The Devil's Domain (27 page)

Sir John Cranston, chest heaving, wiped his sword on the dead man’s cloak then sheathed it. He told the bailiff to come closer with the torch, turned the corpse over and pulled down the vizard.

‘Satan’s bollocks!’ he swore. ‘It’s Ralph Hersham!’

Athelstan knelt down and pulled back the hood and cowl. He recognised the surly, close-set features of Sir Thomas Parr’s henchman. He gave the man the last rites and, even as he felt for the pulse in the neck, realised the soul had gone out to meet its judgement. He rose at the cries coming from the far end of the cemetery. Sir Maurice and other bailiffs were bundling a figure across. The man’s head was exposed, the vizard pulled off. As he was pushed into the pool of torchlight, Athelstan could see he was badly bruised and terrified out of his wits. The man took one look at Hersham’s face and fell with a groan to his knees, hands extended in supplication.

‘Oh, God have mercy!’

‘What’s your name?’ Sir John barked. He came over and dragged the man’s head back by the hair.

‘Clement, Clement Margoyle!’

‘And are you Valerian?’

‘No, I’m Domitian. Hersham was Valerian.’

‘You brought arrows to St Erconwald’s?’ Athelstan accused. The friar drew close and pressed his finger against the man’s lips. ‘Are you in a state of grace, my son?’ Athelstan glanced over at the coroner and winked.

‘Brother, I don’t know.’

Sir John stood over the man and drew his sword, which he held up by the hilt.

‘Clement Margoyle, you are a felon and a traitor. You have brought arms by night and the only reason must be that you plot treasonable mischief against our sovereign lord the King. You are also hooded and armed, travelling by stealth at night which is specifically condemned by the Statute of Treasons.’

‘No! No! No!’ Margoyle wailed.

‘Therefore,’ Sir John continued, his voice rolling like the peal of a funeral bell, ‘I, Sir John Cranston, King’s coroner in the city and its environs, do sentence you, Clement Margoyle, to death! Sentence is to be carried out immediately. May the Lord have mercy on your soul!’ He stepped back, refusing to meet Athelstan’s eyes. ‘Hang him!’ he barked.

One of the bailiffs threw a rope over the branch of the sycamore tree. The speed at which they worked surprised Athelstan. One end was formed into a noose and put round the unfortunate Margoyle’s head. Sir Maurice made to protest but Sir John commanded him to shut up. He rapped out an order. Immediately the bailiffs holding the other end of the rope began to tug. Margoyle, choking and coughing, was hoisted into the air, legs kicking.

‘Sir John!’ Athelstan implored him. ‘For the love of God!’

‘Oh yes, I forgot that. Let him down!’

Margoyle was dropped with a thud. He lay for a while on the wet grass coughing and retching. Sir John undid the noose.

‘Maltravers, take him over to the priest’s house. Henry.’ He summoned Flaxwith forward. I want every single arrow removed from the cemetery and carted into the city. Take Hersham’s corpse and give it to the Harrower of the Dead. He can find a burial plot for it. Tell him to send the bill to the Guildhall. Athelstan, let’s adjourn elsewhere and question Master Margoyle.’

They left the confusion behind them and went into the priest’s house. Margoyle sat on a stool, still shaking with fright from his rough handling. Athelstan poured him a goblet of wine and thrust it into his hands. Godbless and Thaddeus tried to enter, but Athelstan asked them to wait outside. He handed the beggar man the keys of the church.

‘Go across,’ he told him. ‘And let those two miscreants out. Tell them to go straight home. There is nothing for them here.’

Athelstan locked the door behind him and sat down opposite Margoyle.

‘Sir John, can this man hang?’

‘He certainly will,’ the coroner answered cheerfully from where he sat at the table. ‘Either at Tyburn or Smithfield, it depends on the Justices.’

Margoyle took a deep sip of the wine.

‘But what happens if he co-operates, Sir John?’ Athelstan saw the hope flare in the prisoner’s eyes. ‘What would you do if Master Margoyle here made a full and frank confession?’

‘That would depend on the song I heard. I do feel in fine fettle: that sword fight brought back memories of skirmishing with French pickets outside Dijon. Did I ever tell you that . . .’

‘Thank you, Sir John,’ Athelstan said hastily. ‘You have, on many an occasion.’ He studied Margoyle. A bully boy, he thought, but one with a weak face and watery, darting eyes. A bully and a coward, Athelstan considered, a man who certainly wouldn’t die to protect someone else. ‘Master Margoyle,’ he offered, ‘take another drink of wine, then confess. But I tell you this. If you lie, even a little one, Sir John will have you swinging from the branch of that sycamore tree.’

