The Devil's Domain

by Paul Doherty

  ‘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!

  CHAPTER 11

  Sir John Cranston took one look at Sir Maurice Maltravers sitting beside Athelstan in the Jerusalem Tree Tavern and roared with laughter. He took his beaver hat off, slapping it against his thighs so the pedlars and tinkers who plied their trade along the waterside wondered if the lord coroner had lost his wits. Athelstan shook his head in mock reproval.

  ‘Sir John,’ he hissed. ‘This is supposed to be done in secrecy.’

  ‘I promise you, Brother. But do you think you can fool the hawk-eyed Lady Monica? This.’ He took the tankard Athelstan had ordered and took a deep slurp. ‘This,’ he repeated, ‘I must see. You are?’

  ‘Brother Norbert of the Order of St Dominic’ Sir Maurice spoke softly, pulling his face into what he thought was a look of piety.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake! They’ll think you are from Bedlam if you look at Lady Monica like that. What I suggest, Brother, is Athelstan speaks to Lady Monica and you’d best keep your tongue quiet until we meet Angelica.’

  They walked up the steep, winding trackway to where the nunnery, nestling behind its grey curtain wall, overlooked the Thames. A porter led them through the postern gate and across the exquisitely laid-out gardens with herbers, smooth green lawns, flower beds, arbours and raised turf seats. The air was tinged with the heavy perfume of flowers. Sir John stopped to admire a luscious rose which dangled out over the path.

  ‘The ladies of Syon are not sworn to poverty,’ Athelstan noted.

  ‘No, no, Brother, this is where the ladies of the court, who wish to retire from the glories of the world, can sit, reflect, meditate and pray.’

  The nunnery buildings were made of honey-coloured stone. They passed the jewel of a chapel and entered cool, shady porticoes which wound past quiet cloisters and into the main building. Here the floor was paved and lined with boxes and pots of flowers. Gaily coloured tapestries hung on the wall displaying scenes from the Bible or lovely motifs such as a flaming rose beneath a golden crown. Now and again they passed nuns sitting in corners or in chairs, either reading from books of hours or talking softly among themselves. The porter, a wiry little man, turned a corner and knocked on an iron-studded door. Athelstan breathed a quick prayer. Sir John took one quick slurp from the wineskin and in they swept to meet Lady Monica.

  Athelstan found her most forbidding. She was tall, elegant and more majestic than any queen. She was dressed in a snowy white habit with a cream-edged coif which framed an imperious face with sharp grey eyes, slender nose and thin, disapproving lips. She extended a bej
ewelled hand. Sir John went on one knee to kiss the long, ivory-white fingers. Athelstan and Sir Maurice bowed, the friar sketching a hasty blessing. Lady Monica sat down behind her desk while the porter, grumbling to himself, brought across three box chairs. Lady Monica nodded and all three took their seats. Athelstan felt as if he had gone back in time, to when he and his brother Francis were brought into the scullery to be reprimanded by Mother. Beads of sweat broke out on his brow and he wondered at the wisdom of what he had done. Lady Monica’s steel-grey eyes studied them all. Athelstan caught a glimpse of humour in her severe face.

  ‘It’s been a long time, Jack.’

  Sir John’s face coloured and he shuffled his feet.

  ‘Do you remember the tourney?’ She sighed. ‘You and my beloved, Sir Oliver, fought all comers: the King gave you the crown as champion of the tournament?’

  ‘Grand days,’ the coroner muttered, the tears starting in his eyes. I am older, my lady, and much fatter, but you haven’t changed a whit. As beautiful as ever.’

  ‘You were always one for flattery, Jack, and for wine. Would you like some?’

  Lady Monica gestured to the porter still standing behind them.

  ‘Cuthbert, some wine for our guests. The best claret you have.’ Her face creased into a smile. ‘Sir Jack has a partiality for that.’

  The wine was served, the porter left. All the time Lady Monica threaded the ivory Ave beads which lay on her desk. She asked after Lady Maude and congratulated Sir John on the birth of the two poppets. She finally wrapped the Ave beads round her fingers and sat back in the chair. Athelstan couldn’t meet her gaze so he looked at the beautiful devotional paintings, framed in black and gold, which hung on the brilliant white walls.

