The Devil's Domain (5 page)

‘Go on, Watkin,’ Athelstan said wearily.

‘It’s quite simple,’ Watkin said. ‘God’s acre, the cemetery, belongs to the parish. According to Canon Law and the sayings of Judas . . .’

Athelstan just glanced at Benedicta, laughing behind her hand as she raised her eyes heavenwards.

‘All we intend to do, Father, is make sure the far wall of the cemetery is secure. We’ll cause no hurt to anyone. The sun sets late. Pike and I can dig the ditch and the next morning fill it in.’

‘Why leave it overnight?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Oh, that’s just to ensure that, ah . . .’ Watkin looked at Pike for help.

‘We do not want to do too much work, Brother. We’ll also be able to judge if any water’s trickling in from the brook on the other side. It’s best to inspect such foundations in the full light of day.’

Athelstan was surprised but could see no real problem. He clapped his hands.

‘Very good. Agreed.’

He paused as Bladdersniff the beadle burst through the door, his red, chapped face bloated with drink, his eyes bleary.

‘That bloody sow’s loose in your garden!’

Ursula the pig woman gave a screech and sprang to her feet. Despite her years, she fair ran out of the door.

‘One of these days,’ Pike muttered, I’m going to kill that sow. Cut it into collops!’

‘You can’t do that!’ Manyer the hangman declared. ‘That’s theft. You could hang, Pike!’

‘He’ll hang anyway.’ Watkin’s wife spoke up.

‘The next matter we must discuss,’ Athelstan intervened quickly, ‘is that the Guild of Rat-Catchers have asked to hold their Guild service here next week.’

Ranulf now stood up, cradling the two ferrets in his arms.

‘I have agreed to that,’ Athelstan continued. ‘Rat-catchers from all over Southwark will attend. I will offer a Mass of thanksgiving, bless the cages, traps and ferrets . . .’

‘And cats,’ Ranulf added, glancing enviously at the great, one-eyed Bonaventure sitting so patiently by Athelstan’s feet. The rat-catcher licked his lips. He would pay gold for Bonaventure, a great assassin of mice and vermin, a superb hunter. Ranulf secretly worshipped the ground Bonaventure trod on and, unbeknown to the priest, had tried to inveigle the cat away with dishes of cream and salted herring. Bonaventure had taken the temptation but promptly returned to his master.

‘You are all welcome to attend.’

Athelstan paused as the church door was thrown open and Sir John Cranston swaggered in, cloak over one arm, sword clanking against his leg. The coroner beamed round the parish council.

‘With a number of notable exceptions,’ he smiled at Benedicta, I have seen fairer faces in the stocks at Newgate.’

‘You keep a civil tongue in your head!’ Pike the ditcher’s wife sprang to her feet. ‘Just because you’re coroner . . .!’

‘Hush, woman, I’m only jesting. You are all my beloveds.’ He tucked his thumbs into his sword belt. ‘Brother Athelstan, a word?’

The parish council rose. If the truth be known they were slightly fearful of Sir John and his powers. A man, despite his girth and bluff ways, who had the eyes of an eagle and the hunting instincts of one of Ranulf’s ferrets. Athelstan nodded at Benedicta.

‘I suppose I’ll be going soon,’ he said. ‘Make sure that Philomel’s safe in the stables and leave some milk out for Bonaventura.’

The widow woman smiled and Athelstan’s heart skipped a beat. He was glad he had not left Southwark and that beautiful, dark-haired, soft-eyed woman was one reason. Athelstan had examined his conscience: he did not ‘lust after her in his mind’s eye’, as Scripture said, he just loved being near her, particularly when she teased him.

Once the church had emptied, Sir John closed the door. He pulled up one of the benches and sat opposite Athelstan. He flinched in distaste as Bonaventure, who seemed to adore the stout coroner, came to rub his body against his fat leg, arching his back in pleasure, tail high, eyes half-closed.

‘I don’t like cats.’

‘He likes you, Sir John.’ Athelstan got to his feet, put his hands in the small of his back and stretched. ‘But I don’t like parish councils.’ He sighed. ‘You’re here on official business?’

‘You can read my mind, Brother. His Grace the Duke of Lancaster, John of Gaunt, Regent of the kingdom, uncle to the King, requires our presence at the Savoy, immediately.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Ah well.’

Athelstan went to the door and then started back as a tousled Godbless trotted into the church, the little goat skipping behind him.

‘What on earth?’

