little priest’s house just opposite St Erconwald’s church in Southwark. He had returned to find everything in order. The church doors locked, someone had left a small jar of honey in one of the recesses; obviously a gift from one of his parishioners. His old horse Philomel was lying on his side, breathing heavily through flared nostrils as he dreamed of former glories when he had been a full-blooded destrier in the old King’s wars. Athelstan stood by the stable door, talking to him for a while, but the old horse snored on so the friar continued his survey of his little church plot. His garden was in good order, or the little he could see of it, whilst Bonaventure, the great mouser, the one-eyed prince of the alleyways, was apparently out on a night’s courting or hunting.

Now he stared round the meagre kitchen. The walls had been freshly painted with lime against the flies. He closed his eyes and smelt the fragrant herbs sprinkled on the fresh green rushes and then looked at the cauldron over the fire. He half-raised himself to ensure the porridge he was cooking did not become too thick or congealed. He sighed, went into the buttery and brought back a jug of milk. It still smelt fresh so he poured this into the cauldron, carefully stirring the porridge as Benedicta had instructed him.

‘I wish I could cook,’ he muttered.

He had once entertained Cranston to breakfast and the Coroner had sworn that Athelstan’s porridge, if thrown by catapults, could break down any city wall. He returned the jug, wiped his hands on a towel and went back to stand over the table which was littered with pieces of parchment. Each scrap of parchment contained the details of a murder.

‘What do we have?’ Athelstan mockingly asked himself. ‘How did Rosamund Ingham kill Sir John’s companion, Sir Oliver? No mark of violence. No trace of poison.’ He scratched his cheek. ‘Was the man murdered? Or was Cranston just furious at seeing an old friend made a cuckold?’

And yet, he thought, Cranston despite his bristling, white whiskers, florid face, great balding head and even bigger belly, was as shrewd and cunning as a serpent. Cranston had a nose for mischief; if Sir John thought a foul act had been committed, then he was usually right.

Athelstan picked up another piece of parchment and studied his crude drawing of the garden at the Guildhall where Mountjoy had been murdered. ‘How on earth?’ he muttered to himself. On one side was the high trellis fence against which the Sheriff had been leaning, to his left a sheer brick wall, to his right the garden fence guarded by the dogs and, facing him, the wooden fence of the pentice connecting the Guildhall to its kitchen. How could an assassin enter such an enclosed space and stab the burly Mountjoy to death without any clamour from the Sheriff or his fearsome dogs?

And, finally, there was Fitzroy, killed by an unseen hand. Who could deal poison without revealing how it was done? Who was this Ira Dei? Which of these powerful politicians was the traitor?

Athelstan shook his head and went back to his parish accounts. He felt tired but, since his return from the city, he had snatched only a few hours’ sleep before rising, reciting his office by candlelight, washing and dressing upstairs in his small bed chamber. Athelstan pulled the accounts over. He was sick of murder, intrigue and mystery, and the figures had to be totalled before he met the parish council at Michaelmas.

Athelstan nibbled at the edge of his quill. The power struggle on his little parish council was just as fierce as that of any Guildmasters. Watkin the dung-collector, Mugwort the bell ringer, Tab the tinker, Huddle the painter, Ursula the pig woman, Cecily the courtesan, and Tiptoe the pot boy from The Piebald tavern were still fighting off a bitter attack headed by Pike the ditcher. The latter was aided by Jacob Arveld, a pleasant-faced German with a comely wife and brood of children, Clement of Cock Lane, Pernell the Fleming and Ranulf the rat-catcher, whilst Athelstan and the widow woman, Benedicta, tried to keep the peace.

Benedicta… There she was in his mind’s eye: her jet-black hair framing a smooth olive face which Huddle the painter always used in his depictions of the Virgin Mary.

Athelstan stared at the hungry flames of the fire and remembered Father Paul’s warning: ‘Never forget, it’s not the physical longing for a woman which will haunt you but the sheer, empty loneliness, the bitter-sweet taste of longing for someone you can never possess.’ He jumped as a dark form slunk through the window.

‘Ah, good morning, Bonaventure, my most faithful parishioner.’

The great torn cat padded softly across to his master and looked hungrily at the porridge bubbling over the fire. Athelstan got up and brought him a bowl of milk from the buttery. The cat licked it daintily and nestled down in front of the fire whilst his master went back to considering his troubled parishioners. He had to have peace on the council, particularly if Watkin’s daughter was to be wed to Pike the ditcher’s son.

