The Anger of God

pulled them close.
    ‘You, madam, are a murdering bitch! No, don’t widen your eyes and scream for help! And you, sir — ‘ Albric’s eyes fell away. ‘Look at me, man!’ Cranston squeezed harder. ‘Look at me, you whoreson bastard!’
    Albric’s eyes came up.
    ‘You are party to this. If you had the courage I would challenge you to a duel and take the head from your shoulders. Don’t forget, the offer’s always there!’
    ‘Sir John, this is...’
    ‘Shut up!’ Cranston growled. ‘Upstairs lies the truest comrade a man could ask for. A good soldier, a shrewd merchant and the best of friends. Oliver’s heart may have become weak but he had the courage of a lion and the generosity of a saint. He adored you, you whey-faced mare, and you broke his heart! You betrayed him. I know you killed him. God knows how but I will discover it!’ Cranston shoved them both back into the window seat. ‘Believe me, I’ll see you both dance at Smithfield on the end of a rope!’
    He spun on his heel and walked to the door.
    ‘ Cranston !’ Rosamund yelled.
    ‘Yes, bitch!’ he replied over his shoulder.
    ‘I am innocent of my husband’s death.’
    The Coroner made a rude sound with his lips.
    ‘In ten days’ time my husband’s will shall be read out. All his property and his wealth will be mine. I shall use that wealth to prosecute you in the courts for slander and contumacious speech.’
    ‘In ten days’ time,’ he retorted, ‘I’ll see you in Newgate! You may remove the corpse but nothing else. I have an inventory of what’s there!’
    Cranston walked into the passageway, trying to curb his anger at the derisive laughter behind him. Ingham’s old retainer Robert stood near the front door, whitefaced.
    ‘Sir John,’ he whispered. ‘How can you prove what you say?’
    Cranston stopped, one hand on the latch, and stared at the servant’s lined, tired face.
    ‘I can and I will,’ he growled. ‘But tell me once more what happened yesterday.’
    ‘My master had been ill for days: fatigued, complaining of a lightness in his head and pains in his chest. He left supper last night with his wine cup. I saw him go to the buttery and fill the jug with a small infusion of foxglove to mix later with his wine as the physician had prescribed. Then he went to bed. He locked his chamber door and, because I was concerned, I stood guard.’ The man’s voice quavered. ‘I thought I would let him rest but when the bells of St Mary Magdalen began to chime for mid-morning prayer, I tried to rouse him. I summoned the servants, we forced the door. The rest you know.’
    ‘Couldn’t someone have saved him from the rats?’ Cranston retorted.
    ‘Sir John, the house is infested with them. The Lady Rosamund hates cats or any animals.’
    Sir John patted him on the shoulder. ‘Your master will have justice, I will see to that. Now, pray for his soul and take care of his corpse. One of my bailiffs is coming to seal the room.’
    Sir John walked out into Milk Street . He entered the church of St Mary Magdalen and lit five candles before the smiling figure of the Virgin and Child.
    ‘One for Maude, two for the poppets,’ he whispered, thinking of his fine, sturdy sons, now six months old. ‘One for Athelstan,’ he murmured, ‘and one for Sir Oliver, God rest him.’
    Sir John knelt, closed his eyes, and recited three Aves before realizing how thirsty he was.
    He lumbered out of the church, down Milk Street and into a deserted Cheapside . The stall-owners had now packed up for the day, removing their possessions back to the front rooms of their shops, taking down their booths and leaving the broad thoroughfare to the bone and rag collectors, a lazy-eyed whore looking for custom, snapping mongrels and sleek, fat alley cats who couldn’t believe their luck at the myriad of rats which now plundered the mounds of rubbish and human refuse. A few tinkers and pedlars still touted for business; these shouted friendly abuse at Sir John, who gave as good as he got as he passed, swift as an arrow, into his favourite tavern, The Holy Lamb of God.
    Sir John brightened at the cloying, sweet warmth of the taproom. A beadle was sitting in Cranston ’s favourite, high-backed chair before the open window which looked out on to a pleasant garden. Sir John coughed and the fellow scuttled away like a frightened rabbit. Sir John sat down, tapping the table and staring appreciatively at the dark polished timbers and white plaster of this