The Devil's Domain (28 page)

At the end of the Mass Athelstan preached a homily on all God’s creatures being a delight in His sight. Ranulf stuck his hand up.

‘Does that include rats, Brother?’

‘Rats have their purposes, Ranulf,’ Athelstan replied. ‘But God knows why.’

‘They clear away rubbish,’ Ricauld, a rat-catcher from the priory of St Mary’s, announced.

‘You’ve got the makings of a theologian,’ Athelstan told him. ‘But, truly, you all do a great service for the community. I appeal to you to do it honestly and as kindly as possible.’ His eyes caught Ranulf’s. ‘And not charge too much.’

After the homily Athelstan had blessed the different animals. On reflection this was very dangerous. Some of the ferrets lunged for his fingers. Bonaventure’s rival curled its lip in protest. If it had not been for a well-aimed kick from Crim’s boot, one of the dogs would have cocked its leg against Athelstan. The friar moved among the different pets, sprinkling them with water and afterwards blessing them with incense. The dog, which had been thankfully quiet during his sermon, now decided to renew his chant. Athelstan just thanked God Sir John wasn’t there.

At the end of the Mass all the rat-catchers, together with the parishioners, thronged into the porch of the church and the open area in front. Stalls and booths had been set up to sell ales and cakes. Benedicta had cooked pies. Watkin’s wife had brought fruit. Everyone announced it was a success and Huddle, ecstatic that the Rat-Catchers’ Guild had hired him, loudly announced that soon he would be putting a fresco on the wall to honour the new confraternity.

Boso, a one-eyed cleric with a slit nose and one ear missing, who Athelstan secretly thought was a defrocked priest, set up a small table and unrolled the Articles of the Rat-Catchers’ Guild. Each member signed their name or made their mark. A cat, a rat, a trap or a cage. Ranulf solemnly took out from his pouch the new seal of the Guild and Boso poured hot wax on the parchment. Ranulf sealed this and Athelstan did the same with the parish insignia. Fresh copies were produced and the same process repeated. Athelstan, feeling rather bemused by the whole affair, quickly conceded that a copy should be placed in a case and stored in the parish archives in one of the tower chambers of the church. He tried to catch Benedicta’s eye but she just smiled, busy in making sure the revelry went smoothly. Watkin, Pike, Hig the pigman, Mugwort the bell clerk and others stood in a corner, heads together, whispering darkly among themselves. Athelstan was about to join them when he heard his name called. Sir Maurice, who had excused himself from the Mass, was standing in the doorway of the church holding a piece of parchment in his hand.

‘Athelstan, it’s urgent! It’s from Blackfriars!’

The friar hurried across to take the parchment and walked into the house. It was cool and quiet after the frenetic activity of the church. He examined the seal, broke it and quickly read what Simeon the archivist had written. Athelstan smiled to himself.

‘At last!’ he said.

‘Good news, Brother?’

‘Good news, Sir Maurice.’

‘Are we going to visit the nuns of Syon?’ the knight asked hopefully.

‘I think not.’ Athelstan leaned over and grasped the young knight’s wrist. ‘Why should we go there, Sir Maurice?’

‘Why, to see the Lady Angelica.’

‘I do worry about you, Brother Norbert,’ Athelstan teased. ‘Sometimes I think that all you can think of is Angelica!’

‘I love her. I go to sleep thinking about her. I dream of her. I see her face in crowds. Haven’t you ever loved, Brother?’ The knight bit his lip. I am sorry.’

Athelstan sat down on a stool. The knight stared at him.

‘I – I didn’t mean to embarrass you, Brother.’

Athelstan closed his eyes and thought of Benedicta.

‘Is it hard?’ Sir Maurice asked, intrigued by this olive-skinned little friar who seemed so sharp and kept his emotions under such firm control.

‘Is it hard? When you are a priest, Sir Maurice, it’s not the love act you miss, though the demands of nature do make themselves felt.’ Athelstan laughed quickly. ‘But that passes. It’s the terrible loneliness, the feeling that you are watching the world go by and cannot become part of it. Sometimes, just sometimes, you meet someone! Thank God, not often, but you can see it in her eyes or face, the way she looks at you. Your heart beats quicker; your blood drums a little faster in the brain; your mouth becomes dry.’

‘And what do you do?’

‘You get on your knees, Sir Maurice, and you pray that you never ever fall in love. That you are never put to the test because, if you are, there’s every chance that you’ll be found wanting.’

‘And do you envy men like me, Brother?’

Athelstan smiled up at the knight.

