The Devil's Domain

CHAPTER 6

They were ushered into the most luxurious parlour whose walls were decorated with oak panelling. The paving-stones were scrubbed white and covered with thick, woollen rugs. A chandelier of candles hung from the pure white ceiling. Pots of flowers stood on the elegant furniture arranged round the room. Chairs and stools were placed in a semicircle round the mantelled hearth. No fire was burning, but the grate was clean and polished. On shelves above the mantelpiece gold, silver and pewter pots gleamed. Carefully carved heraldic devices covered the windows, the shutters held back by scarlet ribbons. Hersham gestured at them to sit in the quilted window seat which overlooked the lawn and small flower beds along the side of the house.

‘Can I ask your business?’

Hersham’s thin, sallow face was still mottled with fury. He couldn’t keep his fingers away from his dagger hilt. A true bully boy, Athelstan thought: a man who liked to swagger the alleyways.

‘You are Sir Thomas’ henchman?’ Sir John asked, rubbing his hands then turning away to look at a small rose bush in the middle of the garden. I’d like one of those, he thought. I wonder how Parr grows them? He turned back to Hersham. ‘Well?’

‘I am Sir Thomas’ bodyguard and steward,’ Hersham replied.

‘You are not a Londoner, are you?’

‘From the south coast, Sir John.’

‘Well, we can’t wait here all day. Run along and get your master.’

If looks could kill, the coroner would have dropped dead on the spot. Hersham left the chamber, slamming the door behind him.

‘I cannot tolerate such men!’ Sir John whispered through clenched teeth. ‘In my treatise on the governance of London…’

Athelstan leaned back against the head-rest. He closed his eyes, enjoying the cool breeze from the garden.

‘Sir John, I beg you, keep your voice down and your opinions to yourself until we get out! Remember, Parr has not committed a crime! We are here to ask a favour.’

The door swung open and Sir Thomas came into the room, Hersham behind him. The merchant prince was dressed in a coloured cote-hardie with fur tippets hanging down from the elbows. His hose were shiny as if pure silk. He wore no shoes but the soles of the hose were covered in soft brown leather. An embroidered belt round his waist carried a gilt-edged purse and a small poignard.

Athelstan’s heart sank when he studied Sir Thomas’ face, which possessed hard, harsh features, narrow eyes, a bulbous nose and lips. The man looked as if he constantly sat in judgement on everything and everyone. He glanced at Athelstan, who raised his hand in salutation. Sir John made no movement but just stared back. Athelstan recalled that these two men knew each other. Parr was the first to break the silence. He came forward, hand extended.

‘Well, well, Jack. I’ve seen you from afar. You’ve grown over the years.’

‘In heart as well as body,’ Sir John replied, grasping Parr’s hand. ‘It’s been a long time, Thomas.’

Parr clasped Athelstan’s hand then snapped his fingers and Hersham moved one of the chairs closer so he could sit down.

‘They say you like claret, Jack.’

‘The same people also say you love wealth, Thomas.’

Parr laughed, a thin, nasal snigger while his eyes remained watchful.

‘And the Lady Maude? She is well and happy?’

Sir John nodded.

‘Isabella died.’ Parr glanced over their heads, his eyes softened. ‘It’s terrible watching someone you love die, isn’t it, Jack? A summer fever. She was out in the garden tending that rose bush. She came in, the sweats upon her. By the following evening she was dead.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Athelstan spoke before he thought.

‘So am I, Brother.’ Parr now studied him from head to toe. ‘I’ve also heard of you, Athelstan. They say you are a good priest.’ His eyes moved back to Sir John. ‘Despite the company you keep! But, come, we’ll have some wine.’

Hersham served three gold-chased goblets. Sir John sipped and closed his eyes.

‘Pure nectar,’ he breathed.

‘The best of Bordeaux, Sir Jack. I’ve had it ready for you. I wondered when the Regent would send someone.’

‘Did you know we were coming?’ Athelstan asked.

