The Devil's Domain

by Paul Doherty

  ‘Who sent you?’ Athelstan asked.

  ‘Why, the devil himself.’

  Athelstan gazed at the knight, who gestured with his eyes towards the fire. Athelstan swallowed hard. He knew the knight was asking that he cross between the two assassins and himself. Athelstan took a step forward.

  ‘Where are you going, Brother?’

  ‘I’m going to douse the fire,’ Athelstan said. ‘If I am to be killed, I don’t want the house burned down. They are poor people I serve. The Bishop would expect them to build a new house for the next priest.’

  He saw a flicker of puzzlement in shaven-head’s eyes, as he went forward.

  ‘Come on now, Bonaventure!’

  Athelstan stooped, picking up the cat. He heard a movement and turned quickly, throwing the cat at the shaven-head’s feet. Sir Maurice had moved, his speed taking Athelstan by surprise. A crossbow bolt whirred and smacked into the plaster at the far end. Athelstan felt himself pushed. He went staggering back and, by the time he regained his balance, Sir Maurice was among the killers. Both men had loosed their crossbows and that was their undoing, for they didn’t have time to draw sword and dagger. The knight’s sword sliced into the shoulder of one, sending him screaming back. The other threw his crossbow at Sir Maurice, hitting him on the arm as he turned. The knight stopped, flinching with pain, giving the taller shaven-head time to draw his weapons, throwing his cloak back over his shoulder. Sir Maurice moved in, sword cutting the air. The assassin was quick-footed and blocked the thrust with sword and dagger. The other assassin was now crouched near the door. The elder one yelled at him. He forgot his pain, and getting to one knee he drew his sword, glancing at the mêlée then at the Dominican. Athelstan picked up a stool. The assassin clambered to his feet. Athelstan threw it, the man ducked, the stool missed but then Godbless came in, throwing the door back. It struck the assassin and sent him staggering forwards.

  Bonaventure was now on the table, hair up, spitting in fury. Thaddeus had got to his feet and fled to a far corner. Sir Maurice and the shaven-head were now in close combat, sword and dagger locked, each trying to seek the advantage. Athelstan picked up another stool but Godbless snatched it from him. The wounded assassin turned and, as he did so, Godbless brought the stool down. Athelstan closed his eyes; the stool hit the assassin with a resounding thwack full in the forehead. The man collapsed. Before Athelstan could do anything, Godbless, dagger in hand, was standing over the man and in one quick swipe, he slit his throat from ear to ear. As he did this, Sir Maurice stepped back. Athelstan thought the struggle was still continuing. The shaven-head was crouched, a look of puzzlement on his face, his lips slightly parted. He came forward, sword and dagger still gripped. Athelstan saw the great dark patch under his heart; a froth of bubbles appeared at the corner of his mouth.

  ‘In God’s name!’ the man gasped. His eyes rolled up as sword and dagger slipped from his hand.

  Sir Maurice went in again, thrusting his dagger deep into the man’s throat. The assassin fell to his knees, blood pouring from the wounds in his chest and throat, then he gave a groan and fell on his face.

  Athelstan found he couldn’t stop shaking. He picked up Bonaventure, took one of the stools and sat in front of the fire. He stroked the cat. Sir Maurice was speaking but he couldn’t understand a word the knight was saying. Godbless came over and tapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘Are you well, Brother? It’s always like this after a blood spilling.’

  ‘This is my house,’ Athelstan replied, finding he couldn’t stop the tears. ‘This is my house. I live here with Bonaventure.’

  Sir Maurice crouched down beside him. He filled a goblet with wine and Athelstan sipped from it.

  ‘Of course it’s your house,’ the knight said quietly.

  ‘Did you kill those men?’ Athelstan asked.

  ‘You know I have, Brother. And Godbless the other.’

  ‘No, no.’ Athelstan shook his head and put Bonaventure down. ‘I mean those Frenchmen at Hawkmere. Did you kill them?’

  ‘No, Father, you know I did not.’

  Athelstan’s body shook with a shiver. ‘I am sorry,’ he whispered. ‘I have seen men die before but,’ he took a great gulp from the wine cup, ‘I wish old Jack was here!’

  ‘I could send for him.’

  ‘No, no.’ Athelstan put the cup down. I am trembling like a maid.’

  He got to his feet and, despite the objections of the other two, knelt before each of the former assassins and gave them the last rites. The men lay crumpled on the floor. They looked pathetic now, empty faces, sightless eyes, pools of blood around their heads.