Margoyle drained the cup in one gulp. Athelstan refilled it.

‘I am innocent of murder,’ Margoyle blurted out. ‘I never committed a murder.’ He glanced fearfully at the coroner. ‘I – I don’t see why I should hang for that! Hersham’s responsible!’

‘What?’ Athelstan asked. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

‘The woman at the Golden Cresset.’

Margoyle was trembling so much he had to use two hands to grip the wine cup.

‘Continue,’ Athelstan urged him. ‘You and Hersham were responsible for the death of that woman?’

‘So, I was right!’ Sir Maurice called out. ‘Sir Thomas was involved!’

‘Oh God help us, no he wasn’t!’ Margoyle moaned. ‘I assure you, sir, he wasn’t, that was all Hersham’s idea! He hated you, Sir Maurice. He wanted to discredit you in the eyes of Sir Thomas. The rumours have now reached my master’s household. He’s already sent a messenger down to the nuns at Syon!’

If Sir John hadn’t intervened, Sir Maurice would have thrown himself at the prisoner.

‘For the love of God, sit down!’ Cranston told him. ‘The more this man talks, the better it is.’

‘It was Hersham’s idea,’ Margoyle continued. ‘He hired a whore from Peterkin the pimp and schooled her what to do. She was to go to the Golden Cresset, hire a chamber and lock the door till he came. It was Saturday afternoon. Hersham told me to go into the stable yard and stand guard there. I did so. He was gone a long time; the place was as busy as a beehive. I kept walking in and out of the gate. No one ever noticed me. Then the shutters opened up. I heard my name being called. Hersham told me that, when the yard became deserted, I was to whistle. I waited a while and, when the opportunity presented itself, Hersham cut through the shutters. He climbed on to the stonework, pushed the shutters close and dropped into the yard. He was almost dancing with glee. Only later did he tell me what had happened.’

Margoyle took another sip from the wine cup.

‘Apparently Hersham, and he was as mad as a March hare, had stayed near the door and slipped up the stairs. He had a wineskin with him containing an opiate. The whore opened the door. I don’t think she knew why she was there; she only acted out the instructions Hersham had given her. She must have thought it was some sort of game. Hersham gave her the wineskin, she fell asleep on the bed.’ Margoyle put the goblet down and crossed his arms over his chest. I didn’t know what to do when Hersham told me that he had taken a rope and hanged the poor wench. He said that no one would ever find out while Maltravers, who had been tricked to come to the tavern, would take the blame.’ He glanced fearfully at Athelstan. ‘Brother, I swear I had no part in it.’

Athelstan studied the muddy-brown eyes and accepted that he was telling the truth. Margoyle’s gaze shifted to the knight now sitting at the table.

‘He hated you,’ he said. ‘Not just because of the Lady Angelica but because you were everything he wanted to be!’

‘And this mummery in the cemetery?’ Sir John asked.

‘That I am involved in,’ Margoyle confessed slowly. ‘The Great Community of the Realm, Sir John, is now well rooted in London. It has members among the Corporation, the aldermen, the merchants and the guilds. They make threats, unless these powerful men,’ Margoyle stumbled on the phrase, ‘assist and co-operate, they, their houses, their trade, their families, are all marked down for destruction. Now, or when the Great Community’s army marches on London.’

Sir John tapped the table. ‘Of course!’ He drove his fist into one hand.

‘Of course what, Sir John?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Nothing much. It’s just that there’s been the occasional fire in a warehouse, stores being broken into, property smashed. The Guild-hall thinks it’s the work of night-walkers, footpads, but you, my little popinjay, say it could be the work of the Great Community?’

Margoyle nodded fearfully.

‘Do continue, Master Clement. You sing like a linnet. What other little secrets do you hold? Are you a member of the Great Community?’

Margoyle lowered his head and muttered, ‘Yes, Sir John, both me and Hersham. We were given the names of Valerian and Domitian. We were promised that, in the new commonwealth, we would hold high office.’

Sir John burst out laughing. ‘When Adam delved and Eve span,’ he taunted. ‘Who was then the gentleman? So one set of laws are going to be replaced by another, are they?’

Margoyle nodded.

‘Do sing on.’

‘The Great Community recently held a council at St Albans. They believe their army will march within twelve months but they need to seize London Bridge. The men have bows but no arrows. If these were made in the city, Gaunt – I mean, His Grace the Regent,’ Margoyle added hastily, ‘would soon discover it.’

‘And his guards at the city gates,’ Athelstan observed, ‘would hardly let cart-loads of arrows go trundling through.’

