The Devil's Domain (7 page)

At Paternoster Row they had to stop. Sir John even paused in his advice to Sir Maurice as a strange procession of men and women, dressed in bright yellow, made their way up Newgate. These wore their hair long and untended and walked in unison; every so often a bell would ring. They would stop, clap their hands and leap into the air shouting ‘Hosanna!’

‘The Joyeurs.’ Sir John spoke over his shoulder at Athelstan. ‘Just look at the silly buggers!’

The Dominican did, fascinated. He had heard of these men and women who believed that the Second Coming was near and patrolled the city in feverish expectation. According to them, Jesus would appear at Blackheath and found the new Jerusalem.

‘There must be sixty of them!’ Sir John muttered.

The Joyeurs heightened Athelstan’s sense of unreality with their strange uniform walk, abrupt stops, the clapping of hands and raucous shouts.

Once they had passed, the three continued. They entered the Shambles, the beaten paving-stones awash with blood and gore from the butchers’ stalls and slaughterhouses. Outside Newgate, the stocks had been set up and the beadles were inviting citizens to throw rotten vegetables at the unfortunates fastened there, hands and heads clasped tightly between the wooden slats. Further up another crowd was waiting to visit relatives in the city prison. Turnkeys in their shabby leather aprons were moving among them taking bribes, choosing who should go in first.

At last they were free of the press, making their way up through the city gates and across Smithfield. Athelstan sighed with relief. The stench and the heat were not so intense and the great open expanse was deserted, although stall-holders were getting ready for the great horse fair the following day. They crossed some waste ground. Sir John paused to take a few gulps from his wineskin. Sir Maurice refused but Athelstan was only too grateful to wash the dust from his throat. They continued along dusty trackways which wound between the hedgerows, the noise and bustle of the city giving way to the chirping of birds and the hum of crickets. At last they reached Hawkmere Manor. The grey, forbidding curtain wall was dominated by a high timbered gate-house. Archers stood there, men-at-arms along the ramparts. Athelstan pulled at the great bell.

‘Piss off!’ one of the archers shouted down.

‘I’m Sir John Cranston!’ the coroner bellowed. ‘And, if you don’t open this bloody gate, I’ll hang you from the gatehouse!’

There were muttered curses followed by the sound of footsteps. A small postern door in the great iron-studded gate swung open and a shamefaced archer ushered them in. Sir John poked him in the chest.

‘Don’t ever tell me to piss off, lad!’ He pulled back the archer’s hood, revealing a mangled left ear. ‘Who did that?’

The narrow-faced archer forced a grin, revealing his black and bleeding gums.

‘The French caught me outside Calais.’

‘You are a bloody liar! The French would have taken two of your fingers off, not your ear!’

The archer looked crestfallen. ‘I stole a goose outside Calais,’ he muttered.

‘That’s better.’ The coroner glanced across the cobbled yard which stretched up to the main door of the manor. ‘Now, lad, run ahead and tell Sir Walter Limbright that Sir Jack Cranston is here.’

Athelstan opened his pouch and gave the archer the commission they had collected from one of John of Gaunt’s clerks. The archer hurried off. Athelstan looked up at the manor.

‘A gloomy place to live in,’ he commented. ‘And a gloomy place to die!’

Hawkmere was built out of grey ragstone, four stories high. Chimneys had been added on at each end of the sloping, red-slated roof. The front door was black and forbidding. The steps leading to it were choked with weeds and crumbling. The windows were either arrow slits or small squares of wood, not filled with glass but protected by shutters from within and iron bars on the outside. It reminded Athelstan of the great block houses in France, built by the English to control crossroads, bridges and fords over rivers.

The archer had disappeared round the back. Athelstan could see now why Hawkmere had been chosen as a prison. On the other three sides of the house ran a great curtain wall which probably defended the outhouses and buildings behind it. He glanced at his companions; Sir John was standing, legs apart, eyes half-closed. Sir Maurice looked as if he were a thousand miles away and, once again, Athelstan wondered how they could possibly help this young man’s futile pursuit of his beloved. Sir John knew Sir Thomas and so did Athelstan. Sir Thomas had a reputation for being hard-fisted and stony-hearted. A man who lent monies to everyone and always demanded a good profit in return.

‘Come on, Athelstan,’ Sir John growled. ‘I’m not standing here baking in the sun.’

He marched across and up the steps, the other two close behind, and hammered on the great oaken door. It swung open and a servant ushered them in.

