The Devil's Domain

by Paul Doherty

  ‘I am betrothed,’ Sir Maurice smiled as Athelstan came in. He welcomed the little friar with a bearlike hug. ‘We’ll be married by Michaelmas. In St Mary-Le-Bow. And you must be the celebrant.’

  ‘A good day’s work, Brother Athelstan!’ Gaunt called out, beckoning him closer. ‘How did you do it?’

  ‘My lord Regent, God works in wondrous ways, His wonders to perform.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it, Brother.’ Gaunt’s eyes hardened as his gaze moved to the small musicians’ gallery at the far end of the hall.

  Athelstan turned and looked but he could see nothing, since the gallery was hidden in shadows.

  ‘What have we got here?’ Gaunt asked.

  ‘Why, my lord Regent, the truth.’

  ‘Do you know something?’ Gaunt pointed at him. ‘You, my little friar, are a very dangerous man. Shall I tell you why?’

  ‘If you wish, my lord Regent.’

  ‘Because you see things, Athelstan. You have a love of logic, a hunger for the truth while people like myself can only echo Pilate and ask what is truth? So, do we have the truth here, Brother Athelstan?’

  ‘I think so, my lord, but . . .’

  ‘Ah, there you are!’ Sir John, accompanied by Gervase, walked into the hall. ‘I’ve just been up to see the prisoners. They are both frightened. Our other guests have not arrived yet.’

  ‘My guards, where are they?’ Gaunt asked.

  ‘Everywhere but the mice-holes. And there are some men dressed in gowns and hoods. They must be your men, Gervase?’

  ‘My lovely lads,’ the Keeper of the House of Secrets simpered back. ‘They go where I do and keep an eye on their patron. In fact, we are a most pleasing choir, be it a madrigal or the introit to a Mass.’

  ‘Shall we begin?’ Gaunt interrupted harshly.

  ‘I think we should,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Sir John, if you could seal the doors?’

  ‘Don’t we need the prisoners here?’ Gaunt asked.

  ‘No, my lord, at least not for the time being.’

  ‘Well,’ Gaunt waved his hand. ‘The truth, my good friar?’

  ‘The St Denis and St Sulpice,’ Athelstan began as Cranston closed the doors, ‘were two French warships, pirates, marauders in the Narrow Seas. They were like cats among the mice, snapping up the English merchantmen. You, Sir Maurice, sank one and captured the other.’

  ‘We know that,’ Gaunt drawled.

  ‘How did you capture them, Sir Maurice?’

  ‘I told you, Brother. I was in Dover when news arrived by messenger from London that the wine fleet would be leaving Calais. We were to put to sea and ensure its safe passage across. You know the rest.’ He spread his hands.

  ‘It was luck, wasn’t it?’ Athelstan asked, staring at Gaunt. Absolute good fortune that the English ships came upon the St Denis and St Sulpice. My lord Regent, Sir Gervase, the English had no spies aboard either ship, did they?’

  Gaunt smiled to himself, Gervase looked away.

  ‘When the St Sulpice was brought into Dover,’ Athelstan continued, ‘and the prisoners taken ashore, the French officers were kept separate, weren’t they?’

  ‘Of course,’ Sir Maurice said. ‘It’s common practice!’

  ‘And you, Gervase, when they came here, visited them?’

  ‘Naturally, they might hold information which would be useful to us.’

  ‘And what did you find?’

  Gervase now refused to meet his gaze.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘But you, my Lord of Gaunt, dropped hints, light as a feather, how this good fortune of war was really the result of treason among the French.’

  Gervase glanced at the Regent; Gaunt picked up the apple core and chewed at it.

  ‘Go on, friar,’ he murmured.

  ‘My lord, you couldn’t believe your good fortune. Two of the most dangerous ships in the French navy had been destroyed or taken, their captains and officers either killed or captured. You had the prizes as well as the ransom money for the hostages but you decided there was more to win.’

  Gaunt was now smiling to himself.

  ‘The spy Mercurius, the professional assassin at the French court, what a marvellous way to trap him! Let it be known, and I am sure you could do this through our envoys at the truce negotiations, that one of the prisoners at Hawkmere was one of your spies.’

  ‘Very good,’ Gervase commented. ‘Brother Athelstan, you really should work in the House of Secrets.’

