The Devil's Domain

by Paul Doherty

  Athelstan recognised this wandering preacher as one who supported the Great Community of the Realm. The ‘worms of the earth’ was a common term for the peasants, the oppressed serfs, the landless labourers.

  ‘They will be led by angels!’ the preacher continued. ‘And they will ring the bell of doom!’ He started to clang the handbell he carried.

  The crowds of shopkeepers, apprentices, chapmen and tinkers, the pedlars, the beggars and cripples from the alleyways gathered round, heads nodding, eyes gleaming. A group of market beadles stood on the fringe, nervously plucking at the daggers in their belts, tapping their staffs of office against the ground.

  ‘And what have we to fear?’ the preacher continued. ‘Death? We live a living death!’

  A growl of approval rose from the crowd.

  ‘Hey there, Pig’s Arse!’ Sir John grabbed a scruffy little man running through the crowd, a long thin dagger jutting out from the sleeve of his jerkin.

  ‘Ah, Sir John, good day.’ The beggar looked fearfully up at the coroner.

  ‘Now, Pig’s Arse,’ Sir John breathed quietly. I would not start cutting purses here. This merry lot will turn ugly in a while and they’d hang you out of hand!’

  Pig’s Arse scuttled off. Sir John looked over the heads of the crowd. A group of soldiers were coming up Westchepe, wearing the livery of John of Gaunt and Fitzalan, Earl of Arundel.

  ‘Here they are!’ The preacher had also glimpsed them. ‘Come to silence the Voice of Truth!’

  The crowd turned as a man. Daggers were drawn and, as if from nowhere, a group of men dressed in dark-brown leather jerkins appeared. They carried bows with quivers full of arrows slung over their backs.

  ‘Lord have mercy!’ Athelstan said. ‘Sir John, this will turn ugly.’

  Sir John drew his sword and advanced, waving it as if he were Hector of Troy.

  ‘Hey there, my beauties! Lovely lads all! This is Cheapside, not Poitiers!’

  ‘Bugger off, Sir Jack!’ someone shouted.

  Cranston’s hand went behind his back as he drew his dagger. The preacher had vanished like a wisp of smoke. Sir John advanced threateningly upon the archers.

  ‘We’ve no quarrel with you, Jack Cranston!’ one of them shouted, face hidden deep in a hood.

  ‘If you don’t piss off, you will have!’

  The archers slung their bows and disappeared among the stalls. The rest of the crowd began hastily to disperse. Sir John resheathed his sword and dagger.

  ‘Come on, Athelstan, time we moved on.’

  They continued up Cheapside just as the soldiers arrived. Athelstan glimpsed Pig’s Arse running like one of Ranulf’s ferrets towards the mouth of an alleyway, a small purse clutched in his hand.

  ‘You were very brave, Sir John!’

  ‘Like a hawk swooping for the kill,’ he replied. ‘Now, for real trouble!’

  They turned into a lane leading up to Goldsmith’s Hall. The thoroughfare was broad and swept, the sewer had been cleaned and filled with fresh water from a conduit. The houses on either side were large and spacious with red-bricked bases and black and white timber upper tiers. The gables were ornate and gilt-edged, the doors squarely hung. Pots of flowers hung from the walls and the air was sweet with the fragrance from the gardens laid out in front of the houses. The sun glinted and shimmered in the mullioned window glass: some of these were even coloured and decorated with heraldic devices.

  Sir Thomas Parr’s was the stateliest of these mansions. It stood in its own grounds, two small apple trees on either side of the path leading up to the smartly painted door. This was decorated with shining iron studs, its large brass knocker formed in the shape of a knight tilting in a tourney. On either side stood huge pots of herbs on a charcoal base, the fragrant smoke curling up in billows like incense in a church. Men-at-arms lounged along each side of the house: city bullies, hired by this great merchant, they were dressed in his livery, white surcoats displaying a mailed fist holding a sword. They kept well away from Sir John’s threatening look.

  ‘I don’t like these buggers!’ the coroner muttered. ‘Small, private armies. Look at them, Brother, they can’t keep their hands away from their swords and daggers. Too much red meat and too little work, always eager for a fight.’

  Athelstan quickly inspected the men. They were city boys in their tight fitting hose and high-heeled boots. They were well armed; some even carried crossbows with small pots of bolts attached to their leather war belts.

  Sir John lifted the knocker and brought it down with a crash.

  ‘I enjoyed that,’ he muttered.

  He did it again. The door swung open.

  ‘What’s your business?’

  ‘What’s your name?’ Sir John barked.

  ‘Ralph Hersham, man-at-arms to Sir Thomas Parr.’

  ‘I’m Cranston the King’s coroner. Now, sod off, and let me in!’

  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.

  ‘Th
ey 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 sa
fe 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?’