The Devil's domain smoba-8

by Paul Doherty

  ‘Spying, trading in secrets and, above all, murder. A clerk from the French chancery ostensibly went on pilgrimage to the shrine of the Three Wise Men at Cologne. What he didn’t tell his masters in Paris was that he took certain secrets with him and sold them to the burghers of Cologne. These were trade secrets: information which could allow someone to control the market in wines. Great rivalry exists between the vineyards of France and those of Germany. The clerk was well rewarded. Of course, he couldn’t return to Paris but, on the receipt of his ill-gotten gains, he set himself up in some estate, a pleasant house overlooking Cologne Cathedral. One afternoon he was found swimming in his own carp pond, a garrotte string round his neck. The city council had no proof, but the whisper in the merchant community was that Mercurius had paid this French traitor a house visit.’ Gervase sipped at his wine. ‘Now, Sir Maurice here caused a great stir when he took the St Sulpice and St Denis. The French believed that we had a spy high in their councils. No, no.’ He held out his hand. ‘I must be more precise. They believed that one of the senior officers on board ship was in the pay of the English court.’

  ‘And is that true?’ Sir John barked.

  ‘Jack, Jack.’ Gervase shifted his head. ‘You may ask but you know I won’t answer. Suffice to say the French believed that.’

  ‘And they have sent Mercurius to London?’

  ‘Precisely: that’s the news our merchant brought.’

  ‘But there are always French spies in London.’ Cranston’s face showed his annoyance at these subtle, silken treacheries. ‘And a Frenchman is a Frenchman wherever he goes.’

  ‘I didn’t say he was French,’ Gervase replied. ‘We know a great deal about Mercurius. He’s not French or Gascon but English. A clerk in the Bishop of Norwich’s household, he joined a free company and went to France. He was captured. Now the French have a way with freebooters, they just hang them out of hand. Mercurius, whose real name was Richard Stillingbourne, entered into a deal with his new masters: in return for his life and a bag of silver he was released. He led the French back to where his free company was quartered and organised their slaughter. Mercurius has a passion and skill for killing as other men do for riding a horse or singing a song. Now, my belief is that the French have sent him into England and that he is responsible for the death of Serriem at Hawkmere.’

  ‘And so he could be anyone?’ Athelstan asked.

  ‘He could be one of the parishioners. He might even be Aspinall, the physician. One of the servants, a chapman, a tinker, a guard. He’s a master of disguise. He can appear stooped and aged, the beggar on the corner, or haughty and arrogant.’ Gervase grinned at Sir Maurice. ‘Even the young knight with a falcon on his wrist.’ He spread his hands in mock innocence. ‘Even a humble clerk.’

  ‘Would de Fontanel know of this?’ Athelstan asked.

  Gaunt shook his head. ‘The French envoy has taken a house in Adel Lane; it’s watched day and night. No stranger has approached it:

  ‘And de Fontanel?’

  ‘He never goes out.’ Gaunt smirked. ‘He might be frightened. My guard dogs know him, the foppish way he dresses, the ridiculous hat!’

  ‘He’s only a minor envoy,’ Gervase added. ‘Sent to vex and irritate. Mercurius will answer only to the Chancellor in Paris.’

  ‘If the French believe,’ Gaunt continued, ‘that there is a traitor among those men at Hawkmere, Mercurius will kill him.’ Gaunt leaned forward, his face drawn with excitement.

  For a moment he reminded Athelstan of a wolf he had seen in the Tower, the sharp, pointed face, the hooded, unblinking eyes, the hunched shoulders.

  ‘I have prayed,’ Gaunt said, ‘that one day, Mercurius will enter our web. The French have whistled up a dance and dance we must but, Sir Jack, Brother Athelstan, and you Master Gervase, I want Mercurius’ head. He is more important than all the ships the French can muster in the Narrow Seas.’

  ‘But he’s not only here for that, is he?’ Athelstan pointed across at Sir Maurice. ‘They also hold you responsible for the loss of their ships. I am not threatening you,’ Athelstan continued, Gervase now nodding his head. ‘Mercurius could also be in England to kill you.’

  ‘I agree,’ Gaunt said. ‘But these men at Hawkmere are his real prey.’

  ‘Why not move the prisoners?’ Sir John asked. ‘Take them out of Hawkmere, up river to the Tower?’

