The Anger of God

head. ‘No woman would have me, Sir John, and Sir Gerard was the harshest of task masters.’
    ‘In which case,’ Cranston muttered, ‘you haven’t met the Lady Maude.’
    He was about to lift his cup when suddenly Gog and Magog, who had been resting in the garden, burst into the kitchen. Gog knocked Cranston flying off his chair whilst Magog, skilful as a falcon in flight, leapt up and plucked the pie right out of Boscombe’s hands. Cranston , cursing, got to his feet but the two dogs now had the pie and, even before he could reach them, were wolfing it down without a by-your-leave. Boscombe stood and wailed. Cranston stared at the dogs and, if animals could smile their thanks, he was sure these two had.
    ‘Lovely lads!’ he whispered.
    Both hounds broke off their unexpected feast and leapt up to lick his face and nibble at his ears until Cranston roared, ‘Enough is enough!’ and pushed them down.
    He looked across at Boscombe who stood, tears trailing down his cheeks. Cranston went over and patted him on the shoulder, almost knocking him to the floor.
    ‘Come on, man!’ he growled. ‘At least they fed well.’
    The pie had now disappeared. The two dogs, licking their lips, gazed admiringly at the new master who was so liberal with his food. They sat like carved figures as Cranston shook a warning finger at them.
    ‘Don’t ever,’ he admonished them, ‘try that with the Lady Maude!’
    The two dogs seemed to sense the significance of the word ‘Maude’ and Gog even looked fearfully at the door, but it was only Leif stealing into the house, attracted by the rich savoury smells.
    ‘Time for supper, Sir John?’
    Cranston grinned. ‘You’ll be lucky.’
    Leif looked nervously at the dogs. ‘But, Sir John, I have scarcely eaten all day.’
    ‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Cranston went back to the hallway, picked up his cloak and, with the threatening face of Rosamund Ingham still in mind, wrapped his sword belt around him. ‘Come on, Boscombe. And you, Leif, you lazy bugger! We’re off to The Lamb of God!’ The two dogs made to follow.
    ‘No, no, lovely lads! Stay!’
    Both animals crouched down as Cranston pushed a protesting Boscombe and a more eager Leif towards the door.
    ‘Shouldn’t we lock it?’ Boscombe asked, once they entered Cheapside .
    ‘Listen, man,’ Cranston replied. ‘What do you think the lovely lads would do if some night hawk made the mistake of walking in there?’
    Boscombe smiled.
    ‘Come on,’ Cranston urged. ‘That pie smelt delicious. Let me give you your just reward.’
    Two hours later, full of claret and mine host’s onion pie, Cranston , with one arm round Boscombe and the other hugging Leif, walked out of The Lamb of God and gazed expansively across Cheapside .
    ‘So you were at Poitiers ?’ Boscombe asked.
    ‘Oh, yes,’ Cranston replied. ‘Slimmer and more handsome then—’
    He was about to continue when he heard a faint cry for help from a nearby alleyway. Ignoring Boscombe’s warning, and despite the cups of claret he had drunk, Cranston sped like an arrow into the darkness. He glimpsed two figures in black holding a torch above another sprawled on the ground. Cranston caught the glint of steel and heard another piteous moan. He wrapped his cloak round his left arm and carried on like a charging bull.
    ‘Aidez! Aidez!’ Cranston shouted, the usual hue-and-cry call for help.
    The two figures looked up and he knew something was wrong. They didn’t retreat, they had masks on their faces, whilst their ‘victim’ suddenly sprang to his feet. Cranston stopped, breathing heavily, and wiped the sweat from his forehead.
    ‘You are never too old to learn,’ he muttered. The Coroner cursed himself for falling into a well-known trap, hastening to a supposed victim’s help only to blunder into an ambush. He gazed quickly over his shoulder, back up the alleyway where Boscombe and Leif were beginning to make their way down.
    ‘Go back!’ he roared.
    He drew his own sword and gingerly began to retreat. He dared not turn and run. He might slip or a thrown dagger might wound him and bring him down. Anyway he was old and fat whilst these three assailants crept like macabre dancers towards him. Cranston kept moving backwards then suddenly sideways to protect his back against a narrow, jutting buttress of the alley wall.
    The three black-garbed assassins crept closer. Each carried sword and dirk. They separated as they advanced. Cranston recognized them