The Anger of God

surprised grin on his face for surely it was one of God’s great mysteries how such a little man could be the proud father of enough children to fill a choir stall?
    London Bridge was packed with carts and dray horses and Athelstan had to wait patiently, remembering not to look between the gaps at the seething river below. At last he was across, riding up Bridge Street , Lombard Street and then into bustling Cheapside .
    Sir John, full of the joys of spring, had received Crim’s message and was seated in The Holy Lamb of God busily munching on a dish of eels and newly baked bread. He looked fresh and rested, and almost crushed Athelstan in his embrace.
    ‘I have said it once,’ the Coroner boomed, ‘and I’ll say it again! For a monk, you are not too bad!’ He held Athelstan at arm’s length. ‘Have some claret.’
    ‘No, Sir John.’
    ‘You’ve discovered the murderer?’ Cranston whispered.
    ‘You have sent the message to the Guildhall?’ Cranston nodded.
    ‘Then, Sir John, sit down and I’ll tell you what I think.’
    Cranston sipped his drink whilst Athelstan developed his explanation. The Coroner asked a few questions then sat cradling his tankard, staring out into Cheapside .
    ‘Are you sure, Brother?’
    ‘Not fully, but it’s the only logical conclusion.’
    ‘How do we know the person you name might not be Ira Dei?’
    ‘I doubt that, Sir John, but it’s possible.’
    ‘But could someone use a dagger like that? No, no.’ Cranston waved a hand. ‘On second thoughts, it could be done. Let me take you to Simon the armourer. Our comrades of the Guildhall are not to meet us until noon, yes?’
    Athelstan nodded. Cranston heaved his great bulk up and swaggered out into Cheapside and up Friday Street. The houses crowded together here; shop signs jutting out on poles swung dangerously above people’s heads. Cranston stopped under a gaudily painted picture of a steel basinet and a pair of gauntlets.
    ‘Let’s have a word with old Simon.’
    Despite its narrow frontage, inside the shop was large and cavernous. In the back yard beyond was a small smithy, where sweating apprentices brought pieces of metal from the roaring fires and placed them on anvils to hammer with all their might. A small rubicund man appeared as if from nowhere. He reminded Athelstan of a goblin with his bright, darting eyes, thin hair and long, pointed ears.
    ‘Sir John!’ The little man’s eyes gleamed at the prospect of profit as he surveyed the portly bulk of the Coroner. ‘You have come to buy armour?’
    The little man wetted his lips as he calculated the fee for protecting such a wide girth in chain mail and plate armour. For a while Cranston teased him but then clapped the little fellow on the shoulder, almost driving him into the ground.
    ‘Nonsense, Simon, and you know it. My fighting days are over. This is Athelstan, my clerk.’ He waved one podgy hand airily. ‘And he has a theory. Explain!’
    Athelstan did so. Simon heard him out, pulled a face and shrugged.
    ‘Of course.’
    He went into the back of the shop, opened a huge chest and became involved in a heated discussion with Cranston over daggers, dirks, Italian stilettos, long bows, crossbows and arbalests. An apprentice was called in to demonstrate the proof of Simon’s argument. An hour later Cranston , Athelstan and the little armourer, a leather sack over his shoulder, walked back into Cheapside , heading directly for the Guildhall. Athelstan stopped at a baker’s to buy some marzipan and doucettes wrapped in a linen bag. They had also to pause as beadles led a line of malefactors and felons from the Newgate and Fleet prisons to be punished.
    There was the usual despondent procession of footpads, felons, night-walkers, but then came a cart preceded by two musicians playing bagpipes — a jaunty skittish tune. Then a horse and cart, the latter filled with all forms of grisly objects which made the air stink like a sewer and provoked cries of outrage and clamour from the crowd. At the tail of the cart were the two relic-sellers Cranston had arrested the previous day. The men’s faces were bloody, their tousled hair covered in all sorts of filth as the crowd pelted them with offal and refuse.
    Cranston grinned. Athelstan felt a twinge of compassion, for both men had their hose pulled around their ankles whilst their bare buttocks were sore and bleeding as two beadles lashed them with thick leather belts. Behind the malefactors another