The Devil's Domain (6 page)

Gaunt laughed and waved his hand. ‘Enough of this jousting.’ He waved airily at Maltravers. ‘You know Sir Maurice?’

‘By name and reputation, yes.’

‘He’s one of my captains,’ Gaunt continued. ‘He has waged war ruthlessly against the French by land and sea. Two months ago, off Calais, he commanded a small flotilla of ships which attacked two French men-of-war, the
St Sulpice
and the
St Denis.
The
St Denis
was sunk, the
St Sulpice
successfully brought back to Dover. Now the French soldiers and sailors were ransomed by the baker’s dozen. However, five officers, men of quality, were captured. Pierre Vamier; Jean Gresnay; Eudes Maneil; Philippe Routier; and Guillaum Serriem. Being officers they were bound by the customs and usages of war to be ransomed, so they were taken to Hawkmere Manor.’

‘A desolate place,’ Sir John broke in. ‘Near the priory at Clerkenwell.’

‘A place of dread indeed.’ Gaunt sifted through the manuscripts on his desk. ‘I appointed as their captor, host, guest-master, whatever they wish, Sir Walter Limbright. He and his daughter Lucy have custody of the manor. Limbright is an old soldier. He hates the French, because they burnt his manor outside Winchelsea, killed his wife and two sons. He was at war while Lucy was visiting relatives at Hyde. Limbright would ensure the French were kept secure.’

‘What has happened?’ Athelstan asked.

‘The French envoy to England,’ Gaunt continued as if Athelstan hadn’t interrupted, ‘is Lord Charles de Fontanel. He’s waiting downstairs.’ Gaunt picked up the goblet and rolled it between his hands. ‘I hoped the ransoms would be raised and these men released but, to answer your question bluntly, Brother, last night Guillaum Serriem was found poisoned in his chamber.’

‘Last night?’ Athelstan asked curiously.

‘Well, to be perfectly honest, this morning, but his body was stiff and cold. The physician, Osmund Aspinall, he’s a leech who owns chambers above an apothecary’s in Cripplegate, reckoned the prisoner must have died shortly after he retired, nine o’clock in the evening.’

‘He was definitely poisoned?’

Athelstan glanced fearfully at Sir John. The coroner had now drunk two goblets of wine very quickly and was slouched in his chair cradling his goblet, as a mother would a baby, eyes closed, the most beatific smile on his face.

‘Oh yes.’ Gaunt raised his voice as if to rouse Cranston. ‘Discoloration of the mouth and tongue, a deadly pallor, marks on his belly and thighs.’

‘And how was the poison administered?’

Gaunt scratched his chest and glanced testily at the coroner.

‘If I knew that, Brother,’ he snorted, ‘you wouldn’t be here. The chamber was locked from within. A guard stood at the end of the passageway. There’s no window except a narrow aperture, no secret entrances, nothing. Serriem had drunk some wine before he retired but, when Limbright broke the door down, and there were others present, the cup was untainted. A thorough search was made of the room. Nothing suspicious was found.’

‘And when did Sir Guillaum eat?’ Athelstan asked.

‘With the rest at about seven in the evening. He drank the same, ate the same, then played chess in the parlour.’

‘Couldn’t the poison have been administered then?’

‘I doubt it. Again the same wine jug was shared. Nothing suspicious occurred.’

‘And now the French are outraged?’ Sir John opened his eyes and sat up, putting the cup down on the desk in front of him.

‘Why, Sir Jack, I’m glad you’ve joined us!’

‘My Lord Gaunt, I never left you.’

The Regent laughed softly. ‘You are right, Jack. You can guess what has happened. According to the laws and usages of war, prisoners are held for ransom in our care. The French are demanding reparation and justice.’

‘But there’s more, isn’t there?’

‘Aye, Jack, there is. A week ago we made a truce with France, one very much in our interests. No war by land or sea.’

‘But if the French believe,’ Athelstan interrupted, ‘that we are killing hostages, men of quality?’

‘Exactly! They could declare it a
casus belli,
justification for war and the truce, so carefully arranged by the papal negotiators, would end.’

‘And you believe this Serriem was murdered?’ Athelstan persisted. ‘It was no accident or suicide?’

Gaunt pulled a face and shook his head. ‘Serriem had a wife and family in France, he was desperate to go home.’ Gaunt turned and snapped his fingers. ‘Maurice, if you will bring my Lord de Fontanel up here. Justice must not only be done,’ he added wearily, ‘it must also be seen to be done!’

