The Devil's Domain (25 page)

‘Is it possible, Jack?’ Athelstan picked up his tankard and cradled it in his hand.

‘Everything’s possible, Athelstan. You said that.’

‘No, I mean, could Gaunt be killing those prisoners to draw Mercurius out into the open?’

‘Brother Athelstan! Brother Athelstan!’

The friar turned. Godbless, holding an arrow, came trotting into the taproom, Thaddeus behind him.

‘Oh, Satan’s tits!’ Sir John growled. ‘What does he want?’

Godbless looked at the tankards and licked his lips.

‘Three more tankards!’ Sir John shouted out. ‘No, on second thoughts, make it four, one for the bloody goat!’

The arrival of Thaddeus caused a stir. A mongrel came in from the garden but when the goat lowered its head the dog changed its mind and disappeared.

‘Where did you get the arrow, Godbless?’

The beggar man handed it over. It was just over a yard long, the wood smooth and white, the arrow head bright and sharp, the goose quills dyed a dark orange. Godbless waited until the tankards had been served and squatted on a stool. He drank from his while allowing Thaddeus to sup at the other.

‘Goats are not supposed to drink from my tankards!’ Joscelyn came over.

‘I wouldn’t say that too loud,’ Godbless retorted. ‘If that’s the case, you wouldn’t have any customers!’

Joscelyn looked at Athelstan.

‘He’s a clean goat,’ the Dominican explained. ‘I give you my word, Joscelyn.’

The taverner strode away, grumbling under his breath. Sir John leaned down, his face only a few inches from Godbless.

‘Where did you get the bloody arrow? And why is it so important?’

‘Well. Do you know the cemetery around St Erconwald’s? Well, Thaddeus here likes picking things up. You know how curious he is.’

The little goat lifted its head and stared affectionately at the fat coroner.

‘And Thaddeus found it there?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Yes, just near the sycamore tree.’

‘Right. I’ve had enough of this!’ Athelstan drained his tankard and got to his feet. The friar grasped the arrow and walked out of the tavern, a disconcerted coroner, Godbless and a slightly tipsy Thaddeus following behind him. Athelstan threaded his way through the alleyways and runnels of Southwark until they entered the small market area down near the riverside. Athelstan stood on tiptoe and gazed about.

‘Ah, there he is!’

He went across to a stall. Its owner was a tall, thickset man with white hair, beard and moustache. The sign above the stall declared he was Peter the Fletcher.

‘Good morning, Brother Athelstan.’ The fletcher’s cheery face lit with a smile. He came from behind the stall, wiping his fingers on his leather apron. He gazed mournfully down at his hands. ‘It’s the glue, it’s always the glue!’

‘Sir John Cranston, one of my parishioners, Peter Megoran, a Yorkshireman: arrowsmith, fletcher and carpenter, once a master bowman in the Earl of Salisbury’s company in France.’

‘I know you, Sir John.’ The fletcher squeezed the coroner’s hand. ‘I was at Poitiers.’

‘Were you now?’ Sir John said. He took out his wineskin and offered it to the fletcher who took a generous swig.

‘Halfway down the hill I was,’ Megoran explained, handing the wineskin back.

Sir John’s eyes took on a faraway look as he recalled the arrow storm which struck the massed French cavalry.

‘Queen Mab’s tits! And now?’

‘I’m a carpenter, joiner. I make bows, arrows, but I have no licence from the city.’

Both he and Sir John damned the Guilds.

‘Anyway, Brother, what can I do for you?’

Athelstan showed him the arrow. Megoran took it, his eyes squinting against the sun.

‘This is good,’ he said. ‘The wood’s not ash, it’s a lighter wood, but the head’s sharp and the tip is of good goose feather. If this hit you, Sir John, it would inflict a grievous wound. It also bears no mark. Most fletchers leave a mark, only a small one, on the arrows and bows they make.’

‘So it was not made in the city?’

‘No. I know all the fletchers and arrowsmiths.’

‘So where?’

Peter’s eyes took on a guarded look. ‘Some arrows are made by poachers. Those who go hunting the king’s venison where they shouldn’t, deep in some forest glade.’

Athelstan breathed in. ‘I think I know where it came from now. Peter, thank you.’

They moved away from the stall. Athelstan took a penny out of his purse and slipped it into Godbless’s hand.

‘Go swift as this arrow,’ he whispered, ‘into the city. Sir John, can I have one of your seals?’

Bemused, he handed across one of the small wax insignia he carried as a symbol of his office.