‘Oh, Lord!’ he said to a now snoozing Bonaventure. ‘That will put the cat amongst the pigeons!’

Bonaventure moved his head lazily; his one good amber eye seemed full of compassion for his master. Athelstan pulled the accounts closer. He wondered if the woman had come back about her possessed stepdaughter and shivered at what could be awaiting him there. He coughed, dipped his quill in the ink pot and began to fill in the entries, listing what he had spent in decorating the church now the new sanctuary had been laid:

• Correcting the Ten Commandments 3s.

• Varnishing Pontius Pilate and putting in a front tooth 5d.

• Renewing Heaven, adusting the stars amp; cleaning the moon 20s.

• Taking the spots off the Son of Tobias 4s. 6d.

• Brightening up the Flames of Hell, putting a new left horn on the Devil amp; cleaning tail 3s.

• Jobs for the Damned 2s. 6d.

• Putting New Shirt on Jonah amp; enlarging the Whale’s mouth accordingly 10s. 6d.

• Putting new leaves on Adam and Eve 15s.

Athelstan looked at the list and smiled. He was about to continue when suddenly he heard a gentle tapping on the door. He went across, opened it and looked out. It was the watching time, just before dawn, the sky already lightening and the shadows beginning to disappear.

‘Who is it?’ he called and looked around. It was too early for any urchin’s game. ‘Who is it?’ Athelstan repeated. Only the wind rattling a loose shutter in the church disturbed the silence. The hairs on the nape of his neck prickled. He felt a shiver down his back. He stared down the track beside the church. Was it some rogue? Some drunk from the stews of Southwark? Suddenly he saw the little wicket gate to the church stood half-open. He grasped the staff Cranston had given him and walked across.

‘Brother Athelstan!’

The voice seemed to be coming from behind the church and the friar, followed by an even more inquisitive Bonaventure, warily walked round. Again the voice called his name and Athelstan stared out across the headstones

‘Who is it?’ he shouted angrily. ‘This is no game but God’s house and God’s own acre!’

‘Turn round, Brother Athelstan!’

‘Why should I?’

A crossbow bolt smacked into the church wall beside his head.

‘I am convinced,’ Athelstan shouted back and turned round, eyes closed, fingers clenched.

‘What is it you want?’

‘A message from the Anger of God. You are a friar, a priest of the people. Why do you mingle with the fat lords of the soil?’

‘If you’re his anger,’ Athelstan spat back, ‘then I am his justice!’

Take heed of his anger,’ the voice said clearly.

Athelstan looked down at Bonaventure who seemed to be enjoying this new game.

‘Cranston’s right,’ Athelstan whispered. ‘You are no bloody use!’

‘Take heed,’ the voice repeated.

Athelstan’s fiery temper broke at last.

‘Oh, sod off!’ he shouted and stalked down the church track and into his house, closing the door with a slam.

For a while he just stood with his back to it, trying to calm the trembling in his legs. Who dared taunt him here? What would Cranston do when he heard? Athelstan marched into the buttery and poured himself a cup of wine which he gulped down before going back to sit at the table.

‘God damn it!’ he breathed. He closed the ledger book, cleared up the rest of the manuscripts and took them across to the huge, iron-bound coffer. As he placed them inside and made the lock secure, he thought of the daring robbery at the Guildhall. He only hoped Sturmey was still alive. If Cranston and he found the thief, they would discover the murderer. He jumped at a loud knocking on the door.

‘Father! Father!’

Athelstan went across and opened the door to find Ursula the pig woman, her usually merry, red, warty face now tear-streaked.

‘Oh, Ursula!’ Athelstan said. ‘It’s not your sow? I can’t come and bless it again!’

‘No, no, Father, it’s my mother. She’s dying!’

‘Are you sure?’ Athelstan asked. ‘I have given the last rites to Griselda at least three times.’

‘No, Father, she says she’s going. She can feel she is.’

‘Come on then.’

Athelstan locked the door of the house and hurried across to the church. Inside it was cool and dark, smelling fragrantly of candle grease and incense. The morning light was already beginning to brighten Huddle’s pictures on the wall as Athelstan hurried under the rood screen and into the sanctuary. He genuflected, opening the tabernacle door to remove the Viaticum and phial of holy oils. Then he collected his stole, cloak, tinder and a candle from the sacristy and gave them to Ursula, waiting in the porch of the church. He lit the candle, wrapped the cloak round himself and, with the pig woman shielding the candle’s flame in her great, raw hands, locked the door of his church.

