The Anger of God

corrupt glutton. As for Sturmey — you chose him, My Lord Mayor, not I.’
    ‘Take him away!’ Gaunt ordered.
    Clifford turned and spat in the direction of the Regent.
    ‘“When Adam delved and Eve span,” he shouted, “Who was then the gentleman?” Remember that, My Lord, when they burn your palace at the Savoy !’
    ‘Wait!’ Goodman, the first to recover his poise, now puffed out his chest in righteous anger. ‘My Lord, how do we know this man is not Ira Dei himself?’
    Clifford threw back his head and laughed. ‘You stupid poltroon!’ he hissed hoarsely. ‘Are you so dim-witted? I am not Ira Dei. Yet for all you know he could be sitting in this room!’
    Gaunt rapped out his order again. Soldiers hurried Clifford out whilst others, at Gaunt’s orders, made ready to leave to ransack Clifford’s house from top to bottom.
    Cranston and Athelstan sat back and watched as the Guildmasters, happy at the prospect of seeing justice done and even happier at the likely return of their gold, now outbid one another in their condemnations of Clifford and affirmations of loyalty to the Regent. John of Gaunt acted the role but Athelstan could see that Clifford’s words had struck home; the revelation he had nurtured a traitor so close had hurt him deeply. Gaunt, who barely trusted his own shadow, had become more withdrawn, more suspicious. He sat in his chair, silently receiving the plaudits of the merchant princes. He did not seem to notice as Athelstan and Cranston took their leave and slipped out of the Guildhall.
    ‘Thank God that’s over!’ Cranston breathed. ‘We had very little proof, Brother.’ He glanced shrewdly at the sombre-faced friar. ‘You trapped him neatly.’
    ‘No, Sir John, he trapped himself. He was the common factor in all those deaths.’ Athelstan pulled a face. ‘And as for tripping him up — a well-known device, My Lord Coroner, much used by my old teacher, Brother Paul. He claimed to have learnt it from the Inquisition.’ Athelstan stretched his limbs. ‘It’s fact, Sir John, that in a rage a man cannot stop either the racing of his mind or the chattering of his tongue.’
    They walked across busy Cheapside, though after the tension of the Guildhall the market place seemed quiet and serene, Cranston hardly bothering to carry out his usual hawk-eyed search for what he termed his ‘friends from the underworld’.
    ‘Come on, Athelstan. Even God would judge me worthy of a cup of claret and a blackjack of ale for my clerk.’
    They entered the welcoming cheer of the taproom of The Holy Lamb of God and for a while just sipped their drinks and reflected on the drama they had witnessed.
    ‘How do we know he wasn’t Ira Dei?’ Cranston asked.
    ‘Oh, I think Clifford told the truth.’ Athelstan shook his head. ‘God knows, Sir John, but he’s right you know. There’s a storm brewing and, when it breaks, this city will never be the same again!’

    Three days later Athelstan left the Tower and, seeing the crowds thronging round Billingsgate and Bridge Street , decided to take a barge from the Wool Quay across the river to Southwark. The sun was setting in a fiery ball, turning the river a glistening red as he threaded through the alleyways down to the quayside. He felt tired, eager to get back to his church, yet slightly alarmed as he was sure he was being followed. Now and again he would peer down the mouth of an alleyway, glimpse the river, hear the faint cries of boatmen whilst resisting the urge to run. As long as he kept walking, the winding, twisting lanes would eventually bring him out to the Wool Quay. At last he saw the steps, the boatmen congregating there, waiting for custom. He was about to quicken his pace when a dark figure suddenly stepped out of a doorway, cowled and masked. Athelstan stopped as he caught the glint of a dagger.
    ‘What do you want?’ He fought to keep his voice steady. ‘I am a poor priest, I have no money!’
    ‘True, true, Brother Athelstan,’ came the disguised, muffled reply. ‘Poor in many ways, rich in some. So you found the culprit at the Guildhall? And tomorrow My Lord Clifford dies on Tower Hill.’
    Athelstan leaned on the staff he carried. ‘And you must be Ira Dei?’
    ‘Or his messenger.’
    ‘No.’ Athelstan shook his head. ‘I am sure you have come to speak to me yourself.’ He peered over the man’s shoulder towards the Wood Quay.
    ‘No, don’t do that,’ the muffled voice quietly ordered. ‘Don’t cry out