The Devil's Domain

CHAPTER 10

Dusk was falling, cloaking Whitefriars in darkness. At this time its main streets and offal-filled alleyways came to life. Cunning men and beggars swarmed like rats over a midden-heap looking for plunder, for the unwary, for the vulnerable, ready to turn on each other at the slightest hint of weakness. A place of mean houses, narrow lanes and even meaner hearts. Mercurius knew it all.

He had been here years ago skulking from the law and the way he walked, the swagger, dagger and knife pushed into his belt, were sufficient warning for those who lurked in doorways or peeped from behind broken shutters. He entered the Ragged Standard, a large, evil-smelling tavern only a stone’s throw from the Carmelite monastery from which the quarter took its name. The taproom was lit by thin, weak tapers which gave off an acrid stench.

Mercurius pulled his vizard closer around his face and ensured the cowl was full across his head. He sat by the window and looked out at the gathering dusk. The taverner had made a pathetic attempt at laying out a garden, a patch of sun-scorched weeds fenced off from the dusty, tawdry herb plots by sheepshank bones and the skulls of different animals. A slattern came over. Mercurius pulled out a silver piece.

‘Ale,’ he ordered. ‘Properly drawn and the blackjack had better be clean!’

He removed a small arbalest from the hook of his belt and placed it on the table. The slattern hurried off. Outside in the stable yard, two stallions jigged at the ostler and reared neighing, lashing out. Some of the customers went across to watch the fun. One rogue shouted that he was prepared to accept wagers that the ostler would be hurt. The taverner, a greasy barrel of a man, shoved them aside and walked out, a flaming brand in his hand, to separate the two stallions.

Mercurius eased himself in the corner. In the middle of the floor sprawled a member of a troupe of travelling actors, drunk as a sot. The man lay spread on his back, the devil’s mask still clasped to the top half of his face. A little boy crouched next to him wiping away the pool of spittle filling his slack mouth. Across the taproom other members fought for the takings. They hushed for a while as the flame man came down the street, ringing his bell and shouting at householders to be careful; fires were to be doused and candles made safe. Someone else bawled raucously that he had a fresh maid for sale.

The clamour in the stable yard now being stilled, the customers swirled back. Cunning men divided their takings, professional beggars, armed with wet rags, wiped off the paint and saltpetre which they used to display fictitious wounds. Mercurius waited, his eyes constantly moving, vigilant for any sheriff’s man or one of Gaunt’s spies. He did not know whether the English knew he was in London but he could take no chances. The business at Hawkmere was going well, yet he was not responsible.

He saw two shadows come to the door — his guests had arrived. They swaggered across, glimpsed the crossbow and recognised the sign. As they pulled across stools and sat down, Mercurius sipped from his tankard and studied them. Like two peas from the same rotten pod; they wore leggings and boots, their chests were naked except for leather jackets, the sleeves cut off, copper bands round their muscular arms. Their heads were completely shaven, their faces sharp and narrow-eyed. One of them fingered the copper ring in his ear lobe.

‘You are the one?’

‘I am.’

‘And what do you want?’

The assassin clicked his fingers and the slattern hurried across. Two more blackjacks of ale were ordered. One of the shaven-heads leaned forward, arms on the table.

‘We cannot sit here all night. What do you want? Our horses are outside. We can take what we want and go!’

‘If you talk to me like that again, I’ll kill both of you now.’

‘How?’ the taller shaven-head sneered.

‘Look under the table.’

The man did so and glimpsed the other arbalest the assassin had placed on his thigh. It was loaded, the barb pulled back, the finger on the clasp. The shaven-head swallowed hard and looked at his companion.

‘We meant no offence.’

‘Of course not.’

The slattern returned with the blackjacks. The cowled stranger put the arbalest down and tossed a small purse on to the table.

‘Six silver pieces, Venetians freshly coined. Three for you now, three more when the task is done.’

‘Who is it?’

‘Sir Maurice Maltravers, henchman in the household of my Lord of Gaunt.’

The leading shaven-head coughed over his beer.

‘One of Gaunt’s men?’

‘I’ve heard that name.’ The other spoke up. ‘He took a ship in the Channel. A fighting man.’

‘In his mail and armour, yes,’ the assassin replied. ‘But not in the garb of a monk. You’ll find him in the priest’s house at St Erconwald’s in Southwark, you know the place, I’ll wager.’

The shaven-heads nodded in unison.

