The Devil's Domain (29 page)

Athelstan quietly thanked God that Sir John wasn’t here. Lady Monica had now picked up a sheet of parchment, using it to fan her face.

‘I wondered if Brother Norbert would visit me, to continue his talks? To give me spiritual counsel?’

‘My lady abbess,’ he replied mournfully. ‘Brother Norbert is no longer with us.’

Lady Monica let the parchment drop. ‘Where has he gone?’

‘It’s a great secret,’ Athelstan confided, lowering his voice. ‘But he has gone to do God’s work in another place. So, I ask you to remember him in your prayers.’ Athelstan glanced away. The disappointment in Lady Monica’s face was so apparent. ‘However,’ he added quietly, ‘and I assure you of this, Brother Norbert thought as highly of you as you did of him. Indeed, until he received orders to go elsewhere, he could scarcely contain his eagerness to return here.’

‘Oh, thank you, Brother.’ Lady Monica leaned back in her chair. ‘I shall remember him. Oh yes I shall!’

A short while later Athelstan, accompanied by the Lady Angelica, still dressed in the robes of a nun of Syon, her sandalled feet slapping on the cobbles, left the convent and took the road into the city. Athelstan had hardly bothered to glance at her, never mind explain, while the young woman had enough sense not to ask any questions until they were well away from the convent gates. At the corner of an alleyway she stopped and grasped Athelstan’s arm.

‘Brother, what on earth’s happening? Where are we going? Why did Lady Monica release me? Is my father well? How is Sir Maurice?’ She wiped a tear from her eye. ‘I heard about that business at the Golden Cresset.’

Brother Athelstan grasped the young woman’s smooth hands. He ignored the curious looks of two beggars crouched in a doorway.

‘Lady Angelica, you are going back to your father’s house. Sir John and Sir Maurice are already there. Sir Maurice loves you deeply. He is a valiant, noble knight who wears his heart on his sleeve and that heart is yours for as long as it beats.’

‘You should have been a troubadour. Brother. But that poor woman?’

Athelstan swore her to secrecy then explained all that had happened. The change in Angelica’s face was wondrous, reminding Athelstan of the old adage about the ‘steel fist in the velvet glove’. Her face paled, her blue eyes became ice-cold, like hard pieces of glass, while her generous mouth tightened into a thin line.

‘My father?’ she asked.

‘I believe your father is innocent. I do not think Sir Thomas would stoop to murder to blacken a man’s name.’

‘I believe you.’ Angelica gazed over Athelstan’s shoulder. ‘I think we should walk, Brother, otherwise we might both be reported to the Bishop as a friar and a nun who fell in love and conducted their amour in public!’

They walked slowly up the street, Angelica asking questions, Athelstan doing his best to reply. Indeed, so engrossed was the friar that he hardly noticed the sights and sounds of the city, the busy frenetic cries of the market, the shouts of the apprentices, the clatter of horse and cart. Before he realised it, they were standing on the corner leading down to Sir Thomas Parr’s mansion.

‘I always despised Hersham.’ Lady Angelica ran a finger round the rather tight coif about her chin. I used to catch him watching me. He reminded me of a cat stalking a pigeon.’

‘Some pigeon, my lady. More like a hawk, as my good friend Sir Maurice will find out.’

Angelica grasped his hand and squeezed it.

‘What you did, Brother, what you did was noble.’ Her face relaxed into a smile. ‘And when I marry Sir Maurice, I don’t care what Father says, I want you to meet us at the church door and witness our exchange of vows.’

‘I wouldn’t recommend St Erconwald’s,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Especially with a ferret on the loose.’

‘A ferret?’

‘I jest. Come on, Lady Angelica, let us first see your father before you arrange the marriage feast.’

The manservant who opened the door glanced at Athelstan then Angelica and his jaw sagged.

‘Lord save us!’ he gasped. ‘Oh, what doings! What a morning! The bailiffs have been here closeted with Sir Thomas. Now, Sir John and Sir Maurice are kicking their heels in the parlour.’

‘This is my house,’ the Lady Angelica said. ‘Richard, let us in!’

‘Of course, my lady.’ The manservant stood back and ushered them into the parlour.

Lady Angelica took one look at Sir Maurice and, in a manner that would certainly not have been approved by the Lady Monica, hastened across the chamber and threw her arms round his neck. Sir John, sitting in a window seat cradling a large goblet, shrugged and smiled.

‘Sir Maurice!’ Athelstan hissed. ‘Lady Angelica! The waters are troubled enough!’

