The Devil's Domain (21 page)

‘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 logic. 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!’

‘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.

‘Those bastards!’ he grated. ‘Those French bastards! They are responsible for that!’ He clasped his hands together and rocked backwards and forwards. ‘I’ll kill them all!’ he whispered. ‘I’ll kill every single one! You’ll help me won’t you, Cranston? The friar here can absolve them then we’ll hang them from a bloody tree for the pirates they are: murderers, assassins, ravishers of women, killers of children!’

‘Sir Walter! We have no proof of that.’

Sir John looked at the chamber. It contained a few leather chests, some faded cloths on the walls, an aumbry, two stools and a small writing desk beneath the window with a clerk’s stool pushed alongside it.

‘This was your daughter’s chamber?’

Sir Walter nodded.

‘And where was she before?’

‘Why are you asking me?’

‘Where was your daughter before?’ Athelstan insisted.

‘She went down into the garden. She just wandered around, like she always did. Brother, who would poison such a poor thing?’ He wetted his lips. ‘I need some wine,’ he rasped.

Aspinall left and came back with a large goblet filled to the brim, but Sir John stopped him.

‘Where did you get that?’

‘From Sir Walter’s chamber further down the gallery. It’s packed with poison, Sir John,’ he added wearily.

‘Take a sip yourself,’ the coroner ordered.

The doctor made to refuse but Sir John’s hand fell to the dagger in his belt.

‘Oh, for the love of heaven!’ Aspinall complained and took a deep draught. He then went across and gave it to Sir Walter, who seized it greedily. He drained it in one gulp then gestured at his daughter’s corpse.

‘Pick her up,’ he ordered. ‘She’s not a dog to lie sprawled on the floor!’

They lifted the young woman’s corpse and laid it gently out on the bed, crossing the hands. Sir John opened his purse and put two pennies over the eyes.

‘Leave me.’ Sir Walter forced a smile, but there were tears in his eyes. ‘Leave me for a while. You have business with those demons below.’

‘Stay with Sir Walter,’ Athelstan asked Aspinall. ‘Sir John, Sir Maurice, we should go down.’

They returned to the hall and told the Frenchmen what had happened. De Fontanel quickly crossed himself. The prisoners, huddled together, looked frightened.

‘It’s not safe to leave us here.’ Vamier spoke up. ‘Sir Walter is our enemy already. He will blame us for his daughter’s death.’ He banged the table with his fist. ‘I demand to be removed! To be given safer and better custody than this!’

‘I can arrange that.’ Sir John took a seat, tapping his hands on the table-top.

Athelstan sat down and took out his writing tray. He opened the ink pot, dipped the quill in but simply scratched the parchment, making strange signs and symbols. He had little to write; there was nothing about this affair which made sense. He glanced across at Sir John.

‘Semper veritas,’
he murmured. ‘Always the truth. Perhaps it’s time we were blunt and honest and told these gentlemen that they are, truly, in mortal danger but not from Sir Walter. Indeed, if we removed them elsewhere, or advised the Regent to change their keeper, it would look as if the finger of accusation were being pointed at Sir Walter.’

‘He is, as you correctly say,’ de Fontanel drawled, ‘their keeper. He is responsible for their safety. I am truly sorry his daughter died but Vamier does speak the truth, Limbright is our enemy.’

‘Tell me, gentlemen.’ Sir John looked down the table at the three prisoners. ‘Have you ever heard of Mercurius?’

Athelstan studied their faces. Was that a flicker of recognition in Gresnay’s eyes?

‘Mercurius?’ de Fontanel sneered. ‘Who is Mercurius?’

‘He’s an assassin,’ Athelstan replied slowly. ‘Employed by the French Crown. He kills people whom his masters in Paris want removed as quickly as possible. Do you know, sirs, you are probably safer in England than you are in France.’

‘Don’t talk in riddles!’ Gresnay snapped.

‘Mercurius is an assassin,’ Athelstan repeated. ‘The French believe the
St Sulpice
and
St Denis
were betrayed by an officer on one of those two ships. We think, indeed we know, Mercurius is in England. His task is to kill the traitor among you.’

‘In which case,’ Maneil replied guardedly, ‘he has killed two.’

‘No, no.’ Gresnay spoke up. ‘I realise what you are saying, Brother. Mercurius doesn’t really care how many of us die.’

‘As long as the traitor dies,’ Athelstan declared, ‘that’s all that matters. Sentence of death has been passed against you.’

‘But who?’ Vamier sprang to his feet. He gripped Gresnay’s shoulder. ‘Is it you, Jean?’

‘What do you mean?’ Gresnay squirmed free.

‘Vamier’s telling the truth,’ Maneil said. ‘You were once a clerk! You’re always boasting about your high-ranking connections in Paris.’

‘And what about you?’ Gresnay countered. ‘Didn’t you get preferment to the
St Denis
because of a relative at court?’

‘This is preposterous!’ De Fontanel got to his feet and walked down the table, sitting down next to Vamier. ‘Sir John Cranston, I am an accredited envoy, a high-ranking clerk of the chancery. I have never heard of this Mercurius. I think you are trying to divide these men, frighten them into making confessions, make them watch each other.’

‘It would certainly help,’ Sir John said as he smiled back. ‘If they watched each other more closely, perhaps they could discover the murderer?’

De Fontanel laid his hands on the table, spreading his fingers.

