The Anger of God Read Online Free PDF

city . . .’ He smacked his lips as Athelstan closed his eyes and prayed for patience. Cranston’s great work on the Government of London was nearly finished and he never missed an opportunity of lecturing everyone and anybody on his theories on how law and order could be administered in the capital.
    ‘In my treatise I will advise against such practices. Criminals should be executed within the prison walls and the Crown should veto such barbaric practices. In ancient Sumeria . . .’ Cranston pulled an unwilling Athelstan across Cheapside. ‘Now in ancient Sumeria . . .’ he repeated.
    ‘My Lord Coroner! Brother Athelstan!’
    They both turned. A sweaty-faced servitor, wearing the livery of the city, stood leaning against an empty stall, trying to catch his breath.
    ‘What is it, man?’
    ‘Sir John, you must come quickly. And you too, Brother. The Regent. . . . His Grace the King . . .’
    ‘What is it?’ Cranston snapped.
    ‘Murder, Sir John. Sir Gerard Mountjoy, the Sheriff, has been murdered at the Guildhall!’

CHAPTER 2

    Cranston and Athelstan found the Guildhall strangely silent. Armed men lined the passageways and corridors, guarding the entrances and exits to the different courtyards. The servitor led them through these, shaking his head at Cranston’s nagging questions. He brought them into the garden, one of the most attractive parts of the Guildhall with its herb plots, fountain and channel, wooden and stone benches, tunnel arbour and soft green lawns. A group of men stood round the fountain talking amongst themselves. They stopped and turned as Cranston and Athelstan came out.
    ‘My Lord Coroner, we have been waiting.’
    ‘Your Grace,’ Cranston replied, staring at the swarthy, gold-bearded face of the Regent, John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster. ‘We came as soon as the messenger found us.’
    Cranston stared quickly round as Gaunt introduced the rest. He recognized them all: Sir Christopher Goodman, the Mayor, red-faced and pop-eyed, then the brilliantly dressed, proud-faced Guildmasters: Thomas Fitzroy of the Fishmongers who always reminded Cranston of a carp with his jutting lips and glassy eyes; Philip Sudbury of the Ironmongers, red-faced and red-haired, a born toper; Alexander Bremmer of the Drapers, thin and mean-faced, an avaricious grasping man; Hugo Marshall of the Spicers, his head bald as a pigeon’s egg; and fleshy-featured Sir James Denny of the Haberdashers, dressed like a court fop in his tight hose and quilted jacket open at the neck.
    Cranston nodded at these as well as at Sir Nicholas Hussey, the King’s tutor, young-looking despite his silver hair and beard. Finally Lord Adam Clifford, Gaunt’s principal henchman, fresh-faced and dressed in a tawny gown which suited the man’s clean-shaven, sunburnt face and neatly coiffed black head. Gaunt finished the introductions.
    ‘My Lord?’ Cranston declared, angry at the Regent’s insulting behaviour in not even acknowledging Athelstan. ‘My Lord, I think you know my secretarius and clerk, Brother Athelstan, parish priest of St Erconwald’s in Southwark?’
    Gaunt smiled patronizingly and nodded. Cranston darted an angry glance at a sniggering Denny.
    ‘We have come at your behest, My Lord Regent. We were told Sir Gerard Mountjoy has been murdered. Where, when and how?’
    Gaunt waved a hand towards the small arbour which stood in the far corner of the garden sheltered from Cranston’s gaze by the open door of the Guildhall as well as a high trellis covered in ivy.
    ‘There?’ Cranston asked.
    ‘Yes, Sir Gerard is there!’
    Gaunt’s reply was angry but tinged with sardonic amusement. The Regent waved them across.
    ‘I hope you have better luck than we did.’
    Mystified, Cranston and Athelstan walked past the fence and looked over a small gate into the arbour. Both jumped as a pair of huge wolf hounds threw themselves against the gate, snarling and barking, lips curled, yellow teeth eager to rend and