Paul Doherty - The Devil's domain

‘Lovely boys!’ Sir John remarked. ‘And what news do you have for Sir Jack?’

The scrimperers replied in a volley of high-pitched voices, talking the patois of the London slums. He listened, nodding benevolently, then crouched down as Sir Galahad beckoned him close to speak in his ear.

‘Well I never! Well I never!’

The coroner dropped some coins into the little man’s hand.

‘They want you to bless them, Brother.’

Athelstan lifted his hand in benediction. He could hardly believe this, it was just like a scene from some dream. But, as soon as he began the benediction, they all went down on one knee, heads bowed.

‘Give them a special blessing!’ Sir John urged.

‘I give you the blessing of St Francis,’ Athelstan intoned, keeping his face solemn. ‘It can only be given once a month and you are to receive it.’

They now went down on both knees. Athelstan felt a pang of compassion at the way they folded their little hands before them.

‘May the Christ Jesus show His face to you,’ he said. ‘May He smile at you. May He keep you safe all the days of your life.’ He sketched the sign of the cross in the air.

Sir John caught his wrist.

‘They also want an invitation,’ he said hoarsely.

‘Where to?’ Athelstan asked.

‘To St Erconwald’s.’

Athelstan’s heart sank but he kept his face creased in a smile.

‘They are moving house,’ Sir John continued. ‘They say they are unsafe here.’

‘Oh, don’t tell me, Sir John, they have chosen Southwark?’

Apparently, yes. They know one of your parishioners, Ranulf the rat-catcher. They have heard about his Guild.’

Athelstan knew what was coming next and his heart sank even further.

‘They like you, Athelstan. You see, they have formed their own Guild.’

‘And they want to make St Erconwald’s their church?’

‘Don’t refuse. They are very valuable, Brother, to me.’

‘You will be most welcome,’ Athelstan said.

Sir Galahad spoke again, fast. Athelstan knew a little of this patois: he recognised the words ‘house’ and ‘rat-catcher’.

‘Apparently,’ Sir John translated, ‘Brother Ranulf has used these in attics and cellars as well as tunnels to discover where the rats have their nests. He has found them a house not far from St Erconwald’s, on the corner of Cat Stall Alley.’

Athelstan smiled. ‘Oh, God help us, Sir John,’ he whispered as the scrimperers, chattering with excitement, disappeared up an alleyway. ‘St Erconwald’s is going to become…’

‘Are you going to say the refuge of all that is strange and wonderful?’

‘Precisely, Sir John, more like Noah’s Ark. Filled with all types of God’s creatures.’ He pushed back his cowl. ‘But what did the scrimperers want with you?’

‘Oh, they were telling me the gossip of the area: that little affray we saw in Cheapside this morning? Evidently agents of the Great Community of the Realm are now swarming in the city; their only difficulty is they have no arms.’

‘They seemed well equipped this morning.’

‘Oh, a few arrows, yes. I tell you, Brother. If the storm bursts, this city will see savage fighting. The Tower and the other fortresses along the Thames will be fortified. Many of the merchants like Thomas Parr will turn their houses into castles. The peasants may march on the city with their hoes and rakes, mattocks and old long bows but they’ll need more serious weapons.’

‘Couldn’t they transport them into the city beforehand?’

‘Every cart coming into the city is inspected by the market bailiffs and beadles, not to mention Gaunt’s legion of spies. The scrimperers also informed us,’ Sir John continued, walking slowly on, ‘that an unknown priest has been seen in the area.’

‘Is that strange?’

‘Priests do not come here. Whitefriars is dangerous even for those who live in it. Their leader, Sir Galahad,’ he went on, standing outside an old tavern and looking up at the fly-blown windows, ‘said he was in an alleyway about ten days ago. He was jostled, the man sketched a blessing and whispered his apologies in what Galahad recognised as Latin.’

‘What are you looking at, Sir John?’

‘I used to visit this ale-house when I was a lad. It was called the Mulberry Tree. Oh, it’s seen better days.’ He opened the door.

‘Sir John, if you need refreshment…’

‘No, Brother, just your company!’

They walked into the evil-smelling taproom, a dank, musty place. The windows were boarded and shuttered, a few oil lamps were lit, filling the room with a greasy smell. In their flickering light the customers who sat on overturned casks looked even more like shapes and shadows from a nightmare.

‘Good day everyone!’ Sir John bellowed. ‘And God bless you!’

Athelstan narrowed his eyes. He could make out the wine tuns on the counter, the small glow of the oven, a few beer barrels.

‘Piss off, Jack!’

‘Now that’s no way to talk to an old friend is it? Who’s that? My goodness, it’s one-eyed Isaiah! There are warrants out for you, my lad. An unsolved burglary in the Poultry?’

‘I am as innocent as an angel,’ the voice croaked back.

‘What do you want, Cranston?’

A figure came out of the shadows. Athelstan first thought it was a man but, in the light of one of the oil lamps, he realised that, despite the leather jacket, leggings and boots, it was a woman. Her stained cambric shirt, slightly too small, emphasised her swelling breasts and thick, fat neck. The face was grotesque: the nose split, a long red ugly gash from top to tip while dagger marks criss-crossed her face. A large pearl dangled on a silver chain from one ear lobe.

‘Now, now, Jack, you haven’t come to arrest old Isaiah, have you?’

He took one step back and bowed mockingly.

‘No, Mistress Vulpina, I have not. I wish a few words with you.’

‘Then you’d best come.’

She led them into a far corner of the taproom and up some narrow, rickety stairs. The chamber above was a stark contrast to the evil drinking den below. The windows on one side boasted coloured glass. The walls were painted white and hung with coloured cloths.

The floor was red-tiled, scrubbed clean, and the furniture looked as if it had been bought from a guild carpenter in Cheapside. Flowers grew in small containers and sachets, filled with perfume, were fixed to the wooden beams along the ceiling. Vulpina led them across to a far corner where chairs were neatly arranged round a polished, oval table. A silver salt cellar stood in the centre, shaped in the form of a castle. She offered them wine but Sir John, surprisingly, refused. Vulpina laughed throatily. In the full light Athelstan could see how, in former days, she must have been a beautiful woman. Her eyes were dark brown, large and lustrous even though they shifted restlessly from one place to another. She was unable to meet their gaze but moved about, touching the salt cellar, staring out of the window or pretending to listen to sounds from the taproom below.

‘You haven’t come for one-eyed Isaiah.’ She peered at Athelstan. ‘You are the Dominican?’ Her lips curled in a sneer. I have few priests among my customers.’

‘For ale and beer?’ Athelstan asked.

The sneer on Vulpina’s face faded.

‘What do you sell?’ Athelstan persisted.

Vulpina tugged nervously at a tuft of her cropped dark hair.

‘Everything.’

‘Including poisons?’ Cranston asked.

Vulpina sat back in her chair, hands cradled in her lap, and batted her eyelids.

‘Oh, Sir John,’ she cooed.

‘Don’t play “Hotpot Meg” with me! There’s not a herb that grows, not a potion which can be distilled, unknown to you.’ He gazed up at the ceiling. I wonder where you keep them, eh?’