‘There’s not much which goes on at the Savoy Palace, Brother, that I don’t know about. A silver piece here, a few groats there, and servants sing like birds in the trees. So, before you ask, the answer is no. Sir Maurice is a goodly knight, a brave man, a warrior, but he’s poor, virtually landless and brings nothing but his sword.’

‘And his heart,’ Sir John riposted. ‘A good, strong heart, Thomas. Like yours, years ago, when you and I ran ragged-arsed round the Inns of Court.’

‘And what about Angelica?’ Athelstan asked. ‘Doesn’t she love Sir Maurice? Are you going to marry her off as you would take a mare down to some stallion? A cold, loveless match?’

‘Angelica knows her duty.’ Parr put his wine cup down and played with the ring on his finger, his face softened. ‘She is my only child and I love her dearly. However, she must see the error of her ways in betrothing her heart to some poor knight errant.’

‘She loves him,’ Athelstan declared. ‘And he loves her, Sir Thomas. And I tell you this…’

‘You’ll tell me what?’ Parr interrupted. ‘You’ll tell me what, Brother? What do you know about love, about women, about lust?’

His face was pale. Athelstan sensed this man’s troubled spirit, at war with himself and, therefore, at war with everyone around him.

‘I know nothing about maids or the songs of troubadours,’ Athelstan answered. ‘But I know a great deal about love, Sir Thomas, and it never dies.’

‘In which case you may visit my daughter Angelica at the nuns of Syon and tell her about love for her father as well as duty, obedience and fealty!’ He got to his feet.

Athelstan didn’t like the smirk on Hersham’s face. The man was leaning against the door, arms folded, gently clicking his tongue. Athelstan had to breathe in deeply to control his own anger. Sir Thomas was being nasty for the sake of it.

‘Weren’t you poor once?’ he asked.

‘Aye and Sir John was once slim. Life changes, Brother Athelstan, and what is yesterday but a pile of dust?’ He walked towards the door. ‘You have my permission to visit Angelica, but I will not talk to you again on this matter.’

Athelstan placed his cup on a table. He noticed a carving of a wooden ship and, painted in small, gilded letters, its name, The Great Edward.

‘Do you own that cog, Sir Thomas?’

Parr shrugged. ‘I contribute to its maintenance and have a share in whatever it captures. Nevertheless, Brother, before you speak, no, it does not soften my heart towards Maltravers! Now, Sir John…’

The coroner and Athelstan soon found themselves back out in the thoroughfare. Behind them Ralph Hersham said something to the henchmen lounging about; there were guffaws of laughter. Sir John turned to confront them but Athelstan plucked him by the sleeve.

‘Leave them, Sir John, there’ll always be another day.’

They walked back into Cheapside. It was now late afternoon, some of the stall-holders had already finished their trading, and the crowds were beginning to disperse. Sir John smacked his lips. Athelstan also felt hungry but he wanted to go back to St Erconwald’s, to ponder the day’s happenings. Yet, he ruefully reflected, they still had further business.

‘Sir John, I know you’d like a blackjack of ale and a pie but the day goes on, and we have a lady to visit. Vulpina.’

Sir John reluctantly agreed and they walked up Westchepe, down Ivy Lane, passing the great soaring mass of St Paul’s Cathedral. Along its cemetery wall sat the rogues and vagabonds who sought sanctuary in St Paul’s graveyard beyond the jurisdiction of the city officers. They recognised Sir John and hailed him with raucous raillery. Athelstan pulled his hood close up over his head as Sir John, still angry at Hersham’s mocking laughter, hurled good-natured abuse back.

‘One day, my lovelies!’ he shouted before they turned a corner, ‘I’ll see you all on the gallows ladder!’

Invigorated by this exchange, he walked a little quicker, almost dragging Athelstan with him, out along Fleet Street and through a warren of mean alleyways into Whitefriars.