‘He’ll be there whenever you wish. A knife in the back, an arrow in the throat…’

‘We don’t kill priests,’ the leading shaven-head protested. ‘The friar who is also there, Athelstan. He’s well known and liked.’

The assassin dug into his purse and brought out four silver coins which he placed on top of the small purse. The shaven-heads smiled.

‘On second thoughts, every dog has his day!’

The leader went to pick up the silver but the assassin seized his wrist.

‘You don’t live here, do you? You live in St Mary Axe Street. You have a sister there, or they say she’s your sister. One thing, sir, don’t take that silver unless you intend to carry out the task.’

‘It will be done.’

‘Good!’ The assassin sat back. ‘And, if the priest dies, the more the merrier.’

He drained his tankard and got to his feet. He slipped one arbalest on to the hook of his belt, keeping the other in his hand.

‘How do we tell you that your task is done?’

‘Oh, you don’t,’ the assassin replied softly, patting the man on the shoulder. ‘I’ll know and, don’t worry, I’ll come visiting you. Now, sit for a while and finish your ale.’

Then he was gone.

Athelstan celebrated an early morning Mass. Sir Maurice Maltravers, not yet changed into his robes, served as an altar boy. They were joined by Godbless and Thaddeus, who made an attempt to nibble the altar cloth. Bonaventure, of course, also arrived. The cat always stared at the chalice, his little pink tongue coming out as if he suspected it contained milk. Pernell the old Fleming woman, her hair now dyed a garish yellow, also attended, kneeling beside Ranulf the rat-catcher. Once Mass was over Ranulf came shambling into the sacristy. He waited patiently until Athelstan had divested.

‘Brother, we are all ready.’

Athelstan remembered just in time. ‘Oh, of course, the Mass for your Guild.’

‘Can it be Wednesday morning, Brother? About ten o’clock?’

Athelstan swallowed hard but Ranulf looked beseechingly at him, a gaze which reminded Athelstan that he had promised this on many an occasion.

‘What will it entail, Ranulf?’

‘Well, Wednesday is good for rat-catchers, Brother. We’ll have Mass and bring our animals.’

‘Which are?’

‘Ferrets, cats, dogs, our traps and cages.’

‘And how many will there be? I mean, rat-catchers?’ Athelstan added quickly.

He glanced at Sir Maurice who was staring nonplussed at this strange parishioner in his black tarred jacket and hood. The belt round Ranulf’s waist carried hooks, small traps and coils of wire, all the implements of a rat-catcher’s trade.

‘There’ll be sixteen or eighteen. Afterwards we’ll break our fast on a table in the porch. We will supply the food and ales. We’d like you to bless us and give a special blessing to our animals.’

‘Agreed!’ Athelstan said. ‘But have a word with Benedicta. Now, clear the church, Ranulf, and lock the door! I’ve sent Crim the altar boy across to Sir John. When he returns would you help him with Philomel, just clean the stable. Afterwards, you may finish the oatmeal in the kitchen.’

Ranulf quickly agreed and sped out of the sacristy.

‘A Guild of Rat-Catchers?’ Sir Maurice asked.

Athelstan smiled. ‘It’s a wonderful life, Brother Norbert. Yes, it’s time you changed. Put on the garb I gave you but wrap your cloak firmly around you.’

The knight hastened out and Athelstan walked back into the church. He knelt on the sanctuary steps to say a short prayer of thanksgiving followed by an invocation to the Holy Spirit asking for his help and guidance that day.

Sir Maurice had spent most of the night reading the tracts by St Bonaventure; Athelstan had woken to the young knight seated before the hearth, reciting to an owl-eyed Godbless and a rather feisty Thaddeus certain love poems he had learned. Athelstan, eager to begin his Mass, had simply cautioned the young knight on not being too impetuous.

He finished his prayer, crossed himself and walked down the nave. Huddle the painter was in the porch, a piece of charcoal in his hand. The artist was smiling at a bare expanse of freshly washed white plaster.

‘I could do a lovely painting, Brother.’ Huddle turned, his long, horse-like face wreathed in a smile. ‘What about Christ in Judgement?’

Athelstan stepped back. The wall of one transept was now covered in Huddle’s paintings, crude and vivid, full of colour, a constant source of wonderment to the parishioners. Athelstan often used them in his sermons, leaving the sanctuary to go down and stand before Huddle’s depiction of scenes from the Gospel.

‘It will cost you money, Brother. We’ll need red and gold, vermilion, some black of course, and a nice scarlet.’