He heard footsteps along the gallery outside. Lady Angelica and Sir Maurice hastily stood away from each other and Angelica sat down. Sir Thomas Parr swept into the room. He scowled at his daughter and glanced angrily around.

‘What is this nonsense? Angelica, who brought you here? And you sir!’ He flung his hand in the direction of Sir Maurice. ‘I’ll have you driven from my home!’

‘Father!’ Lady Angelica sprang to her feet. ‘I have told you not to scowl, it doesn’t suit you. You are in very, very serious trouble! I think you should listen to Sir John and Brother Athelstan.’ Angelica stepped forward, wagging her finger. ‘Father, I am your dutiful daughter but I am very angry with you.’ She turned. ‘Sir Maurice, I believe we should adjourn. Don’t worry, Father, I won’t be ravished; I am taking Sir Maurice into the garden and I’ll ask my maid to accompany us.’ She glanced at Sir Maurice. ‘Though not too close.’

She swept out of the room, Sir Maurice trailing behind her. Athelstan closed the door.

‘Sir Thomas, I suggest you sit down.’

‘This is my house, friar.’

‘Sit down!’ Sir John roared. ‘Or I’ll haul you off to the Fleet immediately!’ The coroner lumbered to his feet. ‘Hard of heart and hard of head Thomas, you were always the same. Never bending, never giving!’

Parr sat down.

‘Are we here to discuss my character, Sir John? And, by the way, where’re Hersham and Margoyle? Your bailiff, the one with the flea-ridden dog, he said both men had been detained?’

‘He was lying. On my orders. Hersham is dead and Margoyle’s in flight.’

Sir Thomas swallowed hard.

‘Now, Thomas. I am going to tell you what has happened. And, before you interrupt me and start accusing Sir Maurice of being an assassin, don’t!’ He jabbed a finger. ‘You know, in your heart, he’s innocent of any murder.’

‘I was mystified by the stories.’

‘But you still told your daughter,’ Athelstan interrupted.

‘Enough! Enough!’ Sir John picked up his wine cup. ‘Sir Thomas, there was once a wealthy merchant of Cheapside . . .’

In stark, pithy phrases the coroner described exactly what he and Athelstan had discovered: the death of the young whore at the Golden Cresset; the fight the previous evening in St Erconwald’s cemetery and the full and frank confession of Clement Margoyle. To give Sir Thomas his credit, he sat and heard the coroner out. Only occasional fidgeting, licking of dry lips and beads of sweat which appeared on his upper lip betrayed his fear.

‘If we wanted to,’ Sir John continued, ‘we could take this full matter to my Lord of Gaunt. Believe me, he would love that! He would have you arrested, your wealth seized and he would take great joy in repudiating any debts he has to you.’ Sir John drew out a roll of parchment from his pouch. ‘Margoyle’s confession is enough evidence, not to mention the witness of myself and Brother Athelstan.’

‘What about Sir Maurice?’

‘He does not know the full facts. And, to be quite honest, Sir Thomas, I don’t think he really cares. You could tell him that the Pope is enthroned in Cheapside and it would fly over his head like a bird.’

‘I had no choice,’ Sir Thomas said. ‘You don’t know what it’s like, Jack. The rebels are all over the city.’

‘You could have come to me,’ Sir John replied. ‘In the main they are sound and fury. Think about it, Sir Thomas, they don’t want to start kidnapping young damsels or burning a man’s house. However, I tell you this: when these gentlemen, Jack Straw and the others, march on London, they won’t give a fig for any promises made!’

‘So, what will happen?’

Sir John got up and threw the pieces of parchment on to the weak fire burning in the grate.

‘It’s all over, Sir Thomas.’ The coroner beckoned Athelstan to follow. ‘We are leaving. Outside in the garden you have a daughter you should be proud of and a man I’d be delighted to call my son.’ He sketched a bow. ‘Goodbye, Sir Thomas; in all things remember honour!’

Sir John was very pleased when they left Parr’s house. He was confident that Sir Thomas would do the honourable thing and the betrothal of the Lady Angelica would soon be proclaimed throughout the city. His good humour, however, soon drained as Athelstan, lost in his own thoughts, wandered up and down Cheapside, along the alleyways and runnels, visiting one apothecary after another. He came out of each shop shaking his head and muttering to himself, clicking his tongue in annoyance. Eventually Sir John, exasperated beyond belief, seized the friar by the shoulders.

‘Troublesome priest! What in the name of Satan’s buttocks are you doing?’

‘I don’t really know yet, Sir John. Did you find me a seller in poisons?’

The other man shook his head.

‘Well.’ Athelstan winked. ‘It really doesn’t matter now!’

