The Devil's Domain

by Paul Doherty

  Table of Contents

  The Sorrowful Mysteries of Brother Athelstan

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Conclusion

  The Sorrowful Mysteries of Brother Athelstan

  THE NIGHTINGALE GALLERY

  THE HOUSE OF THE RED SLAYER

  MURDER MOST HOLY

  THE ANGER OF GOD

  BY MURDER’S BRIGHT LIGHT

  THE HOUSE OF CROWS

  THE ASSASSIN’S RIDDLE

  THE DEVIL’S DOMAIN

  THE FIELD OF BLOOD

  THE HOUSE OF SHADOWS

  BLOODSTONE

  THE DEVIL’S DOMAIN

  Being the Eighth of the Sorrowful Mysteries of Brother Athelstan

  Paul Doherty

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain in 1998

  by Headline Book Publishing,

  A division of Hodder Headline PLC

  338 Euston Road

  London NW1 3BH

  eBook edition first published in 2012 by Severn Select an imprint

  of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 1998 Paul Doherty.

  All rights reserved.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0040-2 (epub)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are beingdescribed for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland

  CHAPTER 1

  ‘A time of bloody tribulation! Of horrid sights! The season of murder and subtle trickery!’ is how the chronicler of Westminster described the late summer of 1380. The old monk sat in his carrel overlooking the cloister garth, scratching the edge of his quill against his unshaven cheek. How could he truly describe these times? The King was only a boy; the Regent, his uncle John of Gaunt, that bloody man of war, ruled the kingdom. Some even whispered he wanted it for himself. The French were at sea, their war fleets attacking the English galleys and cogs along the sea lanes from Bordeaux to Calais. At home, the summer harvest had been good; prices, however, still climbed out of the reach of the poor who swarmed along the highways over Southwark Bridge and into the city.

  The kingdom was waiting! All the signs and portents were there. A coffin had been seen in the skies above St Paul’s: draped in a ghostly pall, it had moved from east to west before disappearing into the low, threatening clouds to the north of the city. Many said that was where the danger would arise, from the fields and villages north of Cripplegate. The men of the soil, the earthworms, who laboured and spun so the great ones could clothe themselves in silk and ride great destriers, drink deep of the blood-red claret and count their silver and gold coins. In the streets of London, sepulchral voices were heard crying woe, prophesying disaster. Black-draped barges, rowed by ghostly hands, were glimpsed on the river shooting the turbulence under London Bridge. Were these, the gossips chattered, the ghosts of men who had defied the Regent and lost their heads which, salted and pickled, decorated pikes along the rail of that same London Bridge?

  The chronicler’s brothers and monks at Westminster said such signs were mere trickery and foolish chatter. The peasants, now well organised and calling themselves the ‘Great Community of the Realm’, were despatching troublemakers, traitors, inciters to rebellion and treason into the city, stirring up trouble along its foul alleyways and runnels. Others, less worldly, shook their heads. These signs, surely, were warning of horrors yet to come? Had not a holy man, who claimed to have wandered in the deserts of Palestine, had visions which he preached, at a penny a time, from the cross of St Paul’s? How God was planning to sweep London with fire? To bring it as low as hell, to leave not one stone upon another?

  In the cemetery of St Erconwald’s, Pike the ditcher and Watkin the dung-collector reflected on these rumours. They sat beneath the old yew tree sharing a wineskin and staring up at the starlit sky. They were both drunk as hogs. They should have gone home. However, a few blackjacks of ale in the Piebald Tavern, followed by a cup of canary, a gift from Joscelyn the one-armed taverner, and Pike and Watkin had rolled out into the streets feeling like great lords of the land. They shared their pennies and, before they’d left, bought a bulging wineskin.

  ‘Be careful,’ the taverner had warned, watching these two fellow parishioners sway backwards and forwards on their feet. ‘You’ve drunk enough. You should go home and sleep it off!’

