The Devil's Domain (12 page)

‘Sir John, let us go home.’

Athelstan stared about at the dingy houses, the lean, pinched faces which peered out from behind shabby doors, the clusters of beggars in alleyways. He saw one of them move and caught the glint of steel.

‘Let’s go home, Sir John,’ he repeated. ‘This is all a tangled web and we have truly entered the Devil’s Domain!’

Athelstan sat at his table and moved the candle a little closer. The evening had turned surprisingly chill so he had lit a fire which now crackled merrily in the hearth. Bonaventure, not yet ready for his nightly hunt, sat on the table delicately lapping a dish of milk. Every so often he would lift his head, his one good eye fixed curiously on his strange, eccentric master. Athelstan tickled the cat’s nose with the tip of his quill. Bonaventure didn’t flinch. He blinked and turned, staring into the far corner.

‘I know what you are after,’ Athelstan said.

The friar had seen a mouse scuttle across the floor of the hearth.

‘But it’s only a small mouse, Bonaventure. A harvest one. He’s probably wandered in and will certainly wander out.’

Bonaventure purred deep in his throat.

‘Soft as a shadow,’ Athelstan went on. ‘Sleek and fast. What do you think of Thaddeus?’

Bonaventure, of course, had gone out to inspect both the goat and Godbless. He had brushed the beggar man’s leg with his body and sniffed at the goat. Athelstan, who had been present, knew that this lord of the alleyways regarded Thaddeus as beneath his attention.

Godbless had certainly made himself at home. Benedicta had kindly provided a straw-filled mattress, a bolster, two blankets, a dish and a pewter cup. Godbless now acted like a lord of the manor while Thaddeus was busy cropping the grass. Athelstan had taken him out a dish of stew from the pot Benedicta had brought together with some bread wrapped in a cloth and a jug of watered wine, a gift from Joscelyn at the Piebald Tavern.

Athelstan lifted his head and listened to the sounds of the night. Sometimes he would go out and wander the alleyways, stopping to talk to the beggars and night-walkers, the whores and drabs, the flotsam and jetsam of this decayed quarter of the city. Other times, when his mind was teeming, he would climb to the top of the church tower and stare up at the sky. Athelstan felt guilty at such indulgence but, the more he stared at the stars, the more he became aware of the power of God and the sheer beauty of this Creation. If only he could discover more. If he could only test the theories. Did the planets sing while they turned? Why did some stars gleam brighter than others? What held them in their place? They moved but, like the moon, kept their courses. What stopped them from falling to earth? And the meteors, particularly those bright ones which seared the heavens with their fiery tails, did they govern the affairs of men? Athelstan picked up his cup and sipped at it. He really must raise that matter with Prior Anselm. The Church condemned astrology but hadn’t Christ’s birth been heralded by a new star? And when the Saviour died hadn’t the skies been blotted with darkness? Or was Aquinas the great writer correct? Was Creation the reflection of God, nothing to do with the affairs of Man?

Athelstan stared down at the parchment. ‘From the sublime to the ridiculous,’ he observed. He looked at the heading, ‘Hawkmere Manor’, and the questions he had listed.

Item – Five Frenchmen were imprisoned in that solitary place waiting to be ransomed. Was one of them a traitor? Had he revealed to the English Crown the movements of the
St Sulpice
and the
St Denis!
If that was the case, why wasn’t one prisoner favoured more than the rest? It could be arranged. More comfortable quarters in the Tower. Or would that expose him? Show the truth and so make it impossible for him to return to France?

Item – How did Serriem die? He was definitely poisoned. But how, if he only ate and drank what the others did? Or had he been inveigled into eating something, a delicacy which, to such an imprisoned man, might prove irresistible? But surely that would put him on his guard? Moreover, in that atmosphere of suspicion, surely no prisoner would want to be seen favoured above the rest?

Item – Who was the murderer? One of his companions? But where would they get the poison from? And how would they administer it without provoking suspicion?

Item – Sir Walter Limbright was a bitter, resentful man who hated the French. He claimed there were no poisons in the manor. However, if Vulpina was to be believed, he had been one of her customers; the same could be said of Sir Maurice Maltravers and Master Aspinall. Was the good physician embroiled in the affairs of Hawkmere? Had he taken offence because of a possible liaison with the girl-faced Gresnay?