‘Five men were here,’ he replied slowly. ‘Two are dead of the same poison but they only ate and drank what the others did. True, Serriem may have been tricked but Routier was alert to any danger. And why should Mercurius kill that poor girl who was a danger to no one? Don’t you agree, Brother?’

Athelstan raised his eyes heavenwards. The murder of Sir Walter’s daughter threw all these theories back into the melting pot.

‘It could be an act of vengeance,’ Sir Maurice said.

‘Oh, come, come!’ Vamier snarled. ‘Sir Maurice, I would like to take your head and that of Sir Walter. We are soldiers, fighters. Why should we kill a poor wench? She had a woman’s body but a child’s mind.’

‘Which is due to the French,’ Sir Maurice added quickly.

De Fontanel got to his feet. ‘I am not here to trade insults. Sir John, what are you going to do about the custody of these men?’

‘They are going to stay here. Brother Athelstan, my secretarius, is correct. If they are taken elsewhere and Sir Walter is relieved of his duties, distraught though he is, that would look as if he were under suspicion.’

‘In which case I shall send urgent despatch to France asking for the ransoms to be forwarded as quickly as possible. I ask my fellow countrymen to fall to their prayers and recite their Aves daily and be very careful of what they eat or drink.’ He bowed. I shall return.’

His footsteps echoed along the gaunt, empty hallway, the door slamming shut behind him.

‘We are finished here,’ Athelstan said. ‘There is nothing more we can do except speak to Aspinall. The business of Vulpina,’ he added in a whisper.

Sir John nodded and, followed by Sir Maurice, left the hall. Athelstan sat sketching two parallel lines on a piece of parchment.

‘You seem perplexed.’ Vamier’s tone was kindly.

‘There is great evil here,’ Athelstan replied slowly. I am right to call this the Devil’s Domain.’

‘I know of your Order in France,’ Gresnay said. ‘My father hired a Dominican as a chancery priest, a kindly man. Is there nothing you can do for us, Brother?’

Athelstan shook his head. ‘Nothing. At least for the moment. Tell me now, on your oaths. Forget I am an Englishman, think of me only as a priest. Tell me, is there anything you saw or heard which provoked suspicion?’

The three men sat in silence then, one by one, shook their heads.

‘Your two colleagues who have been murdered, you saw neither of them eat or drink anything extra?’

Again the shake of heads.

‘Or did they say anything to you?’

‘Brother.’ Maneil spoke up. ‘We have been down the same paths ourselves. We have no food or drink in our chambers. All our sustenance comes from Sir Walter’s kitchens, paltry though it may be.’

‘Does de Fontanel bring food?’

‘Never. Sir Walter would not allow it.’

‘I tell you this.’ Gresnay pointed a finger. ‘Yesterday morning we all took a solemn oath not to eat or drink what another didn’t. We also searched each other and the shabby garrets which serve as our chambers. Nothing was found.’

‘You did that?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Brother, a killer stalks us. We have to be sure.’

Athelstan got to his feet.

‘One thing does intrigue me.’

‘What’s that?’ Vamier asked.

‘Well, Routier escaped this morning. He climbed the garden wall, crossed the yard and went through an outhouse. How did he know which path to take? How did he know that the outhouse was deserted, that the shutter was loose? You have never been allowed into that part of the manor, have you?’

All three shook their heads.

‘Then I bid you good day, sirs.’

Athelstan left the hall and wandered out into the garden. He looked up at the parapets and realised that, if the sentries were less than vigilant, it would be easy for someone to cross the corner of the wall and climb the crumbling buttress. He now did this and let himself down the other side. The yard or bailey was deserted. A slight breeze was blowing up little clouds of dust. Built alongside, into the far curtain wall, were a line of wooden outhouses, probably used for storage. Athelstan crossed over and went in. Most of the doors were closed. Athelstan went through the one which hung ajar. Inside the walls were dirty and cobwebbed, and there was a smell of straw and horse manure. In the far wall the shutters were closed and barred. Athelstan lifted the bar, opened the shutters and looked out across the sun-scorched heathland. He put his bag down, climbed out and began to walk, following the same path Routier had probably taken. He stopped and looked about him. Above him a crow circled, cawing raucously. Athelstan saw that there was no sentry on the rear wall while those along the side must not only have been lax but distracted by the supposed quarrel taking place among the prisoners. Routier would have run, heading for that distant copse of trees. Even if the sentries had glimpsed him they might have thought it was some chapman or peasant, not realising one of their prisoners had escaped. He looked back at the window whose shutters still hung open. Routier had probably closed them when he fled. Athelstan scanned the sky.

‘There’s something wrong here,’ he said to himself. ‘Something I’ve seen and heard but it’s always the same: pieces in a puzzle!’

He walked back, climbed through the window, closed the shutters behind him and went out. His two companions were waiting for him in the hall. As Athelstan arrived, Aspinall came downstairs.

‘Are you leaving now, Sir John?’

‘Once we’ve asked you some questions, sir.’ Athelstan smiled.

Aspinall peered at him. ‘Why, Brother, what can I tell you?’

‘Well, first, how is Sir Walter?’

‘I persuaded him to go back to his chamber. He has fallen asleep. I will see to his daughter’s corpse. Sir Walter will probably have it taken to the city and buried in the house of Crutched Friars; that’s where Sir Walter attends Sunday Mass.’

Aspinall sat down on a bench and stretched out his legs.

‘What other questions, Brother?’

‘Does Sir Walter often go into the city?’ Sir John asked. ‘We know he was a customer of the poisoner Vulpina.’

Aspinall glanced up quickly.