Athelstan was about to refuse when he remembered the silver John of Gaunt had given him.

‘Do a sketch with the charcoal,’ Athelstan agreed. ‘One of your line drawings and then make an estimate for the paints.’

Huddle’s smile disappeared. ‘Oh, not the parish council, Brother! You know Watkin!’

‘Watkin really admires your work,’ Athelstan replied. ‘But it must be agreed by the council.’

‘But you’ll support it? You’ll see Christ in Judgement, the sheep to the right, the goats to the left. I remember your sermon from last Advent.’

‘Very well, Huddle, but none of your jokes!’

Athelstan’s eyes wandered up the transept. The artist had depicted the scene of Christ’s birth, a brilliant lifelike scene just near the Lady Altar. Everyone had admired it except Watkin: Huddle, out of revenge, had painted the ox with Watkin’s face.

‘I’ll support it.’ Athelstan patted the artist’s bony shoulder.

Huddle fairly skipped with joy. The Dominican left him and went out on to the porch. Godbless sat with his arm around Thaddeus.. ‘I’ll clear the cemetery today, Brother. Weed some of the graves.’

‘Good man, Godbless.’

‘But they were back last night.’

Athelstan turned. ‘The ghosts?’

‘Yes, Brother, I saw them in the air, dark shapes against the night sky. I took Thaddeus into the death house and locked the door. I’ve never seen anything like that. Except when I was in Venice with a free company there. I saw a man who should have died but didn’t.’

‘You are sure you saw shapes?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Certain, Brother. They were hanging between heaven and earth.’

‘Brother Athelstan!’

Sir Maurice came out of the priest’s house, his military cloak around him. Athelstan would have loved to question Godbless but the day was drawing on, and the sooner he crossed the Thames and visited the nunnery at Syon the better.

They walked down the alleyway, stopping to buy a meat pastry at Merrylegs’ pie shop. The stalls and booths had already been laid out for another day’s trading. The Piebald Tavern was open for custom. Several of Athelstan’s parishioners gathered in the doorway, tankards in their hands. Watkin and Pike were resting on their shovels and mattocks. Hig the pigman glowered out as if the world were against him. They shouted greetings and Athelstan sketched a blessing in the air.

Down near the riverside the bailiffs were also busy. Bladdersniff was there, his nose glowing red, watery-eyed, supervising the incarceration in the stocks of two drunks found sottish in an alleyway.

‘ Caeci ducunt caecos: the blind leading the blind,’ Athelstan translated. ‘Bladdersniff drinks as if there is no tomorrow.’

They reached the watery quay steps. Moleskin was there, his nut-brown face wrinkled into a smile. He bowed precariously in his wherry, gesturing at Athelstan to come quickly down.

‘It will soon be busy, Brother.’

He helped Athelstan into his rocking boat and gazed curiously at Sir Maurice. He shrugged, bent over his oars and turned his wherry out across the Thames.

A morning mist still hung over the water but the river was busy with bum-boats, cogs of war, skiffs, the great gong barges bringing out the ordure and filth from the city streets and dumping it midstream. Some barges had bells and rang these as a warning to others on the river. Now and again Moleskin stopped to greet an acquaintance and once he pulled in his oars as a royal barge full of courtiers, officials and clerks made its way down the Thames to the Tower. Great blue and scarlet banners flapped vigorously from its poop and stern. A long, low, black skiff came through the mist, the bell on its prow tolling its funeral knell.

‘In God’s name!’ Sir Maurice breathed.

Athelstan turned, pulling back his cowl. The skiff was long and low in the water. In the centre lay a wet, bedraggled corpse stretched out on a wooden platter. Around it crouched cowled, hooded men. The leader stood in the stern like the figure of Death himself, his hood pulled back to reveal his strange bony face and bald head. He glanced towards Athelstan as they passed.

‘Good morning, Brother.’

Athelstan recognised the fisher of men whose task was to comb the Thames and pull out corpses for which the City Council would pay him a fee. Athelstan sketched a blessing in the direction of the corpse.

‘A suicide?’ he asked.

The fisher rapped out an order for the rowers to stop; his craft rose and fell beside Moleskin’s skiff. The boatman glanced away, hawked and spat.

‘No suicide, Brother, death by misadventure. This poor man was bitten by a rabid dog just near Dowgate. They threw him into the water thinking that would cure him. The poor man drowned so his soul’s gone to God and his corpse to the City Corporation. Row on, my lovelies!’ He raised his hand in salutation and his ghoulish barge disappeared into the morning mist.

