The Devil's Domain

by Paul Doherty

  ‘And will you speak to this young knight?’ Lady Monica asked.

  ‘Oh yes. I shall speak to him as soon as I leave here. I will seek him out.’ He held a hand up. ‘And I know what he will say, for I have met such young men before though, perhaps, none so smitten as he. He will be downcast, weeping copiously, be lost in his desolation. He will tell me that he loves this young woman more than life itself. That he will love her until death and beyond. He will say because of her, he’d storm the gates of hell and confront all the powers of darkness. How heaven and earth will pass away but his love will remain eternal. How he has given his heart to the Lady Angelica and that she will either heal it or break it!’

  Lady Monica sighed noisily, her eyelids fluttering. ‘That poor, poor, young man. I shall pray for him, too.’

  ‘Brother Norbert. Tell him . . .’

  ‘No, no!’ Lady Monica grasped Angelica’s wrists. ‘You can send him no message, my child.’

  Athelstan caught the look in the young woman’s eyes and knew there was no need. He got slowly to his feet. Sir John did likewise.

  ‘We must leave now,’ Athelstan said firmly. ‘But, Lady Monica, if it is agreeable to you, we will return?’

  ‘Oh yes, oh yes.’ The abbess wiped a tear from the corner of her eyes. ‘Sir Jack, all this brings back sweet memories.’

  Cranston nodded solemnly. ‘We have seen the days, Lady Monica. Oh, we have seen the days!’

  Once they left the convent of Syon, Athelstan had no objection to Sir John ‘leading them into temptation’, heading like an arrow to the welcoming darkness of the taproom in the Jerusalem Tree. Sir Maurice’s face was saturated in sweat. Athelstan found that his legs were trembling a little while Sir John was chuckling. Indeed, by the time they had ordered three tankards of good, frothy London ale, this had turned into guffaws of laughter.

  ‘I wouldn’t have believed that.’ He sighed. ‘Trust me, Athelstan, Lady Monica, or Isabella Fitzpercy as she was known when I was thin as a beanpole, is a formidable woman.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it.’ Athelstan drank the ale rather quickly. ‘I’m going to pray to St Antony of Padua, my favourite saint, that Prior Anselm never finds out.’ He tapped his tankard against Sir Maurice’s. ‘But I warn you, if he does, you’ll have to join the Dominican Order. You’ll make a good preacher, Sir Maurice.’

  ‘I feel sick,’ the young knight moaned. ‘Believe me, sirs, I’ve jumped from one ship to another. I have fought hand-to-hand in the most bloody mêlée but I have never been so terrified.’

  ‘Did you love the Lady Monica once?’ Athelstan asked.

  Sir John ruffled his hair and twirled his moustache.

  ‘In my day.’ He slurped from the tankard. ‘In my day, I was truly a lady’s man, fleet of foot, sharp of eye and keen of wit. I could dance. Oh, I could dance, Athelstan! Those were the glory days when the great Edward held his court. I mean no offence, but men like Sir Maurice were as many as pebbles on the beach. Slim as a greyhound.’ Sir John wiped the tears from his eyes. ‘Fast as a swooping hawk!’

  Athelstan gazed affectionately at this great mound of generous, laughter-filled man with a body as big as his heart.

  ‘You did very well, Sir Maurice,’ Sir John said approvingly, then bawled for another tankard. ‘And the Lady Angelica is most beautiful. You could lose your soul in those eyes. If I were younger.’ He tapped his fleshy nose. ‘Never tell the Lady Maude but, if I were younger, Sir Maurice, I’d enter the lists against you. Oh the days!’ he sighed. ‘Oh, the passing of time!’

  ‘One thing I did notice,’ Athelstan said, putting his tankard back on the table. He watched a young boy sitting in the doorway, a pet weasel in his lap. ‘Lady Angelica knew nothing of that business at the Golden Cresset. Now, if that had been the work of Sir Thomas Parr, he would have let his daughter know immediately.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ Sir John said, nose in his tankard. He put it down and smacked his lips. ‘I’ve asked my scrivener, Simon, a veritable ferret of a man, to seek out among the bawds and whores, the brothels and the courtesans, to discover if any young woman is missing.’

  ‘Sir John?’ A shadow darkened the door.

  ‘It’s magic. I speak the man’s name and he appears! Simon, come here!’

  His spindly-shanked scrivener tottered across. Sir John offered him his tankard, which the fellow drained in one gulp. Then he smiled at Sir John’s glowering glance.

