And yet, he thought, Cranston despite his bristling, white whiskers, florid face, great balding head and even bigger belly, was as shrewd and cunning as a serpent. Cranston had a nose for mischief; if Sir John thought a foul act had been committed, then he was usually right.

Athelstan picked up another piece of parchment and studied his crude drawing of the garden at the Guildhall where Mountjoy had been murdered. ‘How on earth?’ he muttered to himself. On one side was the high trellis fence against which the Sheriff had been leaning, to his left a sheer brick wall, to his right the garden fence guarded by the dogs and, facing him, the wooden fence of the pentice connecting the Guildhall to its kitchen. How could an assassin enter such an enclosed space and stab the burly Mountjoy to death without any clamour from the Sheriff or his fearsome dogs?

And, finally, there was Fitzroy, killed by an unseen hand. Who could deal poison without revealing how it was done? Who was this Ira Dei? Which of these powerful politicians was the traitor?

Athelstan shook his head and went back to his parish accounts. He felt tired but, since his return from the city, he had snatched only a few hours’ sleep before rising, reciting his office by candlelight, washing and dressing upstairs in his small bed chamber. Athelstan pulled the accounts over. He was sick of murder, intrigue and mystery, and the figures had to be totalled before he met the parish council at Michaelmas.

Athelstan nibbled at the edge of his quill. The power struggle on his little parish council was just as fierce as that of any Guildmasters. Watkin the dung-collector, Mugwort the bell ringer, Tab the tinker, Huddle the painter, Ursula the pig woman, Cecily the courtesan, and Tiptoe the pot boy from The Piebald tavern were still fighting off a bitter attack headed by Pike the ditcher. The latter was aided by Jacob Arveld, a pleasant-faced German with a comely wife and brood of children, Clement of Cock Lane, Pernell the Fleming and Ranulf the rat-catcher, whilst Athelstan and the widow woman, Benedicta, tried to keep the peace.

Benedicta… There she was in his mind’s eye: her jet-black hair framing a smooth olive face which Huddle the painter always used in his depictions of the Virgin Mary.

Athelstan stared at the hungry flames of the fire and remembered Father Paul’s warning: ‘Never forget, it’s not the physical longing for a woman which will haunt you but the sheer, empty loneliness, the bitter-sweet taste of longing for someone you can never possess.’ He jumped as a dark form slunk through the window.

‘Ah, good morning, Bonaventure, my most faithful parishioner.’

The great torn cat padded softly across to his master and looked hungrily at the porridge bubbling over the fire. Athelstan got up and brought him a bowl of milk from the buttery. The cat licked it daintily and nestled down in front of the fire whilst his master went back to considering his troubled parishioners. He had to have peace on the council, particularly if Watkin’s daughter was to be wed to Pike the ditcher’s son.

‘Oh, Lord!’ he said to a now snoozing Bonaventure. ‘That will put the cat amongst the pigeons!’

Bonaventure moved his head lazily; his one good amber eye seemed full of compassion for his master. Athelstan pulled the accounts closer. He wondered if the woman had come back about her possessed stepdaughter and shivered at what could be awaiting him there. He coughed, dipped his quill in the ink pot and began to fill in the entries, listing what he had spent in decorating the church now the new sanctuary had been laid:

• Correcting the Ten Commandments 3s.

• Varnishing Pontius Pilate and putting in a front tooth 5d.

• Renewing Heaven, adusting the stars amp; cleaning the moon 20s.

• Taking the spots off the Son of Tobias 4s. 6d.

• Brightening up the Flames of Hell, putting a new left horn on the Devil amp; cleaning tail 3s.

• Jobs for the Damned 2s. 6d.

• Putting New Shirt on Jonah amp; enlarging the Whale’s mouth accordingly 10s. 6d.

• Putting new leaves on Adam and Eve 15s.

Athelstan looked at the list and smiled. He was about to continue when suddenly he heard a gentle tapping on the door. He went across, opened it and looked out. It was the watching time, just before dawn, the sky already lightening and the shadows beginning to disappear.

‘Who is it?’ he called and looked around. It was too early for any urchin’s game. ‘Who is it?’ Athelstan repeated. Only the wind rattling a loose shutter in the church disturbed the silence. The hairs on the nape of his neck prickled. He felt a shiver down his back. He stared down the track beside the church. Was it some rogue? Some drunk from the stews of Southwark? Suddenly he saw the little wicket gate to the church stood half-open. He grasped the staff Cranston had given him and walked across.

‘Brother Athelstan!’

The voice seemed to be coming from behind the church and the friar, followed by an even more inquisitive Bonaventure, warily walked round. Again the voice called his name and Athelstan stared out across the headstones

‘Who is it?’ he shouted angrily. ‘This is no game but God’s house and God’s own acre!’

‘Turn round, Brother Athelstan!’

‘Why should I?’

A crossbow bolt smacked into the church wall beside his head.

‘I am convinced,’ Athelstan shouted back and turned round, eyes closed, fingers clenched.

‘What is it you want?’

‘A message from the Anger of God. You are a friar, a priest of the people. Why do you mingle with the fat lords of the soil?’

‘If you’re his anger,’ Athelstan spat back, ‘then I am his justice!’

Take heed of his anger,’ the voice said clearly.

Athelstan looked down at Bonaventure who seemed to be enjoying this new game.

‘Cranston’s right,’ Athelstan whispered. ‘You are no bloody use!’

‘Take heed,’ the voice repeated.

Athelstan’s fiery temper broke at last.

‘Oh, sod off!’ he shouted and stalked down the church track and into his house, closing the door with a slam.

For a while he just stood with his back to it, trying to calm the trembling in his legs. Who dared taunt him here? What would Cranston do when he heard? Athelstan marched into the buttery and poured himself a cup of wine which he gulped down before going back to sit at the table.

‘God damn it!’ he breathed. He closed the ledger book, cleared up the rest of the manuscripts and took them across to the huge, iron-bound coffer. As he placed them inside and made the lock secure, he thought of the daring robbery at the Guildhall. He only hoped Sturmey was still alive. If Cranston and he found the thief, they would discover the murderer. He jumped at a loud knocking on the door.

‘Father! Father!’

Athelstan went across and opened the door to find Ursula the pig woman, her usually merry, red, warty face now tear-streaked.

‘Oh, Ursula!’ Athelstan said. ‘It’s not your sow? I can’t come and bless it again!’

‘No, no, Father, it’s my mother. She’s dying!’

‘Are you sure?’ Athelstan asked. ‘I have given the last rites to Griselda at least three times.’

‘No, Father, she says she’s going. She can feel she is.’

‘Come on then.’

Athelstan locked the door of the house and hurried across to the church. Inside it was cool and dark, smelling fragrantly of candle grease and incense. The morning light was already beginning to brighten Huddle’s pictures on the wall as Athelstan hurried under the rood screen and into the sanctuary. He genuflected, opening the tabernacle door to remove the Viaticum and phial of holy oils. Then he collected his stole, cloak, tinder and a candle from the sacristy and gave them to Ursula, waiting in the porch of the church. He lit the candle, wrapped the cloak round himself and, with the pig woman shielding the candle’s flame in her great, raw hands, locked the door of his church.