Paul Doherty - The Devil's domain

‘The French caught me outside Calais.’

‘You are a bloody liar! The French would have taken two of your fingers off, not your ear!’

The archer looked crestfallen. ‘I stole a goose outside Calais,’ he muttered.

‘That’s better.’ The coroner glanced across the cobbled yard which stretched up to the main door of the manor. ‘Now, lad, run ahead and tell Sir Walter Limbright that Sir Jack Cranston is here.’

Athelstan opened his pouch and gave the archer the commission they had collected from one of John of Gaunt’s clerks. The archer hurried off. Athelstan looked up at the manor.

‘A gloomy place to live in,’ he commented. ‘And a gloomy place to die!’

Hawkmere was built out of grey ragstone, four stories high. Chimneys had been added on at each end of the sloping, red-slated roof. The front door was black and forbidding. The steps leading to it were choked with weeds and crumbling. The windows were either arrow slits or small squares of wood, not filled with glass but protected by shutters from within and iron bars on the outside. It reminded Athelstan of the great block houses in France, built by the English to control crossroads, bridges and fords over rivers.

The archer had disappeared round the back. Athelstan could see now why Hawkmere had been chosen as a prison. On the other three sides of the house ran a great curtain wall which probably defended the outhouses and buildings behind it. He glanced at his companions; Sir John was standing, legs apart, eyes half-closed. Sir Maurice looked as if he were a thousand miles away and, once again, Athelstan wondered how they could possibly help this young man’s futile pursuit of his beloved. Sir John knew Sir Thomas and so did Athelstan. Sir Thomas had a reputation for being hard-fisted and stony-hearted. A man who lent monies to everyone and always demanded a good profit in return.

‘Come on, Athelstan,’ Sir John growled. ‘I’m not standing here baking in the sun.’

He marched across and up the steps, the other two close behind, and hammered on the great oaken door. It swung open and a servant ushered them in.

The inside of Hawkmere Manor was as gloomy as its exterior. The hallway was so dark, cresset torches spluttered in their iron holders. They were taken down a shabby passageway, their boots ringing hollow on the hard grey paving-stones. Sir Walter Limbnght was waiting for them in his chamber just near the Great Hall. A small, surly-looking knight, he had thinning grey hair, eyes close-set, a cynical cast to his mouth. He was unshaven and his dark-brown doublet was stained. He rose to greet them.

‘I was told of your arrival, Sir John. I was coming…’

‘We decided not to wait,’ Sir John snapped. ‘It’s hot outside.’

‘Would you like something to drink?’ Sir Walter became nervous as he realised he had been caught out in his bad manners.

‘Perhaps later,’ Athelstan intervened quickly.

Sir Walter handed the commission back.

‘It’s not my fault,’ he wailed. He picked at a stain on his tunic. ‘I’ve kept the prisoners safely housed and protected. No one comes in here apart from that arrogant fop de Fontanel and, when he does, I watch him like a hawk. My Lord of Gaunt can’t…’

‘Where’s the corpse?’ Sir John demanded.

Sir Walter blinked. ‘Yes, yes, quite, you’d best come with me!’

He led them out of his chamber along a passageway which smelt of stale vegetables. He reached the foot of a wooden spiral staircase. A pale young woman with light brown hair was sitting on the bottom step. She was picking at the floor and didn’t look up as they approached.

‘Lucy! Lucy!’ Sir Walter glanced at Sir John. ‘This is my daughter.’

The young woman glanced up; her face was vacuous, her eyes empty, her lower lip hung loose and a trail of saliva ran down her chin. A pretty-looking girl but her soul was gone, her wits fuddled.

‘I’m going to press some flowers, Father.’ She became aware of the visitors and squinted up at them. ‘They are not supposed to be here.’

‘Hush now, Lucy! They are from my Lord of Gaunt.’

‘Have they brought some money?’ she asked.

‘It’s Sir John Cranston,’ Sir Walter replied. ‘He’s coroner of the city, come to view the corpse.’

‘All Frenchmen are corpses,’ she replied. ‘And one’s up there, stiffening and cold, smelling like a fish.’

‘God have mercy on her!’ Sir Walter said. ‘Her wits wander. Sir John, she has no great love of the French.’

They reached the second gallery. The passageway was narrow and dark, the floor boards unpolished, the white plaster battered and peeling. Nevertheless, the doors to the chambers they passed hung straight and secure. Sir Walter stopped at one of these and pushed it open. The room was large but poorly lit. The shutters on the windows were thrown back but the little sunlight which poured through did nothing to lift the gloom or the summer breezes soften the stench of death and decay. A crucifix hung on the far wall, a few sticks of furniture and two battered leather coffers stood scattered around. On the narrow cot bed lay the corpse. Athelstan glimpsed a protuberant nose, greying skin; the dirty sheet meant to cover it had slipped to one side. Although he had given the last rites to many people, Athelstan was always struck by how pathetic a corpse looked. This was no different.

Athelstan crossed to the bed. He was not a physician but one glance told him that Guillaum Serriem had died in agony. The eyes were open, the pupils rolled back, the mouth hung slack. The skin of the face was puffy and discoloured. Athelstan pulled up the shift, noting the dark purple blotches which discoloured the chest and the muscular stomach. He opened the small writing-bag he always carried and took out a thin-stemmed horn spoon. He forced this into the mouth; the cadaver was stiff though the jaw was still slightly slack. The pink skin inside the mouth had turned a dark purplish hue, the gums and tongue were swollen. Athelstan sniffed. There was an odour, slightly sweetish. Athelstan knew and recognised a number of poisons but not this, which had the sugary smell of marzipan. He inspected the corpse for any recent wound or mark. Serriem’s body was lean and muscular; it bore the high, pink, furrowed cuts where old wounds had healed but nothing out of the ordinary. Athelstan whispered the Requiem, made the sign of the cross over the corpse and pulled the sheet over that ghastly face. Sir John was sitting on a stool mopping his brow. Sir Maurice was playing with the wrist guard, Sir Walter was going round the room touching things as if he might find something significant. The door was pushed open. A young man entered, tall, thin and stooped, long brown hair falling to his shoulders. He was sharp-eyed and clean-shaven with a kindly face.

‘Osmund Aspinall,’ Sir Walter introduced him. ‘He’s our leech and apothecary.’

The physician hitched his fur gown and pulled up the belt which hung loose round his thin waist. He shook Sir John’s hand and then Athelstan’s, peering at them closely as if short-sighted.

‘I’m a physician,’ he joked. ‘Most people call me a leech. I have chambers in Cripplegate and Sir Walter here pays me to keep an eye on the prisoners.’ He sat on the edge of the bed and patted the corpse. ‘Poisoned, yes?’

‘How do you know?’ Athelstan asked, going to sit on the small bench under the window.

Aspinall shrugged. ‘Brother, there are as many poisons on the market as there are pigeons round St Paul’s. Belladonna, henbane and at least three types of arsenic.’

‘But this one?’ Sir John asked.

‘I can’t recognise it but, as I have said, there are so many.’

‘How was it administered?’ Athelstan asked.