  ‘We are not thrunk!’ Watkin scoffed. ‘I just wisth your bloody floor would stay still. This is a tavern, not one of your bloody cogs of war!’

  Joscelyn had sighed in exasperation. The two men had wished him good night.

  ‘Where are you going to?’ Joscelyn called curiously as he followed them to the doorway.

  He smiled at Cecily the courtesan who, arm in arm with a young fop, was strolling down towards the fields south of the Bishop of Winchester’s inn: a famous trysting place for the likes of Cecily and her customers. Cecily waved her fingers. Pike the ditcher watched her go and licked his lips even though his wife had warned him off.

  ‘If I catch you with that trollop again,’ she’d screeched, ‘you’ll be nothing more than a gelding!’

  Pike swayed and put one mud-covered hand on Watkin’s shoulder.

  ‘We’d best be going,’ he slurred.

  ‘Go where?’ Joscelyn repeated.

  Watkin tapped his fleshy nose and winked. ‘Secrets,’ he slurred. ‘Great secrets.’

  Joscelyn stepped back and glanced round nervously. Were the rumours true, he wondered? Were these two rapscallions members of the Great Community of the Realm? Plotting treason and rebellion against John of Gaunt? If that was the case he wanted no more of it! Gaunt had a way of dealing with traitors: hanged like rats on the gallows at Smithfield or on the other side of London Bridge. Spies abounded in Southwark, more than fleas on a mongrel’s back.

  ‘Take care!’ he warned. Joscelyn retreated into his taproom closing the door firmly behind him.

  Watkin and Pike had stumbled along to the church, gone through the lych gate and taken up residence beneath the yew tree at the far end of God’s acre, the broad cemetery which bounded the old church of St Erconwald’s. They had drunk and waited, watching the sun set and the stars come out. Then they had seen it, on the top of the church tower, a slight glow from a charcoal brazier.

  ‘He’s up there,’ Pike said, referring to their parish priest the Dominican Brother Athelstan. ‘He’s up there watching his bloody stars! Him and that cat of his. What’s its name? Eh? Benedicta?’

 
‘Benedicta!’ Watkin laughed. ‘That’s the widow woman, you know, dark-faced and dark-eyed with a softness for Brother Athelstan.’ He leaned conspiratorially closer. ‘The name of his one-eyed cat is Bonaventura.’

  ‘Do you think it’s true?’ Pike continued.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘That he left St Erconwald’s . . .’

  Watkin felt a chill of apprehension, which almost sobered him up. Such rumours and stories had been rife in the parish, fiercely discussed on the church steps or in the Piebald Tavern. Watkin knew he was a sinner. He drank too much, he swore, he fought, he lusted after other men’s wives. Nevertheless, he feared God in heaven and the Lord Jesus; but Watkin loved their small parish priest with his olive-skinned face, dark, soulful eyes and brain as sharp as a razor. Athelstan made Watkin feel good about himself. Every so often, the Dominican would pat the fat dung-collector on the shoulder.

  ‘What you do, Watkin, cleaning the muck in filthy alleyways, is loved by God. You are like the Holy Ghost.’

  Watkin had seen the laughter in the Dominican’s eye.

  ‘You make things clean and fresh! Therefore, Watkin, in God’s plan, you are very important!’

  Watkin had never forgotten that. He had been frightened by the rumours that John of Gaunt had taken a savage dislike to the little friar and arranged for his transference to the Halls of Oxford. They claimed Athelstan had got as far as Cripplegate before Prior Anselm had intervened and sent a message ordering the Dominican back to his parish. Athelstan had never said anything but, there again, he was unlikely to do so, Watkin mused. And Watkin, although leader of the parish council, dare not challenge him. Athelstan had a dark side. If he lost his temper, his tongue was like a lash. Watkin loved him yet he was more frightened of Athelstan than he was of the Regent’s men-at-arms or even the great coroner Sir Jack Cranston who’d come swaggering into Southwark, one hand on his sword belt, the other clutching a wineskin.

