The Anger of God

a window seat of The Lamb of God, each with a tankard of cool ale in their hands, did the friar comment.
    ‘You asked a question as we left the Guildhall, Sir John. Have you considered the possibility that these deaths may not be the work of the peasant leader Ira Dei but of another court faction trying to bring the Regent into disrepute?’
    ‘You mean Hussey and the like?’ Cranston shook his head, in answer to that, good friar, all I can reply is: have you considered the possibility that, if Gaunt goes, the young King may fall with him?’
    Athelstan sat back, surprised, it’s as close as that, Sir John?’
    ‘Oh, yes. When and if the revolt comes, do you think the peasant leaders will distinguish between one prince and another? Haven’t you heard their song, Brother? “When Adam delved and Eve span, Who was then the Gentleman?”.’ Cranston gulped from his blackjack of ale. ‘What worries me more, Brother, are the likes of Goodman, Denny and Sudbury, who would like to see London without a King, ruled by merchant princes like the cities they trade with: Florence, Pisa and Genoa. So many players,’ he murmured. ‘God knows, Brother, it’s hard to distinguish between the good and the bad.’ He roared for another tankard. ‘But you were saying, before Hussey arrived, you think Gaunt has a spy in your parish?’
    Athelstan’s face became closed and tight-lipped and Cranston glimpsed the gentle friar’s rare anger.
    ‘You have your suspicions?’
    ‘For the moment, Sir John, by your leave, I’ll keep close counsel and a still mouth. But, yes, I do.’
    They sat for another hour, Cranston deciding to eat at the tavern rather than return to his empty house. The shadows began to lengthen. Outside the market closed and the stalls were taken down. As the tavern began to fill with sweat-soaked apprentices and hoarse-voiced tinkers, desperate to quench their thirst, Cranston and Athelstan collected their horses and returned through the emptying streets towards London Bridge .
    The crowds had now gone home so they found their passage easy and Athelstan began to prepare himself for his visit to the Hobdens and the exorcism of the young girl, Elizabeth.
    ‘Have you ever done this before?’ Cranston asked curiously, half an eye on a well-known pickpocket who was trailing a tired-looking tinker.
    ‘Done what, Sir John?’
    ‘An exorcism, a real one?’
    Suddenly Cranston turned away and shouted across Bridge Street : ‘Foulpie!’
    The pickpocket spun round, a startled look on his face.
    ‘Foulpie, me boy!’ Cranston roared, i’ve got my eye on you, you bloody little thief! Now be a good lad and piss off!’
    The one-eyed tinker stopped and turned, startled.
    ‘What’s the matter?’ he shouted.
    Cranston grinned and pointed to Foulpie, haring back towards East Cheap as fast as any whippet.
    ‘A rapscallion interested in your takings.’
    The tinker smiled his thanks and the Coroner turned back to his subdued companion.
    ‘Well, Brother?’ he asked between swigs from the miraculous wineskin. ‘Have you ever exorcized the Lord Satan or one of his minions?’
    Athelstan half-grinned and shook his head.
    ‘I’ve seen an exorcism,’ Cranston continued. ‘A real one. Fifteen years ago at St Benet Sherehog. You know the church?’
    Athelstan nodded.
    ‘A young boy was taken there from the hospital of St Anthony of Vienne . Well,’ Cranston helped himself once more to the wineskin, ‘Brother, I still have nightmares about it! You see, the exorcist was one of those rare men, a really holy friar.’ Cranston sniffed at his own joke. ‘And I was one of the official witnesses appointed by the Bishop of London. They brought this lad, no more than fourteen summers, and chained him in the sanctuary chair next to the rood screen.’ The Coroner stopped to clear his throat, now Athelstan was listening eagerly. ‘This boy,’ he continued, ‘could speak in strange tongues, raise himself from the ground and, worse, tell people their secrets.’
    ‘What happened?’ Athelstan asked curiously.
    ‘Well, the exorcist began the ceremony and the boy suddenly changed. He became violent and abusive, cursing the exorcist with every foul word he knew. Now there’s a part of the ceremony, you know, when the exorcist...’
    ‘Solemnly invokes?’ Athelstan asked.
    ‘That’s it, solemnly invokes the devil and asks him by what name he is called. The boy’s voice, usually thin and reedy, became deep and rich, “