Whitefriars was not a wholesome place. The houses and tenements were shabby, ill-painted, the plaster decaying, the paint-work flaking. The streets seemed like needles pushed between the overhanging houses which blocked out the sun and hid the sky. Dark, cavernous passageways abounded, where beggars thronged at alley mouths and whores stood brazenly in the doorways soliciting custom. All around them swirled the rogues and rifflers of London.

Sir John was never checked. Apart from the occasional hurled obscenity, the coroner was a respected and feared figure. If provoked, it was not unknown for the coroner to enter one of the alehouses and arrest a whole gaggle of rogues by the scruff of their necks. At the end of one alleyway he stopped, fingers to his lips.

‘The streets of hell, Brother,’ he breathed. ‘In daylight it’s safe but, once darkness falls, the demons appear.’

As if in answer a group of dwarfs and mannikins, just over a yard high, came hurtling out of a doorway and ringed the coroner, jumping up and down like noisy children. They were dressed in a motley collection of rags and scraps of armour. One had a small helmet on his head. Another carried a shield. They greeted Sir John like scholars would a favourite master. Athelstan recognised the ‘scrimperers’ who lived in Rats Castle; dwarfs who lived together for self-protection. They were known to hire their services out to night-walkers and housebreakers as there wasn’t a window they couldn’t slip through or passageway too small.

‘Sir John! Sir John!’

Sir John clapped his hands and offered their leader, who rejoiced in the name of Sir Galahad, a draught from his wineskin. The diminutive, seamy-faced dwarf took it, almost falling flat on his back as he tilted his head to drink.

‘Lovely boys!’ Sir John remarked. ‘And what news do you have for Sir Jack?’

The scrimperers replied in a volley of high-pitched voices, talking the patois of the London slums. He listened, nodding benevolently, then crouched down as Sir Galahad beckoned him close to speak in his ear.

‘Well I never! Well I never!’

The coroner dropped some coins into the little man’s hand.

‘They want you to bless them, Brother.’

Athelstan lifted his hand in benediction. He could hardly believe this, it was just like a scene from some dream. But, as soon as he began the benediction, they all went down on one knee, heads bowed.

‘Give them a special blessing!’ Sir John urged.

‘I give you the blessing of St Francis,’ Athelstan intoned, keeping his face solemn. ‘It can only be given once a month and you are to receive it.’

They now went down on both knees. Athelstan felt a pang of compassion at the way they folded their little hands before them.

‘May the Christ Jesus show His face to you,’ he said. ‘May He smile at you. May He keep you safe all the days of your life.’ He sketched the sign of the cross in the air.

Sir John caught his wrist.

‘They also want an invitation,’ he said hoarsely.

‘Where to?’ Athelstan asked.

‘To St Erconwald’s.’

Athelstan’s heart sank but he kept his face creased in a smile.

‘They are moving house,’ Sir John continued. ‘They say they are unsafe here.’

‘Oh, don’t tell me, Sir John, they have chosen Southwark?’

Apparently, yes. They know one of your parishioners, Ranulf the rat-catcher. They have heard about his Guild.’

Athelstan knew what was coming next and his heart sank even further.

‘They like you, Athelstan. You see, they have formed their own Guild.’

‘And they want to make St Erconwald’s their church?’

‘Don’t refuse. They are very valuable, Brother, to me.’

‘You will be most welcome,’ Athelstan said.

Sir Galahad spoke again, fast. Athelstan knew a little of this patois: he recognised the words ‘house’ and ‘rat-catcher’.

‘Apparently,’ Sir John translated, ‘Brother Ranulf has used these in attics and cellars as well as tunnels to discover where the rats have their nests. He has found them a house not far from St Erconwald’s, on the corner of Cat Stall Alley.’

Athelstan smiled. ‘Oh, God help us, Sir John,’ he whispered as the scrimperers, chattering with excitement, disappeared up an alleyway. ‘St Erconwald’s is going to become…’

‘Are you going to say the refuge of all that is strange and wonderful?’