  ‘A message arrived for you at the Guildhall. You are needed at Hawkmere.’ He stared quizzically at Sir Maurice. ‘Don’t I know you?’

  ‘Mind your own business!’ Sir John snapped. ‘What’s happened at Hawkmere?’

  ‘One of the prisoners has escaped and Sir Walter Limbright’s beside himself with rage!’

  They arrived at Hawkmere Manor dishevelled and dusty, hot and perspiring. Sir Maurice had taken off his Dominican robes and was now dressed in brown woollen leggings and white shirt, his military cloak slung over his shoulder. He had left his friar’s robes with Simon who, for a penny, had agreed to take them back across the river to St Erconwald’s.

  Sir John had led them at almost a furious charge up through Farringdon Ward and across Holborn. Only now and again would he stop to catch his breath and loudly declaim, ‘A French prisoner escape! Limbright has got a lot to answer for.’

  Hawkmere Manor was in uproar. The yard was thronged with soldiers and archers. Huntsmen had great mastiffs which strained at their leashes, their barking echoing round the grey ragstone walls. Horsemen came and went. Sir Walter strode up and down shouting orders, wiping the perspiration from his face. On the steps of the Great Hall his moon-faced daughter sat, picking at the ground. The three French prisoners stood nearby, closely guarded by men-at-arms. Beneath a tree, which afforded the only shade in the sun-filled manor yard, Monsieur Charles de Fontanel sat with his back to the trunk, sipping at a cup of wine and eating from a small napkin laid out on his lap. Beside him his horse, held by a greasy-haired squire, cropped at the sparse grass. As soon as he glimpsed them, Fontanel jumped to his feet and strode across as if to reach the visitors before Sir Walter Limbright noticed that they had arrived. He took off his small cap and gave the most mocking bow.

  ‘My lord coroner, Brother Athelstan. We meet again.’ He gestured round the yard. ‘According to the rules of war, Sir John, prisoners are supposed to be protected and well guarded. I will protest most resolutely to my Lord of Gaunt.’

  ‘It is not my fault,’ Sir Walter came up, his puce-coloured face covered in sweat, ‘that the prisoner has escaped!’

  ‘How do we know that?’ Sir John countered. ‘How do we know the poor fellow isn’t dead and his body hidden somewhere in this benighted place?’

  ‘Philippe Routier has escaped,’ Sir Walter insisted, not even bothering to glance at de Fontanel.

  ‘Show me!’ Sir John ordered.

  Sir Walter led them through the manor and into the small garden behind the main house. He pointed to the far wall.

  ‘If you notice, Sir John, there are footholds there. Two soldiers were in the garden. A quarrel broke out among the prisoners. Routier used this to climb the garden wall.’

  He led them through the garden gate and into the dusty yard beyond where he pointed to an outhouse.

  ‘He went through there, unobserved by the sentries, climbed through, loosened a shutter and escaped across the heath.’

  ‘Wouldn’t the soldiers on the wall have noticed?’ Athelstan asked.

  ‘No, they wouldn’t,’ Sir John replied, feeling rather sorry for Sir Walter, who was so agitated. ‘Sentries tend to look in: their job was to ensure that no one left the castle rather than broke in.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir John. They were also lazy. In fact, they were sitting on the parapet, Routier must have known that. Once you’re out, the land dips and falls and there are gorse bushes to hide behind.’ He shrugged. ‘But we are wasting time.’

  They returned to the main manor y
ard. The three visitors, together with de Fontanel, joined Sir Walter and his men as they fanned out over the hot heathland. Ahead of them the grooms released the mastiffs which now ran about trying to detect the scent. Eventually one did and, followed by the rest, bounded over the sun-scorched grass towards a copse of trees in the far distance. The hounds stopped for a while where the land dipped. When Sir John reached the place, he squatted down, Sir Maurice with him. The grass here was scuffed, bread crumbs lay scattered about.

  ‘He paused here for a while,’ the coroner murmured. ‘But then pressed on. He ate . . .’

  A loud howling cut him short. The soldiers were now running towards the copse of trees where the mastiffs were bounding about. A sound of a horn rose above the shouts and yelps.

  By the time they reached the copse the dogs had been whipped in, leashes attached. Sir Walter was kneeling beside the corpse sprawled on the grass beneath the tree.

  ‘He’s dead. The poor bastard’s dead as a nail!’