‘The arrows were made by peasants,’ Margoyle continued. ‘In south Essex and Hertfordshire. They were then brought to an agreed assembly point and distributed. They were to be brought into Southwark. Valerian and I were to find a place as close as possible to London Bridge, and St Erconwald’s was chosen.’

‘Why?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Because it is a poor parish, Brother. None of the great ones live here.’ Margoyle’s eyes fell away. They say you are a good priest. Busy about the care of souls. Many in the council of the Great Community believe you are sympathetic’

‘I am not,’ Athelstan said. ‘And I object to men like you drawing simpletons like Watkin and Pike into your deadly game!’

‘We were given their names,’ Margoyle continued. ‘We met them by night and told them what to do. They were to dig a trench and pretend to be examining the foundations of the cemetery wall. We put the arrows in, covered them with a layer of earth.’ He shrugged. ‘The rest you know.’

‘But you are missing one important fact,’ Athelstan insisted. ‘Arrows cost money. Wood has to be bought. Sacks and carts provided. Arrow heads fashioned. Glue, not to mention goose feathers.’

‘Sir Thomas provided that. Hersham was given bags of silver. Sir Thomas keeps a private account.’

‘So he’s a traitor?’ Athelstan interrupted.

‘He had little choice.’ A note of defiance crept into Margoyle’s voice.

‘What do you mean?’

The man’s eyes moved to Sir Maurice.

‘Do you think the Lady Angelica was moved to the nuns of Syon just because of Maltravers?’

Sir John clapped his thigh. ‘Of course! We thought she was there to protect her from Sir Lancelot here; but she had been marked down by the Great Community of the Realm, hadn’t she?’

Margoyle nodded. ‘I’ve told you the truth, Sir John.’

The coroner lumbered to his feet. ‘Brother Athelstan, your church is locked and secure, yes?’

‘Of course, Sir John!’

‘And the windows are too narrow for anyone to crawl out?’

‘Of course, my lord coroner.’ Athelstan smiled as he caught the drift of the questions.

The coroner went over to Athelstan’s writing-desk where he picked up two quills, an inkpot and a large square of rubbed parchment. He then went across and pulled Margoyle up by the scruff of his neck.

‘Brother Athelstan,’ Sir John said, beaming. ‘Do open the door of your church. Master Margoyle is going into the sanctuary to sit at the small table there and write out his confession. When he has finished, if I am satisfied, I am going to let him run away. On one condition.’ He turned the hapless Margoyle round to face him. ‘If I ever catch you in London again, I’ll hang you out of hand!’

‘He’ll implicate Parr,’ Athelstan warned. ‘Gaunt will have Sir Thomas’ head.’

‘No he won’t. He’ll write what I tell him to.’

‘But the bailiffs?’

‘Men like Sir Thomas are not easily impressed. Hersham’s dead, Margoyle here won’t mention the name Parr and Sir Thomas will simply say he had nothing to do with this villainy.’ Sir John winked. ‘But, he’ll know that we know and that, my dear friar, is very important!’

The following morning the parish was in uproar. News of what had happened in the cemetery had swept through the alleyways leading down to the Thames. St Erconwald’s was truly packed, not just for the Guild Mass for the Rat-Catchers, but also by those eager to listen to the chatter and the gossip. Watkin and Pike looked woebegone. They stood on the sanctuary steps shuffling their feet. Athelstan, vesting in the sacristy, closed his eyes and quietly thanked God that things had gone well. Sir John had worked like a true soldier: the arrows had been removed, loaded on to carts and taken across London Bridge. Watkin and Pike had slunk away in the darkness while Margoyle had written a full confession, surrendered his arms and fled like a shadow in the night. Sir Maurice was beside himself. Godbless had danced like an elf shouting: ‘I told you so! I told you I saw shapes in the cemetery!’

It had been long after midnight before Athelstan had quietened things down and snatched a few hours’ sleep.

‘Ah well,’ he said, crossed himself and went into the sanctuary.

The Mass was a great success. The rat-catchers with their ferrets, cats, small dogs, cages, traps, mallets and spikes, nets and leather sacks were all piled together in the sanctuary. The ceremony was one of the liveliest Athelstan had ever conducted. One dog howled throughout the entire ceremony as if singing its own divine chant. Bonaventure slunk in and, if Crim hadn’t intervened, the most horrendous fight would have broken out as this prince of the alleyways’ one good eye alighted upon a rival. Two ferrets escaped and were pursued by a dog into the cemetery. One was caught but Ranulf came back, just as Athelstan finished the consecration, shaking his head and announcing in a loud whisper that ‘the little bastard had gone for good’.