The Anger of God

sure all will be well,’ he muttered. ‘And don’t forget, Brother, there’s very little that will frighten old Jack Cranston. Bollocks!’ he suddenly roared and, grasping Athelstan’s half-filled tankard, slung it across the room at the largetailed, heavy-bellied rat which had slipped out from beneath a cask. The tankard missed and the rat scurried away.
    ‘Sir John, I was enjoying that.’
    Cranston mumbled an apology and shouted for another tankard.
    ‘I am sorry, Brother, but the city’s infested with bloody vermin. I’d like to have words with one of your parishioners.’
    ‘Ranulf the rat-catcher?’
    Athelstan smiled and turned to thank the taverner’s wife as she brought another tankard; Sir John mumbled his apologies to her.
    ‘You have your choice of ratters,’ Athelstan continued. ‘Ranulf is forming a Guild of Rat-Catchers. They have asked for St Erconwald’s to be their Guild church. In a few days’ time they will all meet there for Mass and fraternal celebrations. You are right,’ he added. ‘The hot weather has brought your furry friends out in a teeming, voracious horde.’ He drank and lowered his tankard. ‘But why the temper, Sir John? It’s rare to see you throw good drink away on a rat.’ Cranston drained his wine cup, roared for another, leaned forward and began to tell Athelstan about the mysterious death of his comrade, Oliver Ingham. Athelstan studied the Coroner closely. He could see the usually genial man was deeply hurt and aggrieved by his comrade’s death. At first Sir John spoke haltingly but grew furiously eloquent as he described what he had witnessed at Ingham’s house. Finishing, he breathed noisily through his nose, drumming his stubby fingers on his broad girth.
    ‘You are sure it’s murder, Sir John?’
    ‘As sure as I have an arse!’
    Athelstan chewed his lip and stared round the now crowded tavern. ‘If I can help?’ he offered.
    ‘Just think,’ Sir John said. ‘I know you, Athelstan. You’ll wander off, sit and look at the bloody stars, and some idea will occur to you. When it does, come back and tell me.’ Cranston slurped noisily from his goblet and smacked his lips. ‘You said there was a second matter, Brother?’
    Athelstan pulled his stool closer. ‘Sir John, you must have heard the news about the growing unrest in the countryside around London ? How the peasant leaders are forming themselves into a Great Community and swear to march on London . They say they will burn the city to the ground, kill all bishops and lords, and put Gaunt’s head on a pole.’
    Cranston leaned closer for what they were talking about was treason.
    ‘I know, Brother,’ he muttered. ‘Taxes are heavy, the harvest not yet in, the gaols are full and the gallows laden. Every week news pours into the city of unrest in the villages, and attacks on royal officials increase. One tax collector in Hertford was beaten to death and hung on a gallows alongside a dead cat dressed like a bishop with its head shorn.’ He sniffed. ‘But why should this concern you, Brother?’
    ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Sir John! Walk the streets of Southwark and you’ll see an army waiting for a sign: the oppressed, the villains, the cutthroats and thieves. The slightest provocation and they’ll come pouring across London Bridge and the city will burn for weeks.’ Athelstan lowered his voice even further as he played with a splinter of wood on the table. ‘Some of my parishioners are involved. Pike the ditcher, Tab the tinker... they spend most of their time creeping like stoats out into the countryside for this meeting or that.’
    ‘If they are caught,’ Cranston muttered, ‘they will hang.’
    ‘I know, I know, and that’s what worries me. There will be a revolt, there’ll be death, murder and cruel repression.’ Athelstan paused. ‘Sir John, have you heard of a man who calls himself Ira Dei, the Anger of God?’
    Cranston nodded. ‘Everyone has,’ he whispered. ‘John of Gaunt has sworn a terrible oath that he’ll see the man hung, drawn and quartered. You see, Athelstan, the peasants are justified in their grievances and, God knows, some relief must be sought for them. Their leaders are wild men — Jack Straw, the priest John Ball — but behind them all lurks the leader of the secret council of the Great Community, this shadowy figure who calls himself Ira Dei. His arm is long and very strong. Have you heard what happened in Aldersgate?’
    Athelstan shook his