  ‘You were playing with men’s lives,’ Athelstan went on. ‘The French court was furious that the spy, responsible for the destruction of two of their finest ships, could now look forward to honourable retirement as a pensioner in the Palace of the Savoy. Orders were issued and Mercurius began his bloody work.’

  ‘Brother, Brother.’ Gaunt shook his head in admiration as if they were playing chess or a game of hazard. ‘You forget these were French prisoners, they were held for ransom. If they die, I lose the money.’

  ‘A very small price, my lord. You invest one pound and recoup a treasure. The French would not use their deaths to break the truce. What would they care as long as the spy was destroyed?’

  Sir Maurice looked bemused. He scratched his head and beat at the table-top.

  ‘But, Brother, who is Mercurius, where is he? How could he poison so expertly? Why kill that poor girl? And Maneil shot with a crossbow bolt?’

  Athelstan ignored him.

  ‘My Lord of Gaunt, do I speak the truth?’

  ‘You do, Brother. “Put not your trust in Princes,” the psalmist says. Believe me, Athelstan, never were words so inspired. Outside of London the Great Community of the Realm conspires and plots. Across the Narrow Seas the French wait, ready to exploit any weakness. The St Sulpice and St Denis were captured by good luck and God’s good fortune. But, as the House of Secrets knows, Mercurius has done terrible mischief to our cause both here and abroad. A spy and an assassin, I wondered if he could be lured out into the open? When the prisoners began to die I knew I was correct. The French would kill them all, or some of them, until they believed they had avenged the insult. But the deaths themselves?’ Gaunt shook his head. ‘They are a mystery to me.’

  ‘Has Aspinall the physician arrived?’ Athelstan asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Sir John replied. ‘I asked for him to be confined in one of the upper chambers. He protested but he looks frightened enough.’

  ‘Bring him down,’ Athelstan ordered. He patted the table next to him. ‘Ask him to sit here.’

  Sir John left and, a short while later, brought in the physician. The man was visibly agitated, even more so when he realised whose presence he was in. He bobbed and scraped but Gaunt ignored him.

  ‘Brother Athelstan,’ he gabbled. ‘Is there anything wrong? I mean . . .’

  ‘When a man is poisoned,’ Athelstan asked, ‘how does the noxious substance work?’

  ‘Why, Brother.’ Aspinall swallowed hard. ‘It goes down to the gut and seriously disturbs the humours of the heart and the brain.’

  ‘And is there any poison that I can take which will not harm me but, if you eat it, would kill you?’

  Aspinall wiped a bead of sweat from his upper lip.

  ‘If there is, I have never heard of it, Brother.’

  Athelstan took out a small leather pouch from his writing-bag. He opened it and shook a number of very small, hard peas out on to the table.

  ‘This is the paternoster pea,’ he explained. ‘Also called the rosary pea. In Latin I understand they call it the Abrus precatorius. Master Aspinall, I would like you to take one.’

  Aspinall sat, hands in his lap.

  ‘Take it!’ Gaunt urged.

  Aspinall, trembling, picked up a pea.

  ‘Now, put it into your mouth.’

  ‘Is it poisonous?’ the physician asked.

  ‘What are you doing to do?’ Athelstan asked. I mean, when you put it in?’

  ‘I’ll break it between my teeth.’ Aspinall swallo
wed hard. ‘But, Brother, I beg you, for the love of God!’

  Athelstan smiled and took the pea back.

  ‘Don’t take it,’ he said quietly. ‘But, if you stay here, Master Aspinall, I am going to teach you something about medicine. Sir John. Bring the two prisoners down.’

  They sat in silence, Aspinall moving further up the table. There were sounds of footsteps outside and the two prisoners were led into the hall. Athelstan scooped the peas up and put them back into the leather pouch.

  ‘Ah gentlemen, I wonder if you can sit beside me. I wish to share some information with you.’

  ‘Are we in danger?’ Vamier asked.

  ‘Pierre Vamier,’ Athelstan said, ‘Jean Gresnay, would you please sit down.’

  The latter flounced down like a sulky girl. Vamier, his dark face wary, sat on the bench opposite. They glanced along the table. Sir John must have told them who was waiting in the hall but, apparently, they had both decided to insult Gaunt and his henchmen. Gresnay dismissed the physician with a contemptuous flicker of his eyes.

  ‘You are both sailors,’ Athelstan began. ‘Monsieur Vamier, where are you from?’

