The Devil's Domain (26 page)

Athelstan had heard a shout from the lych gate and hurried over. Crim the altar boy was arguing with the bailiff on guard.

‘What’s the matter, Brother?’ The little boy’s face was flushed and sweating. I only came to pick some flowers.’

‘Go and fetch your father,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Don’t tell him what you have seen, Crim. Just tell Watkin to collect Pike and bring him here. It’s very urgent. Go on now!’

Crim ran off. Sir John went back to tell the bailiffs to guard the arrows then joined Athelstan in the priest’s house.

‘I am very angry,’ Athelstan declared, sitting down at the table. ‘Gaunt has spies in Southwark; Watkin and Pike could dance at Tyburn!’ He banged his fist on the table. ‘The whole parish could be fined. Now listen, Sir John, this is a matter for me.’

‘According to the law, Brother . . .’

‘According to the love of Christ!’ Athelstan angrily interrupted. ‘I am their parish priest!’

Sir John held his hand up in a sign of peace.

‘Brother, Brother, I am not bothered about Watkin and Pike . . .’

‘What’s happening?’

Godbless poked his head round the door and stepped gingerly into the room.

‘I have just put Thaddeus in the stable with Philomel. They seem to like each other.’

‘Godbless.’ Athelstan opened his purse and pushed across some coins. ‘Take these to Master Flaxwith. Tell him to leave the bailiffs in the cemetery but go down to the tavern and buy some jugs of ale. You go with him, tell no one what is happening.’

Godbless disappeared.

‘You were saying, Sir John?’

‘I am not interested in Watkin and Pike. They are just noddle-pates.’ Cranston played with the ring on his small finger. ‘But the Great Community of the Realm, now Brother, they are different. I sympathise with them. Many of the peasants are driven to desperation but, when they invade London, they’ll be traitors, rebels against the King. They’ll have no compassion on people like me and the Lady Maude. It’s a war, Athelstan. No pardon will be given and none asked.’ He breathed in noisily. ‘And the same goes for you, Brother. If you are not with them you are against them.’

‘As you would say, Sir John, I couldn’t give a fig! I don’t care if they’ve got the solemn blessing of the Holy Father in Avignon! They don’t use my cemetery as a place of war!’

He paused at a knock on the door. Watkin and Pike shuffled in, their boots caked with mud, their faces grimy and sweating.

‘You sent for us, Brother?’ Watkin licked his lips nervously.

‘Yes I did. Close the door. Lock it behind you!’

Pike did so quickly. Athelstan took the small wooden cross which hung on a cord round his neck and held it up. His face was pale and tight as he glared at these two rogues of the parish.

‘I am going to ask you questions,’ he began. ‘And, if you tell me one lie, I never wish to see you again this side of heaven!’

Watkin and Pike did not take long to confess. They stood, hang-dog expressions on their faces, mumbling and muttering. Eventually the truth came out.

‘It’s like this,’ Watkin said lugubriously. ‘Everyone in Southwark knows the Great Community of the Realm. It’s like autumn, everyone sees it coming. One day the rebels will march on London.’ He spread his hands. ‘What can we do? If we refuse to co-operate we will all die.’

‘Co-operate?’ Athelstan intervened. ‘Do you know what it means?’ He’d caught the stumble in Watkin’s voice.

‘That’s what the Great Community of the Realm told us: co-operate or die.’

‘They are bully boys,’ Sir John broke in. ‘And they used you two noddle-pates to store arrows in a churchyard. I suppose there are plots all over Southwark just like this. And, when the graveyard was full, I suspect you’d start storing them elsewhere.’

‘Not in our houses,’ Pike warned. ‘You can’t hide quivers of arrows in the hovels of Southwark.’

‘Do you realise you could be hanged out of hand?’ Sir John barked. ‘Do you realise that, my buckoes? I could take you out, put a rope round that sycamore tree and hang you out of hand as rebels!’

‘But my lord . . .’

‘My lord coroner won’t!’ Athelstan said.

‘They are coming back, aren’t they?’ Sir John continued. ‘There was a storm last night so I suspect these envoys from the Great Community stayed at home. Now the soil is soft, they’ll return tonight, won’t they?’

‘We don’t know,’ Pike mumbled. ‘All they said was to dig the trench.’

‘But you knew what they were hiding there?’ Athelstan demanded.

Watkin nodded and dried his sweaty hands on his leather jacket.

‘We dug the trench then we’d always leave it open. When we came back, we’d fill a part in and continue along.’

‘Did you ever examine the arrows?’

‘I did,’ Watkin replied. ‘I took a sack out one morning when you were saying Mass, Brother. I opened the rope at the top and shook them out.’