Godbless crouched down, putting one arm over the goat, which turned and nuzzled his unshaven cheek. Sir John quickly described what had happened.

‘I can’t keep it!’ he wailed. ‘The Lady Maude has a horror of goats.’

Athelstan caught the pleading look in his eyes.

‘What’s its name?’

‘The four-legged goat’s Judas. The two-legged one’s Godbless.’

‘Why Godbless?’

‘Godbless is a pickpocket. He attends Mass just before the communion when the kiss of peace is exchanged. He grasps your hand, kisses you on your cheek and, as he whispers “God bless”, tries to lift your purse.’

Athelstan crouched down beside the beggar man.

‘Are you a thief, Godbless?’

‘Not a very good one, Brother.’

Athelstan gently touched the goat. ‘And this is Judas?’

‘I likes him.’ Godbless spoke up. ‘And he likes me. I have no place to live either, Brother.’

‘Friars are supposed to like animals,’ Sir John offered.

‘We are all supposed to like animals, Sir John, and this goat is a most handsome fellow. And so are you, Godbless.’ Athelstan got to his feet. ‘Godbless, I can’t offer you a place in my house, there’s barely enough room for one.’ He thought of the overgrown cemetery, his constant pleas to Watkin and Pike to clean it up. ‘But you can have the death house in the cemetery. When a corpse is put there for the night, you can sleep in my house. I’ll leave a note for Benedicta the widow woman. She’ll set up a bed and, perhaps, a stool. The place is clean, scrubbed and doesn’t smell.’

Godbless’s face creased in pleasure.

‘In return you can look after the goat. It can graze in the cemetery. You can also keep an eye on what happens there.’

Athelstan felt a glow of triumph. He was always suspicious about how his parishioners used God’s acre, be it Pike or Watkin in their drinking or the amours of Cecily the courtesan. He fished in his purse and brought out a coin.

‘Take the goat. You’ll find some rope in the death house. Let the animal graze but make sure that it’s on a long lead, fasten it to one of the hooks in the wall.’

Godbless nodded and stared down at the coin.

‘Then go down to the pie shop. It’s at the end of the alleyway. Ask Merrylegs for one of his freshest pies and tell him that you have joined our parish.’

Godbless sprang to his feet but Athelstan grasped him by the arm.

‘And we can’t keep calling him Judas, can we? There was another apostle, one who didn’t betray Christ; he had a name similar to Judas. Ah, that’s it, Thaddeus!’ Athelstan dipped his fingers into the holy water stoup and sprinkled both Godbless and the goat. ‘I rename thee Thaddeus, goat of this parish!’

A short while later, after they had taken Moleskin’s wherry along the Thames, Sir John and Athelstan disembarked at the quayside near the palace of the Savoy. They were greeted by retainers wearing the livery of John of Gaunt. They were let through the cordon and up the pebble-dashed path which led to the gates of the Savoy. More soldiers were on guard. Inside the vaulted gateway, which led into the gardens, knights and archers wearing the royal livery took Sir John’s war belt and led them through the spacious, exquisitely laid-out gardens and into the perfumed coolness of the palace.

Athelstan gazed round in wonderment. The walls, floors and ceilings were of white stone and he thought it was pure marble. On either side of the galleries hung exquisite tapestries from Hainault and Flanders, brilliant flashes of colour depicting scenes from the Bible and antiquity. Such opulence grew more apparent as they went deeper into the palace. The floors were of shiny wood, which smelt richly of polish, and almost covered in great thick woollen rugs of different colours. Statues stood in niches, small portraits of former kings and princes hung in thick, black, wood-edged frames on the walls. Soldiers were everywhere. They guarded staircases, the entrances to chambers and thronged about them as they waited to be taken up to the first gallery where the Regent had his own chambers.

Athelstan recalled Sir John’s monologue as Moleskin had rowed them along the Thames. How popular resentment against the Regent was growing, particularly in the shires and around the city: his tax-collectors, in particular, were being attacked, their demands refused. Even in the House of Commons, protests had been drawn up; the members demanded a reform of government and a thorough investigation into the war against France which had resulted in a recent truce due to the intervention of the papacy.

‘We live in hard times, Brother Athelstan.’ Sir John had shaken his head and looked out across the river at the ornate, high-pooped Venetian galleys, the war cogs of England and the great, fat-bellied merchant ships from Lübeck. Around these swarmed wherries, bum-boats, barges and fishing smacks.

‘All this could end,’ he had mournfully declared.