‘I hate passing him,’ Moleskin observed. ‘Combing the river for the dead.’

‘A work of mercy,’ Athelstan countered. And God knows, Moleskin, God eventually calls each of us to Himself.

In Fennel Alley just off Catte Street, Sir John Cranston, coroner of the city, would have agreed with Athelstan’s conclusions. He pushed back his beaver hat, scratched his head and stared in disbelief at the chaos before him. The corpse of an old man, his hose pushed round his ankles, lay in the ruins of the stool-house which had collapsed bringing the poor unfortunate and the latrine he was sitting on crashing to the ground.

‘Tell me again.’ He looked up at the houses on either side.

‘Very good, Sir John. The house on your left belongs to the victim, Elias Ethmol, once a trader in skins but now retired. The house on the right belongs to Humphrey Withrington, a dyer by trade. Now, as you can see, Sir John,’ the beadle continued mournfully, ‘the two houses are very close together, or at least their top stories are. Now Elias and Humphrey were old men.’

‘Where’s Humphrey now?’

An old, rheumy-eyed man came out of the small crowd which had gathered and raised his ash cane.

‘That be me, Sir Jack.’

‘My lord coroner to you!’ He stared up; the upper stories were at least twenty feet above the ground.

‘What they did,’ the beadle continued, ‘was to build a house of ease…’

‘You mean a latrine?’

‘Yes, Sir John, between the upper stories.’

‘And did you have a licence for this’?’ Sir John glowered at Humphrey.

The old man shook his head fearfully.

‘Continue!’

‘Well, the latrine was wedged between the two stories. They could use it at night and, in the morning, empty the chamber pots. Last night poor Elias answered the call of nature and sat on the latrine.’

Sir John looked warningly at the beadle as he caught the humour in his voice.

‘Now, from what I can gather,’ the beadle continued, keeping his face straight, ‘Elias was rather drunk. He used the chamber pot but then decided to dance.’

‘I heard the noise.’ Humphrey spoke up. ‘The silly old bugger was always doing that. A real piss-pot he was, Sir John, I mean my lord coroner.’

Sir John studied the small door on the outside of each upper tier and the damage where the house of ease had broken away.

‘The rest is obvious,’ the beadle said. ‘The whole thing collapsed, Sir John: boards, ceiling, chamber pot and small stool.’

‘And poor old Elias?’ Sir John added. ‘Right.’ The coroner pinched his nose at the smell. ‘Does Elias have a family?’

‘No friends except me.’ Humphrey spoke up.

‘Good, then you are responsible for the corpse. Don’t whine, man. It was a stupid idea to build the place and against the civic regulations. I fine you one third of a mark.’

Simon, his scrivener, made the entry in the small calfskin ledger he always carried.

‘And who built this so called house of ease?’

‘Michael Focklingham,’ Humphrey whined, wiping his rheumy eyes.

‘Ah yes, old Focklingham.’ Sir John smiled. ‘A man who builds wherever he wishes. Not the best carpenter in London. This is not the first time I’ve met his handiwork. He’s fined one mark.’

The scrivener paused to dip the nib in a small inkpot he carried on his belt.

‘And he’s to pay it by Michaelmas: that’s my verdict. Simon here will write it up.’ The coroner turned away.

‘Are we going to the Guildhall, Sir John?’ Simon came hurrying up behind him. ‘There are a number of cases…’

‘I haven’t broken my fast yet. I’ve been to Mass and I’ve just had to witness the stupidity of man. I need some ale and a juicy meat pie.’

‘So, it’s the Holy Lamb of God, Sir John?’

He brought his great paw on the scrivener’s skinny shoulder.

‘It’s the Holy Lamb of God for you and me, Simon and, until then, the city of London can wait.’

Thankfully Sir John was just finishing his pie and ale when Crim, who’d already disturbed the Lady Maude, wandered into the tavern screaming for him.

‘Over here, boy!’ Sir John waved him over.

Crim tottered across, his mouth half-full of the freshly baked manchet loaf Lady Maude had given him. The honey she had smeared on it now covered the boy’s face.

‘It’s Brother Athelstan.’ Crim swallowed hard.

‘What is it, boy?’ Sir John got to his feet and towered over him.

‘Brother Athelstan.’ Crim closed his eyes, his hand on his crotch. ‘Oh, Sir John, I want to pee!’

‘Out in the garden!’

Crim dashed off then returned smiling with relief, still gnawing at the remains of the loaf.