  ‘It’s tempting,’ Gaunt replied, ‘but I don’t think we’ll achieve much. The capture of Mercurius is important. We have a better opportunity if they are kept in the more, how can I put it, open surroundings of Hawkmere? Moreover, if Mercurius is one of them, it will make little difference. At this point of the dance, the French have it all their own way. If the prisoners die, they’ll appeal to the Pope in Avignon, depict us as breakers of the truth, violaters of the Papal peace. Of course, the murders will continue but the French don’t really care. They hope to kill the traitor. Perhaps make an example of him and, for all I know, slay one of my principal household knights.’ Gaunt sniffed. ‘Mercurius may have slain Vulpina to close her mouth.’ He slapped his leather gauntlets against his thigh. ‘You, Sir Maurice, should be very careful. This business at the Golden Cresset may well be the work of Mercurius. Well, Gervase, now we have Brother Athelstan here, there is one other matter.’

  The Master of Secrets looked away and cleared his throat.

  ‘Ah yes, yes, there is. You know, Brother, the doings of the Great Community of the Realm?’

  ‘All London does.’

  The Master of Secrets undid his white shirt. Athelstan noticed with amusement the hare’s-foot slung on a chain round his throat. Gervase caught his gaze.

  ‘It’s to ward off the colic,’ he explained, rubbing his stomach.

  ‘Continue!’ Gaunt ordered harshly. ‘My falcons and dogs await, the day draws on.’

  ‘I have it on good authority,’ the Master of Secrets went on, ‘that the Great Community of the Realm is very active in Southwark and may well have agents who are members of your parish.’

  ‘I know nothing of that,’ Athelstan replied quickly.

  ‘There are many priests, hedge-parsons among its leaders,’ Gaunt intervened silkily. ‘They lard their talk with quotations from the Scriptures on the equality of man.’

  ‘Then, my lord, they quote most accurately.’

  ‘In reality,’ Gaunt retorted, ‘they are as devoid of Christ as they are of grace.’

  ‘In which case, my lord, they have a great deal in common with the people against whom they plot.’

  Sir Maurice’s head went down. Sir John’s hand covered his eyes while Gervase looked up at the ceiling as if searching for cobwebs. Gaunt held Athelstan’s gaze.

  ‘One day, Brother.’ He got to his feet. ‘One day, all of this nonsense will come to a head. I’ll hang every man jack of them!’

  ‘They are only hungry,’ Athelstan said. ‘They eat hard bread. They give rags, soaked in wine, for their babies to suck. Sometimes in winter the only meal they have is the snot they swallow.’

  ‘Brother!’ Sir John intervened warningly.

  Gaunt’s expression abruptly changed. He smiled and brought his hand down on the little Dominican’s shoulders.

  ‘Only an honest man speaks the truth, Brother.’ He opened his purse, shook out some silver coins and thrust them into Athelstan’s hand. ‘Buy your poor some bread. Tell them to pray for John of Gaunt.’ He put on his gauntlets. ‘But tell them, if they are caught in arms plotting against the Crown, they’ll hang.’ He walked to the door and turned, his hand on the latch. ‘I set you a hard task, Brother,’ he said quietly. ‘I want you to help Sir Maurice here for he is a man I’d like my own son to grow into. I want these murders stopped. I want to see Mercurius’ head on a pole over London Bridge. Do that and, I swear, the streets of Southwark will run with wine. Now, as I have said, my dogs wait. I bid you adieu.’

  He closed the door and sauntered down the passageway. Gervase put his face in his hands and sighed.
/>   ‘Brother, you go too far.’

  ‘It’s the only time I’ve been frightened.’ Sir Maurice spoke up, grabbing his cup and drinking greedily from it.

  Cranston had finished his and was now helping himself to a generous swig from his wineskin.

  ‘What on earth possessed you, Brother?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Athelstan replied. He sat down because his legs were now shaking and a sweat had broken out all over his body. He looked at the silver coins in his hands. ‘I suppose I get tired of seeing the poor starve. You’ve met my parishioners, Sir John, Watkin and Pike. Lord save us, plot against the Crown! They can hardly piss straight! Master Gervase, do you have names of those involved in Southwark?’

  The Master of Secrets shook his head. ‘Only tittle-tattle,’ he replied. ‘Gossip from the market place. Shadows and shapes glimpsed at the dead of night!’

  ‘And Mercurius?’ Sir John asked. ‘Is there anything else we should know? A description?’

