The Anger of God

left a note pinned to my cloak.’
    ‘What did it say?’
    ‘“Do not provoke the Anger of God.’” Clifford moved his shoulder gingerly. ‘I couldn’t give a fig. It will take more than those ruffians,’ he remarked drily, ‘to hinder me.’
    He offered more refreshment but Athelstan said the day was passing.
    ‘Sir John,’ he explained, ‘wishes to visit Sturmey’s shop, remove the Regent’s seals and search the place.’
    Clifford agreed and they went out into the bustling market place, Clifford chatting to them about Gaunt’s determination to restore his alliance with the Guild-masters.
    ‘Keep your voices down and your hands on your wallets,’ Cranston intervened. He smiled at Athelstan. ‘I think all Southwark’s here.’
    The friar glanced around. The stalls were busy, the noise deafening with the apprentices’ raucous cries of ‘ St Thomas ’ onions!’ ‘Fresh bread!’ ‘Hot pies!’ ‘Pins and needles for a mistress!’ ‘A cap for you, sir!’ All of London , the silk-clad nobles and serge-clothed peasants, swirled around the stalls and Athelstan glimpsed the sharp-faced foists, pickpockets and cut-purses at work. He’d walked so many times through the city with Cranston , he’d acquired the Coroner’s skill in detecting how these sneak thieves worked, constantly moving round the market place looking for a victim. These petty law-breakers were now busy, seemingly oblivious to the punishments being carried out around the stocks and whipping posts of Cheapside: market beadles chained men and women, crude placards slung round their necks describing their litany of crimes, be it cutting buttons from precious robes to bone-pickers and rag-gatherers who were not above helping themselves to any items which fell from a stall.
    A pardoner stood beneath the market cross, greasy scrolls in his hand, offering remission for sins in return for donations to the Pope’s coffers. Hawkers sold battered spoons, rusting tin cups and other paltry articles. The whores paraded themselves, keeping a wary eye for the ward constables; tipplers offered fresh water whilst beating off dogs lapping in their buckets or ragged-arsed urchins begging for a free drink. The execution cart forced its way through, preceded by a dark-cowled monk, muttering the prayers for the dying. Three condemned felons sat on their cheap arrow-chest coffins shouting farewells at the sparse, ragged crowd of friends and acquaintances. These accompanied the condemned felons to the gallows to hang on their feet and so ensure a speedy death. Now and again Cranston would be recognized with ‘Hellos’ from the worthy city burgesses or black looks and a stream of obscenities from those who had felt the Coroner’s fat hand on their collar.
    At last they turned up Lawrence Lane . Sturmey’s shop was all boarded up but the whey-faced maid and chattering apprentice let them in.
    ‘His son has not come south yet,’ the young boy told them. ‘But the sooner he does, the sooner I can move on to another master.’
    Cranston patted him on the head and slipped a penny into his hand. Clifford drew his dagger, sliced through the Regent’s seal and, taking the keys the Corporation had seized, opened the workshop. Inside, ably assisted by the young apprentice, they began to sift through the bits of discarded keys. Athelstan went through the dead locksmith’s ledger but, after an hour, they could find nothing of interest.
    Clifford, grimacing at the pain in his shoulder, stamped his foot in annoyance.
    ‘Sturmey must have made a second set of keys. But how and where is a mystery, Sir John.’
    Cranston was staring at the young, angelic face of the apprentice. A vague memory stirred in his mind.
    ‘How long did you serve Master Sturmey?’ he asked, it’s three years, sir, since my mother drew up indentures with him and I have another three years left.’ Cranston nodded his head sagely. ‘And your master always worked here?’
    ‘Oh, yes, here or in the garden.’
    ‘And he had no visitors?’ Cranston smiled. ‘Like this young noble lord here?’
    The lad stared at Clifford and shook his head.
    ‘No, no, it was always the Lord Mayor and the Sheriff.’
    Athelstan walked out of the workshop and down the passageway. He smiled at the young maid in the scullery and went through the back door into the garden. A neatly kept place with a small rose patch, a green garth, and the rest flowers or herbs: iris, lily, cowslip and cornflower