‘What do you mean?’ Athelstan had asked, just wishing Cranston would keep his voice down. Moleskin, although bent over the oars, always listened intently to the conversations of his customers. Cranston had taken a slurp from his wineskin.

‘London’s unprotected. We have a garrison in the Tower. Gaunt and the great lords have their retainers but, if a rebel army marched south, they could take London in a day.’

‘Rebels?’ Athelstan had asked.

‘Peasants – the Great Community of the Realm. They are traitors.’ Sir John had sighed. ‘But many of their grievances are just. The peasants are taxed to the point of rebellion, they are tied to the soil. Their duties are fixed, their wages are paltry. If they can produce a leader, then God help us all.’ He nudged Athelstan. ‘And, if you read my treatise on the governance of the city, Southwark is our weakest point. The north is defended by walls but, once they sweep into Southwark and take the bridge, London will be at their mercy.’

Athelstan understood the coroner’s disquiet. He knew some of his parishioners, particularly Pike, were members of the Great Community of the Realm and, although he had never said it, Athelstan believed Sir John was the only royal official able to walk unharmed through the narrow alleyways of Southwark. The coroner had a reputation for honesty while his friendship with the parish priest of St Erconwald’s also afforded protection.

‘Sir John Cranston, Brother Athelstan?’

The Dominican shook himself from his reverie.

The young knight on the stairs was not one of Gaunt’s foppish retainers. Athelstan recognised a fighting man, in his dour, drab clothes, the buttoned sword belt clasped round his waist.

‘Why bless me, if it isn’t Sir Maurice.’

Sir John made the introductions. Athelstan shook the young knight’s hand. He took an immediate liking to this knight with his blunt features and honest eyes. A soldier, Athelstan concluded, a man direct in speech and action. As he followed Sir Maurice up the stairs, Athelstan reflected on how contrary John of Gaunt could be. A silken courtier, a man born to plot, Gaunt was still the son of Edward III, with the strength and the courage to attract warriors to him as well as the young fops and dilettantes. The latter constantly preened themselves, drenched their bodies in perfume, crimped their hair and dressed more fastidiously than high-class courtesans. Athelstan had seen them in their ornate, long-toed shoes and fantastic head-dresses and had observed the lisping way they talked. He tried not to judge but, often, he secretly agreed with Sir John that the warriors of England were no more than gelded palfreys, all show, with little mettle or fire.

Sir Maurice led them into the Regent’s private chamber. A small, narrow room, it had wainscoting against the walls; the white plaster above was decorated with banners of Leon, Castile, France and England. Gaunt was sitting behind a great black desk. He sifted among the manuscripts as he talked in hushed tones to a clerk sitting on a writing stool beside him. Then he glanced up.

Athelstan couldn’t decide whether Gaunt was angel or demon. He had the Plantagenets’ striking good looks: blond hair, moustache and beard, high cheekbones and sapphire-blue eyes which could crinkle in merriment or become as hard as glass. He was dressed in an open-necked, pleated linen shirt, a silver Lancastrian ‘S.S.’ collar round his neck. His sleeves were pushed back, displaying gold gauntlets on each wrist, and the rings on his fingers caught the light and shimmered like fire. He dismissed the clerk and rose.

‘Why, good Sir Jack.’ He clasped the coroner’s hand and turned to Athelstan. The Dominican caught the taunting look in his eyes. ‘So, you are still at St Erconwald’s, Brother?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

Gaunt stretched his hand out and smiled dazzlingly.

‘Like Sir Jack, Brother Athelstan, I have no time for priests but you are always welcome here.’ He gripped Athelstan’s hand firmly. ‘Maltravers, close the door.’ He waved his guests to the two chairs the clerk had pushed up before he’d scurried out. ‘Do sit down.’

The wine Sir Maurice served was white, slightly bitter but ice-cold. Athelstan caught the tang and closed his eyes in pleasure, then he felt guilty and opened them. It was always the same with Gaunt, like walking into a spider’s web, silken, soft but still very treacherous. Sir John, however, was enjoying the wine. He had already finished his goblet and was stretching out for Sir Maurice to refill it. The young knight did so, a lopsided smile on his face. Gaunt was slouched in his chair watching the coroner from under heavy-lidded eyes.

‘You like your wine, Sir Jack?’

‘Wine gladdens the heart,’ the coroner quipped. ‘Or so the psalmist says, and even the apostles drank deep.’

‘It doesn’t blur your wits?’

‘No, my lord. Why, does it yours?’