‘I am sending Godbless to the Guildhall,’ Athelstan explained. ‘I want some of your bailiffs.’

‘Search out Henry Flaxwith,’ Sir John ordered. ‘You’ll find him near Ratcat Lane. He’s got the ugliest dog God ever created, called Samson.’ He grinned at the friar. ‘How many men do you want, Brother?’

‘Oh, a good half-dozen armed with picks and shovels.’

‘Is this a mystery?’ Godbless asked.

‘Not for long,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Now, go!’

Godbless ran off, Thaddeus trotting behind.

‘Watch out for that bloody dog!’ Sir John shouted. ‘It will eat the goat!’

Sir John and Athelstan returned to St Erconwald’s. Athelstan walked into the graveyard where he looked across at the wall and the huge leafy sycamore rising above it. He was tempted to cross and investigate immediately but he was wary of arousing suspicion. One of his parishioners might wander in and they were always very curious about what their priest was doing. Strange, he reflected, he’d had deep suspicions that something unsavoury was happening in the cemetery and that Watkin and Pike were at the root of it. Thaddeus’ discovery of a newly fashioned arrow had simply brought these suspicions out into the open.

They returned to the house. Sir Maurice was sitting on a stool, still poring over the writings of Bonaventure. He glanced up hopefully but took one look at the grim face of his host and stared quizzically at Sir John who just winked and put a finger to his lips. Athelstan went across to his writing desk. He took a fresh quill, sharpened it, opened the ink pot and wrote a short message, which he then rolled up and sealed.

‘Sir Maurice, I don’t want to use you as a messenger but would you please take this across to our mother house at Blackfriars and then come back here with the reply?’

‘Of course, Brother, what’s it about?’

‘It’s about poisons. We have no leech or physician at Blackfriars but Brother Simeon, our archivist, is a most knowledgeable man and knows exactly what books and manuscripts the library holds. I have asked him to make a search. It may take some time but the Brothers are very hospitable. And Sir Maurice.’ Athelstan smiled. I am so grateful for your stout defence last night but your head is full of love and your wits are wandering. For the love of God, man! Don’t forget your war belt!’

‘Oh yes, of course.’ The knight fetched it and strapped it round his waist.

‘Take care, Sir Maurice!’ Sir John eased himself down on the vacated stool.

‘Oh, Sir Maurice!’

‘Yes, Brother?’

‘When you visit Blackfriars tell them nothing about the nuns at Syon or the visit of a certain Brother Norbert!’

Sir Maurice smiled. ‘Of course!’

He left, closing the door behind him.

‘That man,’ Sir John declared, taking a swig from the wineskin, ‘is so deeply in love, I don’t think he even knows what day of the week it is.’

‘It’s Tuesday, Sir John, and we have villainy to pursue, the truth to discover and God’s justice to carry out.’

‘You are in fine fettle, Brother. Was it the attack last night?’

‘No, not that. The business at Hawkmere will have to wait. It’s more St Erconwald’s, or some of its parishioners that concern me: a few strands are coming together and that arrow neatly ties them.’

After that the friar refused to be drawn. Instead he took his book of accounts and pretended to immerse himself in these. Sir John went off to get another pie, and probably also to renew his acquaintance with the Piebald Tavern.

Once the coroner had left, Athelstan checked on Philomel, his old war horse, and went into the church to prepare for the Mass for the Guild of Rat-Catchers the following morning.

By the time he came out, Sir John had returned, walking down the alleyway with his old friend, chief bailiff Henry Flaxwith, the ugly, squat Samson trotting behind them. Godbless, holding Thaddeus, trailed along looking rather tired. The attendant bailiffs were a brawny, stout group who carried mattocks and hoes, picks and shovels. Athelstan grasped Flaxwith’s hand.

‘I thank you for coming, Henry. I can’t give you refreshment yet. However, I’d like you to dig a ditch for me.’ He scanned the sky where fleecy white clouds floated. ‘It’s late afternoon,’ Athelstan said. And probably the best time. Once we are in the cemetery, I want one of your men to guard the lych gate. No one is to be allowed in until we finish. Now, Godbless, go into the house and refresh yourself. Keep Thaddeus away from Samson.’

The rest all marched into the cemetery, Flaxwith leaving one of his men to guard the lych gate. Athelstan led them across to the boundary wall.

‘This,’ Athelstan explained, ‘is a ditch dug by two of my parishioners, Watkin and Pike. At first I made no objection, as they said they only wished to check that the foundations of the walls were firm. They apparently dig it, fill it in later then continue the trench.’

