Paul Doherty - The Devil's domain

‘I didn’t say that, Sir John. Serriem did. Aspinall is recently arrived in London. I know little of him. Anyway, Gresnay had a fall downstairs. Aspinall came to examine him. Nothing more than bruised ribs. Serriem cracked a joke about our physician being as tender as a woman. Gresnay and the physician became rather flustered, very embarrassed. A fight might have ensued but Vamier intervened.’

‘Is there anything else we should know?’ Sir John asked.

‘Very little! The French seem a close-knit group of sailors and soldiers who’ve fought against the Goddamns since their youth. They give little away.’

‘And how long will they remain here?’ Athelstan asked.

‘They are all from fairly wealthy families. But the ransom is steep, ten pounds in gold each.’

‘Why so high?’

‘Talk to any ship owner along the Thames,’ Sir Maurice answered. ‘The St Sulpice and St Denis were hated and feared. Those two warships did terrible damage to English shipping. They are only receiving what they served up to others.’

‘Wait! Wait!’ Sir John held his hand up as Sir Walter went to open the door. ‘They commanded warships?’

‘I’ve told you.’

‘Sir Maurice, when the St Sulpice was taken, what was its cargo?’

The young knight scratched his chin. ‘Most of it was armaments, some chests and coffers which were immediately sealed with the Regent’s insignia. The cargo always goes to the Crown,’ he added wryly.

‘And the ship?’ Sir John persisted.

‘Oh, it now flies under English colours, it’s been renamed the Carisbrooke. ’

Athelstan cradled his writing-bag. Something was very wrong here. Why should a man be murdered in such close confined quarters? Was it a coincidence that the sly and subtle John of Gaunt had asked him and Sir John to help, in the affairs of the heart, the knight who had commanded the ships which had brought these Frenchmen to such a poor pass? We are in the dark again, Athelstan reflected; shown bits and pieces but denied the whole picture. He glanced quickly at the coroner, who was now showing obvious signs of the generous swigs from the wineskin. He had a fixed smile on his face, and was licking his lips and patting his stomach.

‘Come on, Sir John,’ he urged. ‘And you, Sir Maurice, let’s visit our French guests.’

The prisoners were assembled in the long, dingy hall below stairs. A narrow, gloomy room with rafters like a barn, its plaster walls had turned a dingy yellow from the countless fires in the crumbling, canopied hearth. Trestle tables stood about, badly scrubbed. Two thin-ribbed wolf hounds were busy licking the table-tops for morsels.

The French were seated on a dais sharing a jug of wine and a platter of roast chicken. Athelstan suspected that Sir Walter provided this to placate his prisoners and restrain them from launching into a litany of protests about their conditions. They were a taciturn, hard-bitten crew; younger than Serriem. Their hair was cropped, their faces weatherbeaten. They were dressed in dingy clothes, shabby jerkins with frayed, faded shirts beneath. The only exception was a girlish-faced young man with thick, red lips and eyelashes any girl would envy. He had allowed his blond hair to grow and his skin was so white Athelstan wondered if he rubbed paste into it.

They hardly bothered to acknowledge their visitors but kept talking among themselves until Sir Walter struck the table with his hand.

‘Ah, good morning, Sir Walter,’ one of them said. ‘We have visitors?’

Their gaoler made the introductions. Routier, with his close face, was the first to greet them. Maneil, surly, his left eyelid drooping, constantly fingered the deep scar on his cheek. Vamier was pleasant-faced, or at least he smiled with his eyes. Athelstan took an immediate dislike to the blond-haired Gresnay who simpered in silent mockery at them. Their command of English was very good. They ignored Sir Maurice, just acknowledging his presence with nods of their heads. Athelstan was surprised but he whispered that, unlike the knights of chivalry, sea captains nursed animosities and jealousies: they regarded him as the cause of their misfortune. Sir Walter rearranged more chairs round the circular table. He offered some wine but Athelstan quickly refused.

‘I suppose you’ve heard about Serriem? Poor Guillaum?’ Routier glared at Sir Walter. ‘It’s all a sham,’ he railed. ‘We are prisoners, kept against our will, exorbitant ransoms are demanded. Now we are to be poisoned!’

Sir John got up and leaned across the table.

‘I am no sham, sir! If murder is committed, justice must be done!’

Routier blinked and sat back.

‘In which case,’ Gresnay lisped, flicking his blond hair, ‘you are going to have to perform a miracle.’

‘Now, why is that, sir?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Why, Brother,’ Gresnay replied, ‘all of us took an oath that we would not eat or drink anything someone else didn’t also taste.’

Gresnay’s words created a pool of silence.

‘I am sorry?’ Athelstan stammered.

‘Don’t you understand your own tongue, Brother?’ Vamier snapped. He tapped Gresnay on the arm. ‘Jean has spoken the truth.’

‘What is the truth?’ Sir John asked.

‘We are officers of the King of France,’ Vamier declared. ‘We are prisoners here but we fear for our lives. Sir Walter’s hatred for our nation is well known.’

‘And good reason for it!’ Sir Walter burst out.

‘Hush now!’ Athelstan held his hands up.

‘But it’s true,’ Vamier continued. ‘Why!’ He caught the look of puzzlement in Athelstan’s eyes. ‘Hasn’t he told you? It was the St Denis which attacked Winchelsea when his wife and sons died.’ The Frenchman lifted his shoulders and spread his hands placatingly. ‘Of course, it was a different crew, different men. No man here would agree to the wanton slaying of a woman and her sons. But, Sir John, you have fought in France?’

Sir John nodded; Athelstan recalled himself and his brother Francis entering a French town which had been sacked by English archers. Women lay dead in the streets, their throats cut, their dresses pushed back and, beside them, young children. The glory of war had died at such sights. Athelstan glanced at Sir Walter. The knight’s face had grown pale, his lips were moving soundlessly, beads of sweat ran down his cheeks.

‘I’m no assassin,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Aye, I hate you. If I had my way, I’d see you all hang on the gallows for the pirates you are!’

A fight would have broken out but Sir John banged the table with his fists.

‘When did you take this oath?’ he asked. ‘What did it signify?’

‘When we came here,’ Routier said, ‘and we realised we were in the charge of Sir Walter.’ He gestured at the platter. ‘Sir Walter himself will tell you: we only eat from the same dish and drink from the same jug.’

‘And last night?’ Athelstan asked.

‘The same. We dined here on what was supposed to be some fish, drank the same putrid wine and ate the same mouldy bread.’

His companions lowered their heads to hide their amusement. Sir Walter would have retorted angrily but Athelstan caught his wrist.

‘They are only baiting you,’ he whispered.

‘If we met him on the field of battle,’ Gresnay declared, ‘we’d do more than that, Brother!’

‘One day you might!’ Sir Walter shouted, his lips flecked with spittle.

‘But there’s another reason, isn’t there?’ Athelstan asked.

The change in the French knights was remarkable. They dropped their lazy, insulting demeanour. Vamier shuffled back on his chair, Routier pulled across the wine jug and refilled his cup.

‘Come! Come!’ Athelstan insisted. ‘You are hardly a band of brothers, are you? After all, once you were cocks of the walk, masters of the Narrow Seas, and then one day your two ships are trapped between English men-of-war and the port of Calais.’