‘You are a good man, Sir Maurice, you would have made a good priest, an excellent Dominican.’ The smile widened. ‘Particularly when it came to counselling young nuns.’

Sir Maurice laughed and fastened on his war belt.

‘Believe me,’ Athelstan continued. ‘You will marry the Lady Angelica but keep praying! Pray,’ Athelstan repeated, ‘that your love never dies, never wavers but grows stronger by the day.’

‘Oh it will’

‘Yes, I am sure it will. Now, go and find Sir Jack and tell him to wait for me at Parr’s house but Sir Maurice, do not now or in the future tell Sir Thomas, or indeed anyone, what you learned last night.’ Athelstan went to the door. ‘I’m going to talk to Godbless about his adventures in Venice and a man who should have died but didn’t.’

Maltravers left as fast as a greyhound. Athelstan went across to the death house, chattered to Godbless then returned to collect his writing-bag and slipped out of the house down to the riverside.

He found Moleskin with other boatmen on the quayside watching the executioners despatch a river pirate from the gibbet which stood like a great black finger poked up against the sky. The felon had been pushed up the ladder. A huge, burly oaf, he kept threatening the hangman and spitting out at the waiting crowd. Athelstan sketched a blessing in his direction. The pirate saw this and made an obscene gesture with his middle finger.

‘Come away, Moleskin!’ Athelstan called.

The boatman swaggered across, his cheery, leathery face dour, his eyes hard.

‘You shouldn’t watch such sights,’ Athelstan said. ‘It’s terrible to see a man such as he about to fall into the hands of the living God.’

Moleskin looked over his shoulder at the gibbet.

‘I couldn’t think of a better place, Brother. That bastard is responsible for the deaths of three boatmen to the north of London Bridge. You know the marshes? Well, he kept a wherry there. He poled out, took their money and slit their throats.’

Athelstan followed his gaze. The rope was now round the felon’s neck. There was a shout from the crowd. The executioners slithered down. The ladder was pulled away and the felon began his dance of death.

‘It’s over!’ Moleskin said. He clapped the friar on the shoulder. ‘Now come on, Brother, tell me what happened last night and where do you want to go?’

‘I’ll let the others tell you about all the excitement, Moleskin. I want you to take me along the Thames and find a Venetian ship.’

Moleskin led the friar down the green mildewed steps and into his stout wherry.

‘Why a Venetian? Are you going to flee Southwark?’

‘No, I want to ask the captain a few questions.’

Moleskin concentrated on manoeuvring his craft, for the river was busy with barges and fishing smacks. They reached the far side and Moleskin began to go slowly by the sterns of the moored ships: massive, fat-bellied cogs from the Baltic, merchantmen from the Low Countries and royal warships getting ready to put to sea. At last he found a Venetian galley which lay low and rakish in the water. Its raised, gilded red and gold stern was surrounded by bum-boats selling fruit, sweetbread and other items from the city markets. There was even a boat full of whores who stood shrieking up at the sailors, trying to entice them with their charms to get aboard. Moleskin, skilled in the ways of the river, managed to catch the eye of the officer responsible for maintaining order along the decks. The boatman jabbed a finger at Athelstan and, making a sign, asked to come on board.

The officer agreed. A rope ladder was lowered and Moleskin, his boat bobbing beneath him, helped the little friar up. Such attention provoked the jealousy of the others milling round the great Venetian war galley. There were shouts and imprecations, rotten fruit was thrown. Athelstan yelled at Moleskin to wait. The boatman took his craft away and sat watching the scene. Now and again a friend or acquaintance would pass in a hail of good-natured abuse and raillery. Moleskin undid the little chest in the stern of his craft, took out a linen cloth and gnawed on a piece of salted bacon, taking deep draughts from the water bottle which he had filled with ale. He sat wondering what the little friar wanted with a Venetian war galley, but there again he shrugged, for Athelstan was a strange priest. If he wasn’t looking after those rogues at St Erconwald’s, he was scurrying around after Sir John Horse-Cruncher, the great and high lord coroner of the city. Moleskin narrowed his eyes. He must remember that. He loved baiting the coroner, and next time Sir John hired him, Moleskin would charge him double because of his weight.

He finished his bacon, growing slightly impatient because the swell of the river was becoming more pronounced. Then he noticed movement on board the galley and glimpsed the black and white robes of his parish priest. Moleskin turned his craft and brought it in, using the oars to fend off rivals. At last he was beneath the rope ladder. Athelstan clambered down with a sigh of relief and took his seat in the stern.