  Gervase shook his head. ‘What I know you now do.’ He grasped the wrist of the young knight. ‘But, Sir Maurice, you should walk carefully. I know you are not frightened, a man of war, bold and brave. However, this is no fight on board a ship, the clash of arms on some battlefield. Mercurius will come like a thief in the night and ye know not the day nor the hour. More importantly, he may not even come himself but send others. Be on your guard!’

  They left the House of Secrets and walked up through Newgate into Cheapside. The broad thoroughfare was empty apart from Leif the beggar and others of his ilk. The red-haired bane of Sir John’s life was standing on the stocks. He balanced himself precariously, holding the great wooden post, the other hand on his chest, head thrown back, eyes closed, entertaining his companions with a song.

  ‘As God lives!’ Sir John exclaimed, staring across at the motley crew. ‘Just listen to that, Brother.’

  Athelstan had to agree that Leif as a singer left a great deal to be desired. As if in answer to a prayer, a window of a shop above Leif was thrown open.

  ‘For the love of heaven!’ a voice bawled and the contents of a chamber pot splashed out, but Leif was quicker, hopping like a squirrel from the stocks. He turned and shook his fist.

  ‘I must be home,’ Sir John said. ‘Brother Athelstan, Sir Maurice, will you join us to eat?’

  ‘Sir John, I thank you,’ Athelstan replied. ‘But today I must have words with Sir Maurice here. Perhaps it might be safer at St Erconwald’s than elsewhere. Sir John, I will ask for your assistance tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow is tomorrow. But, today is Sunday. My poppets await and I want to be home before they miss their daddy too much.’

  He stomped off, gathering speed as Leif suddenly caught sight of his great fat friend. The beggar gave a screech of welcome and staggered towards him.

  ‘Poor Sir John,’ Athelstan said. ‘Come.’

  They made their way down Cheapside and across London Bridge. Southwark was empty, sleeping under the hot summer sun. Athelstan found the church quiet, the front door locked, Godbless and Thaddeus dozing on the steps. Benedicta had seen to Philomel and left a pot of stewed meat and some fresh rolls. So Athelstan, Sir Maurice, Godbless and Thaddeus, not to mention Bonaventure, dined like kings that afternoon. Afterwards Godbless returned to the cemetery taking Thaddeus and the mercenary Bonaventure with him. Athelstan opened the great chest beneath the small window and took out the garb of a Dominican monk.

  ‘My brothers at Blackfriars always send me fresh robes at Easter and Christmas. Some are longer than others.’

  Sir Maurice’s jaw dropped. He looked even more concerned when Athelstan dipped again into the chest and brought out a pair of long, sharp shears.

  ‘Brother?’

  ‘Yes, Brother,’ Athelstan replied. ‘You are no longer Sir Maurice Maltravers but Brother Norbert of the Dominican Order. You are going to let me crop your hair, form a small tonsure, teach you how to walk and talk like a Dominican, if that’s possible.’

  The grin spread across the young knight’s face.

  ‘Tomorrow, we are going to visit that child of God, Lady Angelica Parr, at the convent of the nuns of Syon.’

  Sir Maurice jumped to his feet like a boy who’s been promised a much-prized reward.

  ‘Is that possible, Brother?’

  ‘Provided you keep your wits about you and Lady Angelica doesn’t betray us, who will know?’

  ‘What happens if Sir Thomas has a guard there?’

  ‘Fighting men are not allowed in convents and the nuns of Syon are a law unto themselves, as you will find out.’

  ‘But, Brother, won’t you get into trouble?’

  Athelstan closed the lid of the chest. ‘Sir Maurice, I am always in trouble. And, for the love of God, what is wrong with what we are doing? It’s all for love! That will be my defence!’ He gripped the shears more securely. ‘But, for everything under the sun, there’s a price. Brother Norbert, loosen your jerkin.’

  An hour later Sir Maurice Maltravers quietly confessed that he had been transformed. His dark hair was cropped, a small tonsure at the back. He was now garbed in the black and white habit, a knotted cord round his middle. He practised walking up and down the kitchen, hands up his sleeves, eyes downcast. Bonaventure had returned and curiously watched this strange transformation. Athelstan laughed and clapped his hands.

  ‘And they will allow us in the door?’ Sir Maurice asked anxiously.

  ‘Oh, not us,’ Athelstan replied. ‘But there’s not a door in London Sir Jack Cranston can’t get through.’

  ‘And what will happen inside?’