‘Brother Athelstan.’ Crim closed his eyes. ‘He has gone to the nuns at Syon. He says it’s very important that you join him there. You’ll find him at the tavern called the Jerusalem…’

‘The Jerusalem Tree,’ Sir John finished.

‘That’s right, Sir John.’

He dug into his purse and gave the boy a halfpenny.

‘I’ll go there. Simon.’ He beamed at his scrivener. ‘Go back to the Guildhall, write up my verdict on Elias Ethmol and sift through what’s awaiting us. Deaths I deal with. The rest… Use your noddle-pate!’

‘Very good, Sir John.’

Simon followed Crim out of the tavern. Sir John picked up his war belt where he had thrown it and strapped it on. He gave the taverner’s wife a juicy kiss and, full of the joys of life, stepped out into Cheapside.

Philippe Routier was running for his life. He clasped the makeshift knife thrust in his belt and ran across the wasteland towards the copse of trees. He had some bread and a small water bottle wrapped in the bag he carried. He glanced up at the sky. The day was proving to be a fine one, the sun was growing hot and, if everything went according to plan, he’d be able to lose himself in the wasteland north of the city. And afterwards? Perhaps go back to the river? Or to the coast? Certainly, he could remain no longer at Hawkmere. Those grey, oppressive walls, the surly Sir Walter and the constant suspicion and tension among his companions. Routier stopped and threw himself behind a bush. He stared back the way he had come. He could make out the grey walls of Hawkmere and even catch a glimpse of the sentries on duty. Much good they were doing!

Routier had planned his escape well. They had gathered in the Great Hall to break fast and then, as usual, had been allowed to wander in the garden, ‘taking the morning air’ as Sir Walter sardonically put it.

Of all the prisoners Routier hated captivity the most. He was born and raised in the port of Brest. He was used to the open heathland and the sea: the feel of a ship beneath him; the wind on his face; the creak and groan of the canvas and the excitement of battle. A man who had never married because he could not be tied to one place, Routier had grown to hate Hawkmere, Sir Walter and even his own companions. He had no doubt there was a traitor among them. They had discussed it many a time: the St Sulpice and St Denis had been taken by treachery, so it must have been one of them. But who? Routier opened the water bottle and took a gulp. And Sir Walter? Was he the slayer?

Routier had discussed his plans with the others. He had even invited them to accompany him. Routier laughed quietly to himself. They, of course, had refused, believing it was impossible. Routier, however, had noted the garden wall could easily be scaled. Once into the yard beyond, it was a matter of just hiding in one of the outhouses and climbing through that unshuttered window.

Routier felt a slight pain in his stomach and gnawed at some of the meat he had taken. He wished at least one of the others had come with him; they had refused but agreed to quarrel volubly, which had allowed Routier to climb the garden wall and so make his escape. The Frenchman once again stared back. How long would it take before Sir Walter noticed he had escaped? Routier clambered to his feet and hurried at a stoop towards the copse of trees. As he ran his hand went to his stomach, where the pains were growing worse. Was he sickening? Had he eaten something? And then he recalled poor Serriem’s corpse, grey and clammy. Had he, too, been poisoned? At last he reached the line of trees. The pain was now intense so Routier sat down. In the distance he could hear the barking of dogs and knew his escape must have been detected. He tried to pull himself up but he found he was unable to. His legs had lost their strength, the pain had spread from belly to chest and he was finding it difficult to breathe. His tongue seemed thick and swollen in his mouth.

Routier lay down, letting his hot face brush the cool, sweet grass. Above him a bird called and it brought back memories of the port at Brest and the sea birds skimming in. Perhaps he was already back there? There was a terrible pounding, like the crashing of surf against the harbour walls. Routier turned over on his back, his body jerking in spasms of pain. Who had given him the food he had brought with him? Routier tried to think, even as his mind slipped in and out of unconsciousness. He had eaten and drunk the same as the rest but of course the water, the food he carried!

Routier racked his brain. He had eaten nothing, surely? Nothing he had not seen anyone else eat and drink. Routier tried to lick his lips. The water he’d drawn from the butts outside the hall, but the bread? Hadn’t Gresnay slipped him some of his? Routier’s body arched in pain. He could hear the birds calling louder now and the roaring seemed closer. He tried to mutter a prayer, staring up through the branches at the blue sky, but the words wouldn’t come. All he could think of was Gresnay, his girlish face twisted into that funny smile, offering him the bread and he, like a fool, had taken it!