‘Do you believe in Satan, Sir John?’
‘Yes, I do, and the bugger’s sitting over there.’ Cranston nodded across at the relic-seller deep in conversation with another rogue in a corner of the tavern. Athelstan smiled and shook his head.
‘No, Sir John, I mean the real Satan.’ His words came in a rush. ‘Do you believe he can possess someone?’
Sir John sat up straight. ‘Yes, Father, I do. I believe there’s a spirit world where beings rage against Christ and his saints. However, I also believe the average demon sits upon his rock in Hell and weeps at the wickedness he sees man get up to. Why do you ask?’
Athelstan toyed with his tankard. ‘Satan may have come to Southwark. A woman approached me after Mass this morning and claimed her step-daughter is possessed. Every night she raises the devil to accuse her father of murdering his first wife, her mother.’ Athelstan blinked and looked at his tankard. ‘The woman has asked me to perform an exorcism.’
Sir John looked at him strangely. ‘But, Athelstan, you deal with such matters every day.’
‘Oh, I know,’ the friar replied, and grinned. ‘Pernell the Fleming says there are demons no bigger than her thumb who lurk in the shadowy corners of her house to giggle and talk about her. Two years ago, Watkin the dung- collector and his wife suddenly thought the world was coming to an end: they sat on the roof of their house, the whole family with them, each holding a cross against the demon. The only thing to occur was that the roof fell in. Watkin hurt his ankle and injured his pride.’ Athelstan wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘No Sir John, this is different. Just looking at this woman, I sensed something evil is happening in that family.’
‘And will you do the exorcism?’
‘Canon law says that every diocese has an officially appointed exorcist but he can only act on behalf of the bishop and deals with very serious and public matters. It can take months to secure his services.’ Athelstan sipped from his tankard. ‘I did ask Father Prior’s advice: he reminded me it was my duty to offer what comfort I can.’ The friar pulled a face. ‘Sir John, I suppose I’m frightened. As that woman talked, I had a bone-chilling feeling of evil.’
Cranston patted him with a bear-like paw. ‘I’m 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 large-tailed, 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 head.
‘In a shabby house there a sepulchral voice was heard issuing from the walls. A mob of hundreds of citizens crowded to hear what they thought was the voice of an angel. When they shouted, “God save our Regent, Duke John,” there was no answer from the entombed supernatural being. When another shouted, “God save our young King Richard!”, the voice answered, “So be it.” When asked: “What is Duke John’s future?” the voice mockingly replied “Death and destruction”. The Serjeants were sent to investigate and found a young woman within the walls pretending to be the angel. She had to sit in the pillory for days with her head shaved. But,’ Cranston tapped his finger on the table, ‘Gaunt believes Ira Dei was behind it. It shows his power and influence, my good friar.’
‘And what will my Lord of Gaunt do?’
Cranston cocked his head as the bells of nearby St Mary Le Bow began to toll for evening prayer. ‘Oh, Gaunt is worried. He cannot call a parliament for the Commons are hostile. But tonight he holds a great banquet at the Guildhall and I am to be there.’ Cranston took a deep breath. ‘Gaunt hopes to bring peace to the warring factions amongst the Guilds. He has become the friend of the merchant princes of London and their leaders; Thomas Fitzroy, Philip Sudbury, Alexander Bremmer, Hugo Marshall, Christopher Goodman and James Denny. They will celebrate their newfound amity in an orgy of food, wine and false goodwill.’
He cleared his throat. ‘You see, my good friar, one of Gaunt’s most able lieutenants, the Lord Adam Clifford, has acted for his master in these matters. Each of the Guildmasters has placed a large ingot of gold in a chest kept in the Guildhall chapel as surety for their goodwill and support of the Regent.’ Cranston drained his tankard and got up. ‘And I, my dear Brother, have to be there to witness this farce!’
Athelstan looked up anxiously. ‘So there’ll be peace, Sir John?’
‘Peace!’ Cranston bent over him. ‘My good friar,’ he whispered hoarsely, ‘tell your parishioners to be careful. Gaunt intends to raise troops and, believe me, the streets of London will soon run with blood as thick, deep and as scarlet as wine from the grape presses!’
Athelstan put down his own tankard and stood up. ‘You really think so, Sir John?’
‘I know so! At this very moment, as I have said, Gaunt is meeting our merchant princes at the Guildhall. The