  ‘If God can forgive you, so can I,’ Athelstan said.

  The beggar man immediately went through the assassins’ paltry possessions and found nothing but some coins which Athelstan told him to keep. They then wrapped the corpses in their cloaks and took them out. The storm had passed, the rain had stopped. They put both corpses just within the lych gate.

  ‘We’ll bury them tomorrow,’ Athelstan said. ‘We can put them in the ditch Pike and Watkin have dug.’

  Sir Maurice now took over. He insisted that Athelstan, Bonaventura and Thaddeus go into the church.

  ‘I can help,’ Athelstan protested.

  ‘No, no, Brother, those men came for me. The least I can do is clean your house.’

  Athelstan unlocked the church and, followed by the two animals, went inside. He went up into the sanctuary and, taking some cushions from a chest in the sacristy, sat there, arms crossed, staring up at the red winking sanctuary lamp. He tried to pray for himself, for Sir Maurice, for Sir Jack and those two hapless souls sent into the darkness. He prayed they would not fall into eternal night. Thaddeus was still trembling and Athelstan had to put his arm round him. Bonaventure crawled into his lap.

  ‘We are not a very brave trio, are we?’ Athelstan said. ‘But it was the speed, the savagery of the killing!’

  Bonaventure purred.

  ‘I’m sorry I threw you,’ Athelstan apologised. ‘But what could I do?’

  The door opened. He saw a lighted candle and two dark shapes, Sir Maurice and Godbless, came up the nave.

  ‘The house is clean, Brother. There wasn’t much blood.’

  Godbless was eating from another bowl of stew.

  ‘Nothing like the cut and thrust to give a man an appetite.’

  Sir Maurice stretched his hand out. ‘Come on, it is time we slept. There’s nothing more we can do.’

  ‘Who sent them?’

  ‘Ah!’ The knight’s usually handsome face turned ugly. ‘Parr! I’ll go down there tomorrow and challenge him.’

  Athelstan shook his head. ‘Don’t do that, Maurice, please, for my sake!’

  The knight crouched down, cupping the candle flame in his hand.

  ‘You really don’t think it was Parr, do you?’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ Athelstan replied. He got to his feet. ‘Those assassins. You see, if they had been captured and questioned, Parr would have lost his head on Tower Green or even hanged at Tyburn!’ He sighed. I suspect it’s Mercurius. And how could those villains lead us back to him? Ah well. In the end we’ll know the truth. Come on, Godbless, you’d best sleep on the kitchen floor.’

  Athelstan glanced at the knight.

  ‘Won’t my Lord of Gaunt miss you at the Savoy?’

  ‘I’m in the Regent’s favour. What I do, Brother, for two or three days, is of no concern to him.’

  While Sir Maurice and Godbless, accompanied by Thaddeus and Bonaventure, went back to the house, Athelstan locked the door of the church. He then went and stood over the two corpses laid out on the wet grass. He sketched a blessing above them and returned to the house.

  At Mass the following morning, St Erconwald’s was well attended. The parish council turned out in force, thronging into the sanctuary. Athelstan realised that the news of the attack had somehow spread throughout Southwark. He gave the final blessing and turned to go into the sanctuary.
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  ‘Shall we hang them, Brother?’ Pike coolly shouted, leaning on his shovel. ‘Shall we hang them up by their heels as a warning?’

  His words were greeted by a roar of approval from the other parishioners. Athelstan glimpsed Benedicta’s pale face as she stared hollow-eyed at him, her lips moving as if she were quietly reciting a prayer.

  ‘You’ll leave the corpses as they are. What are their bodies now but poor husks? Their souls are before God, but you can help me.’

  After he had divested, Athelstan went into the cemetery, his parishioners streaming around him. Hig the pigman stood on guard over the corpses, a thick cudgel in his hand.

  ‘Crim,’ Athelstan said. ‘Go back to the sacristy. Bring a stoup of holy water and an asperges rod. Pike, over there, beneath the yew trees, you’ll find an old wooden cross.’

  ‘You are not going to bury them here?’ Pernell the Fleming woman screeched.

  ‘It’s a Christian act to bury the dead,’ Athelstan replied.

  ‘Aren’t you going to tell us what happened?’ Manger the hang-man spoke up.

