The Anger of God

officer of the law. You have seen a crime committed yet you have no sympathy for its victims, only the perpetrator.’ Cranston glanced across at Walter Hobden but that man of straw just stood rubbing his hands together with all the courage of a frightened rabbit.
    ‘For God’s sake!’ Benedicta walked across the room and, though she’d been frightened by Elizabeth ’s acting, betrayed no fear of Eleanor Hobden. ‘For God’s sake!’ she repeated. ‘Woman, the girl may well be witless.’ Athelstan went and sat down on the bed, put his arm round the sobbing girl and looked at her father.
    ‘Why did your daughter make such accusations?’
    ‘Because she hates me,’ Eleanor retorted. ‘She always has and she always will. Now she can get out!’ Benedicta’s eyes pleaded with Athelstan. He nodded at her to help the old nurse back to her feet.
    ‘Listen,’ he declared, ‘I insist, Mistress — no, I demand this because I came here at your invitation. True, Sir John was not invited but he is owed something too for delving into the truth.’
    The woman nodded.
    ‘Accordingly,’ Athelstan continued, ‘Elizabeth and her nurse will stay here tonight. Tomorrow morning the lady Benedicta will return and take both of them to the Abbey of St Mary and St Frances which lies at the junction of Poor Jewry and Aldgate Street.’
    Walter murmured his approval. His wife chewed on her lower lip, glowering at her step-daughter.
    ‘Agreed,’ she snarled eventually. ‘But the bitch is to be gone by noonday!’

    Cranston stood at the corner of Bread Street and West Cheap and stared across at his house.
    ‘Oh,’ he moaned, ‘I wish Lady Maude was back.’ He stroked the muzzle of his horse, licked his lips and looked at the welcoming warmth and light of The Holy Lamb. He had left Benedicta and Athelstan in Southwark and made his own way back to Cheapside , talking loudly to himself as he often did about the hardness of the human heart and the stubborn hatred of the likes of Eleanor Hobden. His horse snickered and nuzzled his chest.
    ‘I suppose you are right,’ Cranston muttered.
    He led his horse down a side street and into the yard of The Holy Lamb where he and the Lady Maude stabled their horses. Once the horse was settled, and resisting all temptation, Sir John strode across a deserted Cheapside back to his own house.
    He had his hand on the latch when he heard his name called. Two figures detached themselves from the alleyway at the side of the house and stepped into the pool of light provided by the lamp hung on a hook next to the door. Cranston ’s smile faded.
    ‘What the bloody hell do you want?’ he snarled.
    Rosamund Ingham pushed back the hood of her cloak with one hand, the other resting lightly on the arm of the slack-faced Albric. Her face was as imperious and harsh as Eleanor Hobden’s. Cranston quickly noted the similarity between the two women: beautiful but hardeyed, with a sour twist to their mouths. He put his hand back on the latch.
    ‘I asked what you wanted?’
    ‘Sir John, leave us alone. Tomorrow morning, as you know, my husband will be buried. I don’t suppose you’ll be there?’
    ‘No, I won’t! I loved Sir Oliver as a brother. I won’t stand before God in the presence of his murderers!’
    ‘That’s a lie!’
    ‘That’s the truth and I’ll prove it!’
    ‘And if you don’t,’ Rosamund pushed her face forward, ‘I‘ll see you in the courts, Sir John.’
    ‘Piss off!’ he replied, his hand falling to his dagger as he saw Albric move forward.
    ‘Go on,’ Cranston sneered. ‘Draw your sword and I’ll tickle your codpiece.’
    Rosamund waved her lover back with one hand. ‘Take the seals off my husband’s room,’ she demanded. ‘And leave us alone or...’
    Cranston stepped forward. ‘Or what, My Lady?’ Rosamund sneered. ‘I am asking you, Sir John. And I’ll not ask again.’
    ‘Good night, My Lady.’ He pushed open the door and slammed it behind him.
    He sniffed the air appreciatively and walked into the kitchen. A red-faced Boscombe was removing a golden-crusted pie from the oven next to the hearth.
    ‘Just in time, Sir John,’ the little man beamed. ‘Beef stew pie, garnished with onions and leeks. A glass of claret?’
    Sir John beamed. ‘Philip, if you were a woman, I’d marry you tomorrow.’
    He washed his hands in a bowl of rose water and went to sit at the table.
    ‘You have not entered the bliss of nuptial grace?’
    Boscombe shook his