  The others grouped round. Athelstan knelt down. One look at Routier’s corpse was enough. The man’s skin was now a dirty white, the eyes rolled back, the open mouth stained, the tongue slightly swollen. Athelstan undid the leather jacket then the tattered shirt beneath. Purplish stains blotched the stomach and chest. The hands were cold and waxen to the touch. Beside the corpse was a water bottle and a linen cloth containing some bread and a little dried meat. Athelstan leaned across and picked them up and sniffed at them: he could find nothing amiss.

  ‘He could have died of apoplexy,’ Sir Walter said hopefully.

  De Fontanel shook his head. ‘Routier was an accomplished sailor. A man of good physique.’

  ‘I am afraid I must agree with Monsieur de Fontanel,’ Athelstan said, getting to his feet. He sketched a blessing over the corpse. ‘Routier was poisoned before he left the manor.’ He pointed back over the heathland. ‘He would feel weak, perhaps the first early symptoms, so he paused where the land dips, and took some sustenance. But, by the time he reached the trees, the full effect of the poison made itself known. The poor man collapsed here and died.’

  ‘It’s disgraceful,’ de Fontanel said. ‘These are citizens of the French Crown. Prisoners of war, they honourably surrendered, they should be honourably treated.’

  ‘They are pirates,’ Sir Maurice broke in, pushing his way forward to confront the Frenchman. ‘Pirates,’ he repeated. ‘They should have been hanged out of hand. You have no proof, Monsieur de Fontanel, that Routier here was not poisoned by one of his companions.’

  A quarrel would have broken out but Sir John intervened.

  ‘Enough!’ he bellowed. ‘Sir Walter, have the corpse removed. Monsieur de Fontanel, you are welcome to join us in our enquiries. I suggest these begin as soon as we return to Hawkmere.’

  A short while later Sir John, Athelstan and Sir Maurice sat behind the table on a dais in the hall at Hawkmere Manor. Sir Walter had served some watered wine and pieces of freshly cooked chicken. Athelstan was grateful for the food and the refreshments as well as for the chance to wash his hands and face in a bowl of rose-scented water. The keeper also ushered in Aspinall the physician who had arrived just as they returned to Hawkmere. The physician had made a superficial survey of the corpse and agreed with Athelstan’s verdict.

  ‘No apoplexy,’ he announced. ‘Routier was murdered, the same death as poor Serriem.’

  De Fontanel sat at one end of the table. He ostentatiously refused to eat or drink anything, as did the other three prisoners after the guards brought them in. Sir John ordered the doors to be locked and guarded, took one gulp of the wine and gazed darkly around. He had already taken advice from Athelstan and Sir Maurice both of whom had agreed that honesty was the best way forward.

  ‘There is an assassin loose at Hawkmere,’ he growled. ‘Whatever these men were, whatever they did, they are prisoners of the English Crown and deserve honourable treatment. Two have been murdered. Serriem here and Routier out on that dry heathland. The questions are how and who is responsible? Sir Walter, when Serriem’s corpse was discovered, nothing untoward was found in his chamber?’

  ‘Nothing, Sir John. As I said, Serriem’s corpse was found on the floor.’

  Sir John turned to the three French prisoners.

  ‘And, to the best of your knowledge, Serriem only ate and drank what you did?’

  ‘Yes,’ Gresnay lisped, looking rather bored by the proceedings.

  ‘And the same goes for Routier!’ Maneil snarled. ‘This morning we came down to this damnable place.’ He gestured round the hall. ‘We had the usual mangy bread, smelly meat and foul drink.’

  ‘And Routier ate all his?’ Athelstan asked.

  ‘Of course he did. He was planning to escape. He needed all the sustenance he could to keep his strength up.’

  ‘But that’s not true,’ Athelstan replied. ‘When we found his corpse he carried a water bottle, scraps of bread and meat.’

  ‘I gave those to him.’ Gresnay languidly lifted a hand.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he was going to escape. He told us last night.’

  ‘And that’s why you agreed to quarrel in the garden to divert the attention of the guards?’

  ‘Very perceptive,’ Gresnay drawled.

  ‘And why did he wish to escape?’ Athelstan continued, ignoring the jibe.

  ‘Because he fell in love with Sir Walter’s daughter,’ Gresnay grinned. ‘They were going to elope, just like Sir Maurice here with the Lady Angelica.’

