‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan.’ Bright-eyed, the King gestured them to sit. ‘Uncle’s not here so I can do what I want. Sir Nicholas, you will stay?’

The tutor bowed. Athelstan was quick enough to catch the glance exchanged between the young King and his mentor. Richard seized Cranston’s huge hand and leaned forward so that Athelstan could hear his conspiratorial whisper.

‘Have you found the murderer yet?’

‘No, Your Grace.’

‘Or who this Ira Dei is?’

Again Cranston shook his head. Richard smiled.

‘But my uncle’s upset. I have heard him shouting,’ he continued. ‘He blames everyone. Goodman, My Lord Mayor, and even his creature Lord Clifford have not escaped censure. Do you think Uncle will be murdered?’

Cranston gazed severely at the boy. ‘Your Grace, how can you say such a thing?’

‘Oh, quite easily, for Uncle would like to be King.’

‘Your Grace, whoever tells you that is a traitor and a knave. One day you will be King. A great prince like your father.’

Richard’s eyes clouded at Cranston’s mention of Gaunt’s brother, the famed Black Prince.

‘Did you know Father well, Sir John?’

Cranston’s gaze softened. ‘Yes, I did, Sire. I stood beside him at Poitiers when the French tried to break through.’

And, urged on by Richard’s pleading, the Coroner gave a blow-by-blow account of the last stages of the Black Prince’s famous victory. Richard sat listening, round-eyed, until Hussey intervened, pointing out the Lord Coroner was a busy man and had other matters to attend to. Richard gave them leave to go, thanking both Athelstan and Cranston warmly. They were just about to leave when Richard, tip-toeing over the grass, ran up and caught them both excitedly by the sleeve.

‘If you find Ira Dei,’ he whispered excitedly, ‘bring him to me, Sir John!’

Cranston smiled and bowed. He and Athelstan walked back through the Guildhall and out into the heat of Cheapside.

‘Now what was all that about?’ Cranston muttered to himself.

Athelstan shook his head. Only when they were safely ensconced in a window seat of The Lamb of God, each with a tankard of cool ale in their hands, did the friar comment.

‘You asked a question as we left the Guildhall, Sir John. Have you considered the possibility that these deaths may not be the work of the peasant leader Ira Dei but of another court faction trying to bring the Regent into disrepute?’

‘You mean Hussey and the like?’ Cranston shook his head. ‘In answer to that, good friar, all I can reply is: have you considered the possibility that, if Gaunt goes, the young King may fall with him?’

Athelstan sat back, surprised. ‘It’s as close as that, Sir John?’

‘Oh, yes. When and if the revolt comes, do you think the peasant leaders will distinguish between one prince and another? Haven’t you heard their song, Brother? “When Adam delved and Eve span, Who was then the Gentleman?”.’ Cranston gulped from his blackjack of ale. ‘What worries me more, Brother, are the likes of Goodman, Denny and Sudbury, who would like to see London without a King, ruled by merchant princes like the cities they trade with: Florence, Pisa and Genoa. So many players,’ he murmured. ‘God knows, Brother, it’s hard to distinguish between the good and the bad.’ He roared for another tankard. ‘But you were saying, before Hussey arrived, you think Gaunt has a spy in your parish?’

Athelstan’s face became closed and tight-lipped and Cranston glimpsed the gentle friar’s rare anger.

‘You have your suspicions?’

‘For the moment, Sir John, by your leave, I’ll keep close counsel and a still mouth. But, yes, I do.’

They sat for another hour, Cranston deciding to eat at the tavern rather than return to his empty house. The shadows began to lengthen. Outside the market closed and the stalls were taken down. As the tavern began to fill with sweat-soaked apprentices and hoarse-voiced tinkers, desperate to quench their thirst, Cranston and Athelstan collected their horses and returned through the emptying streets towards London Bridge.

The crowds had now gone home so they found their passage easy and Athelstan began to prepare himself for his visit to the Hobdens and the exorcism of the young girl, Elizabeth.

‘Have you ever done this before?’ Cranston asked curiously, half an eye on a well-known pickpocket who was trailing a tired-looking tinker.

‘Done what, Sir John?’

‘An exorcism, a real one?’

Suddenly Cranston turned away and shouted across Bridge Street: ‘Foulpie!’

The pickpocket spun round, a startled look on his face.

‘Foulpie, me boy!’ Cranston roared. ‘I’ve got my eye on you, you bloody little thief! Now be a good lad and piss off!’

The one-eyed tinker stopped and turned, startled.

‘What’s the matter?’ he shouted.

Cranston grinned and pointed to Foulpie, haring back towards East Cheap as fast as any whippet.

‘A rapscallion interested in your takings.’

The tinker smiled his thanks and the Coroner turned back to his subdued companion.

‘Well, Brother?’ he asked between swigs from the miraculous wineskin. ‘Have you ever exorcized the Lord Satan or one of his minions?’

Athelstan half-grinned and shook his head.

‘I’ve seen an exorcism,’ Cranston continued. ‘A real one. Fifteen years ago at St Benet Sherehog. You know the church?’

Athelstan nodded.

‘A young boy was taken there from the hospital of St Anthony of Vienne. Well,’ Cranston helped himself once more to the wineskin, ‘Brother, I still have nightmares about it! You see, the exorcist was one of those rare men, a really holy friar.’ Cranston sniffed at his own joke. ‘And I was one of the official witnesses appointed by the Bishop of London. They brought this lad, no more than fourteen summers, and chained him in the sanctuary chair next to the rood screen.’ The Coroner stopped to clear his throat, now Athelstan was listening eagerly. ‘This boy,’ he continued, ‘could speak in strange tongues, raise himself from the ground and, worse, tell people their secrets.’

‘What happened?’ Athelstan asked curiously.

‘Well, the exorcist began the ceremony and the boy suddenly changed. He became violent and abusive, cursing the exorcist with every foul word he knew. Now there’s a part of the ceremony, you know, when the exorcist…’

‘Solemnly invokes?’ Athelstan asked.

‘That’s it, solemnly invokes the devil and asks him by what name he is called. The boy’s voice, usually thin and reedy, became deep and rich, “I AM THE SWINE LORD,” he replied.’ Cranston shook his head. ‘That sanctuary became dark and there was the most offensive stink of putrefaction. Then the exorcist reached the end of the ritual where he was supposed to tell the demon who possessed the boy to leave, and the demon answered: “WHERE SHALL I GO? WHERE SHALL I GO?”’ Cranston stopped and reined in his horse.

‘Go on, Sir John, please.’

‘Well, there was another witness there. A young lawyer from the Inns of Court in Chancery Lane. He had watched the proceedings in a half-mocking fashion and, when the demon cried, “WHERE SHALL I GO? WHERE SHALL I GO?” this young bright spark suddenly whispered, “Well, he can come to me.”’

Sir John turned in the saddle. ‘Brother, I do not lie. The possessed boy threw himself back in a dead faint. I heard a rushing sound as if a huge bird was swooping for the kill and this young lawyer was suddenly lifted off his feet and thrown bodily against a pillar. He was unconscious for days.’ Cranston urged his horse on.

‘Why do you tell me this, Sir John? Are you trying to frighten me?’

‘No.’ Cranston’s face remained serious. ‘That’s the only occasion I have ever witnessed such a scene and it taught me a lesson. I can distinguish, Brother, between the real forces of darkness and the countless tricks of charlatans. Believe me, I have seen them all. Voices in the night, footsteps on dusty stairs, clanking in the cellars.’ He grinned. ‘So, put your trust in old Jack Cranston, Brother. Bring your oils and holy water, by all means, but leave old Jack to his own devices.’