The Devil's Domain (2 page)

‘What’s the . . .?’

‘Greetings, Brother Pike.’

The ditcher dropped the wineskin.

‘We’ve been here some time,’ the voice continued. ‘Listening to you burping and farting. You are still handfast to the Cause, are you not?’

‘Of course,’ Pike stammered. ‘You know we are!’

‘Not like Ricaud.’ The voice was laughing. ‘He squealed like a pig when we took his genitals off. Valerian here wanted to stick them into his mouth after he cut off his head but . . .’

‘What do you want?’ Watkin tried to keep his voice steady.

‘We want you to dig,’ the voice continued. ‘Dig and ask no questions.’

‘Dig!’ Pike exclaimed. ‘Where?’

‘Why, here.’

‘In the cemetery?’ Watkin responded.

A click and a crossbow bolt skimmed between him and Pike, thudding into the ground behind them.

‘You don’t question,’ Valerian’s voice continued. ‘You carry out the orders of the Great Community. Go down on your knees, both of you!’

Watkin and Pike obeyed with alacrity.

‘You will dig a ditch nine yards long and three feet deep along the cemetery wall.’

‘Brother Athelstan will ask why.’

‘Well, you can say it’s for draining or you want to ensure the foundations of the wall are strong. That is your problem, not ours.’

‘Why a ditch?’ Pike asked defiantly.

He stared up into the darkness. He could see two shapes sitting on one of the outstretched branches. Pike turned away in disgust as urine splattered on to his face. Watkin stretched out and grasped his arm.

‘We will do what you ask!’

Pike wiped his face on the soiled sleeve of his jerkin.

‘You will begin? Well, today is Friday, the feast of St Oswald. So, tomorrow will be soon enough!’

‘Do we dig the ditch in its entirety?’

‘No, in the evening after work. The following day you will fill it in and dig some more. Do you understand?’

Watkin glanced longingly up at the glow of fire on the church tower.

‘Oh, and by the way, Watkin and Pike, you do have lovely children. Now, go back to your wineskin, sit under the yew tree, at least for another hour. By then we’ll be gone!’

Hawkmere Manor was a lonely, gloomy dwelling place built, so it was said, in the time of cruel King John. It stood behind its high curtain wall to the east of the Priory of Clerkenwell. Once owned by a robber baron who’d preyed upon travellers on the roads to and from Cripplegate, Hawkmere had fallen on sad times. A doleful, haunted place now used by the Regent John of Gaunt to house French prisoners captured either in France or during the bloody battles waged between English and French ships on the Narrow Seas. For the men who dwelt there it was truly a time of tribulation, even more so for Guillaum Serriem, formerly captain of the French man-of-war the
St Sulpice,
taken off Calais six weeks earlier. Serriem had been brought to Hawkmere as a captive and hostage while his friends in France tried to raise the huge ransom demanded by the English.

Lying in his narrow cot bed, Serriem knew in his heart of hearts that he would never again see his manor house outside Rouen, stroll in its gardens, kiss his wife or play with his sons in that lovely apple orchard which ran down to the river Seine.

Serriem was dying. He could feel the poison coursing through his body yet he had no strength to call out or crawl to the door and scream for help. His body was coated in sweat, the pain in his stomach sending arrows of agony up into his chest and making him twist and turn. He pushed back the dingy sheets and stared helplessly at the barred door. What was the use? The walls were thick, the door was locked and Sir Walter Limbright, his gaoler and custodian, would have retired to his own chambers to drown his sorrows in cup after cup of claret.

Perhaps someone was out there along the gloomy gallery, a guard, a servant? Serriem dragged himself off the bed, rolling on to the dirty rushes. He tried to pull himself towards the door but his strength failed him and he lay gasping. Serriem realised he had been poisoned by some secret, subtle assassin but who, among his companions, would want him dead? And surely the Goddamns, the English, for all their cruelty, would not want to forfeit the ransom money? Serriem’s mind wandered. He had always hoped he would die in his own bed, his family around him or, if not there, on his ship at sea like a true warrior, sword in hand with the oriflamme of France fluttering above him. Now he was to die here in this lonely, smelly chamber, a prisoner of the English, forsaken and forgotten even by his own kind.