  ‘Why are you here, Jack?’

  Sir John coughed and rolled the small, intricately carved goblet between his hands.

  ‘Sir Thomas Parr, my lady.’

  ‘Ah, Angelica. Headstrong girl. Love is a terrible thing, isn’t it, Jack? It turns the soul and dazzles the mind.’ She gathered the Ave beads together. ‘Did you ever love me, Jack?’

  He kept his head down like a little boy.

  ‘I asked you that once,’ Lady Monica continued.

  ‘My lady, you were betrothed. Sir Oliver was dearer to me than a brother.’

  ‘But you did love me!’ Lady Monica persisted.

  Athelstan watched fascinated as tears brimmed in Sir John’s eyes and, for once, this bluff, rough-spoken coroner seemed tongue-tied.

  ‘You were always blunt, my lady. I think you know the truth. And, God forgive me if I gave any offence, but so did Oliver.’

  ‘My lady,’ Athelstan intervened, wanting to help his companion. ‘Sir Thomas Parr has put his daughter in your care. He has asked me to visit her and give her spiritual comfort.’

  ‘And does that need the three of you?’ Lady Monica studied Athelstan carefully. ‘I have heard of you.’ She pointed a finger. ‘I always listen to what happens to Jack. All your exploits. Anyway, why the three?’

  ‘My lord coroner is here because he knows you,’ Athelstan replied coolly. ‘I am here because I am his secretarius while Brother Norbert has just returned from the Bridgettine Convent at Oxford.’ Athelstan quietly prayed the lie would not be held against him. ‘Where he provided wise counsel and spiritual comfort for the good sisters there.’

  ‘And so why are you here?’ Lady Monica now stared directly at Sir Maurice.

  ‘I am here, my lady . . .’ He fell silent.

  Athelstan closed his eyes.

  ‘You seem rather tongue-tied for one who gives spiritual comfort?’ Lady Monica’s voice was tinged with faint mockery.

  ‘I am here,’ Sir Maurice continued defiantly, ‘to remind Lady Angelica of love, its true nature, function and purpose.’

  Lady Monica squeezed her chin between her fingers and clicked her tongue.

  ‘I’ve seen you somewhere before. Anyway . . .’ Lady Monica picked up a small bell and rang it. ‘I am charged with the Lady Angelica’s care. Any spiritual comfort you give her is because Sir Thomas Parr wishes it.’ She smiled thinly. ‘He has written to me on this matter. But,’ Lady Monica continued, ‘it must be given in my presence.’

  Athelstan’s heart sank. ‘Brother Norbert’ leaned forward as if to protest but Athelstan quietly kicked his foot. The porter returned. Lady Monica gave him instructions and a few minutes later he was ushering the Lady Angelica into the room.

  Athelstan could tell that this was a time of great danger. The Lady Angelica was dressed very similarly to the abbess. One look at her beautiful, heart-shaped face framed in the clinging, silken coif and Athelstan knew why Sir Maurice was so deeply infatuated. Lady Monica made the introductions. Athelstan was sure she must be able to hear his heart thumping but Lady Angelica did not betray them. She bowed at Sir John and Athelstan and, when Lady Monica explained their presence, Angelica’s eyes, cold and hard, simply dismissed Sir Maurice with one imperious flicker.

  ‘You say Father sent you here,’ she began, taking a seat beside the Lady Monica.

  ‘I know your father of old,’ Sir John replied. ‘He was determined that you be taken out of danger and not be pestered by an upstart knight.’

  ‘And you are here to remind me of my duty to my father?’

  ‘In a word, my lady, yes,’ Athelstan said.

  ‘And you brought this . . .?’ Angelica paused, her brilliant blue eyes now on ‘Norbert’. Athelstan caught a little softness as well as a sparkle of mischief. ‘You brought this good brother but what does he know of love?’

  ‘I know it’s God given,’ Sir Maurice replied quickly. ‘I know it never ends. I know it’s like the air we breathe and that we cannot live without it.’