  ‘Well, I don’t expect you to go down on one knee and make a confession of love,’ Athelstan said, stroking Bonaventure, who had jumped on to his lap. ‘But you can talk.’ He pulled a face. ‘About love in general, spiritual terms. However, you must observe the disguise and the secrecy I have given you. If you break that I will leave and give no further help.’

  ‘And what will come of this?’ Sir Maurice asked anxiously.

  ‘Sir Maurice, I am a Dominican and this is St Erconwald’s. I am not a miracle-worker, so we’ll take each day as it comes. Stay there!’

  Athelstan went into his bed loft and brought down a gilt-edged tome bound in calfskin.

  ‘These are the writings of St Bonaventure.’ He handed the book over. ‘No, not the cat. A great Franciscan, a doctor of theology. His writings on love, particularly that which should exist between a man and his wife, make refreshing reading. There’s a favourite passage of mine where he says that the best friendship which exists must be that between husband and wife. You sit there and read it.’ Athelstan moved towards the door. ‘I am going to pray in church, for a little guidance and some protection. Afterwards, we’ll visit Godbless and make sure he is the only living person lying down in our cemetery!’

  Athelstan left the house. He checked on Philomel who was standing up, leaning against the side of his stall fast asleep. The Dominican crossed to the church. Engrossed in his thoughts, he failed to see the shadow at the bottom of the alleyway watching him intently, a malignant, dark presence. Once the priest had gone inside, the watcher crouched down again to continue his close study of the church and the little house beside it.

  CHAPTER 10

  Dusk was falling, cloaking Whitefriars in darkness. At this time its main streets and offal-filled alleyways came to life. Cunning men and beggars swarmed like rats over a midden-heap looking for plunder, for the unwary, for the vulnerable, ready to turn on each other at the slightest hint of weakness. A place of mean houses, narrow lanes and even meaner hearts. Mercurius knew it all.

  He had been here years ago skulking from the law and the way he walked, the swagger, dagger and knife pushed into his belt, were sufficient warning for those who lurked in doorways or peeped from behind broken shutters. He entered the Ragged Standard, a large, evil-smelling tavern only a stone’s throw from the Carmelite monastery from which the quarter took its name. The taproom was lit by thin, weak t
apers which gave off an acrid stench.

  Mercurius pulled his vizard closer around his face and ensured the cowl was full across his head. He sat by the window and looked out at the gathering dusk. The taverner had made a pathetic attempt at laying out a garden, a patch of sun-scorched weeds fenced off from the dusty, tawdry herb plots by sheepshank bones and the skulls of different animals. A slattern came over. Mercurius pulled out a silver piece.

  ‘Ale,’ he ordered. ‘Properly drawn and the blackjack had better be clean!’

  He removed a small arbalest from the hook of his belt and placed it on the table. The slattern hurried off. Outside in the stable yard, two stallions jigged at the ostler and reared neighing, lashing out. Some of the customers went across to watch the fun. One rogue shouted that he was prepared to accept wagers that the ostler would be hurt. The taverner, a greasy barrel of a man, shoved them aside and walked out, a flaming brand in his hand, to separate the two stallions.

  Mercurius eased himself in the corner. In the middle of the floor sprawled a member of a troupe of travelling actors, drunk as a sot. The man lay spread on his back, the devil’s mask still clasped to the top half of his face. A little boy crouched next to him wiping away the pool of spittle filling his slack mouth. Across the taproom other members fought for the takings. They hushed for a while as the flame man came down the street, ringing his bell and shouting at householders to be careful; fires were to be doused and candles made safe. Someone else bawled raucously that he had a fresh maid for sale.

  The clamour in the stable yard now being stilled, the customers swirled back. Cunning men divided their takings, professional beggars, armed with wet rags, wiped off the paint and saltpetre which they used to display fictitious wounds. Mercurius waited, his eyes constantly moving, vigilant for any sheriff’s man or one of Gaunt’s spies. He did not know whether the English knew he was in London but he could take no chances. The business at Hawkmere was going well, yet he was not responsible.

  He saw two shadows come to the door — his guests had arrived. They swaggered across, glimpsed the crossbow and recognised the sign. As they pulled across stools and sat down, Mercurius sipped from his tankard and studied them. Like two peas from the same rotten pod; they wore leggings and boots, their chests were naked except for leather jackets, the sleeves cut off, copper bands round their muscular arms. Their heads were completely shaven, their faces sharp and narrow-eyed. One of them fingered the copper ring in his ear lobe.