Sir Maurice left. Gaunt sat staring moodily at the parchments on his table. He didn’t even move when Sir John got up and filled his wine goblet. Athelstan looked round the chamber. How much, he wondered, was the truth? Gaunt was as slippery as a fish and Athelstan knew that they were about to begin the pursuit of a red-handed son of Cain, an assassin, a murderer. They would enter the domain of demons, seek out the truth to bring about justice, but it was never simple.

Athelstan was about to ask his own questions when he heard footfalls outside and Sir Maurice entered the room. The man who swept in behind him was dressed in a long houpelonde, a long, high-necked gown which fell beneath the knee, bound round the waist with a silver belt. On his feet he wore soft buskins ornamented with silver buckles, and a jewelled fleurdelys, on a golden chain, hung round his neck. He had bright red hair, a white puffy face and a hooked nose; the eyes were arrogant, narrow and close-set, the lips thin and bloodless. A man of fiery temper, Athelstan considered, sly and cunning as the weasel he looked. A man who also stood on ceremony. De Fontanel bowed at Gaunt and waited while Sir Maurice brought up a chair so he could sit next to the Regent. He lowered himself carefully, moving the silver dagger pouch so it didn’t catch on the arm of the chair. Only then did he bother to notice Athelstan and Sir John. A quick, summary look then he stared above their heads while fiddling with the rings on his fingers.

‘My Lord de Fontanel.’ Gaunt moved sideways in the chair to face him. ‘May I introduce Sir John Cranston, coroner of the city, and his secretarius Brother Athelstan, a Dominican?’

De Fontanel’s eyes moved, snake-like. He looked quickly at Sir John and dismissed him with a flicker of contempt. He looked more intently at Athelstan as if he couldn’t make up his mind who the Dominican was. He took the silver goblet Sir Maurice passed and handed it to Sir John.

‘I do not wish to be poisoned,’ he lisped. ‘Not like poor Serriem! You, sir, will taste it!’

‘Certainly!’ Sir John grabbed the goblet, drained it in one gulp and thrust it back.

Anger spots glowed high in de Fontanel’s cheeks. Gaunt lowered his head to hide his snigger. Sir Maurice hastened to fill the goblet again.

‘My Lord de Fontanel,’ Gaunt intervened. ‘You are safe here.’

‘You gave the same assurances to poor Serriem and now he’s dead, poisoned.’

‘That is not our fault.’ Gaunt tapped the table and pointed at Athelstan and Sir John. ‘These are my two officers. They will investigate Serriem’s death. If it’s murder, they will capture the felon and he will hang. You have my word.’

Gaunt emphasised the last four words and de Fontanel had no choice but to accept. He sipped from the refilled cup then, raising his head, studied the two officers.

‘We are not what we appear to be,’ the coroner said slowly. ‘Monsieur, if you look into your battle rolls for the name of Cranston you will find it among the victors of many an affray against your country. There is a phrase: “A cowl does not make a monk and judge not a book by its cover”.’ His face creased into a smile. ‘I beg you to do the same.’

‘My lord,’ Athelstan intervened. ‘Do you ever visit Hawkmere Manor?’

The French envoy looked askance.

‘You want us to find the truth,’ Athelstan continued. ‘That means, Monsieur, we must question everyone.’

‘I go there,’ de Fontanel snapped.

‘And do you bring any food or drink?’

‘I am not allowed to. Only a prayer book, some rosary beads.’ De Fontanel put his cup down. ‘My Lord Gaunt, you know my master’s thoughts in this matter.’ He tapped the Regent on the shoulder. ‘We hold you personally responsible for the safe custody of our prisoners. So, let your officers investigate!’

He walked towards the door but paused until Sir Maurice hurried to open it for him. Gaunt waited till he had gone, his face mottled with fury.

‘Now there goes a pretty peacock,’ he said. ‘I’d love to take his head in battle so he doesn’t tap my shoulder again. Ah well.’ He sighed. ‘My clerk will have the commission ready for you. I would be grateful if you would go to Hawkmere Manor immediately. Maltravers will accompany you there.’

‘You’ve had the place searched?’

‘From cellar to garret,’ Sir Maurice intervened. ‘Nothing was found.’

‘Could Limbright be poisoning his visitors out of spite?’

‘Limbright has not got the imagination!’ Gaunt scoffed. ‘While his daughter is simple.’

‘And there are no poisons in the manor?’ Athelstan persisted.

‘None whatsoever. Weapons are strictly controlled, as are the prisoners. They cannot leave its grounds, visitors are searched. De Fontanel can only visit them once a week.’

Athelstan made to leave. He could see that Sir John was beginning to feel uncomfortable and was genuinely concerned lest the coroner doze off again.

‘One moment.’ Gaunt got to his feet and went and put his hand on Sir Maurice’s shoulder. ‘Sir Jack, Brother Athelstan, I think you know Sir Maurice Maltravers: a warrior and my most loyal retainer.’