Item – What happened the night Serriem died? Who had locked the door? Had anyone checked on the prisoners? What was the state of the room when it was opened?

Item – Did the French know there was a traitor in their midst? Had all these men been condemned to die? Was the poisoner Gaunt? Had he instructed this traitor, if he was at Hawkmere Manor, to poison the rest? But wouldn’t that expose his agent? And what would happen to him? A simulated death, before being secretly pensioned off to some lonely manor on the Welsh marches?

Item – An unknown priest had been seen at Whitefriars. A possible customer of Vulpina? But who would that be?

Athelstan glanced up. I wonder what Sir John’s doing, he thought. He smiled to himself as he recalled the two poppets. Never had he seen two sturdy sons so resemble their father: balding heads, fat, red faces, little paunches and sturdy legs. The poppets spent most of their day telling each other off or chasing Gog and Magog around the house. Athelstan returned to the parchment.

‘There’s something wrong here, Bonaventure,’ he said. Something intangible he couldn’t grasp. He recalled Gaunt slouched in his chair. ‘That’s it!’ Athelstan stroked Bonaventure. ‘My Lord Regent is like a cat who has taken the best of the cream and intends to go back for more.’

What was he so pleased about? Gaunt had a lot to gain, Athelstan reflected. The Commons would be pleased that notorious French privateers were now in prison. He had the ransoms to look forward to while Maltravers was one of his henchmen so the Regent could bask in his reflected glory. And Vulpina? Despite the wine he had drunk, old Jack Cranston had really shaken that woman’s wickedness. She was nervous, eager to give tidbits of information so she could hide the rest. Athelstan put his face in his hands. There were links: Maltravers had taken the two French ships; Gaunt was now furthering Sir Maurice’s cause with the divine Lady Angelica. Sir Thomas Parr partly owned
The Great Edward,
the ship Sir Maurice had used in his fight against the French privateers. Sir Maurice had bought poisons. He also supplied Hawkmere Manor with food. Why should a knight banneret be engaged in such petty details? True, in a great lord’s household, even a retainer like Maltravers would have a wide range of tasks: some petty, others matters of life and death. But where was all this leading to?

Athelstan got to his feet and stretched. Bonaventure copied him and leapt down from the table. The cat padded over to the door. Athelstan opened it.

‘Good hunting!’ he said.

He was about to close the door again when a voice called, ‘Brother Athelstan!’

‘Who is it? Ah, Godbless, you gave me a start!’

The beggar man, Thaddeus trotting behind him, walked into the dim pool of light.

‘What’s the matter, Godbless? Can’t you sleep? Are you hungry?’

The beggar man looked up, his eyes heavy with sleep.

‘There be ghosts in God’s acre.’

‘Ghosts! Godbless, go back to bed! The only ghosts in that graveyard are Cecily the courtesan or Watkin and Pike. You have not met these, have you?’

Godbless shook his head.

‘There are no ghosts. Go back to bed. Lock your door.’

‘Brother, I be really a-feared and so be Thaddeus.’ Godbless looked longingly past Athelstan.

‘All right!’ The Dominican stepped back.

Godbless sped like an arrow through the door, Thaddeus scampering after him. The beggar man sat down in front of the hearth.

‘I always likes a fire,’ he sighed. ‘My wife used to light one.’

Athelstan, curious, put the latch on the door and drew the bolts. Thaddeus, he noticed with some amusement, was crouched next to Godbless.

‘Were you married, Godbless?’

‘Aye, Brother, came from Dorset. A yeoman farmer like the other mad buggers who took the King’s penny and went to war. When I came back my wife and child were dead, sick of the plague. The manor lord had knocked down the fences, turning plough land to pasture, grazing it with sheep. I hate sheep. Fond of goats but can’t stand sheep.’

‘In the Gospel it’s the other way round,’ Athelstan joked.

‘Don’t be angry, Brother, but I don’t believe in the Gospels. I’m not a Christian.’

‘In which case,’ Athelstan commented, ‘you are in good company. Very few people are, Godbless.’

The beggar man squinted up at him. ‘One day, Brother, I’ll repay you for your kindness.’

Athelstan patted him on the shoulder. ‘I’ll get you some blankets.’

He made Godbless comfortable, told him there was food in the buttery and climbed the steps to his bed loft. There he washed his hands and face in the water bowl, took off his gown and slipped into his narrow cot bed. He prayed for a while. From below he heard Godbless snoring.