‘What was all that about, Brother?’ Moleskin asked as he pulled away.

Athelstan smiled contentedly. ‘Do you know, Moleskin,’ he said, leaning back, ‘there are certain pleasures in life one feels truly good about.’

Moleskin pulled a face.

‘Oh, not that!’ Athelstan laughed. ‘I think I’ve just trapped a red-handed assassin! Moleskin, you are my champion among boat-men. Our next stop is the holy nuns at the convent of Syon!’

Moleskin bent over the oars. Nuns, assassins, Venetians, he thought. What on earth was this little Dominican involved in? It was all Sir Jack’s doing! Everyone along the waterfront said where Lord Horse-Cruncher went, trouble always followed.

They swept upriver and Moleskin brought his boat along the quayside steps.

‘Do you want me to wait, Brother?’

‘No. you’ll be pleased to know after this I am going to meet Sir John’

Athelstan offered some coins but Moleskin shook his head.

‘For you, Brother, it’s free. Just remember me and my boat at Mass. I mean, if you can bless a collection of rat-catchers, cats and ferrets . . .’ He looked hopefully up at the friar.

‘I think it’s a very good idea. Moleskin,’ Athelstan replied. ‘What we’ll do is wait for the feast of some sailor, or a Sunday when the gospel mentions Jesus going fishing with His apostles, then I’ll come down and bless you and your craft. Perhaps we can give it a name?

Moleskin’s smile widened.

‘What about
St Erconwald
?’

Moleskin’s smile faded.

‘Or,’ Athelstan added quickly, ‘
the Rose of Southwark
?’

‘I like that, Brother. I knew a sweet girl called Rosamund. The only problem is so did half the boatmen along the Thames!’

‘Then we are agreed.’ Athelstan sketched a blessing in the air and walked up the steps.

A young novice ushered him into Lady Monica’s presence. The abbess rose, as stately as a queen, though her face was slightly flushed.

‘Ah, Brother Athelstan. Where’s Brother Norbert?’ Her eyes darted around. ‘And Sir Jack?’

‘They are not here, my lady. I have only come to collect the Lady Angelica.’

‘I beg your pardon!’ Lady Monica clasped her hands together, drawing herself up to her full height. ‘My good Brother, you don’t walk into a nunnery and demand that I hand over one of my girls!’

‘Lady Monica, I am a Dominican friar. Holy Mother Church and my Order have entrusted me with saying Mass, preaching the gospel and looking after Christ’s faithful. I am parish priest of St Erconwald’s in Southwark where, as God knows, I have more precious charges than I can handle. I am also secretarius to Sir John Cranston, lord coroner of this city, personal friend of the late and glorious Edward. He is one of my Lord of Gaunt’s most trusted counsellors and a personal friend of the young King. So, I believe I can look after a young maiden entrusted to my care!’

Lady Monica’s shoulders sagged. ‘I don’t really . . .’ she stammered and looked under lowering brows at Athelstan. ‘Sir Thomas Parr will . . .’

‘Sir Thomas Parr is a London merchant,’ Athelstan continued forcefully, ‘who has more wealth than he has sense. Now, my lady, do I have to go down to the King’s Justices at Westminster and get a writ? Collect soldiers from the Regent’s palace at the Savoy?’ Athelstan held his hand up. ‘I assure you, my lady, that the Lady Angelica must come with me to her father.’

‘Very well, if you put it like that.’ Lady Monica was now quite flustered. She picked up a small handbell and shook it vigorously. ‘Tell the Lady Angelica,’ she announced to the young novice who almost burst through the door, ‘to get herself ready to leave. She’s to wait in the guest house.’ She waited until the door closed. ‘Brother Athelstan, I would like you to sign that you have taken the Lady Angelica to her father and that you accept full responsibility.’

The abbess ushered Athelstan to a small writing-desk in the far corner of the room. Athelstan wrote out exactly what she wanted, signed it, waited until it dried and then handed it over. Then he rose and made to go towards the door.

‘Brother Athelstan.’ Lady Monica had retaken her seat. ‘Please sit.’ Her tone was almost wheedling.

Athelstan noticed Lady Monica’s face had become more flushed, her eyes glittering. He sat down.

‘How can I help you, my lady?’

The abbess sifted amongst the pieces of parchment on the desk.

‘It’s your Brother Norbert.’ She kept her head down. ‘I . . . I . . .’ She looked up, blinking quickly. ‘Brother, he spoke so eloquently of love. Since his departure, I have had strange dreams . . . fantasies . . .’