The inside of Hawkmere Manor was as gloomy as its exterior. The hallway was so dark, cresset torches spluttered in their iron holders. They were taken down a shabby passageway, their boots ringing hollow on the hard grey paving-stones. Sir Walter Limbnght was waiting for them in his chamber just near the Great Hall. A small, surly-looking knight, he had thinning grey hair, eyes close-set, a cynical cast to his mouth. He was unshaven and his dark-brown doublet was stained. He rose to greet them.

‘I was told of your arrival, Sir John. I was coming . . .’

‘We decided not to wait,’ Sir John snapped. ‘It’s hot outside.’

‘Would you like something to drink?’ Sir Walter became nervous as he realised he had been caught out in his bad manners.

‘Perhaps later,’ Athelstan intervened quickly.

Sir Walter handed the commission back.

‘It’s not my fault,’ he wailed. He picked at a stain on his tunic. ‘I’ve kept the prisoners safely housed and protected. No one comes in here apart from that arrogant fop de Fontanel and, when he does, I watch him like a hawk. My Lord of Gaunt can’t . . .’

‘Where’s the corpse?’ Sir John demanded.

Sir Walter blinked. ‘Yes, yes, quite, you’d best come with me!’

He led them out of his chamber along a passageway which smelt of stale vegetables. He reached the foot of a wooden spiral staircase. A pale young woman with light brown hair was sitting on the bottom step. She was picking at the floor and didn’t look up as they approached.

‘Lucy! Lucy!’ Sir Walter glanced at Sir John. ‘This is my daughter.’

The young woman glanced up; her face was vacuous, her eyes empty, her lower lip hung loose and a trail of saliva ran down her chin. A pretty-looking girl but her soul was gone, her wits fuddled.

‘I’m going to press some flowers, Father.’ She became aware of the visitors and squinted up at them. ‘They are not supposed to be here.’

‘Hush now, Lucy! They are from my Lord of Gaunt.’

‘Have they brought some money?’ she asked.

‘It’s Sir John Cranston,’ Sir Walter replied. ‘He’s coroner of the city, come to view the corpse.’

‘All Frenchmen are corpses,’ she replied. ‘And one’s up there, stiffening and cold, smelling like a fish.’

‘God have mercy on her!’ Sir Walter said. ‘Her wits wander. Sir John, she has no great love of the French.’

They reached the second gallery. The passageway was narrow and dark, the floor boards unpolished, the white plaster battered and peeling. Nevertheless, the doors to the chambers they passed hung straight and secure. Sir Walter stopped at one of these and pushed it open. The room was large but poorly lit. The shutters on the windows were thrown back but the little sunlight which poured through did nothing to lift the gloom or the summer breezes soften the stench of death and decay. A crucifix hung on the far wall, a few sticks of furniture and two battered leather coffers stood scattered around. On the narrow cot bed lay the corpse. Athelstan glimpsed a protuberant nose, greying skin; the dirty sheet meant to cover it had slipped to one side. Although he had given the last rites to many people, Athelstan was always struck by how pathetic a corpse looked. This was no different.

Athelstan crossed to the bed. He was not a physician but one glance told him that Guillaum Serriem had died in agony. The eyes were open, the pupils rolled back, the mouth hung slack. The skin of the face was puffy and discoloured. Athelstan pulled up the shift, noting the dark purple blotches which discoloured the chest and the muscular stomach. He opened the small writing-bag he always carried and took out a thin-stemmed horn spoon. He forced this into the mouth; the cadaver was stiff though the jaw was still slightly slack. The pink skin inside the mouth had turned a dark purplish hue, the gums and tongue were swollen. Athelstan sniffed. There was an odour, slightly sweetish. Athelstan knew and recognised a number of poisons but not this, which had the sugary smell of marzipan. He inspected the corpse for any recent wound or mark. Serriem’s body was lean and muscular; it bore the high, pink, furrowed cuts where old wounds had healed but nothing out of the ordinary. Athelstan whispered the Requiem, made the sign of the cross over the corpse and pulled the sheet over that ghastly face. Sir John was sitting on a stool mopping his brow. Sir Maurice was playing with the wrist guard, Sir Walter was going round the room touching things as if he might find something significant. The door was pushed open. A young man entered, tall, thin and stooped, long brown hair falling to his shoulders. He was sharp-eyed and clean-shaven with a kindly face.