‘That’s how we discovered it,’ Athelstan told them.

Both men were now shuffling their feet, wiping their hands and licking their lips.

‘I want to pee,’ Pike muttered. ‘I am sorry, but . . .’

‘Go outside,’ Athelstan ordered. ‘And, when you are finished, both go into the church and stay there. What time will these men return?’

‘We don’t know, Brother! After dark. One night Pike and I, well, we hid outside the cemetery and watched. There were two of them with sumpter ponies. They call themselves Valerian and Domitian. Yes, that’s their names, or so they say.’

‘Educated men.’ Athelstan scratched his chin.

‘What will happen to us?’

‘Well.’ Athelstan rubbed his hands. ‘You two have helped the coroner with his enquiries. We will not betray you to the Great Community.’ He glanced quickly at Sir John who nodded. ‘Nor will we hand you over to the authorities. Nevertheless, you betrayed my trust. In the church you’ll find some brooms and a little oil. They’re kept in the basement of the tower. I’ll lock you in and you’ll clean the church till this matter’s finished!’

‘Can I have a pee first?’ Pike moaned, jumping from foot to foot.

‘Oh, get out! I’ll unlock the church in a few minutes.’

Both men scampered out. Athelstan slammed the door behind them.

‘They are stupid,’ Sir John observed. ‘Yet, they could be hanged.’ He rubbed his face. ‘But, there again, they are poor, their hovels are smoke-filled; they eat hard bread and drink coarse ale. What I’d like to know is who Valerian and Domitian really are? And, more importantly, I want to check on something.’

He hurried out across the cemetery. Athelstan went to the church, where Watkin and Pike stood in the porch. Athelstan gripped each of them by the wrist.

‘Look at me!’ They did so. ‘Nothing is going to happen,’ Athelstan reassured them. ‘However, I want this church swept and I want you out of harm’s way. You must never do that again!’ He unlocked the door.

‘Brother?’

Athelstan turned.

‘We are very sorry, Brother,’ Watkin said contritely. ‘We truly are.’

‘If you get really thirsty,’ Athelstan told them, ‘go into the sacristy, you can each have a little drink of altar wine.’

He closed the church door and locked it behind him. Sir John had returned to the priest’s house, where he was refilling his jug of ale.

‘There must be dozens of sacks there, literally thousands of arrows. I wonder who has the wealth to pay for that? Certainly not peasants.’ Sir John clicked his tongue. ‘You see, what your two noddle-pates said is true. There’s a storm coming. Two or three years ago the Great Community of the Realm was a jest, a little demon who lived out in the countryside, lurking in the woods or the bottom of wells. A creature of the hedgerow and the hay rick: a figure of ridicule and scorn.’

‘And now the demon’s grown?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Yes, into a figure of fear and terror. The lords of the soil and the men of power no longer laugh but sit in their counting houses; they scratch their chins and wonder what will happen when this storm breaks.’

‘I must see these arrows,’ Athelstan said.

Both he and the coroner walked out. Athelstan noticed how quickly rumour had spread; some of his parishioners were congregating in front of the church: Ursula the pig woman, Pernell the Fleming, Mugwort the bell clerk, Amisias the fuller and others. They were pretending to talk to each other and looked guiltily up when Athelstan approached them.

‘I know why you are here,’ he said. ‘But you must leave. You are not to come near the church nor the cemetery today and that’s the end of the matter.’

‘What about my painting?’ Huddle cried from the back of the crowd.

‘Huddle, my lad! Don’t lie to your parish priest. The day is drawing on, the light is fading. It will wait until tomorrow.’

The crowd dispersed; Athelstan was at the lych gate when he heard his name called. Sir Maurice came striding across and thrust a scroll of parchment into Athelstan’s hand.

‘Your brothers at Blackfriars send you greetings.’ He patted his stomach and grinned at Sir John. ‘You should have come, my lord coroner: ale thick and rich and pastry soft in the mouth.’

Athelstan opened the letter.

‘What’s wrong, Brother?’ Sir John caught his disappointed look.

‘Simeon says it will take some time. However, he hopes that by tomorrow morning I can have an answer. I was going to look at these arrows but perhaps, Sir John, I’ve done enough for the day.’

‘I think it’s time,’ Sir John declared, ‘we prepared for our visitors tonight. If you don’t mind, Henry Flaxwith and my buckoes will stay? The noddle-pates are locked in the church?’

Athelstan nodded.

