The Anger of God

‘How long did you serve Master Sturmey?’ he asked.

‘It’s three years, sir, since my mother drew up indentures with him and I have another three years left.’

Cranston nodded his head sagely. ‘And your master always worked here?’

‘Oh, yes, here or in the garden.’

‘And he had no visitors?’ Cranston smiled. ‘Like this young noble lord here?’

The lad stared at Clifford and shook his head.

‘No, no, it was always the Lord Mayor and the Sheriff.’

Athelstan walked out of the workshop and down the passageway. He smiled at the young maid in the scullery and went through the back door into the garden. A neatly kept place with a small rose patch, a green garth, and the rest flowers or herbs: iris, lily, cowslip and cornflower growing around a small pond. The air was sweet with fragrance from the herb banks: camomile, fe

‘Master Sturmey kept that separate,’ he declared. ‘We was never allowed in there.’

Now curious, Cranston and Clifford followed Athelstan back into the garden. The Coroner took a hammer and chisel from one of the work benches and soon made short work of the lock. Inside, the stone shed was musty, rather airless. Cranston knocked open the shutters and stared round. There was a bench and some chests. Cranston gri

‘This is where he made the keys,’ Cranston declared, and using the mallet and chisel, soon opened the chests. Inside were all the implements a locksmith would need; strips of lead and steel, casting-irons and bits of keys. Cranston rummaged amongst the contents of the chest and brought out a mould which had been deliberately shattered. He handed this to Clifford.

‘If you take that to the Lord Regent, as cats love milk, I am sure you will find Sturmey used this and others to fashion a second set of keys.’

‘For whom?’ Clifford asked.

‘Ah, that’s the mystery.’

A small book, deep in the shadows of the chest, caught Cranston’s eye. He pulled this out whilst Clifford walked back into the garden to study the fragments of the mould more closely. Cranston flicked through the pages. At first he thought it was a small Book of Hours but then he looked at the illustrations, cleverly drawn, and slipped it up his sleeve. He now knew Master Sturmey’s dark secret.

Clifford was excited by Cranston’s find and could hardly wait to hurry off, leaving Cranston and Athelstan to thank the apprentice and maid. Once outside the house, Cranston showed Athelstan the book. He turned over the finely grained parchment pages and whistled under his breath as he studied the paintings some clever artist had depicted there. Boys and young men, as naked as they were born, in a variety of poses. Some fought with swords; one group lounged on cloth-of-gold couches; two practised spear-throwing. Other pictures were more daring — young men washing each other or exchanging embraces and kisses.

‘Master Sturmey did have his secrets,’ Athelstan whispered. ‘Such a book could condemn a man to be burnt alive.’

Cranston tapped the side of his nose.

‘I knew I had it. Come on, Athelstan!’

He strode back into Cheapside, the friar having to trot to keep up with the Coroner’s surprising spurt of speed. Leif the beggar, however, stopped them only a few yards from the Coroner’s house.

‘Be on your guard, Sir John!’ he whispered dramatically. ‘Be on your guard!’

‘What are you talking about, you silly bugger?’

‘The Lady Maude’s back.’

Cranston’s jaw sagged. ‘She’s come back early,’ he whispered. ‘Oh, my God, she’ll see those bloody dogs!’

‘She’s in a strange mood,’ Leif declared sombrely, trying hard to hide his glee.

‘Domina Maude is always in a strange mood,’ Cranston growled. He stared longingly across Cheapside at The Holy Lamb.

‘Oh, no, Sir John!’ Leif warned, now thoroughly enjoying himself. ‘The Lady Maude was most insistent. I was to stand guard on The Holy Lamb and tell you to go home immediately.’

CHAPTER 11

Athelstan felt sorry, for all the life seemed to have gone out of old Cranston. He just stood scratching his bald pate like a little boy caught stealing apples.

‘Come on, Sir John,’ Athelstan whispered. ‘I’ll be with you. Lady Maude will scarcely lay a hand on Holy Mother Church.’

‘Domina Maude would challenge God himself if she thought the cause was right!’

Cranston blinked, drew in his breath, pushed Leif aside and walked like a condemned felon into his house. In the doorway he stopped for one last generous swig then, raising his fingers to his lips, tiptoed down the passageway and peered into the kitchen.

‘Be still!’ The Lady Maude stood by the table. Gog and Magog sat like two carved statues before her. Domina Maud was in full spate, giving the dogs a pithy lecture about the rules of the house. Athelstan, peering over Cranston’s shoulder, could see that both wolf hounds were as terrified of Domina Maude as their newfound master was. Behind the dogs Boscombe stood fixed like a candlestick, now and again nodding his head in approval of every word the Lady Maude uttered. Cranston coughed and walked into the kitchen. Lady Maude turned. She was only just over five foot high.

Athelstan had never before met a woman who could seem to be twice her height.

‘Sir John,’ she cried sweetly. ‘I arrived home early.’

Cranston gingerly walked forward, his beaver hat clenched in his hands.

‘Lady wife,’ he stammered, ‘you are most welcome. And the poppets?’

‘Upstairs with their nurse, sleeping soundly. And no, Sir John,’ as Cranston turned, ‘you will leave them at peace. I decided to return,’ she walked forward, ‘because I missed you, Sir John.’ She smiled. ‘And good news! My brother Ralph, his wife and children might be joining us after Michaelmas.’

Cranston daren’t let his fixed smile slip.

‘Oh, rat’s arse!’ he breathed.

Lady Maude came closer. She stood on tip-toe and kissed her husband on either cheek before turning to clasp Athelstan’s hand. The friar saw the merriment dancing in the little woman’s eyes.

‘Sir John has been behaving himself, Father?’

‘A man of righteousness, Lady Maude.’

Her smile widened at the gentle sarcasm in Athelstan’s voice. Cranston stood stock-still, staring at Gog and Magog then at Boscombe. The dogs ignored him, their eyes on Lady Maude, whilst Boscombe gazed glassily back.

‘You have met our visitors, Lady Maude?’

‘Visitors!’ his wife cried. ‘Sir John, they are part of our family. Master Boscombe is a rare jewel.’

‘And the dogs?’

‘They now know their place, as should everyone in this house.’

Cranston stiffened even further at the hint of warning in his wife’s words. Maude suddenly gripped Sir John’s hand.

‘You are a kind and generous man,’ she’ whispered. ‘I would have been angry if you had done any other. How could a man like Boscombe be turned into the streets and two of God’s beautiful creatures be cruelly destroyed? I do not like my Lord Regent, and Boscombe has told me about the business at the Guildhall.’

Cranston shot a glance at him. The servant had been sworn not to utter one word about the attack in the alleyway. Boscombe, still glassy-eyed, shook his head imperceptibly. Cranston relaxed and, seeing how the wind blew, took off his cloak, threw it over the table and embraced his wife in a bear-like hug.

This was the signal for all chaos to break out. The dogs started howling, Boscombe became solicitous. The Lady Maude insisted on Cranston sitting in his high-backed chair, Athelstan opposite him, whilst she served ‘Her Lord and Master’ with suitable refreshment.