Paul Doherty - The Devil's domain

Athelstan’s heart sank when he studied Sir Thomas’ face, which possessed hard, harsh features, narrow eyes, a bulbous nose and lips. The man looked as if he constantly sat in judgement on everything and everyone. He glanced at Athelstan, who raised his hand in salutation. Sir John made no movement but just stared back. Athelstan recalled that these two men knew each other. Parr was the first to break the silence. He came forward, hand extended.

‘Well, well, Jack. I’ve seen you from afar. You’ve grown over the years.’

‘In heart as well as body,’ Sir John replied, grasping Parr’s hand. ‘It’s been a long time, Thomas.’

Parr clasped Athelstan’s hand then snapped his fingers and Hersham moved one of the chairs closer so he could sit down.

‘They say you like claret, Jack.’

‘The same people also say you love wealth, Thomas.’

Parr laughed, a thin, nasal snigger while his eyes remained watchful.

‘And the Lady Maude? She is well and happy?’

Sir John nodded.

‘Isabella died.’ Parr glanced over their heads, his eyes softened. ‘It’s terrible watching someone you love die, isn’t it, Jack? A summer fever. She was out in the garden tending that rose bush. She came in, the sweats upon her. By the following evening she was dead.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Athelstan spoke before he thought.

‘So am I, Brother.’ Parr now studied him from head to toe. ‘I’ve also heard of you, Athelstan. They say you are a good priest.’ His eyes moved back to Sir John. ‘Despite the company you keep! But, come, we’ll have some wine.’

Hersham served three gold-chased goblets. Sir John sipped and closed his eyes.

‘Pure nectar,’ he breathed.

‘The best of Bordeaux, Sir Jack. I’ve had it ready for you. I wondered when the Regent would send someone.’

‘Did you know we were coming?’ Athelstan asked.

‘There’s not much which goes on at the Savoy Palace, Brother, that I don’t know about. A silver piece here, a few groats there, and servants sing like birds in the trees. So, before you ask, the answer is no. Sir Maurice is a goodly knight, a brave man, a warrior, but he’s poor, virtually landless and brings nothing but his sword.’

‘And his heart,’ Sir John riposted. ‘A good, strong heart, Thomas. Like yours, years ago, when you and I ran ragged-arsed round the Inns of Court.’

‘And what about Angelica?’ Athelstan asked. ‘Doesn’t she love Sir Maurice? Are you going to marry her off as you would take a mare down to some stallion? A cold, loveless match?’

‘Angelica knows her duty.’ Parr put his wine cup down and played with the ring on his finger, his face softened. ‘She is my only child and I love her dearly. However, she must see the error of her ways in betrothing her heart to some poor knight errant.’

‘She loves him,’ Athelstan declared. ‘And he loves her, Sir Thomas. And I tell you this…’

‘You’ll tell me what?’ Parr interrupted. ‘You’ll tell me what, Brother? What do you know about love, about women, about lust?’

His face was pale. Athelstan sensed this man’s troubled spirit, at war with himself and, therefore, at war with everyone around him.

‘I know nothing about maids or the songs of troubadours,’ Athelstan answered. ‘But I know a great deal about love, Sir Thomas, and it never dies.’

‘In which case you may visit my daughter Angelica at the nuns of Syon and tell her about love for her father as well as duty, obedience and fealty!’ He got to his feet.

Athelstan didn’t like the smirk on Hersham’s face. The man was leaning against the door, arms folded, gently clicking his tongue. Athelstan had to breathe in deeply to control his own anger. Sir Thomas was being nasty for the sake of it.

‘Weren’t you poor once?’ he asked.

‘Aye and Sir John was once slim. Life changes, Brother Athelstan, and what is yesterday but a pile of dust?’ He walked towards the door. ‘You have my permission to visit Angelica, but I will not talk to you again on this matter.’

Athelstan placed his cup on a table. He noticed a carving of a wooden ship and, painted in small, gilded letters, its name, The Great Edward.

‘Do you own that cog, Sir Thomas?’

Parr shrugged. ‘I contribute to its maintenance and have a share in whatever it captures. Nevertheless, Brother, before you speak, no, it does not soften my heart towards Maltravers! Now, Sir John…’

The coroner and Athelstan soon found themselves back out in the thoroughfare. Behind them Ralph Hersham said something to the henchmen lounging about; there were guffaws of laughter. Sir John turned to confront them but Athelstan plucked him by the sleeve.

‘Leave them, Sir John, there’ll always be another day.’

They walked back into Cheapside. It was now late afternoon, some of the stall-holders had already finished their trading, and the crowds were beginning to disperse. Sir John smacked his lips. Athelstan also felt hungry but he wanted to go back to St Erconwald’s, to ponder the day’s happenings. Yet, he ruefully reflected, they still had further business.

‘Sir John, I know you’d like a blackjack of ale and a pie but the day goes on, and we have a lady to visit. Vulpina.’

Sir John reluctantly agreed and they walked up Westchepe, down Ivy Lane, passing the great soaring mass of St Paul’s Cathedral. Along its cemetery wall sat the rogues and vagabonds who sought sanctuary in St Paul’s graveyard beyond the jurisdiction of the city officers. They recognised Sir John and hailed him with raucous raillery. Athelstan pulled his hood close up over his head as Sir John, still angry at Hersham’s mocking laughter, hurled good-natured abuse back.

‘One day, my lovelies!’ he shouted before they turned a corner, ‘I’ll see you all on the gallows ladder!’

Invigorated by this exchange, he walked a little quicker, almost dragging Athelstan with him, out along Fleet Street and through a warren of mean alleyways into Whitefriars.

Whitefriars was not a wholesome place. The houses and tenements were shabby, ill-painted, the plaster decaying, the paint-work flaking. The streets seemed like needles pushed between the overhanging houses which blocked out the sun and hid the sky. Dark, cavernous passageways abounded, where beggars thronged at alley mouths and whores stood brazenly in the doorways soliciting custom. All around them swirled the rogues and rifflers of London.

Sir John was never checked. Apart from the occasional hurled obscenity, the coroner was a respected and feared figure. If provoked, it was not unknown for the coroner to enter one of the alehouses and arrest a whole gaggle of rogues by the scruff of their necks. At the end of one alleyway he stopped, fingers to his lips.

‘The streets of hell, Brother,’ he breathed. ‘In daylight it’s safe but, once darkness falls, the demons appear.’

As if in answer a group of dwarfs and mannikins, just over a yard high, came hurtling out of a doorway and ringed the coroner, jumping up and down like noisy children. They were dressed in a motley collection of rags and scraps of armour. One had a small helmet on his head. Another carried a shield. They greeted Sir John like scholars would a favourite master. Athelstan recognised the ‘scrimperers’ who lived in Rats Castle; dwarfs who lived together for self-protection. They were known to hire their services out to night-walkers and housebreakers as there wasn’t a window they couldn’t slip through or passageway too small.

‘Sir John! Sir John!’

Sir John clapped his hands and offered their leader, who rejoiced in the name of Sir Galahad, a draught from his wineskin. The diminutive, seamy-faced dwarf took it, almost falling flat on his back as he tilted his head to drink.