‘Osmund Aspinall,’ Sir Walter introduced him. ‘He’s our leech and apothecary.’

The physician hitched his fur gown and pulled up the belt which hung loose round his thin waist. He shook Sir John’s hand and then Athelstan’s, peering at them closely as if short-sighted.

‘I’m a physician,’ he joked. ‘Most people call me a leech. I have chambers in Cripplegate and Sir Walter here pays me to keep an eye on the prisoners.’ He sat on the edge of the bed and patted the corpse. ‘Poisoned, yes?’

‘How do you know?’ Athelstan asked, going to sit on the small bench under the window.

Aspinall shrugged. ‘Brother, there are as many poisons on the market as there are pigeons round St Paul’s. Belladonna, henbane and at least three types of arsenic.’

‘But this one?’ Sir John asked.

‘I can’t recognise it but, as I have said, there are so many.’

‘How was it administered?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Oh, by mouth. There’s no cut on the corpse.’

‘Could it have been an accident?’

‘Possibly.’ Aspinall gestured at the window. ‘There’s a herb garden down there, with berries and plants which might kill a man.’

‘How long does it take such a poison to work?’ Sir Maurice asked.

‘It depends. I knew of an old woman in Guttersnipe Alley who was poisoned by her son over a period of days but this was one which acted quickly. It would disturb the humours, clog the blood and, by the look on the corpse’s face, he probably choked.’

‘Well, well, well.’ Sir John tapped his boot on the floor. And where would they get poisons from?’

‘There’s none here,’ Sir Walter insisted. ‘None whatsoever.’

‘And you, Master Aspinall?’

The physician spread his long fingers and played with the gem-encrusted ring on one of them.

‘My lord coroner, I have heard of you and Brother Athelstan.’ He laughed drily. ‘Sharp of eye and keen of wit. I assure you that I brought no poison into here, left no potion, gave no medicines. The prisoners are soldiers, seamen, hard and sturdy. The food could have been improved and their humours were disturbed by being confined but nothing else.’

‘And you know nothing of the prisoners or this man’s death?’

Aspinall got to his feet. ‘I know nothing, Sir John.’

‘Why are you here today?’

‘I came to ensure all was well. I inspected the corpse this morning but thought I should return, just in case.’

‘In case of what?’ Athelstan asked, getting to his feet.

Aspinall turned at the door and leaned against it, hands behind his back. He stared up at the ceiling.

‘Brother, you are the coroner’s secretarius. I am a physician, not a master of logic. We have a man poisoned. Now it could have been an accident. He may have found something in this house and eaten it but, God knows, that’s not the truth.’

‘So?’

‘In my experience, Brother, when such deaths occur they are not isolated events.’

‘You mean others will be poisoned?’

‘I know they will be. Oh, I thought about it this morning. Why should anyone kill Serriem? Hawkmere Manor is close and securely guarded; the murderer must know that he stands a good chance of being caught. So Serriem’s death was meticulously planned. It was no crime of passion and it may be one of many.’

Athelstan scrutinised the physician. Aspinall spoke sense. Was there conflict between the prisoners? He glanced sideways at Sir Walter. Or a paying-off of old scores?

‘I’ve also checked the stores and the wine cellar.’

‘You had no right,’ Sir Walter protested.

I have every right, Sir Walter. I am physician to the prisoners. My Lord of Gaunt has paid me good silver. However, do not trouble yourself. The meat and cheese could be fresher, the wine sweeter but the food stores are not tainted.’

‘Are there vermin here?’ Athelstan asked, remembering Ranulf the rat-catcher.

‘Of course.’

‘You put down no poison?’

‘We have three great cats.’ Sir Walter smiled sourly. ‘We do not feed them and they are half-wild, they take care of the vermin.’

‘When did Serriem retire to bed?’

‘With the rest at nine o’clock. They supped at seven, walked in the garden. Serriem played checkers with one of the prisoners. Pierre Vamier.’

‘And the relationships?’ Sir John asked. ‘Between the prisoners?’

‘They are cordial enough.’ Aspinall spoke up. ‘Sir Walter will confirm this. They keep to themselves. They are homesick for their families in France, eager for their ransoms to be raised. Yet.’

Sir John undid the stopper of the wine and took two great gulps. He offered it to his companions but they shook their heads.

‘Well, go on.’

‘In the last week to ten days,’ Sir Walter said, ‘something has changed, they do seem wary of each other.’