Paul Doherty - The Devil's domain

‘Sir Thomas might offer us good wine,’ he coaxed. ‘We must have our wits about us, Sir John.’

On the corner of Westchepe a crowd had gathered. A man dressed in gaily coloured rags, his hair white as snow, eyes gleaming in his sunburned face, was declaiming to the crowd: ‘Woe to the rich! To those who feed upon soft meats! Fill their bellies with sweetened wines! The day of reckoning is about to come! Circles of fire will fall upon the city! The highways will swarm with the worms of the earth! In their thousands and their tens of thousands!’ He paused to draw breath.

Athelstan recognised this wandering preacher as one who supported the Great Community of the Realm. The ‘worms of the earth’ was a common term for the peasants, the oppressed serfs, the landless labourers.

‘They will be led by angels!’ the preacher continued. ‘And they will ring the bell of doom!’ He started to clang the handbell he carried.

The crowds of shopkeepers, apprentices, chapmen and tinkers, the pedlars, the beggars and cripples from the alleyways gathered round, heads nodding, eyes gleaming. A group of market beadles stood on the fringe, nervously plucking at the daggers in their belts, tapping their staffs of office against the ground.

‘And what have we to fear?’ the preacher continued. ‘Death? We live a living death!’

A growl of approval rose from the crowd.

‘Hey there, Pig’s Arse!’ Sir John grabbed a scruffy little man running through the crowd, a long thin dagger jutting out from the sleeve of his jerkin.

‘Ah, Sir John, good day.’ The beggar looked fearfully up at the coroner.

‘Now, Pig’s Arse,’ Sir John breathed quietly. I would not start cutting purses here. This merry lot will turn ugly in a while and they’d hang you out of hand!’

Pig’s Arse scuttled off. Sir John looked over the heads of the crowd. A group of soldiers were coming up Westchepe, wearing the livery of John of Gaunt and Fitzalan, Earl of Arundel.

‘Here they are!’ The preacher had also glimpsed them. ‘Come to silence the Voice of Truth!’

The crowd turned as a man. Daggers were drawn and, as if from nowhere, a group of men dressed in dark-brown leather jerkins appeared. They carried bows with quivers full of arrows slung over their backs.

‘Lord have mercy!’ Athelstan said. ‘Sir John, this will turn ugly.’

Sir John drew his sword and advanced, waving it as if he were Hector of Troy.

‘Hey there, my beauties! Lovely lads all! This is Cheapside, not Poitiers!’

‘Bugger off, Sir Jack!’ someone shouted.

Cranston’s hand went behind his back as he drew his dagger. The preacher had vanished like a wisp of smoke. Sir John advanced threateningly upon the archers.

‘We’ve no quarrel with you, Jack Cranston!’ one of them shouted, face hidden deep in a hood.

‘If you don’t piss off, you will have!’

The archers slung their bows and disappeared among the stalls. The rest of the crowd began hastily to disperse. Sir John resheathed his sword and dagger.

‘Come on, Athelstan, time we moved on.’

They continued up Cheapside just as the soldiers arrived. Athelstan glimpsed Pig’s Arse running like one of Ranulf’s ferrets towards the mouth of an alleyway, a small purse clutched in his hand.

‘You were very brave, Sir John!’

‘Like a hawk swooping for the kill,’ he replied. ‘Now, for real trouble!’

They turned into a lane leading up to Goldsmith’s Hall. The thoroughfare was broad and swept, the sewer had been cleaned and filled with fresh water from a conduit. The houses on either side were large and spacious with red-bricked bases and black and white timber upper tiers. The gables were ornate and gilt-edged, the doors squarely hung. Pots of flowers hung from the walls and the air was sweet with the fragrance from the gardens laid out in front of the houses. The sun glinted and shimmered in the mullioned window glass: some of these were even coloured and decorated with heraldic devices.

Sir Thomas Parr’s was the stateliest of these mansions. It stood in its own grounds, two small apple trees on either side of the path leading up to the smartly painted door. This was decorated with shining iron studs, its large brass knocker formed in the shape of a knight tilting in a tourney. On either side stood huge pots of herbs on a charcoal base, the fragrant smoke curling up in billows like incense in a church. Men-at-arms lounged along each side of the house: city bullies, hired by this great merchant, they were dressed in his livery, white surcoats displaying a mailed fist holding a sword. They kept well away from Sir John’s threatening look.

‘I don’t like these buggers!’ the coroner muttered. ‘Small, private armies. Look at them, Brother, they can’t keep their hands away from their swords and daggers. Too much red meat and too little work, always eager for a fight.’

Athelstan quickly inspected the men. They were city boys in their tight fitting hose and high-heeled boots. They were well armed; some even carried crossbows with small pots of bolts attached to their leather war belts.

Sir John lifted the knocker and brought it down with a crash.

‘I enjoyed that,’ he muttered.

He did it again. The door swung open.

‘What’s your business?’

‘What’s your name?’ Sir John barked.

‘Ralph Hersham, man-at-arms to Sir Thomas Parr.’

‘I’m Cranston the King’s coroner. Now, sod off, and let me in!’

They were ushered into the most luxurious parlour whose walls were decorated with oak panelling. The paving-stones were scrubbed white and covered with thick, woollen rugs. A chandelier of candles hung from the pure white ceiling. Pots of flowers stood on the elegant furniture arranged round the room. Chairs and stools were placed in a semicircle round the mantelled hearth. No fire was burning, but the grate was clean and polished. On shelves above the mantelpiece gold, silver and pewter pots gleamed. Carefully carved heraldic devices covered the windows, the shutters held back by scarlet ribbons. Hersham gestured at them to sit in the quilted window seat which overlooked the lawn and small flower beds along the side of the house.

‘Can I ask your business?’

Hersham’s thin, sallow face was still mottled with fury. He couldn’t keep his fingers away from his dagger hilt. A true bully boy, Athelstan thought: a man who liked to swagger the alleyways.

‘You are Sir Thomas’ henchman?’ Sir John asked, rubbing his hands then turning away to look at a small rose bush in the middle of the garden. I’d like one of those, he thought. I wonder how Parr grows them? He turned back to Hersham. ‘Well?’

‘I am Sir Thomas’ bodyguard and steward,’ Hersham replied.

‘You are not a Londoner, are you?’

‘From the south coast, Sir John.’

‘Well, we can’t wait here all day. Run along and get your master.’

If looks could kill, the coroner would have dropped dead on the spot. Hersham left the chamber, slamming the door behind him.

‘I cannot tolerate such men!’ Sir John whispered through clenched teeth. ‘In my treatise on the governance of London…’

Athelstan leaned back against the head-rest. He closed his eyes, enjoying the cool breeze from the garden.

‘Sir John, I beg you, keep your voice down and your opinions to yourself until we get out! Remember, Parr has not committed a crime! We are here to ask a favour.’

The door swung open and Sir Thomas came into the room, Hersham behind him. The merchant prince was dressed in a coloured cote-hardie with fur tippets hanging down from the elbows. His hose were shiny as if pure silk. He wore no shoes but the soles of the hose were covered in soft brown leather. An embroidered belt round his waist carried a gilt-edged purse and a small poignard.