  ‘Originally my parents hailed from Rouen. My father owned a boat. I fought against the Goddamns. I found it easy to take their ships at sea, as well as raid their coastline. It’s good to see towns like Winchelsea engulfed in flames.’

  ‘And you, Monsieur Gresnay?’

  Gresnay simpered. ‘I was raised by the sea. A small village outside Montreuil. My father was a wealthy fisherman. The English sank his craft and I was raised to do two things: plough the sea and kill Goddamns.’

  ‘But you were captured,’ Athelstan taunted. ‘Sir Maurice sank one of your ships and took the other captive, which is why you are here at Hawkmere.’

  ‘Only through treachery,’ Gresnay sneered.

  ‘I am afraid not,’ Athelstan replied. ‘My Lord of Gaunt will take an oath that it was simply the fortunes of war.’

  ‘That’s a lie!’ Vamier shouted.

  ‘I am afraid, Monsieur, it’s the truth,’ Gaunt replied languidly. ‘Your ships were taken in fair fight and you are prisoners here because the Goddamns beat you.’

  ‘So, why murder us?’ Gresnay sneered.

  ‘But no Englishman murdered you,’ Athelstan said. ‘You see, both of you are sailors and probably very good ones but . . .’

  He paused as the door opened and one of Gaunt’s liveried servants hurried in. He bent over the table and whispered in the Regent’s ear; he, in turn, called Sir John over.

  ‘He’s arrived,’ Sir John announced.

  ‘Tell him to wait,’ Athelstan replied. ‘We’ll be with him shortly.’ Athelstan waited until the door closed before picking up where he had been interrupted. ‘Both of you are sailors, and probably very good at your trade: the trim of sails, scrutinising the sky, knowing the sea. You are probably stout fighters ready to run down an English merchantman, steal its cargo, slaughter its crew. God save us all!’ Athelstan sighed. ‘You’re no different from those who live on the other side of the Narrow Seas.’

  ‘What are you implying?’ Gresnay’s voice was strident.

  ‘What am I implying? Why, one of you is a spy! Oh, not for the Regent here but for the court, the government back in Paris. A man who keeps an eye on his fellows, searches out mutiny, grumblings, any hint of treachery. After all, it’s not unknown for ships, be they French or English, to enter into secret collusion with the enemy.’

  ‘That’s nonsense!’ Vamier snarled.

  ‘Is it?’ Athelstan asked. ‘You go to sea and you live in each other’s pockets. You sleep, eat, do everything with your companions. However, when your ship returns to harbour, where do you go? To the taverns and the brothels or home to your loved ones? One of you also goes to Paris: to the Louvre Palace, or the Hotel de Ville, to deliver a report to his masters; scraps of information, morsels of news.’ Athelstan glimpsed the uncertainty in Gresnay’s eyes. ‘Now your masters in France have a spy, an assassin called Mercurius.’

  Neither man flinched.

  ‘High ranking, very well paid. His task is to collect information and remove the enemies of France by fair means or foul.’

  ‘Are you saying it’s one of us?’ Vamier asked. ‘Even if you speak the truth, Brother, it could be one of those who have already died.’

  ‘Oh, it’s one of you,’ Athelstan said. ‘Your masters in Paris were furious to lose two warships, their cargoes and skilled crews all in one day. They reached the obvious conclusion that there must be treachery, as did you. You were brought from Dover and delivered into the hands of Sir Walter Limbright at Hawkmere Manor.’ Athelstan sighed. ‘An Englishman who has good cause to hate the French. He would keep you in straitened circumstances, deepen your bitterness. Make you drink the chalice of sorrow till the very last drop. One of you, however, secretly received information that the traitor who had betrayed the St Sulpice and the St Denis must be among the prisoners at Hawkmere. I suppose that man needed very little encouragement to carry out what he considered legal execution.’ Athelstan picked up two of the peas.

  ‘Messieurs, let me introduce the rosary pea, sometimes called a paternoster pea, an Abrin pea or, to those who are skilled in herbs, the Abrus precatorius. It’s harmless enough. Monsieur Gresnay, there’s two for you. Monsieur Vamier, the same for you. I will take two as well to show you that they possess no noxious qualities.’

  ‘No,’ Gresnay said. ‘I am not taking them.’

  The Frenchman walked down the hall towards the door.

  ‘You killed my friends. You will not kill me!’