Athelstan narrowed his eyes. Now he studied him, the young knight looked white and peakish, his eyes red-rimmed as if he had been crying or slept poorly.

‘Sir Maurice,’ Gaunt continued, ‘is a man deeply in love. He is much smitten by the Lady Angelica Parr.’

‘Oh no!’ Sir John groaned. ‘Not the daughter of Sir Thomas? Parr is tight-fisted and avaricious. We attended the Inns of Court together years ago. He is so mean there are cobwebs in his purse. Now he controls everything, ships, wool and wine. They even say half the Commons, not to mention the court, are deeply in debt to him.’

‘Sir John, as usual, you are succinct and truthful,’ Gaunt replied. ‘I am deeply indebted to Sir Thomas and he has great aspirations for his daughter. The hand of an earl, perhaps, even one of my own kinsmen, a member of the royal family?’

Gaunt turned and stared at Sir Maurice and, for the first time ever, Athelstan caught a genuine look of compassion in the Regent’s eyes.

‘Sir Maurice,’ Gaunt sighed, ‘is the younger son of a younger son of a younger son.’ He waved his hand. ‘He made the terrible mistake of courting the Lady Angelica, even trying to elope with her.’

‘Oh dear!’ Sir John breathed.

‘Oh dear, yes. He has been forbidden near the house and Lady Angelica is safely ensconced with the venerable sisters, the nuns of Syon on the Thames.’

‘Oh, heaven’s tits!’ Sir John groaned.

‘Precisely. A house ruled by the very venerable Mother Monica! A woman who strikes more terror in some of my court than the massed armies of the French. Sir Thomas has petitioned me,’ Gaunt continued, ‘to keep Maltravers away and to send to the convent a venerable father, a man of sanctity, to instruct his daughter in obedience and love for her father. You, Brother Athelstan, are the chosen one.’ He lowered his voice. ‘And that’s the problem. You are also to use all your powers to advance the cause of Sir Maurice.’

Cranston and Athelstan, with a woebegone Sir Maurice in tow, left the Savoy Palace. They took a barge further along the Thames to Fish Wharf and threaded their way along the narrow runnels which wound through houses and shops towards St Paul’s. At first they had been too nonplussed to speak. They were accustomed to accepting the Regent’s commissions to investigate this or that, but the prospect of becoming heralds for this knight of the doleful countenance sitting opposite them in the barge truly confounded them. Athelstan’s mind teemed. How could he do anything? His knowledge of women, and he smiled to himself, well, the least said the better! Sir John broke the silence and leaned over and grasped the young man’s knee.

‘I know what it’s like, lad,’ he growled. ‘Years ago, when I pursued the Lady Maude, I wasn’t like this; sleek as a greyhound I was, fast as a swooping hawk, my heart and soul on fire. It was just poor old Jack Cranston then but courage and tenacity will achieve the desires of your heart.’

Sir Maurice thanked him. Athelstan could see the mirth in the young man’s eyes at the picture of a sleek and swooping Sir John.

‘Ah yes, those were the days,’ Sir John repeated as they made their way through the alleyways. ‘What a siege of love, and I tried every stratagem.’

Athelstan had to hang behind them because he’d begun to laugh so much his shoulders were shaking. He couldn’t really think of Lady Maude as a castle while the prospect of Sir John deeply in love was a thing of wonder.

Sir John, one hand on Sir Maurice’s shoulder, steered him through the crowds. Athelstan, trailing behind, realised that he had been sheltering in St Erconwald’s so long the crowds, the smell, the press made him feel uneasy. The sun was strong and the heat made his rough serge gown cling to his sweat-soaked skin. Sir John loved the city but Athelstan always found it strange, filled with images, pictures, which reminded him of scenes on a painted wall.

Two men on a corner of Old Bowyers Row were teaching their pet weasels how to kill a rat. Further along two beadles were making a whore fumigate herself by standing over a dish of burning coals, her dirty skirts pulled up under her breasts. Apprentices came out from behind stalls to catch Sir John’s arm. He shook them off as he did the greasy fingers of the owners of the cookshops who always regarded Sir John as a generous patron. The dung carts had not yet reached this part of the city and the lanes and alleyways were still full of rubbish from the previous day. The sewers down the streets brimmed with dirt. Cats, dogs, pigs and even a few chickens scrambled among the muck looking for tidbits. Street signs creaked in the light breeze which had sprung up. Above them, windows of the lean-to houses had been thrown open. People talked and shouted to each other. Now and again, if the street scavengers weren’t looking, they tossed out refuse on to the growing piles.