‘Precisely, Sir John, more like Noah’s Ark. Filled with all types of God’s creatures.’ He pushed back his cowl. ‘But what did the scrimperers want with you?’

‘Oh, they were telling me the gossip of the area: that little affray we saw in Cheapside this morning? Evidently agents of the Great Community of the Realm are now swarming in the city; their only difficulty is they have no arms.’

‘They seemed well equipped this morning.’

‘Oh, a few arrows, yes. I tell you, Brother. If the storm bursts, this city will see savage fighting. The Tower and the other fortresses along the Thames will be fortified. Many of the merchants like Thomas Parr will turn their houses into castles. The peasants may march on the city with their hoes and rakes, mattocks and old long bows but they’ll need more serious weapons.’

‘Couldn’t they transport them into the city beforehand?’

‘Every cart coming into the city is inspected by the market bailiffs and beadles, not to mention Gaunt’s legion of spies. The scrimperers also informed us,’ Sir John continued, walking slowly on, ‘that an unknown priest has been seen in the area.’

‘Is that strange?’

‘Priests do not come here. Whitefriars is dangerous even for those who live in it. Their leader, Sir Galahad,’ he went on, standing outside an old tavern and looking up at the fly-blown windows, ‘said he was in an alleyway about ten days ago. He was jostled, the man sketched a blessing and whispered his apologies in what Galahad recognised as Latin.’

‘What are you looking at, Sir John?’

‘I used to visit this ale-house when I was a lad. It was called the Mulberry Tree. Oh, it’s seen better days.’ He opened the door.

‘Sir John, if you need refreshment…’

‘No, Brother, just your company!’

They walked into the evil-smelling taproom, a dank, musty place. The windows were boarded and shuttered, a few oil lamps were lit, filling the room with a greasy smell. In their flickering light the customers who sat on overturned casks looked even more like shapes and shadows from a nightmare.

‘Good day everyone!’ Sir John bellowed. ‘And God bless you!’

Athelstan narrowed his eyes. He could make out the wine tuns on the counter, the small glow of the oven, a few beer barrels.

‘Piss off, Jack!’

‘Now that’s no way to talk to an old friend is it? Who’s that? My goodness, it’s one-eyed Isaiah! There are warrants out for you, my lad. An unsolved burglary in the Poultry?’

‘I am as innocent as an angel,’ the voice croaked back.

‘What do you want, Cranston?’

A figure came out of the shadows. Athelstan first thought it was a man but, in the light of one of the oil lamps, he realised that, despite the leather jacket, leggings and boots, it was a woman. Her stained cambric shirt, slightly too small, emphasised her swelling breasts and thick, fat neck. The face was grotesque: the nose split, a long red ugly gash from top to tip while dagger marks criss-crossed her face. A large pearl dangled on a silver chain from one ear lobe.

‘Now, now, Jack, you haven’t come to arrest old Isaiah, have you?’

He took one step back and bowed mockingly.

‘No, Mistress Vulpina, I have not. I wish a few words with you.’

‘Then you’d best come.’

She led them into a far corner of the taproom and up some narrow, rickety stairs. The chamber above was a stark contrast to the evil drinking den below. The windows on one side boasted coloured glass. The walls were painted white and hung with coloured cloths.

The floor was red-tiled, scrubbed clean, and the furniture looked as if it had been bought from a guild carpenter in Cheapside. Flowers grew in small containers and sachets, filled with perfume, were fixed to the wooden beams along the ceiling. Vulpina led them across to a far corner where chairs were neatly arranged round a polished, oval table. A silver salt cellar stood in the centre, shaped in the form of a castle. She offered them wine but Sir John, surprisingly, refused. Vulpina laughed throatily. In the full light Athelstan could see how, in former days, she must have been a beautiful woman. Her eyes were dark brown, large and lustrous even though they shifted restlessly from one place to another. She was unable to meet their gaze but moved about, touching the salt cellar, staring out of the window or pretending to listen to sounds from the taproom below.

‘You haven’t come for one-eyed Isaiah.’ She peered at Athelstan. ‘You are the Dominican?’ Her lips curled in a sneer. I have few priests among my customers.’

‘For ale and beer?’ Athelstan asked.

The sneer on Vulpina’s face faded.

‘What do you sell?’ Athelstan persisted.

Vulpina tugged nervously at a tuft of her cropped dark hair.

‘Everything.’

‘Including poisons?’ Cranston asked.

Vulpina sat back in her chair, hands cradled in her lap, and batted her eyelids.

‘Oh, Sir John,’ she cooed.

‘Don’t play “Hotpot Meg” with me! There’s not a herb that grows, not a potion which can be distilled, unknown to you.’ He gazed up at the ceiling. I wonder where you keep them, eh?’

Cranston got up and walked round the chamber. He stopped to inspect the wooden panelling placed against the far wall.

‘A veritable warren!’ he exclaimed. ‘Eh, Vulpina? When I was a lad, the Mulberry Tree was known for its secret passageways and hideouts. People could come and go in the dead of night and not be noticed. I don’t think it’s changed. Who has visited you recently, Vulpina?’

‘If I told you, Sir John, you’d only blush. Come and sit down. You have no warrant or licence to enter here.’

‘I could get one.’ He came back and lowered himself into the chair. ‘Now that would be a good day’s work, eh, Vulpina? Me and a dozen burly lads from the city. I wonder what we’d find here?’ He pulled across the silver salt cellar. ‘I am sure this once graced a house in Cheapside.’

Vulpina snatched it back.

‘What do you want, Cranston?’

‘I want you to tell me about poisons.’

‘Do you wish to buy one?’

‘Yes.’ Athelstan spoke up. ‘I want you to sell me a poison.’ He paused. ‘Which I can take but will do no harm. However, if I poured it into Sir John’s ale he would be dead within an hour.’

‘Impossible!’ she snorted.

‘You are sure?’

‘Brother, there’s nothing grown under the sun, of a noxious nature, which won’t harm everyone who takes it.’ She shrugged. ‘To be sure, some will affect you more than others: just like ale or wine will render one man sotted before another.’

‘And you know of no such poison?’ Athelstan persisted.

‘If I did, Brother, I would be very interested. Why do you ask?’

‘Hawkmere Manor,’ Sir John said.

The coroner had hit the mark; Vulpina tried to school her features but a shift to her eyes, a flicker of her tongue betrayed her.

‘I’ve heard its name, an old, gloomy place.’

‘It houses French prisoners,’ Sir John explained. ‘One of them was poisoned.’

‘Ah!’ Vulpina smiled, clicking her tongue noisily. ‘So you put the blame on old Vulpina? Sir John, I tell you the truth. I sell potions and philtres to lovelorn ladies, to men who may wish to get rid of a rival. I do not ask them who they are or where they come from. I am an apothecary.’

‘You are a killer! A red-handed assassin!’ He got to his feet and leaned over the table. ‘One day, when I have time and the necessary warrants, I’ll come back here.’ He went to the door. ‘We are going to leave this lovely place.’ He waited until Athelstan joined him. ‘And I don’t want to be followed. No fracas or sudden affray in the streets below. You’ve been no help, Vulpina, and I’ll remember that!’

‘Sir John!’

He walked back into the room.

‘You are here on Gaunt’s orders, aren’t you? You’re his messenger boy.’

‘I’m no one’s boy!’

Vulpina sneered, her head going back. She studied Sir John under half-closed lids. Athelstan repressed a shiver. He did not like this place: the more he stayed, the more certain he became that he was in the presence of real malevolence, that this woman was steeped in evil. He was used to the rapscallions and rogues of Southwark, people like Pig’s Arse and Godbless who stole and thieved because they had to. Vulpina, however, enjoyed the evil she distilled, revelling in the chaos and the sorrow it caused.

‘I’m waiting, Hotpot!’

‘You are Gaunt’s man.’ She clicked her tongue again and lifted her hand. Athelstan noticed that she wore a skin-tight leather gauntlet on her right hand. ‘I can give you a list of customers, Cranston!’ she hissed. ‘They’d include the so called mighty and good who would have little time for your nose-poking and querulous questions and that includes my Lord of Gaunt! Or rather his lovesick knight. What’s his name? Maltravers? I understand he’s the laughing-stock of the city. He’s taken a couple of French ships so he thinks he can slip between the sheets with Lady Angelica Parr, does he?’

‘What are you saying?’ Sir John took a step threateningly forward.

Vulpina lifted a whistle which hung on a silver cord round her neck.

‘Come on, Fat Jack!’ she taunted. ‘One blast from this and we’ll see how you and your priestly friend can cope with my legion of rats from below!’

He drew sword and dagger. Vulpina’s face lost some of its arrogance.

‘Go on!’ he said. ‘Let’s go at it, Vulpina. Heaven or hell, but you will be dead.’

The Queen of Poisons took a deep breath and let it out noisily.

‘Fine, fine, Sir John. I want you out of here and I don’t want your enmity.’ She let the whistle fall. ‘Gaunt’s man has been here.’

‘Maltravers?’

‘The same.’

‘What did he want?’

‘A love philtre.’

‘For what?’

‘I didn’t ask him. He also bought some poison. I asked him why. It was nothing exceptional, some henbane, a little belladonna.’

‘And did he give the reason for that?’

‘He said it was rats. In his own chamber. He asked for it as an afterthought.’ Vulpina smiled. ‘But I saw your quick-eyed Dominican friend, when you mentioned Hawkmere Manor. I’ve had visitors from there. Limbright for one, Sir Walter constantly comes here, takes a little digitalis he does, and a few other potions, St John’s wort for a start.’

Athelstan studied this woman and wondered how many secrets she held.

‘Oh, and the list goes on. The good physician Aspinall? He, too, is in my book.’ She realised what she had said and quickly tapped the side of her head. ‘My ledger is between my ears, Sir John. And, Sir John, that’s all I can tell you.’ Vulpina waggled her fingers in mock farewell.

‘Thank God we are out of there!’ Athelstan breathed as they walked back up the main alleyway out of Whitefriars. ‘Sir John, what a tangle of weeds we’ve got here.’

‘It’s a tangle all right.’ The coroner stopped and scratched his head. ‘We really should visit the Lady Angelica, but Brother…’

‘No need to apologise. My legs are tired and my belly’s empty. I want to go back and talk to Bonaventura.’

‘Not to mention Judas the goat!’

‘Thaddeus,’ Athelstan corrected him. ‘It’s Thaddeus now, Sir John. But, what about this?’

‘We frightened Vulpina. And so she threw us morsels. Don’t forget, my good friar: Lady Maude visits an apothecary up Cheapside and buys poisons for the rats in our cellars, but that doesn’t make her a murderess.’

‘Yes, but she doesn’t hide it, Sir John. Limbright, Maltravers and Aspinall have questions to answer.’

Sir John chewed on the corner of his lip then abruptly turned and stared down the alleyway.

‘What’s the matter, Sir John?’

‘Vulpina’s a murdering bitch, Athelstan, but she’s no fool.’ The coroner scratched his whiskers. ‘Earlier, when we stopped to talk to the scrimperers, I had the feeling of being followed. Now I am certain of it. A shadow down the lane moved a little too slowly.’

He took a step forward but Athelstan caught at his arm.

‘Sir John, let us go home.’

Athelstan stared about at the dingy houses, the lean, pinched faces which peered out from behind shabby doors, the clusters of beggars in alleyways. He saw one of them move and caught the glint of steel.

‘Let’s go home, Sir John,’ he repeated. ‘This is all a tangled web and we have truly entered the Devil’s Domain!’