Текст книги "The Anger of God"

Автор книги: Paul Doherty

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 14 страниц)

CHAPTER 9

Athelstan, too, brooded as he knelt on the altar steps the next morning after Mass. There had been only three in the congregation, not counting Bonaventure: Pernell the Fleming, Cecily the courtesan in her bright taffeta dress, and Benedicta who had just left. The widow had assured Athelstan she would take Elizabeth Hobden and her nurse Anna to the Friar Minoresses later in the morning.

Athelstan chewed on his knuckles and watched the half-open door of the church. He felt angry and hurt, and hoped he could control himself during the coming meeting.

He blessed himself and rose at the sound of footsteps, walking down the nave to meet Pike the ditcher, who stood uneasily by the baptismal font.

‘Father, you sent for me?’

‘Yes, Pike, I did. Please close the door.’

Pike went back, closed it, then turned in astonishment to see his gentle parish priest bearing down upon him like a charging knight. Athelstan seized Pike by his grimy jerkin and pushed him up against the door. The man didn’t resist, terrified of the rage blazing in Athelstan’s eyes.

‘Father, what is it?’ he stammered.

‘You bloody Judas!’ Athelstan shook him. ‘Pike, I am your priest and you betrayed me!’

‘What do you mean?’

But Athelstan glimpsed the truth in the ditcher’s nervous eyes. He let go, pushed him away and walked back up the nave.

‘Don’t lie, Pike!’ he shouted, his words ringing through the church. ‘You know damned well what I am talking about! You were the only one who saw me take down the proclamation pinned to my door by Ira Dei.’ Athelstan rounded on him. ‘In fact, I suspect you put it there. And that’s fine, Pike. You play your stupid, dangerous games of revolt and building God’s kingdom here in London. But, tell me, do your fellow communards, does the Great Community of the Realm, does Ira Dei know you are a traitor? John of Gaunt’s spy?’ Athelstan walked back. ‘And what would happen to you, Pike, if they found out, eh? How does your secret society treat traitors?’

Pike stood with hands hanging helplessly and Athelstan’s anger began to drain away at the sheer terror in the man’s face and posture. The priest pushed his face close to the ditcher’s.

‘For God’s sake, Pike, I baptized your children! I give you the sacrament. I admired you, working from dawn to dusk for a mere pittance to feed your family.’ Athelstan drew his breath. ‘You are not like me, Pike. I have no family to worry about. But you are a good worker, a good husband, a good father. For God’s sake, why play the Judas with a man who is not only a priest but your friend? Couldn’t you trust me?’

Pike flailed his hands ineffectually as tears coursed down his dirty cheeks.

‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Athelstan muttered. ‘Pike, I don’t mean to threaten you. Your secret’s safe with me. Not even Sir John knows.’

The ditcher shuffled his feet. ‘It’s not like that, Father.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Three months ago,’ he replied, ‘I and a few others from Southwark were listening to that mad priest – you know, the one with the fiery cross, outside St James Garlickhythe. Then the soldiers came and we were arrested. I had a choice: pay a fine or become Gaunt’s spy. The fine would have crushed me and…’ His voice trailed off.

‘And what?’

Pike looked up defiantly. ‘Don’t believe everything you hear, Father. I am not one of your zealots. Oh, at the beginning I was, but not now. Not when they talk of slaughter, of killing every priest, of burning the good with the bad.’ He laughed sourly. ‘It’s not difficult, Father, to betray something you don’t believe in any more. And as for my Lord of Gaunt, he had discovered I am not the most capable of spies. So, I tell him about a notice pinned on the door of the church. Or that a member of the Great Community of the Realm has visited Southwark, three days after the man has left. Don’t worry, Father, Gaunt never profits from what I tell him.’

Athelstan looked at the great, burly ditcher standing there, hanging his head. You represent the common man, Athelstan reflected, caught between the demons who want to destroy everything and those who wish to keep everything. Athelstan walked forward, hands extended.

‘I am sorry. You are no traitor, no Judas!’

Pike grasped his hand. ‘Can you help me, Father?’

Athelstan pursed his lips.

‘Yes, I think I can. But it will take time. Meanwhile don’t do anything rash, man. And…’

‘And what, Father?’

‘What do you know of Ira Dei?’