  Watkin often reflected on the relationship between Cranston and his secretarius Athelstan but he couldn’t reach any conclusion. Cranston was as big as Athelstan was little. He could, and often did, drink the entire taproom of the Piebald Tavern under the table. He could swear like any soldier. He had the ear of many powerful men in the city. They even said the young King deferred to him but Cranston could do nothing unless Athelstan was by his side.

  ‘How long do you think we’ll wait?’ Pike broke in.

  Watkin stretched out his legs and cursed. The ale in his belly was turning sour. He had seen the warning look in Joscelyn’s eyes and quietly cursed his growing involvement in Pike’s madcap schemes. All of Southwark knew about the Great Community of the Realm! The Secret Council of peasant leaders and their ruthless agents who slipped like shadows along the wards, bringing in messages and instructions which could not be defied. Once you were part of the Community, you either supported it or you died.

  ‘Do you think this is wise?’ Watkin asked. ‘I mean to be waiting here? If Athelstan found out he’d lash us with his tongue or worse,’ he added morosely. ‘Just stare at us so sorrowfully until we confessed everything.’

  ‘I am a part of it,’ Pike declared defiantly, looking up at the sky. ‘And, Watkin, so are you!’

  Watkin moved his great rump and scratched his bulbous nose. He and Pike used to be rivals on the parish council but now Pike had drawn him into these secret matters. Had he done it deliberately? A surety against Brother Athelstan’s anger if their parish priest ever found out?

  ‘Remember what happened to Ricaud!’ Pike said, enjoying himself.

  Watkin shivered. Ricaud was a pedlar who used to sell his gewgaws on Shoemakers Lane. Gossip said he also sold secrets of the Great Community to the Regent’s spies: one morning, Ricaud, or rather his head, was found fastened to a pole on the mud flats above the Thames.

  ‘When Adam delved and Eve span,’ Pike sang softly, ‘who was then the gentleman? Just think of it, Watkin.’ Pike stretched out on the grass. ‘Think of a kingdom, no princes, no bishops, no great lords of the soil, where the meek truly inherit the earth.’

  ‘Sometimes,’ Watkin interjected drily, ‘I think all we’ll earn, Pike, is what you are lying on. A twisted neck at Smithfield and a shallow grave.’

  Pike smacked his lips. Watkin knew this was a sign for one of his speeches.

  ‘I’ve got to piss,’ he grumbled and, staggering to his feet, walked through the grass to the great sycamore tree which stood next to the boundary wall of the cemetery. Watkin undid the points of his breeches. He had relieved himself and was about to turn away when he heard a sound above him.

  ‘Good evening, dung-collector!’

  Watkin gaped up into the dark branches.

  ‘My name is Valerian.’ The voice was low but harsh. ‘With me is Domitian!’

  Watkin stumbled backwards.

  ‘You won’t recognise those names,’ the voice hissed, ‘but we bring you fraternal greetings from the Great Community.’

  ‘Don’t run away!’ Another voice spoke up.

  Watkin heard the click of a crossbow.

  ‘Just call your friend across.’

  ‘Pike!’ Watkin urged. ‘Pike, come over here!’

  The ditcher got to his feet and lumbered across, the wineskin still in his hands.

  ‘What’s the . . .?’

  ‘Greetings, Brother Pike.’

  The ditcher dropped the wineskin.

  ‘We’ve been here some time,’ the voice continued. ‘Listening to you burping and farting. You are still handfast to the Cause, are you not?’

  ‘Of course,’ Pike stammered. ‘You know we are!’

  ‘Not like Ricaud.’ The voice was laughing. ‘He squealed like a pig when we took his genitals off. Valerian here wanted to stick them into his mouth after he cut off his head but . . .’

  ‘What do you want?’ Watkin tried to keep his voice steady.

  ‘We want you to dig,’ the voice continued. ‘Dig and ask no questions.’

  ‘Dig!’ Pike exclaimed. ‘Where?’

  ‘Why, here.’