  He started to run. Sir Maurice caught him, crashing into him and sending him flying across the hall. Gresnay stumbled but regained his stance and turned. Sir John seized him, grasping his arms and, assisted by Maltravers, brought the protesting Frenchman back to the table.

  ‘I will not take it!’ Gresnay’s tongue came out, licking the blood at the corner of his mouth. ‘Vamier, for God’s sake!’

  Athelstan turned. ‘Why, Monsieur Vamier, you seem more composed?’

  Vamier had the two peas in the palm of his hand.

  ‘Go on!’ Athelstan urged. ‘Why not take them?’

  ‘If you say so.’ Vamier popped the peas into his mouth.

  Gresnay’s body went slack. Sir John pushed him back on to the bench.

  ‘Please, for God’s sake, what are you doing?’

  Athelstan stretched his hand out. ‘Monsieur Vamier, spit the peas back into my hand.’

  Vamier did so.

  ‘Now, sirs,’ Athelstan said. ‘Let me see the rosary beads you were given when you first arrived at Hawkmere.’

  ‘They are in my wallet,’ Gresnay replied. He took out his rosary beads and threw them on the table.

  ‘And you, Monsieur Vamier, where are yours?’

  He shrugged. ‘They are in my chamber.’

  ‘It can be searched.’

  Vamier refused to meet Athelstan’s gaze.

  ‘I lost them,’ he muttered. ‘What’s the use of prayer in a place like this? I threw them away.’

  ‘You threw away rosary beads?’ Athelstan persisted. ‘Come, come, Monsieur Vamier, where are they? Down a privy? In the garden perhaps?’

  The Frenchman folded his arms.

  ‘Are you a prayerful man?’ Athelstan asked. ‘And, if not, surely like all sailors you are superstitious? Would you throw away Ave beads brought to you by the French envoy? Who now waits outside, to see what’s happening. Ah well, I think I’ve seen enough! Sir John, Monsieur de Fontanel should join us. I would also ask for two of my lord Regent’s guards to stand near the door, their swords drawn.’

  A short while later de Fontanel swept in, cloak billowing about him, his high-heeled boots rapping on the wooden floor.

  ‘My Lord of Gaunt.’ De Fontanel slapped his feathered hat against his thigh. ‘Why am I summoned here? To receive your apologies, your assurances?’

  ‘Shut up!’ Gaunt barked.
‘And sit down!’

  Gervase waved him to the stool beside him. De Fontanel obeyed. He sat opposite Gaunt, face impassive; now and again he glanced down the table at Vamier.

  ‘You arrived at a most interesting time, Monsieur,’ Athelstan began. ‘I want to make certain things very clear. First, the English had no spy on the St Sulpice and St Denis: their capture and destruction were due to the fortunes of war.’

  De Fontanel scraped the stool back.

  ‘I swear,’ Athelstan held his hand up, ‘by the Mass I celebrated this morning that I speak the truth.’

  The consternation on de Fontanel’s face was apparent.

  ‘Secondly, Monsieur de Fontanel, you are no more a Frenchman than I am. Your name is Richard Stillingbourne, formerly an English clerk. You fled to France where you are known as Mercurius, an assassin and a spy.’

  ‘This is nonsense!’ De Fontanel made to rise but Gervase grasped his wrist.

  He snatched the envoy’s gold chain from round his neck and threw it to the floor. The Keeper of the House of Secrets’ delight was apparent. If Gaunt hadn’t stretched out a restraining hand, de Fontanel would have been struck as well as disgraced. The Frenchman placed his hands on the table, breathing heavily, eyes darting about.

  ‘You are a traitor.’ Gaunt picked up the small fruit knife, balancing it between his fingers. ‘And you are in my jurisdiction, Monsieur de Fontanel.’

  ‘Where’s the proof?’

  ‘I’ll come to that,’ Athelstan said. ‘So, let’s go at it hand in hand. Let’s charge the truth, Monsieur de Fontanel, and grasp it with both our hands.’ He picked up the Abrin peas and threw one down on the table. ‘You know what these are?’

  De Fontanel caught the hard pea.

  ‘You do know what they are, don’t you?’ Athelstan persisted. ‘After all, you have been to Italy and visited Venice.’

  ‘I know nothing about gardens or herbs,’ de Fontanel sneered, but his sallow face had paled. He kept glancing at Vamier.