The Anger of God

smiling Athelstan, walked into the arbour.
    ‘Close your eyes, Brother.’
    Athelstan did so and heard the unmistakable yielding sound as Cranston pulled the dagger out of the dead man’s body. Athelstan opened his eyes and stared around.
    The corpse had keeled over, lying face down on the turfed seat. A wine cup nestled under the ivy growing up the Guildhall wall and, as Cranston wiped the dagger on the grass, Athelstan realized how mysterious this murder was. Directly opposite where Mountjoy had been sitting was the lean-to pentice or covered walk; the fencing was wooden planks with gaps between, though certainly not wide enough for anyone to throw a knife with such force. The Guildhall wall was an impenetrable barrier and, if the knife had been thrown from the garden, someone would have had to stand at the gate. Athelstan shook his head. Sir Gerard or his dogs would not have allowed someone to stand wielding a wicked-looking knife, and made no protest or resistance.
    Athelstan looked down the pebbled path. How it crunched under his sandalled feet. No soft-footed assassin could have stolen along such a path and stood at the gate without sending the dogs into a barking frenzy. He looked up at the buttress of the Guildhall against which the pentice had been built. The only windows there were mere arrow slits and too high and narrow for anyone to throw a knife through them with any force or accuracy. He looked at Cranston who was studying the blade of the knife carefully.
    ‘It must have been Boscombe,’ Athelstan muttered. That knife was not thrown. See.’ He pointed to the trellis against which Mountjoy had been leaning. ‘The dagger went right through his chest and scored the fence.’
    ‘Perhaps someone climbed the fence behind Sir Gerard?’ Clifford approached them to suggest.
    Athelstan shook his head.
    ‘I doubt it, My Lord. Sir Gerard was apparently sitting down when he was killed. Such an assailant would have to climb the fence, swing down with the dagger and take his victim in the chest. Can you imagine the Sheriff or his dogs allowing that?’
    The Guildmasters, led by Clifford and Gaunt, gingerly entered the small arbour, looking apprehensively over their shoulders at the two great wolf hounds who now lay, sad-eyed, on the grass.
    ‘Are those dogs safe?’ Gaunt muttered.
    ‘Oh, yes,’ Cranston replied absentmindedly. ‘They know something’s wrong but they do not see us as hostile.’ He snorted with laughter. ‘Though perhaps we are. One person here definitely is.’ Cranston stared around. ‘I am Sir John Cranston, King’s Coroner in the city,’ he declared. ‘This is my verdict: I find Sir Gerard Mountjoy murdered by person or persons unknown.’
    ‘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