The Anger of God

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.’
    He cleared his throat. ‘You see, my good friar, one of Gaunt’s most able lieutenants, the Lord Adam Clifford, has acted for his master in these matters. Each of the Guildmasters has placed a large ingot of gold in a chest kept in the Guildhall chapel as surety for their goodwill and support of the Regent.’ Cranston drained his tankard and got up. ‘And I, my dear Brother, have to be there to witness this farce!’
    Athelstan looked up anxiously. ‘So there’ll be peace, Sir John?’
    ‘Peace!’ Cranston bent over him. ‘My good friar,’ he whispered hoarsely, ‘tell your parishioners to be careful. Gaunt intends to raise troops and, believe me, the streets of London will soon run with blood as thick, deep and as scarlet as wine from the grape presses!’
    Athelstan put down his own tankard and stood up. ‘You really think so, Sir John?’
    ‘I know so! At this very moment, as I have said, Gaunt is meeting our merchant princes at the Guildhall. The young King, together with his tutor, Sir Nicholas Hussey, attended a Mass there this morning. This afternoon Gaunt took counsel with the Sheriff, Sir Gerard Mountjoy, on measures against the conspiracy amongst the peasants as well as those in the city who favour their cause.’ Cranston wiped his white moustache and beard. ‘And for my sins,’ he breathed in a gust of wine fumes, ‘I am to attend this evening’s banquet where Gaunt will entertain his new allies.’ He made a rude sound with his lips. ‘As if I haven’t enough problems.’
    ‘Such as, Sir John?’
    ‘Well, besides the death of Oliver, the Regent and Corporation are furious at some rogue who is removing the limbs and remains of executed traitors from London \ Bridge and elsewhere. After all, my good Brother, what’s the use of executing people if you can’t display their hacked, bloody limbs as a warning to other would-be traitors?’ He linked his arm through the friar’s as they went out of the tavern. ‘Now, in my treatise on the governance of this city...’ He smacked his lips as Athelstan closed his eyes and prayed for patience. Cranston ’s great work on the Government of London was nearly finished and he never missed an opportunity of lecturing everyone and anybody on his theories on how law and order could be administered in the capital.
    ‘In my treatise I will advise against such practices. Criminals should be executed within the prison walls and the Crown should veto such barbaric practices. In ancient Sumeria...’ Cranston pulled an unwilling Athelstan across Cheapside . ‘Now in ancient Sumeria...’ he repeated.
    ‘My Lord Coroner! Brother Athelstan!’
    They both turned. A sweaty-faced servitor, wearing the livery of the city, stood leaning against an empty stall, trying to catch his breath.
    ‘What is it, man?’
    ‘Sir John, you must come quickly. And you too, Brother. The Regent.... His Grace the King...’
    ‘What is it?’ Cranston snapped.
    ‘Murder, Sir John. Sir Gerard Mountjoy, the Sheriff, has