Flaxwith scratched his balding head. ‘What’s wrong with that, Brother? It’s often done. It’s the only way to make sure the foundations of a wall are firm and secure, especially a place like this where the damp can seep in.’

‘That’s what they said. A small brook runs on the far side. Now and again it can flood and break its bank. However, I’ve become suspicious about their entire plan. Can you and your lads reopen the ditch? I’d like to see what you find.’

The bailiffs set to with gusto. The soil was soft, being freshly turned over and soaked by the previous night’s rain. Sir John and Athelstan walked back to the priest’s house where the coroner immediately became immersed in an animated conversation with Godbless about their warring days abroad and the depredations of the Free Companies in Southern France and Northern Italy.

Athelstan went up to his bed loft where he opened the divine office, crossed himself and began the psalms and readings for that day. Every so often he would stop and lift his head as if waiting for something. He wondered what would happen if nothing were found but then he heard the sound of running footsteps as Flaxwith burst into the house.

‘Brother Athelstan! Sir John! You’ve got to come and see this!’

They followed him out across the cemetery. The ditch was now opened. The two corpses, buried earlier that morning, were back up, lying on the side of the ditch. Athelstan caught Flaxwith by the sleeve.

‘I’m sorry,’ he apologised. ‘I should have told you about them.’

‘Oh Brother, that’s what cemeteries are for and we saw the cross. Anyway, Sir Jack and Godbless told us what had happened. However, this is what we’ve found.’

He led Athelstan and the coroner over to a pile of soil-stained canvas sacks. Two of them had been opened; one glance and Athelstan knew he was correct.

‘Arrows! Freshly cut and barbed! I suppose it’s the same with the rest?’

Flaxwith nodded.

‘Lucifer’s bollocks!’ Sir John exclaimed. ‘Henry, you’d better get the lot out!’

‘Hide them over there.’ Athelstan pointed to some gorse bushes in the far corner of the cemetery.

‘You suspected this, didn’t you?’ Sir John asked.

‘When Godbless brought me that arrow, yes. I’ve also been highly suspicious about those ghosts he saw.’

‘Let me see. Let me see.’ The coroner rubbed his hands. ‘If old Jack’s brain is as sharp as it should be.’ He led Athelstan well out of earshot of the rest. ‘Down the alleyway, Brother, and out of Southwark, we reach London Bridge. Once you are across that you are into the city.’

‘Go on,’ Athelstan said.

‘Now. If the Great Community of the Realm, that bunch of snivelling, secret traitors, plot their rebellions and the peasant armies move on London, the city can be defended to the north, east and west by the old wall but the southern side is different. Whoever controls London Bridge will, in fact, control the city. If the rebels pour across they can lay siege to the Tower and cut it off from the rest of London. They’ll also be able to swing west to control both banks of the Thames as well as capture Gaunt’s palace at the Savoy. Once done, they can pour into the city with no one to stop them.’

‘True, Sir John. We have been through this many a time.’

‘Now the peasant army will be armed with hoe, mattock, spade and axe. Every peasant carries a bow and so they’ll need a constant, fresh supply of arrows. By the time they reach Southwark their supplies could well be depleted as they clash with local sheriffs’ posses, landlords, barons, the great seigneurs of the countryside.’

‘Once the Regent and the Corporation know that the rebel army is marching, they’ll seize all arms supplies and either destroy them or hide them,’ Athelstan said.

‘But the rebels come to St Erconwald’s.’ Sir John smiled thinly. ‘A few yards from London Bridge, that precious pair, Watkin and Pike, have dug a deep trench, claiming they are checking on the foundations of a wall. No one objects and they can come and go as they wish . . . And then what, Brother?’

‘At night the Great Community of the Realm bring their pack horses through the alleyways of Southwark, well away from prying eyes. All they’ve got to face are the likes of poor Bladdersniff who is so drunk he can hardly put one foot in front of another. They climb the wall, put a rope over the branch of the sycamore tree and lower themselves into the freshly dug trench. The sacks of arrows are hidden beneath a light layer of soil and off they go. Pike and Watkin will later come and fill the rest of the trench in and, heigh ho, the Great Community have almost finished the preparations for their march on London Bridge.’ Athelstan stamped his foot in exasperation. ‘May the Lord forgive me, Sir John, Godbless claimed he saw ghosts hanging in the air! What he saw were these messengers from the Great Community climbing the wall and going up and down into that benighted trench!’