The Anger of God

wise-headed fellow,’ Athelstan observed.
    ‘One good apple in a rotten barrel,’ Cranston whispered out of the corner of his mouth. ‘He’s a northerner who has attached his fortunes to Gaunt’s star. I hope he’s wise. If the Regent falls, so will he.’
    At last they reached the Hall of Roses, the sumptuous though small private banqueting chamber of the Guildhall. The servant ushered them in, Athelstan and Cranston blinking at the brilliant light from hundreds of candles fixed round the room. The other guests were already seated; they paid little heed to the new arrivals and whispered amongst themselves as a cup-bearer took Cranston and Athelstan to their seats.
    ‘A most noble place,’ the friar whispered.
    ‘Don’t forget, Brother,’ Cranston murmured as they sat down, ‘tonight we dine with a murderer!’

CHAPTER 4

    Cranston sat in his seat in the Hall of Roses and lovingly cradled a jewelled wine goblet.
    ‘First time I’ve been here,’ he muttered to Athelstan.
    The friar studied his fat friend anxiously; Cranston , deep in his cups, was frighteningly unpredictable. He might either go to sleep or else start lecturing these powerful men. However, the Coroner seemed quiet enough for the moment and Athelstan, who had eaten and drunk sparingly, gazed appreciatively round the Hall of Roses.
    A perfect circle, the chamber reminded him of a painting of a Greek temple he had once seen in a Book of Hours. The roof was a cupola of cleverly ornate, polished hammer beams which swooped across the ceiling to meet a huge central red rose, carved in wood and painted in gold leaf. The walls and dark embrasures were of dressed stone and the supporting pillars of porphyry linked by banners of cloth of gold, bearing either the Royal Arms or the insignia of the House of Lancaster. The marble floor was overlaid by a carpet which, from a red rose in the centre, radiated out in strips of purple and white, each ending in the name of one of the knights of Arthur’s Round Table. Over each name sat a guest at his own separate table, a small oaken trestle covered with a silver-white cloth. At the top, on King Arthur’s seat, was the young Richard, his golden hair elaborately dressed, a silver chaplet round his white brow; the young King was attired from head to toe in purple damask.
    Athelstan, ignoring the hubbub of conversation around him, studied Richard who sat gazing unwinkingly across the hall. Then he caught the friar’s glance, smiled and winked mischievously. Athelstan grinned, embarrassed, and looked away, He was not frightened of Gaunt, who sat in scarlet robes on the King’s right, but Athelstan knew how jealous the Regent was of the King’s open affection for Sir John Cranston, as well as his secretarius, Brother Athelstan. The young King turned and talked to Hussey on his left, grasping his tutor’s wrist in a gesture of friendship. Cranston , though on his eighth cup of claret, turned and pulled a face at Athelstan; for the King to touch anyone at a formal banquet was a breach of etiquette and the highest mark of royal favour.
    Athelstan glanced at Gaunt. He was astute enough to see the flicker of annoyance cross the Regent’s saturnine face even though Gaunt tried to hide it by stroking his neatly clipped gold moustache and beard.
    ‘As I have said,’ Cranston whispered rather too loudly in Athelstan’s ear, ‘no love lost there. Hussey is now the King’s favourite as well as his tutor. A university man,’ Sir John continued. ‘I wonder what Hussey and the King think of Gaunt’s friendship with the Guildmasters? Just look at the turd worms!’
    Athelstan squeezed Cranston ’s arm. ‘Sir John, keep your voice down. You have eaten well?’
    Cranston smiled. ‘As I would wish to in Paradise! For God’s sake, Brother, just look at the wealth!’
    Athelstan stared at his own cup, plate and knives all fashioned from pure gold and silver, whilst his goblet, hardly touched throughout the meal, was encrusted with a King’s ransom in jewels, part of the loot Gaunt had brought back from his wars in France .
    ‘What have we eaten so far, Brother?’
    ‘Lamprey, salmon, venison, boar’s meat, swan and peacock.’ Athelstan grinned. ‘And dessert is still to come!’
    He was about to tease Sir John further when suddenly Fitzroy, Guildmaster of the Fishmongers, rose to his feet, scrabbling at his fur-lined collar, his habitually red face purple now as he coughed and choked. The rest of the