Pike laughed. ‘Father, I am a very small leaf low down on a very tall tree. I don’t even know who the rebel leaders are. No one knows who Ira Dei is. He comes, shrouded in darkness, delivers his message, and just as mysteriously leaves. He could be anyone. The Lady Benedicta, Watkin, even Sir John Cranston!’ Pike grinned. ‘Though I think people would recognize him. Father, I know nothing. I swear on the life of my children!’

‘But could you get a message to him?’

‘I could tell certain people. Why?’ Pike’s face became concerned. ‘Father, take care. Have no dealings with such violent men, be they nobles or peasants. Do you know what I think? It’s a fight between the rats and the ferrets over who will rule the chicken run.’

Athelstan smiled, touched by Pike’s concern.

‘The message is simple. Say Athelstan of St Erconwald’s would like to meet Ira Dei.’ He made Pike repeat the message.

‘Is that all, Father?’

‘Yes, it is. I have kept you long enough. I am sorry for my temper.’

Pike shrugged. ‘You get what you deserve, Father. But you will help me?’

‘Of course!’

‘I’ll never forget, Father.’

Pike disappeared. Athelstan thought of the ditcher’s gangling son, deeply in love with Watkin’s daughter, and stared at Bonaventure, who had been watching them with close attention.

‘Well, well, my cunning cat,’ he whispered. ‘Perhaps Sunday morning won’t be so terrible after all, eh?’

Athelstan stared round the church and remembered his promise to another parishioner. He locked St Erconwald’s and hurried through the streets to Ranulf the rat-catcher’s house, a small, two-storied tenement on the corner of an alleyway. The pale pinch-faced rat-catcher was waiting for him. His brood of children, all resembling him, gathered behind their father at the door to welcome the priest to their house. As Athelstan entered the darkened passageway, he recalled that Ranulf was a widower whose wife had died in childbirth five years previously. Ranulf, his brood trailing behind, ushered Athelstan into his small solar or working shop. Athelstan sniffed as he sat on the stool. With the ratcatcher on the chair opposite, children around him, eyes intent on the priest.

‘Do you like the smell, Father?’

‘Why, yes, Ranulf, it’s not offensive.’

Ranulf patted his black-tarred jacket. ‘I rub aniseed and thyme into this. Rats like that.’

He paused as his eldest daughter, dressed in a ragged black dress, solemnly served Athelstan and her father pots of tasty soup. As she did so, the friar gazed round: in one corner was a cage with sparrows; in another hung fishing lines, a badger’s skin, lead bobs and eel hooks.

‘Do you like rats?’ Ranulf suddenly asked.

Athelstan stared back.

‘There are four types, Father. Barn rats, sewer rats, river rats and street rats. The worst are the sewer rats – they are the black ones.’ He pulled back the sleeve of his tarred jacket, displaying an arm badly pocked with the marks of old wounds ‘The black rats are bastards, Father. Sorry, but they are real bastards! I have been dead near four times from bites. I once had the teeth of a rat break in my finger.’ He extended his hand. ‘It was terrible bad, swollen and rotted. I had to have the broken bits taken out with pincers. I have been bitten everywhere, Father.’

Athelstan jumped as a small, furry animal, which seemed to come from nowhere, ran up the rat-catcher’s leg and sat on his lap.

‘This is Ferox,’ Ranulf announced, ‘my ferret.’

Athelstan stared in disbelief at the creature’s little black eyes and twitching nose.

‘Ferox means ferocious.’ Ranulf continued, not giving Athelstan a chance to speak. ‘Now, ferrets are very dangerous but Ferox is well trained. He has sent at least a thousand rats to their maker.’

Athelstan hid his grin, finished his soup and handed the bowl and pewter spoon back to the girl. The rest of Ranulf’s children stood staring at their father with eyes rounded in admiration. The priest looked at the ratcatcher’s slightly jutting teeth, pointed nose and white whiskery face, and recalled his recent conversation with Pike. Ranulf was the same: a hard-working man, a good father, one of the small ones of the earth, so far from power and wealth and yet so close to God.

‘Ranulf, you wanted to talk to me about the Guild?’