‘Strange,’ the Dominican mused. Godbless was a solitary man. He probably wandered the lanes of England and was used to sleeping in the most godforsaken spots but, tonight, he had been frightened. What had Godbless seen in the graveyard to wake him up, to make him so a-feared? Athelstan drifted off to sleep.

Vulpina sat in her chamber and regarded the cowled, masked stranger.

‘Are you French?’ she asked. ‘Are you a priest?’

‘Don’t ask questions, Mistress.’

Vulpina was assured; his voice was low, cultured. She noticed his hands, for he had removed one of his gauntlets, showing that they were soft and white, not those of a man who dug the earth and grubbed for a living.

‘You have come for some more of the poison?’

‘And I cannot tarry long.’

Vulpina nodded and rose to her feet. She went across to the wooden panelling and pressed a secret place so it opened. From here she took out a large, wicker basket and a leather-bound ledger and brought them across. The stranger undid his purse. Vulpina’s eyes glistened at the silver coins shaken out in a twinkling pile. She glanced sideways at the two bully boys who stood on either side of the door.

‘A good night’s profit,’ she exclaimed, clapping her hands.

Aye and more,’ the stranger replied. ‘I’ll be a constant customer.’

‘Then let’s celebrate this alliance.’

Vulpina clapped her hands again and nodded at one of her bully boys. He brought across two goblets brimming with wine. Vulpina raised hers.

‘To silver and gold and all it brings.’

The man raised his goblet but didn’t sip it. He got to his feet. Vulpina looked up in alarm but the man was moving quickly. The throwing knife he drew from beneath his cloak caught the bully boy’s back as the fellow returned to his position. The other one was so startled, his hand had barely touched the hilt of his dagger when the stranger moved swiftly, bringing the small arbalest hooked on his belt out and up. A click, and the whirling bolt struck Vulpina’s bully boy straight in the face. The poisoner sprang to her feet. She tried to brush by this murderous stranger but he caught her by the shoulder and when she turned, lashing out at his face, this only helped him loop the garrotte more securely round her throat. She struggled and fought like a cat but the garrotte was now like a piece of steel choking off her breath. Vulpina crumpled to the floor. The assassin, bending over her, kept the garrotte string tight until her death tremors ceased. He picked up the wine goblets and poured the contents over her corpse. The bully boy who had taken a dagger in the back was moaning, so the stranger moved quickly to slash the unfortunate’s throat. He picked up the book of poisons, sat down and went through it carefully, turning the pages over. When he was satisfied, he took the basket of poisons and the ledger and pushed them into the hearth. He then went to the saddlebags he had left just inside the door and pulled out the wineskin which he had filled with oil and poured this over the carpets. The fire had already caught at the baskets, the pots exploding, the chamber filling with an acrid smell. The assassin took a fire brand out. He went and opened the shutters and stared down: the crumbling wall provided enough footholds. He threw the firebrand into a pool of oil and eased himself out. Even as he climbed down, the flame caught the oil. Vulpina, her bully boys, her potions and poisons and all the contents of her secret chamber, were caught up in a sheet of raging fire.

Murder also made itself felt in another part of the city, as if it were some loathsome shadow which could scurry as swiftly as the wind along its alleyways and runnels. The Golden Cresset Tavern which stood opposite the hospital of St Anthony was a merry, spacious ale-house with a broad taproom and luxurious chambers for wealthy merchants and others who visited the city. Margaret, the chamber-maid, was however puzzled about two of her customers.

First, a young knight, Sir Maurice Maltravers, had come to the tavern saying someone wished to meet him there. Margaret remembered him because he looked handsome yet rather sad and lonely. He’d sat for an hour in the corner cradling a blackjack of ale, absentmindedly watching a juggler who had come to pleasure the customers in return for a hot meal and a goblet of wine, but then he had gone. Secondly, the young woman who had arrived late in the afternoon and hired a chamber above stairs had hardly shown her face. Tobias the tap boy had tried the latch but the door was secure and, when he rapped, no answer was made. Margaret went across to where her father the taverner stood beside the butts.

‘What is it, girl?’

‘Our lady guest,’ she replied. ‘It’s been some hours now, Father.’

The taverner wiped his greasy fingers on his apron. It was late Saturday evening and the taproom was beginning to fill. Young fops with their doxies, travellers staying over till Monday.