The Anger of God

wolf hounds were as terrified of Domina Maude as their newfound master was. Behind the dogs Boscombe stood fixed like a candlestick, now and again nodding his head in approval of every word the Lady Maude uttered. Cranston coughed and walked into the kitchen. Lady Maude turned. She was only just over five foot high. Athelstan had never before met a woman who could seem to be twice her height.
    ‘Sir John,’ she cried sweetly. ‘I arrived home early.’
    Cranston gingerly walked forward, his beaver hat clenched in his hands.
    ‘Lady wife,’ he stammered, ‘you are most welcome. And the poppets?’
    ‘Upstairs with their nurse, sleeping soundly. And no, Sir John,’ as Cranston turned, ‘you will leave them at peace. I decided to return,’ she walked forward, ‘because I missed you, Sir John.’ She smiled. ‘And good news! My brother Ralph, his wife and children might be joining us after Michaelmas.’
    Cranston daren’t let his fixed smile slip.
    ‘Oh, rat’s arse!’ he breathed.
    Lady Maude came closer. She stood on tip-toe and kissed her husband on either cheek before turning to clasp Athelstan’s hand. The friar saw the merriment dancing in the little woman’s eyes.
    ‘Sir John has been behaving himself, Father?’
    ‘A man of righteousness, Lady Maude.’
    Her smile widened at the gentle sarcasm in Athelstan’s voice. Cranston stood stock-still, staring at Gog and Magog then at Boscombe. The dogs ignored him, their eyes on Lady Maude, whilst Boscombe gazed glassily back.
    ‘You have met our visitors, Lady Maude?’
    ‘Visitors!’ his wife cried. ‘Sir John, they are part of our family. Master Boscombe is a rare jewel.’
    ‘And the dogs?’
    ‘They now know their place, as should everyone in this house.’
    Cranston stiffened even further at the hint of warning in his wife’s words. Maude suddenly gripped Sir John’s hand.
    ‘You are a kind and generous man,’ she whispered. ‘I would have been angry if you had done any other. How could a man like Boscombe be turned into the streets and two of God’s beautiful creatures be cruelly destroyed? I do not like my Lord Regent, and Boscombe has told me about the business at the Guildhall.’
    Cranston shot a glance at him. The servant had been sworn not to utter one word about the attack in the alleyway. Boscombe, still glassy-eyed, shook his head imperceptibly. Cranston relaxed and, seeing how the wind blew, took off his cloak, threw it over the table and embraced his wife in a bear-like hug.
    This was the signal for all chaos to break out. The dogs started howling, Boscombe became solicitous. The Lady Maude insisted on Cranston sitting in his high-backed chair, Athelstan opposite him, whilst she served ‘Her Lord and Master’ with suitable refreshment.
    At last the confusion died down. Sir John and Athelstan exchanged news and gossip with Lady Maude. A perspiring maid brought down the two poppets to bawl lustily at their father, who dangled them on his knees, turning both even more red-faced with fury. Athelstan gazed at the strapping babies, then admiringly at Lady Maude: he secretly wondered how such a delicate little thing could have given birth to what he privately considered to be the burliest babies he had ever seen. They looked like peas out of the same pod, even more so now, with their fat cheeks and balding heads.
    Gog and Magog came over to sniff, nudge and lick — until even Cranston , who revelled in such loving chaos, declared enough was enough and beat a retreat to his chancery. Once he and Athelstan were inside what Cranston termed his ‘sanctuary’, the Coroner leaned back against the door and mopped his sweating brow.
    ‘God save us!’ he whispered. ‘Thank God the Domina chose to be merciful. Believe me, Brother, old Jack Cranston is afeared of nothing except Domina Maude’s fury.’
    Not to mention Ferox and Bonaventure, Athelstan silently added, but kept his own counsel.
    ‘Now,’ Cranston declared, ‘let’s look amongst my records.’ He threw back the lid of a huge, iron-bound coffer and dug like a great dog, sending pieces of parchment flying over his shoulder. Cranston muttered to himself, cursing as he unrolled one scroll after another only to toss it aside.
    ‘At last!’ he crowed in triumph, squatting on the floor with his back to the wall. He read the scroll, greedily studying its contents, now and again crying out and slapping his thigh.
    ‘Dirty little secrets!’ He tossed the parchment