‘Yes, Father, we’d like our Guild Mass at St Erconwald’s.’ Ranulf swallowed nervously. ‘The Guild would meet in the church and then we’d have our feast in the nave afterwards. If that’s all right with you, Father?’

Athelstan nodded solemnly.

‘Every month on the third Saturday we’d meet at St Erconwald’s for our Mass and use the nave for a meeting.’

Athelstan again nodded.

‘And we’d pay you two pounds, fifteen shillings every quarter.’

Athelstan guessed the rat-catcher thought the amount rather low.

‘That will be most satisfactory,’ he replied quickly.

‘Are you sure, Father?’

‘Of course.’

‘And wives and children can attend?’

‘Why not?’

‘And you’ll bless our ferrets and traps?’

‘Without a doubt.’

‘And do you know of a patron saint, Father?

Athelstan stared back. ‘No, Ranulf, that puzzles me but I am sure I can find one for you.’

Ranulf gave a sigh of relief and got to his feet.

‘In which case, Father, you have our thanks. Osric, he’s the chief rat-catcher in South wark, will draw up the indenture. He knows a clerk at St Paul’s.’

‘I can do that with no fee,’ Athelstan answered, getting to his feet.

Ranulf crowed with delight and clapped his hands whilst his children, catching his good humour, danced round Athelstan as if he was their patron saint. He glimpsed a trap hanging on the wall and suddenly thought of Cranston’s poor friend Oliver Ingham.

‘Tell me, Ranulf, have you ever heard of a rat gnawing a corpse?’

‘Oh yes, Father, they’ll eat anything.’

‘And you kill them with traps or ferrets?’

‘Aye, and sometimes with poisons such as belladonna or nightshade, if they are really cunning.’

Athelstan smiled his thanks and walked to the door.

‘Father!’

Athelstan turned. ‘No, Ranulf, before you ask – Bonaventure is not for sale. But we can always enrol him as a member of your Guild.’

Athelstan took leave of Ranulf and his family. He was half-way down the alleyway, his mind full of rats, poisons, traps and ferrets, when suddenly he stopped, mouth gaping at the idea which had occurred to him. He smiled and looked up at the brightening sky.

‘O Lord, blessed are you,’ he whispered. ‘And your ways are most wonderful to behold.’

He almost ran back to the rat-catcher’s house and hammered on the door. Ranulf appeared quite agitated as Athelstan grasped him by the shoulder.

‘Father, what is it?’

‘You must come with me. Now, Ranulf! You must come with me now to see Sir John! Ranulf, please, I need your help!’

The rat-catcher needed no second bidding. He went back indoors, shouted instructions at his daughter, kissed each of his children and, with Ferox firmly penned in a small cage, allowed Athelstan to hurry him through the streets of Southwark down to London Bridge.

Rosamund Ingham paled as she answered Sir John’s insistent knocking. She stood with the door half-open and glared at the Coroner then at Athelstan, with Ranulf standing behind him. ‘What’s the matter, Mistress?’ Cranston greeted her. ‘You look as if you have seen a ghost!’

‘What do you want?’

‘You asked me last night to remove the seals from your dead husband’s room and that’s why I am here.’ He pushed the door further open. ‘We can come in, can’t we? Thank you so much.’

He glimpsed Albric standing further up the stone-flagged passageway and, from where he stood, Cranston could see the young fop was visibly frightened.

‘I’d best take you up to the room.’ Rosamund recovered her composure quickly, her pert face showing some of its old icy hardness.

Athelstan waved her on. ‘If you would, Mistress.’

Cranston winked at him.

‘For a monk, Brother, you are as sharp as a new pin.’

‘Friar!’ Athelstan hissed.

‘Well, even better,’ Cranston whispered back as they climbed the stairs.

Athelstan lowered his eyes so as not to glance at Mistress Ingham’s swaying hips. A born flirt, he thought, and knew Cranston would use a cruder word. He glanced at his fat friend walking just behind him. Although the Coroner had a smile on his lips, his light blue eyes were hard with fury. They reached the top of the stairs. Cranston removed the seals and pushed the door open.

‘Why are they here?’ Rosamund pointed a dainty finger at Athelstan and Ranulf.

‘First, because they are fellow officers!’ Cranston snapped. ‘And, second, Mistress, because I want them here. You have no objection surely?’ Rosamund moved herself in between Sir John and the open door.

