Free The Anger of God by Paul Doherty Page A

intimidated, bowed his head.
    ‘What is this?’ Goodman muttered hoarsely. ‘Who is this miscreant who can strike down the greatest in the city?’
    ‘I don’t know.’ Athelstan spoke up, trying to dispel the atmosphere of fear. ‘But now we are assured of three things. First, Fitzroy was murdered. Second, his murder was committed by, or on the orders of, this man who calls himself Ira Dei.’ He paused and looked sideways at Cranston.
    ‘And third?’ Gaunt questioned.
    ‘Your Grace, it is obvious. Fitzroy’s death has not been announced publicly. This proclamation, pinned on the Guildhall doors, proves one of two things: either Ira Dei is present in this room and had one of his henchmen attach such a notice, or one of his henchmen is now with us and this Anger of God, as he terms himself, pinned up the notice himself.’
    ‘What about the guards?’ Cranston asked. ‘We saw them as we came in.’
    ‘They were withdrawn into the Guildhall once the banquet had begun,’ Gaunt replied crossly.
    ‘In which case, my clerk must be right,’ Cranston tartly observed. ‘Whatever interpretation you put on it, Your Grace, you have a murderous traitor in your midst!’
    Athelstan’s words had already provoked raised eyebrows. When they were repeated by the Coroner, consternation broke out.
    ‘What are you saying?’ Goodman shouted, getting to his feet, all court etiquette forgotten.
    ‘It’s imperative!’ the foppish Denny shouted. ‘Your Grace, we must inspect the gold each of us deposited in the chest in the Guildhall chapel.’ He pulled out the key hanging from his neck on a silver chain, very similar to the one Clifford had removed from the dead Fitzroy.
    ‘I agree,’ the red-haired Sudbury declared, his face even more flushed from the claret he was gulping. ‘Your Grace, this is a disaster. For all our sakes, the chest must be examined.’
    Gaunt looked at Clifford who nodded perceptibly. The Regent removed a silver chain from round his own neck. The key which swung from it glinted in the candlelight.
    ‘It’s best if we do,’ he agreed.
    Clifford called the guards and, led by four serjeants-at-arms bearing torches, Gaunt and his now subdued guests, Cranston and Athelstan included, marched along the vaulted passageways, up the wide wooden stairs and into the small Guildhall chapel. They stood for a while just within the door, peering through the darkness, smelling the fragrance of incense; the guards lit flambeaux, as well as the candles they found on the high altar. The chapel, a small jewel with polished marble pillars, mosaic floor and painted walls, flared into life. The marble altar at the far end was covered by pure white cloths. They walked towards it. Gaunt deftly pulled the cloths aside. Beneath the altar, supported on four pillars, sat a long wooden chest reinforced with iron bands. Even in the poor light, Athelstan could see the six locks along one side.
    ‘Pull it out!’ Gaunt ordered.
    Two soldiers brought it forward so that it stood before the altar. Even this action caused consternation for the chest seemed surprisingly light. Gaunt shouted for silence as he, followed by Clifford, who held Fitzroy’s, inserted and turned their keys. The Guildmasters followed suit, the clasps were lowered and the chest opened. Athelstan and Cranston peered over the shoulders of the others.
    ‘Nothing!’ Marshall breathed.
    Cranston, quicker than the rest, pushed forward and plucked up the piece of yellow parchment lying on the bottom.
    ‘“These taxes have been collected”,’ he read aloud, ‘“by the Great Community of the Realm.” Signed, Ira Dei.’
    ‘This is intolerable!’ Denny shouted. ‘My Lord of Gaunt, we have been betrayed in this matter!’
    But the Regent, his face white as a ghost, sat slumped in the sanctuary chair, staring into the darkness, his lips moving wordlessly. Cranston, who had known John of Gaunt since he was a boy, had never seen him look so frightened or