The Anger of God

darkness had fully fallen. They stopped before crossing the great thoroughfare leading down to London Bridge and watched a party of mounted knights pass, bright in their multicoloured surcoats, their great war helmets swinging from saddle horns. Squires and pages rode behind holding shields and lances. After them came two long lines of dusty archers marching through Southwark towards the old road south to Dover .
    ‘There’s a lot of such toing and froing,’ Cranston observed. ‘The French are now attacking every important seaport along the Channel and the Regent is desperate for troops. If he withdraws any more from Hedingham and the other castles north of London , it might spark off the revolt.’
    Cranston watched as the archers trooped by — crop-haired, hard-bitten, with weather-beaten faces — veterans who would make short work of any peasant levies.
    ‘What will you do?’ he suddenly asked Athelstan. ‘I mean, when the revolt comes?’
    The friar pulled a face, ‘I‘ll send Benedicta away with anyone else who wishes to escape the eye of the storm. I’ll stay in my church.’
    Athelstan, too, studied the soldiers. They stirred memories of his brother Francis and himself during their short and inglorious foray with the English armies in France . He had come home, leaving Francis to be buried in some communal pit. As usual, when thinking of his brother, Athelstan closed his eyes and breathed a quick requiem for the repose of his soul.
    They continued their journey and at last arrived at the Hobdens’ narrow, three-storied house. Athelstan looked up. He glimpsed a single candle glowing in an upper-story window, and shivered.
    ‘Christ and all his angels protect us!’ he breathed as he knocked on the door.
    ‘Don’t worry!’ Cranston urged. ‘Jack Cranston’s here!’
    ‘Yes,’ Benedicta whispered. ‘I suppose angels come in all shapes and sizes!’
    Cranston was about to make a tart reply when the door swung open. Walter and Eleanor Hobden greeted them. Athelstan took an instant dislike to both of them. The man seemed sly and secretive, whilst the sharp-featured, gimlet-eyed Eleanor looked a veritable harridan.
    ‘Father, you are welcome.’
    The Hobdens stood aside and ushered them in. Athelstan entered the darkened passageway, trying to control his anxiety, as well as a shiver of apprehension which made him flinch and tense as if expecting a blow.
    ‘I have brought Sir John,’ he declared haltingly. ‘Sir John Cranston, Coroner of the city. And this is Benedicta, a member of my parish council.’ He smiled sheepishly. ‘In these cases it’s best to have witnesses.’
    The Hobdens, standing on either side of the fire, just stared hard-eyed and Athelstan fought to control his mounting unease. What was happening here? he wondered. Why did this house make him feel so apprehensive? He scarcely knew the Hobdens and yet he found the atmosphere in their house oppressive, redolent of an unspoken evil.
    ‘Where is your daughter?’ he asked, conscious of how subdued both Cranston and Benedicta had become. He glanced over his shoulder. Cranston ’s usual cheery expression was now grave and sombre as if the house had taken some of his usual ebullience away.
    ‘ Elizabeth ’s upstairs,’ Walter muttered. ‘Father, have you brought the oils and water?’
    ‘Of course.’
    ‘It will begin soon,’ Eleanor Hobden spoke up. ‘Once darkness falls the demon manifests itself.’
    ‘In what ways?’ Cranston snapped before Athelstan could stop him.
    Walter shook his thin shoulders. ‘Father Athelstan knows that,’ he whined. ‘ Elizabeth speaks but with her mother’s voice. Then there’s the knocking on the walls, the smell, the accusations.’ His voice trailed off.
    ‘How did your wife die?’ Athelstan asked. ‘I mean, your first wife?’
    ‘Of an abscess inside her,’ Eleanor replied brusquely. ‘We called the best physicians but they could do nothing. She just faded away. I was a distant cousin of Sarah’s and, when she fell ill, I came to nurse her. Father, there was nothing that could be done.’
    Athelstan turned as a bent old woman crept, like a shadow, into the room.
    ‘This is Anna,’ Walter announced. ‘ Elizabeth ’s nurse.’ The old woman drew closer, her wrinkled face creased into a hapless smile.
    ‘ Elizabeth has driven even me away,’ she moaned. ‘She will have nothing to do with me at all.’
    Athelstan studied Anna’s black button eyes, wispy grey hair