Paul Doherty - The Devil's domain

Taken in a fair fight!’ Routier protested. ‘Fortune’s fickle wheel and fortune is blind. Perhaps next time we meet, Sir Maurice will know what it’s like to be taken prisoner?’

‘Oh, answer the question!’ Sir John snapped. ‘Two French ships taken in one day! That smacks of treachery! You were expecting fat-bellied cargo ships full of wine from Bordeaux. Aye. The best claret, rich and red, the only good thing that comes out of France.’ The coroner grinned. ‘That’s not true, but we can sit here all day like little boys in a street insulting each other.’

‘We were betrayed.’ Vamier rapped the table-top with his fingers.

‘And the traitor could be among you now?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Possibly.’

‘It could have been anyone.’ Gresnay waved his hands.

Sir John smiled beatifically across at him.

‘Young man, I’m in London yet I know that, in French ports, men-of-war are being prepared. I know that. The seagulls know that, the rats on board ship know that.’ His face straightened. ‘But how many men know what’s contained in sealed orders? Come on, how many?’ He pointed at Routier. ‘I ask you a question, sir, how many people on the St Sulpice and the St Denis knew where you were to sail, when, and what your destination was?’

‘There were six of us,’ Routier admitted. ‘We four, Serriem and Dumanier. He was killed in the fight.’

‘So, if there was a traitor,’ Sir John continued sweetly, ‘it could have been Dumanier, although the Judas kind usually ensure that they are safe, it might have been Serriem or, gentlemen, one of you.’

The consequent silence was abruptly shattered by two of the great house cats which had trapped a rat further down the hall and were busy in its noisy destruction. Sir Walter drew his sword and went down. One of the cats, the rat dangling from his mouth, hurried off hotly pursued by his companion.

‘Death is all around us,’ Maneil observed.

‘And it may strike again,’ Athelstan replied. ‘We are not here, sirs, to play a part and walk away. The Regent himself has intervened. If there is a traitor among you, he may want you all dead. Or, there again, you may know who the traitor is? Was it Serriem? Did you carry out lawful execution of him? After all, you have just assured us that none of you eat or drink anything one of your companions does not partake of. Nevertheless, Serriem was poisoned.’

‘Are you saying we forced something between Serriem’s lips?’ Maneil asked.

‘It’s possible.’

‘But we dined together last night, Sir Walter’s guards all about us. We talked, we played chess, there was no feeling of resentment. Serriem was a good companion, a born sailor. If there is a traitor it certainly wasn’t him.’

Athelstan took out his ink horn, a sharpened quill and a square of parchment. He used a pumice stone to ensure it was smooth then he quickly wrote down their names and a short description and what he had learned. When he glanced up, the coroner was now sitting slouched in his chair, head back, mouth open, sleeping peacefully. Athelstan could tell the French were not impressed.

‘Sir John does not regard Serriem’s death as important,’ Gresnay quipped.

‘My lord coroner,’ Athelstan replied, putting his quill down, ‘is a hard working, very tired man who should be back in his own court, not listening to a pack of lies.’

‘Lies!’ Routier yelled.

‘Yes, sir, lies! Someone is lying here.’

‘Then why not ask him?’ Routier pointed at Sir Walter. ‘Brother Athelstan, we have no poisons. Our noble gaoler has already searched our possessions.’

‘Is that true?’ Athelstan asked.

Sir Walter nodded. ‘I found nothing,’ he confirmed. ‘Nothing at all.’

‘What about the garden?’ Sir John opened his eyes, smacking his lips.

Routier gasped, open-mouthed. Athelstan hid his amusement. Sir John seemed to have the ability to sleep and listen at the same time.

‘What about the garden?’ The coroner rubbed his face. ‘There are plants growing there.’

‘Why not test us?’ Routier retorted. ‘We are sailors, my lord coroner, not gardeners. I speak for the rest: unless someone told us to the contrary, I wouldn’t know one herb from another.’

This drew murmurs of agreement from his companions. Athelstan stared down at the square of parchment. Nothing, he thought, we are learning nothing here.

‘One last question. Serriem was with you all the time?’

‘I’ve told you that,’ Routier replied wearily. ‘We supped here. We walked in the garden. We played chess, dice, other games. Nobody saw Guillaum drink or eat anything after he had left the table.’

‘You are sure of that?’

‘When the guards came to take us to our chambers, Serriem was alive and well. He took his wine cup up but it contained nothing we, too, hadn’t drunk.’

A short while later Sir John, Sir Maurice and Athelstan left Hawkmere Manor.

‘I’m glad we are out of there!’ Sir John exclaimed as soon as they were out of earshot. ‘A godforsaken place!’ He paused for a drink from his wineskin.

‘What do you make of it?’ Sir Maurice asked.

Athelstan stared back at the high, grey curtain wall and repressed a shiver. Many of the deaths he and the coroner had to deal with were the results of accidents or sudden fights. Now and again, as today, they would enter a different world, what Athelstan privately called the ‘Devil’s Domain’. Hawkmere was one of these. A place seething with malice, resentment, lies and bloody-handed murder.

‘I feel angry,’ he muttered then regretted his words.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Nothing.’

Athelstan waved his hand. He didn’t wait for the rest but left the pathway and walked across the wasteland. It dipped; at the bottom was a small mere or lake. The sun had begun to dry it up, the water receding, leaving a round, muddy circle where plants and under-growth died through lack of nourishment. A desolate place. Athelstan sat down under the cool shade of a tree. Above him a thrush sang its little heart out. Sir John came and stood over him.

‘What’s the matter, Brother?’

‘I don’t know, Sir John. It’s just a feeling, a premonition of danger.’

‘For yourself?’

Athelstan shook his head. ‘For all their effrontery, Sir John, those Frenchmen are frightened and so is Limbright.’

‘You mean none of them is the murderer?’

‘I’m not saying that. There may well be more deaths at Hawk-mere but, at this moment in time, there’s very little we can do.’

Athelstan watched a pedlar leading his donkey up the trackway. The fellow was dressed in leggings and boots and a woollen jerkin with the hood pulled over his head against the sun. He turned and waved at them. Athelstan sketched a blessing in his direction.

‘Now there goes a happy man,’ he said. ‘Very few possessions and never long in one place.’

‘What’s that got to do with Hawkmere?’

‘Those men shouldn’t be there. Sir John, how could Serriem have been murdered? Limbright knows the finger of suspicion points at him and those Frenchmen were wary of him from the start. They even took an oath to be careful what they ate or drank. We know Serriem touched nothing to create suspicion: there’s no mark on his body and his room was locked and secured.’

‘We didn’t ask them about that,’ Sir John remarked.

‘We’ll leave that for the time being. Though it’s inconceivable, Sir John, that someone forced themselves into Serriem’s chamber and made him drink poison.’

‘It could have been a trick. Someone pretending to be a friend.’

‘In which case, Serriem was very stupid for it must have been Limbright. From what I gather he keeps the keys of those chambers on his person.’