‘You have removed the seals,’ she snapped. ‘Now, get out!’

‘Oh, didn’t you know?’ Cranston raised his eyebrows. ‘When the King’s Coroner unseals a room, he has to ensure, to his own satisfaction, that the chamber is as he left it. Surely you have no objections?’

The woman’s lips tightened and Cranston gave up all pretence.

‘I am not here because I am the late Sir Oliver’s friend,’ he muttered, glancing at Rosamund’s black dress. ‘I suppose the requiem was both short and sweet?’

‘It finished an hour ago.’

Cranston shoved her aside, ‘I am the King’s Coroner,’ he declared, ‘I wish to see this room, and I should be grateful, Mistress, if you and that thing downstairs would make yourselves available to answer certain questions.’

Rosamund flounced away, though Athelstan saw the fear in her face and knew that Sir John was right. She was a killer and undoubtedly responsible for the previous night’s murderous assault on the Coroner. As he followed Cranston into the chamber, Athelstan quietly prayed that both Rosamund and her weak-willed lover would fall into the trap prepared for them and that Ranulf would justify their expectations.

Cranston stared round the bed chamber, quiet and sombre, the dust motes dancing in the sunlight pouring through a glazed window. He opened the shutters of another, took a swig from his wineskin and, in an act of outstanding generosity, allowed Ranulf a drink as well.

‘Right, my lad.’ Cranston clapped the rat-catcher on the shoulder. ‘How would you like the right to be appointed chief rat-catcher in the city wards of Castle Baynard, Queenshithe and the Vintry?’

Ranulf beamed his pleasure.

‘In time, my lad, perhaps. But now, find me some rats – preferably dead ones.’

Ranulf brought Ferox out of his little cage from beneath his cloak. Cranston stepped back immediately.

‘You know what we are looking for, just keep that bloody thing away from me! I have a horror of ferrets. I knew a man once who allowed one to get inside his hose. He ended up being castrated!’

Ranulf grinned as he stroked the inquisitive ferret between the ears. The ferret gazed unblinkingly at Cranston.

‘Oh, bloody hell!’ the Coroner said.

‘Sir John, if you are really afeared,’ Ranulf replied, pointing to a small bench, ‘perhaps it’s best if you stand on that.’

Cranston gazed suspiciously at him but Ranulf remained sombre-faced.

‘Lord Coroner, I always advise nervous patrons to do that.’

‘You’d best do as he says, Sir John,’ Athetstan added with a smile. ‘You know how Bonaventure loves you. Ferox may be of the same ilk.’

Cranston needed no second bidding but stood like a Colossus on the small bench. He leaned his back against the wall, fortifying himself with generous mouthfuls from the miraculous wineskin. Ranulf held Ferox to his lips and whispered in his ear.

‘What are you doing?’ Cranston bellowed.

‘Telling him what to do.’

‘Oh, don’t be bloody stupid, man!’

Ranulf carefully put Ferox down on the floor boards. For a few minutes the ferret sniffed before darting like an arrow beneath the great four-poster bed. Athelstan went across to the small table and picked up the unstoppered earthenware jug.

‘You say this contained the foxglove?’

Cranston, his eyes intent on the bed, just nodded.

‘And you say it was found knocked over and the medicine drained?’

‘Yes, yes, Brother, but leave that. What’s that bloody ferret up to?’

Cranston got his answer. Suddenly there was a violent scuffle under the bed and Ferox emerged, his small snout bloodied as he dragged a fat, long-tailed, brown rat out into the open.

‘Good boy!’ Ranulf whispered.

‘The bloody thing’s as stupid as you are, Ranulf!’

Cranston roared. ‘He’s not here to kill bloody rats but find dead ones!’ Ranulf picked up the dead rat, opened the window and tossed it into the street. Again Ferox went hunting. The minutes passed. Athelstan watched the industrious little ferret and tried not to look at Cranston who, having taken so many swigs from the wineskin, was beginning to sway rather dangerously on the bench. Ranulf kept picking the ferret up and putting it under cupboards and behind chests. Sometimes the ferret would return, other times there would be an eerie scuffling, a heart-stopping scream, and he would re-emerge with a rat. Athelstan had to look away as Cranston began to bellow imprecations. On one occasion Rosamund came and rapped on the door. Cranston roared at her to bugger off and instructed his ‘grinning monk’, as he called Athelstan, to bolt the door.

