The Anger of God

put down his pen and went across to the church to celebrate Mass. No one came. Crim, heavy-eyed, burst through the door just as he finished, shouting his apologies. The lad explained how both his family and that of Pike the ditcher had spent the previous evening celebrating the forthcoming betrothal. Athelstan reassured him all was well, took a penny from his pouch and led Crim out on to the porch of the church.
    ‘You know the Lord Coroner, Crim?’
    ‘You mean old Horse Crusher?’
    ‘No, Crim!’
    ‘Yes, Father, I know the Lord Coroner and where he lives.’
    ‘Well, go across and see him. Deliver this message. He is to meet me at The Holy Lamb of God.’ Athelstan paused. ‘Yes, just as the market opens. Also tell him to ask my Lord of Gaunt and the other nobles to meet us at the Guildhall at noon.’ He slipped the penny into the boy’s grimy hand and made him repeat his message three times. Crim faithfully did so, eyes closed in concentration, and then was off, running like a hare down the alleyway.
    Athelstan went back into the church and crouched at the foot of one of the pillars. He’d be glad to have this business finished. He only hoped he was right. He had some proof but not enough: that would come when they were all assembled in the Guildhall though he would have to confess that the identity of Ira Dei was a mystery that had eluded him.
    Athelstan stared round the church. He really would have to catch up on parish business. Huddle had not finished his painting above the baptismal font, whilst Cecily had not cleaned the church for days. Athelstan closed his eyes. If only he could persuade someone to buy stained glass for one of the windows. Some brilliant picture like those he had seen in the well-patronized London churches. A story from the life of Christ or even that of St Erconwald, portrayed in great detail so he could refer to it when he gave his sermons.
    His mind wandered. He hoped Elizabeth Hobden would be safe with the Minoresses, and had Cranston issued the warrants for the arrest of her father and stepmother? Athelstan sighed and got to his feet. Returning to the priest’s house he cleared the table, packed the leather bag with his writing implements and went out to saddle a rather surly Philomel.
    He rode down to London Bridge , past the one-storied tenements of many of his parishioners. He resisted the temptation to ride directly at Ursula’s great sow which was lumbering up the street, its ears flapping, probably heading direct for Athelstan’s garden patch. The friar stopped beside a small ale-house where Cecily sat, legs pertly crossed, deep in conversation with Pike the ditcher. Athelstan handed him the keys to the church.
    ‘Cecily,’ he pleaded, ‘the church needs a good clean and I have paid you to do it.’
    The girl’s child-like blue eyes filled with tears.
    ‘Oh, Father, I am sorry but...’
    ‘Cecily has been busy,’ Pike interrupted. ‘With Alberto.’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘A sailor from a Geneose cog berthed at Dowgate.’ Pike’s grin widened. ‘Now he has gone, Cecily is back with us and the church will be clean.’
    Athelstan smiled. ‘Did you like him, Cecily?’
    ‘Oh, yes, Father. Fie promised he’d be back within two months.’
    Athelstan nodded and urged Philomel forward. Aye, he thought, poor Cecily. Cranston would say: ‘Alberto would be back when Ursula’s sow takes flight.’ He patted Philomel’s neck.
    ‘We are the poor, Philomel,’ he whispered, ‘remember that. And if wishes were horses, beggars would ride.’
    ‘Are you talking to yourself, Father?’
    Athelstan looked up. He’d passed the priory of St Mary Overy and was on the broad street leading down to the bridge. People were shoving and pushing around him and he couldn’t see the person who had spoken. ‘Father, it’s me.’
    Athelstan stared down to where Burdon, the keeper of the gatehouse, stood almost hidden beneath Philomel’s muzzle.
    ‘No, Master Burdon, just praying,’ he lied.
    The manikin slipped towards him. ‘Where’s Sir John? Oh, don’t tell me, deep in his cups in some city tavern. What about my heads?’
    ‘What about them?’ Athelstan asked. ‘Have more gone?’
    ‘No.’ The little man squared his shoulders. ‘But them that’s gone should come back.’
    ‘Well, I’ll see Sir John about that.’
    ‘Good! And tell him to stop by soon. My wife is expecting another child.’
    Athelstan waved and urged Philomel on. He didn’t want Burdon to see the