  ‘They came here to rob. And my good friend Sir Maurice Maltravers heroically defended me! A true hero, a Sir Galahad!’

  The knight was immediately mobbed by the parishioners.

  ‘Your priest was brave as well,’ he declared. ‘And so was Godbless!’

  The beggar man, too, received tribute. Athelstan glimpsed Benedicta slipping him some coins.

  ‘We’ll bury them here,’ Athelstan announced. ‘And they’ll wait till the resurrection.’

  ‘Aye, when the buggers wake up,’ Watkin roared, ‘the first thing I’ll do is smack them in the ear!’

  A chorus of approval greeted the dung-collector’s words.

  ‘Rats they are.’ Ranulf the rat-catcher spoke up. ‘And rats they died. Oh, by the way, Brother, you haven’t forgotten our Mass tomorrow?’

  ‘What’s this?’ Watkin asked.

  ‘Ranulf will tell you,’ Athelstan said. ‘And I want no argument.’

  Pike returned carrying the little wooden cross.

  ‘Where are you going to bury them, Brother?’

  ‘In that ditch along the cemetery wall.’

  Pike’s face fell. He glanced sideways at Watkin.

  ‘It stands to reason,’ Athelstan continued. ‘They will be buried in consecrated soil but only just.’ He scuffed the wet grass with his sandals. ‘Despite the rain, the soil’s too hard. It saves you digging an extra grave. Finally, no one ever asks to be buried next to the wall.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Bladdersniff. He was still swaying on his feet as the effect of last night’s ale made itself felt. ‘Best place for them,’ he added.

  Watkin and Pike reluctantly agreed.

  ‘Very well,’ Athelstan said. ‘Lift the bodies up. Pike, you go ahead carrying the cross. The rest of you can be my witnesses. Say a prayer for their unfortunate souls.’

  The strange procession wound its way across the cemetery. Athelstan loudly recited the Pater Noster. Pike carried the cross before him. Watkin trailed behind muttering, ‘Bastards they were born, bastards they die!’

  They reached the trench, most of it now refilled. The bodies were lowered, one on top of the other, Pike and Watkin ordering everyone around. Athelstan blessed the grave and muttered a prayer.

  ‘Well,’ he said to Watkin and Pike. ‘Fill the ditch in!’

  ‘Yes, fill it in,’ Godbless added. ‘What’s the matter with you two? We can’t leave two corpses out like that!’

  Mumbling under their breath, Watkin and Pike began to shovel in the dirt. Athelstan looked up at the huge sycamore tree and then he noticed it. Part of the bark had worn away as if someone had tied a hempen rope around it. On closer inspection some of the branches were freshly broken, the sap still clean and white. A vague unease stirred.

  Ah well, we’ve buried them now.’ He sighed. ‘And that’s the end of that matter!’

  CHAPTER 14

  Athelstan felt rather exhausted, tired and depleted, so he decided to spend the day in his parish. He went up on to the bell tower and stared out across Southwark, watching the plumes of smoke rise from the cottages and the tannery shops. The people in the narrow streets looked like colourful insects scurrying about. On such a clear day, though the sun was hazy, he could make out the Thames and the different ships and barges moving along it. He let the breeze cool his face as, crouching down with his back to the wall, he reflected on the previous day’s happenings.

  ‘What do we have here?’ He addressed Bonaventure who had followed him up and now lay sunning himself on the trap door. ‘We have a lovelorn knight but, in battle, he’s a warrior who has taken two ships. Secundo, my dear Bonaventure, our beloved Regent may have a spy among the officers on those two ships. Whether that spy is still alive or dead we don’t know.’

  Athelstan watched the birds soar overhead. For some strange reason he recalled his sudden departure from St Erconwald’s before Prior Anselm had abruptly ordered him to return. Was he pleased to be back? Yes, he was. For all the strife and blood, the petty annoyances of life, he loved this church and the people who thronged it.