At last Ranulf was finished. Ferox was put back in his cage. Cranston came down from his perch and all three began to move the bed and bits of furniture, Ranulf even lifting floor boards, but they could find nothing. Eventually, all three went, red-faced and perspiring, to stand in the centre of the room. Cranston’s elation was obvious. He clapped both Athelstan and Ranulf on the shoulder and apologized for bellowing at Ranulf.

‘I’ll buy you the best claret in London!’ he swore. ‘And a drink for your little friend.’

‘He likes malmsey, Sir John.’

‘Well, as far as I’m concerned, he can have a bloody bath in it! But you are sure?’

Ranulf nodded.

‘In which case, we should try the jar.’

He went across, took up the small jug and, using his wineskin, filled the jug to the brim, then raised it to his lips.

‘Sir John, are you certain?’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, Athelstan, I am about to find out.’ He drank from the jug, draining every drop from it. ‘ Alea jacta! ’ he declared. ‘The die is cast! Let’s see the bitch downstairs.’

They all trooped down to the solar where a tight-faced Rosamund and a much more nervous Albric sat waiting for them.

‘Sir John.’ The woman got to her feet. ‘You have been a good hour in my house. Now get out!’

‘I haven’t finished yet,’ he snapped, advancing within a few inches of her.

‘Why, what else do you want? These ridiculous allegations!’

Cranston breathed in deeply. ‘Rosamund Ingham, and you Albric Totnes, I, Sir John Cranston, King’s Coroner in the city, do arrest you for murder and treason!’

Rosamund went white and gaped. Albric slumped wet-eyed and slack-jawed. Athelstan recognized him as an easier quarry. ‘O, Lord,’ he reflected, quoting from the psalms,

‘Stretch out your hand and show your justice.’

Rosamund soon regained her composure.

‘Murder? Treason? What nonsense is this?’

‘You know full well, Mistress.’ Cranston produced from his voluminous sleeve the small jug which he had taken from the chamber above. ‘You agree, Mistress, in the presence of witnesses, that this is the jug containing your late husband’s medicine, an infusion of foxglove or digitalis? A medicine, I understand, which can strengthen the heart if taken in small doses?’

‘Yes, it is. What are you going to say, Sir John, that my husband took too much? He insisted on pouring it himself. No one else was allowed to touch it.’

Cranston nodded. ‘And would you agree, in the presence of witnesses, that this is the jug that was left in your husband’s chamber when I sealed it, and that in your husband’s death throes he knocked it over?’

‘Yes, yes!’

Cranston turned at a sound near the door and summoned over the old manservant.

‘Just in time, me lad!’ he boomed. ‘I could do with another witness. Tell me, Mistress.’ He turned back to the woman. ‘Have you ever tasted foxglove?’

‘Of course not! Sir John, you have been drinking!’

‘Yes. Yes, I have. I even drank from this jug.’

Athelstan gazed quickly at AIbric, who might be a coward but, by the look on his face, had already guessed the direction of Cranston’s interrogation. It seemed only to increase his terror.

‘Well,’ Cranston continued evenly, ‘foxglove is fairly tasteless. And that’s how you murdered your husband. He kept the main supply of the potion in a stoppered flask in the buttery. What he didn’t know is that, perhaps a month before his death, you poured the potion away and replaced it with nothing more harmful than water.’

‘Don’t be stupid, my husband would have noticed!’

Cranston smiled. ‘Where is that flask?’

‘I’ve thrown it away!’ Rosamund stammered.

‘Well, well,’ Cranston snapped. ‘Why should you do that?’

‘It wasn’t needed!’

‘Rubbish. You wished to hide the evidence! It would never have occurred to him. After all,’ Cranston continued, ‘we see what we expect to see. I understand from my medical friends that foxglove in its liquid form is both clear and tasteless. Perhaps you added something to thicken it a little? What do we have, woman, eh? A man with a weak heart, worried sick about his faithless wife, being deprived for weeks of a life-giving medicine. Oh, yes, Sir Oliver, God rest him, died of a heart seizure – but one brought about by you. Now, Brother Athelstan here is a theologian.’ Cranston glanced quickly at Albric who sat slumped in his chair, arms crossed tightly over his chest. ‘Athelstan will tell you that there are two types of sin. The first is an act, the second an omission. Albric, do you know what omission means?’

