The Anger of God

to the Friar Minoresses. The sisters were good and kind, even though the two were hysterical. Elizabeth calls her father and step-mother assassins: she claims the truth was revealed to her by her mother in a dream. Brother, what will happen to them?’
    Athelstan slumped wearily on to a stool and shook his head.
    ‘Benedicta, I don’t know. I thank you for what you have done but only God knows what the future holds.’
    She went to the buttery and brought back a flagon of ale.
    ‘You look tired.’ She pushed the tankard into his hands. ‘Come on,’ she urged. ‘Drink and have something to eat. You’ll have some bread and dried meat? I’ll prepare enough for both of us.’
    Athelstan, embarrassed at her care and concern, mumbled his thanks and sat staring into the weak flames of the fire. Benedicta bustled around the kitchen laying the table. The widow deliberately kept up a litany of gossip about the parish in an attempt to distract Athelstan from what he so aptly described to her as his ‘sea of troubles’. During the meal he tried to respond but felt weary, his head buzzing with all he had seen and heard that day. Benedicta took her leave, saying she would see him at Mass tomorrow. Athelstan watched her go then put his head on his arms and fell fast asleep.
    When Athelstan awoke it was dark. He felt cold and cramped so he built up the fire. He was about to go into the buttery when he was startled by a gentle knocking on the door.
    ‘Who is it?’ he called. Getting no answer, he took his ash cudgel from the corner and placed his hand on the latch. ‘Who is it?’ he repeated, trying to calm his anxieties. He strained his ears but only heard the gentle swishing of the trees in the cemetery and the ghostly hooting of an owl. He opened the door and stared into the darkness. He was about to walk out when his foot caught something. He bent and picked up a small loaf of bread with a scrap of parchment attached to it. Athelstan looked round once again, closed and bolted the door behind him, lit the candle and read the scrawled hand.
    ‘Incur the wrath of God and you will incur the bread of bitterness.’
    Athelstan picked up the small loaf and sniffed it carefully. He could see the sprinkled salt and caught the bitterness of some crushed herb. He read the scrap of parchment again and tossed both it and the loaf into the fire. ‘The bread of bitterness,’ Athelstan muttered to himself and half-smiled at the apt quotation from the Old Testament. He sat for a while staring at the candle flame; Ira Dei had made his reply, taunting him with the knowledge that he knew Athelstan only wished to communicate with him at the behest of his enemy, John of Gaunt. The friar recalled Cranston ’s confrontation with the Guildmasters earlier in the day. The Coroner probably hoped that his words might provoke Ira Dei into some stupid error.
    Athelstan rubbed his eyes. ‘Ah, well!’ he muttered. ‘ Cranston and I now have his answer.’ And he wearily climbed the stairs to his small bed chamber.

CHAPTER 12

    Athelstan awoke fresh and invigorated the next morning. He washed, shaved, changed his robe, fed Bonaventure and ate a hurried breakfast. Athelstan then went across to celebrate the Requiem for Ursula the pig woman’s mother. Benedicta was waiting for him at the entrance to the rood screen after he had finished in the sacristy.
    ‘What is it, Benedicta?’
    ‘I am sorry to trouble you, Father, but I’ve received messages from the Minoresses. You’ve got to come. Last night Elizabeth Hobden tried to hang herself!’
    Athelstan bit back his curse, said he would lock the church and meet her within the half-hour on the steps of St Mary Overy. Athelstan quickly made sure all was secure, left oats and hay for a snoring Philomel and hurried down to where Benedicta was waiting for him.
    ‘What else did the message say?’ he asked breathlessly as they hurried on to London Bridge .
    ‘Nothing, Father. Apparently the girl kept repeating the same story. Late last night a sister heard a crash from her cell and, when she went to investigate, discovered the girl had tried to hang herself with the sheets from her bed.’
    Under the gateway of London Bridge Athelstan stopped and looked up at the severed heads of traitors spiked there. Benedicta followed his gaze.
    ‘Father, what on earth...?’
    Athelstan shrugged. ‘I find it difficult to believe, Benedicta, that Cranston is actually hunting someone who steals such grisly