  ‘Prettily put,’ Lady Angelica quipped. ‘I love my father but I also love someone he does not like.’ She clasped her hands in mock anguish to her breast. ‘What am I to do? How can love be contradictory?’

  In any other circumstances Athelstan would have laughed at this little minx who was playing the game so coolly and so cleverly. Her eyelids fluttered.

  ‘If I must love my father, as I know you are going to tell me, then I must obey him. And, if I obey him, I must give up the love I have for this knight.’

  ‘Very well put,’ Lady Monica said. ‘Angelica, you really should enter our house of studies. Our library here is well furnished . . .’

  ‘But it’s not contradictory,’ said Sir Maurice.

  ‘Why is that?’ Lady Monica snapped. ‘The Fourth Commandment says thou shalt obey thy father and thy mother!’

  ‘In life,’ he replied, ‘there is a hierarchy, is there not? Even in this Order you, Lady Monica, are superior and the same goes for nature. Some horses are more fleet than others, some dogs more fierce. There is also a hierarchy in love, with God at its peak.’

  ‘And beneath that?’ Angelica asked. ‘Surely love of father and mother?’

  ‘That is not what Christ said,’ he replied, warming to his theme, staring fully at Angelica who now blushed. ‘He said that if a woman loves a man she should leave her kith and kin and go to him so that they become one flesh. That is God’s will and, what God has joined together, no man should try to drive asunder.’

  ‘Very well put,’ Angelica teased back. ‘But, Brother, I am not yet this man’s wife. I am not even betrothed.’

  ‘But marriages are made in heaven,’ ‘Norbert’ countered.

  ‘What is this?’ Lady Monica asked.

  Athelstan put his hands up the sleeves of his gown and glanced sideways. Sir John was already feeling for his wineskin. Had ‘Brother Norbert’ gone too far?

  ‘Are you counselling the Lady Angelica to defy her father?’

  ‘Oh no. I was simply discussing philosophy, the true value of love and its purpose.’

  ‘But what is love?’ Angelica quickly spoke up to divert the Lady Monica.

  ‘It is the greatest of God’s gifts.’ He answered slowly as if aware that he had trodden unwari
ly. ‘It means giving the heart, the soul, the body to the other. It recognises no obstacle; it is pure, eternal fire.’

  Athelstan raised his eyes heavenwards. He wondered whether Sir Maurice was speaking what he had read from Bonaventure’s writings or directly, from the heart. He was surprised at the young knight’s intensity and, in a strange way, he envied his burning passion. Have I, will I, ever love like this, he wondered?

  ‘Love has no end,’ Sir Maurice continued. ‘We are born like that, my child. I truly believe that every man and woman has two great loves: one for God and one for their spouse. Indeed, such a love reflects the life of the Trinity. As the great Bonaventure says, “As God loves the son and gives birth to the spirit which is love”, so male and female, in holy alliance, become one and create a divine life, participating in God’s creation.’

  ‘And it knows no lies?’ Angelica asked.

  ‘None whatsoever.’

  ‘Or division?’

  ‘None whatsoever.’

  ‘So, what shall Angelica do?’ Lady Monica asked. Athelstan noticed her face had become slightly flushed.

  ‘She should pray,’ Sir Maurice replied. ‘Pray with all her mind, her heart and soul that God’s will be known. My lady, it will not be Sir Thomas Parr, nor you, nor this young woman, nor even that poor unfortunate, miserable, broken-hearted . . .’ Athelstan kicked him on the shin. ‘Woebegone knight who will decide but God. And God loves lovers.’ He caught the steely glint in Lady Monica’s eyes. ‘His will shall decide.’

  ‘And until then?’ Angelica asked, drawing herself up, the laughter bubbling in her eyes. ‘Am I to stay here and pine away? Not that the good sisters here,’ she added hurriedly, ‘are vexatious but I do wonder how this will end.’

  ‘God will give a sign.’ Athelstan spoke up. He put his hand out and gently squeezed Sir Maurice’s knees, a reminder that he had said enough.

  ‘Brother Athelstan speaks the truth,’ Sir Maurice said, his eyes holding Lady Angelica. ‘He will give a sign and His will shall be known. In the end all will be well; all manner of things will be well.’