The young fop shook his head.

‘It means, you treacherous little turd, that you commit evil by not doing something. You can kill a man by throwing him into the river. You can also kill him by refusing to help him out.’

‘What proof do you have?’ Rosamund demanded.

‘Enough to hang you,’ Cranston answered sharply, coming forward. ‘You see, as your husband died, in the middle of his seizure, his hand flailed out and he knocked over the medicine jar, allowing the liquid to spill out. Now, this house is plagued by rats, hungry and inquisitive.’ Cranston was so furious he found it hard to speak.

‘What My Lord Coroner is saying,’ Athelstan intervened quietly, ‘is that if a rat would gnaw a dead man’s body, it would certainly drink any liquid left lying about. I have looked at that table,’ he lied. ‘As has the professional rat-catcher here. There are signs of rats on that table. Their tracks, as well as their dung, are all over the chamber.’ He glanced quickly at Ranulf who nodded wisely. ‘More importantly,’ he continued, ‘as my good friend here will swear, any rat who drank foxglove would soon die but we discovered no dead rat in that chamber.’ Athelstan schooled his features. He was bluffing and no Justice would convict anyone on the evidence they had produced. His heart skipped a beat as he heard Albric moan. The young man uncrossed his arms and made to rise.

‘This is nonsense!’ Rosamund snapped, a gleam of triumph in her eyes. ‘First the rat could slink away to die anywhere and we have found dead rats in the house, haven’t we, Albric?’ The young man, white-faced, just nodded.

‘That’s impossible!’ Ranulf, entering the spirit of the occasion, now spoke up. ‘Foxglove would kill a rat immediately. I would swear to that. Indeed, I could show you.’

Albric sat down again and stared fearfully at Athelstan.

‘You also mentioned treason.’ Rosamund rushed her words to hide any confusion.

‘Yes, I did,’ Cranston replied softly. ‘Last night I was attacked by footpads. I beat them off and took one prisoner,’ he lied. ‘He confessed how you hired them to kill me.’

‘Nonsense!’

‘He named you.’

‘Oh, this is ridiculous!’ she sneered. ‘Are you also accusing me of hiring three footpads?’

Cranston smiled. ‘How do you know there were three?’

The sneer died on Rosamund’s face.

‘They also named you.’ Cranston nodded at Albric.

‘That’s not true!’ the young man snapped and glared furiously at Rosamund. ‘You said it would be safe!’

‘Oh, shut up, you fool!’ She sat down, covering her face with her hands.

Athelstan relaxed, aware that he had been digging the nails of his fingers into the palms of his hand. He went to stand over the young man.

‘Confess,’ he said quietly. ‘Turn King’s evidence and who knows what the Coroner will do for you?’

Athelstan crouched and patted the young man’s hand then stood up as Albric stared at the floor.

‘I’ll confess,’ he muttered.

Rosamund pushed her tearful, hate-filled face at Athelstan. ‘Shut up, you bloody priest! You ragged-arsed half-man! I did it for you!’ she hissed at Albric. ‘I did it for you!’

He shook his head. ‘We’re finished,’ he whispered.

Cranston turned and beckoned Robert over. ‘Quickly, go down the street. At The Moon and the Cage tavern you’ll find four serjeants. You are to bring them here immediately!’

The steward scurried off. Athelstan and Cranston walked to the front door and waited until the four city serjeants came. Cranston whispered instructions to them then he and his companions left even as Rosamund’s rage turned to hysteria. She screamed her fury at Cranston and Athelstan as the serjeants began to load her and Albric with the chains they had brought.

Outside in the street Cranston stood still, his eyes full of tears. ‘I can’t say anything,’ he said. He shook Athelstan’s hand very formally and then Ranulf’s. He wiped a tear away. ‘Come on. I did not go to Oliver’s requiem mass but let me buy you the funeral toast.’ He pointed down to Ferox, now dozing quietly in his cage. ‘And our little friend here can go home drunk.’