Anger of God by Paul Doherty

Author:Paul Doherty [Doherty, Paul]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, mobi, epub
Tags: Mystery, Anthologies, Collections & Anthologies, Historical, Thriller & Suspense, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense
ISBN: 9781448300365
Amazon: B006IUQVTU
Publisher: Severn Select
Published: 2011-12-11T18:30:00+00:00

CHAPTER 8

Cranston and Athelstan arrived back at St Erconwald’s. Whilst the Coroner relaxed in the priest’s house, Athelstan unlocked the church and knelt at the entrance of the rood screen to recite Divine Office. He found it difficult to concentrate on the words of the psalmist and was taken by the phrase, ‘A sea of troubles’. He stopped to reflect on the problems which faced both himself and Cranston as well as the possibility that, even in this little parish of St Erconwald’s, the Regent had his spies. The friar leaned back on his heels and stared up at the crucifix. He hoped tonight’s visitation would be the first and the last; Athelstan quietly vowed that, if it was, he would apply all his energies to this Ira Dei and the horrible murders perpetrated in the Guildhall and elsewhere.

He stared across at the new, beautifully carved statue of St Erconwald, the patron saint of his parish. Athelstan smiled. Erconwald had been a great bishop of London, a man who had faced many problems here in this bustling city, before retiring to the solitude of a monastic house at Barking. The friar could feel sympathy with him and stared at the fixed, pious face, so lost in his thoughts he jumped at a soft touch on his shoulder.

‘Father, I am sorry.’

Athelstan turned to see Benedicta anxiously looking down at him.

‘Father, you did say to return at Vespers?’

Athelstan rubbed his eyes and smiled. ‘Benedicta, it’s good of you to come. Wait here.’

He mounted the sanctuary steps, opened the tabernacle, took out the sacred oils and collected from the small sacristy a stoup of holy water with an asperges rod. These he placed in a small, leather bag and went back to Benedicta.

‘I suppose,’ he said with mock severity, ‘everything is well enough in the parish?’

‘As quiet as the sea before the storm,’ she teased.

They left the church, locked it and went across to find Cranston seated in Athelstan’s one and only chair, head back, mouth wide open, snoring his head off, whilst Bonaventure lay curled in his generous lap.

‘Oh, foolish cat,’ Athelstan whispered, and gently lifted him off before shaking Cranston awake.

The Coroner awoke, as usual, lips smacking, greeted Benedicta then, at Athelstan’s urging, went into the buttery and dashed cold water over his hands and face. Cranston returned refreshed and bellowing that he was ready to do battle with the devil and anyone else.

All three left St Erconwald’s, each lost in their own surmises of what might happen, and made their way through the narrow alleys and runnels of Southwark. It was just before dusk. Shops and stalls now closed, the crowds were dispersing to their own homes. The day’s business was done and Southwark’s violent night hawks, roisterers and denizens of the underworld would only emerge from their rat holes once darkness had fully fallen. They stopped before crossing the great thoroughfare leading down to London Bridge and watched a party of mounted knights pass, bright in their multicoloured surcoats, their great war helmets swinging from saddle horns.

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