The Anger of God

with iron bars and six separate locks. One key is held by the Regent, the other five by the Guildmasters.’ Boscombe rubbed the side of his face. ‘After that, we had marchpanes and sweet wines in the porch of the church then the Regent, together with the Mayor, Sheriff and the five Guildmasters, took secret counsel in the Sheriff’s private chamber.’ Boscombe ran his fingers through his hair, now thick and matted as a wolf-lock. ‘The meeting broke up and my master said he would take his pleasure in his private garden.’
    ‘Did you go there?’
    ‘Yes, I took him a stoup of wine. He was sunning himself. He said the morning had gone well and I was not to disturb him again.’ Boscombe started to cry. ‘Masters, I was in my own chamber when I heard the shouting and the soldiers came for me. I was hustled down to the garden and saw poor Sir Gerard there. And now,’ he wailed, ‘I am to hang!’
    Athelstan touched him lightly on the shoulder.
    ‘Be of good comfort, friend. You are no murderer. Sir John here will see that justice is done. One further question. Sir Gerard, your master, did he have any enemies?’
    Now Boscombe smiled slightly. ‘Enemies?’ he retorted. ‘I served my master well but to him I was another dog, to be kicked when I did wrong or thrown a bone when I did well. It would be better to wonder, Father, who was not Sir Gerard’s enemy for he had no friends. My Lord of Gaunt tolerated him. Sir Christopher Goodman the Mayor could hardly abide being in the same chamber as he, whilst the five Guildmasters...’ Boscombe sneered. ‘They are powerful, dangerous men. They could not abide Sir Gerard, not only for his wealth but for gaining high office in the city.’
    Athelstan got to his feet. ‘Stand up!’ he ordered. Boscombe pulled himself to his feet.
    ‘Are you wearing the same clothes as you were this morning?’
    ‘Why, yes, of course, though this morning, Brother, they were finery.’ Boscombe tugged at his cream-coloured jerkin and tapped the soft, brown, woollen hose, all grimed and stained with dirt.
    ‘Take a look, Sir John,’ Athelstan offered. ‘Did this fellow plunge a dagger into Sir Gerard’s heart?’
    ‘Of course,’ Cranston murmured, seizing Boscombe’s wrist and looking carefully at the sleeves. ‘No sign of blood here.’ He clapped the servant so heartily on the shoulder, poor Boscombe nearly collapsed back on the bed again. ‘You are no assassin.’ Cranston suddenly smacked his lips and Athelstan realized how long the Coroner had been without a drink. ‘So come on, lad, let’s go upstairs!’
    Cranston hammered on the door. The guard opened it but tried to stop Boscombe leaving.
    ‘Sod off!’ Cranston roared. ‘How dare you interfere with the King’s Coroner?’
    The man hastily stepped back, mumbling apologies as the Coroner, almost dragging poor Boscombe by one hand, led them back up the passageway and into the Guildhall. They found the Regent and the others still in the garden, seated on wooden benches in a small grassy enclave. They were sipping cool white wine as if it was a fair summer’s day and all was well. They totally ignored the household men who had sheeted the Sheriff’s body and were now taking it down to lie amongst the wine casks where it would remain cool and not begin to stink.
    Cranston and Athelstan stood aside as the servants hurried by, cursing and muttering at their grisly burden. Over in the far corner of the garden, the two great wolf hounds lay forlornly on the grass as if they knew their privileged life was gone. Sir John swept before the seated men, a wan-faced Boscombe gripped by one hand. Goodman sprang to his feet while the others watched Sir John with narrowed eyes and disapproving faces.
    An unwholesome bunch, Athelstan thought, men dedicated to power and the amassing of wealth; dark souls with sinister minds and powerful ambitions. They reminded the friar of hawks in a castle courtyard, straining at their jesses, ready to leave their perch to swoop and kill. Goodman advanced dramatically on Sir John.
    ‘This man is a city prisoner.’
    ‘And I am the city Coroner,’ Cranston replied. He had never liked Mountjoy but Goodman he detested as a man who would betray his own mother so long as the price was right.
    ‘You had no authority to free him!’ Goodman spluttered.
    ‘What is it, Sir John?’ Lord Adam Clifford, seated beside the Regent, languidly asked. The young man looked up, shielding his eyes against