  ‘Even though some of them are villains,’ Athelstan said loudly. ‘However, back to the matter in hand, my dear Bonaventure. Tertio, we know the French have a spy, Mercurius, in England. He is a bloody-handed assassin. He may be responsible for the deaths of those men and that poor girl at Hawkmere, although it doesn’t make sense. He may have used some strange poison and probably bought this from Vulpina. He undoubtedly found out we had visited Vulpina so she had to die. Quarto.’ He rubbed his hands. ‘We have the death of that woman at the Golden Cresset. Undoubtedly the work of someone who wants to discredit poor Maltravers. Quinto, we have the death of the Frenchman Maneil but, this time, he is murdered with a crossbow bolt, not poison. However, none of the prisoners, or even the guards at Hawkmere, have crossbows. And who else had been in the manor apart from him, Cranston and Maltravers? Sexto, we have the attack on Maltravers last night. He believes it’s the work of Sir Thomas Parr, I don’t. Parr would not stoop so low or do something which would leave him so vulnerable.’ Athelstan turned so his face caught the sun. ‘What else do we have, my dear cat, my comrade in arms? Yes, that’s right. The loose threads. How did Routier know how to escape?’

  Both he and Bonaventure jumped as the trap door opened. Bonaventure immediately leapt into the friar’s lap. Athelstan tensed but then relaxed as Sir John’s great red face appeared, whiskers bristling, grinning from ear to ear.

  ‘I thought you’d be up here.’

  ‘Sir John.’ Athelstan held a hand up. ‘Do not try to get through the trap door. You are far too . . . well, you are far too large.’

  For one moment he thought the coroner was going to ignore him. The friar had a picture of Sir John wedged in the trap door and having to be pulled loose by members of the parish. Sir John, however, had the sense to accept his advice.

  ‘I’ve seen Maltravers and that good-for-nothing Godbless. They told me what happened last night.’ The coroner’s ice-blue eyes glowed fiercely. ‘I wish I had been here, Athelstan, ferocious as a mastiff I would have been, striking swift as a swooping hawk. Maltravers still thinks it’s Parr.’

  ‘I know, I know, Sir John but, for God’s sake, let’s go down!’

  Watching him fairly skip down the narrow spiral staircase, Athelstan was intrigued by how nimble-footed the over-large coroner always was. Holding Bonaventure, Athelstan followed. Sir John stood waiting on the church porch.

  ‘Don’t let’s go into the house,’ the coroner moaned. ‘If that Godbless chatters at me again I’ll hit him, while Maltravers appears to be more woebegone than ever.’

  ‘The Piebald Tavern,’ Athelstan suggested. ‘I feel like a jug of ale, perhaps a pie. Yes, Sir John?’

  He strode down the steps and was halfway along the alleyway before Athelstan caught up with him.

  ‘You think those assassins were sent by Mercurius,
don’t you?’ Sir John grasped the friar by the shoulder. ‘Well, I’ve got news for you, but it will wait.’

  They entered the taproom, Sir John shouting good-natured abuse at some of Athelstan’s parishioners seated round the great wooden tables. Joscelyn, the innkeeper, waved them over to a window seat; the casements were open and the sweet smell of the flowers planted outside wafted through. The one-armed taverner brought blackjacks of cool London ale and a large pie cut up and quartered. He insisted on serving them himself, placing the slices on traunchers of hard-baked bread.

  ‘Do you remember that girl?’ Sir John began, smacking his lips. ‘The one we found hanging by the neck at the Golden Cresset? Well her name’s not Anna Triveter. She’s better known along St Mary Axe Street, just near Pountney Inn, as Beatrice the Bawdy Basket. A quiet, rather gentle whore who sometimes dressed as a nun to please her customers.’

  ‘I beg your pardon, Sir John?’

  ‘Oh believe me, Brother. In that part of the city, if you have the silver, a whore can act any part you want: nuns, countesses, even Dominicans!’

  ‘Don’t blaspheme, Jack!’

  ‘Dear Beatrice disappeared a few days ago,’ Sir John blithely continued. ‘Or so the scrimperers told me. Anyway, I’ve been to St Mary Axe Street and spoken to Peterkin the pincher. He’s a pimp, a salacious rogue, who entices young women on to the streets and arranges for them to sell their bodies while he provides protection. Now Peterkin didn’t want to speak to me. But, after I had banged his head a couple of times against the alley wall, he did recall two strangers approaching him. Hooded and cowled, he couldn’t say who they were but they paid him good silver for Beatrice and took her away.’

  ‘Two men?’ Athelstan asked.

  ‘Two. But, listen to this, Brother: their voices were disguised by mufflers but they were well accoutred, definitely English. Anyway, they took Beatrice away and that’s the last Peterkin saw of her. After that I went to see my Lord Regent at the Savoy. I told him what had happened at Hawkmere. Do you know something, Brother? Gaunt held a hand over the lower part of his face. I am sure he was laughing at me.’