Serriem rolled over on his back and stared up at the cobwebbed rafters. His mind wandered. The pain was so intense that he slipped in and out of consciousness. He was at home, the windows open, the fragrant scents of the garden filling his chamber. He could hear the cries of his servants and the shouts of his sons as they played in the courtyard below. Serriem opened his eyes. Nothing! Only a foreboding stillness. He tried to move again but he felt as if the floor were shifting under him and his mind went back.

He was on board the
St Sulpice,
its sails billowing above him. He was with the Master at the wheel, watching the prow fall and rise as they raced back to port, away from the four English cogs of war pursuing them as ruthlessly as greyhounds would a deer. Serriem felt the bile at the back of his throat. Over the last few weeks he and the others had discussed how the
St Sulpice,
and its sister ship the
St Denis,
had taken up position on the sea lanes off Calais, eager to snap up the heavily laden English wine ships. Serriem groaned: it had all gone wrong! Instead of wine ships two men-of-war and, when the
St Sulpice
and
St Denis
had turned, they found two others waiting over the horizon. The race had been intense, the consequent battle bloody and ferocious. The
St Denis
had been taken and sunk. The
St Sulpice,
its crew decimated by the archers massed in the stern and prow of the leading English man-of-war, had been trapped and boarded. A bloody hand-to-hand fight ensued but, at last, to save his crew, Serriem had ordered the oriflamme to be lowered and he had surrendered to the English captain. What was his name? That young man with a boyish face and close-cropped hair. Ah yes, Maurice Maltravers. Serriem’s body arched in pain, his hands clutching the soiled rushes.

At first he had put the defeat down to the fortunes of war. However, over the last few weeks, he and his companions had discussed how the English ships knew exactly where the
St Sulpice
and
St Denis
would be. Betrayal? Treason? Serriem’s head fell sideways. He glanced beseechingly at the stark, black crucifix nailed to the plastered wall. He wished he had a priest to shrive him. He would confess his sins. Outside came a footfall.

‘
Aidez moi!
Help me!’ Serriem groaned.

The footsteps faded away. What was this poison, Serriem wondered? He had eaten with the rest. Had they all been killed? Their lives wiped out, extinguished like a row of candles in a lonely church? Hadn’t they all agreed to be so careful? Serriem turned once more to the crucifix. He tried to lift a hand to wipe his sweat-soaked face but even that was too much. His mouth began to form the words
‘Confiteor Deo Omni Potenti’,
‘I confess to Almighty God, to Mary ever a virgin . . .’ His breath was coming in short gasps. He couldn’t form the words. Serriem recalled Sieur Charles de Fontanel, the French envoy in London.

‘Avenge me!’ Serriem whispered.

The pain in Serriem’s belly grew more intense. He couldn’t breathe. Something was closing off his throat as if a noose were tightening around his neck. Serriem’s body jerked, legs lashing out, and he died, his sightless eyes staring across at the crucifix on the wall.

Sir Maurice Maltravers, knight banneret in the household of John of Gaunt, waited in the shadows of the Austin Friars church. In the far distance he could see the Abbot of St Albans inn and, along the lane, the main thoroughfare leading down into Cheapside.

The church of Austin Friars was old and crumbling. Its door had long been barred and locked, no candles glowed in the windows. It was night; a time of darkness when stealth and subterfuge were the order of the day. Sir Maurice was ill pleased with this. He was a knight, a warrior. He recalled the words of the Gospel, how men of honour should do things in the light of day and not scurry about in the dark like some felon or housebreaker. Yet what else could he do?

Sir Maurice stepped out of the shadows and, going down the side of the church, pushed open the battered lych gate leading into the cemetery. The two horses, saddled and ready, patiently cropped at the grass. He checked the bulging leather panniers placed behind each saddle. Everything was in order but would she come? Sir Maurice knelt down and stared in the direction of the sanctuary.

‘Oh Lord,’ he prayed. ‘Help me! And, if you do, I will go on pilgrimage to Compostella. I will be the most faithful of husbands. I will dedicate my children to you and your Blessed Mother.’

Sir Maurice opened his eyes. He felt slightly ridiculous kneeling here in the darkness but he had no choice. He loved Angelica, daughter of the great merchant Sir Thomas Parr, with all his mind, heart and soul, more than life itself. Yes, and if he was honest, more than God.