  Both Sir Walter and Sir Maurice sprang to their feet but Sir John roared at them to sit down.

  ‘And you, sir,’ he pointed at Gresnay, ‘will keep a civil tongue in your head or you’ll be in a dungeon in the Tower!’

  ‘Don’t threaten me!’ Gresnay screamed back, his face tight with anger. I am a citizen of France, a sailor. I’m kept in this fly-blown, rat-infested midden-heap and threatened. The Tower would be a welcome change!’

  ‘Routier escaped,’ Vamier intervened smoothly, ‘because he could no longer tolerate being confined, trapped like a bird in a snare. He thought he had seen a weakness and could use it. He would have either gone into London or some other port. Sought shelter and succour from some captain. I cannot blame him.’

  ‘Why didn’t you go with him?’ Athelstan asked.

  Vamier shrugged. ‘His chances were poor. The more who tried to escape, the more dangerous it became. Anyway, our ransoms will be paid soon.’

  ‘Yes, I was going to ask about that.’ Athelstan picked up his writing bag and put it on the table. ‘Monsieur de Fontanel, these men are experienced sailors, as English shipping has discovered. Why doesn’t the French Crown pay their ransoms and have done with it?’

  Athelstan was not surprised to see the prisoners nod their heads in agreement. De Fontanel spread his hands.

  ‘You have French prisoners at Hawkmere but you also have them in Calais, Dover, Winchelsea and Rye. The French parliament would be inundated with petitions.’ He smiled crookedly. ‘But you are right, Brother, I have pressed these men’s claims with my masters in France; their ransoms will arrive soon.’

  ‘But not soon enough for Routier!’ Vamier spat out.

  ‘I am not responsible for what happens in Paris. I do the best I can for your care.’ De Fontanel then added something quickly in French.

  Vamier sat back crestfallen.

  ‘What was that, Monsieur?’ Athelstan asked.

  ‘I merely reminded him that I was not responsible for his capture.’

  ‘Let us return to the matter in hand.’ Sir John took a swig from his wineskin. ‘Routier was poisoned before he fled Hawkmere. You, Monsieur Gresnay, were the last to give him anything to eat or drink, which could make you the poisoner.’

  ‘It is also very obvious,’ Gresnay sneered back, ‘if I had given Routier poison, I would know he could not travel very far. I would expect to be accused, wouldn’t I?’

  Athelstan had to agree with the Frenchman’s logi
c. He was about to ask further questions when the door to the hall was thrown open and a soldier clattered in, helmet in hand, his face white.

  ‘Sir Walter, it’s your daughter! You’d best come quickly!’

  CHAPTER 12

  ‘I think we’d best go with him,’ Athelstan said.

  Sir Walter was striding up the main staircase. In the stairwell a frightened-looking servant whispered in his ear and he stopped, grabbing the newel of the staircase. He rocked backwards and forwards and gave the most terrible moan.

  ‘Oh my God!’ he cried. ‘My poor, poor daughter!’

  He disappeared down the gallery. By the time Athelstan, Sir John and Sir Maurice reached it they could hear his lamentations through an open door. Inside the chamber they found him kneeling beside his prostrate daughter who lay sprawled on her back, head slightly twisted to one side. Athelstan grasped the girl’s wrist and felt her throat for the life pulse but he could detect nothing. He turned the girl’s face. The eyelids were almost closed, jaws slack, a drool of spittle on her chin; her face was livid rather than pale, her skin cold and clammy. Athelstan ignored Sir Walter’s groans and quickly checked the girl’s body but could see no mark, bruise or slash. Aspinall came in the doorway and crouched down. He held the girl’s face between his hands and, ignoring Sir Walter’s protests, took a small knife and cut the brown smock. Her neck and upper chest were already tainted with faint purplish blotches.

  ‘She’s been poisoned,’ Aspinall said softly. ‘Probably died within the hour.’

  ‘Why?’ Sir Walter clutched his daughter’s hair, twisting it round his fingers. ‘Why?’ he moaned. ‘She had no wits, she had no life!’

  Athelstan whispered the ‘Absolvo Te’ in the dead woman’s ear, uttered a short prayer then blessed the corpse. He got up and helped Sir Walter to his feet. The knight’s face was stricken with grief, tears streaming down his face, lips moving but no sound came.

  ‘Sir Walter?’ Athelstan made him sit down on a chair. ‘Sir Walter, listen to me.’

  The knight turned, bleary-eyed.