‘Good!’ Sir John rubbed his hands. ‘Maltravers, I’ll explain later what’s happening. Anyway, I am leaving you on guard. No one goes into that church or cemetery. You’ve had refreshment and it’s time Athelstan and I did the same.’ He clapped the knight on the shoulder. ‘You can stay and write a love poem, Brother Norbert. And I’ll be raising my goblet to you in the tavern!’

Darkness had fallen over Southwark when the two men, caped, cowled and hooded, sword and dagger clinking in their war belts, led the two sumpter ponies up along the trackway into Southwark. Valerian and Domitian had met the carter in the fields beyond the Tabard Tavern. The sacks had been taken from the cart and loaded on to the ponies. Now they made their way through the gloomy runnels and alleyways. The hovels, the dilapidated houses, rose dark and forbidding on either side, blocking out the night sky. They pulled their mufflers up over their noses against the stench from the midden-heaps and unclean sewers. Cats fought and screeched; rats slithered out from crevices in the walls. Beggars whined on corners. They thrust out their clatter boards but received little comfort from these two dark shadows. Now and again, from behind a closed shutter, faces peered out, eyes glittering, but Valerian and Domitian were known to the gangs who plagued Southwark, who were more terrified of these two men than they were of all Gaunt’s spies and agents. Valerian pulled at the rope and glanced over his shoulder at his companion.

‘It won’t take us long.’

‘How many more?’

‘Perhaps another four or five nights’ work and then we’ll be finished.’

They walked on, the sumpter ponies docile, their hooves muffled in rags. Valerian and Domitian had also wrapped wool round their boots, so that they seemed to glide like shadows from one dark alleyway to another.

At last the line of houses ended. They crossed the barren wasteland which stretched to the cemetery walls of St Erconwald. Valerian stopped, his hand going to his dagger; he could make out the dark mass of the church, the tall tower soaring up against the starlit sky. He peered at the crenellated top but could see no flame or light which meant that the little friar was not gazing at the stars. He was about to go on but paused. Was something wrong? Last night the fierce thunderstorm would have prevented the friar going up the tower. Surely, on a clear night like this, he would seize the opportunity? Valerian licked his lips; he had to be careful, very careful.

‘What are we waiting for?’ his companion hissed.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Is it safe?’

‘Why shouldn’t it be? We can’t very well go back.’

Glaring into the gloom, Valerian led the sumpter pony forward. They crossed the small brook now drying up in the summer heat. They reached the wall. Valerian took a rope and climbed on. He flung one end of the rope round a branch of the sycamore tree, pulled it down, fashioned a slipknot and lowered himself into the trench. Was something wrong? Those fools usually dug to a certain depth; now it seemed shallower. He wished he had a cresset torch. Had the earth been disturbed? Did those two oxen-heads have the temerity to search for what was buried here?

‘Come on!’ his companion urged him.

A sack came over the wall. Valerian grasped it and put it into the pit. A second one then suddenly the darkness was seared with a light. Valerian scrambled out of the trench.

‘What the . . .?’ he exclaimed.

From behind the wall he heard the scrape of steel. Figures, shapes loomed out of the darkness. Valerian recognised the little friar. He drew his dagger, adopting the stance of a fighting man, and peered at the rest. These weren’t soldiers! They were city bailiffs, beadles, men with families, timid as mice. Valerian tried his luck. He leapt forward and the bailiffs scattered. He looked over his shoulder. The wall was out of the question but if he could slip through the cemetery, he would soon be lost in the alleyways of Southwark. He was about to step forward again when a broad, massive figure moved out of the darkness. In the torchlight Valerian glimpsed a red, moustached face, cloak thrown back, sword and dagger in the man’s hands.

‘Out of my way, you tub of lard, and I’ll not prick you!’

‘I recognise that voice,’ Sir John boomed. ‘Put down your sword and dagger, my bucko, and surrender to the King’s coroner, Sir John Cranston!’

‘Piss off!’

Valerian darted forward. Cranston was old and fat, he’d prove no obstacle, but the coroner suddenly shifted. Valerian stopped and turned, lashing out with his sword. The coroner blocked this. Valerian drew away, prickles of cold sweat on the nape of his neck. Sir John seemed light as a dancer. In he snaked again, sword and dagger looking for an opening, locked in a whirling arc of steel. Valerian’s dagger was knocked from his hand. He gripped his sword with both hands and came rushing in. Perhaps he could frighten the coroner? His sword sliced the air; Valerian knew he had made a mistake, only seconds before Cranston’s blade dug deep beneath his heart. Valerian felt hot spurts of pain, blood bubbled at the back of his mouth. He fell to his knees; the night sky was whirling, the voices were like a faint roar and, spitting blood, he tumbled to the ground.