The Anger of God

Now and again the old lady behind would throw down pieces of stale, dirty meat: this only wetted the strays’ appetites and brought down upon the old crone the imprecations and curses of her fellow traders. Athelstan, leading Philomel, edged his way through, smiling at Cecily who sat on the steps of the market cross, talking earnestly to a young fop in tawdry clothes and stained hose. She waved at Athelstan and cooed at Cranston , who turned away and grunted. Suddenly, the Coroner’s arm shot out and grabbed a ragged-arsed, balding, little man who was slinking through the crowds with a lap-dog in his arms. Athelstan, with Philomel nudging him for more water cress, watched in amazement as the burly Coroner lifted up the little man, still holding the lap-dog, by the scruff of his neck.
    ‘Well, well, if it’s not old Peterkin!’ Cranston gave the ferret-faced beggar a shake. ‘Old Peterkin the dog catcher. You snivelling little bastard! What are you up to now?’
    ‘Nothing, Sir John. I found this dog and am trying to find its owner.’
    Cranston bellowed across to a beadle and the bleary-eyed official hurried across.
    ‘I am Sir John Cranston, Coroner. And this,’ he thrust Peterkin and the dog into the beadle’s arms, ‘is a little turd who goes across into the city, steals some lady’s lap-dog and then brings it back to claim the reward. Take care of him!’
    Cranston handed Peterkin over without further ado, winked at Athelstan, and they turned the corner and passed down the thoroughfare to London Bridge .
    The stocks and pillories on either side of the road were full of miscreants; night hawks, pickpockets, and every rapscallion in Southwark. Some stoically took the humiliation and the dirt pelted by passersby as if it was an occupational hazard whilst others moaned and cried for water. Athelstan quickly studied their faces, relieved to see none of his parishioners placed there. At the entrance to the bridge Cranston stopped and pounded on the iron-studded door of the gatehouse. There was no reply so the Coroner, ignoring Athelstan’s questions, kicked on it, bawling, ‘Come on, Burdon, you little bastard! Where are you?’
    The door was flung open and a small, hairy-faced little creature appeared. A veritable mannikin. Athelstan smiled at Robert Burdon, father of at least thirteen children and constable of the gate tower.
    ‘Oh, it’s you, Cranston . What do you want?’
    ‘Can I come in?’ Sir John asked.
    ‘No, you bloody well can’t! I’m busy!’
    Cranston stared up at the spikes above the gatehouse and their grisly burdens: the decapitated heads of traitors and malefactors.
    ‘Fine,’ Cranston breathed. ‘But who’s stealing the heads?’
    ‘I don’t bloody well know!’ Burdon replied, sticking his thumbs in his belt, his little dark eyes glaring at Athelstan. ‘What am I supposed to do, Father? My job is very simple. I’m to guard the gatehouse and place the heads on the spikes, and I always look after them. However, if some vile viper wishes to come and steal them, what can I do?’ He puffed his little chest out till he reminded Athelstan even more of a cock sparrow. ‘I am a constable, not a guard.’
    ‘Robert!’ The woman’s voice inside was soft and alluring.
    ‘My wife,’ Burdon explained. ‘She’ll tell you the same. I don’t know what happened, Sir John. I goes to bed, the heads are there. I wakes up and, though there’s a guard here, the heads are gone.’ He leaned closer. ‘I think it’s witch hags,’ he whispered, ‘The night riders.’
    ‘Bollocks!’ Cranston roared.
    ‘Well, that’s the only bloody answer you’re going to get from me, so sod off!’ Burdon disappeared, slamming the door behind him.
    Cranston sighed, shook his head and took a generous swig from the wineskin.
    ‘Come on, Brother.’
    ‘Who do you think is stealing the heads?’ Athelstan asked, threading Philomel’s reins round his wrist and riding alongside Cranston .
    ‘God knows, Brother. This city is full of every fiend in Hell. It could be a warlock or witch. The Corporation were particularly angry at the disappearance of the head of that French privateer, Jacques Larue — you remember, the one taken off Gravesend ? Mystery after mystery,’ Cranston moaned. He stopped outside the chapel of St Thomas built midway along the bridge.
    ‘Forget the stealer of heads,’ he muttered. ‘Who gives a damn? Burdon doesn’t, and the guards of the Corporation are half-sodden