  ‘In the cemetery?’ Watkin responded.

  A click and a crossbow bolt skimmed between him and Pike, thudding into the ground behind them.

  ‘You don’t question,’ Valerian’s voice continued. ‘You carry out the orders of the Great Community. Go down on your knees, both of you!’

  Watkin and Pike obeyed with alacrity.

  ‘You will dig a ditch nine yards long and three feet deep along the cemetery wall.’

  ‘Brother Athelstan will ask why.’

  ‘Well, you can say it’s for draining or you want to ensure the foundations of the wall are strong. That is your problem, not ours.’

  ‘Why a ditch?’ Pike asked defiantly.

  He stared up into the darkness. He could see two shapes sitting on one of the outstretched branches. Pike turned away in disgust as urine splattered on to his face. Watkin stretched out and grasped his arm.

  ‘We will do what you ask!’

  Pike wiped his face on the soiled sleeve of his jerkin.

  ‘You will begin? Well, today is Friday, the feast of St Oswald. So, tomorrow will be soon enough!’

  ‘Do we dig the ditch in its entirety?’

  ‘No, in the evening after work. The following day you will fill it in and dig some more. Do you understand?’

  Watkin glanced longingly up at the glow of fire on the church tower.

  ‘Oh, and by the way, Watkin and Pike, you do have lovely children. Now, go back to your wineskin, sit under the yew tree, at least for another hour. By then we’ll be gone!’

  Hawkmere Manor was a lonely, gloomy dwelling place built, so it was said, in the time of cruel King John. It stood behind its high curtain wall to the east of the Priory of Clerkenwell. Once owned by a robber baron who’d preyed upon travellers on the roads to and from Cripplegate, Hawkmere had fallen on sad times. A doleful, haunted place now used by the Regent John of Gaunt to house French prisoners captured either
in France or during the bloody battles waged between English and French ships on the Narrow Seas. For the men who dwelt there it was truly a time of tribulation, even more so for Guillaum Serriem, formerly captain of the French man-of-war the St Sulpice, taken off Calais six weeks earlier. Serriem had been brought to Hawkmere as a captive and hostage while his friends in France tried to raise the huge ransom demanded by the English.

  Lying in his narrow cot bed, Serriem knew in his heart of hearts that he would never again see his manor house outside Rouen, stroll in its gardens, kiss his wife or play with his sons in that lovely apple orchard which ran down to the river Seine.

  Serriem was dying. He could feel the poison coursing through his body yet he had no strength to call out or crawl to the door and scream for help. His body was coated in sweat, the pain in his stomach sending arrows of agony up into his chest and making him twist and turn. He pushed back the dingy sheets and stared helplessly at the barred door. What was the use? The walls were thick, the door was locked and Sir Walter Limbright, his gaoler and custodian, would have retired to his own chambers to drown his sorrows in cup after cup of claret.

  Perhaps someone was out there along the gloomy gallery, a guard, a servant? Serriem dragged himself off the bed, rolling on to the dirty rushes. He tried to pull himself towards the door but his strength failed him and he lay gasping. Serriem realised he had been poisoned by some secret, subtle assassin but who, among his companions, would want him dead? And surely the Goddamns, the English, for all their cruelty, would not want to forfeit the ransom money? Serriem’s mind wandered. He had always hoped he would die in his own bed, his family around him or, if not there, on his ship at sea like a true warrior, sword in hand with the oriflamme of France fluttering above him. Now he was to die here in this lonely, smelly chamber, a prisoner of the English, forsaken and forgotten even by his own kind.

  Serriem rolled over on his back and stared up at the cobwebbed rafters. His mind wandered. The pain was so intense that he slipped in and out of consciousness. He was at home, the windows open, the fragrant scents of the garden filling his chamber. He could hear the cries of his servants and the shouts of his sons as they played in the courtyard below. Serriem opened his eyes. Nothing! Only a foreboding stillness. He tried to move again but he felt as if the floor were shifting under him and his mind went back.