He had met Angelica weeks ago. Since then his life had been changed. He thought of her every second of the day: that beautiful face, the alabaster ivory skin, cornflower-blue eyes, lustrous golden hair. Yes, she was well named Angelica. At seventeen summers old, her beautiful body was vibrant with life – and those eyes! Sir Maurice had never seen a woman’s face reflect so clearly her shifting moods. Angelica possessed strong and fierce will coupled with a biting sense of humour and yet a sense of merriment, a wonder at life and all it held.

Sir Maurice had paid court, at first shyly because he was more used to the routine of the camp and the affairs of war. He was frightened of no man living: only twentyfour years of age, he had distinguished himself in battle both in France and at sea. Oh, he had been a clumsy suitor; he knew Angelica was laughing at him. Nevertheless, far from refusing his advances, she had lowered her eyes and, on occasions, dropped, as a token of affection, a piece of silk, a flower she had been carrying and, finally, a small silver ring.

Sir Maurice could not believe his good fortune. He had expected refusal. Sir Thomas Parr was one of the richest men in London yet Angelica had been as smitten by Sir Maurice as he by her.

He had planned his wooing as he would the siege of a castle. Sir Thomas would bring his daughter to court, at Gaunt’s palace of the Savoy. Sir Maurice would shyly wait and, sure enough, the occasion would present itself. A few whispered endearments, lingering looks, fingers brushing as they passed, only fanned the flames. Sir Maurice would find himself outside Parr’s great half-timbered mansion in Cheapside, staring longingly up at the mullioned glass windows. One night his patience had been rewarded when a red rose had been dropped, a small note tied by a piece of pink silk to its stem.

They had met in the shadowy corners of churches along Cheapside or the Poultry. Angelica’s maid, Rosamunda, would stay just beyond earshot though close enough to intervene. At first Sir Maurice thought Angelica was teasing him, full of spite, of malicious glee. He was wrong. Her heart was as pure and as beautiful as her face. Sir Maurice did not think of himself as a fop or a gallant; he was a soldier with a warrior’s face and blunt mannerisms. Though tongue-tied he’d confessed to Angelica that she was the love of his life. She had touched his fingers, those blue eyes scrutinising his face and, at last, towards the end of July, she had confessed that her love was as great as his: a fierce flame of passion which would never be extinguished. After that Sir Maurice felt as if he had been walking on air. A few more clandestine meetings and then, armed with letters from John of Gaunt himself, he had presented himself at Sir Thomas’ house in Cheapside.

The young knight clambered to his feet. Even now his face went red with embarrassment at what had happened. He had knelt before Sir Thomas Parr and confessed his love. Sir Thomas had gazed speechlessly back, his face turning puce as he gave vent to the most terrible rage.

‘How dare you!’ he had bellowed, striding up and down the solar, leaving Sir Maurice on his knees. ‘How dare you even look at my daughter? What are you but some penniless knight!’

‘I have a manor and lands in Berkshire,’ Sir Maurice had retorted.

‘What! A paltry cottage and a few pigsties!’

Sir Maurice’s hand had dropped to the hilt of his sword but Parr had remained unabashed. His henchmen standing in the doorway came forward. A group of city thugs, bully boys led by the squire Ralph Hersham, a mealy-mouthed character with a narrow pointed face and sly eyes. Parr had leaned down, eyes blazing with fury.

‘Go on!’ he had grated. ‘Draw your weapon! Let us end it now!’

Instead, Sir Maurice had scrambled to his feet and, with Parr’s strictures ringing in his ears, had fled the mansion. He’d drowned his sorrows in a tavern and, when he returned to the Savoy Palace, summoned up enough courage to see his lord. John of Gaunt had been sympathetic but unhelpful. The Regent had slouched in his chair, his sharp, hard eyes keenly observant. As he listened, he would stroke his silver moustache and goatee beard. Now and again he would nod or intervene with a question.

‘But there’s nothing I can do,’ he concluded sadly.

‘My lord, you are the Regent!’

‘I am the King’s officer,’ Gaunt replied with a smile. ‘I can command his armies, issue writs, but I have no power over Sir Thomas and what he wishes to do with his daughter.’ He held his hand up, emphasising the points on his fingers. ‘First, my good knight, our opponents in the Commons would love that. John of Gaunt, the King’s evil Regent, forcing one of his knights into the bed of the daughter of a powerful London merchant! How the scurriers and the gossips would relish it! They’d depict me as an even greater tyrant than Nero or Caligula!’

Sir Maurice didn’t know who these were but he stared bleakly at Gaunt.