The Anger of God

been murdered at the Guildhall!’

CHAPTER 2

    Cranston and Athelstan found the Guildhall strangely silent. Armed men lined the passageways and corridors, guarding the entrances and exits to the different courtyards. The servitor led them through these, shaking his head at Cranston ’s nagging questions. He brought them into the garden, one of the most attractive parts of the Guildhall with its herb plots, fountain and channel, wooden and stone benches, tunnel arbour and soft green lawns. A group of men stood round the fountain talking amongst themselves. They stopped and turned as Cranston and Athelstan came out.
    ‘My Lord Coroner, we have been waiting.’
    ‘Your Grace,’ Cranston replied, staring at the swarthy, gold-bearded face of the Regent, John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster. ‘We came as soon as the messenger found us.’
    Cranston stared quickly round as Gaunt introduced the rest. He recognized them all: Sir Christopher Goodman, the Mayor, red-faced and pop-eyed, then the brilliantly dressed, proud-faced Guildmasters: Thomas Fitzroy of the Fishmongers who always reminded Cranston of a carp with his jutting lips and glassy eyes; Philip Sudbury of the Ironmongers, red-faced and red-haired, a born toper; Alexander Bremmer of the Drapers, thin and mean-faced, an avaricious grasping man; Hugo Marshall of the Spicers, his head bald as a pigeon’s egg; and fleshy-featured Sir James Denny of the Haberdashers, dressed like a court fop in his tight hose and quilted jacket open at the neck.
    Cranston nodded at these as well as at Sir Nicholas Hussey, the King’s tutor, young-looking despite his silver hair and beard. Finally Lord Adam Clifford, Gaunt’s principal henchman, fresh-faced and dressed in a tawny gown which suited the man’s clean-shaven, sunburnt face and neatly coiffed black head. Gaunt finished the introductions.
    ‘My Lord?’ Cranston declared, angry at the Regent’s insulting behaviour in not even acknowledging Athelstan. ‘My Lord, I think you know my secretarius and clerk, Brother Athelstan, parish priest of St Erconwald’s in Southwark?’
    Gaunt smiled patronizingly and nodded. Cranston darted an angry glance at a sniggering Denny.
    ‘We have come at your behest, My Lord Regent. We were told Sir Gerard Mountjoy has been murdered. Where, when and how?’
    Gaunt waved a hand towards the small arbour which stood in the far corner of the garden sheltered from Cranston ’s gaze by the open door of the Guildhall as well as a high trellis covered in ivy.
    ‘There?’ Cranston asked.
    ‘Yes, Sir Gerard is there!’
    Gaunt’s reply was angry but tinged with sardonic amusement. The Regent waved them across.
    ‘I hope you have better luck than we did.’
    Mystified, Cranston and Athelstan walked past the fence and looked over a small gate into the arbour. Both jumped as a pair of huge wolf hounds threw themselves against the gate, snarling and barking, lips curled, yellow teeth eager to rend and gash. Cranston and Athelstan* stepped back.
    The arbour was cleverly contrived, a garden within a garden: a turf seat against the trellised fence, a narrow pavement of coloured stones with a table which also served as a bird bath, and raised banks of fragrant herbs. A peaceful, pleasant place on a late summer’s day had it not been for the man sprawled against the fence, a thin dagger thrust deep in his chest. A grotesque sight: mouth gaping, eyes open and slightly crooked as if the corpse was staring down in amazement at the bloody wound staining his russet gown.
    Cranston studied the snub, brutish, dead features of one of London ’s most feared Sheriffs and walked back to the group.
    ‘When did this happen, My Lord?’
    Gaunt shrugged his shoulders elegantly as he wiped his hands on his blue samite gown.
    ‘We had Mass this morning followed by a meeting in the Council Chamber. We were all preparing for the banquet tonight. Sir Gerard was apparently taking the air and a cup of claret in his own private arbour when a guard found him like that.’ He pulled a face. ‘Those damned dogs won’t allow us anywhere near him.’
    ‘If they won’t allow you,’ Gaunt nodded down the garden, where a group of crossbow men wearing the livery of Lancaster were patiently waiting, ‘they will have to be killed.’
    Athelstan, standing at Cranston ’s elbow, stared at these powerful, rich men. They, together with Gaunt, controlled not only London but the kingdom: their silver fuelled the King’s armies,