The Anger of God

weak-willed Walter into confession or at least remorse. Anyway, what shall we do now, Sir John?’
    ‘Oh, I’d let them stew in their juice for a few days. Meanwhile, I’ll visit the girl at the Minoresses.’
    ‘Thank you, Sir John, and then?’
    ‘As I said, I’ll return home and swear out a warrant for the arrest of Walter and Eleanor Hobden. My constables can serve it, and before they are much older the Hobdens will both stand trial before the King’s Justices at Westminster .’
    Athelstan thanked him again, assuring the Coroner that he would study all the evidence regarding the murders at the Guildhall, and so they parted, Cranston going up to the Minoresses and Athelstan turning down towards London Bridge .

    ‘ Ite missa est . ‘ Athelstan extended his hand in blessing at the end of the Sunday Mass. He smiled as those of his congregation who knew a little Latin shouted back ‘ Dei gratia ’.
    Athelstan went down the altar steps, genuflected and followed Crim into the sacristy then back out again to stand on the porch and to shake hands with his parishioners as they left. Watkin and Pike the ditcher stayed behind as he had asked them to before Mass. He said goodbye to Ranulf the rat-catcher, still full of glee at the way he had helped Cranston , Pernell the Fleming, Ursula and her sow, Tab the tinker and Cecily the courtesan, looking resplendent in a corn-coloured dress.
    ‘You have been behaving yourself?’ Athelstan asked her.
    ‘Of course, Father.’
    So miracles do happen in Southwark, he thought. The last to leave was Jacob Arveld the German with his pleasant-faced wife and brood of children. An industrious parchment-seller, the German had soon settled down in his pleasant, three-storied house and garden just behind The Bishop of Winchester inn, though he was still having difficulty with the language.
    ‘Those were nice words,’ Jacob reassured Athelstan now. ‘A most precise sermon. I thank you from the heart of my bottom.’
    ‘Don’t you mean bottom of your heart?’
    ‘And that, too, Father.’
    Athelstan smiled and watched his congregation gather in the alleyway around a small booth where Tab the tinker sold ale and sweetmeats. He walked back up the nave and into the sacristy where Watkin and his formidable wife, and Pike the ditcher and his equally redoubtable spouse, were waiting for him.
    Oh, Lord, Athelstan prayed, please make this peaceful. He darted a glance at Pike whom he had secretly met before Mass: the ditcher, who considered himself in the priest’s debt, had quickly agreed that his son’s betrothal to Watkin’s daughter was the best thing possible. He had then attentively listened as Athelstan told him what he must say when they met Watkin.
    ‘Well, we are here, Father.’ Watkin shuffled his great dirty boots. ‘I know why you want to see us, though it seems we were the last to realize that our daughter is smitten with Pike’s son.’
    ‘Young man.’ Pike the ditcher’s spouse intervened.
    ‘I don’t like this at all,’ Pike the ditcher spoke up. ‘I see no future prospects in their being betrothed. My son should look further afield.’
    ‘What’s wrong with my daughter?’ Watkin’s wife snapped. ‘Do you think your son’s too good for her?’
    Athelstan smiled to himself, stood back and watched Watkin and his wife launch the most vitriolic attack on Pike. After that there was little problem. Pike first reluctantly apologized and then, just as reluctantly, it seemed, agreed that the matter was settled; his son would marry Watkin’s daughter on the first Saturday after Easter. After that they crossed to the priest’s house to drink a cup of wine in celebration. Watkin swaggered in like some successful lawyer from the Inns of Court. He had extolled his family’s name, he had defended his daughter’s reputation, he had brought his great rival Pike the ditcher to book and made him accept what he proposed. Athelstan poured the wine, refusing to look Pike in the eye, and whilst they toasted the young couple, quietly prayed that Watkin would never discover how he had been tricked.
    After they had left, Athelstan ate a little breakfast and walked back to the deserted church to say his office. He then cleared the table in the kitchen, laid out his writing implements: quill, ink horn, pumice stone and the roll of new parchment Cranston had given him. Once ready, Athelstan sat and wrote everything he and the Coroner had learnt about the Ira Dei: