The Devil's Domain

CHAPTER 9

Sir John Cranston mournfully surveyed the charred, reeking remains of what had once been his favourite tavern. Beadles and bailiffs kept back the crowd of beggars and alley people who thronged to gape at the site and look for any pickings. The three corpses pulled from the burned building now lay under a soiled canvas sheet.

‘What I’ve eaten will stay,’ he said. ‘Pull it back!’

The bailiff, a black vizard across his face, his eyes watering, grasped the sheet.

‘It’s not a pleasant sight, Sir John.’

‘She wasn’t when she was alive, so what’s the difference?’

The man pulled the sheet off. Athelstan turned away, his hand covering his mouth. The corpses were nothing but charred, mutilated flesh, black from head to toe. The eyes had watered, the skin round the face had shrivelled, making them look like grotesque gargoyles.

‘Were they dead?’ Sir John asked. ‘When the fire broke out?’

‘Dead or drunk. God knows what happened.’

The beadle turned one of the corpses over. The wooden bolt had burned but Athelstan could see the steel tip embedded deep in the charred flesh. Sir John walked away. Athelstan and Sir Maurice followed him, their boots crunching on the blackened ash. Sparks still floated up and the air was thick with acrid smoke.

‘And everything was burned with her?’ Athelstan sighed. Any records of potions and philtres all turned to ash.’ He walked back on to the cobbles.

‘What do you think, Sir John?’ the beadle asked.

‘Probably murder,’ he replied. ‘Brother?’

Athelstan gazed at the devastation.

‘Someone probably visited Mistress Vulpina last night but it’s pointless asking these what they know.’

The gallows men and wolfs-heads were watching them with narrow eyes, mournful that Vulpina, once the queen and patroness of these mean and foul alleyways, was now no more.

‘Somebody came and killed Vulpina and two of her henchmen.’ Athelstan shrugged. ‘Some oil, a firebrand; as you say, Sir John, these buildings are old and dry. They burn like stubble under the sun.’

‘My lord coroner.’

Sir John turned to see who spoke. The man standing behind him was small and pink-cheeked, with light blue eyes. With a shaven face and fluffy, white hair he reminded Athelstan of an ancient cherub. A short distance away three men-at-arms, wearing the royal livery, stood, hands on the hilts of their swords, their conical steel helmets gleaming in the sun, the broad nose-guards almost concealing their faces.

‘Well I never!’ Sir John stretched out his hand. ‘Brother Athelstan, may I introduce to you Gervase Talbot, a man who is not as innocent as he appears. A lover of fine claret, subtle and cunning as a fox. Once chief clerk in the chancery of Edward the Black Prince, God bless his memory.’

Talbot stood on tiptoe and exchanged the kiss of peace with the fat coroner. He then did the same with Athelstan. The Dominican caught a fragrance of Castilian soap as well as a woman’s perfume, light and sweet. Talbot’s hand was soft but his grip was firm.

‘Brother Athelstan, I’ve heard of you.’ Gervase spoke just above a whisper, as his eyes wandered to the destruction behind him.

‘So, Mistress Vulpina’s gone to meet her maker, has she? Then God assoil her, she’ll need all the mercy she can. A wicked woman…’

‘Gervase, it’s Sunday, you should be in your garden, tending your roses or singing one of your songs. A fine voice has Gervase,’ Sir John explained.

‘I’m still choir master in the church of St Oswald.’ Gervase’s hands disappeared up his sleeves. ‘But move away, Sir John, the smoke here sours my mouth and spoils my throat.’

Sir John and Athelstan followed him across to the mouth of an alleyway. One of the soldiers immediately wandered up the runnel to ensure all was safe. The other two stood between their master and the crowd of curiosity-seekers.

‘Gervase is Master of the King’s Secrets,’ Sir John explained.

Athelstan nodded. He’d heard of such an office, staffed by chancery clerks with a house just off Fleet Street. These clerks governed the spies and agents of the English court both at home and abroad. They listened to sailors and merchants, piecing together scraps and tidbits of information.

‘You’ve to come with me, Sir John, and you, Brother Athelstan. My Lord of Gaunt is waiting for you at the House of Secrets.’

‘Sir John groaned. ‘No rest for the wicked.’

‘No, I am afraid not, Sir John. My lord Regent will tell you all. Sir Maurice!’ he called out. ‘You too!’ His cherub face creased into a smile. ‘I’ve heard about the death at the Golden Cresset,’ he whispered. ‘Is Maltravers involved?’

‘A farrago of lies,’ Athelstan retorted. He was curious about this little man and what the Regent should want with him and the coroner on a Sunday morning.

Gervase took off in a quick walk, almost a trot, his bodyguards all around him.

‘What’s this, Sir John?’ Athelstan asked, plucking at the coroner’s sleeve.

‘I don’t know. But something has happened. Gervase loves his roses and very rarely misses an opportunity to sing in the choir on a Sunday morning. Therefore it must be serious, indeed. My Lord of Gaunt should be out with his hounds hunting the deer.’

They left Whitefriars, entering the more salubrious areas around Fleet Street. The lanes here sloped towards the sewers in the middle. Athelstan quietly thanked God that it hadn’t rained for the slope was quite precarious and the sewers brimmed with dirt. At the same time Athelstan kept an eye on the signs which hung out over the shops and could deal the unwary a nasty rap on the head. The ‘Cupid and Torch’ of the glazier, the ‘Cradle’ of the basket-maker, a naked ‘Adam and Eve’ for those who sold apples and ‘Jack in the Green’ for the brewers. On the corner of Bride Lane the collectors of dog turds, armed with small shovels, were filling their baskets for sale to the tanners and curers of skins.

‘For some people,’ Sir John observed, ‘there is no Sunday or day of rest.’

He stopped a water tippler and paid for a ladleful from his bucket but he threw the ladle back and spat noisily.

‘Your water’s brackish!’ he shouted at the small, mean-faced man. ‘Empty it in the sewer and obtain some fresh or I’ll have you whipped at the cart’s arse!’

The man hurried off, the bucket bouncing across his shoulders, its water slopping out.

‘In my treatise on the governance of the city…’

‘Come on, Sir John!’ Gervase Talbot stood on a corner of an alleyway.

‘Yes, quite!’ The coroner hurried on after him.

The House of Secrets stood in Rolls Passage which ran off Chancery Lane. It was a tall, narrow house with a red-bricked base, black beams and plaster on the upper stories. The windows were glazed with iron bars protecting the outside. The door was narrow but reinforced with great iron-studded nails. Gervase pulled at the bell. The door swung open and a clerk ushered them in. Inside the passageway was paved and clean swept. The walls were covered with polished panel work, above which coloured cloths and painted canvas sheets hung. The air smelled sweet with the smell of parchment, candles, sealing-wax and ink. On the ground floor were small chambers, most of them closed; but one was open and Athelstan espied the high stools and desks of the clerks, the latter covered in green baize cloth.

John of Gaunt was lounging in a room at the back of the house. He was sitting on a stool, sifting among the manuscripts on the floor. He smiled as they came in.

‘My lord coroner, my apologies, and you, Brother Athelstan. However, as you can see,’ Gaunt indicated his hunting jacket, leggings and boots, his spurs clinking at his every move, ‘I, too, was preparing for other business but Gervase here said that he had matters to share with me.’ He looked across at the hour candle beneath its glass. ‘Come then, let’s not waste time.’

Gervase called a clerk, more stools were brought in, their seats covered in quilted cushions. White wine was served, with fruits and nuts in small silver dishes. While Gervase was making his preparations Athelstan looked at his surroundings: there was a small mantelled hearth but virtually every wall in the room was covered in shelves and on these leather pouches, neatly tagged, were arranged in tidy piles. The large window at one end provided light. The candles in bronze brackets on the wall had hooded caps, protection against any spark.

‘This is my second home,’ Gervase remarked, following Athelstan’s gaze and sitting down. ‘Here, Brother, we have the gossip of the courts. Who’s in favour at Avignon? Which cardinal will take bribes? Who’s been elected to the Council of Ten in Venice? Which courtier is in the ascendant in Paris?’ He lifted his goblet. ‘I give you secrets.’

‘Before we begin,’ Gaunt interrupted, ‘Sir Maurice, I heard about the business at the Golden Cresset.’ He smiled. ‘Or rather, Master Gervase told me. Sir Jack, you’ve been there?’

‘I have, my lord, and Sir Maurice is as innocent as a newborn babe. A subtle, nasty trick to bring him into ill favour with his beloved.’

‘That is not the style of Sir Thomas Parr.’ Gervase spoke up. ‘I have heard of your troubles, Sir Maurice.’ He smiled sympathetically.

‘It may have something to do with this,’ Gaunt said. The Regent wagged a finger playfully at Sir Maurice, his handsome face crinkled into a smile, eyes narrowed. ‘You are not in favour with the French, Sir Maurice. The St Sulpice and St Denis were two of their finest ships.’

‘Do you think the French could have arranged the business at the Golden Cresset out of spite?’ Sir Maurice asked hopefully.

‘Perhaps, perhaps. But let’s listen to what Master Gervase has learned.’

‘I was disturbed early this morning,’ Gervase began. ‘Pompfrey was so excited. My spaniel,’ he explained. ‘A merchant had arrived from France, his name and status do not concern you but he’s a good limner, a sniffer out of secrets. He often drinks in the taverns in the Ile de France and brushes shoulders with the clerks from the French chancery.’

‘He’s also well paid,’ Gaunt interrupted harshly.

Gervase forced a smile which never reached his eyes.

‘Of course, my lord. However, the man does risk life and limb. Silver and gold do not make up for legs and arms broken on the wheel at Montfaucon or bring you back from the gallows when your neck has been wrung.’

Athelstan lowered his head to hide his own smile. He rather liked this soft, gentle-spoken man who seemed as wary of the Regent as himself.

‘Now, my friend from Paris was all excited. He’d left that city some days ago and travelled to Boulogne then on to Calais. We have a truce with France but he had to make sure that he wasn’t being followed. Now the French have a master spy. We know something of him. He calls himself Mercurius, after the Greek god. He’s well named. Secretive, sly, able to change his appearance. He’s not only a spy but a very good assassin. We have heard of his exploits in the north Italian cities, Pisa, Genoa, Venice. Last year he was in Germany performing certain tasks for his masters back in Paris.’

‘Such as?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Spying, trading in secrets and, above all, murder. A clerk from the French chancery ostensibly went on pilgrimage to the shrine of the Three Wise Men at Cologne. What he didn’t tell his masters in Paris was that he took certain secrets with him and sold them to the burghers of Cologne. These were trade secrets: information which could allow someone to control the market in wines. Great rivalry exists between the vineyards of France and those of Germany. The clerk was well rewarded. Of course, he couldn’t return to Paris but, on the receipt of his ill-gotten gains, he set himself up in some estate, a pleasant house overlooking Cologne Cathedral. One afternoon he was found swimming in his own carp pond, a garrotte string round his neck. The city council had no proof, but the whisper in the merchant community was that Mercurius had paid this French traitor a house visit.’ Gervase sipped at his wine. ‘Now, Sir Maurice here caused a great stir when he took the St Sulpice and St Denis. The French believed that we had a spy high in their councils. No, no.’ He held out his hand. ‘I must be more precise. They believed that one of the senior officers on board ship was in the pay of the English court.’

‘And is that true?’ Sir John barked.

‘Jack, Jack.’ Gervase shifted his head. ‘You may ask but you know I won’t answer. Suffice to say the French believed that.’

‘And they have sent Mercurius to London?’

‘Precisely: that’s the news our merchant brought.’

‘But there are always French spies in London.’ Cranston’s face showed his annoyance at these subtle, silken treacheries. ‘And a Frenchman is a Frenchman wherever he goes.’

‘I didn’t say he was French,’ Gervase replied. ‘We know a great deal about Mercurius. He’s not French or Gascon but English. A clerk in the Bishop of Norwich’s household, he joined a free company and went to France. He was captured. Now the French have a way with freebooters, they just hang them out of hand. Mercurius, whose real name was Richard Stillingbourne, entered into a deal with his new masters: in return for his life and a bag of silver he was released. He led the French back to where his free company was quartered and organised their slaughter. Mercurius has a passion and skill for killing as other men do for riding a horse or singing a song. Now, my belief is that the French have sent him into England and that he is responsible for the death of Serriem at Hawkmere.’

‘And so he could be anyone?’ Athelstan asked.

‘He could be one of the parishioners. He might even be Aspinall, the physician. One of the servants, a chapman, a tinker, a guard. He’s a master of disguise. He can appear stooped and aged, the beggar on the corner, or haughty and arrogant.’ Gervase grinned at Sir Maurice. ‘Even the young knight with a falcon on his wrist.’ He spread his hands in mock innocence. ‘Even a humble clerk.’

‘Would de Fontanel know of this?’ Athelstan asked.

Gaunt shook his head. ‘The French envoy has taken a house in Adel Lane; it’s watched day and night. No stranger has approached it:

‘And de Fontanel?’

‘He never goes out.’ Gaunt smirked. ‘He might be frightened. My guard dogs know him, the foppish way he dresses, the ridiculous hat!’

‘He’s only a minor envoy,’ Gervase added. ‘Sent to vex and irritate. Mercurius will answer only to the Chancellor in Paris.’

‘If the French believe,’ Gaunt continued, ‘that there is a traitor among those men at Hawkmere, Mercurius will kill him.’ Gaunt leaned forward, his face drawn with excitement.

For a moment he reminded Athelstan of a wolf he had seen in the Tower, the sharp, pointed face, the hooded, unblinking eyes, the hunched shoulders.

‘I have prayed,’ Gaunt said, ‘that one day, Mercurius will enter our web. The French have whistled up a dance and dance we must but, Sir Jack, Brother Athelstan, and you Master Gervase, I want Mercurius’ head. He is more important than all the ships the French can muster in the Narrow Seas.’

‘But he’s not only here for that, is he?’ Athelstan pointed across at Sir Maurice. ‘They also hold you responsible for the loss of their ships. I am not threatening you,’ Athelstan continued, Gervase now nodding his head. ‘Mercurius could also be in England to kill you.’

‘I agree,’ Gaunt said. ‘But these men at Hawkmere are his real prey.’

‘Why not move the prisoners?’ Sir John asked. ‘Take them out of Hawkmere, up river to the Tower?’

‘It’s tempting,’ Gaunt replied, ‘but I don’t think we’ll achieve much. The capture of Mercurius is important. We have a better opportunity if they are kept in the more, how can I put it, open surroundings of Hawkmere? Moreover, if Mercurius is one of them, it will make little difference. At this point of the dance, the French have it all their own way. If the prisoners die, they’ll appeal to the Pope in Avignon, depict us as breakers of the truth, violaters of the Papal peace. Of course, the murders will continue but the French don’t really care. They hope to kill the traitor. Perhaps make an example of him and, for all I know, slay one of my principal household knights.’ Gaunt sniffed. ‘Mercurius may have slain Vulpina to close her mouth.’ He slapped his leather gauntlets against his thigh. ‘You, Sir Maurice, should be very careful. This business at the Golden Cresset may well be the work of Mercurius. Well, Gervase, now we have Brother Athelstan here, there is one other matter.’

The Master of Secrets looked away and cleared his throat.

‘Ah yes, yes, there is. You know, Brother, the doings of the Great Community of the Realm?’

‘All London does.’

The Master of Secrets undid his white shirt. Athelstan noticed with amusement the hare’s-foot slung on a chain round his throat. Gervase caught his gaze.

‘It’s to ward off the colic,’ he explained, rubbing his stomach.

‘Continue!’ Gaunt ordered harshly. ‘My falcons and dogs await, the day draws on.’

‘I have it on good authority,’ the Master of Secrets went on, ‘that the Great Community of the Realm is very active in Southwark and may well have agents who are members of your parish.’

‘I know nothing of that,’ Athelstan replied quickly.

‘There are many priests, hedge-parsons among its leaders,’ Gaunt intervened silkily. ‘They lard their talk with quotations from the Scriptures on the equality of man.’

‘Then, my lord, they quote most accurately.’

‘In reality,’ Gaunt retorted, ‘they are as devoid of Christ as they are of grace.’

‘In which case, my lord, they have a great deal in common with the people against whom they plot.’

Sir Maurice’s head went down. Sir John’s hand covered his eyes while Gervase looked up at the ceiling as if searching for cobwebs. Gaunt held Athelstan’s gaze.

‘One day, Brother.’ He got to his feet. ‘One day, all of this nonsense will come to a head. I’ll hang every man jack of them!’

‘They are only hungry,’ Athelstan said. ‘They eat hard bread. They give rags, soaked in wine, for their babies to suck. Sometimes in winter the only meal they have is the snot they swallow.’

‘Brother!’ Sir John intervened warningly.

Gaunt’s expression abruptly changed. He smiled and brought his hand down on the little Dominican’s shoulders.

‘Only an honest man speaks the truth, Brother.’ He opened his purse, shook out some silver coins and thrust them into Athelstan’s hand. ‘Buy your poor some bread. Tell them to pray for John of Gaunt.’ He put on his gauntlets. ‘But tell them, if they are caught in arms plotting against the Crown, they’ll hang.’ He walked to the door and turned, his hand on the latch. ‘I set you a hard task, Brother,’ he said quietly. ‘I want you to help Sir Maurice here for he is a man I’d like my own son to grow into. I want these murders stopped. I want to see Mercurius’ head on a pole over London Bridge. Do that and, I swear, the streets of Southwark will run with wine. Now, as I have said, my dogs wait. I bid you adieu.’

He closed the door and sauntered down the passageway. Gervase put his face in his hands and sighed.

‘Brother, you go too far.’

‘It’s the only time I’ve been frightened.’ Sir Maurice spoke up, grabbing his cup and drinking greedily from it.

Cranston had finished his and was now helping himself to a generous swig from his wineskin.

‘What on earth possessed you, Brother?’

‘I don’t know,’ Athelstan replied. He sat down because his legs were now shaking and a sweat had broken out all over his body. He looked at the silver coins in his hands. ‘I suppose I get tired of seeing the poor starve. You’ve met my parishioners, Sir John, Watkin and Pike. Lord save us, plot against the Crown! They can hardly piss straight! Master Gervase, do you have names of those involved in Southwark?’

The Master of Secrets shook his head. ‘Only tittle-tattle,’ he replied. ‘Gossip from the market place. Shadows and shapes glimpsed at the dead of night!’

‘And Mercurius?’ Sir John asked. ‘Is there anything else we should know? A description?’

Gervase shook his head. ‘What I know you now do.’ He grasped the wrist of the young knight. ‘But, Sir Maurice, you should walk carefully. I know you are not frightened, a man of war, bold and brave. However, this is no fight on board a ship, the clash of arms on some battlefield. Mercurius will come like a thief in the night and ye know not the day nor the hour. More importantly, he may not even come himself but send others. Be on your guard!’

They left the House of Secrets and walked up through Newgate into Cheapside. The broad thoroughfare was empty apart from Leif the beggar and others of his ilk. The red-haired bane of Sir John’s life was standing on the stocks. He balanced himself precariously, holding the great wooden post, the other hand on his chest, head thrown back, eyes closed, entertaining his companions with a song.

‘As God lives!’ Sir John exclaimed, staring across at the motley crew. ‘Just listen to that, Brother.’

Athelstan had to agree that Leif as a singer left a great deal to be desired. As if in answer to a prayer, a window of a shop above Leif was thrown open.

‘For the love of heaven!’ a voice bawled and the contents of a chamber pot splashed out, but Leif was quicker, hopping like a squirrel from the stocks. He turned and shook his fist.

‘I must be home,’ Sir John said. ‘Brother Athelstan, Sir Maurice, will you join us to eat?’

‘Sir John, I thank you,’ Athelstan replied. ‘But today I must have words with Sir Maurice here. Perhaps it might be safer at St Erconwald’s than elsewhere. Sir John, I will ask for your assistance tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow is tomorrow. But, today is Sunday. My poppets await and I want to be home before they miss their daddy too much.’

He stomped off, gathering speed as Leif suddenly caught sight of his great fat friend. The beggar gave a screech of welcome and staggered towards him.

‘Poor Sir John,’ Athelstan said. ‘Come.’

They made their way down Cheapside and across London Bridge. Southwark was empty, sleeping under the hot summer sun. Athelstan found the church quiet, the front door locked, Godbless and Thaddeus dozing on the steps. Benedicta had seen to Philomel and left a pot of stewed meat and some fresh rolls. So Athelstan, Sir Maurice, Godbless and Thaddeus, not to mention Bonaventure, dined like kings that afternoon. Afterwards Godbless returned to the cemetery taking Thaddeus and the mercenary Bonaventure with him. Athelstan opened the great chest beneath the small window and took out the garb of a Dominican monk.

‘My brothers at Blackfriars always send me fresh robes at Easter and Christmas. Some are longer than others.’

Sir Maurice’s jaw dropped. He looked even more concerned when Athelstan dipped again into the chest and brought out a pair of long, sharp shears.

‘Brother?’

‘Yes, Brother,’ Athelstan replied. ‘You are no longer Sir Maurice Maltravers but Brother Norbert of the Dominican Order. You are going to let me crop your hair, form a small tonsure, teach you how to walk and talk like a Dominican, if that’s possible.’

The grin spread across the young knight’s face.

‘Tomorrow, we are going to visit that child of God, Lady Angelica Parr, at the convent of the nuns of Syon.’

Sir Maurice jumped to his feet like a boy who’s been promised a much-prized reward.

‘Is that possible, Brother?’

‘Provided you keep your wits about you and Lady Angelica doesn’t betray us, who will know?’

‘What happens if Sir Thomas has a guard there?’

‘Fighting men are not allowed in convents and the nuns of Syon are a law unto themselves, as you will find out.’

‘But, Brother, won’t you get into trouble?’

Athelstan closed the lid of the chest. ‘Sir Maurice, I am always in trouble. And, for the love of God, what is wrong with what we are doing? It’s all for love! That will be my defence!’ He gripped the shears more securely. ‘But, for everything under the sun, there’s a price. Brother Norbert, loosen your jerkin.’

An hour later Sir Maurice Maltravers quietly confessed that he had been transformed. His dark hair was cropped, a small tonsure at the back. He was now garbed in the black and white habit, a knotted cord round his middle. He practised walking up and down the kitchen, hands up his sleeves, eyes downcast. Bonaventure had returned and curiously watched this strange transformation. Athelstan laughed and clapped his hands.

‘And they will allow us in the door?’ Sir Maurice asked anxiously.

‘Oh, not us,’ Athelstan replied. ‘But there’s not a door in London Sir Jack Cranston can’t get through.’

‘And what will happen inside?’

‘Well, I don’t expect you to go down on one knee and make a confession of love,’ Athelstan said, stroking Bonaventure, who had jumped on to his lap. ‘But you can talk.’ He pulled a face. ‘About love in general, spiritual terms. However, you must observe the disguise and the secrecy I have given you. If you break that I will leave and give no further help.’

‘And what will come of this?’ Sir Maurice asked anxiously.

‘Sir Maurice, I am a Dominican and this is St Erconwald’s. I am not a miracle-worker, so we’ll take each day as it comes. Stay there!’

Athelstan went into his bed loft and brought down a gilt-edged tome bound in calfskin.

‘These are the writings of St Bonaventure.’ He handed the book over. ‘No, not the cat. A great Franciscan, a doctor of theology. His writings on love, particularly that which should exist between a man and his wife, make refreshing reading. There’s a favourite passage of mine where he says that the best friendship which exists must be that between husband and wife. You sit there and read it.’ Athelstan moved towards the door. ‘I am going to pray in church, for a little guidance and some protection. Afterwards, we’ll visit Godbless and make sure he is the only living person lying down in our cemetery!’

Athelstan left the house. He checked on Philomel who was standing up, leaning against the side of his stall fast asleep. The Dominican crossed to the church. Engrossed in his thoughts, he failed to see the shadow at the bottom of the alleyway watching him intently, a malignant, dark presence. Once the priest had gone inside, the watcher crouched down again to continue his close study of the church and the little house beside it.