He followed Ursula through the narrow, winding streets of Southwark to the pig woman’s house, a small, two-storied tenement just behind the priory of St Mary Overy. As usual, the great sow, Ursula’s pet and the light of her life, lay basking in front of the fire whilst, behind a curtain in the far corner, Griselda lay on a pallet of straw, head back, her beak-like nose cutting the air, her eyes half-open. Athelstan would have taken her for dead already had it not been for the gentle rise and fall of her skinny chest. As Athelstan crouched beside her, placing the Viaticum and holy oils on a three-legged stool, Ursula stood behind him, still holding the candle. Of course, the sow had to see what was happening and, once she recognized Athelstan, whose cabbage patch she regularly plundered, began to snort and snuffle excitedly.

‘Oh, for God’s sake, go away!’ he breathed. ‘Ursula, for the love of God, give her a cabbage or something!’

‘She doesn’t eat cabbages,’ Ursula curtly replied as she grabbed the sow by the ear and pulled her away.

‘Aye,’ Athelstan whispered to himself. ‘The bloody thing only likes fresh ones!’

‘Is that you, Father?’

Athelstan bent over the old lady, her cheeks hollow, thick bloodless lips parted. But the small button eyes were still bright with life.

‘Yes, Mother Griselda, it’s Athelstan.’

‘You are a good priest,’ the old woman wheezed, ‘to come and see old Griselda. Do you want to hear my confession, Father?’

Athelstan grinned. ‘Why, what have you been up to, Mother, since I heard it last? How many young men this time?’

The old woman’s lips parted in a gumless smile.

‘What lechery and wantonness?’ Athelstan continued, peering down at the old lady. ‘Come, Griselda, you have long made your peace with God.’

Athelstan opened the golden pyx, took out the white host and placed it between the dying woman’s lips. Then he began to anoint her head and eyes, mouth, chest, hands and feet, whilst the old woman’s mouth chewed the thin wafer host. At last he finished. Ursula went to move across to tend the small fire whilst Griselda took Athelstan’s hand.

‘Will I go to Heaven, Father?’

‘Of course.’

‘Will my husband be there?’

‘Why not?’

‘He loved women, Father! In his youth he was as handsome as the sun. He had hair the colour of corn and eyes blue as the sky. But he wasn’t a bad man, Father, and I loved him.’ She coughed, yellow spittle drooling out of the corner of her mouth. Athelstan picked up a rag and dabbed gently at her lips.

‘God will not reject,’ he said slowly, ‘anyone who has loved or been loved.’

The old woman coughed again. Athelstan looked over his shoulder.

‘Ursula, a cup of water.’

But then he felt the grip on his hand loosen. He looked down. Griselda’s head had rolled slightly to the left. He felt for the beat in her neck but there was nothing. He looked up at Ursula, holding the battered cup, tears streaming down her fat cheeks.

‘She’s left us,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘She’s gone now. Gone ahead of us.’

He stayed for a while to comfort Ursula. Despite his protests, she insisted on giving him a huge flitch of bacon then, with his cope and stole under one arm, the flitch of bacon under another, Athelstan walked back to his church.

Southwark was now coming to life. The petty traders and tinkers trundled their hand carts down towards the bridge whilst sweating, cursing carters tried to get produce from the country across the river before the great markets opened. Two lepers covered in black rags begged for alms outside the hospital of St Thomas whilst the local beadles and bailiffs led the night roisterers they had caught, bound hand and foot, down to the stocks. Two drunks who had pissed out of an upper-floor window had already been tied back-to-back, their breeches about their ankles They would be forced to walk the streets and be pelted with rubbish until noonday when a friend could cut them loose. The officials had apparently also raided a brothel and a cart load of whores, their heads completely shaven, sat morosely manacled together as they were taken down to the river to be punished. A yellow, lean-ribbed dog snarled at Athelstan, jumping, lips curled to bite the bacon. Athelstan shooed it off, went up an alleyway and knocked on the door of Tab the tinker’s house.

His wife, grey-haired and worried-looking, answered. Athelstan thrust the flitch of bacon into her hands.

‘Father,’ she murmured, ‘I can’t.’

‘Yes, you can.’ He pointed to the grubby-faced children clinging to her tattered dress. ‘And they certainly will. But you mustn’t tell Ursula.’

He continued his journey and was about to pass the door of his church when he saw the piece of parchment fluttering there. Athelstan read the scrawled words:

The Anger of God will shout out like lightning from the clouds.

He cursed, pulled the parchment down, threw it into the mud and, ignoring Pike’s salutations, angrily strode back to his house.