Cranston arched an eyebrow. ‘So, it’s Hawkmere is it? You little ferret. Oh bugger, here comes Leif!’

The beggar man, however, had espied his fat quarry and was hopping along as merrily as a grasshopper.

‘Sir John! Sir John!’ he gabbled. ‘I have a new song!’ He pointed back along the street. ‘And a new friend. Rawbum can play the flute and accompany me.’

Athelstan stared in disbelief at the dishevelled beggar who stood a few yards away, a battered wooden flute in his hand.

‘Rawbum?’

‘He sat in a pan of boiling oil,’ Sir John explained. ‘And, ever since, he prefers to stand.’

‘Can I sing you my new song, Sir John? It’s about a law officer . . .’

Sir John dipped into his purse and thrust a coin into the beggar’s hand.

‘Just bugger off and leave me alone!’ he growled.

‘Very well, Sir John, and give my regards to the Lady Maude.’

Both he and Rawbum disappeared into a nearby ale-house, and Athelstan continued his mysterious pilgrimage. Eventually, in an apothecary’s, just near the great conduit which served the hospital of St Thomas of Aeon, he came out, grinning from ear to ear.

‘Come on, Sir John! It’s the Holy Lamb of God for both of us!’

Soon they were ensconced in a small garden behind the tavern, admiring the fish which swam in the artificial carp pond. They sat in a shady arbour. Athelstan insisted on purchasing blackjacks of ale and a meat pie to share with his friend. He also described the conclusions he had reached. Sir John, at first ravaged by hunger, listened and nodded but eventually he swallowed hard and stared in disbelief at his companion.

‘You can prove all this, little friar?’

‘Oh yes, Sir John. But I haven’t marshalled my thoughts yet. They are running round my mind like rabbits in a corn field. I have to impose some order and trap this assassin. What I want you to do is go down to the Savoy and ask the Regent to bring some archers. Seek out Sir Maurice and Aspinall, bring them to Hawkmere Manor.’ He nodded at the empty tankard. ‘I think you should go now, Sir John.’

The coroner was about to object but Athelstan grasped his podgy fingers.

‘We’ll meet again, Sir John, and celebrate the Lady Angelica’s betrothal.’

Sir John got to his feet and turned his face up to catch the sun. This was happiness, he thought. He just wished Maude and the poppets were here. The brave boys would love the fish and Lady Maude would be out listing the flowers and herbs, loudly wondering whether she could have the same in their garden. A small cloud passed over the sun.

‘I never asked this, Athelstan, but do you think they could still move you from Southwark?’

‘They have,’ Athelstan replied. He saw his friend’s jaw drop. ‘But,’ the friar added hastily, ‘I am here, Sir John, this is my life. Now, go please! We have an assassin to trap.’

The coroner, huffing and puffing, waddled back into the tavern. There was a squeal and Athelstan realised the coroner must have caught the tavemer’s wife and given her a kiss. The friar stared at the small, golden fish darting among the reeds. How was it to be done? The tavemer’s wife came out with another tankard. He drank it rather quickly and, before he knew it, he leaned back against the turf seat and fell into a deep sleep.

He woke refreshed and realised it must be mid-aftemoon. Yet he was in no hurry. It would take Sir John some considerable time to organise the Regent.

In fact, Athelstan was quite surprised when he reached Hawkmere to find Gaunt’s retainers had taken over the manor. Men-at-arms stood at the gateway while his archers patrolled the parapet walk. The Regent himself, Sir Maurice beside him, was lounging in a chair on the dais in the hall. The Regent was wearing brown and green velvet and looked as if he had recently come from the chase. His hair was ruffled, his smooth face bore slight cuts from branches and his muddy boots were propped up on the table. He slouched in the high-backed chair, slicing an apple, popping pieces into his mouth. Now and again he would turn and playfully nudge Sir Maurice; Athelstan realised that Sir John’s prophecy had come true.

‘I am betrothed,’ Sir Maurice smiled as Athelstan came in. He welcomed the little friar with a bearlike hug. ‘We’ll be married by Michaelmas. In St Mary-Le-Bow. And you must be the celebrant.’

‘A good day’s work, Brother Athelstan!’ Gaunt called out, beckoning him closer. ‘How did you do it?’

‘My lord Regent, God works in wondrous ways, His wonders to perform.’

‘I’ll take your word for it, Brother.’ Gaunt’s eyes hardened as his gaze moved to the small musicians’ gallery at the far end of the hall.

Athelstan turned and looked but he could see nothing, since the gallery was hidden in shadows.

‘What have we got here?’ Gaunt asked.